The Assassins

by Alan Bardos

  A knock at the door saved Breitner from answering Viktor or Pfeffer’s criticisms. A handsome young clerk entered with the careless air of a matinee idol and handed Pfeffer some papers to be signed.

  ‘Ah Pusara, you’re a fair representative of Bosnian youth?’ Pfeffer asked.

  ‘Yes sir, I believe that I am,’ Pusara answered.

  ‘Would you say that there is a wave of nationalism sweeping through the youth of the Monarchy?’ Pfeffer asked.

  ‘I don’t believe that there is any doubt where the loyalties of the young men of the Monarchy stand,’ the youth answered, with an amused smile.

  ‘There you are Breitner,’ Pfeffer said, as if he’d presented the decisive argument in the cross examination of a witness. Breitner knew all about Mihajlo Pusara and didn’t doubt what the answer would be if questioned precisely what his loyalties to the Monarchy were.

  ‘May I go to lunch now?’ Pusara asked with a theatrical bow. His name had come up in one or two of Breitner’s lines of enquiry; he was a member of various nationalist groups and an associate of the man Breitner wished to investigate. An actor by calling, Pusara had opted to stay in his homeland and work as a clerk, rather than follow the path of fame and fortune elsewhere.

  Breitner watched Pfeffer look at the clock and saw that it was twelve thirty. The Judge appeared annoyed, Breitner suspected, because he was missing his own lunch. ‘Yes, of course, my dear fellow. You are a creature of habit aren’t you?’ Pfeffer waited until he had left before adding, ‘Excellent fellow - a good clerk is so hard to come by.’

  Breitner thought it best to keep his observations to himself. As far as he knew, Pusara hadn’t done anything illegal and he didn’t wish to bring down any further derision on his investigation.

  ‘What exactly is it that you want, Mr Breitner?’ Pfeffer asked.

  ‘I’ve identified a member of a Young Bosnia cell. He lives a few streets away from here and is recruiting members to carry out an act of great Serbian patriotism.’

  ‘And you’ve gleaned all this from the scribbling of these semi-literate rejects? It doesn’t seem a very solid premise from which to turn the city upside down,’ Pfeffer said.

  ‘I’d like to have him brought in for questioning, or at the very least a few men to help carry out surveillance of his boarding house,’ Breitner replied, trying to maintain his dignity.

  ‘Have you taken these mad ideas of yours to your own chief? You are part of the political section for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘A very lowly member of the political section,’ Viktor added.

  ‘Yes, with very limited power to take action. My chief has passed my warnings on to Governor Potiorek, who chose to discount them,’ Breitner said, ‘along with those of the Chief of Police and the speaker of the Bosnian Parliament.’

  ‘I see - doesn’t that tell you something, Mr Breitner?’ Pfeffer asked, harshly.

  Breitner finally lost his temper. There was only so much scorn he could take. ‘It tells me that our dear, beloved military Governor is just as dull and mutton-headed as the dull, mutton-headed bureaucrats he serves in Vienna.’

  The two men looked at Breitner, lost for words, although eventually Pfeffer managed to say, ‘I understand that you came to Sarajevo with a jaded past, chased out of the army and with something of a reputation.’

  Breitner inadvertently touched his chest where his service ribbons had been worn, but they were gone. He no longer wore the uniform of the Emperor and a year on still felt its loss deeply and expected to mourn its loss for the rest of his life.

  ‘Breitner, you may not have any regard for the consequences your actions have on your career or the careers of those around you or the Monarchy in general but I do care and I have no intention of letting you drag me down with you. Now leave my office and do not trouble me with this nonsense again,’ Pfeffer said coldly.

  Breitner managed a half bow and hurried back to his basement office - the path of righteousness would have to wait.

  Chapter 14

  Johnny Swift admired Sarajevo from a terrace cafe on the western edge of Bascarsija, the old town, where Sarajevo merged into the new Imperial buildings of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. The city had been built on the banks of the shallow Miljacka River, at the bottom of a thickly wooded valley. Two storey, white-washed houses with red-tiled roofs spread out from the city up the surrounding mountains, making Johnny feel as if he was at the bottom of a giant basin.

