The Assassins

by Alan Bardos

  The Judge was about to offer Johnny a seat, then thought better of it, waving his hand to dismiss the absurdity of what Johnny had said. 'There is always unrest of one sort or another, whipped up by propaganda, sent across the border by the Serbian Government.’

  'There is unrest - I mean, tensions between the authorities and the local population,' Johnny said.

  ‘Mr Swift, there is no significant political activity in Sarajevo. We have only had the usual criminal acts; perhaps if you're interested in that sort of thing you should talk to a detective.'

  Pfeffer smiled and took Johnny to see Viktor Ivasjuk, who reminded Johnny of Simpson, his old Head of House, and who was just as intimidating.

  'It's very good of you to see me, Mr Ivasjuk,' Johnny said after Pfeffer had made the introductions and left. Viktor's close-set eyes looked straight through Johnny, directly into his corrupted and tainted heart. Johnny would have confessed anything to the man, at that moment.

  'I'm not entirely sure how I can help you,' he said.

  'No one is.'

  'So you thought you'd try Sarajevo's very busy Chief of Detectives,' Viktor said.

  Johnny thought it better to dispense with the social niceties and cut straight to the crux of his problem. 'My instructions are to gather information about the pan-Slavic nationalist movements in the region.'

  'I see.' Viktor immediately lost interest and started to read through the papers on his desk. He dipped a pen in an inkpot and started writing. Johnny almost gagged as he realised that the inkpot was a human skull. He assumed that it must be a stage prop and that the chap was into amateur dramatics. He thought it extremely unlikely, but it could be a way in.

  'Alas, poor Yorick!' Johnny said with a smile. Viktor looked up at him, his eyes summoning all the elemental forces of darkness against Johnny.

  'This isn't frippery, Mr Swift. It's the skull of Bogdan Zerajic.'

  'You mean - it's actually real?'

  Viktor turned the skull slightly to show Johnny a bullet hole.

  'Yes, it is quite real. It belonged to a lunatic who tried to murder General Varesanin, our previous Governor, in 1910.'

  'I see.'

  'Zerajic shot at the Governor five times as he made his way home after opening our parliament, then saved the last bullet for himself.'

  'And you didn't think to bury him?' Johnny asked. He couldn’t understand why this man kept a real skull on his desk and why he used it as an inkpot. Viktor was in a whole different league to the usual despots Johnny had dealt with in the British Civil Service. Viktor looked pleased by Johnny's reaction.

  Johnny took a deep breath and steadied himself; he'd read about similar assassination attempts in the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.

  'You, don't think that this could have been some kind of protest by Bosnian nationalists? It was in 1910, did you say? Maybe it was connected to the annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina.' That had only happened a year or so previously; Johnny felt pleased he was connecting the dots and made a note of his theory.

  'We carried out a full investigation and found no evidence linking Zerajic to any nationalist group or ideology. His assassination attempt, if that was in fact what it was, seems almost accidental - he just blundered into the Governor. Zerajic had previously spent time stalking the Emperor when he visited Bosnia, but didn't act on his lunatic instinct. General Varesanin was not so fortunate. The investigation concluded that it was the action of a man, who broken by poverty and living a fantasy life, was seized by a fit of paranoia against the Governor.'

  'So it was the act of a lone gunman? A madman.' Johnny crossed out his notes.

  Viktor held the skull up to the light and spoke in much the same way that Johnny’s Head of House might have. 'Look at the contours of the skull - what do they tell you?'

  'That he was a bad shot?' Johnny said dryly, trying to hide his unease. He had no idea what Viktor was talking about; all of this was totally beyond his area of expertise and experience. It looked like a perfectly normal skull to him, not unlike the one that had hung in the science lab at school.

  'Zerajic was clearly a lunatic.' Viktor ran his hand along the top of the skull.

  'You can tell that just from the shape of the skull?' Johnny asked and Viktor closed his eyes in annoyance. That wasn't the response he wanted.

  'Are you familiar with Lombroso's theory of criminology?'

  'No, I’m not.'

