Christmas was a happy time, but once it was over, it became necessary to prepare himself for what lay ahead. Certainly as he observed what was going on around him, Berkeley could believe that Smailes and Gorman and their secret masters had a point, no matter how drastic their proposed remedy. That all the powers were preparing for an eventual war was certain; the exception was Britain herself – but she seemed to be preparing for a civil war, in Northern Ireland.
Meanwhile, in March, Tsar Nicholas II announced that he was increasing the size of the Russian army from 460,000 men to 1,700,000. This made the Serbs very happy. Austria responded by making provision for increasing the size of their army the top of their budget priorities, while Germany held vast manoeuvres at which the Kaiser was prominent. To further increase the tension, Albania remained in a state of incipient civil war, and disturbing reports began to circulate of atrocities committed by Serb troops on Albanian Moslems along the Macedonian border. Granted the deep-seated hatreds and frustrations on both sides of the border, the possibility of such things happening could not be discounted, but Berkeley became more than ever determined to get out of the Balkans, once his task was completed – even if it meant kidnapping Caterina all over again. He could never be one of these people, even if he sympathised with many of their problems and had fought for them.
*
In the new year he set his plans in motion.
“I am thinking of growing a beard,” he told Caterina. “Would you like that?”
She appeared to size him up, as if she did not know what he truly looked like. “That might be amusing,” she agreed.
“Lockwood is going to grow one too,” he said.
The beards grew rapidly, and by the middle of May were sufficiently full and bushy for them to be able to go into Belgrade and have the photographs taken, to be placed on their passports.
“I feel I am making love with a stranger,” Caterina giggled. “How long do you mean to grow it?”
“I shall probably shave it off in the summer,” he said.
Which was now only a few weeks away. On June 1 Karlovy arrived.
“I am going on a journey,” Berkeley told Caterina.
“With Karlovy?”
“That is correct.”
“You are going on a raid.”
“I am going on a journey with Karlovy. I will be gone about a fortnight.”
He paused, waiting for her to insist upon accompanying him, as she had done so often in the past. But to his surprise, she merely said. “I will wish you good fortune.”
*
Karlovy’s three men were waiting outside the town, and the party of six took the train up to the Hungarian border.
“Perhaps you would be good enough now to inform us what we do?” Karlovy asked.
Berkeley had given a good deal of thought as to how to handle the business. “We are going to rob the Anhalt Bank in Buda,” he told them; the group were alone in the compartment.
One of the men whistled. “That will be very dangerous.”
“Not as I have planned it,” Berkeley told them. “I have spent the last year obtaining plans and learning about the alarm systems. We will be in and out before anyone even knows we are there. This is necessary if we are to relaunch the Hand. We need money.”
“What are these plans of yours?” Karlovy asked.
“I will tell you when we are across the border. For the moment we are going to Lake Balaton to hunt.”
Karlovy grinned.
*
With his beard Berkeley did not think there was any chance of his being recognised, and he had his new false papers.
“Mr Carruthers,” said the border guard. “Mr Brent.” He glanced at Lockwood, and then checked out the Serbs, who were also travelling under assumed names and had false papers. “Going to Balaton, to hunt. Let me see your weapons, gentlemen.”
They showed him their Mauser hunting rifles, equipped with telescopic sights, and Lockwood also had his trusty shotgun. Their pistols they kept concealed, and their baggage was not searched.
“It is quite busy, at Balaton, at this time of year,” the guard said. “Please be careful to shoot only birds and deer.”
*
Szigeti met them at Kiskunhalas.
“It is good to see you again, Mr Jones,” he said.
Berkeley wasn’t so sure of that; the little man’s eyes were shifty.
“The name is Carruthers this time,” he told him.
“Carruthers,” Szigeti said, as if committing it to memory. “That is very English.”
In the six years since Berkeley had last been here, both the Szigeti daughters had got married and moved away from home, so that only their mother was left. She made the travellers welcome, but said little and was clearly uneasy.
“You are on your way to Buda?” Szigeti asked.
“No, Lake Balaton.”
“Ah. Always Lake Balaton.”
“You have the horses?”
“Their hire has been arranged from the livery stable. You will return them here?”
“Of course,” Berkeley said smoothly. “We will also leave some spare clothing with you, to be picked up on our homeward journey.”
He suspected they were going to need it.
They obtained the horses the next morning, and set out for Lake Balaton. They also hired tents and camping equipment, and two pack animals.
“When do we turn north?” Karlovy asked.
“We are going to Lake Balaton,” Berkeley told him. “We will hunt and shoot and fish, for a week or so. We are not due in Buda until the middle of the month.”
This time they followed the road, actually passing through Mohacs, but there were no manoeuvres on at the moment. Then they swung north through Tolna.
“This is dangerous,” Karlovy grumbled.
“No one is going to recognise us, after six years,” Berkeley told him. And it seemed no one did. The following day they were overlooking the lake from a slight rise. They pitched camp and for the next week acted the part of leisured gentlemen enjoying the fishing and the shooting; the area abounded in game as well as birds, and the lake teemed with fish. As Szigeti had indicated, it was a popular area in June, but there was as yet no sign of any Germans. None were expected until the 18th of the month so Berkeley was not worried, and when buying supplies in the village, he gathered that they would certainly arrive, and was able to inspect the ground where the imperial entourage would pitch their tents.
