Flight From Honour

by Gavin Lyall

  He took a cautious drag on his own cigarette, which tasted of perfume-soaked hay. “I assume you know that Senator Falcone has bought an aeroplane in Britain and plans to provoke a violent strike in the shipyards here. Naturally, the British Government dislikes having such plots hatched on its territory, so I came here to discover more. And, since you were kind enough to lock me up with the Count, I did discover more – but unfortunately not everything. Perhaps together, we can work out what’s missing.”

  “Together?” Novak made a wild gesture of despair. “Now I’m expected to collaborate with a loathsome creeping spy . . . But go on, go on.”

  “Tomorrow, they’re going to fly—”

  “Are you sure about tomorrow? Pero reports that you were trying to beat that out of the Count, but—”

  “It’s tomorrow: I could see the Count’s face, Pero couldn’t. Is it some anniversary of Oberdan?”

  “This whole damned time is the anniversary of Oberdan,” Novak grumbled, “but tomorrow has no special meaning. Continue.”

  “Tomorrow they’ll fly over in the aeroplane and do something to try and stir up the strike – or worse, possibly. And I’d guess they’re planning to spray the city with machine-gun fire.”

  “Guessing? You’re guessing? You can’t guess with me, you vile cockroach. You may cheat your English masters with your idleness, but with me you’re pleading for your life! Remember that.”

  “Sorry,” Ranklin said calmly, “but that’s the best I can do.”

  “For the love of God,” Novak grumbled. “Is this what the famous English Secret Service employs? I should have left you there another year or – Come in!”

  But the officer of the Austrian Landwehr who had knocked so perfunctorily hadn’t waited to be asked. “Ah, this is where you’re hiding yourself. I’ve been looking everywhere.” He sat down. “Remember to make sure this office is properly tidied before you go.”

  Although Ranklin had never seen him before, he already knew him well. Every army has its plump, fussy staff officers who go unerringly for the least important detail and stick to it. The Captain’s stars on his collar were superfluous; the bunch of papers in his hand was his rank, his whole purpose.

  He seemed to become aware of Ranklin and asked: “Who’s this?”

  Stone-faced, Novak said: “This, Hauptmannn Knebel, is an English spy.”

  Knebel didn’t seem impressed. He looked at Ranklin again, but only as if estimating his value in paperwork. “Then hadn’t you better get rid of him while we talk?”

  “Ach—” Novak waved airily; “—I’m sure he already knows everything that’s going on here.”

  “Then perhaps I should borrow him until this damned relief is done with.”

  Novak acknowledged the quip by baring his teeth, then said: “He has been conspiring with the Conte di Chioggia.”

  “Ah yes, it was about the Count.” Knebel shuffled his papers. “I have just spoken to the Kommandant, in person, on the telephone. He orders you to release the Count immediately.”

  With Knebel, Novak had tried to curb his histrionics. But not now. “Release him? Just when I’ve proved he’s a traitor? – after all these years?”

  Secure behind his papers, his spectacles and an upturned but still non-belligerent moustache, Knebel seemed unconcerned. “Possibly, possibly, but your orders are still to release him. You can keep that one,” he added, indicating Ranklin.

  “But they’re in it together! Listen, please listen to how I trapped them. Yesterday they met both at the Café San Marco and, more suspiciously, in the Galleria di Montuzza. So observe—” he held up a thick forefinger; “—that implicates this worm in whatever the Count is doing, but does not yet implicate the Count with this worm. You understand? But then, early yesterday, I get proof that this verminous—”

  “Verminous?” That had been a mistake; vermin were something Knebel took seriously. “He didn’t pick up anything in our dungeons. I’ve had those dungeons inspected every—”

  “No, no.” Novak waved his head in agitation. “It was just a way of talking. Poetic, you might say. Please let me continue. So – the proof implicates this . . . this man, and so each now implicates the other – you see? So I arrest them, put them together, and trap them into revealing more of their plots. And that is what has happened. Each proves the other is guilty!”

  “Quite so,” Knebel said indifferently. “But your orders are to release the Count.”

