by Follett, Ken
He walked briskly across Green Park. Londoners were enjoying the sunshine, but there was a cloud of gloom over Walter’s head. He had hoped that Germany and Russia would stay out of the Balkan crisis, but what he had learned so far today ominously suggested the opposite. Reaching Buckingham Palace, he turned left and walked along the Mall to the back entrance of the German embassy.
His father had an office in the embassy: he spent about one week in three there. There was a painting of Kaiser Wilhelm on the wall and a framed photograph of Walter in lieutenant’s uniform on the desk. Otto held in his hand a piece of pottery. He collected English ceramics, and loved to go hunting for unusual items. Looking more closely, Walter saw that this was a creamware fruit bowl, the edges delicately pierced and molded to mimic basketwork. Knowing his father’s taste, he guessed it was eighteenth century.
With Otto was Gottfried von Kessel, a cultural attaché whom Walter disliked. Gottfried had thick dark hair combed with a side parting, and wore spectacles with thick lenses. He was the same age as Walter and also had a father in the diplomatic service, but despite having that much in common, they were not friends. Walter thought Gottfried was a toady.
He nodded to Gottfried and sat down. “The Austrian emperor has written to our kaiser.”
“We know that,” Gottfried said quickly.
Walter ignored him. Gottfried was always trying to start a pissing contest. “No doubt the kaiser’s reply will be amicable,” he said to his father. “But a lot may depend upon nuance.”
“His Majesty has not yet confided in me.”
“But he will.”
Otto nodded. “It is the kind of thing he sometimes asks me about.”
“And if he urges caution, he might persuade the Austrians to be less belligerent.”
Gottfried said: “Why should he do that?”
“To avoid Germany’s being dragged into a war over such a worthless piece of territory as Serbia!”
“What are you afraid of?” Gottfried said scornfully. “The Serbian army?”
“I am afraid of the Russian army, and so should you be,” Walter replied. “It is the largest in history—”
“I know that,” said Gottfried.
Walter ignored the interruption. “In theory, the tsar can put six million men into the field within a few weeks—”
“I know—”
“—and that is more than the total population of Serbia.”
“I know.”
Walter sighed. “You seem to know everything, von Kessel. Do you know where the assassins got their guns and bombs?”
“From Slav nationalists, I presume.”
“Any particular Slav nationalists, do you presume?”
“Who knows?”
“The Austrians know, I gather. They believe the arms came from the head of Serbian intelligence.”
Otto grunted in surprise. “That would make the Austrians vengeful.”
Gottfried said: “Austria is still ruled by its emperor. In the end, the decision for war can be made only by him.”
Walter nodded. “Not that a Habsburg emperor has ever needed much of an excuse to be ruthless and brutal.”
“What other way is there to rule an empire?”
Walter did not rise to the bait. “Other than the Hungarian prime minister, who does not carry much weight, there seems to be no one urging caution. That role must fall to us.” Walter stood up. He had reported his findings, and he did not want to stay any longer in the same room as the irritating Gottfried. “If you will excuse me, Father, I’ll go to tea at the Duchess of Sussex’s house and see what else is being said around town.”
Gottfried said: “The English don’t pay calls on Sundays.”
“I have an invitation,” Walter replied, and went out before he lost his temper.
He threaded his way through Mayfair to Park Lane, where the Duke of Sussex had his palace. The duke played no role in the British government, but the duchess held a political salon. When Walter had arrived in London in December Fitz had introduced him to the duchess, who had made sure he was invited everywhere.
He entered her drawing room, bowed, shook her plump hand, and said: “Everyone in London wants to know what will happen in Serbia, so, even though it is Sunday, I have come here to ask you, Your Grace.”
“There will be no war,” she said, showing no awareness that he was joking. “Sit down and have a cup of tea. Of course it is tragic about the poor archduke and his wife, and no doubt the culprits will be punished, but how silly to think that great nations such as Germany and Britain would go to war over Serbia.”
