The Assassins

by Alan Bardos

  Sir George let his voice trail off and Johnny knew that he’d make it his personal business to use the letter of commendation from Count Tisza to destroy him. As much as Johnny disliked Sir George, there was clearly a lot he could learn from him - maybe not as much as he'd learnt from his wife, but even so, he was the person to latch on to and ride his coat-tails to success. Johnny saw no other option than to tell Sir George everything he knew and hope it would work to his advantage. He did his best to describe what he felt should be done to prevent a war, based on what he'd seen and heard in Bosnia and Vienna, meeting everyone from Breitner and Princip to Count Tisza and the Russian Imperial Ambassador to Vienna. When he finished, to his amazement, Sir George was dazzled.

  'Come on, we're clearing out of here.' Sir George started shuffling papers into his briefcase.

  'Where to?'

  'London, of course - can't keep something like that to ourselves.'

  'Shouldn't we see the Ambassador?'

  'The French are expected to begin mobilisation at any moment. Now is not a good time to be in Paris - we're right in the firing line here. In 1870 the Hun was knocking at the door in no time.' Sir George rang for his assistant and turned back to Johnny.

  'I'll send a telegram to Sir Edward requesting a meeting. In the meantime, you can spend the August Bank Holiday weekend in London with your family.'

  Johnny was astonished - Sir George was actually going to take him along. People of Johnny’s grade weren’t received by Sir Edward Grey, the Foreign Secretary. Nevertheless, the idea of spending a bank holiday weekend with his parents didn't thrill him.

  'Will Lady Smyth be joining us?' Johnny asked.

  'No, she'll be staying here.' Sir George was too busy packing to notice Johnny’s disappointment.

  London was filled with bank holiday sightseers drawn to the metropolis by the sunny weather and the pending conflict. Johnny was back among the privet hedges of his parents’ South Ealing home, enjoying a cauliflower cheese supper.

  W. G. Swift, Johnny’s stepfather, a bull necked ex-hooker famous throughout Wales for his brutality on and off the rugby pitch, was sitting at the family dinner table in a stiff winged collar. “Swift, The Language” looked more like a Prussian diplomat than the learned schoolmaster, who'd taught Johnny everything he knew.

  Johnny’s mother, Grace, smiled at him affectionately, pleased to have her boy back. Grace had been a wayward young governess, forever destined to pay for her mistake in having Johnny out of wedlock. Yet the light hadn't faded from her eye and her charisma had been sufficient to catch a man willing to take on as precocious and troublesome a brat as her son.

  'I hope you've kept up your studies while you've been away,' W.G. Swift said.

  'Yes, I have,' Johnny replied in Serbo-Croat.

  'That's something, I suppose,' his stepfather said begrudgingly.

  'As a matter of fact, my language skills are in great demand. I was even called upon to translate for the Imperial Russian Ambassador in Vienna,' Johnny said, pleased with himself.

  '”Called upon” was it? Like some fetch and carry servant.' The words stung, but Johnny knew that he meant well. His stepfather was a strict adherent to the values of Prince Albert, believing that a person's character could be moulded through discipline, hard work, and moral and intellectual guidance - certainly not by showing off at the dinner table.

  'Do you suppose you might be "called upon" to sit out the war, with your language skills?' his stepfather asked derisively.

  'Well, yes, as a matter of fact, one has made oneself indispensable. That is to say, if there is war, which one rather suspects there won't be.' Johnny winked at his mother who turned away to hide her smile.

  'Oh, you think that's funny do you? You'll be laughing on the other side of your face soon enough, boy. The Russians have begun full mobilisation, Germany has answered by declaring war on them and now France has begun to mobilize. What do you think about that?'

  'Yes, that does sound bad, but I'm sure it can all be stopped. If there is a war, Great Britain may not necessarily be involved and if we are it's highly unlikely that we'll send an expeditionary force.'

  'I see - heard that from one of your colleagues in the Diplomatic Service?'

  'It was a former member of the Committee for Imperial Defence, actually.'

  'You mark my words, you'll be getting your call up papers soon enough. You're in the reserves aren't you?'

