“But they’ll have the border closed by now, sir,” Lockwood suggested.
“They aren’t looking for us,” Berkeley pointed out. “They’re looking for two bearded gentlemen named Carruthers and Brent.”
“But if Karlovy did betray us . . .”
“Karlovy is assuming we are dead by now, as he told Szigeti.”
Lockwood pulled his nose. His master’s confidence was sometimes frightening.
“What about these people?” he asked. “Do you think they can be trusted? Even with the promise of a hundred pounds?”
“Probably not,” Berkeley agreed. “We’ll just have to make sure of it.”
They had been speaking English, while the Szigetis watched them anxiously.
“Now,” Berkeley said, reverting to German. “Mr Lockwood and I are both desperately in need of a good night’s sleep. We will use your spare bedroom, if we may, and you, Miss Anna, will sleep with us.”
“Me?” Anna cried. “I am a respectable married woman.”
“I have no doubt of it. And we are not going to interfere with you or embarrass you in any way. We just require your company to make such that no one attempts to interfere with us. I suggest we none of us undress, just lie down and have a good sleep. I am sure you can take care of your grandchild for the night, madame.”
An intensely embarrassed Anna was placed in the big double bed between them, having removed her boots, as did Berkeley and Lockwood. In fact they all slept heavily, and were up at dawn, totally refreshed. Berkeley inspected the yard and street from the bedroom window but they looked deserted, and the Szigetis seemed normal when they went down to breakfast.
“You’ll be glad to see the back of us, I’d say,” Berkeley remarked.
“Well, sir,” Szigeti said, “if the police are after you, and they come here . . .”
“Is there any reason for them to do that?”
“Well, no, sir. But—”
“What time is the train?”
“It leaves in one hour.”
“Then we had better make haste. You go and pack a bag.”
“Me, sir?”
“You are coming with us,” Berkeley explained.
“Me?” Szigeti asked again, his voice higher.
“Just as far as the border. Or across it. Then you are welcome to return.”
“You do not trust me,” Szigeti complained.
“Right this minute, I am not in a position to trust anybody,” Berkeley said.
“And the money?”
“Will be paid to you once we are on Serbian soil.”
Szigeti bade his wife and daughter an almost tearful goodbye, clearly under the impression he might never see them again, and they went into town and boarded the train. There did not appear to be more than the usual number of policemen at the station, which indicated that the search for the fugitives had not yet reached Kiskunhalas. Berkeley did not suppose it was a very serious search anyway. He had no idea what Karlovy might have told the Hungarian police, but even if he had revealed that Berkeley was after the Kaiser, the fact was that had not come off. True, he had started a fire and shot and wounded a policeman, but as he was quite sure Karlovy would not have dared reveal they were all members of the Black Hand – he would have been arrested on the spot, no matter what information he had to give – the police had no reason to come this way.
But no matter how confident he felt about the safety of himself and Lockwood, Berkeley was acutely aware that time was passing. This was Wednesday June 24. In four days time the Archduke would be in Sarajevo. If Gregory was planning anything, the plan would already have been set in motion. But Berkeley would be in Belgrade tonight.
There were additional police at the border, and severe checking of documents, but the famous Serbian general and his servant returning from a visit to Budapest, were let through without trouble, as was Szigeti. Szigeti had some trouble on the Serbian side, but Berkeley explained that they were merely carrying out a business transaction, whereupon he shook hands with the agent, and told him to wait for the next train north. He also gave Szigeti the promised one hundred English sovereigns, which cheered him up considerably.
“Will I be hearing from you again, General?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” Berkeley said. He needed to keep the little man at least interested.
Then the train continued south.
That afternoon they were in Belgrade. They went directly to the school. Everything seemed normal, boys and masters hurrying from one classroom to another, and as usual they were shown straight to the headmaster’s study.
“Berkeley?” Gregory was even more surprised than Szigeti to see them – and a good deal more frightened. “I was told you had gone away.”
“Who told you that?” Berkeley asked.
“Well . . . it must have been Caterina.”
“You have been to see my wife, again?”
“No, no. She came to see me.”
“She came here?”
“Yes. She happened to be in Belgrade, and she did me the honour of calling.”
“Gregory,” Berkeley said, “you are lying. My wife would never come to Belgrade on her own. In fact, she would never come to Belgrade at all.”
Gregory goggled at him.
“So who told you I had gone away?” Berkeley asked.
“Well . . .” Gregory licked his lips.
“Karlovy, I expect. Where is he?”
“How should I know. If he went with you—”
“How do you know he went with me?”
Gregory began to pant.
“Because you have seen him, yesterday, or perhaps even today. And he told you I was dead, killed by the Hungarian police.”
Gregory was clearly trying to think. “He came here and told me this, yes,” he said. “He said you had been ambushed. But he managed to shoot his way out.”
“With all three of his people,” Berkeley remarked. “Isn’t he a fortunate fellow. Now tell me where he is.”
“I do not know.”
Berkeley knew he was lying. But Karlovy could wait. “Very well. Tell me what you are planning in Sarajevo.”
“Sarajevo? Me? Planning?”
