The Assassins

by Alan Bardos

  The Archduke stopped pacing to study the painting that covered the central wall of the room. It depicted the first investment ceremony of the order of Maria Theresa in 1758. It was one of the Empire’s highest military honours, which had been founded to celebrate victory over Fredrick the Great. The room had two other paintings commissioned by the Emperor to commemorate the centenary of that event and to re-live the past glory of Maria Theresa’s reign. Franz Ferdinand felt the whole Monarchy ran on nostalgia. It was time for a new approach.

  He was determined to restore everything that the iron House of Habsburg had lost. He'd been systematic in his preparations for taking the throne, building up a personal intelligence network and a shadow cabinet, which kept him better informed than even the Emperor himself. The one overriding message to come from his network was that the situation was getting worse.

  The rise of nationalism was seriously threatening the internal and external security of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. At home, its eleven different nationalities were all clamouring for equal rights and in some cases self-determination. Abroad, the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy had sought to expand to the east and open new markets to compensate for the loss of territory it had suffered in the west, but they were being resisted by the new Balkan nations rising from the crumbling Ottoman Empire, all of them with competing territorial claims that were destabilising the region.

  Serbia had emerged as the Monarchy's main rival; it had grown in power and prestige after its success in the two Balkan Wars and now Serbian nationalists dreamed of recreating a Greater Serbia out of Austro-Hungarian territory in the region, where they spread dissension among the populace.

  The Austro-Hungarian Monarchy had adopted an increasingly aggressive foreign policy, in a bid to bolster its prestige and secure the Balkans from nationalist dogma. The wrongheadedness of this approach frustrated Franz Ferdinand. All it achieved was the further straining of relations with Serbia, driving them into the arms of Mother Russia, who was also trying to increase her influence in the region. A number of hardliners in the government and military believed that war was inevitable, and advocated a pre-emptive strike against Serbia, arguing that any risk of war with Russia would be mitigated by their alliance with Germany.

  Franz Ferdinand had reservations about the prudence of such a war and had argued against it. When he gained the throne he planned to stabilise the country by reducing Hungary to a Habsburg Crown land and create a centralised state - a united states of Austria, crushed and reshaped back into a feudal society subservient to the will of its Emperor once again. Then he'd deal with the South Slavs and re-establish Habsburg hegemony in the Balkans, once and for all.

  Franz Ferdinand was eventually shown into the Walnut Room, where the Emperor conducted his audiences surrounded by dark walnut panelling, lavishly detailed in grand rococo style. The room was both austere and refined, like the Emperor. Franz Josef rose from a consort desk, his kind, benevolent features greyed by his recent bad health. Uncle and nephew greeted each other formally; their relationship was always gracious, but never intimate.

  'Your Imperial and Royal Majesty - I am glad to see you are recovered.' If the Emperor had succumbed to his illness, Franz Ferdinand pondered, he wouldn't have had to go through this ridiculous charade.

  The Emperor returned to his consort desk and checked his notes. 'I believe you requested this audience to discuss the Bosnian manoeuvres, Franz Ferdinand?' In his youth, the Emperor had been noted for his love of such things, riding bolt upright for hours on end and sharing the men's hardships. However, he'd shown a declining interest in the military with the arrival of modern warfare, finding it all rather bewildering. Franz Ferdinand wondered if that was why the Emperor had made him Inspector General of the Army, handing over the responsibility for attending manoeuvres.

  'Your Majesty. I have concerns about the intense summer heat of Bosnia. I'm uncertain whether my health could stand up to it.'

  'I see.' The Emperor gave his nephew a hard look. Franz Ferdinand stood up to the unflinching gaze. Despite his current state of infirmity, the Emperor was rarely sick and appeared less than sympathetic to his nephew's concerns.

  In his thirties, Franz Ferdinand had contracted tuberculosis and had been exiled to die. The Emperor had even cut Franz Ferdinand's allowance and had begun preparing his younger brother to become heir. The Archduke felt a flush of anger at the memory. He was determined not to get sick again and the chances were that the extreme heat could bring on an asthma attack.