  There it was, the real reason for this tirade, Johnny realised. His stepfather still hadn't forgiven him for getting expelled from school and joining the army to keep his “uncle” happy.

  'I am a Special Reserve Officer, but I'm sure I can get some kind of deferment, as I'm involved in quite high level work,' Johnny said, hoping that would show he hadn't wasted the time W.G. Swift had invested in him. He wanted him to know that he was making good on the opportunities given to him - opportunities his stepfather had never had.

  'My God! Where are your guts? If your country needs you to fight, boy - you fight. I didn't bring you up to be a shirker!'

  Johnny recoiled. He’d completely misjudged his stepfather’s mood. 'I'll do my bit for King and Country in the Diplomatic Service, where my skills will be of most value,' Johnny said firmly, sticking to his guns. If Nedjo Cabrinovic could face the fury and disappointment of his father, so could he.

  'Thank you for the postcard you sent by the way, Johnny,' his mother said, cutting the tension. She got up and took the postcard down from the mantelpiece and passed it to her husband, who avidly studied the gothic spires of Vienna's City Hall.

  'Wonderful draftsmanship,' his stepfather said and then gave Johnny an approving look for the first time since his return from the continent.

  'Did you buy it from the painter, in person?' his mother asked.

  'No'. Johnny couldn't tell them he'd brought the postcard from a down and out, desperate for a drink. 'No, from a friend of his; they lived in the same pension, I believe. They have since fallen out, but he believed the painter moved to Munich.' The front doorbell sounded before his parents could ask any more questions. The outline of a telegraph boy could be seen through the frosted window of the front door.

  'It's just a shame you can’t see the faces of the people,' his mother said, before going to answer the front door.

  ‘That will be your call up,’ his stepfather said with glee as his mother came back with a worried expression and a telegram.

  Johnny opened it and smiled smugly. ‘I’ve been summoned, by the Foreign Secretary.’

  The light was starting to fade over the crowded streets of Whitehall. Johnny could hear the mumble from the waves of people as he sat inside Sir Edward Grey’s office.

  Johnny revelled in his new found glory; he’d left his stepfather speechless for the first time in his life and was now sitting in one of the key centres of power in the world, watching Sir George present his big idea to the austere Foreign Secretary and Sir Arthur Nicolson, the senior Foreign Office mandarin.

  'I anticipated a Balkan crisis at the end of May when I learned of the Archduke’s visit to Sarajevo and so I dispatched young Swift here, to see what could be done. I’m sensible of the fact that you place some importance on the region for the security of the Entente, Foreign Secretary,’ Sir George said.

  Grey gave Johnny a weary glance. 'Very commendable. A first-hand account of events would have been most interesting I'm sure, were we not in the presence of a European conflagration,' the Foreign Secretary said dryly. He was famously mistrustful of foreign travel, feeling anything worth knowing could be gleaned from his official papers.

  Johnny knew that Sir George had pulled every string he could to get this interview and he wasn't going to be made to look an ass. 'The situation over there is very clear, Foreign Secretary. Austro-Hungary intends to punish Serbia for the assassination - nothing will pacify them,' Sir George insisted.

  Grey was doing his best to appear interested, but Johnny thought he looked wrung out; by all accounts h
e'd had a very trying day. Sir George persevered, desperate to keep his audience.

  'What I suggest, drawing from my sources in Vienna, the Balkans and the Russian Diplomatic Corps, is that Great Britain and the rest of Europe be persuaded to stay out of any conflict and let Serbia and Austro-Hungary fight it out. I’m told that Count Tisza, the Hungarian Prime Minster, doesn't think the Austro-Hungarian Army will stand a chance. Serbia will beat them off. The Austrians are unprepared, ill equipped and badly led.'

  Grey and Nicolson looked astonished. 'That is simply incredible,' Grey said. 'How can such a small country possibly beat one of the world's great powers?'

