Field of Mars

by Stephen Miller

  Forward.

  Three knights on a great quest to save a prince. Three drunken knights of the brave new modern age. Forward into the maelstrom, armed with their pathetic tools (only three revolvers!) and the righteousness of their cause. Now they sally forth, now they go to their deaths. Perhaps the knight is lucky and his magic works one more time. Perhaps this is his last, final triumph.

  Three knights unable to sleep. One twisting in his dreams, one having a listless conversation with the barman in the buffet car. One finding a simulacrum of love with a secretary from a leather goods manufacturer, a pretty Hungarian with nothing to do but courier documents her boss had forgotten, and Ryzhkov catching his own reflection in the window as they sped through the heat of a summer’s day in Bosnia.

  The rhythm of the engine changed, slowing as they entered the city, so unlike Petersburg, a chaotic tangle of yellow plaster and broken roof tiles that climbed the hills above the River Miljacka.

  He saw a dividing of tracks, of points, pathways that might be taken but were not. Solitary men in strange uniforms standing about in the wilderness of the sidings puffing on their pipes, rocking back and forth on their heels.

  The platform came into view. Baggage trolleys pulled by sweating boys through the dusty heat. The shrill scream of the whistle sounded as they stepped out of the carriage, through the press of the mob, a tangle of screaming Muslims, women begging in the shadow of the cathedral.

  The heat slammed Ryzhkov in the face. By the time he reached the street he was bathed in perspiration.

  Ahead of him was a labyrinth of narrow streets hung over with laundry and brightly coloured awnings. A dusty motorcar entered the square and the driver began squeezing the horn. Everything was noise and confusion. The Swede from the train bounded across the street and jumped into an open carriage across from them. ‘Gentlemen!’ he yelled, whipping off his fedora and waving to them as he drove past. ‘God has smiled on you! Welcome to Sarajevo!’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  They took the first place they found, rooms in a small commercial hotel, tucked in behind the station, put their mineral samples in the cupboard and then went right back out again.

  Sarajevo was a maze of meandering streets, narrow bumpy lanes that twisted in on themselves the deeper one delved into the old quarter. Street signs were missing or contradictory; yellow stone buildings with crumbling tile roofs leaned precariously over the narrow lanes filled with children squalling like gulls. It was a city of mosques and cathedrals, where the Austrians had allied themselves with the infidel Muslims in their long campaign to suppress the orthodox Serbs. A city divided in a dozen directions, where everyone was on edge, watching their wallets. A city where sanity was a disadvantage, where life was running backwards.

  Ryzhkov tried to shake it out of his mind, failed, and then made a sort of accommodation with the city, becoming invisible, floating through it all, ignoring the bizarre sights and sounds.

  Splitting up, they walked along the entire parade route. Along with the royal itinerary, the exact route of the archduke’s procession had been published in all the newspapers. Recommendations for the best viewing spots were posted in cafés and restaurants. From a security standpoint Ryzhkov thought that it couldn’t be worse. Many of the roofs were gently pitched, and from the grilles and balconies of the city, behind the open, awning-covered windows, were hundreds of places where a marksman could choose his cover. For a bomb-throwing assassin there were also advantages; most of the route was along the main street that ran alongside the river—the Appel Quay, and there were few routes off it wide enough for a motorcar—the parade could easily be immobilized by a bomb, and the marksmen would have still targets for their long rifles.

  By the afternoon the Okhrana men were hot, dusty and depressed. They found a café on Franz Josef Street and sat nursing glasses of warm beer. Dima was reading a greasy copy of the local newspaper. ‘Well, if we assume we’re thinking like the Black Handers, we can just, you know … follow in their footsteps …’

  ‘And end up one step behind,’ Hokhodiev said. He was staring at his half-empty glass of beer.

  ‘We go forward, that’s all … just like you said, eh, Kostya?’ Ryzhkov wanted to cheer Hokhodiev up, make him happy, make him forget all his worries about Lena. All it produced was a nod from the big man, his eyes never left the beer glass.

  ‘You know that they’re coming into town on a tour tomorrow, they’re going to visit the bazaar in the Turkish quarter.’

