The Spider of Sarajevo

by Robert Wilton

  Salted milk, and the bread had been warm, and there’d been coffee of course. The men drifting in, each arrival marked by the clatter of a rifle being laid against the wall just inside the door; some known to his host, some not. The usual exchanges – their health, their families’ health, whether married or not, sons – and then what Ballentyne referred to as ‘the difficulties’. It turned out there were lots of difficulties. The government; corruption; the minister of war, who was corrupt; prices; rotten grain; the weather. It was a rising, perhaps: the rifles, the sentries, the trouble he’d heard about in half a dozen places. But it was age-old.

  For now the ‘rising’ is essentially passive. Those involved – often the inhabitants – are claiming to hold selected villages. They control and restrict access, and the royal gendarmerie have not the inclination to test the point.

  Passing an idling handful of troops by the road, uncomfortable and uneasy in their new uniforms. The dirt road rising out of the dry swampland around Durrës – acres of scrub littering the ground – and across a line of hills. The heights and valleys of central Albania in front of him, purple and vague in the haze. The mountains ghosts in the distance. A mile farther on the challenge, two men in village dress acting as sentries; waiting although there was no suggestion of threat. And then the escort; a man who for a moment seemed to think he recognized Ballentyne.

  As he remembered it, he reviewed it. I am now so alert to who people think I am. Discomfort. Who I am is now a subject for uncertainty as well as interest. The escort’s questions. Where was he from? He was English; always better to be foreign among the Albanians, even if he could have pretended otherwise. What was he doing? Just riding; he’d been travelling here for many years. What was he – diplomat? soldier? He was a scientist – insects and such like.

  It was a line he’d often used in the villages of the north; less obnoxious than saying straight out that you studied the habits of the people themselves. Have I always been dissembling about myself?

  A ‘rebel’ village shows little sign of disturbance from its routine. Such places would not know regular visits from the authorities even in normal times.

  Scattered lath-and-mud houses, the occasional threadbare donkey; a mangy dog, which might or might not have been dead, slumped on the verge; a chicken, tattered and berserk, bursting out of a shed and weaving across their path; in a yard, half a dozen healthy-looking horses.

  And yet there were signs of unfamiliar activity, and activity that was to be kept secret.

  The horses. The house where they were going to have coffee, a line of shoes outside and among the broken dusty specimens of village cobbling a pair of good-quality western-style boots, and a guard who muttered to the escort and it seemed they would have to get their coffee elsewhere. Then, when they were riding out again, looking back to see men coming out of that forbidden house, and the boots being pulled on by a large Albanian; a man with elaborate straggling moustaches and a pistol tucked in at the base of his spine.

  Moreover, as the Italians had suggested, there has been at least one foreigner in the village. His motives and activities are not entirely clear.

  His punt. Had they seen a friend of his in the district, just recently? A frengji, a foreigner, like him? Yes, they had. And at last the escort had understood why Ballentyne had seemed familiar: another fair-haired man, and not unlike Ballentyne. The villagers arguing about the foreigner. He was a priest; he wasn’t a priest. He was Muslim; he wasn’t Muslim. Had he, Ballentyne had asked, been trying to preach to them – to give them ideas?

  No, they’d said. Just visiting.

  Like you, they’d said.

  Something about the dry landscape and the empty sky, the plod of the horse through the dust, had reconjured a childhood illustration of Don Quixote. With each step, the strength of the idea of the Austrian, or whoever this foreigner was, dwindled. As, lurking alongside, did his clarity about his own role.

  Why had he ridden out? A chance to get out of the city. A chance to seem to take Rossi seriously – and perhaps to prove to Rossi that… what? That he wasn’t a spy? But, demonstrably, he now was.

  It is not clear why Catholic Austria should be interested in fomenting Muslim unrest. But so many truisms of European politics become less certain in the hills and villages of the Balkans.

  [SS G/1/891/3]

  He’d not been sure about that last bit. A bit too pat, a bit too wise, for Mayhew? But he refused to give up all habits of style and argument.