  “But,” Novak wailed, “if one is not guilty, neither is the other!”

  “Possibly, but the Count is not regarded as an enemy of the Emperor. You may not know this, but—”

  “He’s applied for Austrian nationality. Yes, of course I know about that nonsense.”

  “Hardly nonsense, as you would see if you gave it some thought. Whether nationality is granted or not, just applying will ruin his name in the Italian community. He’s thrown away all his influence with them.”

  “And doesn’t that tell you he’s up to something worse than usual? He wants to fool you into thinking he’s given up plotting, just when—”

  “Ah, but it isn’t just the nationality, it goes further than that.” Knebel smiled confidently. “However, I cannot discuss such matters.”

  “He has fooled you! He’s got you playing his game!”

  “I don’t play games,” Knebel corrected him. “I just obey orders. Whether you do the same is between you and the Kommandant – and, of course, your career.”

  Novak said something explosive in Slovenian, then controlled himself. “Then let me tell you what they’re plotting. They’ve got an aeroplane, probably at Venice by now. No.” He turned to Ranklin. “You tell him. Confess again.”

  Ranklin felt he was losing track of whose side he was on, but it was too late now. “It’s expected to fly over Trieste tomorrow and perhaps fire a machine-gun—”

  Knebel was shaking his head gently, and Novak snatched back the narrative. “They want to stir up the shipyard workers, delay the battleships, fill the streets with whizzing bullets – perhaps even assassinate the Kommandant!” That was desperation.

  But it was no use: machine-guns are soldiers’ business, and nobody is more relentlessly soldierly than a fusspot staff officer. Knebel shook his head again. “I can assure you that there’s only one type of machine-gun light enough to be carried in an aeroplane and that isn’t even in production yet.”

  Novak glared at Ranklin, who said nothing, then scrabbled through Pero’s report. “Yes, here, my own informer heard them talk of machine-guns—”

  “Hauptmann, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but it is leading you beyond your depth.”

  “But they’ve certainly got an aeroplane,” Novak growled mutinously. “And if that flies over tomorrow—”

  “It would indeed be a violation of our laws. But answer me truly: do you really believe our Italian workers are going to start strikes and riots because they’ve seen an Italian aeroplane fly over? – with or without machine-guns?”

  It was like asking Novak to pull out one of his own teeth. His big body writhed in the chair. But it came out at last: “No. But—”

  “Then stop acting like an old lady whose candle’s blown out. And if an aeroplane comes, let us soldiers worry about it. So.” He stood up. “I’ve passed on the Kommandant’s orders: you’re to release the Count. And if you still want to charge this one, complete the proper forms and we’ll take him over. Now I’ve got the relief to worry about. Remember what I said about tidying the office – and open a window to get rid of this cigarette smoke. Good evening.”

  Novak watched the door close, then raged morosely: “Someone’s trying to pull down his Empire on his head and he pisses his pants about cigarette smoke!”

  But Ranklin was thinking about the gulf in attitude between the Slovenian policeman and the Austrian soldier. Perhaps here was Novak’s commitment. And perhaps that gulf was wide enough for him to slip through. “So what now?”

  Novak clamped his jaw
and said through his teeth: “At least I still have you. If I can do nothing else, I can see you rot your life out in a dungeon. A truly verminous one, this time. And if there aren’t enough vermin, I’ll bring you more on visiting day!”

  Ranklin nodded. “Yes, but that won’t help tomorrow. What was he saying about a relief?”

  Novak scowled. “For a spy, you don’t like working at your job, do you?” Then he whacked his hands on the table-top, spilling an ashtray. “Dear God! – that’s it! The changeover of regiments at the Caserma barracks. The old regiment gone and the new one wandering around looking for the piss-house and nobody with the key to the ammunition cupboard when the trouble starts! Only the Castle Guard here. That’s why your friends chose tomorrow. Nothing to do with Oberdan – not much, anyway.” He forced himself to calm down. “They’ve thought this out.”

  “Only you don’t believe there’ll be any trouble.”

  “They’ve planned so much, there must be more . . . And there’s still those machine-guns – unless that was one of the Count’s damned fantasies?”