  'Serbia has been hardened by two recent bitter wars, both of which it won. It's a new, resurgent country, deeply patriotic, even more so now they've recaptured Kosovo, their spiritual home. The Serbs are willing to go to extraordinary lengths to unite the South Slav people, as I believe, Gavrilo Princip, the assassin, has demonstrated. The Austrians on the other hand, haven't been in a major conflict since they pacified Bosnia and Herzegovina over thirty years ago and they made very hard work of that against irregular troops, armed largely with obsolete weapons.' Sir George smiled. 'Imagine how they would stand up against a veteran army, with modern arms.’

  Nicolson and Grey didn't respond to Sir George's attempt at levity, but they weren't looking at him as if he was insane anymore. Johnny wondered if they were remembering the trouble Great Britain had had beating the Boers in South Africa.

  'However, the key piece of information I received from a former Austrian Intelligence officer is that the Serbs are familiar with the Austrian plan of attack, which the Russians obtained from a mole in Austrian Intelligence. Although the Austrian general staff may have now amended the plan, the Serbians will have a good crib to guess where the Austrians are likely to attack. We can be sure the Serbs will be ready and waiting for them.'

  Nicolson spoke for the first time. 'Surely, the Austrians will beat Serbia through overwhelming firepower and sheer weight of numbers.'

  'Eventually, yes, but Serbia will win the opening bouts, by which time we can intercede to set up a peace conference, as we are trying to do now. The Austrians are convinced that they'll have an easy victory; when they see that is unlikely the hawks in the Austro-Hungarian Council of Joint Ministers will be more receptive to negotiation. If Russia doesn't get involved, neither will Germany, and then France won't have any reason for declaring war. The whole thing can be resolved as a local squabble,' Sir George replied.

  'And how can we prevail upon Russia and Germany to mind their own business?' Grey asked.

  'We assure the Russians that we won't allow Serbia to be overrun by Austro-Hungary and we give the Russians the key to their own backdoor - a free hand in the Bosporus. I know we've traditionally tried to avoid that but it's better than letting Austro-Hungary and Germany have a bigger influence in the Balkans.'

  'Germany won’t allow themselves to be sidelined,' Grey said. 'They want total hegemony in Europe and to have that they need a war to humble France and Russia.'

  'If the Russians stop their mobilisation then the Germans will have no reason to go to war and will leave the Austrians to chastise Serbia on their own. Once the Austro-Hungarian invasion fails, the different nationalities within the Monarchy will see how weak it is and start to pull the whole crumbling edifice down. The Germans won't wish to be shackled to a corpse and face total encirclement, so they will either have to support a peace conference to save their ally, or bail the Austrians out militarily and be labelled as the aggressor in a war, with the negative effect that will have on world opinion.'

  'You're forgetting Germany and Austria’s other partner in the triple Alliance - Italy,' Grey remarked.

  'Italy will take the opportunity to seize the Austrian territory they covet and leave the Triple Alliance,' Sir George said.

  'You make some interesting points, Smyth, and if you'd come to me a week earlier, I may even have been able to make something of this rather eccentric notion of yours. Events have rather stolen a march on you, I'm afraid,' Grey said wearily.

  'War became inevitable when Russia started full mobilisation, commencing the timetable. We fully expect Germany to attack France through Belgium in a matter of hours; their troops have already entered Luxembourg,' Nicolson said.

  'And that, gentlemen, has decided the waverers in the cabinet and will bring us to war,' Grey added.

  'Will we be sending troops to help the Belgians?' Sir George asked. ‘Or will our involvement be purely to blockade Germany, as some have suggested?’

  Johnny didn't like where this was heading. He wasn’t planning on spending the next few months standing around in squares while German Uhlans charged at him with bloody great lances - he'd seen enough death recently. However, he felt fairly confident that after this meeting Sir George would get him an exemption from his call up.

  'A British expeditionary force will be dispatched to Northern Europe. If the Germans take the Belgian ports they’ll be practically sitting on our front lawn and if they win another European war, it will change the balance of power dramatically in their favour,' Nicolson stated.

