Von Donath rose from his desk, and gathered up the notes for his coming speech to the Deputies of the Prussian Chamber. It was on the concept of legal appeals in the Code Napoleon. He suddenly stopped, as an unpleasant, but exciting, memory came to the fore in his crowded mind. That day in Berlin, that wet day last May, had been the moment when the whole project became possible, with the elimination of the treacherous double agent, Paul Claus.
Franz Kessler himself had volunteered to be the assassin. It was he who had arranged for Claus to be surrounded by a crowd of accomplices – he remembered how they had sheltered all the time beneath their wet umbrellas – and had then stabbed him to the heart. By prior arrangement, Kessler had slipped the still reeking knife into von Donath’s pocket. The police would never have even considered questioning, let alone searching, a man of von Donath’s eminence. He had dropped the knife into the Spree, as he crossed the Kaiser Wilhelm Bridge.
Surely it had been an act of fate that Claus’s Polish coin had dropped from his pocket into the street, where he, von Donath, had retrieved it? Yes, it had been a signal from the gods to proceed as planned with Project Aquila – the elimination of an emperor, and the dawn of a new era in Europe. All was in readiness. The positions at the bridge had been carefully worked out, and the chosen assassin had been fully primed. Nothing could go wrong. And after that fateful hour, they would fill the prisons with their political foes.
Von Donath picked up the white king, and subjected it to careful scrutiny. Then he placed it back precisely upon its square. A clock in the room chimed the quarter before eleven. With a sudden movement of his hand, von Donath swept the chess pieces off the board, and watched as the little ivory kings rolled helplessly across his desk.
It was time for people to leave their preordained ranks and make a bold bid to secure the future. That would happen on the 21st.
Von Donath left the room, descended the stairs, and strolled across the Albrechtstrasse to the Prussian Chamber of Deputies.
Colonel Kershaw and Inspector Box stood together on the foredeck of HMS Albion, watching the armoured prow of the cruiser cutting its path through the choppy waters of the North Sea. Above them, screaming gulls wheeled about in a sky filled with sullen clouds. A following wind blew down swaths of acrid black smoke from the vessel’s two tall, raked stacks across the decks. It was the early morning of Friday, 13 July.
‘An unlucky day? Perhaps so, Mr Box,’ Kershaw was saying, ‘but not for us, surely? It’s The Thirty who will remember this as an inauspicious day – the day when you and I, and our companions, set out to frustrate their knavish tricks.’
Colonel Kershaw was wearing his favourite long black overcoat with the astrakhan collar, but instead of his usual silk hat, he had donned a flapped cap, which buttoned beneath his chin. Box himself had chosen to appear in his usual day clothes, with his fashionable overcoat and curly-brimmed bowler. After all, Danzig was a big city, full of civilized folk going about their daily business – or was it?
‘Sir,’ asked Box, ‘what kind of a place is Danzig? Would you say that it’s similar to London?’
‘Well, Box, it’s a great port, and a vital gateway for German trade into the Baltic. It’s also the capital of Western Prussia. So, yes, it has some points of similarity with London, though, of course, it’s only a fraction of its size. Its population is about two hundred thousand. It’s been part of Prussia since 1814, so you can see why these wild notions of an independent Poland – which would have to include Danzig, or Gdansk, as the Poles call it – are dangerously destabilizing. It’s a city where many Germans think they are Poles, and some Poles think they are Germans. A rather sturdy minority of both nationalities think they’re Russian…. But you may be sure of this: any hint of Danzig ceasing to be German would set the whole of Germany in arms.’
‘What will happen when we arrive there?’
‘The Albion will tie up at one of the wharfs of the German Northern Flotilla in the Naval Dockyard facing on to the Gulf of Danzig. It’s a goodwill visit, so there will be an official reception for the ship at the dockside, but that won’t take place until Monday morning. Meanwhile, we will be met by someone who will convey us from the Albion to a house in a little street near the artillery barracks in the Wall Gasse, where we will spend the night.’