It was on the night of the 17th that he told his men what they were going to do.
“That is suicide,” Karlovy declared.
“Not for you,” Berkeley said. “Your business is to create a diversion.” He spread his map on the ground. “The Germans will be going here, you see, and it is reasonable to suppose that the Kaiser’s tent will be here. You will attack the camp here.”
“Attack?”
“Make it look good. Fire as many rounds as you can. Once you have drawn the guards towards you, you may leave. Ride like the Devil!”
“Where?”
“Back to Szigeti, if you wish. Or straight for the border. The important thing is for you not to be identified as Serbs.”
“While you do what?”
“Mr Lockwood and I will take advantage of your diversion, ride into the camp, execute the Kaiser, and hopefully ride out again before anyone realises what is happening.”
Karlovy pulled his beard. “I do not think you will survive.”
“That is our business. All you have to do is play your part.”
“And you say this will help Serbia?”
“It will throw Germany into confusion for the foreseeable future. Without German support, Austria can do nothing. And all the while Russia grows stronger. Yes, it will help Serbia.”
Some more beard pulling. “Gregory knows of this?”
“Of course he does,” Berkeley said. “We planned it between us.”
“Then we will do it.”
“Give me your ha
nd.”
The two men clasped hands.
The next morning, Berkeley rode into the village. He went to the post office, which doubled as a general store. “I suppose my people will have to move,” he remarked.
The Hungarian raised his eyebrows. “So soon?” Over the past week Berkeley had been an excellent customer.
“Oh, I would rather stay,” Berkeley assured him. “But is it not true that when the German royal entourage arrives, they take over the entire east side of the lake?”
“Oh, yes,” the postmaster agreed. “That is true. But you do not have to worry, Herr Carruthers. They are not coming this year.”
“What did you say?”
“The hunting party has been cancelled.”
“When?”
“Quite recently. I only found out today. The Kaiser is instead going to Bremen to launch this new liner, the Bismarck. They say it is the largest ship in the world. There it is in the newspaper.”
Berkeley grabbed the broadsheet, stared at it. There could be no doubt about it. The Kaiser was going to Bremen. He felt like a man actually standing on the gallows who has been handed a reprieve and who doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. When he thought of the year of preparation, the plans, the money, the elaborate secrecy . . . all reduced to nothing at the whim of a lunatic warlord!
Then his eye, almost unconsciously, flickered down the page.
ARCHDUKE TO VISIT SARAJEVO. The Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife will visit Sarajevo next week on the occasion of their fourteenth wedding anniversary. Until now the visit has been kept secret for fear of demonstrations against Austrian rule, but considerable precautions are being taken to prevent any trouble.
Another secret. But one that Gregory, with his huge network of spies, had discovered. And laid his plans accordingly. He had even supposed that Berkeley had been planning along the same lines. A week! It had to be stopped: the consequences of an attack upon the Archduke were incalculable.
Sarajevo! Julia was in Sarajevo. Of course, the British Consul and his wife would have nothing to do with a terrorist outrage . . . but they might get too close to one. And his mission here was in any event aborted. In every possible way his duty pointed towards Bosnia, just as quickly as he could get there.
“Then perhaps we’ll be able to stay,” he said to the postmaster, and went to his horse.
Outside the village he whipped the animal into a gallop. Time. There was time. He could be back in Belgrade in three or four days. All would depend on how soon Gregory despatched his assassins.
His schoolboys!
He drew rein to give his horse a breather. It was still fairly early in the morning, and there did not seem to be anyone about. The camp was only a mile or so further on, and from the slight rise on which he sat his horse he could see the glistening waters of the lake. A flutter of birds rose from a copse some distance to his right. Berkeley frowned, and slipped from the saddle. He was unarmed, save for his pistol, but he did have a pair of binoculars. These he levelled and focussed. The copse was about half a mile away, but he was sure he could make out the gleam of metal amid the trees.
The camp was about to be attacked!
Another betrayal! But he could not abandon his people. They had to be warned to resist the attack from . . . it could only be Hungarian police. He looked left and right. The last couple of days had been dry, and this morning there was a good breeze, blowing from the south, towards the copse. He hunted around desperately, gathered brushwood and stacked it, struck a match and carefully fanned the flames, then scattered the burning brush across the grass. It caught almost immediately, and put up a wall of dense smoke, moving towards the copse and spreading to right and left.
He heard shouts in the distance, but could not see through the smoke. He regained his mount and kicked him again into a gallop, riding down the lee side of the smoke wall. Now there were more shouts and even some shots, but the Hungarians could no more see him than he them.
Disturbingly, there was no reaction from the camp which he could see clearly. But now Lockwood appeared, at the head of the low rise which led down to the beach. He had his fishing rod in his hands and looked utterly bewildered.
“Mount up!” Berkeley shouted. “Ride!”
