The Spider of Sarajevo

by Robert Wilton

  Heinrich Auerstein was the centre of a group of half a dozen, newer guests or acquaintances from the other party, his gun held by a loader. As she watched, he happened to look and see her, and his eyes iced and died. Auerstein was the Old Testament in the bracken, civilization and hospitality violated and unavenged.

  At Pickford’s request Ballentyne had breakfasted with an Italian journalist, and then spent three hours of the day in a seminar with Serbian officers. They were mostly young, and it made their earnestness rather appealing, and their wild-eyed bloodthirstiness rather alarming. They were hungry, like boys just out of short trousers, for anything that would enhance their seriousness. And they hated Austria and everything apparently Austrian, and spiced their talk with empty threats of what they would do to that vast empire when they had the opportunity. As a scholar and an Englishman – and a man well past thirty – Ballentyne was treated with veneration.

  The German forests, timeless and endless, vast trees and barbed-wire undergrowth, fir and thorn and beech and pine each with their mysticisms, a realm of shadows and sounds that slipped between worlds. For one patch of eastern Germany, one part of the forest was an angry scrubland, mixing trees and thickets and paths and clearings, a maze of clutching brambles and no straight paths. In the middle of one clearing, surrounded by hunters, Flora Hathaway waited at bay.

  There was to be little shape to the hunt; the habits and discipline of German sportsmen would ensure that no mistakes were made. The thickets were dense with birds.

  A silly hope that it might not be real, that she might not have got herself into this horror. Then the sight of her boots against the earth, the sheen on the leather as it settled uneasily in the mud and the yellow reedy grass. A call, a shifting among the men, a gathering and a preparing. Somewhere in the thickets she could be lost; she too could become prey.

  She must stay with others; she must not become isolated. They would not— But where was Gerta now? In her focus on the men who knew her as a spy, Hathaway had lost sight of the one person who might defend her. But anyone else would do; they would not dare—

  But again, what accidents might not happen in the maze of trees? Around her the hunters drifted, unfamiliar faces and always the sharp shine of gun barrels. Intermittently, a face she recognized – Immelmann, Bauer, Bauer’s companion – watching her; perhaps waiting for her.

  And then a surprise so unlikely that her first physical instinct was that something worse had happened. It took a second for her brain to catch up, to look at the face again, to recognize it.

  London. Distant civilized London; a man to whom she’d been introduced. A soldier who would be her ‘liaison’.

  Major Valentine Knox, here in the German forest, the same clothes and the same stiff sureness of Immelmann and the others, gun held easily under his left arm and watching everyone.

  For a moment she assumed that, by some further distortion of her world, he had become one of her hunters. Her heart hammered at her, bewilderment and the possibility of safety, and she had to restrain herself.

  Now he’d seen her too. But no sign of recognition. This is not a time for your games, you bloody man! Holding herself, working for balance on the marshy soil, Hathaway began to drift towards him.

  Now he too was moving, not towards her but on an intersecting course. He’d acknowledged someone else, was moving to them, introducing himself, and she saw it was Eckhardt. By picking someone from the Margaretenhof party he’d guaranteed an introduction to Hathaway when she joined them.

  And so it was. Compatriots introduced; a pleasantry about the power of German diplomacy even among the English; Eckhardt summoned and moving away.

  ‘I never thought I’d say it to a British soldier, but I’m very glad you’re here.’

  ‘I take praise where I find it, Miss Hathaway. First off, let’s stand and sound like we’ve just met; tone and volume more important than what we say; a whisper is far more suspicious than any wo—’

  ‘They know that I’m – I’m a – a spy.’ Knox’s eyes widened, flicked over her shoulders. ‘I got hold of some documents two nights ago – reports – I put the details into a letter for London, but the letter was taken before it left the house.’ Her eyes were pleading, urging him to understand how she felt.

  A conversation of espionage, in full view of their enemies; a murmuring deep in Germany.

  ‘The letter was in cypher?’

  ‘Yes, and I returned the documents.’

  ‘Good; so they may not know what, if anything, you read or did.’

