The Dardanelles Conspiracy

by Alan Bardos

  ‘That is correct. The Germans are employing all manner of nefarious means to keep their lines of communication open with Constantinople, via Bulgaria and Romania. So, I shouldn’t be surprised if they are sending everything from shells to Schnapps down there. You are also highly likely to encounter Germans going to Turkey as military advisors, so be on your guard.’

  ‘Getting a train all sounds very ordinary and commonplace, but isn’t it a risk?’ Johnny suggested, wondering how he would get across the Balkans and into Turkey unnoticed. ‘Especially if the line’s infested with Germans?’

  Whittall raised a frustrated eyebrow at the other two. ‘You will travel with British credentials to Sofia and from there you will pose as a German Embassy official. A courier, carrying diplomatic correspondence from the Embassy. Constantinople is flooded with Germans, one more crossing the border won’t make much of a difference.’

  ‘You have papers?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Naturally,’ Whittall said, handing Johnny a bundle of documents. ‘This is the usual bumph, diplomatic passport etcetera, etcetera. So there won't be any difficulty getting across the Turkish border.’

  ‘No indeed, you could go anywhere with this,’ Johnny said absentmindedly skimming through the papers.

  ‘Swift, there will be people watching you, so no more funny business or you will be shot,’ Fitzmaurice threatened.

  Johnny grinned. He had no intention of running. Not if he could actually make amends for what he’d done and help the men he’d left at the front.

  ‘We went to the trouble of collecting those papers from a charming German diplomat, while we were in Venice,’ Whittall said. ‘So we would appreciate you looking after them. Oh, and actually handing the diplomatic papers in at the German Embassy in Constantinople. It’s just dross, but I’m sure it will make the Boche happy to receive it.’

  Johnny looked at the passport. The name printed on the front was Ernst von Jager. ‘Can’t I at least be a Graf, to have a bit of authority should I get into trouble?’

  'No, it's the name of the poor unfortunate we got the papers from,' Eady said.

  'This is an actual person?' Johnny asked and Fitzmaurice sighed.

  'Yes, not a degenerate in your league, but bad enough to leave him susceptible to our overtures. I was hoping to use his papers for a real agent, but needs must and all that.’ Fitzmaurice turned to Eady and Whittall. ‘Gentlemen, I think you can take care of the sordid details without me. If I sit through much more of this charade, it will ruin my digestion.’

  Fitzmaurice stumbled out of the cabin and Johnny took his cue to ask about the sordid details.

  ‘Presumably one will be provided with… funds for the purchase of food and incidentals?’

  ‘Yes-yes of course, as I said, everything you need is in your portfolio,’ Whittall said testily, prompting Johnny to have a closer look at the pack he had been given. He was pleased to find that it contained two thick, neatly bound stacks of currency.

  With that settled, Johnny felt confident to ask about his diplomatic mission. ‘Who is the intermediary, in Constantinople, you want me to contact?’

  ‘It is currently expedient for us to use the Grand Rabbi of Constantinople as intermediary. He knows Talat and may be able to influence him,’ Eady said dispassionately. ‘Also, the Grand Rabbi is pro-Allied and Mr Whittall here has reason to trust him.’

  Whittall waved his agreement. Once you are safely in Constantinople, a letter of introduction will be given to you for the Grand Rabbi, asking that he convey our offer to Talat and request that he meet with us to conduct formal negotiations.’

  ‘You are to be courteous to the Grand Rabbi and convey the goodwill of our country. While pressing upon him that if he wishes to save his country from destruction, at the hands of the Royal Navy, he should move heaven and earth to do all he can to help us bribe his government.’ Like Laszlo Breitner, Griffin Eady could make the most insane idea sound logical and plausible and, like Breitner, he seemed intent on getting Johnny killed.

  ‘A reservation has been made for you at the Pera Place Hotel.’ Eady paused before pointedly adding, ‘The rest is down to you – God help us!’

  Chapter 12

  Laszlo Breitner immersed himself in green thermal water, the heat soothing his aching leg and for a brief moment washing away his frustration.