  'You understand the importance of a visit by my successor?' Franz Josef asked. From his brusque tone it appeared he still viewed Franz Ferdinand as weak and sickly.

  Franz Ferdinand knew that if he missed the manoeuvres it would reflect very badly on his commitment to his role as both Inspector General of the Army and heir to the throne. Franz Josef often expressed reservations about his heir's character, suggesting that he was blunt and overly aggressive, and he refused to share official documents with him, let alone the reins of power. Franz Ferdinand would not give his uncle any further reason to question his suitability to be Emperor.

  He looked at a huge wall map that described the Monarchy in a great blur of blue, at the centre of Europe. He would not be responsible for losing any more of it. Franz Ferdinand touched his 'life certificate', the letter his doctor had given him to certify that he had fully recovered from tuberculosis. Franz Ferdinand carried it with him everywhere. 'Yes, Your Majesty. The visit would help check Serbia's growing influence over our Balkan provinces by increasing support amongst those subjects in the province who are loyal to the Monarchy. They would therefore act as a defence against Serbian expansionist policies.'

  'Precisely,' the Emperor agreed. 'I was under the impression that you'd asked for the 15th and 16th Army Corps manoeuvres to take place in Bosnia.'

  'Yes, Your Majesty.' Franz Ferdinand suspected that the army was in no condition to launch any kind of military campaign in the Balkans, least of all the pre-emptive strike against Serbia that the hardliners were calling for. 'I would like to know how well the army performs in the region,' he explained.

  The Emperor almost nodded approval then remembered, 'Yet you do not actually wish to attend the manoeuvres yourself?'

  Franz Ferdinand bristled, but managed to control his temper. The Emperor looked at his nephew through tired eyes and sensing the Archduke's rage, he took on the pallor of a sick old man, making Franz Ferdinand feel like a bully.

  'It's a matter for your own discretion, Franz Ferdinand. If you feel your health will prevent you from doing your duty, then so be it.'

  Franz Ferdinand disagreed with many aspects of his uncle's rule, but he'd always been taught to revere the position of Emperor, and he held the old man in the deepest respect.

  'If Your Majesty so commands, I am more than willing to do my duty.'

  'Quite so.' The Emperor expected nothing less.

  Franz Ferdinand didn't feel it was worth mentioning that the police had received warnings of assassination plots. Such things were common when dealing with the volatile people of the Balkans. The King of Greece had been murdered last year and the Serb Royal Family had been gunned down and hacked to pieces in their own palace. The Croatian Secretary of Education had been murdered and the Imperial Governors of Bosnia and Croatia had been shot at and wounded.

  The Archduke would not be prevented from doing his duty by thugs. Even the Emperor had been attacked by a Hungarian nationalist and had brushed shoulders with an assassin when he visited Bosnia. Yet he still took walks on his own, a tempting target for any radical crackpot. His maxim was, 'If we must go under, we'd better go decently.'

  Franz Ferdinand wholeheartedly agreed. He'd been humiliated enough by the mob when he’d visited Herzegovina and Dubrovnik in 1906 and he would not disgrace himself by refusing to go to the Balkans again.

  The Emperor inclined his head to the side, his usual way of saying an audience was over. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he concluded. Franz Ferdinand
baulked; he was being dismissed like a common petitioner at one of the Emperor’s weekly audiences.

  'Your Majesty, if I'm to attend the manoeuvres, might it be possible for the Duchess of Hohenberg to accompany me?' Now that the Archduke had assented to the Emperor's wishes, he felt that it was time to ask for something in return.

  The Emperor looked world-weary and annoyed. He'd thought the audience was over. 'Yes-yes, what of it? Did she not accompany you at the autumn manoeuvres?'

  'As I'll be visiting Sarajevo in a military capacity, I believe protocol permits my wife to accompany me on the official state functions.'

