And one day his brother needed someone to go to market with him, and Agron couldn’t be with him, and so she went, and came back alone, and Agron became the only one. His mother gave up on life that night, barely grieved for Burim, just disappeared into her bed and did not bother speaking to Agron, the only one, because he was simple.
So Agron’s life became silent. His mother like a ghost, and his dead brother’s wife who stayed in the house and continued to serve him as she should, breasts and hips and watching him and never a word.
Agron liked the silence. His thoughts seemed to flow more strongly and clearly in the silence. Wander the paths over the mountains, flow like the river in spring. Hahaha.
One night, shots near the Balaj house on the edge of the village, the village waking in alarm, hearing a scream. Shots could have been ignored easily, the scream less so. Adem and the other men found Besa huddled in the house babbling of bandits, but not before they found the body of Agron lying in the doorway.
Agron Balaj, who had betrayed his sister-in-law’s brother to death, was dead; his cursed, unlucky family was extinct. Besa returned to her mother’s house, to the rest of the village. The Balaj were forgotten.
Vienna
Aguidebook, open on a train seat and ignored:
Vienna is the city of the world’s civilization, for its development through the ages has reflected, and indeed has led, the development of man from primitivism to culture. First a settlement of the gold-obsessed barbarian Celts, it then felt the influence of Roman order; likewise the mediaeval epoch gave both its trading energies and its superstitions, and was in time supplanted by the baroque, which has ornamented the city with so many of its present jewels. These refinements made it natural and right that the city should become, at the start of the nineteenth century, the capital of a great and multifarious empire, and the centre of world diplomacy. The Imperial Age added grandeur to Vienna, and brought to its finest elaboration the development of man’s cultural taste. The work of L. Beethoven, J. Haydn and W. Mozart proved only the foundation of later refinements in music and art and the intellectual sphere. By the beginning of the twentieth century, this city of two millions was the temple to which looked, as if by natural impulsion, fifty millions of Imperial subjects of the greatest diversity in race and religion and quality, and beyond them the world.
Vienna is where, by diverse routes and through suburbs of endless squalor, Europe’s railway lines meet.
A screaming of whistles and wheels on points and a baby clutched uncomfortably in its mother’s arms just opposite, and Major Valentine Knox gritted his teeth and stared into the night and tried to will the train onwards by anger alone.
It didn’t work, and the unchanging rumbling of the wheels only increased his frustration.
Confusion. Inefficiency. Chaos. The tedious journey back through central Europe. A message pushed into his hand as he stepped off the train at Strasbourg. Racing as instructed to meet Colonel Mayhew in Paris. And in Paris there had been no Mayhew, just the old man.
Knox had remembered the old man from his first briefings with Mayhew. One of the last of the old amateurs; given an office to keep him happy until he got round to dying; tolerated in the margins of the new operations, occasional ideas and worthy homilies, because Britain’s long history was what distinguished her from a lot of these continental countries and Britain respected her veteran warhorses. Such had been Knox’s assumption, confirmed with murmurs by Colonel Mayhew when they’d taken a whisky and soda together before the major set off on his travels.
Except Mayhew seemed to have stepped out of the picture now, and when Knox had slipped into the room at the back of a bicycle shop by the Canal Saint Martin – not a rendezvous on the official list for Paris – it had been the old man, standing in the gloom, who’d given him a sandwich and a flask of brandy and his instructions.
Nothing of the duffer about him, and Knox realized afterwards that most of his previous recollections of the old man had been assumptions, and vague. Now there was only clarity, and a kind of coldness that even Knox, with his experience of battle and of espionage, found unsettling.
Four agents had been sent into Europe. All four were now in danger. For each there were hints – likely point of arrival, forwarding address, possible contact – but no more. The train for Vienna left in thirty minutes and Knox would be on it. It was naturally desirable that Knox try to protect the four if he could.
But it was not the priority, and this had been the point when Knox’s irritation at the amateur toing and froing in Military Intelligence business had been replaced by unease; by the sense that there were things he did not know, and habits of battle that even he had not learned.