‘This house, sir—’
‘It belongs to a man called Roger Besnasse, a Lithuanian oil and tar merchant. It’s by way of being an intelligence exchange for people engaged on discreet missions. The German authorities know it’s there, but see the wisdom of letting it operate. Prussian State Intelligence uses it quite frequently. It’s a useful staging-post for ventures like ours.
‘Early the next morning we shall travel by railway to Posen, and from there by a single-track branch line to a place called Limburg, which is little more than a fortified railway station a quarter of a mile from the Russian border. We cross into Russian Poland from there.’
Arnold Box digested this information, but made no reply. He looked ahead of him at the restless waves of the North Sea. They would be sailing past Holland by now, he mused, and in another hour, perhaps, they would be skirting German Heligoland.
Next year, if all went well, the great Kiel Canal, linking the North Sea to the Baltic, would be open. Until then, access by ship to Danzig entailed a wearisome journey around Denmark’s Jutland Peninsula via the Skagerrak. Evidently, Colonel Kershaw thought that this long, slow haul by sea was necessary.
‘What exactly do you propose to do, sir, when we arrive at Polanska Gory? As we are entering Russia illegally—’
‘Listen, Box,’ said Kershaw, his face flushing with an uncharacteristic anger, ‘Grunwalski was one of my agents, selected and groomed by me to infiltrate himself into this rotten gang, and help me to destroy it. I chose him, and then I lost him! I want that gang destroyed, and I want Grunwalski back. All this affair is my fault.’
Colonel Kershaw frowned, and bit his lip. Box remained silent, waiting for him to speak. He had never before heard the colonel be so bitterly self-critical.
‘Yes,’ Kershaw continued, ‘I want Grunwalski back safely in England, but I don’t want any of the listeners for foreign intelligence services to know that I’m in pursuit of him. I must not appear in the affair. And that’s why we’re travelling incognito through Germany, and then into the Russian Empire, without the knowledge of the external authorities. I can’t call on the conventional forces of law and order to assist me. But I have my ways, Box, and what I can’t plan beforehand, I’ll contrive on the spur of the moment. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir, I do. And it’s not entirely your fault, you know. The Metropolitan Police had arrested Grunwalski, and were actually holding him in custody. We let him be sprung by Augustyniak and his conspirators, because we’d failed to realize the full seriousness of the situation. So let’s share the responsibility, sir, and get on with ensuring the solution.’
Colonel Kershaw chuckled, and clapped Box on the back. The inspector’s words seemed to have restored his good humour. He talked more optimistically of the coming adventure, and some minutes later the two men parted company. The Albion continued to cruise steadily at fifteen knots on a voyage that would take them out of the North Sea, and into the Strait of Jutland.
In a room on the top floor of one of the buildings constituting the Berlin barracks of the 32nd Imperial Field Regiment, Count von und zu Thalberg, Head of Prussian Military Intelligence, was reading a report from one of his discreet agents resident in England. It was a matter of wry amusement to Thalberg that such a passionate Anglophile as himself should be receiving intelligence reports of this nature from the heart of the British Empire. But it was a dangerous time, this last decade of the nineteenth century, and of all the enemies of stability in Europe, complacency was probably the most deadly. There were hotheads everywhere.
Count von und zu Thalberg was a distinguished man in his late forties, smartly dressed, but with the easy elegance of the old Prussian
aristocracy about him. At one time a field commander, he had been for many years one of the principal officers of the German Military Intelligence. Three years earlier, he had become its head.
‘Augustyniak’s Polish Institute in London,’ he said aloud, ‘is already well established as a front for the conspirators in their crazed attempt to establish an independent Poland. Augustyniak is a bit of a romantic dreamer, as we know, but none the less effective for that. On the 9 July, the baron hosted a dinner party at his house in London, at which some core members of The Thirty were present. Franz Kessler was there. So were Balonek and Haremza, the poisonous Gerdler, and that fanatic, Eidenschenk.’