  ‘We’ll follow them all the way,’ Ryzhkov said. He stood up, wanting to leave. In spite of himself, he was getting angry. So what if Evdaev’s hired assassins killed the Austrian heir? So some stocks and bonds went up, so some arms merchants grew rich selling howitzers? So what … tryn-trava? He had a sudden vision of Vera twirling on stage like some dervish dressed in diaphanous silk. He could just stop, sneak back into Russia using a forged identity, find her, escape … A big hand on his shoulder interrupted his thoughts. Hokhodiev was smiling at him.

  ‘Let’s go little brother. We sleep tonight, for tomorrow we may die, yes?’

  In the heat of the day they came shopping; the archduke and his wife, Sophie; by the looks of them, both pleasant enough. It was an ‘unofficial’ spontaneous gesture designed to please the mostly Muslim crowd, and it seemed to be working. It was difficult to move in the press of happy onlookers. The archduke was a tall man, with dark hair running to grey. Well fed, well groomed, with extraordinarily clear blue eyes. He seemed younger than his age of fifty-one. Today he was dressed informally, wearing fine civilian clothes that made him appear more prime minister than prince. He asked polite questions about the foodstuffs that were on display, marvelled over the work of the silversmiths, admired bolts of fabric that had been hung from sticks above the narrow lanes, shook hands, and patted children on the head. The countess was quiet, well-behaved, modest. She looked like the mother you wished you had, always with a little half-smile, happy to be out with her husband touring the foul-smelling Turkish quarter of Sarajevo.

  Ryzhkov moved through it all with pained eyes and a headache that he kept pushed out to the very edge of his consciousness. He scanned the windows and rooftops, saw dozens of suspicious faces. Dozens of potential sites from which a bomber could step and throw. Everyone looked suspicious, even the children. It was like a deathwatch. A macabre dress-rehearsal for a royal funeral; as soon as he saw him Ryzhkov knew the archduke was going to be killed.

  It was noisy, hot, pungent with the odours of humans, animals, fruit, vegetables, spices and charcoal smoke from the braziers. General Oskar Potiorek, the Austrian-appointed Governor of Bosnia, himself a potential target, and a clutch of sweating bureaucrats hovered around the royal couple. Bespectacled translators struggled with the dialects of the Muslim merchants. At times a rhythmic ‘Zivio!’ could be heard round the fringes of the crowd. When it got loud enough the archduke would look up, acknowledge that he’d heard the happy hurrahs and then everyone would laugh like a horde of trained monkeys.

  Through the ancient market they continued. It seemed like hours. The three Russians triangulated themselves around the procession. In the packed lanes and narrow aisles the Austrian and Bosnian police were obvious in their blue and tan uniforms. They too seemed to be enjoying the day; everything was amiable, hospitable and delightful, as they all wound their way through the ancient labyrinth. At the food stalls samples were being given out and merchants were bowing to their customers. Ryzhkov even found himself trying to smile so that he wouldn’t stick out.

  Everything was so relaxed and secure that the royal couple took it in their fancy to explore, turning even deeper into the market. Ryzhkov, Hokhodiev and Dima turned with them. Now Hokhodiev was at the point of the triangle as they strolled from stall to stall. Ryzhkov’s eyes swept the crowd, looking for the momentary predatory glance, the quickened movement of a man about to hurl a deadly object. Now they were nearing a line of ice-filled troughs with suspicious fish arrayed on them in perf
ect display. He saw Hokhodiev move ahead to check the street just beyond the fish stalls. Their eyes met and Kostya shook his head.

  And then—

  It came suddenly—only a noise at first. The sound of men’s voices raised in protest. He whirled and saw that there was a scuffle in the crowd, someone shouting something in a language that Ryzhkov did not understand. He quickly forced himself to turn his eyes away, searching for someone looking, tightening his field of vision, eliminating possible threats and finally seeing Franz Ferdinand as he, too, became aware of the fracas— turning with a distracted smile across his face. His hand went to the countess’s arm in a gesture of protection.

  Ryzhkov desperately scanned the crowd. At the corner he saw a man on a ladder. A young man carrying his dark jacket over his sleeve. Now he was seeing the hard young faces everywhere: another flint-eyed student at the corner of a stall that was hung with carpets. Their eyes met for a moment, and the young man looked back with something like recognition, a flicker crossed his face and he suddenly looked down and away.