There was a man. A spy; the greatest of the spies. The old man’s words: He is the whisper in the ear, the eye at the keyhole, in Paris and Petersburg and a dozen other places, and wherever there is violence he is the man supplying the bullets. The objective of the four agents had been to uncover details of this man – confusion again for Knox, trying to recover his original orders, the certainty offered by the new offices in London – and now this man had lured them all to Vienna.
Knox had tried to reimpose some discipline, something of himself, on the conversation: what then were his orders regarding this master spy? And the old man, matter-of-fact: If we came closer to war, and if I could be more sure who he was, and if I could reach him, I would have him killed. He is that dangerous. But the old man did not know, and for now Europe was at peace and the scandal could not be tolerated, and the old man seemed to like the situation even less than did Knox. A final reflection: He is the minotaur in the labyrinth; he is the spider in the web. And a reminder to Knox to keep his strength up, and confirmation that Knox had a pistol with him.
Knox caught his face in the compartment window, saw the tension around eyes and jaw; and then, oddly – a flash of imagination – the faces of Ballentyne and Cade and Duval, and Hathaway, observing his tension with their different styles of amusement.
Won’t seem so bloody funny when… No. Inefficient. The enforced inactivity must be used for planning. And eventually even this train must reach its destination, and Valentine Knox will be unleashed.
The baby opened its mouth again to scream.
Sir, Nicolai departed this morning unknown destination though timing and station suggest Vienna. Objective to quote finalize details diplomatic wedding unquote.
[SS D/2/114 (DECYPHERED)]
Vienna.
In Belgrade, Pickford had disappeared. Potentially, Pickford and Ballentyne between them would reveal the music teacher in Vienna.
The old man adjusted the position of the paper on the blotter.
And a little joke from the notoriously humourless Nicolai. Nicolai’s machine and the Spider’s network united.
The Spider would have access to Germany’s chain of agents in Britain…
Krug was reading a newspaper when Hildebrandt showed in Colonel Nicolai. He stood, and covered half of the distance to the door to meet his guest, still holding the newspaper.
Handshake; bows. It was Nicolai’s first visit to Krug’s office in Vienna. Not his sort of place, but what he would have expected. Over-pretty; decorations fiddly.
Searching for an adequate greeting; small talk. He gestured to the newspaper. ‘What is happening in the world today?’
Krug beckoned him towards a chair. Then he brandished the newspaper. ‘Forgive me a childish pleasure, Colonel, but it is always amusing to see one of one’s little interventions echoing around Europe. The pebble in the pool, and the ripples, if you will.’ Nicolai nodded. ‘In this case, we may jointly take the credit, I think. Grey in London has been forced to deny in his parliament that there have been negotiations with or obligations accepted to Russia.’
‘He lies.’
‘Of course he lies, Colonel. Technically not, perhaps, but essentially yes. And I can think of few men in Europe for whom a lie could be more uncomfortable than the British foreign secret
ary. Such a very careful man. Now he will be discreetly cursing the generals for putting him in this position. And the Russians will be cursing this new piece of perfidy from the British. And those negotiations will have been retarded.’ He smiled, and placed the newspaper on the desk. ‘We have done a good day’s work for our masters, Colonel.’
A knock, and a servant brought in three glasses of wine. Hildebrandt sat at the side of the room.
Nicolai glanced at him, then looked at Krug.
‘You will say that I am a pedantic Prussian, Herr Krug’ – polite denial on Krug’s face – ‘but I would like to return to the question of security. Both in our general procedures, and… so to say…’
‘The distinct protection of our individual networks?’
A little smile. ‘Exactly. Thank you. Count Hildebrandt’s reassurances about your rigorousness regarding security have been the most important reassurance to my superiors.’
A nod. ‘I am pleased to hear it. As you imply, we must be able to benefit from each other, without in any way jeopardizing the careful systems that we have each built.’