“Gregory, I am losing patience. You are planning an attack on the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, when he goes to Sarajevo at the end of this week. You have got to stop it.”
“Me? How can I do this?”
“Because you set it in motion. You know who is involved: the boy Princip, for a start. They will carry out the attack, and then escape across the border and take shelter in my house. Is that not correct? Because you have suborned my wife into giving them refuge. Is that not correct?”
“I know nothing of this. I . . .”
Berkeley drew his pistol and presented it to Gregory’s head. “You had better know something about it, and how to stop it, or I am going to blow you apart.”
“My God!” Gregory cried. “Murder! He means murder!”
The door burst open with such force that Lockwood was pushed to one side. Berkeley turned away from Gregory, and faced Karlovy who was accompanied by two of his men. All carried pistols, but Berkeley fired first; his bullet struck Karlovy squarely in the centre of the forehead, and he fell backwards with a thump. His men fired, but were distracted by the death of their leader, and also by Lockwood who had regained his balance and now swung his shotgun with tremendous force catching the nearest man on the shoulder and tumbling him against the wall.
The other man dropped his gun and raised his arms, looking death in the face. Berkeley levelled his own weapon but did not fire; the man had only been acting under orders. Berkeley was now distracted by a groan from behind him.
“Keep them covered, Harry,” he said, and turned back to Gregory, who was slumped in his chair, blood oozing from his jacket, clearly dying. He bent over the stricken man. “Listen,” he said. “This madness must be stopped. Tell me the arrangements.”
“It cannot be stopped,” Gregory muttered. “It will happ
en.” His lips parted in a ghastly smile. “So you killed Karlovy. All of this could have been avoided, if he had killed you in England.”
So it had been Karlovy, all along. And no doubt he had been set up again, Berkeley thought, just to get him out of the way while Gregory carried out his master plan.
“It will be stopped,” he said. “Tell me who leads the group.”
Gregory uttered a little sigh. “Hamid the Cobbler . . .”
“Who is Hamid the Cobbler? Where is he?”
Gregory made a noise which could have been a chuckle. “Too late,” he whispered. “Caterina . . .” His head slumped on to his chest.
Berkeley stared at him in consternation for several seconds. What had he been going to say about Caterina?
He stood up, looked at the two terrified anarchists guarded by Lockwood’s shotgun. There was a considerable amount of noise from below the stairs, the gunshots having been heard. But no one was prepared to risk investigating.
“What do you know of this?” he asked.
“Nothing,” the first man said. “We did what Karlovy told us.”
Berkeley reckoned that was probably true. He picked up their guns. “Let’s go,” he told Lockwood.
“Shouldn’t we report this, sir?”
“We haven’t the time to waste in a police cell, Harry.” He ran down the stairs, Lockwood behind him. At the sight of the two heavily armed men the crowd of boys and masters hastily retreated. “There are two dead men up there,” Berkeley told them. “Someone had better tell the police.” Then they were in the saddle and galloping out of the city.
They had to hire fresh horses and it took them three hours to reach Sabac; it was dark and their mounts were all but dead when they dismounted before the Slovitza house.
They had been the longest three hours of Berkeley’s life. Now he ran up the steps. The door was opened for him by Marie. “Oh, General, I am so glad you are back.”
“I’m glad to be back. Where is madame? Upstairs?”
“No, sir. Madame is not here.”
Huge lumps of lead seemed to be gathering in Berkeley’s stomach. “Not here? Where is she?”
“I do not know, sir. Only that she has gone away.”
“With the children?”
“Oh, no, sir. The children are upstairs with Alexandrina. Madame just said she was going away for a few days.”
“By herself?”
“No, sir. She had some people with her.” She looked embarrassed. “Young men.”
Berkeley stared at her for several seconds. This was far worse than he had feared. He had realised that Caterina was involved, but not that she would actively take part in it. She was again dreaming of emulating her mother. And Gregory had recruited her with that ruthless intensity that had led him to employ his own schoolchildren. They could only have gone to Sarajevo – to the house, or shop of this Hamid the Cobbler? That was all he had to go on.
He went upstairs to see his children, who were just being put to bed. They were, as always, boisterously happy to welcome him, perfectly certain their mother would soon be back. Even Alexandrina did not seem the least perturbed by Caterina’s sudden departure. “She said something about going to a function at Dr Masanovich’s school in Belgrade,” she explained.
“Listen to me very carefully. I wish you to pack some clothes for the children, and some of their toys. And of course, clothes for yourself.”
“We are leaving Sabac?” She was astounded.
“Tomorrow morning. You will go to Belgrade, and put up at a hotel there. Hopefully, Mrs Townsend and I will join you very shortly.”
“But . . .” The poor woman was obviously completely confused. “If Mrs Townsend is there now . . .”
“Just do as I ask. Mr Lockwood will take care of everything.” He went outside, where Lockwood waited.
“Here’s a pretty kettle—”
“I’m putting you in charge, Harry.” Berkeley sat at his desk and wrote a cheque. “They will cash that at the bank in Belgrade, and here is some cash to get you there. Take Marie and your children, and Alexandrina and my children, and go to a hotel, and wait there until you hear from me or of me. Shut this house up. Take the horses and stable them in Belgrade.”