  “Oh no, Falcone got a couple in Britain, light enough to go in aeroplanes.” And Knebel had heard of the Lewis gun, too, he was remembering.

  “Then what are they going to do with them?” Novak urged. “Come on, you’re supposed to be the spy.”

  “I’m not supposed to be spying for you,” Ranklin pointed out. “However, if you let me go—”

  “Ah! Yes! I knew it would come to that! Let a crawling, snivelling, contemptible wretch of a spy go free? Why should I? What could you do?”

  “Get to Venice and try and stop it. Whatever it is.”

  Novak opened his mouth, then closed it and looked what was probably, for him, reflective. Finally he sighed and shook his head. “No – perhaps the time for cleverness has gone by. After all these years, I’ve got the Count where I want him. And I can still keep both of you: if I hide you away as two drunk-and-disorderlies, d’you think the Commandante’s going to search every police station in the city? Then tomorrow, when your aeroplane does whatever it does, I’ll be the hero. The Count will hang, you’ll rot, and I’ll be promoted. Piss on the Empire and politics, it’s time for me to be a policeman again.”

  “You could keep the Count and still let me go,” Ranklin suggested diffidently.

  “Why?”

  “Hauptmann Knebel heard me warning you about the plot.”

  “You were confessing. That makes you a spy, it doesn’t let you off.”

  “But to defend myself in court I shall have to drag in every silly detail . . . Now, I don’t blame you for sending assassins after Falcone, pretending to be from the Ujedinjenje. What else could you do? Mind,” he said reflectively, “I do think it was a mistake to give them that Royal Navy pistol, so easily traced back to Trieste. Still, I expect there’s no record of you taking it off the criminal who stole it.”

  Novak was pop-eyed with astonishment. “You’re trying to blackmail me!”

  “Blackmail?” Ranklin managed to look offended, but mostly because Novak had so easily seen what he was doing. “I’m trying to help you. We both want this thing stopped. And I’m even prepared to deny that you mentioned Falcone getting stabbed. It wasn’t in the newspapers, you see.” He smiled apologetically.

  Novak thought briefly, then shrugged. “Policemen are supposed to know things.”

  “I’m just defending myself, I don’t really want the Austrians suspecting a Slovene policeman’s been poking into international politics, assassinating Italian senators and so on.”

  Novak sat back and sighed loudly. “I’m almost happy: my faith in your loathsomeness is restored. You really do want to see my career swimming in piss. But just remember one thing.” His forefinger stabbed the air. “I caught you. Whatever else you do with your despicable life, always remember I caught you.”

  He opened a folder and took out a creased slip of paper. “But I had help, and that isn’t sporting, is it?” He held up an international cablegram.

  It was actually sent from Trieste and addressed to Senator Falcone, c/o the Italian embassy, London. And in Italian, of course; Ranklin wrinkled his brow trying to read it.

  “Perhaps your Italian is not so good as your German? I would be most happy to assist you.” Grinning broadly, Novak whisked the cablegram back and read: “ ‘Have met man calling self James Spencer who claims to have joined our syndicate’ – ach, how delicately he puts that! And you were telling me you had never heard of the Senator! ‘Is short, fat and fair’ – such poetry! – ‘Please confirm he is genuine.’ Oh, this confirms you’re genuine, all right: a genuine spy. Who foolishly trusted an amateur. Did he really think we would not read his cables because he is equivalent to a marquis? – or applied for Austrian citizenship? As another professional, I sympathise with you – just a little. This stays on your file.”

  He tucked the cablegram away, then tossed a cloth bag across. It held Ranklin’s passport, wallet, pipe and so forth. “And should you ever think of coming back to Trieste, remember that file. It isn’t under Herr Spencer, but—” he leant suddenly across the desk and leered into Ranklin’s face; “—under Short and Fat. You can’t change that.”