Walter wished he could feel so confident. He took a chair near Maud, who smiled happily, and Lady Hermia, who nodded. There were a dozen people in the room, including the first lord of the admiralty, Winston Churchill. The decor was grandly out of date: too much heavy carved furniture, rich fabrics of a dozen different patterns, and every surface covered with ornaments, framed photographs, and vases of dried grasses. A footman handed Walter a cup of tea and offered milk and sugar.
Walter was happy to be near Maud but, as always, he wanted more, and he immediately began to wonder whether there was any way they could contrive to be alone, even if only for a minute or two.
The duchess said: “The problem, of course, is the weakness of the Turk.”
The pompous old bat was right, Walter thought. The Ottoman Empire was in decline, held back from modernization by a conservative Muslim priesthood. For centuries the Turkish sultan had kept order in the Balkan peninsula, from the Mediterranean coast of Greece as far north as Hungary, but now, decade by decade, it was pulling back. The nearest Great Powers, Austria and Russia, were trying to fill the vacuum. Between Austria and the Black Sea were Bosnia, Serbia, and Bulgaria in a line. Five years ago Austria had taken control of Bosnia. Now Austria was in a quarrel with Serbia, the middle one. The Russians looked at the map and saw that Bulgaria was the next domino, and that the Austrians could end up controlling the west coast of the Black Sea, threatening Russia’s international trade.
Meanwhile the subject peoples of the Austrian empire were starting to think they might rule themselves—which was why the Bosnian nationalist Gavrilo Princip had shot Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo.
Walter said: “It’s a tragedy for Serbia. I should think their prime minister is ready to throw himself into the Danube.”
Maud said: “You mean the Volga.”
Walter looked at her, glad of the excuse to drink in her appearance. She had changed her clothes, and was wearing a royal blue tea gown over a pale pink lace blouse and a pink felt hat with a blue pompom. “I most certainly do not, Lady Maud,” he said.
She said: “The Volga runs through Belgrade, which is the capital of Serbia.”
Walter was about to protest again, then he hesitated. She knew perfectly well that the Volga hardly came within a thousand miles of Belgrade. What was she up to? “I am reluctant to contradict someone as well-informed as you, Lady Maud,” he said. “All the same—”
“We will look it up,” she said. “My uncle, the duke, has one of the greatest libraries in London.” She stood. “Come with me, and I shall prove you wrong.”
This was bold behavior for a well-bred young woman, and the duchess pursed her lips.
Walter mimed a helpless shrug and followed Maud to the door.
For a moment, Lady Hermia looked as if she might go too, but she was comfortably sunk in deep velvet upholstery, with a cup and saucer in her hand and a plate in her lap, and it was too much effort to move. “Don’t be long,” she said quietly, and ate some more cake. Then they were out of the room.
Maud preceded Walter across the hall, where a couple of footmen stood like sentries. She stopped in front of a door and waited for Walter to open it. They went inside.
The big room was silent. They were alone. Maud threw herself into Walter’s arms. He hugged her hard, pressing her body against his. She turned her face up. “I love you,” she said, and kissed him hun
grily.
After a minute she broke away, breathless. Walter looked at her adoringly. “You’re outrageous,” he said. “Saying the Volga runs through Belgrade!”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
He shook his head in admiration. “I would never have thought of it. You’re so clever.”
“We need an atlas,” she said. “In case anyone comes in.”
Walter scanned the shelves. This was the library of a collector rather than a reader. All the books were in fine bindings, most looking as if they had never been opened. A few reference books lurked in a corner, and he pulled out an atlas and found a map of the Balkans.
“This crisis,” Maud said anxiously. “In the long run . . . it’s not going to split us up, is it?”
“Not if I can help it,” Walter said.
He drew her behind a bookcase, so that they could not be seen immediately by someone coming in, and kissed her again. She was deliciously needy today, rubbing her hands over his shoulders and arms and back as she kissed him. She broke the kiss to whisper: “Lift my skirt.”
He swallowed. He had daydreamed of this. He grasped the material and drew it up.
