“I am honored that you would trust me, a stranger and a foreigner, with something as important as this,” Swing answered. “If I hesitate, it’s because I’m just a newspaperman, not a diplomat, and I'm afraid I might not be up to a job for which I have neither the training nor the experience.”
“Suppose you let us be the judges of your qualifications, Ray?” asked Sixtus. “The Emperor and I both believe you to the best man for the task. I will not say that the whole project will be called off if you refuse, but it would certainly be seriously delayed.”
“We have not considered any alternative messenger,” Karl said.
Swing wondered for an instant if that could possibly be true. Did the future of the Austro-Hungarian Empire really ride on the decision of the International Editor of the Philadelphia Inquirer? It was a little hard to credit. On the other hand, he could not help but be flattered by the confidence the rulers of the Empire had in him. What finally decided him was the thought that among all the journalists in history, there were few if any, who had given such an opportunity not merely to report on history, but to be part of it.
“All right, gentleman, you have your messenger,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”
Chapter Six
Budapest, August 18, 1923
As Mihaly Karolyi was about to open the door leading to his private office, he sensed a presence. Turning, he saw the familiar figure of his private secretary, Bela Molnar, trailing a respectful two paces behind him.
“Bela!” he barked, making the little man jump. “Leave me. I want some time alone. I will call you when I need you.” Bela bobbed his head and hurried away without a word.
Karolyi instantly regretted snapping at his blameless secretary, and for an instant he considered calling him back and apologizing, before deciding that he could let it go until morning. He was in no mood to talk to anybody after just-completed meeting of his United Party of Independence and 1848 Party.
Before the meeting had even been officially opened, someone in the crowd (he could not see who it was) demanded to know exactly where he thought he was leading them. After that, the session degenerated into a free-for-all, with people leaping up to scream at the tops of their lungs that Karolyi should lead a mass march to storm Parliament, that the government Ministers be arrested, taken out, and shot, that he must declare the monarchy overthrown, declare Hungary to be a republic, and set up an interim revolutionary government, and so forth. On the other hand, many members of the party demanded that he call for an end to the civil unrest, tell the citizens of Budapest to resume their normal lives, and along with the other elected representatives of the party, return to his seat in the Diet. Obviously, it was going to be impossible to satisfy all of these conflicting demands for action.
After two hours of bedlam, Karolyi ended the meeting by promising (making himself heard by bellowing at the top of his powerful lungs) to offer a comprehensive plan of action to the party within 24 hours, then, after quickly declaring the meeting adjourned, making his escape from the chaos of the hall as speedily as possible. He was exhausted and had a brutal headache. Having promised the party faithful a new plan by the next day, he still had to formulate that plan, and he had not the slightest idea what he was going to tell them. What he really needed, he decided, was a little peace and quiet, so that he would have a chance to think.
He closed and locked the door of his office behind him, then turned and headed for the couch where he intended to lie on his back with his eyes closed until his head stopped throbbing. Before he reached his goal, he heard a voice say, “You have lost control of your party, Karolyi. What do you intend to do about it?”
He spun around to see a man seated at his desk. “How did you get in here?” Karolyi demanded doing his best to appear irate. “This is my private office. Who gave you permission…?” He ran down when he saw that his neither his words nor his tone were making the slightest impression on his visitor.
The man, known to Karolyi only as “Wolf”, was unremarkable in appearance, with straight brown hair and a Chaplinesque postage-stamp mustache. Unremarkable, that is, until one got to the eyes. His gaze was intense, almost hypnotic, suggesting that he was a fanatic who was driven by some inner demon, although it was not clear to Karolyi exactly what he was fanatical about. He was not certain of the man’s nationality, other than the fact that he was not a Hungarian. The way he spoke German hinted of a lower-middle class Austrian or Bavarian origin. What he did know was that Wolf, or whatever his name was, made him uncomfortable. He longed to throw the fellow out of his office, but under the circumstances he had little choice but to at least treat him with basic civility.
Wolf stood and approached. “Well, Karolyi?” he asked. “Your party is falling to pieces around you. Your people require a strong hand to guide them and you cannot make up your mind what to do. This is the moment of truth. How will you respond?”
Karolyi waved his hands in the air. “What choice do I have? By now Tisza was supposed to be stampeded into ordering the police to fire into the crowds or to make mass arrests, or doing something, anything, to create an incident for us to stir up the mob with, but he isn’t cooperating and my people are losing interest.”
“Call for a general strike,” Wolf suggested. “Your party controls some of the big trade unions. Tell them to shut down the city.”
Karolyi shook his head. This man understood almost nothing of political realities in Budapest. “It wouldn’t work. The Liberals have as many trade unions as we do, including the most important one for a general strike, the transport workers. The strike would fizzle out, and all we would do is make a display of our true weakness.”
“Then arm your followers and lead them on a march to the Diet,” Wolf said. “Batter down the doors, arrest Tisza and his ministers at the point of a gun, and stage a putsch. Power belongs to those who are bold enough to seize it!” Wolf gestured ferociously with his fists as he spoke, as if he imagined himself inspiring a great crowd with his words.