‘It is well put, Mein Herr. For example, I will not ask to know the identities of your individual contacts—’
‘Although there may be occasions when it would be appropriate, in which case I would be content to share them with you, personally and alone, so that you may better judge the material.’ Stiff nod from Nicolai. ‘For the most part, I will continue to use my contacts as best I can to support you in any problem you care to put to me. It may be possible on rare occasions for German Intelligence officials to contact them direct, but…’
‘Unnecessary and best avoided.’
‘Thank you. For my part, Colonel, I do not seek direct contact with your networks.’ Nod again. ‘But perhaps it would be convenient if I was able to put questions or messages into your networks via your regular embassy channels.’
‘I have secured approval for you to have a code designation that will demonstrate to any of my officials in any German embassy that you are a trusted person, for whom any legitimate business not obviously detrimental to the German interest should be transacted. This designation does not reveal your identity, but it is distinct from the usual designations of German Military Intelligence headquarters.’
‘Why, Colonel, this is excellent. An ideal arrangement, and I’m grateful for your efficiency.’
‘Should there be any disruption or irregularity in the system, my intermediaries in the embassies have orders to break off contact and institute the regular procedures to change all codes.’
‘I am pleased to hear it. I should say from my side that none of my contacts knows my identity and the full extent of my activities, and that none has known or will know if a particular question or request is on behalf of the German government or not. I am confident that no action against any one of my contacts can mean a threat to me – or, now, to my partners.’
Nicolai considered it all, and nodded. ‘The Imperial Government is satisfied,’ he said, heavy. It was a phrase he clearly enjoyed saying. Krug contrived a bow.
Nicolai sipped his wine. ‘Hildebrandt says you have an operation under way.’
A glance from Krug to Hildebrandt, and a moment’s consideration. ‘A little entertainment I have devised. And I confess it gives me great satisfaction. I have lured to Vienna, Colonel, three agents of the British Comptrollerate-General for Scrutiny and Survey. Three! Never before has that… that shadow had such substance; never before have I had my hand so firmly on it. One is an old friend of Hildebrandt’s, whom he will meet again with productive results for us all. One is an agent from Constantinople. The third…’ – pause for effect – ‘is an old acquaintance of yours, Colonel.’
‘Ah yes, I wondered about the coincidence. The Englishman from Berlin, no?’
Now the glance between Krug and Hildebrandt was confusion. ‘No, Colonel. The woman from the Margaretenhof. What Englishman?’
‘The man we were tracking. He who met the woman. Our agents have noted him in St Petersburg, and now travelling here. They report to me that he is also being watched by the Russian secret police, and by the French, and now presumably by your Austrian police too.’
Krug had lost his mask. He was thought, and it brought out the lines and character in his face. ‘But surely not… He too? What game is this?’ Again to Hildebrandt: ‘You know my attitude to coincidence.’
Vienna is where, by diverse routes and through suburbs of endless squalor, Europe’s railway lines meet. At precisely 6 p.m. the Paris express slowed to the buffers amid an explosion of steam and the first banging of opening doors. One man was out before the rest, eyes set and striding hard. High above him, a click and the straining of a spring, and the clock chimed the hour.
Cade
The station clock struck six, and Cade checked his watch against it.
A fraction slow. He adjusted and began to wind the watch, the tiny sawing of the mechanism nagging at him.
Have you lost your way a shade, Jimmy?
The death of Muhtar, and the mysterious Silvas, were facts. And they were history; nothing more. What to make of Vienna?
Trade. He drained the glass, felt the beer’s fizz in his nose and head, and cracked it down on the table.
As he walked across the concourse towards the exit he saw a man being escorted by two policemen; clearly under arrest – as they came nearer he saw a third policeman behind with pistol drawn. He’d noticed the escort first – the rifles high, the uniforms – and it was a moment before curiosity drew him to the face of the prisoner, when they were only yards apart, and he saw that it was Major Valentine Knox.