  What would they think in London, reading it? Ballentyne on target, or Ballentyne missing the point completely? Mayhew’s requirements: to maintain an understanding of the forces in play in Albania and Serbia; to note the activities of other European powers; to communicate anything that seemed unusual, of concern, or in flux.

  Forgetting Rossi’s empty alarms about what people were or weren’t telling him, there was something: an Austrian active among the rebels. That, at least, had been the solid fact behind Rossi’s concerns.

  Or that, at least, was what Rossi wanted him to think was fact.

  And so the madness begins.

  ‘My dear Hildebrandt.’

  Hildebrandt’s eyes came up fast, watchful, measuring. The lips merely smiled pleasantly.

  ‘My dear Hildebrandt, I recall your description of the death of the Englishman Ballentyne.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. And I gave my explanation. Even if I had not time to get the information we wanted, he were better—’

  ‘My dear fellow’ – the voice was subtly sharper – ‘you gave me the explanation, and I accepted it. No need to repeat; no need.’

  And yet here the subject was again. Hildebrandt’s eyes watchful, measuring.

  ‘No, what is perhaps worthier of explanation… is this.’ The hand turned outwards, revealing a slip of paper.

  After a moment, Hildebrandt reached for it. Its meaning was obvious and instant.

  ‘He seems rather less dead than you had thought, or no?’

  Hildebrandt’s lips wrinkled. ‘A second chance is a rare treat.’ He handed the paper back.

  ‘I hoped you would see it that way. This time, let us see if Mr Ballentyne can have a while to explain some matters before he dies. Eh?’

  The older man turned, and left. Hildebrandt watched his back, watched the slip of paper protruding from the fingers. But not a very long while, Mr Ballentyne.

  This is what Germany should be.

  A cart weaving through a forest, sunlight dwindling through the canopy of pine branches and myth, sounds snatched from imagination’s undergrowth: a river in spate, birdsong, wolves. Then a gate held up by ivy, the forest opening to meadow and distant mountains, and a castle out of a fairytale, towers and turrets. Inside it, dogs snuffling around her waist and a silent servant and every chamber a stone and tapestried tomb with hammer-beamed heavens.

  The Germany of romantic fantasy. Ironically, the Germany behind Niemann’s fantasy. And with modern plumbing. A Germany to take refuge in.

  At the heart of this Germany, Freiherr Gerhard von Waldeck, sixty and six feet tall, straight as one of his turrets with only a fat Saxon moustache to break the line. The welcome seemed genuine – as first welcomes always are in fairytales.

  He didn’t remember much of her uncle at the university; a pity; but delighted to get his letter. Hathaway seemed to remember that Uncle Peter had only been at Heidelberg for a term; to be honest, really an old family friend rather than a relative. Lucky to have her, the Freiherr thought. No sons, Hathaway explained, and his male relatives more interested in money or hunting. Their loss, the Freiherr’s gain. He understood they’d got women students at Heidelberg now – charming innovation – might have been the one thing to drag him out of the library. And mountain stream eyes stared down at her.

  The baron’s hair was white now, but she knew it had been blond and just as thick forty years ago. Men like this had prowled and hunted these forests for thousands of years, luring Roman legions to their doom, and no doub
t the occasional Red Riding Hood.

  Von Waldeck was showing her the library – which was magnificent, a leather forest of rarities – before she’d even been relieved of her coat. She managed to excuse herself once but, when she came back a little while later to give her host a rebinding of the Appendix to Carlyle’s Frederick the Great and a pot of Oxford marmalade, she found him laying out manuscripts for her.

  ‘Is it particularly the Council of Constance that your uncle is interested in?’

  ‘Yes, though not only as an act of diplomacy and internationalism in itself; also as a turning point in the Church’s relations with the national movements.’

  ‘Of course; yes, a most interesting perspective. Because I’ve a little curiosity you might enjoy, here: a letter home from an English monk who attended the Council of Basel.’