“And the petticoats,” she said. He took a bunch of fabric in each hand. “Don’t crease it,” she said. He tried to raise the garments without crushing the silk, but everything slipped through his hands. Impatient, she bent down, grasped skirt and petticoats by the hems, and lifted everything to her waist. “Feel me,” she said, looking him in the eye.
He was nervous that someone would come in, but too overwhelmed with love and desire to restrain himself. He put his right hand on the fork of her thighs—and gasped with shock: she was naked there. The realization that she must have planned to give him this pleasure inflamed him further. He stroked her gently, but she thrust her hips forward against his hand, and he pressed harder. “That’s right,” she said. He closed his eyes, but she said: “Look at me, my darling, please, look at me while you’re doing it,” and he opened them again. Her face was flushed and she was breathing hard through open lips. She gripped his hand and guided him, as he had guided her in the opera box. She whispered: “Put your finger in.” She leaned against his shoulder. He could feel the heat of her breath through his clothes. She thrust against him again and again. Then she made a small sound in the back of her throat, like the muted cry of someone dreaming; and at last she slumped against him.
He heard the door open, and then Lady Hermia’s voice. “Come along, Maud, dear, we must take our leave.”
Walter withdrew his hand and Maud hastily smoothed her skirt. In a shaky voice she said: “I’m afraid I was wrong, Aunt Herm, and Herr von Ulrich was right—it’s the Danube, not the Volga, that runs through Belgrade. We’ve just found it in the atlas.”
They bent over the book as Lady Hermia came around the end of the bookcase. “I never doubted it,” she said. “Men are generally right about these things, and Herr von Ulrich is a diplomat, who has to know a great many facts with which women do not need to trouble themselves. You shouldn’t argue, Maud.”
“I expect you’re right,” said Maud with breathtaking insincerity.
They all left the library and crossed the hall. Walter opened the door to the drawing room. Lady Hermia went in first. As Maud followed, she met his eye. He raised his right hand, put the tip of his finger into his mouth, and sucked it.
{ II }
This could not go on, Walter thought as he made his way back to the embassy. It was like being a schoolboy. Maud was twenty-three years old and he was twenty-eight, yet they had to resort to absurd subterfuges in order to spend five minutes alone together. It was time they got married.
He would have to ask Fitz’s permission. Maud’s father was dead, so her brother was the head of the family. Fitz would undoubtedly have preferred her to marry an Englishman. However, he would probably come around: he must be worrying that he might never get his feisty sister married off.
No, the major problem was Otto. He wanted Walter to marry a well-behaved Prussian maiden who would be happy to spend the rest of her life breeding heirs. And when Otto wanted something he did all he could to get it, crushing opposition remorselessly—which was what had made him a good army officer. It would never occur to him that his son had a right to choose his own bride, without interference or pressure. Walter would have preferred to have his father’s encouragement and support: he certainly did not look forward to the inevitable stand-up confrontation. However, his love was a force more powerful by far than filial deference.
It was Sunday evening, but London was not quiet. Although Parliament was not sitting, and the mandarins of Whitehall had gone to their suburban homes, politics continued in the palaces of Mayfair, the gentlemen’s clubs of St. James’s, and the embassies. On the streets Walter recognized several members of Parliament, a couple of junior ministers from Britain’s Foreign Office, and some European diplomats. He wondered whether Britain’s bird-watching foreign secretary, Sir Edward Grey, had stayed in town this weekend instead of going to his beloved country cottage in Hampshire.
Walter found his father at his desk, reading decoded telegrams. “This may not be the best time to tell you my news,” Walter began.
Otto grunted and carried on reading.
Walter plunged on. “I’m in love with Lady Maud.”
Otto looked up. “Fitzherbert’s sister? I suspected as much. You have my profound sympathy.”
“Be serious, please, Father.”
“No, you be serious.” Otto threw down the papers he was reading. “Maud Fitzherbert is a feminist, a suffragette, and a social maverick. She’s not a fit wife for anyone, let alone a German diplomat from a good family. So let’s hear no more of it.”
