Another nod.
“I will also need considerable funding.”
“Whatever you require will be paid into your account in Belgrade. How much time will you need to set it up?”
Berkeley considered. “I’m afraid, a few months.”
“And it is now nearly December. Are you saying it is unlikely you will be ready before next spring?”
“I’m afraid there’s no chance of that. Recreating the Black Hand is going to take time, as will reactivating our agents in Hungary.”
“I see. This is a pity, but I understand the situation. Very well. Target date will be the spring after next, 1914. Now, how you organise the mission and carry it out must be entirely your business: we do not want to know. And, of course, you understand that if you are taken, whatever you might say to your captors, His Majesty’s Government will deny any knowledge of you beyond the fact that you were retired as unfit four years ago and have since been serving with the Serbian forces.”
Berkeley nodded. “There are people at the Embassy in Athens who know that I am still employed by the army.”
“Leave the people in the Embassy in Athens to me,” Smailes said. “So, we will keep you informed as to the Kaiser’s movements, or projected movements, as soon as we know of them. Our messages will be very simple, a place and a date. Nothing more. The rest is up to you.”
“Yes,” Berkeley said thoughtfully.
Smailes held out his hand. “I will wish you good fortune, and every success.”
“If you don’t mind,” Berkeley said, “I won’t shake your hand, right this minute.”
*
He returned to Serbian army headquarters, which had been established in the town of Skopje. This was close to the Albanian border. Yannina had fallen to the Greeks and the last Turkish army in the south-west of the peninsular was no more; but General Putnik was still keeping an eye on things while the London peace conference got under way.
“You have been gone a long while,” he remarked mildly, when Berkeley reported to his office. “Is there trouble at home?”
“I’m afraid I did not go home, sir,” Berkeley said; he was pretty sure the general had found that out, anyway. “I went to Athens and then Salonika, to see for myself what is happening in the east.”
“That is very interesting. Very enterprising,” Putnik said. “Did you discover anything of value?”
“That the Bulgarians are maintaining a very large army in Thrace.”
“They have also a considerable force just across the Macedonian frontier,” Putnik told him. “And are claiming that they have not received a fair share of the spoils.”
“Will we give them some of Macedonia?”
“Certainly not. This is our country now.”
“So we are maintaining our army in the field?”
“Until we see what comes out of London, certainly.”
“Ah,” Berkeley said. “I came here to resign my commission.”
“Resign?” Putnik shouted. “When you have just been promoted, and are one of our best cavalry commanders?”
“I have a wife and family to see to.”
“Don’t we all? I cannot accept your resignation, General Townsend. Certainly not until this business is finished for good and all.”
“Then, sir, I must ask for some more leave, to visit my family.”
“For Christmas, eh?” Putnik chuckled. “If I give you leave, must I not give every married man in the army leave for Christmas? You will get your home leave, General, in due course. As to whether it will be for Christmas, I cannot say. Be patient. Your family will not go away.”
Berkeley had not supposed that getting out of the Serb army and reconstructing the Black Hand was going to be either simple or quick, which was why he had told Smailes he could not possibly be ready by the spring of 1913. But even the year’s extension he had been given was not all that long, in view of the immense amount of work that had to be done.
To what aim? The assassination of a ruling monarch: a man he had never seen, and had no personal reason to hate. The deed itself did not hang heavily on his conscience – he had killed sufficient men in his time – although he could certainly hope that during the next fifteen months something would happen, such as a natural death, to prevent him having to carry out his horrendous orders. But as he had reminded Smailes, the Kaiser was relatively young and in perfect health, so far as was known. Nor did he discount his chances of committing the crime and escaping, if he could get sufficient support.
But the whole idea went against those, no doubt absurd, notions of honour that had dominated his youth. The stakes were very high: if Smailes, or Gorman, were to be believed, the entire future of Europe might be at stake. That meant the future of Caterina, and more important, his children.
And Julia? Probably hers too.
Then what of that future. The trouble with being encamped, with nothing to do but drill his brigade and drink in the officers’ mess, was that it gave him too much time to think. And plan? He was strangely reluctant to do that. Because however much he knew he had fallen in love with Julia, she still wanted to dictate her own terms for their lives. And however much he knew he had fallen out of love with Caterina, he knew that was because he had not been able, and had not wanted to be able, to equal her hatred, her burning desire for revenge. But if he did reconstitute the Black Hand, even if only for this one supreme occasion, Caterina would be as loving as ever in the past. Would he then fall in love with her all over again? Could he?
Lockwood, who obtained Christmas leave and returned to Sabac to see his own wife and child, could tell that his master had a great deal on his mind. He was also somewhat confused, as like everyone else, he had supposed Berkeley had returned home the previous month. “Mrs Townsend was hoping to see you, sir,” he remarked.
“I had things to do, Harry.”