  A diversion, Ryzhkov was thinking, his hand reaching beneath his jacket for the pistol he had tucked into his pocket, moving towards the carpet stall where the young man had vanished. He pushed his way behind the archduke, through the trailing bureaucrats. Looking for other faces, others who were watching, trying to pick out the bodyguards. Yes, it’s what I would do, he was thinking as he pushed his way through the crowd; make a little noise, make a little test, see how they react, see which way they jump.

  And then as quickly as it had happened it was over; the archduke turned his gaze back to the fish, the countess raised her handkerchief to her nose. No security, he thought. No security anywhere. ‘A thief,’ people were saying to each other, nothing to worry about, only a thief who was trying to steal from one of the jewellers.

  He reached the edge of the lane that opened on to a plaza dominated by a large grilled fountain, the centre of the crowded quarter. The young man was, of course, gone.

  He turned back and ran right into the chest of a blue-clad Austrian policeman.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the Austrian said, and pushed his way into the alley.

  Ryzhkov headed back into the labyrinthine streets of the market, caught up in time to see Franz Ferdinand and Sophie as they were leaving. A huge covered Hispano was there in the blinding sun, its engine purring, waiting to take them back to the station. The royal itinerary flashed through Ryzhkov’s memory. The archduke would return to his lodge outside Ilidze for the night; the ‘official’ visit to the city was set for ten the next morning. Less than twenty-four hours, Ryzhkov thought. Hokhodiev came up beside him, his face grim.

  ‘Did you see that, brother?’ he asked.

  ‘A test.’

  ‘Oh, yes. And our local boys failed by the looks of it, eh? Come on, I think I have them.’ For the first time in a long while Hokhodiev smiled. They pushed their way out into the lane.

  ‘There,’ Hokhodiev said, pointing to two young men striding up one of the twisting streets ahead of them. ‘I just saw them meet up, one was watching from back there—’

  ‘The boy on the ladder?’

  ‘That’s our pigeon, and I’m almost sure I remember them from yesterday. I was on the quay in the afternoon, they were pretending to be tourists, they had a map and everything, asking directions, but anyone can see by their clothes …’ The two men were dressed in suits, but their shoes were run down, the jackets rumpled and unpressed. Students. Angry young men.

  ‘They’re so fucking cocky, they’re not even trying to hide it,’ Hokhodiev said.

  There was another great cheer from the crowd as the Hispano lurched into gear and began to negotiate the narrow lane. If they managed to get off the street, they’d be safe enough for the night, Ryzhkov thought.

  ‘Quickly …’ He looked around and saw Dima moving towards them. They followed the two young men up the hill, out of the old quarter and along a higher street where the buildings gave way to smaller houses. Ahead of them the assassins turned a corner and Dima rushed ahead to get a view down the lane. Ryzhkov continued straight on and turned at the next opportunity, Kostya had dropped back and tried to cut around behind the pair. Ryzhkov walked along the narrow streets. The district was quiet, only an occasional cry from an infant, a dog’s barking, the calling of the crows to puncture the hot stillness. Women in twos and threes passed him as he walked along. Behind walls he heard children playing games in the shady gardens. An old man in his chair smoking and talking to himself. Ryzhkov saw Hokhodiev coming up the hill and he went over to meet him. Together they stood just around the corner in a narrow sliver of shade.

  ‘Dima’s just there—’ Hokhodiev said it without looking around. ‘The house at the end of that lane. They’ve got rooms up there, and—look—’ He pulled Ryzhkov around the corner. Down the hill another three black-clad students were making their way up towards the lane.

  ‘Yes …’ Ryzhkov breathed.

  Suddenly Dima appeared at the mouth of the lane. He had taken off his jacket and bundled it under his arm, tied a kerchief around his head against the sun. He carried a basket in both arms, trying to look like he was doing something. He walked along pretending he hadn’t noticed them.

  ‘One at a time,’ Ryzhkov said and Hokhodiev nodded and stepped out into the street, walking slowly, reading a newspaper he’d picked up somewhere. Ryzhkov stayed in the shadow and watched as the three terrorists turned and made their way to the house at the end of the lane.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘We hit them tonight,’ Ryzhkov said.