Thalberg had addressed his remarks to a stocky little man dressed in a rusty old black frock coat, who sat upright at a small wooden table on the far side of the high-ceilinged room. He had a wide, wooden countenance, adorned with an old-fashioned German moustache. He looked like a weather-beaten old farmer. The man paused in his examination of a number of maps which he had spread out on the table.
‘And what did they do, Excellency?’ he asked.
‘Each man gave an account of himself, and then they all talked treason until some domestic incident interrupted them – something about a thieving servant. The most important piece of information gleaned from their meeting, was that Grunwalski and his keepers left London for Poland on the very same day, 9 July. It seems that Grunwalski may have thrown in his lot with The Thirty – I say “seems”, because, of course, men like Grunwalski are trained to dissemble. Another very interesting point is that Doctor Kessler is convinced that our old friend Detective Inspector Box is on their track. You remember him, do you not, Oberfeldwebel?’
The sergeant-major permitted himself a little throaty chuckle.
‘Herr Box! Yes, Excellency, he and I became good friends. I first met him, I recall, when you and I were staying at Minster Priory, in the English county of Wiltshire, where you conferred with the Herr Oberst Kershaw. That was the beginning of the business that had its dramatic finale at the Rundstedt Channel. Do you intend to inform Colonel Kershaw of your interest in this Polish business?’
‘I would like to, Sergeant-Major Schmidt,’ Thalberg replied, ‘but I don’t think I will. Colonel Kershaw’s a wily bird, as you know, and it may be that he has plans of his own. He’ll certainly know about Augustyniak and his circle. And there’s something else.’
Count von und zu Thalberg picked up another slip of paper from his desk, and read it through quickly. Schmidt saw that it was a pale blue telegraph form of the type used by Military Intelligence’s private wires. It would not do for people like them to use the Prussian State Telegraph system.
‘My informant tells me here, Oberfeldwebel, that Colonel Kershaw left London by train on 11 July, bound for Scotland, where he is to stay for a while as a guest of his friend Sir Hamish Bull at Craigarvon Tower. Does that ring any bells for you, Schmidt?’
The old warrant officer chuckled to himself, and watched as his master smiled.
‘Why, yes, Excellency. It’s but a little walk from Craigarvon Tower to Dunnock Sound, where part of the great British Fleet lies at anchor. The good colonel could easily step on board a Royal Naval cruiser, and make his way up through the German Ocean to Danzig. And from there – well, who knows?’
‘Precisely. So let us leave Colonel Kershaw alone for a moment, and consider our own movements. You and I, Schmidt, will go to Polanska Gory ourselves, as arranged, and see what we can do to rein in this madman, Grunwalski. We’ve already got a few men posted in the district, keeping a benevolent eye on the situation, and I have been given a detachment of the 4th Brandenburg Lancers, who have been billeted in the cavalry barracks at Posen. They could be of great value to us if this affair suddenly explodes into the Reich. It’s going to be a tricky business, but we must succeed. No crazed fanatics must be allowed to assassinate Tsar Alexander III, and plunge Europe into the dark night of war.’
Sergeant-Major Schmidt frowned, and shook his head.
‘It’s a strange, obscure affair, Excellency. The Tsar is clearly in very poor health – all Europe knows that – and there are some who say that he cannot last the year. He’s a curious target for the assassin, in my estimation. Why not wait for the Crown Heir to succeed him? Grand Duke Nicholas? He would be a much bigger prize. A young man, poised to rule, suddenly blown to oblivion.’
‘You’re right, Schmidt. I’ve had the same thought myself. But the reality is different, as you see, and it is with reality that we must deal. What have you to tell me from your examination of those maps? You’ve been poring over them for the last hour without speaking a single word.’
Sergeant-Major Schmidt put on a pair of little gold-rimmed spectacles, and picked up one of his maps.
‘Polanska Gory lies in a hollow at the centre of a range of shallow hills in the westernmost part of the north Polish plain. Latitude, so-and-so, longitude, that. It is five German miles from Lublin. It was built in the eighteenth century, and for a little while, in 1865, was within the German pale, and known as Bad Polenburg—’
‘You can spare me the history, Oberfeldwebel. Just give me the facts.’