Where the Devil was Karlovy and his men? He suddenly knew – there was only one horse left on the stake line.
Lockwood reacted as quickly as ever, having the coolness to run first to his tent and secure his haversack and shotgun, before freeing his horse and leaping into the saddle. As he did so, several mounted policemen came round the edge of the smokescreen waving and shouting, and firing their carbines. From the backs of their horses they could not find a target. But Berkeley had brought his mount to a halt, and now he drew his pistol, and sighted very carefully, using both hands, before squeezing the trigger.
The policemen were close together, and he certainly hit one of them, as there were more shouts. They wheeled their horses and rode back, one man hanging from the saddle.
“What’s going on, sir?” Lockwood panted.
“Nothing very nice,” Berkeley said, and wheeled his horse. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
They rode south, away from the blaze. They had a considerable start, as Berkeley guessed that the police would be anxious to beat out the fire before it did too much damage in preference to mounting an immediate pursuit. After a couple of hours they reached another small wood, and found a stream.
“Now,” Berkeley said, “let’s get rid of the fungus.”
They used their knives to shave, somewhat roughly. Then they tore their false passports into tiny pieces and dropped them into the rushing water. Berkeley would have preferred to burn them, but he dared not risk another fire, as the police had to be close.
“Do you think Karlovy got away?” Lockwood asked.
“Karlovy set this up,” Berkeley said.
“Sir?”
“When did he and his people leave?”
“Almost as soon as you did, this morning. They said they were going shooting.”
“They were going to the Hungarian police. I think killing the Kaiser was too rich for their blood.”
“But how are we going to do it now, sir, on our own? And with the police looking for us.”
“We aren’t, Harry. There’s been a foul-up.” He repeated what he had learned in the village.
“God Almighty!” Lockwood exclaimed. “You mean we’ve been absolutely done.”
“We haven’t, Harry. London can hardly blame me for a last-minute change of plan on the part of the Kaiser. But we have to stop that crazy schoolmaster from starting a war.”
To All Eternity
It took them longer than Berkeley had estimated to regain Kiskunhalas. This was because it was necessary to avoid not only the police, who were scouring the countryside, but also places like Tolna, where without their beards, they could conceivably be recognised. It was June 23, a Tuesday, before they reached Szigeti’s house, hungry and dirty. But there were still five days in hand.
Szigeti was in his garden, and appeared amazed to see them.
“Mr Jones?” he asked, uncertainly, as that was how he remembered Berkeley without the beard. Although the two Englishmen had again not shaved for several days.
“The very man,” Berkeley said, dismounting and handing his reins to Lockwood.
“But, Karlovy . . .”
“Let’s go inside,” Berkeley suggested, “and you can tell me all about Karlovy.”
Szigeti licked his lips and led the way into the house, where his wife was entertaining one of her daughters, who had a small child on her lap. Both sprang up at the sight of Berkeley.
“But, you are dead!” Madame Szigeti exclaimed.
“Ah. Is that what Karlovy told you? When?”
“He was here yesterday. He said you and Mr . . .” She glanced at Lockwood, who having stabled the horses, was just coming in.
“And how were we supposed to have been killed?”
“He said a police raid, there was shooting . . .”
“From which he and his men escaped,” Berkeley said grimly. “Where is he now?”
“As I told you,” Szigeti said, “he came here with his people, told us you had been killed, and then they took the train. I returned their horses to the stable. You understand, sir, that it is not my business to do more than act as a go-between.”
“Oh, quite,” Berkeley said. “Now, we also wish to take the train.”
“There is no train now, until tomorrow.”
“Then we will have to spend the night here,” Berkeley said equably. “I am sorry to inflict this upon you, madame, but it is necessary.”
Madame Szigeti swallowed, and looked at her daughter.
“Your name is?” Berkeley asked.
“Anna,” she gasped.
“Well, now there’s a step in the right direction. You have a husband, I believe,” Berkeley said.
She nodded. She was actually quite a pretty thing, but so terrified at the moment that she seemed almost ugly.
“What does he do?”
She licked her lips. “He is a soldier.”
“Ah. Stationed here?”
“No, sir. He is in Budapest.”
“Then you are all alone at home? Or do you have other children?”
“No, sir.” She hugged the little boy to her breast.
“Then no one will be disturbed if you spend the night here with your parents.”
She gave her mother a quick glance. Madame Szigeti nodded.
“Good,” Berkeley said. “Now, we need to eat and bathe and sleep. Szigeti, you may return our horses to the stables”
Szigeti opened his mouth and then closed it again. He also glanced at his wife.
“And you should bear in mind,” Berkeley said, “that at the slightest suggestion of treachery, we shall kill you, your wife and your daughter.”
The Szigetis trembled.
“But if you do as you are told, and help us to get out of the country, we will pay you a hundred English pounds sterling.”
Szigeti hurried off and the women prepared baths and food. Having eaten and changed, Berkeley and Lockwood felt a whole lot better. By then Szigeti had returned. He had nothing to report, as the news of the fracas at Balaton had not yet reached Kiskunhalas, nor had the police tracked the fugitives as yet.
To All Eternity Page 28