  'Lombroso states that people are 'born criminal', which can be identified by an asymmetry of the face and cranium.' Viktor broke off as something occurred to him. 'Perhaps there is someone who could help you. Come back tomorrow.'

  Johnny left City Hall and wandered through the jostling streets of the old town. He had no idea where he was or how to get home. He expected that the next bureaucrat the Chief of Detectives was sending him to, would give him the same old flannel and pass him onto someone else. He was going round in circles - he didn’t know how he could write a report about the nationalist situation if one didn’t exist, but knew he couldn’t go back to Paris empty handed. Johnny assumed that Sir George had known that all along and now he was trapped here, unable to go forward or back.

  The friendly aroma of hookah pipes drew Johnny into a cafe that looked as if it had been converted out of the owner’s front room. He ordered a pipe and a bottle of wine. The sweet watermelon flavoured tobacco gave him a head rush and blew his frustration away. He wasn’t sure how much longer his money would last, but he was determined to make the most of it while he could.

  Johnny was halfway through his second bottle and a helping of apple flavoured tobacco when a conversation behind him drew his attention. Johnny tried to ignore it and concentrate on his binge, however something in what was said drew him out of his stupor.

  'The South Slavs must unite and fight the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy with force.'

  ‘We should do it soon, while we still can. The Austro-Hungarian Heir is coming to our home for manoeuvres that are surely a dress rehearsal for an invasion of Serbia.’

  Johnny turned around and found himself face to face with a group of belligerent looking men, not much older than he was. They immediately stopped talking and stared at Johnny, with hard, unflinching eyes. He glanced around the cafe and noticed for the first time, murals depicting bloody medieval battles.

  The people in the cafe didn’t say anything to him, they just stared, which was unnerving, but Johnny had enough presence of mind to finish his wine before leaving. He wasn’t beaten yet. Just because the authorities didn’t know that there were nationalist feelings afoot in their city, didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  The next day he returned to the City Hall, as he’d been instructed by the Chief of Detectives. A short dapper man in his twenties greeted Johnny with a wry, unsymmetrical smile and signalled for him to sit down.

  'Laszlo Breitner?' Johnny asked.

  'You must be the intrepid Englishman, sent to tame the savage hordes of the East,' the man replied, in clear, if accented English.

  Johnny smiled and sat down in front of Breitner. He glanced around the office, which looked like a converted storeroom. He'd had a terrible time trying to find it, until someone directed him down to the basement.

  'Do you think you could help?' Johnny asked.

  Breitner thought for a moment before answering; he seemed to be taking Johnny's measure. Johnny sat up, adopting a no-nonsense, straight talking persona, which seemed to amuse Breitner and make up his mind to help him.

  'Tell me, Mr Swift, what do you know about the current situation in Bosnia and Herzegovina?' Johnny couldn't place his accent, it wasn't German or Bosnian.

  'I don't know much about what's going on in Bosnia apart from that a lunatic tried to assassinate the Governor.'

  'A lunatic? What nonsense!' Breitner raised an eyebrow and Johnny realised that he was Hungarian. He thought about replying in Hungarian but Breitner was starting to make him feel silly. He didn't want to risk aggravating the situation. He decided to stick to w
hat he was sure of. 'Yes, you can tell he was a lunatic by the shape of his skull.'

  'You didn't let our good Chief of Detectives intimidate you with that skull?'

  'But the chap, Zerajic, must have been deranged. He shot himself,' Johnny said, trying to regain some of his dignity. The Chief of Detectives had made it sound so obvious.

  'This lunatic, as you call him, was Bogdan Zerajic - an icon for the Young Bosnia Nationalist Movement.'

  Johnny's ears pricked up. 'Sorry - what movement?' He hadn’t heard that name before and took out his notebook, wondering if this funny little chap might actually know something.

  Breitner put on a pair of pince-nez, as he got down to business. 'I understand you're interested in the nationalist movements within Bosnia and Herzegovina, and obviously the difficulties they present to stability and good order in the Balkans, particularly in any effects their activities may have on the rather strained diplomatic situation between Serbia and the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy?'

