The Aquila Project

by Norman Russell

  ‘It was an added bonus, Baron,’ Box continued, ‘that your activities drew Colonel Kershaw after you, while the conspirators assembled with impunity in Berlin. Aquila, I’m told, means an eagle, but there is more than one eagle in Europe. You will find them displayed on the arms of Poland and Russia, and very prominently on the arms of the German Empire. Kessler and his gang have assembled in Berlin to take the life of the Kaiser.’

  For a moment it seemed that all pandemonium had been let loose. Augustyniak and Thalberg sprang to their feet, white-faced. They began talking rapidly to each other in German. Colonel Kershaw sat motionless at the table, looking at Box with what seemed like fascination. The clamour of voices suddenly stopped and, in the brief interval, Kershaw said, ‘Is there anything else you want to tell us, Mr Box?’

  ‘There is, sir. I beg you, gentlemen, listen to me. I believe this whole conspiracy to be an attempt to assassinate the Kaiser. You will know better than I do what the consequences of such an act would be. These men have used the old techniques of conjuring to mislead you all. They’ve made you accept images of bombs in boiler rooms, men brandishing pistols running openly up ramps to commit their atrocities. Conjuring! You will find that they will use some quite different method of assassination, and it will not be from an open venue like Tower Bridge, or the bridge at Polanska Gory. Perhaps it will be a high-powered rifle from a well-hidden position—’

  ‘Have you forgotten Grunwalski, the trained assassin?’ asked Kershaw.

  ‘Oh, sir,’ said Box, ‘don’t you see? Grunwalski is only another decoy. He will be sacrificed to their cause, as I’ve no doubt they intended all along. Perhaps Kessler will do the deed himself – didn’t you once tell me, sir, that he was a crack shot with a rifle? But I wonder whether Doctor Franz Kessler is the brains behind the project? Wouldn’t there have to be someone in the higher echelons of German society to make all this possible?’

  Box saw Kershaw glanced at Count von und zu Thalberg, and mouth the words, ‘Count von Donath.’ He saw Thalberg nod in agreement.

  ‘Perhaps I’ve spoken out of turn, gentlemen,’ Box continued, ‘if so, I ask your pardon. But there’s one more aspect of this business that I want you to consider. To all outward appearances, this is a Polish plot to assassinate the Kaiser. Baron Augustyniak is a Pole, and so is Grunwalski. What were the names of those other men? Balonek and Haremza. They are Poles, too. The whole conspiracy has been engineered to allow the Poles to be blamed for the Kaiser’s death. Do you understand what I am trying to say?’

  ‘We understand you well enough, Inspector Box,’ said Thalberg. ‘It would be no exaggeration to say that, if these people succeeded in assassinating the Kaiser, then Germany would unleash a devastating invasion of Poland. No counsels of caution would prevail.’

  ‘And that German invasion of Russian territory,’ said Augustyniak, ‘would bring the mighty Russian army pouring over its borders to repulse that attack. That army would not scruple to cross the German border if that became necessary. And all this nightmare would have been unleashed not by a few Polish dreamers, but by a cunning and ruthless nest of German traitors. And we must not forget the so-called secret treaty made last year between France and Russia. A German invasion of Russia would bring over a million French troops pouring into Germany—’

  Colonel Kershaw suddenly sprang to his feet.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we have talked enough. We can’t afford the luxury of disbelieving or debating Mr Box’s thesis. It rings all too grimly true. Baron Augustyniak, you don’t need our help in controlling your own forces in Polanska Gory. Let Thalberg and I, together with our party, set out with all speed to Berlin. There are only three full days left before the twenty-first, and I don’t trust the telegraphs with a matter of this kind. They may have been already compromised. Our object now must be to protect the Kaiser, before all Europe is plunged into a conflict from which it may never recover.’

  15

  Cleansing the Eagle’s Nest

  THE MILITARY TRAIN thundered through the night of the 18 July on the second stage of a journey that would take it 150 winding German miles from Brest-Litovsk to Berlin. They had travelled by civilian railway to Posen, where they had boarded one of the drab, green trains of the Prussian Military Railway, hauled by a grimy but rugged black engine, which could reach a speed of fifty miles an hour.

  At Posen, they had been joined in the single long compartment of the military train by a detachment of young soldiers in field grey, who wore the orange and gold collar tabs of the 4th Brandenburg Lancers. There were twenty of them, sitting in the forward seats of the carriage, where they were being addressed by Sergeant-Major Schmidt. It was four o’clock in the morning, and the carriage was lit by dim oil lamps.

  ‘What’s he saying, sir?’ whispered Box, who knew that Kershaw was fluent in German.

  ‘He’s telling them that they have been detailed to assist in the overthrow of a desperate gang of traitors who have designs on the life of the Kaiser. They are to obey all orders given by him, and by the English Oberst Kershaw. I don’t know what those orders are going to be, Box, and neither does Schmidt. We must play this piece by ear.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just inform the authorities in Berlin?’

  ‘No, Box, because some of those “authorities” will be in the plot. There could be very sinister obstacles placed in our way if Berlin knew that we are coming. In a matter of this kind, an element of surprise is always crucial. The fewer who know about us, the better it will be.’

  Sergeant-Major Schmidt finished his address to the soldiers seconded from the 4th Brandenburg Lancers, and resumed his seat. It was typical of the man that he immediately opened a map, and began to examine it closely. To Box, it looked like the map of a large city. Maybe it was a map of Berlin.