Hot words came to Walter’s lips, but he clenched his teeth and kept his temper. “She’s a wonderful woman, and I love her, so you’d better speak politely of her, whatever your opinions.”
“I’ll say what I think,” Otto said carelessly. “She’s dreadful.” He looked down at his telegrams.
Walter’s eye fell on the creamware fruit bowl his father had bought. “No,” he said. He picked up the bowl. “You will not say what you think.”
“Be careful with that.”
Walter had his father’s full attention now. “I feel protective of Lady Maud, the way you feel protective of this trinket.”
“Trinket? Let me tell you, it’s worth—”
“Except, of course, that love is stronger than the collector’s greed.” Walter tossed the delicate object into the air and caught it one-handed. His father let out an anguished cry of inarticulate protest. Walter went on heedlessly: “So when you speak insultingly of her, I feel as you do when you think I’m going to drop this—only more so.”
“Insolent pup—”
Walter raised his voice over his father’s. “And if you continue to trample all over my sensibilities, I will crush this stupid piece of pottery beneath my heel.”
“All right, you’ve made your point, put it down, for God’s sake.”
Walter took that for acquiescence, and replaced the ornament on a side table.
Otto said maliciously: “But there is something else you need to take into account . . . if I may mention it without treading on your sensibilities.”
“All right.”
“She is English.”
“For God’s sake!” Walter cried. “Well-born Germans have been marrying English aristocrats for years. Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha married Queen Victoria—his grandson is now king of England. And the queen of England was born a Württemberg princess!”
Ottoraised his voice. “Things have changed! The English are determined to keep us a second-rate power. They befriend our adversaries, Russia and France. You would be marrying an enemy of your fatherland.”
Walter knew this was how the old guard thought, but it was irrational. “We should not be enemies,” he said in exasperation. “There’s no reason for it.”
“They will never allow us t
o compete on equal terms.”
“That’s just not true!” Walter heard himself shouting, and tried to be calmer. “The English believe in free trade—they allow us to sell our manufactures throughout the British Empire.”
“Read that, then.” Otto threw across the desk the telegram he had been reading. “His Majesty the kaiser has asked for my comments.”
Walter picked it up. It was a draft reply to the Austrian emperor’s personal letter. Walter read it with mounting alarm. It ended: “The Emperor Franz Joseph may, however, rest assured that His Majesty will faithfully stand by Austria-Hungary, as is required by the obligations of his alliance and of his ancient friendship.”
Walter was horrified. “But this gives Austria carte blanche!” he said. “They can do anything they like and we will support them!”
“There are some qualifications.”
“Not many. Has this been sent?”
“No, but it has been agreed. It will be sent tomorrow.”
“Can we stop it?”
“No, and I would not want to.”
“But it commits us to support Austria in a war against Serbia.”
“No bad thing.”
“We don’t want war!” Walter protested. “We need science, and manufacturing, and commerce. Germany must modernize and become liberal and grow. We want peace and prosperity.” And, he added silently, we want a world in which a man can marry the woman he loves without being accused of treason.
“Listen to me,” Otto said. “We have powerful enemies on both sides, France to the west and Russia to the east—and they are hand in glove. We can’t fight a war on two fronts.”
Walter knew this. “That’s why we have the Schlieffen Plan,” he said. “If we are forced to go to war, we first invade France with an overwhelming force, achieve victory within a few weeks, and then, with the west secure, we turn east to face Russia.”
“Our only hope,” Otto said. “But when that plan was adopted by the German army nine years ago, our intelligence told us it would take the Russian army forty days to mobilize. That gave us almost six weeks in which to conquer France. Ever since then, the Russians have been improving their railways—with money loaned by France!” Otto banged the desk, as if he could squash France under his fist. “As the Russians’ mobilization time gets shorter, so the Schlieffen Plan becomes more risky. Which means”—he pointed his finger dramatically at Walter—“the sooner we have this war, the better for Germany!”