  'Yes, I suppose so.' Johnny hadn't heard it put quite so succinctly before and quickly wrote it down, which entertained Breitner.

  'The main nationalist threat to the Austro-Hungarian administration in this province comes from the younger generation, from people of student age, some a bit younger, some a bit older - most are 19. Your age, I'd imagine?'

  'Yes, that's right sir,' Johnny answered. 'Is that important?'

  'The older generation has pretty much accepted our rule, so they are less eager to adopt violence as a political weapon to force rapid change.' There was a look in Breitner's eyes, as if he was still trying to decide something. It made Johnny uncomfortable.

  'The Mlada Bosna' or 'Young Bosnia' is the term increasingly applied to these peasant students who like to form secret societies and plot a revolution that will unite the South Slav people and destroy the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.'

  Johnny wrote down the information; it had sparked something in his memory - the people he’d overheard the previous night had said something like that. ‘I’ve heard similar talk in cafes here.’

  Breitner raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Have you now? That’s surprising - maybe you’re not as artless as you pretend to be.’

  'The thing I don't understand is that the other local officials I've spoken to told me that there isn't a nationalist problem in Bosnia,' Johnny said, too overcome with excitement to worry about Breitner’s backhanded compliment. At last he felt as if he was getting somewhere.

  'As I say, they're young and haven't committed any major outrage in Bosnia so largely go unnoticed and ignored by the authorities. Zerajic should have been their wake up call.'

  Johnny stopped taking notes - he was still going round in circles. 'The police carried out a full investigation of Zerajic and found nothing to connect him with a conspiracy or a movement.'

  'Did the police speak to everyone who knew him? Did they tell them the truth?' Breitner asked.

  Johnny shrugged. From his limited experience, he assumed that it wouldn’t occur to anyone in Britain to lie to the police, but he realised that this was the continent. 'So why has he become an icon to the nationalists? He botched the assassination and shot himself - doesn't that suggest he wasn't in his right mind?'

  'Zerajic showed the Young Bosnians that they can take action, like the anarchists in Russia and the nationalists in Serbia and Croatia. The fact that Zerajic failed and killed himself for the cause makes his actions that much more heroic. They believe that only people of noble character are capable of attempting political assassinations. Martyrdom, tragedy and assassination make up the psyche of the Young Bosnia Nationalists.'

  Johnny was getting irritated by the chap's insistent use of jargon. 'Their psyche?'

  'Are you familiar with the practice of psychoanalysis? Understanding human behaviour by analysing our rational and irrational drives?'

  'You think that's a more valid way of identifying these type of people than studying their skulls?' Johnny asked, getting annoyed - this was becoming too much.

  Breitner smiled, 'It's not a question of identifying, but understanding them. Zerajic has become a hero for the Young Bosnians. They want to emulate him and Milos Obilic.'

  'Sorry, who?'

  'Milos Obilic is a hero of Serbian folklore. He was accused of treachery the night before the Serbs were due to fight an invading Turkish army at Kosovo, in 1389. It was also the eve of Vidovdan or St. Vitus Day, a very sacred Orthodox Christian feast day. Obilic refuted the charge against him and said that on Vidovdan, we would see who was and who was not a traitor.'

  Johnny grew impatient as Breitner continued his litany; he’d actually thought he'd been getting somewhere.

  'The following battle was a catastrophe for the Serbs and resulted in them being subjected to four hundred years of Ottoman rule. After the battle, to prove himself true and avenge the Serbs, Milos Obilic pretended to defect to the Turks. When he was presented to the Turkish Sultan, Obilic stabbed him in the stomach and was immediately cut down by the Sultan's bodyguards. The whole thing is commemorated every 28th June, on Vidovdan.'

  Irritated, Johnny put down his pen. 'That's all very interesting Mr Breitner, but what's actually happening now?'

  Breitner gave Johnny an insolent look. 'You're clearly a fool.'

  'I beg your pardon?' Johnny said, jumping up. 'I'm not going to take that from some glorified lackey, locked away in a store cupboard.'