  * * *

  The launch had already taken O’Gilroy back to the Lido (after an early dinner, Corinna hoped) so there were only three of them, d’Annunzio in full white tie and tails, to eat in the ‘small’ dining room. They dined by candlelight and Corinna reflected how quickly a display of electric lighting had become vulgar ostentation; even at her age, she could recall dining tables lit like a photographer’s studio. They were served sea bass and duck, and d’Annunzio dug in heartily but drank only water.

  Corinna waited for the conversation to come round to tomorrow’s ‘demonstration’, then realised Signora Falcone was preventing that. It wasn’t difficult, since d’Annunzio had two stage productions due to open in December – Parisina at La Scala and Le Chèvrefeuille in Paris – and was very willing to expand on his problems and hint at the triumphs to come. This went on until they were back in the central hall sipping coffee.

  “But perhaps,” he added with a smile, “history will say they are not the most important work of d’Annunzio in this year.”

  Signora Falcone gave him a warning frown but Corinna had her opening. “Ah yes, tomorrow’s proclamation to Trieste,” she said with feigned innocence.

  D’Annunzio shot a startled look at Signora Falcone, who offered only a well-drilled smile. “What can you mean, my dear?”

  “The leaflets Signor d’Annunzio’s written. The ones to start the shipyard strike.”

  There was an offer of escape there, but also a trap, and in her haste to patch things over, Signora Falcone took the one without noticing the other. “Ah, you’ve been told about that. Our European politics must seem frightfully complicated and devious to you, but it’s all part of the game. Over the centuries, nations have come to expect interference in each other’s affairs . . .”

  D’Annunzio was trying to suppress bewilderment. Perhaps he hadn’t been told he was only starting a strike.

  “Mind you,” Corinna said when the Signora had finished, “though my Italian isn’t all that good, it does come across rather strong for a strike call.” And she unfolded a leaflet from her purse.

  Manners forgotten, d’Annunzio leapt up to snatch it away. “You have stolen this!” he shouted. “You have robbed my bedroom!”

  “Dear me, a woman in your bedroom? We can’t have that, can we? I’d like to hear Signora Falcone read it. I never heard you on the stage, and I’m sure I missed a treat.”

  It was a tense moment. But Corinna would learn nothing more, and d’Annunzio was never loath to hear his own words spoken aloud. He took a sudden decision and thrust the leaflet at Signora Falcone.

  She took it reluctantly, scanned it quickly since she wouldn’t just be reading but translating, then stood up. She began stiffly, perhaps trying to play it down, but then the power of the words took over, and she
relaxed, gestured, declaimed. And she was good.

  “From Gabriele d’Annunzio: To my brothers of Trieste, most Italian of cities, Courage! Courage and constancy! There is no enemy which cannot be destroyed by our courage!, no lie which cannot be deflated by your constancy! The end of your martyrdom is at hand! The dawn of your joy is imminent! The lions of St Mark will roar again at the sacred entry. The Carso will be ours by force of arms. I tell you, I swear to you, my Brothers, our victory is certain! The flag of Italy will be planted on your Great Arsenal. From the heights of heaven, on the wings of Italy, I throw you this pledge, this message from my heart . . . ”

  D’Annunzio leant forward, listening intently, nodding, mouthing with the words. And when she had finished, smiling proudly. “Bravo! Bravo! How I wish those words should not be thrown from a machine, but spoken by you from a great stage!”

  Corinna said: “But like I say, no mention of a strike. To a simple American like me, it sounds like a call to arms. Declaration of war, even.”

  D’Annunzio frowned. “What is this strike?”

  Back in her seat, Signora Falcone said calmly: “I do hope, my dear, that until the demonstration is concluded, you’ll go on regarding yourself as our guest?”

  Keep me shut up here? Corinna boiled. But I asked for it: they were never going to cry: “Alack! – all is revealed! We must flee.” They’d invested far too much in this plot to let her louse it up that easily.

  She began to feel frightened. And because of that, she hit back instead of stopping to think. “Okay, if that’s what the British Secret Service wants you to do, who am I—”

  And that really tore it. D’Annunzio’s demand of: “Secret service? What is this secret service?” collided with Signora Falcone’s yell of: “You stupid Yankee bitch!” There was a moment of loud confusion, then Signora Falcone won.