  ‘But why stop the letter if they didn’t suspect me of something?’

  ‘Suspect is better than know. Doubt they’ll do anything desperate.’

  ‘Major, I won’t pretend I’m not scared.’ She glanced around the clearing, the circle of hunters; forced a smile. ‘When everyone’s got a gun, it seems likely that something’s going to get shot.’

  Knox hefted the shotgun in the crook of his elbow, smiled hard. ‘When there are guns on both sides, both sides will go a little more carefully.’

  ‘No, Major!’ She was genuinely alarmed. ‘That’s madness. That’s as bad as—’

  ‘So, Miss Hathaway!’ She jumped. Otto Auerstein striding towards them, hatless and hearty in the morning. ‘Are we ready for a little sport?’

  A whistle shrieked.

  Count Paul Hildebrandt was straight off a long journey and in ill humour.

  ‘He overbalanced you on the train, and he overbalanced you last night.’ Heinz-Peter Belcredi pulled away from the tone. ‘I could not have come a moment later.’

  A kind of relief. ‘That’s right! Really, Count Paul, my responsibilities are not in this area. I should be—’

  Hildebrandt’s hand grabbed his collar and wrenched him forwards, and a knife appeared in front of his eyes. ‘Your responsibilities are now what we say they are. You should be fulfilling them more effectively.’

  A squawk: ‘I am not – not even a—’

  ‘Oh, but you are.’ Hildebrandt released him, and he stumbled backwards. ‘We are sworn to support you in the realization of your ideas, and you in your turn must shape your work to the strategic interests of our people.’ The knife had disappeared again, replaced by a cigarette. Hildebrandt reached forwards and straightened Belcredi’s collar. ‘There is no longer such a thing as an occupation of peace and an occupation of war. Every action, by all of us, must be calculated towards the defeat of our enemies.’

  He let out twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. ‘By finding you, your colleague Mr Ballentyne reveals too much. He will reveal his confederates, and then I will kill him.’

  It had been such a silly distraction, and now Hathaway had contrived exactly the situation she feared.

  After the whistle and a formal word from Heinrich Auerstein, the group had dispersed into the undergrowth by different paths; some had loaders with them, some – like Immelmann – chose to hunt alone. The clearing emptied within moments, leaving just the servants who would prepare a luncheon. For a few moments the only sound was breathing, and the snapping of twigs underfoot, and the occasional friendly comment, and then the first gunshots began to crack among the trees.

  Hathaway had set off with one of the women from the Margaretenhof party, and a male acquaintance of hers from among the neighbours: mixed and neutral company. Knox was deliberately walking not with her, but ten yards or so behind and in sight; Hathaway had indicated the people she was most worried about, and Knox had fastened himself onto Immelmann. When she wasn’t in conversation herself, and in the lulls between shots, she could hear the murmur of the two men’s voices: cautious, professional, the verbal sorties by which men tested their ground.

  The trees swallowed them all. Hathaway’s female companion avowed the equal physical fitness of women, which made her admirable if occasionally dull company, and the man was happy to treat his gun as ornamental only, which made him at least quieter than some. From the off, Immelmann and Knox were shooting frequently and f
ast, the blasts interrupted by brusque compliments and comments. Discussing pistols, or boasting about their battleships, or whatever it is that men talk about. Half an hour passed. Other twos and threes of the party occasionally emerged onto their path; polite words, and then dispersal. The rattling of unseen gunfire.

  Then, when Hathaway next glanced over her shoulder, a bend in the path had obscured the men behind. She slowed, not wanting to be separated from her two companions, still wanting to be sure that… But the path remained empty.

  There had been a fork in the path shortly before. For some reason Immelmann must have been tempted the other way; it would have seemed odd for Knox to leave the German to follow her – suspicious, even. Perhaps he thought it better to watch Immelmann. In any case, Knox was gone.

  Her two companions were ten yards ahead now, and she started to walk faster, and then there was a voice from behind. The Austrian count, waving something, ‘Is this your –?’ something she couldn’t hear. A few steps towards him; he was waving a glove. No, it wasn’t hers, and he walked away, and Hathaway turned to catch up her companions but they had disappeared, turned back but the Austrian had disappeared too.