  Franz Josef gave him an astute look and Franz Ferdinand knew what he was thinking. The heir to the throne wanted the commoner he'd married to play at being Empress, for the day. Franz Ferdinand suppressed his fury. Then the Emperor smiled. Had being old and lonely made him whimsical, Franz Ferdinand wondered. Perhaps he didn't want any further confrontation, or maybe he remembered how his unflinching belief in protocols had driven away his Sissi, his angel. Whatever it was, the Emperor was giving his consent. 'Do as you wish.'

  Chapter 12

  Johnny Swift fought the urge to fidget with his collar while he waited for Mr Harding-Brown to mull over his request. Johnny had caught him during his mid-morning repast and every new mouthful he took gave him the opportunity to ignore his visitor.

  By the look of Harding-Brown, Johnny thought that he must have spent the past twenty five years completing meaningless forms and memos. All he had was the simple pleasure of a hotly-buttered muffin. For Johnny, it was like seeing his future laid out before him and it almost made him want to give up there and then.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. You say you’re from the Paris Embassy?’ Harding-Brown asked, his eyes flickering enviously as he said the word ‘Paris’.

  ‘That’s right, sir.’ Johnny replied smugly.

  Harding-Brown finished his muffin and Johnny hoped that he was at last going to turn his mind to helping him. ‘And you say the Honourable Barton-Forbes told you to come and see me?’ Harding-Brown was clearly perplexed and irritated by the interruption to his daily routine.

  ‘Yes, Mr Harding-Brown.’

  ‘But what on Earth for?’

  Johnny felt sweat sting the back of his neck and at last allowed himself to show the weakness of adjusting his collar in front of a superior. He’d had to battle the summer heat as he trudged through the strange sights of Sarajevo trying to find the British Consulate and now it looked as if his efforts had all been for nothing.

  ‘I fail to understand why you’re here. I believe the briefings I’ve been sending to Vienna are perfectly adequate,’ Harding-Brown stated grandly.

  ‘There is no implied criticism of yourself,’ Johnny said. He hadn’t anticipated his arrival putting Harding-Brown on the defensive. Johnny glanced round the drab little office; there were no Imperial fixtures and fittings and he realised that there wouldn’t be anywhere left for the man to fall if he was cast out of a consulate in the backwoods of nowhere.

  ‘From what I understand, your efforts are very much up to the mark, which is why I was advised to come and see you. I’m here purely to supplement the excellent work you’ve already produced, with the hope that I will be able to put together a more immediate picture of events,’ Johnny said, with all of the false servility he could muster in the circumstances.

  ‘Are you suggesting that my work isn’t up to date or relevant?’ Harding-Brown asked, steadily building himself up into a rage.

  ‘No, not at all. I’ll be happy with background information about the political situation over here, or if you could at least point me in the direction of someone who can provide it.’

  ‘Everything that is salient, to the past, present and future political situation in Bosnia, is in my reports. I won’t have you suggesting otherwise to the people in Vienna, Paris or Timbuktu for that matter!’

  ‘I don’t think you understand the purpose of my assignment. Honest…’ Johnny ran out of words; this man was too practised in the subtle Civil Service arts of obstruction, for Johnny to overcome.

  ‘Honest! - Honest!’ Harding-Brown mimicked in a mock cockney accent, while adopting the relaxed, supercilious expression of Barton-Forbes. It was the same look Johnny had received all his life from his social superiors and now it would seem, also from washed out old hacks. ‘Young man, you’re right, I don’t understand you. I have absolutely no idea what you’re about or why you’ve been sent here, other than that it obviously isn’t something that would occupy a gentleman.’

  Johnny tried to stifle a smile. He’d made a name for himself at school by behaving like a cad on the rugby pitch and introducing dirty play no gentleman would dream of using. He’d proved so effective that he was made one of the school 'bloods'. Despite the rhetoric of playing fair, nothing mattered except having the school colours on a cup. Johnny took his collar off and marched out of the Consulate. It was time for him to take a different tack.

