“What friend?”
“A very young man, sir. Only a boy. I think he was a pupil from the school.”
“They saw madame?”
“Oh, indeed, sir. They spent some time together.”
“Thank you.” Berkeley went up the stairs and paused at the first-floor landing, as he listened to the unmistakeable sound of revolver shots coming from the backyard. He crossed the reception room and looked down. Caterina was alone, her hair bound up in a scarf, shooting at a target at the far end of the yard.
Berkeley stroked his chin, then went on up to the nurseries.
“General!” As with everyone else, Alexandrina the nurse was astonished to see him.
“Papa!” Anna was in his arms. “We did not know you were coming.”
“So it seems.” He hugged John and Alicia, still very much the baby of the family, in turn.
“Tell us about the war, Papa,” Anna begged. “Did you kill a lot of the enemy?”
“Lots and lots,” he assured her, and listened to the soft footfall outside the door.
“Mama!” Anna shouted. “Papa’s back!”
Caterina opened the door. “We did not expect you,” she said.
“So everybody tells me.” He stood up to take her in his arms, but it was a few seconds before she relaxed.
“What has happened in the war? We have not been defeated?”
“Yes, and no.”
“What do you mean?” Her hands were tight on his.
“We beat the Bulgars, easily enough. But then had to take orders from the Austrians.”
“So that’s what—” she bit her lip.
“Gregory meant?” he prompted.
She freed herself.
“I know he was here. Perhaps you’d tell me what he had to say. And who was his companion?”
“One of his pupils.” She led him out of the nursery and into their bedroom.
“He brought one of his pupils to see you?”
“The boy was accompanying him on holiday.”
“I find that rather odd. What did he have to say to you?”
“He said there was great tension between Austria and our people.”
“And suggested you practice shooting?”
“Well,” she said, “everyone needs to know how to shoot. Especially where we are, only a few miles from the Bosnian border.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Berkeley said, watching her. “You really are very exposed here. And the children. Perhaps it would be a good idea to sell up, and move to Belgrade.”
“No,” she snapped, and flushed as she glanced at him. “This is my home. I will not abandon it because of any threat from the Austrians.”
Berkeley nodded. “I didn’t suppose you would. What else did Gregory have to say?”
She sat on the bed, her hands in her lap. “That you and he are working together to revive the Hand.”
“I suppose that’s true. And . . .”
“That you are planning something very big. With Karlovy.”
“Who seems to have disappeared. Did he tell you what this big thing was?”
“He would not.”
“Because he does not know. Nobody knows, except me.”
She sniffed. “You will not even tell your wife.”
“I think it is best this way. And Gregory told you nothing else? Apart from that you should practice shooting?”
“No,” she said.
She was lying to him. Gregory was indeed planning something on his own. Something which could involve Caterina? Berkeley was well aware that for all her indications of domesticity, her hatred of the Austrians and her determination one day to avenge her mother and father was as strong as ever.
He would have to be patient. In the meantime . . .
“It is important that I see Gregory. Do you know where he has gone?”
“No.”
“Will he be coming back here before term starts?”
“I do not know.”
“Ah. Right.” He had come home wishing only to take her in his arms and hold her there for a long time. Now he no longer wanted to do that. “Well, I must have a bath and a change of clothing.” He rubbed his chin. “And a shave. By the way, what was the name of this schoolboy he had with him?”
“I think it was Princip.”
“Gavrilo Princip?”
“Yes, I think that was it. There is mail for you.”
She indicated the envelopes lying on the table. Two were from his parents, and he put them into his pocket to be read at leisure. The third was also from England, a large and thick manila envelope. It was heavily sealed, and the seal had not been broken. He opened it. As indicated by Smailes, one of the sheets was simply a list of dates and place names. As these included such things as the sites of various army manoeuvres, as well as royal cities such as Potsdam and Berlin, Berkeley presumed any intelligent person would be able to work out they were the itinerary, if not of the Kaiser, certainly of someone in his entourage. But the important one remained, Lake Balaton, June 3 to 21, following which the subject was departing for a Baltic cruise on the royal yacht.
Lucky for some, Berkeley thought. But that was one holiday he would never take.
Also in the envelope were two passports and various other documents pertaining to a Mr Peter Carruthers, businessman of Athens, and his servant, Charles Brent. As promised, in each passport the space for the photograph and signature had been left blank.
“I hope it is not bad news,” Caterina said.
“Not at all,” Berkeley said, as he burned the itinerary.
*
Much to Berkeley’s relief, Karlovy appeared at the beginning of November. It had been a tense period, not only because Berkeley could make no concrete plan until he knew he had a way in and a way out, but also because of the tension that existed between Caterina and himself: each had a secret they would not, dared not, divulge to the other. There was no sign of Gregory during the holidays, and no word from him either, and Berkeley was just determining that he would have to go to Belgrade, when Karlovy was announced.