  Alone on the path, she took a few tentative steps forwards, then lengthened her stride. The main path was easily followed; her companions couldn’t be more than thirty yards away; she’d be with them in— And Colonel Bauer stepped onto the path in front of her.

  She gasped, at the surprise more than the predicament. He held his gun two-handed, across his chest. Closed, which meant it was ready. Another startle, rustling in the undergrowth beside her, and she turned to see another man pushing his way through the bushes towards her: the man who had joined Bauer that morning.

  Expressions dead, guns ready, watching her.

  What could she say? What could they say, given what she had done? Bauer’s dead expression. What would they say, before—

  A crack like a branch breaking, and they were all three startled, and another crack before they’d begun to look for the sound. Two shots had come out of a tangle of trees, and now a rustling above them and they didn’t know where to look and something thumped to the ground in front of Bauer and something crashed into the bracken nearby. Hathaway’s eyes had veered from the other man to Bauer, bewildered and tense, and then they dropped to the path. A bird, crumpled and bloody.

  More rustling in the undergrowth, the breaking of sticks as someone tramped through, and the foliage hardened into a third figure. ‘Anyone see – Ah, gentlemen; miss. See a couple of my bag fall hereabouts?’

  It was Knox.

  He stepped onto the path, nodded to each of them, saw the bird on the ground. ‘Gosh, there he is.’ He looked up at Bauer; held the gaze long. ‘Good thing you didn’t get hit, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bauer said.

  ‘There’s another in the bracken there.’ Hathaway pointed.

  Knox took a cartridge out of his pocket and slipped it into the shotgun. ‘Well that’s not bad, is it? Two birds with one whatsit, eh?’

  Bauer stepped off the path into the trees, resuming the direction he’d been taking, and was gone; his companion did the same.

  Hathaway breathed out. ‘That was deliberate, I take it.’

  A rough smile. ‘Bit of showing off helps sometimes.’ He loaded another cartridge, and kicked the second carcase out of the undergrowth onto the path. ‘Reasonable enough for you to head back for luncheon now, enjoy the picnic and declare you’ve had enough sport for the day. Even if they were making a try for you then, I doubt they’ll manage another chance.’

  ‘How did you come to be at the Margaretenhof?’

  ‘You reported to London that you were here. Easy enough for me to detour to the area, and relatively easy to get an invite to your neighbours. Friends of friends of friends. Come and see how you were getting on.’ A flapping in the treetops and his head rose and swung and the gun snapped shut and followed. But one bird, at least, would escape for now; Knox watched where it had gone, holding the pose a moment longer.

  She watched him: the lines of barrel and arm, the instinctive pivots of elbow and shoulder, the narrowed eyes one with their target. A man in his world.

  Face and shotgun dropped again. ‘Chance for a bit of sport,’ he went on. ‘And now, I’ll see about getting you away from here. Just bumped into each other; mutual acquaintances to discuss. Invite to supper, and why not stay on, etc. Get you back where you ought—’

  ‘No.’ It surprised her as much as him. More measured: ‘I’m staying.’

  ‘Look, I admire your pluck, Miss Hathaway. But—’

  ‘Do you call your other… professional acquaintances “Mr” so-and-so?’ Knox frowned. ‘Or are you stuck with women only? Is there a colonel who meets the men?’

  Knox looked older when he was exasperated. Lord, is it I who makes men old?

  ‘You were about to say that this is no place for a woman. Something like that.’ Knox’s chest swelled in a breath, and as he released it his body and face seemed to harden and she saw the life come into his eyes, hungry. This is how he looks in the moment before the battle. ‘Perhaps you and your friends should have thought of that before sending me here.’

