Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  “Where would you like to begin?” Roger took the robe, the shirt and ruby studs Ragoczy gave him as his master returned to his outer room.

  Ragoczy stepped out of his trousers and laid them over the end of the chaise longue. “I think it might be best if we try the newest one first. He will be less familiar with the workings of this household and can be counted on to make certain mistakes.” He laid his hand over the top of the scars that covered his abdomen. “See if you can make him reveal himself, will you?”

  “Certainly,” said Roger, his eyes glinting in anticipation. “I will attend to it while you are out.”

  “Do not frighten him too badly. If possible, the man should be persuaded to remain ... on his post, so that we may avail ourselves of what he learns. It is time we found a way to have the advantage in this game. Pay him; money is more likely to convince him than threats are, and to make him more loyal, if we outbid his current masters.” He drew a large Turkish towel around himself, then opened the hall door. “I will be out in twenty minutes.”

  “Your clothes will be waiting,” Roger assured him. ‘Will you need me, or can you manage—”

  Ragoczy laughed once. “I will fend for myself, thank you. Do not think I will disgrace you: I won’t.”

  Roger considered this levity a sign of improvement in his employer

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  but was wise enough not to remark upon it. He watched as Ragoczy crossed the hall to the bathroom, then went to set out the proper clothes for an informal diplomatic morning visit.

  Reclining in the warm, bath-salted water set over a long, narrow chest of his native earth, Ragoczy found his thoughts again drifting to the problems he had encountered. He was more convinced than ever that he was facing deliberate attempts to sabotage any agreement, private or public, to limit the development and sales of arms. He could come to no other conclusion. What he had to determine was if the actions were directed against the Czar himself, or against his aims. There were many powerful men in Germany and England who did not trust the Russians, just as there were many who would profit from the sale of arms, should the efforts of diplomats fail. The question was, which motive was undermining his work. Once he knew that, he would be much closer to identifying those behind it, and to ending their interference in his mission.

  “The Bianchi is fueled and ready,” Roger announced as he came into Ragoczy s room half an hour later to find the Count putting the final touches on his clothes—a small lapel pin in silver with his device—a disk with raised displayed wings, all in black—inlaid upon it in a single black sapphire. “Who do you want to drive you? I will need to deal with our watchers.”

  “Yes; you will.” Ragoczy took a pair of black Florentine gloves from one of the wardrobe drawers and pulled them onto his hands. “I’ll drive myself. It may make your task easier.”

  “And what of guarding the motor car while you’re with the Chancellor’s undersecretary? Surely you will want someone to look after it,” Roger asked, deliberately avoided Ragoczy s compelling gaze.

  “I will arrange something.” He chose a day-wear hat with a modified crown; placed it on his head, then turned to Roger. “Will it do?”

  “It will,” said Roger.

  “At least we no longer have toes so long and pointed that we must remove them to climb stairs, or sleeves that must be knotted to avoid dragging them on the ground,” he remarked as he went to the door.

  The 1909 Bianchi 20-30 was pulled up at the front of the house, its engine idling as Ragoczy came out to get into it. His steward, Erich Rotscheune, held the door for him and stood on the curb until Ragoczy reached the end of Glanzend Strasse and turned onto Knobeldorff-strasse. A weedy, anxious man on a bicycle pedaled furiously after the Bianchi.

  Although the air was still cool, there were many harbingers of spring

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  throughout the vast, grey city. Flowers in bud poked out of window-boxes and trees showed furls of new leaves. Overhead white puffs of cloud grazed the sky like a herd of celestial sheep. Traffic moved well along the streets and people on the sidewalks were becoming jauntier in their conduct; men on cycles raced to keep up with the automobiles, darting among those vehicles drawn by horses and the occasional pedestrian attempting to cross the street. While not so insouciant as Vienna, Berlin seemed to be striving for the levity of the season; it achieved a ponderous kind of success.

  Ragoczy pulled into a side street near the large government building where he was to meet Herr Shaller; it was near the Ludwigskirche, away from the most important Ministries, a place relegated to those who filed forms and maintained the records for the Chancellor and the Kaiser. There was space enough for Ragoczys automobile halfway down the block where the street joined an alley at an angle, creating a small Platz with a number of shops on the ground floors of the buildings fronting it. He glanced about, looking for someone who would guard his Bianchi. Finally he spotted a boy of about eleven outside a bakery; his morning work done, he was lounging at the door of the shop, worrying a pastry. Ragoczy crossed the street to address him. “Good morning,” he said cordially.

  The youth looked up. “Are you talking to me?” he said, not believing that such an elegant foreigner would have any reason to speak with him.

  “Yes. I was hoping you would be willing to help me.” He reached for his wallet and drew out two banknotes. “I will compensate you for your time.”

  “Oh, no,” said the boy. “I am not so desperate that I need to—”

  Had everyone in Berlin heard the rumors? Ragoczy asked himself, his teeth clenched to keep from protesting aloud. He shook his head. “Its nothing like that.” He waited while the boy thought this over. “I want someone to watch my automobile for me.”

  “Is that all?” asked the boy dubiously.