Karolyi sank down to the couch, staring at the man in dismay. “Parliament Square is guarded by lines of armed police. Just how do you suggest that I persuade my people to commit high treason and hurl themselves on their guns? What great cause shall move them to sacrifice their lives at my prompting?” he asked sarcastically.
“For the only cause with any meaning: for your volk, for the racial destiny of your people,” Wolf answered. “My race has been defeated in Austria, and is doomed to be submerged in a sea of subhuman Czechs, Slovaks, Poles, Croats and, worst of all, the purveyors of filth and venereal disease, the vile Jews. Your Magyars still have a chance to save themselves, but they must have a leader who can inspire them with this great cause. Go!” he said, pointing dramatically. “Lead your people on to greatness!”
Karolyi’s expression was that of a man who has just seen something disagreeable crawl out from beneath a rock. He was beginning to understand the nature of the demon that drove this Wolf, and the knowledge made him a little ill. Karolyi believed wholeheartedly in the superiority of Magyar culture, but racism, especially Wolf’s brand of primitive anti-Semitism, was barbaric, stupid and sickening. Anyone had the potential to be a good Magyar. It had nothing to do with who your parents were, or what religion you followed. Indeed, rather than being a threat to the nation, the Jews could be pointed to as the model for other ethnic minorities to follow. Instead of resisting assimilation, they embraced it, and in a single generation many of the Jews who had fled persecution in Russia and emigrated to the Dual Monarchy had become good, loyal citizens of the Kingdom. Their children were indistinguishable from other Magyars, as far as Karolyi was concerned. He certainly trusted any of the many Hungarian Jews he knew more than he did this Wolf character.
“I have taken your employer’s thirty pieces of silver, and I have done what was required of me in return because, whatever his motives may be, I will take any aid that will help to create an independent Hungarian nation,” Karolyi replied. “But I have
never promised to stick my head into the noose on behalf of your Kaiser Wilhelm, and I have not the slightest intention of doing so now.”
Wolf’s features hardened in anger. He glared at the other man. “On what basis do you conclude that I am employed by the German Empire?” he demanded.
The Hungarian snorted. “Who else stands to gain so much from the disruption of the Empire? It is hardly a secret that the Kaiser has been eyeing the new Polish and Ukrainian lands the Empire added after the war. A massive civil disturbance followed by rioting and other disorders would make an excellent pretext for German troops to occupy those territories, temporarily and only to keep order, naturally. After that, I have no doubt that it would not be difficult to find equally good reasons for remaining on a permanent basis. The scheme is consistent with the usual German methods: which is to say, approximately as subtle as a meat-axe,” he said. “In any case, you must realize by now that you have been watched by my people since the first day you made contact with me. After you have been observed meeting covertly with the most notorious German agents-provocateur in Hungary, it would not be very difficult to guess who you were acting for.”
Wolf swept a dismissive hand through the air. “All of that is meaningless. The name of my employer is irrelevant. The only thing that matters now is action. The whole rotten, Jew-infested Imperial structure is ready to collapse from the first good push. Will you be the one to make it, or will it be left to another, one with the courage to do what is necessary?”
Karolyi ignored the taunt, and stretched out full length on the sofa, resting his head on a padded arm. “I’ll let you know what I decide in the morning,” he said wearily. “Now go away, Wolf.” He closed his eyes and drifted off into the dark sea of sleep.
Mihaly Karolyi by Cecile Tormay
Chapter Seven
Vienna, August 19, 1923
Ray Swing looked at the girl sitting across the table from him, then down at the sheet of paper he held in his hand, then back up at the girl again. She was stunningly attractive, with a peaches-and-cream complexion that contrasted dramatically with her jet-black hair that framed her face and was cut even with her jaw-line, in the currently fashionable style. With a face of classical beauty and a body to match, Swing would have instantly believed the girl if she had claimed to be a high-fashion model or actress. But he was having a hard time accepting the story she was telling him.
“I still don’t understand how you were hired, or rather why,” he said. “Suppose you go over it for me again, Miss…” He glanced down at the letter of introduction from John Curtis that she had handed him, “…Collins.”
“Of course, Mr. Swing,” she said. “As I said before, I am an American stringer…” here she held up a Speed Graphic for his scrutiny, which looked to the skeptical Swing as if it had just been taken from its original box that day, to demonstrate her bona fides, “… currently working out of Vienna. Yesterday, I received the letter you are holding in your hand from Mr. John Curtis in Philadelphia. He is the Managing Editor of the …”
“Yes, I know the name of my boss,” Swing interrupted impatiently. “Just get on with it.”
“Oh yes, I suppose you would,” Collins said. “Well, anyway, Mr. Curtis asked me if I would be available to travel with you, to take photographs of your interview subjects to run with the series when it is published in the Inquirer, exactly as the letter states. I agreed, and… that’s about it, I suppose.”
