Fall of Giants (The Century Trilogy)

by Ken Follett

  "Austria would not agree in advance to be bound by the conference decision, of course," Grey continued. "But that's not necessary. We could ask the Austrian emperor at least to take no further action until he hears what the conference has to say."

  Walter was delighted. It would be hard for Austria to refuse a plan that came from its allies as well as its rivals.

  Lichnowsky looked pleased too. "I will recommend this to Berlin most strongly."

  Grey said: "It's good of you to come to see me so early in the morning."

  Lichnowsky took that as dismissal and stood up. "Not at all," he said. "Will you get down to Hampshire today?"

  Grey's hobbies were fly-fishing and bird-watching, and he was happiest at his cottage on the river Itchen in Hampshire.

  "Tonight, I hope," said Grey. "This is wonderful fishing weather."

  "I trust you will have a restful Sunday," said Lichnowsky, and they left.

  Walking back across the park, Lichnowsky said: "The English are amazing. Europe is on the brink of war, and the foreign secretary is going fishing."

  Walter felt elated. Grey might seem to lack a sense of urgency, but he was the first person to come up with a workable solution. Walter was grateful. I'll invite him to my wedding, he thought, and thank him in my speech.

  When they got back to the embassy he was startled to find his father there.

  Otto beckoned Walter into his office. Gottfried von Kessel was standing by the desk. Walter was bursting to confront his father about Maud, but he was not going to speak of such things in front of von Kessel, so he said: "When did you get here?"

  "A few minutes ago. I came overnight on the boat train from Paris. What were you doing with the ambassador?"

  "We were summoned to see Sir Edward Grey." Walter was gratified to see a look of envy cross von Kessel's face.

  Otto said: "And what did he have to say?"

  "He proposed a four-power conference to mediate between Austria and Serbia."

  Von Kessel said: "Waste of time."

  Walter ignored him and asked his father: "What do you think?"

  Otto narrowed his eyes. "Interesting," he said. "Grey is crafty."

  Walter could not hide his enthusiasm. "Do you think the Austrian emperor might agree?"

  "Absolutely not."

  Von Kessel snickered.

  Walter was crushed. "But why?"

  Otto said: "Suppose the conference proposes a solution and Austria rejects it?"

  "Grey mentioned that. He said Austria would not be obliged to accept the conference recommendation."

  Otto shook his head. "Of course not--but what then? If Germany is part of a conference that makes a peace proposal, and Austria rejects our proposal, how could we then back the Austrians when they go to war?"

  "We could not."

  "So Grey's purpose in making this suggestion is to drive a wedge between Austria and Germany."

  "Oh." Walter felt foolish. He had seen none of this. His optimism was punctured. Dismally, he said: "So we won't support Grey's peace plan?"

  "Not a chance," said his father.

  { III }

  Sir Edward Grey's proposal came to nothing, and Walter and Maud watched, hour by hour, as the world lurched closer to disaster.

  The next day was Sunday, and Walter met with Anton. Once again everyone was desperate to know what the Russians would do. The Serbians had given in to almost every Austrian demand, only asking for more time to discuss the two harshest clauses; but the Austrians had announced that this was unacceptable, and Serbia had begun to mobilize its little army. There would be fighting, but would Russia join in?

  Walter went to the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, which was not in the fields but in Trafalgar Square, the busiest traffic junction in London. The church was an eighteenth-century building in the Palladian style, and Walter reflected that his meetings with Anton were giving him an education in the history of English architecture as well as information about Russian intentions.

  He mounted the steps and passed through the great pillars into the nave. He looked around anxiously: at the best of times he was afraid Anton might not show up, and this would be the worst possible moment for the man to get cold feet. The interior was brightly lit by a big Venetian window at the east end, and he spotted Anton immediately. Relieved, he sat next to the vengeful spy a few seconds before the service began.

  As always, they talked during the hymns. "The Council of Ministers met on Friday," Anton said.

  Walter knew that. "What did they decide?"

  "Nothing. They only make recommendations. The tsar decides."