“You’re going after Mrs Townsend? Shouldn’t I come with you?”
“I don’t think two of us is going to be any better than one, this time, Harry. Now listen. If by any chance you learn of my death, it will mean that Mrs Townsend is also dead. You will then take my children, and yourself and your children, back to England. You will place my children in the care of my parents, and . . . well, old friend, you will have to fend for yourself.”
“I shall do as you wish, sir,” Lockwood said. “But I’d take it very kindly if you were to come back.”
“It’s my intention to do so,” Berkeley assured him. “By the way, if Colonel Savos wishes to have a word with you, as I think he probably will, tell him exactly what happened; you didn’t shoot anybody, so there is no reason for him to hold you, except as a witness. I assume they will perform a post-mortem on the two dead men, in which case they will find that the bullet which killed Gregory came from a Mauser pistol, as used by Karlovy, while the bullet that killed Karlovy came from my Browning. I was shooting in an attempt to save not only my own life but Gregory’s. Right?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Well, then . . .” They clasped hands. “It was always likely to end this way,” he said.
Berkeley snatched a few hours sleep, as there was no point in arriving in Sarajevo exhausted. At dawn he took two horses so that he would have a remount, and rode for the border. He did not know what was happening in Belgrade, but as no policemen had come down to Sabac after him, he had to assume that Savos was following his own agenda – as he always had done. Equally, as he had no idea what plans the Black Hand had laid, there was only one way he could handle this, while hoping that he could still extricate Caterina from catastrophe. He felt he had some time, as it was still only Thursday, and Sarajevo being only just over a hundred miles from Belgrade, although the country was fairly rough, he reached the Bosnian capital on Friday afternoon, changing his mounts regularly. He had no trouble at the border; he was travelling as Major Berkeley Townsend, British army, retired, and also as Brigadier-General Berkeley Townsend, Serbian army, retired. While he had no doubt his entry into Bosnia was recorded and would be forwarded to Sarajevo, no one had any reason to stop him for the time being.
The first thing one noticed about Sarajevo was the pronounced Moslem flavour, not only in the many mosques and minarets, but also in the general architecture, all of which contrasted oddly with the motor cars on the streets. Berkeley, who had not been here before, assumed a large proportion of the population remained Moslem.
Equally he observed that while there were already some red and white flags draped from various buildings and wrapped around lamp-posts, there was no evidence of any increased security.
He went straight to the British Consulate, gave his name, and after a short wait was shown into the consul’s office.
“General Townsend? Berkeley?” Harvey Braddock clearly didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed. “What brings you to Sarajevo?”
“A matter of the most vital importance,” Berkeley told him.
Braddock showed him to a chair.
“Have you ever heard of the Black Hand?” Berkeley asked.
“Ah . . . rumours. It is some kind of secret society, is it not.”
“That is correct. Now, Harvey, I do not propose to answer any questions as to how I come by my knowledge, but I can tell you that this Black Hand is planning an attempt on the life of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, when he comes here at the end of the week.”
Braddock gaped at him. “They must be stopped.”
“Exactly.”
“But how? Do you know these people? Can you identify them?”
“I can identify them if I see them,” Berkeley said. “I know they are somewher
e in the city, but I do not know where they are currently hiding.” He had no intention of telling anyone about Hamid the Cobbler until he had found Caterina.
“Then what can we do?”
“We, you, can go to the authorities and get them to postpone the Archduke’s visit. A week will do. Meanwhile, I will find these people. I am sure I can.”
“You’ll need police assistance.”
“I can manage on my own.”
“I have to ask this, sir: for whom are you working?”
“I am working for the Serbian government. These are my credentials. I am a brigadier-general in the Serbian army, at this moment on the retired list. I am also a British military attaché. I know it’s complicated, but there it is. My business is to prevent hostilities between Serbia and Austria-Hungary.”
“Am I allowed to tell the Sarajevo police this?”
“It would be better if you didn’t. Just get them to postpone the visit, and leave the rest to me.”
Braddock swallowed. “I will certainly try. You understand I have only been here a short while. I will have to make an appointment, and at this hour . . .”
“Then would you do so? I’m sure you appreciate that this is a most urgent matter. Now, one more thing: I need somewhere to live until I find these people.”
“Ah, yes. I can recommend a good hotel.”
“I cannot go to a hotel, Harvey. As you will know, it is the police custom to visit each hotel every morning and check through their registers. If my name is found, I will be questioned, and certainly I shall be under surveillance all the time I am in Sarajevo.”
“Oh, quite. Yes. Well . . .”
“I would like to stay at your residence. It is only a matter of a couple of days.”
“I suppose you will have to. I had better come with you.”
“Just agree, and I will go on my own, if you will direct me. You must get on to the police right away.”
“Yes, of course,” Braddock said, more doubtfully yet.
He was clearly not a man of great decision.
“Berkeley?” Julia was even more astounded than her husband, as she gazed at her travel-stained, unshaven lover.
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