  Back in their rooms, he and Dima planned the raid, then Dima left to relieve Hokhodiev, and for the space of a half-hour Ryzhkov had the place to himself. He stood looking over the roof tiles. Thought about the possibility of composing some sort of note that he could send to Vera to let her know he was alive, that there was still some hope. Then he thought that perhaps he should wait for the next few hours to be over. Since he might not come out of it alive, and what was the sense of that? Hello, I love you. I’m going to be dead or in jail for ever in the next few hours. Hokhodiev came in and filled him in. Another troika of student revolutionaries had made their way to headquarters.

  ‘These were the ones making the deliveries, I’d say.’ They’d all had suitcases. ‘Heavy, by the looks of it.’ Together they constructed a detailed map of the house and lanes surrounding it; the building itself sat at the end of a short lane, forming a cul-de-sac. A watcher from the upstairs windows would be able to see anyone who approached via the lane. The only other way in was over the wall and through the garden of a neighbouring house, then a climb up to the roof and hop down on to the stairs leading to the balcony.

  Ryzhkov shook his head and looked up to meet Hokhodiev’s eye. It was a bad way in, and it was also the only escape route. ‘Fine, but when we hit them, where do they run? It’s good to always leave them somewhere to run. If they can’t run, they’re cornered, they just dig in harder. Not very pretty, brother …’ Hokhodiev muttered.

  Ryzhkov left and walked to a grocer’s and purchased bread, cheese, and a bottle of red wine, counted out his dinars for the smiling assistant, and trudged back up the hill, running the permutations over and over in his mind.

  Before he left to take a look at the house, he and Hokhodiev decided that Dima would wait on the adjacent roof with a view of the staircase to cut off the only escape route. Other than that there were no changes, nothing new they could come up with to give them a better chance. Dima would approach from the rear, Hokhodiev would go directly up the lane and Ryzhkov would go over the wall, through the garden, climb on to the roof. Then he and Hokhodiev would crash into the rooms through the door and a window …

  ‘And then?’ Hokhodiev said. A little smile was playing across his face.

  Ryzhkov shrugged. ‘If they fight, we kill them. If we can we take their guns, or their bombs, and then—’

  ‘It’s the “then” that I’m thinking about,’ Hokhod
iev laughed.

  ‘Then we escape ourselves. If the noise hasn’t brought them, we call the police. Hopefully there will be some evidence in the rooms that will lead to their arrest, but at the very least they’ll be off the streets during the parade …’ He stopped, running out of ideas. The plan was as thin as tissue.

  ‘Ah …’ Hokhodiev said and sat back. ‘Well … as a master strategy, it’s slightly flawed.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘But, still, brother, we hit them. We hit them hard. We kill as many as we can, wound the others. If any escape, we give chase, but then …’

  ‘Then we go straight to the railway station. We tag along behind the motorcade.’

  ‘Running.’

  ‘Running. Yes, if we can. We’ll just have to push our way through. We can take it in stages, like a relay, maybe.’

  Hokhodiev looked at him for a long moment, the smile deepening. After a moment he reached out and put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Together, then …’ he said.

  Ryzhkov checked his watch. They agreed that the raid would begin at five. He checked to make sure the revolver was loaded, that his knife was in his pocket.

  ‘I’ll see the two of you at the wall,’ he said and looked around the room to check. He would never be coming back there again.

  ‘Here …’ Hokhodiev said. He took one of the mineral cases out of the cupboard and extracted a roll of banknotes. ‘It’s marks, roubles, francs … some of everything.’ He made three piles of money on the table.

  ‘What about afterwards?’ Ryzhkov said, watching him count out the notes.

  ‘I’m going back, I think. Do whatever I can to get Lena away from her relatives. She’ll be going crazy, I can’t leave her to that.’ He said it without looking up to meet Ryzhkov’s eye. They both knew the dangers.

  ‘You’d better go, so the boy can get some sleep, eh?’ ‘Yes,’ Ryzhkov said, stuffed the roll of banknotes in his pocket and went through the door into the night.