“Of course, sir.” Lockwood waited, but Berkeley did not feel he was in a position immediately to enlighten his faithful old friend as to what was going on. In fact, he was not sure he could call on Lockwood at all for what might well turn out to be a suicide mission, however much he might feel the need of his support.
It was a bleak winter in and around the mountains of Macedonia, while the talking continued in London and the recent antagonists waited. Berkeley exchanged letters with Caterina, warmly enough, but despite what Lockwood had said, Berkeley did not feel his wife was particularly anxious to have him back; that he was serving with the Serbian army was sufficient. But at last, at the beginning of March 1913, his turn for another furlough came up, and he could ride for Belgrade.
He went first, as he always did, to see Colonel Savos. The colonel was older and slightly more grizzled, but was as hard-faced as ever, and yet, as usual in recent years, genuinely pleased to see his old friend.
“You have had a great war, I believe, General,” he remarked.
“A successful one, at any rate,” Berkeley agreed.
“Fate plays funny tricks,” Savos remarked. “When I first saw you sitting in that chair, I honestly thought I would not see you again. How long ago was that?”
“Four and a half years,” Berkeley said.
“Only that? It seems much longer. Now you are one of our most famous soldiers, as well as a husband and a father and a prominent citizen.”
“Correction,” Berkeley said. “I am not a Serb citizen.”
“With your war record, you could be, any time you wish.”
“I have the matter under consideration. Now tell me, Colonel, have you any news of any of our friends?”
Savos’ eyes had a disconcerting habit of suddenly appearing to have closed, while remaining open. “They are keeping out of sight, until the war is over.”
“The war is over.”
“Not everyone is convinced of that.”
“And if, or perhaps I should say when they reappear, will you do something about them?”
“If they commit no crimes inside Serbia,” Savos said smoothly. �
�I should have no reason to do anything about them.”
Berkeley went to see Gregory.
“Berkeley, my old friend!” The schoolmaster embraced him. “But it is good to see you again, looking so well, and so famous, as well.”
“You mean I look famous?” Berkeley asked.
Gregory poured wine. “And you are on your way home, to see your wife?”
“I am.”
“Then it is good of you to take the time to call on me.”
“We may have some business.”
Gregory gazed at him for some seconds, then was distracted by a knock on the door. “Come,” he said.
The schoolboy who entered was thin with pinched features. He stopped in embarrassment when he saw Berkeley. “I apologise, sir. I did not know you had a visitor.”
“A famous man, Gavrilo,” Gregory said. “Brigadier-General Townsend.”
Berkeley stood up and shook hands.
“Princip is one of my best pupils,” Gregory said. “One of my most faithful pupils.”
Gavrilo Princip’s eyes flickered over Berkeley’s uniform.
“Was it important, Gavrilo?” Gregory asked.
“I will return later, sir,” the boy said and withdrew, closing the door.
“Have you many who are that faithful?” Berkeley asked.
“Not quite enough at the moment, but their numbers are growing.”
Berkeley sat down again. “Suppose I told you that I am interested in reactivating the Black Hand.”
Gregory’s eyes narrowed. “I think I would like to be told why.”
“It is a simple matter. By our success in this war, Serbia has, virtually overnight, doubled her territory. This is disturbing to Vienna.”
“If we have doubled our country, then we have also doubled our strength,” Gregory pointed out. “The Austrians would not attack us before, why should they risk it now?”
“I believe they may well be planning to do so,” Berkeley said. “I do not agree that the mere fact of doubling your country has meant a doubling in your strength. What it really means is that your army, which has not grown in size, now has double the territory to defend.”
“I do not believe,” Gregory said, “that old man in Vienna has any longer the will to go to war with anybody.”
“But that old man, Gregory, simply because he is an old man, is not going to be around very much longer.”
Gregory got up and poured them each a glass of wine. “I agree that that is a point. Then we would have to deal with Franz Ferdinand. So, you would reactivate the Hand to that end?”
“I would reactivate the Hand to oppose Austrian ambitions,” Berkeley said carefully. “I do not think Franz Ferdinand is a threat, in himself.”
“That may be. But he will be less of a threat if he is dead.”
“If he is dead,” Berkeley said, equably, although he was not pleased with the way the conversation was going, “he will merely be succeeded by his brother, or his nephew, or whatever, when the old man dies.”
“He is our threat,” Gregory said stubbornly.
“You will have to permit me to be the judge of that,” Berkeley told him.
“You?”
“You once invited me to lead you. Now I am prepared to do so.”
“What has changed your mind?”
“I am now dedicated to your cause,” Berkeley said. If he had often in his life regretted the number of lies he had had to tell people, beginning with his own parents, he had at least had ample practice.
Once again Gregory studied him for some seconds. “Have you told your wife of this?”
“I have not told her yet. I will do this when I get home. She will be very pleased to know that the Black Hand is being revived.”
“No doubt. And you have a specific manoeuvre in mind?”
“Yes.”
“I think I am entitled to know what it is.”
“You shall, in due course. For the time being, let us find out who is still willing to work with us.”