  Walter knew that, too. He controlled his impatience. "Excuse me. What did they recommend?"

  "To permit four Russian military districts to prepare for mobilization."

  "No!" Walter's cry was involuntary, and the hymn singers nearby turned and stared at him. This was the first preliminary to war. Calming himself with an effort, Walter said: "Did the tsar agree?"

  "He ratified the decision yesterday."

  Despairingly, Walter said: "Which districts?"

  "Moscow, Kazan, Odessa, and Kiev."

  During the prayers, Walter pictured a map of Russia. Moscow and Kazan were in the middle of that vast country, a thousand miles and more from its European borders, but Odessa and Kiev were in the southwest, near the Balkans. In the next hymn he said: "They are mobilizing against Austria."

  "It's not mobilization--it's preparation for mobilization."

  "I understand that," said Walter patiently. "But yesterday we were talking about Austria attacking Serbia, a minor Balkan conflict. Today we're talking about Austria and Russia, and a major European war."

  The hymn ended, and Walter waited impatiently for the next one. He had been brought up by a devout Protestant mother, and he always suffered a twinge of conscience about using church services as a cover for his clandestine work. He said a brief prayer for forgiveness.

  When the congregation began to sing again, Walter said: "Why are they in such a hurry to make these warlike preparations?"

  Anton shrugged. "The generals say to the tsar: 'Every day you delay gives the enemy an advantage.' It's always the same."

  "Don't they see that the preparations make the war more likely?"

  "Soldiers want to win wars, not avoid them."

  The hymn ended and the service came to a close. As Anton stood up, Walter held his arm. "I have to see you more often," he said.

  Anton looked panicky. "We've been through that--"

  "I don't care. Europe is on the brink of war. You say the Russians are preparing to mobilize in some districts. What if they authorize other districts to prepare? What other steps will they take? When does preparation turn into the real thing? I have to have daily reports. Hourly would be better."

  "I can't take the risk." Anton tried to withdraw his arm.

  Walter tightened his grip. "Meet me at Westminster Abbey every morning before you go to your embassy. Poet's Corner, in the south transept. The church is so big that no one will notice us."

  "Absolutely not."

  Walter sighed. He would have to threaten, which he did not like doing, not least because it risked the complete withdrawal of the spy. But he had to take the chance. "If you aren't there tomorrow I'll come to your embassy and ask for you."

  Anton went pale. "You can't do that! They will kill me!"

  "I must have the information! I'm trying to prevent a war."

  "I hope there is a war," the little clerk said savagely. His voice dropped to a hiss. "I hope my country is flattened and destroyed by the German army." Walter stared at him, astonished. "I hope the tsar is killed, brutally murdered, and all his family with him. And I hope they all go to hell, as they deserve."

  He turned on his heel and scurried out of the church into the hubbub of Trafalgar Square.

  { IV }

  Princess Bea was "at home" on Tuesday afternoons at teatime. This was when her friends called to discuss the parties they had been t
o and show off their daytime clothes. Maud was obliged to attend, as was Aunt Herm, both being poor relations who lived on Fitz's generosity. Maud found the conversation particularly stultifying today, when all she wanted to talk about was whether there would be a war.

  The morning room at the Mayfair house was modern. Bea was attentive to decorating trends. Matching bamboo chairs and sofas were arranged in small conversational groups, with plenty of space between for people to move around. The upholstery had a quiet mauve pattern and the carpet was light brown. The walls were not papered, but painted a restful beige. There was no Victorian clutter of framed photographs, ornaments, cushions, and vases. One did not need to show off one's prosperity, fashionable people said, by cramming one's rooms full of stuff. Maud agreed.

  Bea was talking to the Duchess of Sussex, gossiping about the prime minister's mistress, Venetia Stanley. Bea ought to be worried, Maud thought; if Russia joins in the war, her brother, Prince Andrei, will have to fight. But Bea appeared carefree. In fact she looked particularly bonny today. Perhaps she had a lover. It was not uncommon in the highest social circles, where many marriages were arranged. Some people disapproved of adulterers--the duchess would cross such a woman off her invitation list for all eternity--but others turned a blind eye. However, Maud did not really think Bea was the type.

