by Alan Bardos
The Archduke hadn't been liked at court and it seemed the court would do no more than the protocol dictated for the Heir Apparent. Many, including the Court Chamberlain, were safe in their positions now that Franz Ferdinand had gone.
The overriding feeling at the Embassy, and Pinkie assumed with the rest of the diplomatic corps standing around him, was one of relief. Europe would be more stable without a wildcard reformer like Franz Ferdinand waiting in the wings to ascend the throne of one of the great powers. The Austro-Hungarian Monarchy was useful only if it kept peace in the Danube Basin and the Balkans.
Pinkie suspected that the Austrians would, ‘go off half-cocked’ over the assassination, making inflated demands for recompense, but he had no doubt that the whole thing would blow over. He was more concerned about the Russians; they had started playing up in Persia again, encroaching on the neutral territory next to Britain's principal oil supply. In the midst of that emergency, Pinkie had been obliged to attend the official memorial service held that afternoon at the Hofburg Chapel, with his chief, Sir Maurice de Bunsen, the British Ambassador. Pinkie had been livid - he was supposed to be preparing for his summer vacation.
The whole thing couldn't have come at a worse time as far as he was concerned; he'd already had to postpone his departure by a week. To add insult to injury, there weren’t any heads of state at the service, so Pinkie didn’t get an opportunity to advance his career. The Austrian Government hadn't been able to guarantee their security after the fiasco in the Balkans and poor old Franz Josef wasn't up to entertaining an international event. Pinkie presumed that there must have been a number of problems with etiquette behind the scenes. It would have been bad taste to have invited the Tsar, considering Russia's connection with Serbia. However, it would have caused great offence not to have asked him, as a head of state of one of the great powers.
Consequently, only diplomats were allowed to represent their respective countries at the service. All in all, Pinkie felt that Prince Montenuovo was surpassing himself in making a shockingly third rate affair of the whole thing.
The Royal couple had been returned to Vienna the previous night with little ceremony. The small cortege made an eerie procession through the capital. Once at the Hofburg Chapel, the Duchess's coffin had been placed eighteen inches lower than the Archduke's, reflecting the Duchess’s inferior lineage to that of her husband. A black fan and white gloves were also placed on the lid of her coffin, the traditional symbols of a lady in waiting and a reminder of Sophie’s past. Pinkie usually approved of such distinctions being made, but in the circumstances, they seemed a bit churlish.
The memorial service itself had been thankfully quick and efficient. The Emperor had looked suitably impassive, reflecting the austere, medieval atmosphere of the chapel. Pinkie had heard a rumour that when Franz Josef was told of the assassination he'd said, “The Almighty cannot be defied with impunity. A divine will has re-established that order of things which I, alas, was not able to preserve.” This was believed by most to be a reference to the Archduke having married beneath himself. To Pinkie's mind, the statement didn't sound like the old man’s style.
Some questioned whether or not the Emperor felt any grief over the death of his nephew. However, Pinkie’s contact at the Hofburg told him that when the Emperor had met Archduke Karl, his great nephew and the new heir, he'd burst into tears, saying, “Nothing at all is to be spared me.” These were the same words he'd used when his wife, Empress Elisabeth, was stabbed to death by a lunatic anarchist.
Very few royal families could have had so much grief to bear, Pinkie reflected. The Emperor and his wife had lost a baby girl, Sophie, to illness. Their son, Crown Prince Rudolf, had killed himself in what was thought to have been a murder suicide pact with his lover. The Emperor's brother Maximilian, the Emperor of Mexico, was executed in the country's revolution. Franz Josef's youngest brother, Karl Ludwig, had died of typhoid after drinking water from the River Jordan and now the Emperor's nephew Franz Ferdinand and his wife had been assassinated, leaving three orphaned children.
The only wreath in the chapel, aside from those sent by the diplomatic corps, was one made up of white roses and was from Sophie, Max and Ernst. The children were not present at the service; they were in a state of total anguish and paid their respects privately.