  He opened his eyes and looked up at the lavish gold and white decor of the vaulted ceiling and wondered if the hamam dated back to the Byzantine Empire or was Ottoman in origin. Breitner’s grandfather, with his painstaking eye for detail, would have been able to determine such things.

  Breitner allowed his mind to drift back. Every Saturday afternoon he would accompany his father to the thermal baths. Afterwards he would go and see his Grandfather, who took him to the Café Gerbeaud. Breitner would gaze up at its vaulted ceiling and eat walnut ice cream while his Grandfather told him stories of the past glories of the Habsburg Empire. Revelling in how ancestors of theirs had fought in the army that turned the Ottoman hoards back from the gates of Vienna, saving Europe and then driving them from Budapest all the way back to the Balkans.

  Laszlo Breitner had been brought up to believe that the Ottoman Empire was the enemy, the bogeyman in the night. Now, by some ironic twist of fate, he'd been sent to its capital as an ally.

  No doubt, Breitner mused, if he’d become a scholar like his grandfather had wanted, he might have been able to put it all in its correct historical context, other than the simple truth that the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  However, Breitner’s father had sent him into the military to serve what had become the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. Where he could re-enact the noble deeds of his ancestors, a legacy that he had been unable to live up to, ill-suited as he was to the excess of barracks life in his cavalry regiment, the elite Ninth Hussars. Breitner had managed to find his raison d'être in military intelligence. That brief period of contentment had been destroyed by the scandal of the Redl affair. The taint of his mentor's treachery was further amplified by the fact that Breitner was now known as the man who had failed to stop the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the heir apparent to the Habsburg throne.

  Still a reserve officer, the declaration of war had given Breitner the chance to at least serve once again. He had been reinstated with his former rank of Major and assigned to an infantry regiment in the Second Army.

  Breitner climbed out of the baths, flinching as he put weight on his mutilated leg. His days as a frontline soldier now looked to be over and with it any chance he had to play a role in his Monarchy’s fight to the death.

  Breitner’s jaded past had marked him out as unreliable and every attempt he’d made to find a role in intelligence or even administration had been curtly refused. An embarrassing and irksome problem, he had been scuttled off to the Constantinople Embassy.

  Breitner braced himself, feeling slightly sickened by the self-indulgence of his thoughts and stepped into the freezing water of the frigid zone. The shock of the cold surged through him. He could hear his father shouting at him to get his shoulders under. Whatever his future was in this place, it would all be resolved soon enough.

  Dressed once again in the pike-grey Kaisersrock, the Imperial uniform, Major Laszlo Breitner presented himself at the Austro-Hungarian Embassy and was shown into a grand baroque room.

  An immaculate official, complete with a sash and glinting medals of honour, greeted Breitner. The official looked like the very embodiment of the Habsburg Empire’s glorious past.

  ‘Welcome, I am Baron Ferdinand von Grubber.’ Von Grubber ran an appraising eye over Breitner. He nodded after a moment, satisfied that everything was correct, and guided him towards a sofa. Breitner felt the livid sabre scar on his face flush and wondered if this fastidious little man thought it was a duelling scar.

  ‘My principal role is to assist the Ambassador, His Excellency Johann von Pallavicini, on matters of etiquette, specifically diplomatic etiquette,’ Von Grubber said, set
tling himself on a chaise lounge. ‘As his Excellency is an expert in that domain, it affords me the opportunity to carry out other duties. Including, it would seem, a supervisory role. We have lost a number of people to the war.’

  Breitner sensed that von Grubber considered himself far too senior for such a task. There should have been several underlings between himself and Breitner. Von Grubber picked up a sheet of paper and studied it for a moment, unsure how to proceed.

  ‘So you have been at the front?’ Von Grubber managed to ask finally and put down the sheet of paper.

  ‘Yes, both,’ Breitner replied.

  ‘Both?’ Von Grubber looked puzzled.