  ‘Well, I’m not supposed to get into Basel. I think my uncle finds the chaos rather unsettling —’

  The clunk of the latch – a thing as big as her forearm – on the library door interrupted their re-examination of the Conciliar movement. ‘Daddy, have – yes, I knew it!’

  A young woman strode towards them, a crown of golden hair and a plain white dress. ‘I pushed you to invite her, and you kidnap her before I’ve even said hallo.’ She came level with them, and her fingers brushed Hathaway’s shoulder. A flash of even teeth as she turned. ‘I’m a visitor from the twentieth century. I liberate souls who are trapped in the Middle Ages.’

  ‘Fräulein Hathaway might be a natural inhabitant of the Middle Ages, and stronger than you.’

  The woman stepped back and studied Hathaway’s face. ‘She definitely looks twentieth century. And very handsome. Do all Englishwomen—’

  ‘Fräulein Hathaway is researching the Council of Constance.’

  ‘But why?’ She seemed genuinely surprised. ‘All those grim monks, talking for years and then burning poor Hus.’

  ‘Conciliarism was a worthy attempt to bring together—’

  ‘Rubbish, Daddy. A political game and it didn’t work. The true progressives were in the individual courts: Burgundy; even Bohemia.’

  ‘My daughter wants to become an engineer, and is only interested in things that move forwards or preferably explode.’

  ‘Like her introductions?’ Hathaway said. She’d always found German women rather frustrating – the promise of common sense overwhelmed by deference or the urge to bake something – but the vitality of von Waldeck’s daughter was appealing. Again, the teeth as she laughed.

  A graceful taking of the hand. ‘I’m Gerta.’ She was suddenly more formal. ‘It’s my pleasure to welcome you to our house – Father probably forgot that. I insist that you be my friend and wake me from my sleep of a thousand years.’

  Hathaway saw a woman of around her own age and height. Blonde where she was dark, an old-fashioned hour-glass of a figure where she was more slender; ironically, it was a nineteenth-century figure. Full lips in a full face, eyes the crystal of the father. Gerta von Waldeck was luxuriant. Hathaway said: ‘The consensus has always been that I’m unfriendly. But it seems I’ve incentive enough to pretend like mad.’ Von Waldeck’s wife had died early, she’d been told in London – the absent mother didn’t seem a strong presence in the house or in her daughter – and there was the impression that Gerta had had responsibility too young to be spoiled. ‘Engineering?’

  Some of the poise dropped away to be replaced by earnestness. ‘When I went to Heidelberg I was still foolish enough to be listening to my father, and he wouldn’t let me study anything more practical than logic. I’m ten years older now and it’s about time I did something useful.’

  Von Waldeck was still standing close, smiling from his height. ‘If you must discuss these obscenities, could you go to the boiler room?’

  ‘I love this library, but we mustn’t tell him – Did he show you his Locke? I’m sure to an Englishwoman I seem very – what would you say? Unladylike?’

  ‘If it’s any of my business, I think it’s admirable.’

  ‘You are a mediaevalist?’

  ‘Not really; only enough to help this uncle of mine with his research.’

  ‘But you were at university?’ A question a woman would never think to ask a woman in England.

  Hathaway glanced sadly at the old man. ‘Mathematics, I’m afraid.’

  A groan. ‘A spy!’ von Waldeck said, waving his fist. ‘An intruder from the sciences in the citadel of the arts.’ He smiled, but Hathaway caught a flicker of genuine disappointment. ‘What I thought a well-exercised classical brain turns out to be a soulless juggler of equations. You’ll want to measure everything, I presume, or mechanize it.’

  Gerta was holding her arm now. ‘Father, who is coming to dinner?’

  ‘Bierhoff has some people staying. All bankers like him, I fear. And Löwenthal to keep me company.’ He turned to Hathaway, straight and polished and weathered as the spines lined up behind him. ‘Tonight, Fräulein Hathaway, this old ruin will once again host the men who truly rule Germany.’

  A knock, and Hildebrandt was standing in Krug’s doorway. ‘You made an enquiry of Nicolai, Mein Herr. About a Boer named Duquesne.’ Krug waited. ‘He was in America. Now he is in Brazil.’