“But…” Swing began, then stopped. He could understand Curtis having a photographer assigned to the story (although not why had it only occurred to him at this late date), but it was far from clear to him why he had selected a girl he had never heard of (in fact, he was not aware of the existence of another female news photographer) over dozens of seasoned professional cameramen, any of whom would have jumped at such an assignment. The letter seemed to be authentic, written as it was in Curtis’s distinctive flowing script (or an excellent imitation thereof). In any case, Swing had received a telegram from Curtis confirming the assignment of his new camera… man… (What was the right word? Camerawoman?) just a few hours earlier. Whatever was going on, his editor evidently was involved in and approved of it. Nonetheless, there was definitely something fishy about the whole affair.
“What sort of experience do you have in the newspaper business, Miss Collins?” he asked.
“Oh, please call me Kate,” she said, “since we’re going to be working together. May I call you Ray?”
“Yes, sure, Kate,” Swing said. “So, how long have you been working over here? What papers did you work for back home?” he persisted.
“I haven’t actually done any professional photography in the United States,” she admitted. “I’ve been freelancing for some small magazines here in Europe over the last few years, but not anything very important, like the stories you’ve covered,” she added, managing to combine modesty, flattery and vagueness in a single sentence.
“Where are you from originally?” Swing asked.
“I grew up in Cincinnati,” she said.
“I haven’t been there for ten years, at least,” Swing said. “Is Everett’s Steak House over on Dermott Street still as good as it was back in the old days? They used to say that they served the best beefsteak in the country, and they probably did.”
The girl hesitated almost imperceptibly before answering. “Oh yes, my father took us there a several times on special occasions. The last time was when I graduated from high school. The food is still excellent.”
Swing nodded, his suspicions confirmed. This Kate Collins (which probably was not her real name), was no more a native of Cincinnati than Swing was the heir to the Holy Roman Empire. “Really? That’s a little hard to believe, since I just invented both Everett’s and Dermott Street.”
The girl flushed, whether in anger or embarrassment he could not tell. She seemed about to speak, then faltered. Before she could make up her mind what to say, Swing asked, “So, why don’t you drop the play-acting and tell me who you really are and why you’re pretending to be a freelance photographer?”
She smiled ruefully, and shook her head. “I told them you would never believe that foolish cover story,” she said. “I wanted to simply tell you the truth in the first place.”
“That being…?” Swing prompted.
“My real name is Christina Dietrichstein, and I am employed the Ministry of the Interior as an agent of the Kaiserlich und Königlich Evidenzbureau, which is…” she said.
“Which is the Imperial spy service,” Swing finished for her.
“The Intelligence Bureau, yes,” she nodded. “The Interior Minister, Prince Parma Bourbon, personally assigned me to accompany you on your travels for your protection from…”
“Just what are you supposed to protect me from?” Swing broke in again. “Who does the Prince imagine might wish to do me harm?”
“You must realize that there would be some element of danger for you personally, when you agreed to undertake a secret diplomatic mission for the Austrian government. There is always the possibility that agents of unfriendly powers might learn the real reason for your mission, and try to keep you from completing it,” she answered. “Or they may wish to learn about what you are doing, and create inconveniences for you in their attempts to obtain information.”
“What sort of ‘inconveniences’ does he expect these imaginary agents to cause for me?” Swing demanded.
“I do not think he is not expecting anything in particular,” Christina said. “I believe that he merely wishes to be prepared for the possibility.”
“Possibility of what?” he persisted. “Somebody sticking a knife in my ribs in a dark alley, or snatching me off the street at midnight?” he asked, proposing the most melodramatic and implausible possibilities he could think of to ridicule the idea.
Her response was not what he expected. “One never knows, Mr. Swing,” she said seriously. “That is precisely the reason I was chosen to watch over you.”
; “ ‘Ray’, please. You can still call me Ray, even if you aren’t a real photographer,” he said. “All right, let’s suppose I am being followed around by mysterious spies in trench coats who plan to kidnap me and torture me for my secrets. Why pick you as my bodyguard? No offense intended, Miss Dietrichstein… Christina,” he amended, “but how much safer would I be with you guarding me than I would be traveling on my own?”
“No offense taken, Ray,” she answered, smiling. “In fact, my superiors are counting on any hostile agents to share your assumption that as a weak, useless female I can safely be disregarded.” She made a slight movement with her right hand, there was a thong! and suddenly a black-handled six-inch steel blade was quivering in Swing’s chair, six inches away from his right ear. His head snapped to the right to look at the knife, then back at the Austrian agent. She now held a small silver automatic pistol in her left hand that was trained on his sternum. “It is hoped that the hostile operatives, if any, may therefore miscalculate by leaving me out of their plans.”
“Ahh, I see,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on the gun, which still pointed unwaveringly at his breastbone. “I think that all my questions have been answered for the time being, so maybe you can put your piece away for a while.”
Tidal Effects (Gray Tide In The East Book 2) Page 14