On the way out of the chapel, de Bunsen had let slip that he wanted to send Pinkie to Persia to deal with the Russian business. Apparently most of the Diplomatic Service were already on holiday and they needed a safe pair of hands. Pinkie had said that he didn't speak Russian and that it might be better to send someone who actually spoke the language. The Chief had replied curtly, 'Yes, that's a pity, but there's no one else.'
The sound of hooves on flagstones announced the funeral cortege as it began the procession to the Westbahnhof; from there the Royal couple would be taken to Pochlarn Station and on to Artstetten Castle, where the Archduke had arranged for them to be buried together in a crypt built under the family church.
Pinkie bowed his head as the first hearse came through the central arch of the outer gateway. The cortege was fairly small considering it carried the heir to the throne and Inspector General of the Army. Pinkie thought again that this was obviously the work of the Court Chamberlain, intent to the last to do no more than protocol demanded. There was no military parade, aside from a small army detachment, and the only uniformed people were court officials and officers from the Archduke's suite. Pinkie was shocked; he felt that there should have been representatives from all branches of the armed forces and every regiment that the Archduke had served in.
The members of the Monarchy's oldest families, standing around Pinkie, saw this short measure and over a hundred of them began to walk behind the procession. They'd served the Habsburgs for centuries and wouldn't stand to see its Heir slighted. A number of army officers also began to follow the cortege and Pinkie couldn't help but be moved and felt compelled to join them. If there was one thing he hated more than nasty little social climbers it was jumped up officials, drunk on their own power.
It was a resentment that was becoming all too evident in Pinkie's relationship with his chief; he couldn't believe that de Bunsen had had the temerity to suggest sending him to Persia during the spa season. Pinkie had arranged to go to Marienbad where he'd take his place with the elite of Europe - it would have been perfect. The sensuous Lady Smyth had breezed back into his life on the ill wind from the east and he felt that she wouldn't be able to resist the draw of Europe's most exclusive spa. Having the beautiful wife of a senior diplomat in tow would ensure he'd be invited to the more choice parties. Pinkie had even managed to secure adjoining rooms in a very discreet hotel.
He couldn't believe that the Russians were threatening to spoil everything, but he had no idea how to get out of the secondment to Persia and he continued to ponder the problem as the cortege arrived at the station. He followed the procession onto the platform to find the usual Viennese muddle. He watched as Prince Montenuovo handed the caskets over to Janaczek, Franz Ferdinand’s estate manager, and then how with little grace, he withdrew any further official help for the transportation of the Royal couple, stating that the rest of the journey was a matter for the “private” arrangements the Archduke had made for his burial.
After that, Pinkie was warmed to see an impromptu line of the Monarchy's archdukes, headed by the new Heir Apparent, form along the platform to send Franz Ferdinand off on his last journey and no doubt demonstrate their outrage at the Court Chamberlain's behaviour. Then, through the smoke of the departing train, Pinkie saw the answer to all of his problems - Johnny Swift, strolling through the assembled dignitaries as if he owned the place.
Chapter 40
Breitner gazed around at the plush interior of the Hotel Klomser's restaurant with a melancholy he seldom expressed or felt. Someone certainly had a sense of humour, he decided.
'What’s up? You've hardly touched your pud,' Johnny said, stuffing his face with strudel. Despite
Johnny's reluctance to come to Vienna, he'd been quick to enjoy the delicacies the city had to offer. He'd made his way through a schnitzel, baked chicken and the Emperor's favourite, asparagus and boiled beef. He was now trying every type of cake, tart and pastry he could fit into his mouth.
'This isn't feeding time at the zoo,' Breitner answered.
'I've just spent a week in one of your filthy cells,' Johnny said. He finished his strudel and moved onto a slice of rich chocolate cake, then looked Breitner up and down. 'If I cared, I'd say you were a bit windy ol’ man.'
The phrase didn't translate well in the clear, precise German which Johnny had started speaking since their arrival in Vienna, but Breitner understood the subtext.
'It's being back here - where it all began,' Breitner said.
'In Vienna?'
'The Hotel Klomser.'
'How so?' Johnny asked.