  Due to an unfortunate mix-up during mobilisation, Breitner’s army group had been sent to the Balkans, where he found himself once again under the command of General Oskar Potiorek. As the military governor of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Potiorek had been directly responsible for the security of Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s visit to Sarajevo. He had proved to be an even worse general than he had a governor, launching a disastrous attack on Serbia.

  The Second Army was eventually sent to Galicia in time to participate in a debacle in the East. Despite the regrettable mistakes of its leadership and lack of resource the Austro-Hungarian Army had managed to hold together. Breitner felt some small pride in that and the role he played in it. Nevertheless, the opening campaigns of the war had been a calamity for the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.

  ‘Both the Balkans and Galicia fronts, Baron von Grubber.’

  'Ah, quite so.'

  Von Grubber smiled pleasantly and apparently at a loss for anything further to add. The rules of etiquette did not seem to stretch to small talk about a war they both knew was going badly. Breitner suppressed his natural urge to question the competence of his superiors. He could still picture Potiorek in his grand residence, reclining on a green and red chaise lounge, ignoring his warning about the assassination plot. The same chaise lounge that Franz Ferdinand had later died on.

  'How is the political situation here? I assume the strengthening of relations with our Turkish ally is a priority?' Breitner asked, trying to gauge what he was doing here.

  'There has been some tension between the German and the Turkish Army commanders, but have maintained a delicate relationship with the Young Turk government. They can be quite charming. However, the situation with our German allies, or more precisely their Ambassador, is slightly more trying.’

  Von Grubber beamed as an aide entered with coffee and a selection of cakes. 'Forgive my manners, Major Breitner, would you care for some refreshment?' Von Grubber offered Breitner a plate of baklava. ‘I’ve developed a taste for some of the local delicacies.'

  Breitner bowed his thanks and took a baklava. The sweet honey and almond pastry reminded him of his time in Sarajevo and an overwhelming feeling of failure took away the resolution he’d achieved at the baths.

  'As I’m sure you can appreciate, Major Breitner, the alliance between ourselves, Germany and the Ottoman Empire can at times become quite strained.' Von Grubber picked up another cake. 'To that end, our role here is vital to ensure a harmonious relationship continues between the alliance partners.’

  'And the Allies are intriguing to exploit any potential weakness in our alliance?' Breitner asked, beginning to understand why he'd been sent here. 'No doubt a vital strategic position like Constantinople will be rife with enemy agents.'

  'No doubt,' Von Grubber agreed.

  'And you need me to neutralise their activities, in some kind of counterintelligence role?' Breitner had gained a great deal of experience in that area before the war. Excitement began to take him over. His ignoble past had been forgotten in the necessity of war. He would be given a purpose, a purpose for which he’d been born.

  'Counterintelligence?' Von Grubber snorted. 'No, nothing quite so belligerent. I fear you may have misunderstood me. Your position at the embassy will be strictly ceremonial.'

  'Ceremonial? I don't understand.'

  'Forgive me, Major Breitner, you once held a position with his Imperial and Royal Majesty’s High Court Chamberlain.' Von Grubber took a sip of his coffee.

  'Yes, years ago,' Breitner said. 'I was attached to his department when I served in military intelligence.'

  It hadn’t been a happy time for Breitner. Despite running a successful operation, as the enforcer of court protocols, he'd made enemies.

  'You have no idea how hard it is to find good help, Major. Let alone someone who learnt their craft under the excellent Prince Montenuovo. So naturally when I became aware of your existence, I moved heaven and earth to get you,' von Grubber said.

  'The Prince recommended me?' Breitner asked, shocked.

  'Alas no. However you were recommended to me by someone whose opinion I value. Or else I wouldn't have entertained the idea of using an individual with your somewhat ignoble history,' Von Grubber said with a slight reproof in his voice.

  'I am grateful for the opportunity,' Breitner said, trying to sound deferential.

  'I should think so. Your principal purpose is to look after prominent subjects of the Monarchy in Constantinople, taking care of any difficulties they might have with the authorities. Also to liaise with our opposite numbers in other embassies to ensure that correct protocols are followed at all times.'