  The centuries old conflict between east and west had become fused in the city. Minarets, domes and artisan shops, their wares spilling out onto roughly cobbled streets, stood side by side with ornate neo-renaissance banks, hotels and offices. The call to prayer and the sound of the gentle flow of water fountains mingled with the roar of the trams and the bustle of a modern western city.

  He finished his burek, which seemed to be a kind of pasty and poured himself another thimble of coffee from a long handled copper jug. He dipped a sugar cube into the rich dark sediment; it had taken him a while to work out that this was how to drink it, but it was almost second nature to him now. Johnny was at one with his environment; the contrasting character of the city echoed the conflict that was going on in his mind. He was sorely tempted to stay here and revert back to his true self, letting the perfectly cut tennis lawn which the Diplomatic Service had turned him into, run wild with the persistent weed of his self destructive side, but he knew that would prove Sir George right, and that would never do.

  Johnny remembered what he was about and glanced at the crowded street below. The mix of cultures was most apparent in the dress of the people. It reminded him of an ‘Arabian Nights’ themed party he’d attended in Paris with Libby.

  He watched as a blonde man wearing a fez and baggy oriental clothes walked past a group of mountain people in crimson scarves and pointed shoes, then stopped to say hello to a man in a suit and tie. The variety of dress was endless but what really caught Johnny's eye were the women in brightly coloured veils. They had a serene passion about them as they returned his admiring looks with a seductive sway of the hips.

  It had taken Johnny a few days to acclimatise to the city as he brushed up on the language and planned what to do next, but now, as he sucked coffee from a sugar cube, he felt like the great British explorer Richard Burton, preparing for his journey to Mecca.

  Distant chimes of the Catholic Cathedral sounded, followed by those of the Orthodox Church and a minute later the sound of the Muslim clock tower. It was then that Johnny saw him among the colour of the swirling crowds, out of sync but regular as clockwork - the lone frock-coated figure of Harding-Brown, the quintessential Englishman. A bulwark against everything that was not quite right and foreign, he skirted the edge of the old town trying to keep to the safe western parts of the city, while being drawn to the mysteries of the Orient. Johnny finished his coffee and left.

  He caught up with Harding-Brown as he passed a rather seedy looking basement cafe. Johnny had been watching him since being dismissed from his office and couldn’t help but notice the way he always idled outside the cafe, both fascinated and appalled, desperate to go inside and yet repelled at the same time.

  'Good afternoon,’ Johnny said. Harding-Brown turned around, startled. Johnny held out his hand and Harding-Brown was forced to shake it.

  'Good afternoon,' Harding-Brown replied warily. Johnny had caught him as he'd been looking helplessly at the veiled women going into the cafe. Judging from the way Harding-Brown was staring at the mysterious figures drifting past, he'd never once lifted the veil on his inhibitions.

  'My name's Swift - we spoke briefly in your office,' Johnny said, pretending not to have noticed Harding-Brown's embarrassment.

  'Yes, yes I remember,' Harding-Brown replied, his eyes flitting about, trying to find some means of escape.

  'I was hoping I might be able to talk to you. I still have a few questions that I need to ask,' Johnny said.

  'I think I’ve said all that I have to say to you, Master Swif
t,' Harding-Brown answered, desperate to get rid of Johnny. ‘I don't know how you conduct yourselves in Paris, but here we don't solicit one another in the street like common hawkers.'

  ‘Quite right, maybe we should go somewhere to talk. This cafe has, I believe, a most amenable atmosphere.’ Johnny grinned knowingly.

  Harding-Brown baulked at his barefaced cheek. ‘Certainly not...’

  ‘Perhaps I should go to the British Consulate again,’ Johnny said, raising his voice.

  Harding-Brown glanced around, mortified to hear the place of his employment mentioned in such a scandalous part of town.

  ‘When would be a convenient time for me to see you at the British Consulate?’ Johnny asked, even louder.

  Harding-Brown started to move away but Johnny caught him as he was off balance and hauled him towards the cafe. He hadn’t been the captain of the school rugby club for nothing, he reminded himself.

  ‘Come on, we’ll have a drink and enjoy the show. As you say, the street isn't really the place to talk,’ Johnny said and Harding-Brown stopped struggling; he wasn’t very strong.