  'You haven't understood anything I've tried to explain. The personality of the Young Bosnians is largely defined by the outrage they feel over the Battle of Kosovo and the honour they have from Obilic's actions. That is what drives and inspires them, and that is why they present a danger to the stability of the Balkans and Europe.' There was a hardness under Breitner's calm reserve which made Johnny take a step back and regroup.

  'Look here, I asked you a perfectly civil question.'

  'What a pity there is no one left for you to ask your questions to, after this glorified lackey in the store cupboard.'

  Chapter 16

  Johnny made his way through the enchanted forest around Ilidza, an ancient spa on the outskirts of Sarajevo. It was a beautiful summer evening and the forest was in full bloom. He wondered if everything seemed so bright and vibrant because his back was well and truly against the wall. His plan may not have come off, but he still had one more ace to play - if he could find her.

  Libby had been extremely vague about when she would arrive at the spa and Johnny's only hope now was that a week or so would be ample time for her to bore of Vienna's coffee house fops. He needed her; a woman in her position could exert influence on the local consulate to get something for him to pad out his report.

  The distant howl of wolves brought him back to the here and now. Johnny quickened his pace. He felt that he was in a really strange place, something akin to being trapped in a Grimm's fairy tale where he was desperately trying to find his wood nymph hiding in one of the Hansel and Gretel hotels which the Austrians had built.

  Johnny had done a full circle of the spa without so much as a trace of Libby's vibrant, sequined presence. His mood started to brighten as he came to the Hotel Bosnia, the last in the circuit. It was a grand building, with potted palm trees and balconies elaborately decorated with ornate carved woodwork - just the sort of place to amuse Libby.

  He entered the foyer, passing a tall, swarthy youth in a sports cap who was lurking at the door. He strolled nonchalantly towards the reception desk where he was greeted by a concierge flexing an elegantly waxed moustache. The concierge recognised Johnny as someone of a comparable class, who had no business on the other side of the desk.

  'Yes, how may I be of assistance?' he asked abruptly.

  'Good evening,' Johnny replied politely in reproof. The concierge was immediately put on the back foot. False servility was Johnny's stock in trade in the Diplomatic Service and it immediately showed up the concierge as having no manners, which he acknowledged by repeating the greeting more respectfully.

/>   'Good evening, sir.'

  'Yes, could you tell me if Lady Elizabeth Smyth is staying at this hotel?' Johnny asked, keeping his tone brisk and business like.

  'Lady Elizabeth Smyth?' the concierge repeated, suspiciously. Johnny obviously wouldn't be on friendly terms with a lady, not in society, anyway.

  'My name's Harding-Brown. I work at the British Consulate in Sarajevo,' Johnny said, showing the concierge Oliver Harding-Brown's calling card. 'I've been instructed to welcome her Ladyship and invite her to a Consulate function.'

  The concierge sneered as he realised that Johnny was no more than a glorified messenger boy, certainly lower down the pecking order than himself. Satisfied that he’d regained his superiority, he began to look through the register.

  'No, no one of that name is listed at this establishment.'

  'Would there be a lady under the name of Swift?' With her coquettish sense of humour, Johnny thought it might be possible that she’d used his name. 'She sometimes likes to travel incognito.'

  The concierge flicked through the register once again and shook his head. 'There most certainly is no one of that name staying here.'

  'Is there anyone under the name of Barton-Forbes?' Johnny knew she was capable of anything.

  The concierge didn't have to check the register for that name. 'No. Tell me, is it usual for the British aristocracy to travel under such fanciful pseudonyms?' he asked, his moustache twitching with suspicion.

  'Don't be impertinent,' Johnny replied, as he flicked a coin onto the desk, significantly under tipping the concierge and then strolling away.

  There was nowhere else to look for Libby so Johnny repaired to the bar, consoling himself with the thought that at least she hadn't brought Pinkie to Sarajevo - that really would have been the limit. Johnny ordered a glass of rakija, the clear plum brandy that was a speciality of the area. It made him want to retch and swallow at the same time, the perfect drink to match how he was feeling. He quickly ordered four more and was contemplating a fifth when the familiar clatter of a rolling ball caught his attention.