  Fitz came in for tea, having escaped from the House of Lords for an hour, and Walter was right behind him. They both looked elegant in their gray suits and double-breasted waistcoats. Involuntarily, in her imagination Maud saw them in army uniforms. If the war spread, both might have to fight--almost certainly on opposite sides. They would be officers, but neither would slyly wangle a safe job at headquarters: they would want to lead their men from the front. The two men she loved might end up shooting at one another. She shuddered. It did not bear thinking about.

  Maud avoided Walter's eye. She had a feeling that the more intuitive women in Bea's circle had noticed how much time she spent talking to him. She did not mind their suspicions--they would learn the truth soon enough--but she did not want rumors to reach Fitz before he had been officially told. He would be mightily offended. So she was trying not to let her feelings show.

  Fitz sat beside her. Casting about for a topic of conversation that did not involve Walter, she thought of Ty Gwyn, and asked: "Whatever happened to your Welsh housekeeper, Williams? She disappeared, and when I asked the other servants, they went all vague."

  "I had to get rid of her," Fitz said.

  "Oh!" Maud was surprised. "Somehow I had the impression you liked her."

  "Not especially." He seemed embarrassed.

  "What did she do to displease you?"

  "She suffered the consequences of unchastity."

  "Fitz, don't be pompous!" Maud laughed. "Do you mean she got pregnant?"

  "Keep your voice down, please. You know what the duchess is like."

  "Poor Williams. Who's the father?"

  "My dear, do you imagine I asked?"

  "No, of course not. I hope he's going to 'stand by her,' as they say."

  "I have no idea. She's a servant, for goodness' sake."

  "You're not normally callous about your servants."

  "One mustn't reward immorality."

  "I liked Williams. She was more intelligent and interesting than most of these society women."

  "Don't be absurd."

  Maud gave up. For some reason, Fitz was pretending he did not care about Williams. But he never liked explaining himself, and it was useless to press him.

  Walter came over, balancing a cup and saucer and a plate with cake in one hand. He smiled at Maud, but spoke to Fitz. "You know Churchill, don't you?"

  "Little Winston?" said Fitz. "I certainly do. He started out in my party, but switched to the Liberals. I think his heart is still with us Conservatives."

  "Last Friday he had dinner with Albert Ballin. I'd love to know what Ballin had to say."

  "I can enlighten you--Winston has been telling everyone. If there is a war, Ballin said that if Britain will stay out of it, Germany will promise to leave France intact afterward, taking no extra territory--by contrast with last time, when they helped themselves to Alsace and Lorraine."

  "Ah," said Walter with satisfaction. "Thank you. I've been trying to find that out for days."

  "Your embassy doesn't know?"

  "This message was intended to bypass normal diplomatic channels, obviously."

  Maud was intrigued. It seemed like a hopeful formula for keeping Britain out of any European war. Perhaps Fitz and Walter would not have to shoot at one another, after all. She said: "How did Winston respond?"

  "Noncommittally," said Fitz. "He reported the conversation to the cabinet, but it was not discussed."

  Maud was about to ask indignantly why not when Robert von Ulrich appeared, looking aghast, as if he had just learned of the death of a loved one. "What on earth is the matter with Robert?" Maud said as he bowed to Bea.

  He turned to speak to everyone in the room. "Austria has declared war on Serbia," he announced.

  For a moment Maud felt as if the world had stopped. No one moved and no one spoke. She stared at Robert's mouth under that curled mustache and willed him to unsay the words. Then the clock on the mantelpiece struck, and a buzz of consternation rose from the men and women in the room.

  Tears welled up in Maud's eyes. Walter offered her a neatly folded white linen handkerchief. She said to Robert: "You will have to fight."

  "I certainly will," Robert said. He said it briskly, as if stating the obvious, but he looked scared.

  Fitz stood up. "I'd better get back to the Lords and find out what's going on."

  Several others took their leave. In the general hubbub, Walter spoke quietly to Maud. "Albert Ballin's proposal has suddenly become ten times more important."