  'We must also support our allies - the Empire can't be held without the goodwill of France and Russia,' Grey added as he looked out of the window, towards the Admiralty building. The daylight had turned to dusk and he watched as the street lamps were lit. After days of indecision and intrigue he had the look of a man who’d finally come to a resolution.

  'The lamps are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them lit again in our time.' Grey turned back from the window, 'That was an extremely unconventional analysis you presented, Smyth. You’re just the sort of chap Winston wants at the Admiralty. I’ll get someone to make enquiries.'

  Johnny followed Sir George down the Foreign Office grand staircase, with mixed feelings of elation and guilt. If he'd come back earlier rather than frolicking about in Switzerland with Sir George's wife, he might well have been able to prevent a war. At least he'd provided Sir George with something with which to dazzle his superiors. Johnny hoped that there would be a post in it for him as well, and that it could put him in a position to help shorten the war.

  Sir George stopped on the central landing. 'Well, I wasn’t expecting them to implement your idea, but at least it got me out of Paris. What are your plans now, Swift? There's obviously no point in you going back to your old billet at the Embassy. Actually, I filled it, come to think of it.'

  'Well, I believe I'd be of best service to the country if I come with you when you take up your new placement in the Admiralty - maybe at a slightly higher grade. I think I've earned it.'

  'Nonsense, a young man like you obviously wants to be at the front, having a lark!'

  'No, I'd be perfectly happy working with you, Sir George.' Johnny thought that with a war, the Admiralty would be at the centre of things and there were bound to be chances for rapid advancement.

  'You'd rather be in an office? How extraordinary. You may not like this, then.' Sir George opened his briefcase and handed Johnny a small beige envelope.

  'What is it?' Johnny asked. ‘Is it my next posting?’

  Sir George smiled, 'In a way. It’s your call up notice. They’ll be going out in the next day or two, I wanted to make sure you got yours first. You're to report to your regiment, forthwith.'

  'What?' The suddenness of it struck Johnny like a blow.

  'I didn't want you malingering, so I brought you back to England personally to make sure you joined up. Can't have a slippery character like you in Paris left to your own devices - no telling where you might slope off to.'

  Sir George made a signal with his hand and two stocky soldiers came out of the shadows at the bottom of the stairs. 'I took the liberty of arranging your transport to camp. Really, no need to thank me.'

  'But I gave you my idea. You've landed a plum job because of it,' Johnny said.

  'Some might say you're getting your just desserts. You don't honestly think I'd forget
about you sleeping with my wife, running up gambling debts against my name and then blackmailing me?'

  'Why all this? Why did you bring me here?' Johnny found it impossible not to sound whiny.

  'To meet the Gods?' Sir George laughed, Johnny was giving him exactly what he wanted, but he couldn't help himself. He understood now how Ilic must be feeling as he faced the gallows.

  'I wanted you to see me take your idea and make it my own, then send you off to war.'

  'You bastard! I could get killed.'

  'Yes, rather a fait accompli. I’m afraid,' Sir George grinned. 'Now take your medicine like a man. You know what happens to mortals who fly too close to the Gods.'

  Sir George gave Johnny a dismissive wave and continued down the stairs. Johnny looked up at the domed ceiling; it reminded him of the City Hall in Sarajevo and the last time he’d seen Kati Weiz. He grinned - he had wanted a Belgium posting, after all. He followed Sir George down the stairs with a renewed swagger in his stride. He thought a few medals wouldn't hurt his prospects and he remembered that Libby was still in Paris.

  Sir George stopped at the bottom of the great staircase, glorying at being at the heart of the British Empire, thanks to Johnny. 'Cheer up - you'll be home by Christmas.'

  Johnny shrugged, 'I'll be glad to pay my respects to your wife on the way back and convey your regrets for leaving her in Paris.'

  'You really are contemptible!' Sir George flushed with anger and pushed his way out onto the street, the open doors filling the hall with the sound of singing and cheering from the people outside.

  Johnny walked over to the soldiers - it was time to take his medicine, once again.

  Historical Notes

  Following the trial of the conspirators in 1914, Danilo IIic, Misko Jovanovic and his friend, Veljko Cubrilovic were hanged.