  *

  Gavrilo Princip left the police station and headed back to his boarding house through the crowded streets of the merchant district. He hated Sarajevo, he hated the commercialism of the place and the decadence it harboured. Most of all he hated the feeling of being under the control of a foreign power in his own country. The oppressive feel of the invaders screamed out from the very architecture of the city, echoing the corruption they had brought.

  He turned into his street and opened the door of his lodgings - the corruption had even found its way into his boarding house. It was the same boarding house where his revolutionary spirit had first grown, under the mentorship of his friend, Danilo Ilic. The house belonged to Ilic’s mother, who had furnished it in the eclectic mix of east and west that characterised this city, with worn, but brightly coloured rugs contrasting with shiny new dressers and a chest of drawers made in Vienna.

  To his annoyance, Gavrilo found Nedjo taking coffee with Ilic in the kitchen. He was showing Ilic a new sports cap he’d brought. Gavrilo ignored Nedjo and greeted Ilic with, ‘I’ve done it.’

  ‘Good. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you Gavro,’ Ilic answered, with a concerned expression on his pale, raw-boned face.

  Gavrilo shrugged in reply and sat at the table. He’d just undergone the indignity of registering his arrival in the city; with his radical background he didn’t want to give the police any reason to suspect him.

  Ilic silently handed him a small cup of coffee and sat down, nervously brushing a hand over his close cropped blonde hair. Gavrilo saw that he’d quickly realised his mood and although Ilic was taller and older than Gavrilo, he knew better than to antagonise him further by continuing the subject and risking his fury.

  ‘I have already registered,’ Nedjo said. Gavrilo bristled - he had never known Nedjo to exercise Ilic's good sense. ‘My father insisted.’

  Gavrilo continued to ignore Nedjo. As well as his lack of tact, Gavrilo was still angry about his behaviour during the journey from Belgrade and couldn’t bring himself to forgive Nedjo’s recklessness.

  ‘We must start to make plans to act, for when the tyrant comes,’ Nedjo said, unperturbed by Gavrilo’s coldness.

  ‘You will be told if and when you are needed,’ Gavrilo said.

  ‘But it was me who was sent the clipping, when we were in Belgrade,’ Nedjo said in disbelief.

  ‘How am I to trust you, Nedjo, after the way you behaved on the journey from Belgrade?’ Gavrilo said acidly and Nedjo sat back looking stunned and hurt.

  ‘We are still making plans, Nedjo. Nothing has been decided,’ Ilic said conciliatorily.

  ‘We will act, that is for certain,’ Gavrilo said, annoyed at his friend’s indecision.

  ‘Are you sure that now is the right time? There is still much to be done, Gavrilo. I am still trying to recruit people.’

  ‘Now is our time,’ Princip snapped.

  ‘But there is no plan,’ Ilic said.

  ‘We know the tyrant will be staying at the Hotel Bosnia; I’ve started to observe it,’ Nedjo said, twirling his sports cap around his finger.

  ‘You will maintain a low profile, Nedjo. You will not give the game away. The plan will be decided by Ilic and myself in due course when we know what the tyrant’s movements will be when he comes to Sarajevo.’

  ‘Are you sure that now is the right time to carry out individual acts of vengeance against the Habsburgs, Gavrilo? There are many ways we can serve our cause. We may be able to accomplish more if we delay...’

  Gavrilo held up his hand to stop Ilic. ‘Do you forget the harm done to our people by the tyrant, Archduke Franz Ferdinand? Do you lack the resolve to take revenge for what has been done to our people? Or would you rather meet your friends for lunch or talk in kitchens?’ Gavrilo pointed towards the bazaar. ‘Maybe you have been so long living in this place that you have become addled by the cheap trinkets sold in the market and have forgotten the oppression of our people.’

  Ilic became sallow. ‘No Gavrilo, I have not lost my resolve.’

  ‘Good. Nothing will be accomplished by delaying. We must act when the tyrant comes to Sarajevo. Only through our sacrifice will our people ever be freed.’ Gavrilo had come too far to stop now because of some convoluted idea of Ilic’s.