  'I will execute my duties to the best of my abilities,' Breitner said, trying to bear the humiliation. He was to be an embassy lackey.

  'As I would expect. Now let us discuss your first assignment.' Von Grubber handed Breitner the sheet of paper he’d been toying with earlier and picked up another pastry.

  Chapter 13

  Johnny Swift had always loved the sensual pleasures of the flesh and intended to take them as often as he could, where he could and in as much quantity as he could. He felt it was no more than he deserved after the gruelling journey to Sofia. A splendid meal at a restaurant that resembled a woodcutter’s cabin was just what he deserved.

  He glanced at his watch. He doubted he’d have time to work his magic on one of the local women or even find a house of ill repute, before the night train to Constantinople.

  He finished his dessert and poured the last of the wine. It reminded him of the stuff he’d get in a café on the Rue Gabrielle. Which he thought must have been his favourite street in Montmartre. He'd had a wonderful time in Paris before the war. It had been a pleasure to do routine administrative work in a city like that, but he’d never met anyone as obliging or resourceful as Staff Nurse Gabrielle Lee-Perkins.

  He yearned for her frantic whispers in French - mon biquet. The feel of her opulent body against him, the firm bow of her lips, the fever of her hips on him and of course her kindness and intelligence.

  Johnny scribbled a few lines to that effect on the back of his bill, it would serve to tell her that he was alive. He searched through the bumph Whittall had given him. Took the diplomatic papers out of their envelope and placed the bill inside. Then crossed out the German embassy address and wrote in the details of Gabrielle‘s hospital.

  A waiter started to clear the table. Johnny gave him a wad of notes and told him to post the letter.

  There was an uncomfortably large number of Germans and Austro-Hungarians milling around the station. From the look of them, soldiers and sailors on their way to Constantinople.

  Shuffling along the platform, Johnny pushed his way through the mix of enemy languages that were being spoken around him and went into a café. He ordered a plum brandy, inhaling the sweet fumes and poured down the burning liquid.

  He ordered another and started to feel steadier. All he had to do now was get to Constantinople, keep his head down and wait for someone to give him a letter for the Grand Rabbi.

  ‘Do you know what platform the trains to Constantinople go from?’ Johnny asked a waiter in loud German.

  The man didn’t understand what he was saying, but pointed towards the window. A train was standing on the other side of the station, surrounded inevitably by massing crowds
of Germans.

  Johnny ordered two bottles of plum brandy. He had no idea how long the journey would take, but if he was going to get through this without giving himself away, he would need to be well stocked.

  The Germans in the café started to sing a drinking song. It drew Johnny back to long winter nights in the mud. It was as equally cheery as it was unnerving. If they were singing, they were less likely to try and kill you, but the sound was a constant reminder that the enemy were no more than a few hundred yards away.

  At least back then he had his platoon with him. Johnny would have been glad even to have had Crassus Dawkins with him now, sponging drinks while telling him what a disgrace he was.

  He left the café and forced himself to take slow easy steps across to the next platform and skirted around the Germans. He inadvertently made eye contact with a tough Viking-looking chap sporting a fine blonde moustache. He was talking to a large jolly officer holding up an empty bottle of Schnapps, turning it upside down and shaking it to demonstrate how empty it was.

  The Viking eyed the brandy Johnny was carrying. Johnny looked at the ground and carried on. A loud screech filled the air, tearing through Johnny’s mind. He fell to the ground, his mouth and ears filled with mud.

  The whistling stopped and a train roared through the station. Johnny opened his eyes. He was surrounded by shiny black boots and looked up into the amused faces of the Germans.

  Johnny’s first thought was that he'd given himself away, but no one rushed to arrest him. The Viking and his jolly friend pulled him to his feet.

  'Thank you, slipped on the ice.' Johnny held up the brandy, which he’d instinctively managed to save. 'At least this is OK.'

  ‘I am Lieutenant Kurt Wirbelauer.’ The Viking clicked his heels and pointed at his friend still holding the empty Schnapps bottle. ‘This is my good friend Captain Adolphus Brauer.’