“How many men will you need?”
“Three. Three good men. Karlovy, for a start. If he will serve under me.”
“Oh, yes, I think he will serve under you.”
“Do you know where he can be found?”
Gregory nodded. “I will send him to you, and you will tell him whatever you wish.”
Berkeley had one last call to make before returning to Sabac. He did not suppose he was ever going to see Julia again, either because he was not going to return from this mission, or because Harvey Braddock would be one of those shifted out of the Balkans for knowing too much about Berkeley Townsend’s activities.
He continued to feel oddly ambivalent about the whole situation. He had known from the beginning that the army would not have placed him in the Balkans, for what might have been a considerable time, paying him a good salary, merely for the few small items of interest he had been able to send them. And while he supposed they gave him credit for suppressing the activities of the Black Hand, once that was done they had had no reason to leave him in situ. No, they had all along had bigger things in mind: firstly, that he should rise in rank and esteem amongst his Serb associates, and thereby perhaps be in a position to influence her foreign policy – a very long shot – and secondly, and far more sinisterly, that when they were ready to use it, he would be able to reconstitute the Black Hand, only this time it would be carrying out London’s secret plans, not those of Belgrade.
This he had now been ordered to do. To commit the crime of the century. Which might, if London were right, save Europe from a vast and destructive war. But which, if London were wrong, could easily bring about that war. His not to reason why, his but to do and die. Or not, if he could manage it.
But that still left his emotional life in a mess. Of course, if he died, that would be the end of the matter, at least from his point of view. But if he succeeded, and got away with it, Caterina would certainly return to him, body and soul; he could not doubt that. But Julia . . . no matter how secret these matters, they always came out in the end . . . Julia would be shocked and horrified at what he had done. She had never really cared for the army way of doing things.
He knocked on the door of the consul’s residence, and was admitted by a maid. “Mr Braddock is at the consulate, sir.”
“Ah. Then I shall go along there shortly. Would Mrs Braddock be at home?”
“Indeed, sir. Who shall I say is calling?” She was eyeing his uniform appreciatively as he gave her his cap and gloves.
“I know the gentleman, Sophie,” Julia said from the drawing room doorway.
She stood back to allow him to pass, and closed the door. “You continually surprise me.”
Her tone was understandably cold.
“I am sorry. I was required elsewhere.”
“Could you not have sent a message?”
“I considered it best not to.”
“Well.” She sat down. “You were to instruct me. Or have you changed your mind about that also?”
He sat beside her. “Believe me, I would prefer not to. But . . .”
“You are required elsewhere.”
“Yes.”
“I see. For how long?”
“I have no idea. But it will not be for a few months, yet. We could perhaps meet . . .”
“To what purpose?”
“I had supposed you enjoyed my company.”
She got up, restlessly, moved about the room. “You wish me to become the ultimate mistress.”
“Once you said you would be happy with that.”
“Once you offered me more,” she countered.
He sighed. “I can offer you nothing until this mission is completed. Believe me, this is for your sake as much as mine.”
“A mission which you say may take a year or longer.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And where do you go now? To Sabac?”
“Why, yes.”
“To be with your wife.”
&nbs
p; “And my children. You said you might visit us.”
“So that you could steal into my bedroom in the dead of night, like a thief?”
Berkeley stood up. “I am sorry. We seem to alternate between passionate love and passionate quarrelling. You know the situation, Julia. I am a soldier, and I must obey orders. I have been given certain orders, which will take approximately a year to carry out. Until then, I am not a free agent, either as regards time or movement. I thought you understood.”
“When you thought that, we were not thinking in terms of years,” she said bitterly.
“One year. Then I will be able to come to you.”
He had not meant to make such a rash promise. It had just slipped out.
“One year,” she said. “Here?”
“If you are still here,” he said cautiously. “But wherever you are.”
“Well, then,” she said, “I will wish you every success in your mission.”
They gazed at each other, but she was offering nothing more at the moment, nor was he in the mood to seek it. He kissed her hand, and left.
*
Berkeley always felt an intruder when he came to Sabac. It was his home, but he did not belong here: he was not, and could never be, one of these people. But he was at least sure of a welcome nowadays, especially as the people caught sight of his uniform, and clustered round, all wishing to shake his hand and pat him on the back, ask him questions about the war, congratulate him on the army’s success.
There could be no doubt that Caterina knew he was coming long before he reached the tall, dark house. Today the doors were open and she stood there, Baby Alicia in her arms, the two toddlers clinging to her skirts. She was so beautiful, and today so adoring, as he hugged and kissed her and the children, and smiled at Marie Lockwood, waiting behind her.
“It is so good to have you back,” Caterina said. “So good. And so triumphant.”
They sat together in the drawing room after the children had been put to bed.
“How long can you stay?” she asked.
“A week.”
“And then?”
“I must return to the army.”
She pouted. “But the war is over.”
“No one seems to be quite sure about that,” he told her.
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