  “I have an appointment in that building, and I do not want any harm to come to my Bianchi. If you will watch it while I am gone—and it should not be longer than an hour or two—I will give you this for your trouble.” He went out of his way to be affable in order to offset any lingering doubts the boy might have about him.

  The boy took the banknotes, doing his best to be unimpressed with the amount. “It is the black Bianchi, right? With the dark-red leather seats?”

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  “Yes. It would serve my purpose best if you were not too obvious about it; I think someone is attempting to steal it from me, but I have not yet discovered the identity of the man. I want to find out who this thief may be,” he added, hoping to give the boy a sense of adventure as well as profit.

  “I’ll be wise how I do it, Mein Herr.” He gave Ragoczy a half-salute and went back to his pastry.

  Karl Shaller was not at his desk when Ragoczy arrived; his assistant offered Ragoczy an uncomfortable wooden seat in the outer office, and explained that Herr Shaller would be somewhat delayed.

  “I have time at my disposal; I will not be put out by waiting,” Ragoczy said with an unconcerned gesture; inwardly he feared that he had made the call for nothing. “I have allotted two hours for Herr Shaller and I do not mind using them in this way.” He did not bother to read the papers set out—they were all three days old at least. Instead, he put his hat on his knees and allowed himself to reflect on the developments of the last two days.

  At eleven-thirty, the assistant left his office for a short while, then returned, his demeanor apologetic. “Herr Count?” He had used the foreign title instead of the German equivalent of Graff, as all the Berliners did, to remind Ragoczy that he would never be one of them.

  “Yes?” Ragoczy said politely.

  “I have a message from Herr Shaller. Just now.” He coughed once and his cheeks turned plum color. “It seems he will not be able to meet with you today. He regrets that an unexpected obligation makes it impossible for him to spare any time for you.”

  “I see,” Ragoczy said evenly as hope leeched away from him. “What time would be convenient for him, then
? Did he tell you that?”

  The assistant blushed more furiously than ever. “He did not... I have no instructions from him about . . . another appointment ... I am sorry—”

  Ragoczy held up his hand. “I will spare you further embarrassment,” he told the young man as he got to his feet. “Please tell Herr Shaller that I would appreciate hearing from him when he has time to see me. Although I may not be in Berlin for much longer.”

  “Certainly, Herr Count. I will do that,” said the young man with several earnest nods, as if assuring himself that he had done his work properly.

  “If my plans take me away from here, I will notify Herr Shaller at once.” He placed his hat on his head and went out of the office, re-

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  turning to the side street where he had left the Bianchi. He got into the automobile and waited.

  Ten minutes later the boy emerged from the bakery. “I’m sorry,” he said as he came up to the automobile. “We’re starting the afternoon bread.” He held out flour-whitened arms as proof.

  “No matter,” said Ragoczy. “Did you notice any trouble with my automobile?”

  “Yes,” said the boy with mild surprise. “I thought you were only being cautious, as foreigners often are. But you were not gone five minutes when a thin man on a bicycle came up and inspected the automobile.” His eyes brightened as he recounted the incident. “He circled the street twice, and then went off; he came back twenty minutes later, and a third time about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Ah.” Ragoczy cocked his head. “Was anyone else interested in the automobile, did you notice?” He got out of the Bianchi, preparing to turn the ignition crank to start it. He was no taller than the bakers apprentice, but the youth had the impression of height; he let Ragoczy go to the front of his automobile. “Well?”

  He paused, frowning. “I’m not sure. There was a big man, looked to be some kind of tough, with a broken nose and scars on the backs of his hands. I didn’t want to stare too long. You know ...” He looked down at his apron.

  “I think you did precisely the right thing,” Ragoczy approved as he gave the crank a single, powerful twist: the engine fired at once. “You drew no attention to yourself, as I asked you. And I thank you for all you have done.” He held out a mark to him as he climbed back into the driver’s seat. “For your efforts.”

  The boy hesitated. “You’ve already paid me, Mein Herr, more than two days wages.”

  “Well, consider this a second cup of chocolate,” he recommended as he started the automobile. “I am grateful for what you have done.”

  “Danke,” the boy said, ducking his head as he took the money. He stepped back from the Bianchi as Ragoczy prepared to drive off, then called out, “The big man, with the broken nose?”

  Ragoczy halted, putting the gears into idle. “Yes?”

  “I think he was carrying a pistol,” he blurted out, then turned and ran back across the Platz to the bakery.

  Ragoczy watched him go, his eyes fixed on a greater distance and the warm spring day had a chill in it that had nothing to do with sun-light.

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  * # #

  Excerpts from a report prepared for the Russian Prime Minister, Piotr Stolypin, by the Foreign Minister Alexander Izvolsky.

  . . . The Serbs have asked for our assistance against the Croats, who are said to be purchasing arms to use against them. They say this is not another Pig War with Austria, but something far more serious. These Serbs, sharing our Orthodox faith, are willing to make concessions to us in guarantees of wheat, meat, and wine if we will help them to prepare for the conflict they hourly anticipate with their ancient Catholic enemies.