  *

  A dark haired goddess in sequined muslin was performing the most original rendition of the dance of the seven veils Johnny had ever seen. Harding-Brown watched transfixed, as the secrets behind the veil were finally revealed to him. They were obviously more spectacular than anything he could possibly have imagined.

  From a purist's sense it might not have been the most conventional belly dance, but the effect was truly hypnotic. Johnny poured Harding-Brown and himself another glass of wine.

  'So you're familiar with the situation in Sarajevo?' Johnny asked.

  'Yes-yes,' Harding-Brown replied, unhappy with the distraction.

  'Anything you could tell me would be extremely useful.' The two of them had been there half the night and once Harding-Brown had overcome his social embarrassment, he ignored Johnny and focused on the floor show.

  ‘I mean, a man in your position must have a tremendous amount of contacts,’ Johnny said, persevering. He knew that if his report was to have any credibility he would require something official from the Sarajevo authorities. He assumed they'd have files on local agitators and the dangers they posed to international relations, but to get at them, he would need help.

  ‘I don’t want you badgering the authorities about nationalism in Bosnia; this is a sensitive time for them - we’ve just received word that the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne will be visiting the province next month, to attend manoeuvres and I can’t have you creating difficulties. I don't really know you from Adam, do I? You could be any old Johnny off the street,' Harding-Brown said, amused by his word play.

  'Maybe I should leave. It's getting a bit stuffy.' Panic flickered across Harding-Brown's face. They had a special table at the front, because Johnny was a special customer, and Harding-Brown was under no illusions that if Johnny left he'd have to tip someone to keep it. The lady on stage began to shimmy, rotating her breasts in perfect harmony. Harding-Brown spluttered as he tried to think.

  'Nationalism here's a bit of a vexed question. I can't really say I begin to understand it myself.'

  'Could you give me some background information? I mean, do you think it’s likely that the South Slavs would join together to revolt against Austro-Hungarian rule?' Johnny asked hopefully. That could be just the thing that Sir George would want to know. A revolt of that kind would seriously destabilise the region and have implications for the rest of Europe. Harding-Brown ignored Johnny until the performance was over and the dancer had left the stage, then he faced him with a sigh.

  'I suppose the best example of what the situation is like here can be expressed through the synchronisat
ion of the clocks that belong to the different denominations.'

  'Clocks?' Johnny couldn't believe it. Harding-Brown had spent his whole career in one place and the only thing he'd noticed about it was that the clocks didn't keep time.

  'Yes. The clock on the Catholic Cathedral is more than a minute ahead of the Orthodox Church's clock and the Muslims' Sahat Tower clock is even further out of sync. These people won't even agree on the time of day, let alone uniting against the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. A lot of them are very happy under its rule.’

  'I see.' That made sense - Johnny had wondered about the different clocks chiming out of sync.

  'Of course, the Muslim clock is English made, by the same chaps who cast Big Ben, so I'm inclined to err on the side of Islam.' Harding-Brown stopped and looked at his empty glass. Johnny poured him another drink - he was starting to earn it.

  'Look, go and see Leo... Leo Pfeffer. He's a jolly nice chap - you can find him in the City Hall.' Harding-Brown handed Johnny his calling card. 'Say I sent you. He’s an investigating judge of the Sarajevo District Court, so if anyone knows what’s going on, he should.' Harding-Brown spun round as the music began and a different dancer took the stage.

  Chapter 15

  The City Hall had been built by the Austrians in a grand Moorish style, with yellow and orange stone work, battlements and a large galleried entrance. It reminded Johnny of a modern hotel designed to give a taste of the Orient to tourists, but with all the conveniences of the west.

  Leo Pfeffer's office, luckily for Johnny, was directly opposite a medical room, so he was able to beg a handful of aspirin from Pfeffer for his hangover.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Swift, but I think you may have had a wasted trip,' Leo said as he ushered Johnny into his office. ‘We don't have a nationalist problem in Sarajevo.’ He was certainly friendly, even if he didn't really impress Johnny as someone who'd have his finger on the pulse of local affairs.

  ‘There have been reports of growing nationalism in the Balkans,’ Johnny said, trying to be as tactful as he could.