  But the expression didn’t change. ‘Yes, Miss Hathaway. I was going to say something like that. I do think women are different; and I treat ’em so. You can call me funny names, or chain yourself to railings, or whatever takes your fancy. My attitude doesn’t depend on yours. It’s a way of the world I happen to believe in; my idea of civilization, and I’ve fought for it.’ His focus widened to their surroundings for an instant, then re-concentrated on her face. ‘Listening to your friends here, looks like I’ll be fighting for it again. What I was also going to say – and I’d say it to anyone, man or woman, about to let blood get the better of brain – is this: I’ve done more than my share of damn’ stupid things; dangerous, reckless; things you might sneer at. But I’ve always done them for something that I calculated worth while. Calculated, you hear? Calculated cold. It can be an admirable thing to risk your neck, and I think everyone’s capable of finding something they care about enough to do so; but it’s stupid to risk your neck when the game’s not worth it.’

  She searched the face; it didn’t move. ‘You’re sure you weren’t sent out by the old men to pat me on the head and tell me not to do anything unladylike?’

  ‘I’m sure. Miss Hathaway, please believe that the game is real. I might think it’s not appropriate for you to be here; but here you are.’ His eyes swung round them again, some instinct of hunter or soldier. ‘When the old men sent you out here, they did so knowing there was a risk. Miss Hathaway, they wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t come back. But they’d be disappointed if they didn’t get anything in return.’

  ‘Calculate, you say.’ Her head came up. ‘Two nights ago I read the private dossier of the chief of the German Army. Italy has specified the military support she will give to a campaign in Alsace. The Kaiser has been encouraging the Austrians to fight Serbia now, to stabilize their empire and before Russia is stronger. The German Army are pushing for war, soon, because they think they’ve a better chance now than in two years’ time.’

  He was impressed, and she enjoyed it for a second. ‘I’ll jot down what I remember and try to slip it to you this afternoon. Do you know, you’re the first man who’s ever told me to calculate more rather than less?’ He didn’t know what she was talking about. ‘I will see you anon, Major.’

  ‘I hope so, Miss Hathaway.’

  ‘Bit of cloak-and-dagger, I’m afraid, but they take this sort of thing damn’ seriously, and who’s to say they’re not right?’

  And then Pickford was introducing Ballentyne to Captain Tomić, sharp-featured and not a word, and Captain Tomić was leading Ballentyne away from the Miša House where he was supposed to be lecturing, through a heavy unmarked door which was locked behind them and which seemed to have led into a different building, down a flight of stairs, out another door and across an unlit narro
w street and in again and through another connecting door; and eventually he was shown into a darkened room and pointed to a chair. He sat.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Ballentyne.’ Captain Tomić was standing guarding the closed door, but Captain Tomić had not spoken. ‘Please excuse the melodrama.’ As his eyes adjusted, he made out a man seated behind a table. The only light in the room, a glimmer from a curtained window, was behind him.

  Slavic, speaking slow but solid English. Ballentyne nodded, waited.

  ‘You have information about an Austrian visitor to our country.’ He nodded again. ‘I ask you to share it. To repeat what you know and what you evaluate, with your scholar’s mind.’ A big man; surely. Not tall, but substantial. ‘I can only assure you that your co-operation is in the interests of the great friendship between the kingdoms of England and Serbia, for the destruction of our enemies.’

  Ballentyne had been in enough Balkan conversations to know it wouldn’t be the done thing to pay too much attention to the nuances of this friendship or this suddenly shared enmity. He repeated his story with the same clarity he’d given Pickford, adding judgements from his meeting with Belcredi the previous evening.

  The shadow stayed silent until he had finished. He then asked a series of shrewd questions about the nature of the villages in Albania where Belcredi had been, the sort of people he might have met in Bosnia, and what if anything Ballentyne knew of the ethnically Albanian Muslims in Serbia. Ballentyne was uneasy now, his loyalties to his Albanian villages and the great Anglo-Serbian friendship gently in conflict; but he pressed on honestly.

  Silence again. Then decision: ‘This man will be watched more closely – also into Austria, if he goes on there. His past movements here will be discovered. We will make investigations and take precautions in our south. When the war comes, England will find Serbia fully ready.’ There was the impression that Ballentyne was expected to pass this on to the King, or at least to Mr Asquith. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Ballentyne.’