  Traditionally we have come to the aid of the Serbs, but it is reported in the Duma that it would be an unnecessary risk in these difficult times to give arms to those who could turn them on us or on those with whom we have treaties. It is also acknowledged that Austro-Hungary would look upon such a gesture as a threat to their borders and the integrity of their empire. Inaction may buy us some time to assess the ramifications of some help to the forces that support our goals in that region. It is unlikely that the Duma would agree to permitting the Serbs to purchase arms from us, and it would also provide another ground for dispute in a body already in the throes of dissention.

  The leaders of the armies do not agree. They believe it is only through a great show of force that the Germans may be kept from aggression. Ever since that disgraceful incident aboard the Standart, and the appalling so-called treaty the Kaiser foisted upon the Czar, the generals have been certain that Germany has designs on the whole of Europe and Russia. It is thought that the German ambitions in the Ottoman Empire will soon clash with our own, and if there is war in the Balkans, it might well catapult the Turks into full defeat. That is what the Generals have sought since Sevastapol.

  ... In regard to the Czars revelation that he has a personal envoy working to secure a private peace with his English and German relatives, we must suppose that this is a ploy to keep the Duma and the generals from clashing. Nevertheless, if such efforts truly are being made, it would doubtless be in our best interests to wait for any developments this envoy can secure us before making a final decision in regard to the Serbs. Unless the Croats obviously intend to take the offensive, we will do well to wait for the time being. Should this supposed envoy fail, it will provide us with an object of blame for our inaction, which will placate the Generals as well as the Duma.

  . . . Reports from the operative Reilly tell us that there have been at-

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  tempts to secure this private agreement, or so he believes. Of course, the man is a former British spy, and his observations must be regarded as potentially slanted, but it would appear that someone is trying to carry out Czar Nikolais mandate. Further intelligence is needed before an evaluation is in order. . .

  11

  In the vast, flat, empty fields beyond his factory Baron Klemens Manfred von Wolgast had set up an artillery range to demonstrate the improvements in his new guns this fine, breezy April morning. He was seated on a platform put up on the highest ground available, with half a dozen potential customers, including a representative of Franz Ferdinand, Franz Josefs heir—Alois, Graff Lexa von Aehrenthal, the highest-ranking official in the viewing party. Next to him, Vaclav Per-suic was in full Ninth Hungarian Hussars uniform, his handsome face and straight military bearing showing to advantage amid the rest of the observers. Tancred Sisak was dressed conservatively, looking more like a banker than an arms dealer. From Russia there were two delegates: Mikhail Illyich Plehev, a nephew of the repressive Viacheslav Plehev who had been murdered six years earlier; and Colonel Georgi Gavrileivich Spalavsky of the illustrious Preobzhensky Regiment. The sixth man was a soft-spoken, fifty-year-old Swiss named Moritz Vinadi: no one was certain whom he might represent, nor did he give any indication.

  “As you can see,” von Wolgast shouted in order to be heard over the rushing wind, “we have set up a number of small buildings, three storeys high for visibility, all made of stone and brick, all of them with walls of varying thicknesses. The distances to the targets vary, as do the locations—some are upslope, as those farthest ones are, some down. A few will only be seen with binoculars, which we have provided, so you will be able to see how well the shells hit their various targets.” He pointed these out with a sweeping gesture to make sure they all noticed the appropriate structures, then swung back to address the men on the platform again. “You all agree that speed is important in artillery. You also know that accuracy is crucial. Thus far, you have had to settle for one

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  or the other. That is now a thing of the past!” He flung his arm out again in the direction of the big field where a line of railroad track had been laid for this demonstration. “I know it is thought wise to save the most impressive for last, but I want you to see how our developments have improved our bigg
est gun first, for it will show you more clearly than any of the others what we have achieved here. This four-hundred-twenty-millimeter howitzer is the largest gun we produce. It can be broken down into component parts for shipping by rail. It requires an eleven-man crew and delivers a shell that weighs nearly a ton. Krupp has nothing to match it.” Inwardly he added yet. “It can demolish any building that stands in its way.” He signaled the crew of the gun. “Prepare to fire.”

  Persuic leaned forward, attentive to what was happening around the big howitzer. He hardly noticed when the Swiss observer moved a little nearer to him, lifting binoculars to his eyes.

  “There are three houses, out there at the edge of the salt-marsh,” said Vinadi in Swiss-accented German, startling Persuic.

  “So von Wolgast told me when he asked me to come to this demonstration. He has promised to demolish fifteen buildings in all.”

  “You will all agree that a shell should hit its target directly,” von Wolgast declared loudly. “And the cannon should reload and fire quickly as well. This innovative design makes both things possible.” He glanced over at his crew, shading his eyes against the morning sun. His collar now felt several sizes too small; if he could not get any of these men to purchase his guns, he would be facing the total failure of his business. Even that suggestion had the power to make him tense; this trial-byordeal was his most difficult morning of the last decade. Only six men would decide his fate. Suddenly he was not certain it had been worth the risk he was taking. He forced himself to take several deep breaths as he wished passionately for a schnapps. To his dismay his voice cracked as he called out, “Gentlemen, when you are ready?” He turned once again to the six men on the platform with him. “You may want to watch this through the binoculars, given the distance.”