Berkeley received him in the reception room. The anarchist looked tired and travelworn, but he seemed ebullient enough.
“I have made all the contacts you require, General,” he said. “They have been paid, and are standing by. All they wish is the word from you.” He paused, hopefully.
“I congratulate you. Now, how many men have you got to go with us?”
“These still have to be recruited. It would be a great help if I can tell them what we are going to do.”
“Did Anna ever tell you her plans, before she was ready to carry them out?”
“No,” Karlovy acknowledged.
“Then you must be patient. As I told you, we need three good men. You can tell them we are going to strike at the very heart of Austria. Exactly how will be revealed when the time comes.”
“And that will be?”
Berkeley grinned at him. “That too must wait. But it will not be until next year. Go and spend Christmas with your family. You do have a family?”
It had suddenly occurred to him that he knew absolutely nothing about this man, save that he was a violent rogue.
“I have no family,” Karlovy said.
“But you have a woman?”
“I have many women,” Karlovy said. “When do you wish me to return?”
“As I have told you, I wish you to do nothing, save recruit your men, until next May. At the beginning of May, I wish you to go into Hungary, visit Szigeti, and tell him that we shall be coming to him the first week in June. We will need to hire horses. He must arrange this. There is no need to tell him more than that.”
Karlovy grinned. “I cannot tell him what I do not know myself.”
“Absolutely. But you may tell him that it is possible we will need to use his house on the way back as well.”
“Which will be when?”
“I will tell you that when we are on our way. After you have seen Szig
eti, you will return to Belgrade, and come to Sabac on the first of June.”
“These men I am to recruit. Must they be armed?”
“Yes, I wish them each to be armed with a hunting rifle.”
“Because we are going hunting,” Karlovy said thoughtfully. “In Hungary.”
“You are thinking too much, Karlovy. Your people may also bring their personal sidearms.”
“I will need money until then. And for the men.”
Berkeley paid him.
“The first of June,” Karlovy said, and left.
“Why do you deal with Karlovy, and not Gregory?” Caterina asked.
“Simply because I am in field command of our people, and Karlovy is my second-in-command. Gregory prefers to keep out of the firing line, as you well know. Why, did he tell you something different when he was here?”
“He told me nothing when he was here, save that you and he are again working together.”
Another lie.
“I am going into Belgrade next week,” Berkeley said. “Would you care to come with me?”
“I would rather stay here.”
“As you wish. I shall probably be calling on Gregory.”
“Give him my regards,” Caterina said.
The temptation to grab her and shake the truth out of her was enormous. But he knew such tactics would never work with Caterina, and now was no time to have an open split. He had to believe that he would survive the Kaiser’s assassination, that he would return to Sabac, and that he would be able to pick up the threads of his life again – with his wife.
All that was necessary was to warn Gregory off.
He called at the school and was, as usual, shown into the headmaster’s study.
“I missed you, in the summer,” Berkeley said. “Both here and at Sabac.”
“So I understand,” Gregory said smoothly. “But then, no one expected you home so suddenly.”
“Obviously,” Berkeley agreed. “Caterina is being rather mysterious about your visit.”
Gregory bristled. “I hope you are not suggesting there has been any impropriety between me and your wife.”
“Of course I am not,” Berkeley said, “because I am sure you are well aware that if I suspected that I would kill you.”
Gregory gulped.
“Besides, you had company, did you not?” Berkeley said. “The boy Princip. One of your favourite pupils, you told me.”
Once again Gregory attempted to bristle. “Are you saying—”
“I am saying nothing, Gregory. What you do in private, even with your own pupils, is up to you. Although I suspect that the boy’s parents, and equally Colonel Savos, might be interested.”
Another gulp.
“However,” Berkeley went on, “I will also take a somewhat sombre view of anyone who attempts to involve Caterina in any plots.”
“Caterina wishes to emulate her mother. You cannot blame her for that.”
“She is my wife and the mother of my children. That is all that matters to me. Now tell me what you went to see her about.”
Gregory licked his lips.
“The matter is interesting Colonel Savos,” Berkeley said. “He knows that you have been training some of your schoolboys in anarchy, and he is not happy about it. That he has not yet arrested you is simply because I have asked him not to. But I have to be certain that you are not planning any move against Austria.”
“While you do.”
“What I do is my business. Tell me why you went to Sabac.”
Another quick flick of the tongue round his lips.
“I went to ask Caterina to give shelter to any of my people who might need it. Sabac is close to the Bosnian frontier. It is the obvious place for them to go to ground, and the Slovitza house is the obvious place for them to seek concealment until they can be returned here.”
“And Princip is a Bosnian, you told me.”
“He was.”
“Well, you can forget all about that idea, for two reasons. First of all, Sabac is sufficiently close to the border to come within the range of an Austrian punitive raid, which they might well risk if they felt they might catch a wanted criminal. That would certainly put Caterina and my children in the firing line if they were found giving shelter to the criminal in question, and that I will not permit. Understand this very clearly. The second reason is that there is to be no action in either Austria, Hungary or Bosnia until I say so, and I have not said so yet.”