  Maud thought so too. "Is there anything we can do?"

  "I need to know what the British government really thinks of it."

  "I'll try to find out." She was glad of a chance to do something.

  "I have to get back to the embassy."

  Maud watched Walter go, wishing she could kiss him good-bye. Most of the guests went at the same time, and Maud slipped upstairs to her room.

  She took off her dress and lay down. The thought of Walter going to war made her weep helplessly. After a while she cried herself to sleep.

  When she woke up it was time to go out. She was invited to Lady Glenconner's musical soiree. She was tempted to stay home, then it struck her that there might be a government minister or two at the Glenconners' house. She might learn something useful to Walter. She got up and dressed.

  She and Aunt Herm took Fitz's carriage through Hyde Park to Queen Anne's Gate, where the Glenconners lived. Among the guests was Maud's friend Johnny Remarc, a War Office minister; but, more importantly, Sir Edward Grey was there. She made up her mind to speak to him about Albert Ballin.

  The music began before she had a chance, and she sat down to listen. Campbell McInnes was singing selections from Handel--a German composer who had lived most of his life in London, Maud thought wryly.

  She watched Sir Edward covertly during the recital. She did not like him much: he belonged to a political group called the Liberal Imperialists, more traditional and conservative than most of the party. However, she felt a pang of sympathy for him. He was never very jolly, but tonight his cadaverous face looked ashen, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders--which he did, of course.

  McInnes sang well, and Maud thought with regret how much Walter would have enjoyed this, had he not been too busy to come.

  As soon as the music finished, she buttonholed the foreign secretary. "Mr. Churchill tells me he gave you an interesting message from Albert Ballin," she said. She saw Grey's face stiffen, but she plowed on. "If we stay out of any European war, the Germans promise not to grab any French territory."

  "Something like that," Grey said coldly.

  Clearly she had raised a distasteful topic.
Etiquette demanded that she abandon it instantly. But this was not just a diplomatic maneuver: it was about whether Fitz and Walter would have to go to war. She pressed on. "I understood that our main concern was that the balance of power in Europe should not be disturbed, and I imagined that Herr Ballin's proposal might satisfy us. Was I wrong?"

  "You most certainly were," he said. "It is an infamous proposal." He was almost emotional.

  Maud was downcast. How could he dismiss it? It offered a glimpse of hope! She said: "Will you explain, to a mere woman who does not grasp these matters as quickly as you, why you say that so definitely?"

  "To do as Ballin suggested would be to pave the way for France to be invaded by Germany. We would be complicit. It would be a squalid betrayal of a friend."

  "Ah," she said. "I think I see. It is as if someone said: 'I'm going to burgle your neighbor, but if you stand back and don't interfere, I promise not to burn his house down too.' Is that it?"

  Grey warmed up a little. "A good analogy," he said with a skeletal smile. "I shall use it myself."

  "Thank you," said Maud. She felt dreadfully disappointed, and she knew it was showing on her face, but she could not help it. She said gloomily: "Unfortunately, this leaves us perilously close to war."

  "I'm afraid it does," said the foreign secretary.

  { V }

  Like most parliaments around the world, the British had two chambers. Fitz belonged to the House of Lords, which included the higher aristocracy, the bishops, and the senior judges. The House of Commons was made up of elected representatives known as members of Parliament, or M.P.s. Both chambers met in the Palace of Westminster, a purpose-built Victorian Gothic building with a clock tower. The clock was called Big Ben, although Fitz was fond of pointing out that that was actually the name of the great bell.

  As Big Ben struck twelve noon on Wednesday, July 29, Fitz and Walter ordered a prelunch sherry on the terrace beside the smelly river Thames. Fitz looked at the palace with satisfaction, as always: it was extraordinarily large, rich, and solid, like the empire that was ruled from its corridors and chambers. The building looked as if it might last a thousand years--but would the empire survive? Fitz trembled when he thought of the threats to it: rabble-rousing trade unionists, striking coal miners, the kaiser, the Labour Party, the Irish, militant feminists--even his own sister.