‘Yes, sir. If we were to journey by railway from Danzig to Breslau, we could then go by road across an area of flat countryside to the north of Lublin, largely occupied by farmland and small villages. Polanska Gory is surrounded by birch woods, planted along the flanks of the low hills surrounding it.’
Schmidt picked up a magnifying glass, and bent down low over the map.
‘But here, half a mile away from the spa, and on the skirts of one of those woods, there is what looks like a fortified church or monastery, with a straggling village in front of it. Our road would lie that way, and it occurs to me, Excellency, that our opponents could occupy such a place, and hold it easily against us—’
‘I’ve heard of that place, Sergeant-Major,’ said Thalberg. ‘St Mary of the Icon, it’s called, part church and part fort. It belongs to the old Polish-German family of Hardenberg. They’re impoverished now, little more than peasant farmers. But they’re revered in that part of Poland because of their role in the Battle of Tannenberg in 1410.’
Thalberg saw his sergeant-major looking at him critically, and smiled.
‘Yes, I know what you’re thinking – why all this history? Why doesn’t he confine himself to facts? Well, one of my kinswomen married into the Hardenberg family a few generations ago. But I am interrupting you. I agree that St Mary of the Icon is a dangerous place. What do you suggest?’
‘I suggest, Excellency, that we travel by train from Danzig to the Russian town of Brest-Litovsk. From there, it will be an easy journey to Lublin, and from there, we will be able to strike north through the pine woods and down into Polanska Gory. This large-scale map of the area shows a wide road, evidently used by carriage-folk on their way to take the waters at the spa.’
‘Excellent! We have a few days to finalize our arrangements, and then you and I will set out for Danzig. We will travel as ourselves – there’s no reason for covert action at this stage – and take the railway via Stettin.’
‘How will this Grunwalski be silenced?’
‘He and his friends must walk into a trap of our devising, and so be rendered harmless immediately. We can call in our people dispersed throughout the area if we have to. But you know, Oberfeldwebel, I’m quite certain in my own mind that the Russian authorities will be able to deal with the matter themselves. Still, our presence in Polanska Gory will show the Russians that Germany will not countenance any potential threat against the life of the Tsar. When faced by anarchist assassins, Russia and Germany are on the same side.’
HMS Albion steamed into the dockyard of the Imperial Northern Flotilla some minutes after eight o’clock on the evening of Sunday, 15 July. During her long journey through the Strait of Jutland, she had hoisted lines of festive flags as a tribute to the people of Southern Denmark, and many of the commercial vessels in the Strait had sounded their whistles i
n reply. The Albion was still in festive array when she anchored at the naval dock.
The ancient mercantile city of Danzig glowed under a spectacular sunset, which tipped the many tall spires and steeples with glowing red. The wharfs and wide quays were lined with tall, many-windowed houses and business premises, rising four storeys to fancifully carved gables backed by steep, red-tiled roofs. The old town was an impressive sight as viewed from the decks of the Albion, because from there they could see how many of the wide and winding inlets from the sea had been tamed into canals to serve the busy wharfs. As well as medieval towers and spires, the visitors could see the tall chimneys of factories, and the crowding masts of commercial shipping anchored off the shore.
The magnificent sunset glowed for another half-hour, and then the dark clouds of night came in from the east. A small party of German officers had appeared on the quay, and the Albion’s captain had come down the gang plank to welcome them aboard. A smaller plank had been pushed out near the exit from the ship’s galleys, and it was down this second plank that Kershaw, Box, and their two companions walked as darkness fell across the quays.
A respectable man in overcoat and bowler hat appeared from behind some bales of jute and approached them. He raised his hat politely, and addressed himself to Colonel Kershaw, speaking in German.
‘Come, gentlemen,’ said the colonel, ‘this man will be our guide to the house of the Lithuanian Besnasse. It would seem that our somewhat irregular entry into Germany has been successful.’
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