“You think you can give me orders?”
“I am giving you orders, Gregory. I have taken command.”
“And you are planning something. But you will not tell me what it is.”
“No, I will not. It is best this way.”
“And Karlovy?”
“Karlovy knows nothing, save that he will accompany me.”
“Suppose I told you that I do know what you are planning, and that I am working to help you.”
Berkeley considered him. “There is absolutely no possibility of you knowing what I am planning, Gregory. All you have to do is sit tight and wait to hear from me.” He got up. “And keep your schoolboys at home.”
Gregory leaned back in his chair. “Do you wish to know the real reason I went to see Caterina?”
“I would, yes.”
“I went to ask her if we could use her house for shelter, certainly. But I also had a piece of information that I felt would interest her.”
“Yes?”
“I have learned that the man who signed the death warrant for her father, and who was therefore indirectly responsible for her own rape and torture, was the Archduke Franz Ferdinand.”
“That was a very long time ago,” Berkeley said.
“Not to Caterina,” Gregory pointed out.
Damn, he thought as he went out on the street to walk back to where he had stabled his horse. Damn, damn, damn. Once he had reminded Caterina that she did not even know the men who had hanged her father and ill-treated her, and he thought she accepted that reasoning. But if she knew the name of the man who had signed the death warrant . . . He could only thank God that the Archduke was many hundreds of miles away, in Vienna.
And he did not suppose that Caterina was in a minority of one when it came to Serbs, or Bosnians for that matter, who hated all Austrian archdukes.
“General Townsend.”
He turned, sharply, recognising the voice. As usual, Julia Braddock was dressed in the height of fashion, wearing a fox-fur winter coat and a fur hat, and carrying an umbrella.
“Mrs Braddock.” He bent over her hand.
“It seems a long time since we met.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And you have been fighting more wars.”
“I’m retired now.”
“Ah,” she said, and waited. But when he did not speak, she said, “Harvey has been transferred.”
As Smailes had promised. But he said, “Isn’t that rather sudden? He has only been here a year or so.”
“Yes,” she said. “It came as a surprise to both of us. I don’t suppose . . .” Cheeks pink, she glanced right and left, although as she was speaking English there was little chance of any of the passersby eavesdropping.
“Certainly not here in Belgrade,” Berkeley said.
“I was thinking of Athens.”
“If anyone in Athens got to know of it, I am very sorry,” he said. “Does Harvey know?”
She shook her head. “Not so far as I am aware. So, I suppose it’s goodbye.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
She licked her lips. “If you were to . . .”
“Dearest Julia, we have been through this so many times. I am still a serving officer, in the British army at any rate. I have been given a job of work to do, and I am not a free agent until that job is completed. For you to do anything as dramatic as leaving Harvey right this minute would be incredibly foolish.”
“But when this job is over . . .”
“Yes. If it is possible. Have yo
u any idea where you are being sent?”
“Yes. Sarajevo.”
“Good Lord. I didn’t know we had a consulate in Sarajevo.”
“It was opened several years ago, when the Austrian occupation became an established fact. We’re told it’s one of those old provincial towns where nothing ever happens.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. When do you go?”
“As soon as Harvey’s replacement arrives, which will be within the month. As to how long we will stay in Sarajevo, I don’t know.”
He nodded. “I will try to be in touch, later in the summer.”
“But if we’re not there . . .”
“I’ll find you.”
He hurried away. Emotions, feelings, whether his own or other people’s, now had to be put on hold. Only Lake Balaton mattered.
*
Berkeley did not mention the matter of Franz Ferdinand when he returned to Sabac. Far better, he decided, to let that one lie.
It was a peaceful period. If he spent much of his spare time studying maps and roads and correlating them with the positions of the various agents Karlovy had reactivated – Berkeley had even had him look up old Dittmann at Seinheit, in case they found it necessary to escape to the north into Russian Poland – he was also able to devote a good deal of time to his family and affairs.
He supposed that knowing one is virtually under a sentence of death greatly sharpens one’s perspectives, one’s understanding of the truly important things in life. His children were a delight. Anna was now five, and already a capable horsewoman. At four, John was becoming interested in weapons, encouraged by his mother. And Alicia watched her elder brother and sister with envious eyes. For the present they were merely happy children. Berkeley could not doubt that with him dead and gone Caterina would instil in them her own hatred, and that they might well have short and unhappy lives.
And there was nothing he could do about that, save love them while he had the chance.
And Caterina? She too seemed to have recaptured some of the joie de vivre of a few years back. She loved him with almost as much desperation as he loved her, at least physically, so much so that he had to wonder if she had an inkling of the immediate future. Perhaps he talked in his sleep! Or perhaps, now that she was able to concentrate her hatred upon a single man, she too was able to love again, with at least part of her mind.
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