Cade stopped. A thump into his back from someone behind, a glance from one of the policemen, a glance from Knox, dead-faced, and it was the hammering of Cade’s heart that urged him into movement again.
Knox and his guards were thirty yards off, heading for a set of offices built into the side of the station. He watched the group into one of the doors, saw it close.
It couldn’t be coincidence.
Move, you daft bugger! Standing there like a fart in a storm. Move. Don’t draw attention. Get clear. Get things straight. Cades don’t rattle.
Things weren’t much straighter by the time he reached the Hotel Stefanie a quarter-hour later. But he knew he had to meet Silvas, and he knew Knox was irrelevant to that, and at the Stefanie there was a message for him: Elisabethstraße; seven-thirty.
Wash. Clean shirt. Ginger himself up a bit. They were serving a fizzy water in the bar, and he ordered one. A flash of his conversation with Riza, whenever it had been. Keep the nut clear.
Perhaps Knox’s presence really had been coincidence. It was seven o’clock as he came out of the bar and made for the concierge’s desk. Bit grim to see him being banged up like that.
There were a couple of girls heading for the desk at the same moment, and he gave them a second glance. His own age, perhaps; frocks smart, well-cut, nothing too fancy; one was a glorious golden thing, the other darker, more subtly handsome. Someone’s got his blood back, eh Jimmy?
They were speaking German. He’d only ever learned enough for polite correspondence, but it served for the gist. As they all three reached the desk together the blonde was talking about needing something – or someone – and then… Then she’d switched to English: ‘or perhaps Major Knox.’
The dark girl said something and the blonde was talking to one of the fellows behind the desk and he was saying something back and Cade got none of it.
Cades don’t rattle. Cades don’t rattle.
Some extraordinary coinci— But no. There had to be a reason why Vienna had suddenly become a reunion of the Knox Appreciation Society.
He couldn’t begin to think what.
Faintly, through his own unease, a sense of something wider. The blonde had moved away from the desk but the dark girl was still there. Cade, a desperate instinct, murmured: ‘If you’re acquainted with Major Valentine Knox, you need to listen to
me, right now. I’ll be across the lobby.’
He handed over his key, got directions to Elisabethstraße, and turned away.
Across the lobby there was a display of mementoes – chocolates, lithographs of notable Viennese, chinaware adopting styles of the city’s Roman past – and he stood in front of it.
His body was electrified. At any moment a hand on his shoulder, a whistle, arrest as a confederate of Major Knox.
There was no link between him and Knox. But what if—
Movement beside him. A glance gave him a glimpse of her profile, staring into the trinkets.
A breath, swallowed. She doesn’t want to commit herself. Friend rather than enemy. ‘What did—’
‘One hour ago, Major Knox was under arrest at the station.’ He leaned forwards to examine the detail on an urn, then turned and strode away.
It was twenty-five minutes through a pleasant evening to Elisabethstraße. Fashions conservative, but affluent. Shopfronts unimaginative, but of unquestionable quality. Money in Vienna, no doubt about it.
He’d done what he could.
A side street only a couple of hundred yards from the palaces. A door like all the others. A plaque: Adriatisch Handelsverein. Adriatic… trading union?
The door opened promptly to his knock. A uniformed footman, stair carpet thick as he climbed, wall-mounted electric lights: discreet money. Would he excuse a slight delay? Would he take some refreshment?
A couple more minutes. Then fast feet on the stairs – the first discordance with the calm – and words in German: ‘His death is not a problem; but a lost chance, that is all.’
Had he heard the words right? Cade frowned; sipped his fizzy water.
Another minute, and then the uniform was back and beckoning to him. But as Cade got to the door there was a young man hurrying across the landing ahead of him, knocking at the double doors that dominated the space and then sticking his head through. Cade, behind, heard something about ‘an Englishman, asking for Valfierno’, and then from within the double doors there was a blast of angry German and the young man was backing out and glancing at Cade and hurrying away.
The Spider of Sarajevo Page 33