  Chapter 13

  Laszlo Breitner stared blankly at his basement office. It was little more than a storage cupboard, but it had served its purpose. He picked up a copy of his report and made his way through Sarajevo’s City Hall, to the police station on the top floor of the building.

  He was oblivious to his surroundings, as he planned what to say. The meeting he was going to was the culmination of months of work. Breitner knew that it would be an uncomfortable experience, he’d had to beg and plead for it, but he could not allow himself to be distracted by cynicism. If things went well he would be back on the path of the righteous.

  Breitner entered the police station, receiving a terse greeting from the gendarme behind the desk, and knocked on the door of Leo Pfeffer.

  ‘Come in,’ Pfeffer called from behind the door and Breitner entered.

  Leo Pfeffer, an investigating judge of the Sarajevo District Court, languished behind his desk. He was in his late thirties, bloated, pasty and already wore a bored expression.

  Viktor Ivasjuk, Sarajevo’s Chief of Detectives, paced around the room. Neither of them looked pleased to be wasting their time on Breitner.

  Pfeffer picked up the copy of the report that Breitner had sent him when he first asked for the meeting. Breitner would have preferred to see someone more senior but it was said that Pfeffer was a rising star.

  ‘You seem to think that there is some kind of plot going on in Sarajevo - is that correct, Breitner?’ Pfeffer asked, and looked wearily at Viktor.

  Breitner took hold of himself and tried to ignore the hostility that surrounded him. In his time he’d dealt with threats to the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy far beyond the capacity of these men, but then he reminded himself he’d had the support of the cream of the Imperial Army. ‘Yes, that is correct, Herr Pfeffer. I believe there to be a very serious situation developing in Sarajevo.’

  ‘And how is this any different from the other myriad of idiotic rumours that pour into this office every day?’

  ‘We are facing a wave of nationalism that is sweeping through the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. There have been attacks across the Balkans and I believe that there is a very real threat from local nationalists here, the so called “Young Bosnians”,’ Breitner said, prompting Viktor to stop pacing.

  ‘Peasant school children,’ Viktor Ivasjuk snarled. He was a tall, lean man with an aquiline nose and a reputation for intimidation.

  Breitner had faced worse. ‘I believe that these peasant school children are working with Serbian Intelligence.’

  ‘But you have no evidence for that,’ Pfeffer said.

  Breitner opened and closed his fists in frustration. The decaying, medieval institutions of his beloved Monarchy were completely incapable of understanding, let alone combating the new threat emerging in the Balkans.

  The Emperor had decreed that his ministries only concern themselves with their own immediate areas of responsibility. The Joint Ministry of Finance, which Breitner served, only dealt with Bosnia and Her
zegovina. This meant there was no circulation or assessment of intelligence, or any coherent study of the South Slav problem. Consequently, Vienna had little or no idea of the increasing anger amongst the South Slav youth towards its rule.

  Breitner had been trying to correct this disaster, at least in the provinces for which he was responsible, by attempting to build a coordinated approach to intelligence gathering.

  ‘As you can see from the report, I’ve cross-referenced information gathered from intercepted mail, rumour and the propaganda pouring across the border from Serbia,’ Breitner said.

  ‘You’ve come to us with at best speculation derived from nothing more than the adolescent ramblings of Serb delinquents.’ Pfeffer waved Breitner’s report at him.

  ‘And wild threats put about by Serbian Intelligence to have us running around chasing our tails,’ Viktor added.

  Breitner shrugged. He was struggling to weld these different strands of half-truths, boasts and hearsay into a comprehensive profile of the threat presented by the Young Bosnians and to filter out the talkers from the doers who might be in league with Serbian Intelligence.

  He'd been in post for a year and was only just starting to understand the tidal wave of contradictory information and misinformation which Serb Intelligence were adept at producing, and the apocryphal statements which the Young Bosnians used. Each one fancied himself a poet and they wrote cryptic letters to each other, full of metaphor and analogy, to disguise their true meaning.