Breitner had never spoken of it before, but as crass as he found Johnny, he’d become the closest thing to a friend he'd had for a year. So Breitner told him how he'd come to this hotel with four other officers to tell his comrade and mentor, Colonel Redl, that he'd been exposed as a spy and to ensure that he did the honourable thing. Redl had been sitting at his desk putting his affairs in order when they’d arrived. He'd gazed up at Breitner, saying that he knew why they were there and then he’d asked to end his life.
Breitner had given Redl a Browning pistol and then left with the other officers. When they’d returned at 5.00am, they’d found that Redl had shot himself. He'd left a note to the effect that frivolity and his passions had been his downfall and he was taking his life to atone for his sins.
The full extent of his sins would probably never be known, Breitner explained to Johnny, but it was rumoured that he gave the Russians ‘Plan Three’, Austro-Hungary's strategy for invading Serbia. 'When Franz Ferdinand found out that we'd allowed Redl to take his own life, it ended my career,' he recalled. Despite the betrayal and the ensuing catastrophe, Breitner still couldn't shake the remorse he felt about his part in Redl's death.
'Excuse me, gentlemen.' Breitner looked up to see that an aide was standing at their table. 'The Count will see you now.'
The aide showed Breitner and Johnny into a stylish suite, where they were greeted by the tall, dignified figure of Count Istvan Tisza, Hungary's Prime Minster. Breitner immediately stood to attention; he hadn't been expecting to report directly to such an esteemed person. As a true conservative, Breitner greatly admired the Count.
‘Thank you for coming so promptly, gentlemen. Please take a seat. My aide tells me that you found the restaurant to your liking,’ Tisza said, bemused.
Breitner glared at Johnny - they’d evidently taken advantage of the Count’s hospitality. ‘Yes, thank you, Your Excellency,’ Breitner stammered, embarrassed.
He considered Tisza the only Hungarian statesman to have the gravitas and strength to walk the difficult tightrope between keeping Hungary’s Austrian partners in the Dual Monarchy content whilst simultaneously dealing with the uncompromising nationalists at home. He was reviled by both sides and particularly by Franz Ferdinand, who’d been convinced that the Hungarian Prime Minister was plotting against him and the Monarchy as a whole. Breitner remembered Franz Ferdinand's rant at the Hotel Bosnia, the night before he was murdered, with distaste.
'Please, sit down. I apologise for the subterfuge,' Tisza said in German, for Johnny's benefit. 'It’s imperative that we keep this meeting strictly between ourselves and I’m told that this is the last place that anyone suspicious of your reasons for coming to Vienna would look for you.'
Breitner couldn’t detect any irony in Tisza’s statement; he wasn’t sure if the Count was referring to the exclusivity of the hotel or the unhappy memories it held. He supposed there were people in Vienna who might want to know why he’d returned.
Breitner managed to keep stony-faced and Tisza appeared satisfied with his reaction and so he continued. ‘I am in urgent need of accurate information. The reports that we've received from Sarajevo are confusing and contradictory.'
'Hopefully, we can clarify matters, Your Excellency,' Johnny said, in surprisingly good Hungarian. Tisza shot him a withering look, making it clear that he should only speak when spoken to, but the Count continued in Hungarian.
'However questionable these reports may be they are fuelling demands for war from many of the most powerful people in the Monarchy. I believe that in our current condition such a war would be disastrous for the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. The army hasn’t seen action since we took charge of Bosnia and Herzegovina in 1878, and it struggled to overcome the opposition it encountered even then. It is unlikely to fare any better now as it is woefully ill-equipped and undertrained. The nationalist situation within the Monarchy is also very delicate: any further drop in its prestige could tip the balance and renew calls for greater freedoms for minorities or worse.' Tisza paused for a moment to ensure that they understood what he was saying, which Breitner assumed was that if Austro-Hungary lost a war with Serbia, it would fall apart.
'Diplomatically, the Monarchy is also in a weak position. Romania, Bulgaria and Russia will be aligned against us should we attack Serbia. What I need, gentlemen, is solid information, something that can delay the pro-war party, so that I can find a diplomatic solution or create a situation that will give us a more favourable position, should we go to war.'
The great man finished and gestured that they could now speak. Breitner ran through what he knew for sure - that the Young Bosnians had planned the outrage in Belgrade and were trained and supplied by members of the 'Black Hand', a Serbian nationalist organisation, connected to Serbian Intelligence.