  ‘Brazil? Why should he be there?’

  ‘Perhaps the Americans wanted rid of him.’

  ‘Well they might. Or perhaps he was sent there, eh, Hildebrandt?’ Hildebrandt smiled innocence.

  The British were more active – more diplomats, more economic interests – in South America than in many places, certainly than in south-eastern Europe. And so more of a target for German Intelligence.

  ‘Hildebrandt, before you go.’ A newspaper, sharp folds, opened out on the desk. ‘My friends in Berlin seem to be having a little difficulty.’

  Hildebrandt came forwards, and glanced down. ‘Yes, Herr Krug.’

  At the bottom of the page was a brief report of the destruction of a German biplane in a fire at Issy-les-Moulineaux aerodrome. ‘This was the machine with the experimental wireless equipment?’ Silence, and an insolent stare. ‘Oh come, my friend. The invention of the Jew from Krakow, no?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Presumably visiting Paris to consult Coquelin. I’m afraid I never understand the technical details.’

  ‘As always, your information is exceptional, Mein Herr.’

  A tut. ‘We must see if my connections can be of service to your superiors. This is what friends are for, surely.’

  A smile, lifeless. ‘I am sure that would be most generous.’

  ‘Not at all. This alliance must be made to mean something. Who is the man on the spot?’

  ‘Your newspaper says that the pilot is von Cramm. He will be in charge of this phase of the project. He is… highly trusted in Berlin.’

  ‘We must try to help him regain that trust.’ Krug nodded to himself, another item on the agenda approved.

  From his hotel window the previous evening, Duval had watched Knox crossing the street and disappearing into the night. Other eyes had watched the same movement. Shortly afterwards those eyes had been scanning the hotel register.

  It was late in the morning when Duval set out into Berlin for a stroll. There’d been rain, and the air felt fresh. He’d got fifty yards when his inattentive vision filled with policemen. One looming in front, two close beside him. An instant of shock, and panic and the necessity of making a run for it, and one of the bayonets brushed his sleeve as he stood there.

  ‘Papiere, Mein Herr.’

  He reached very carefully into his jacket.

  The policeman’s eyes kept moving between Duval’s face and the paper, as if the name on it was also stencilled on his forehead – in not very clear letters.

  He handed the paper back, and withdrew. They were disappointed.

  Duval forced himself to take a roundabout route back to the hotel, but he was still there inside five minutes. And out again, with his kit, inside another five. Time to lie low.

  Later �
� ‘You’re next to me. When you’ve finished dressing you must come to my room and we can talk properly’ – Hathaway found herself perched on the edge of Gerta von Waldeck’s bed, watching her finish rearranging her hair.

  There was only one chair, wooden, and it had Gerta’s day dress thrown over it. Hathaway had expected a princess’s boudoir, and found a plain practical room, old rugs at bedside and dressing table. There were half a dozen elaborate dresses in the open wardrobe, and her immediate impression had been how old-fashioned they were – really, do German women know no age between adolescence and matronhood? – and then she realized they were hand-me-downs from a dead mother.

  Gerta had offered her a cigarette – accepted – and sat on a stool facing her dressing table, smoking as she deployed pins and glanced occasionally at Hathaway’s reflection in the mirror.

  ‘You must forgive me asking personal questions, Flora. But I was so pleased when your uncle wrote to ask if you could visit the library. I think it’s wonderful, a woman travelling on her own. Though I worried that you would be fifty and dull. You’ve no idea how pleased I was to see you standing in the library, and my father with his chest out like one of his young heroes.’

  ‘You must come to visit England.’ And then alarm that she might actually accept; Gerta von Waldeck having to bed down in the boxroom at home.

  Gerta twisted round on the stool. ‘I’d – oh, but I couldn’t. These days, it wouldn’t seem—’

  ‘These days?’

  Gerta turned back to the mirror. ‘The way everyone talks. When he got your uncle’s letter, Daddy was very earnest about English scholarship and English schools. But really, well…’