Tisza nodded. 'Are you able to elaborate further?'
'Johnny should be able to - he infiltrated the terrorists’ cell, Your Excellency,' Breitner answered.
Tisza turned and looked at Johnny. 'Yes, the spy. Come, speak - that is why you are here, after all.'
Johnny shifted uncomfortably; he didn't like Tisza's tone. 'I have been promised a certain recompense for the services I've performed for the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.'
'Payment! You want payment to help prevent a war?'
Breitner thought it opportune to intercede. 'If I may explain, Your Excellency. Johnny doesn't require money, merely a letter of commendation to show his superiors to demonstrate that he has been of service.'
Tisza nodded curtly, 'Let us hear what you have to say, then we shall discuss your "recompense".'
Johnny told Count Tisza that from what he'd observed of Princip and the rest of the cell in the weeks preceding the outrage, the influence anyone in Belgrade had over them was minimal. The Black Hand had even tried to cancel the plot at one point, provoking a full scale confrontation between the ringleaders. Johnny described how Princip had completely ignored the cancellation order. He had even got the impression that there was a great deal of antagonism between Princip and Belgrade, or one of the members of the Black Hand, to be precise.
'Interesting - certainly grounds for further investigation to verify what you have alleged,' Tisza said, deep in thought. 'There is a meeting of the Council of Joint Ministers of the Monarchy tomorrow, to discuss the matter. Breitner, I'm sure you will join me, and this gentleman should be on hand in case there is need for further clarification.'
'I would be honoured,' Breitner replied. ‘But I thought you wanted to keep our meeting a secret.’
Tisza smiled apologetically. ‘My dear chap, no one there will have the faintest idea who you are. This was the hotel where Redl shot himself, was it not?' Tisza asked shrewdly.
Breitner tensed. 'It was.'
'And in the ensuing scandal, you were exiled to Bosnia?’
'That is correct, Excellency.' Breitner suspected that the real reason for their meeting in the Hotel Klomser was so that Count Tisza could see how well he dealt with difficult situations.
'It is almost as if you've come full circle. I will have need of you as long as the present crisi
s lasts, and if we prevent a war I will need someone with your expertise to advise on the South Slav nationalist movements and to monitor their activities with a view to preventing this situation from arising again. I may even have you reinstated in the Intelligence Bureau.'
Breitner couldn't believe it. 'Is that possible, Your Excellency?'
'I don't see why not. Franz Ferdinand's gone so there is nothing stopping it.'
Breitner bowed stoically. It was more than he could have possibly hoped for. Johnny coughed, attracting the Prime Minister's attention. 'Although I have serious reservations about your reliability, young man, what you have told me could be of some small service. If it proves as such you shall have your letter.'
‘The Austro-Hungarian Monarchy could also reward me for my services, financially, if that is more convenient,’ Johnny smiled.
Tisza glared at the impertinent youth and then left. He obviously found the whole transaction with Johnny repugnant, but Breitner assumed that he'd needed to gather every piece of information he could before confronting the Council of Joint Ministers, and if he could hear it directly from its source then so much the better.
Chapter 41
Breitner struggled to concentrate as the Council of Joint Ministers discussed the Balkan crisis. Officially, he was there to take Hungarian minutes for Count Tisza, so following convention, he had begun by recording the principal participants at the meeting, starting with Tisza himself, then Count von Berchtold, the Imperial Foreign Minister, Count Sturgkh the Austrian Prime Minister, General von Krobatin, the Minister of War and lastly the Minister in charge of Breitner's department, Count Leon von Bilinski, the Joint Finance Minister. Breitner had met generals and the heir to the throne, but these men were the real power in the Monarchy he loved so dearly.
After spending a year in the furthest corner of the Empire, his current situation was a bewildering turn of events for a rational and methodical man like Breitner. When he had started to investigate the Young Bosnians he hadn’t dreamt it would lead to him sitting in a state room at the Ballhausplatz, the administrative centre of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy, with the men who would ultimately inform the Emperor's decision on whether or not to take his country to war.