  Schmidt looked up from his map for a moment, and spoke quietly to Kershaw, who sat opposite him across the gangway.

  ‘This train, Herr Oberst, will eventually come into a military siding south of the Landwehr Canal in Berlin, where there is a barracks of the Prussian Civil District Militia. That’s where we’ll stay, discreetly hidden beyond the southern suburbs of Berlin, until this business is brought to a conclusion – one way or the other.’

  The train rattled over a long bridge, and then on to an embankment. The carriage swayed slightly as the engine negotiated a rather dramatic curve. Sergeant-Major Schmidt looked up from his map, and Box heard him mutter what sounded like the name of a town or village.

  ‘How long now, Sergeant-Major?’ asked Kershaw.

  ‘Another hour, Herr Oberst. We should be snug inside the Landwehr Barracks by five thirty.’ He picked up a sheet of paper, on which, for the last few minutes, he had been drawing in pencil, and handed it to Kershaw across the gangway.

  ‘I know Berlin very well, sir,’ he said, ‘and I’ve tried to draw from memory a plan of Die Kapelle an der Brücke – The Chapel on the Bridge. You can see from that drawing that the bridge crosses a tributary of the River Weser running across König Friedrich Strasse, which is only a few hundred yards from the Imperial Palace, between the Old Town Hall and St Nicholas’s Church. It’s a section of the old town, where the streets can be narrow and winding. The stream runs across the street and under the bridge. I’ve shown the stream in blue crayon, and the bridge in red.’

  ‘Are there any store rooms or hidden chambers beneath the bridge?’ asked Box.

  ‘No, Herr Box. The stream is about six feet wide, and flows rapidly under the bridge, which is supported by three solid piers. It was built in 1438. From the roadway, you wouldn’t realize that it was a bridge. And there’ – he pointed to another part of his careful drawing – ‘you can see the archway at the end of the bridge that leads into the courtyard of the Hohenzollern Chapel. The Kaiser and the Empress will come along here in an open carriage from the Imperial Palace, cross the bridge, and go under the arch. From that point, they’ll be lost to the sight of the public.’

  ‘Oberfeldwebel,�
� said Kershaw, ‘this is an excellent piece of work. Whenever I see you, you’re poring over some map or diagram! Count von und zu Thalberg is very lucky to have you in his service. Now, let you and me look at this situation as a couple of soldiers. If we wanted to shoot the Kaiser, where would we place ourselves?’

  Sergeant-Major Schmidt looked primly shocked at Kershaw’s blunt language, but forbore to make any comment. Instead, he pointed with a pencil first to a kind of guardroom built above the entrance arch to the chapel, and then to a square building facing it across the narrow street. Reaching into a canvas bag, he rummaged around until he found a red crayon, which he used to draw a bold circle around the chapel entrance arch and the square building facing it.

  ‘There, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘are the two obvious points of vantage – the only viable ones for a serious assassin. You could fire a shot at any carriage crossing the bridge from the window of that chamber above the arch; or you could do the same thing from that building across the street. So from a military point of view it would be expedient to occupy both those buildings on Saturday, when the Kaiser and Kaiserin come to the Hohenzollern Chapel.’

  ‘A marvellous exposition, Sergeant-Major,’ murmured Kershaw. ‘Do you know, I’m feeling more optimistic of success after seeing your splendid drawing. But there are other aspects of the matter to consider apart from the military solution – which is a good one, and which would make good use of those Brandenburg Lancers of ours. But if we occupied both buildings, the enemy would be warned off. They would withdraw, and resume their planning for another day. I should like us both to inspect this site personally, and then we can concoct an emergency plan for Saturday. I already have something viable in mind. This building facing the chapel across the street – is it occupied?’

  ‘It contains the offices of a number of commercial companies, Herr Oberst. Such places are usually closed on Saturdays, but in any case we could ensure that they were left vacant on the twenty-first. The Führer of the District Militia could present them with a decree of requisition. His Excellency Count von und zu Thalberg can easily attend to the matter.’

  As dawn broke quite suddenly over the Brandenburg Plain, the military train entered Berlin. It reduced speed, travelling slowly along a curved track that passed through an area of factories and warehouses on the southern fringe of the great city.

  Colonel Kershaw beckoned to Morrison, who was sitting in front of Schmidt.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Morrison, make quite sure that the rifle is in tiptop condition at all times until we leave Berlin. On Saturday morning, you’d better give it the M.O.S.’

  The train lurched on to a branch line, and soon they could see a covered platform, and some military buildings. A number of soldiers came out on to the platform to watch their arrival.

  ‘Here we are at Landwehr Barracks, gentlemen,’ said Sergeant-Major Schmidt.

  As Arnold Box moved along the aisle carrying his valise, he asked the sergeant armourer a question.

  ‘Mr Morrison, what did Colonel Kershaw mean by “give it the M.O.S.”? When he was talking about that rifle that you’re still carrying?’

  ‘Oh, that’s army talk, Mr Box,’ Morrison replied. ‘It stands for “magazine on, one in the breech, safety-catch off”.’

  ‘One in the breech?’

  ‘Yes, that’s to ensure that a shot’s fired as soon as the trigger’s pulled. I reckon the colonel’s anticipating some serious action on Saturday.’

  Looking back upon the events of those few days before the fatal twenty-first of July, Box found that he could remember very little with clarity. Apart from a hurried visit to the bridge, during which Kershaw and Schmidt had conferred together at length, nothing dramatic occurred. Count von und zu Thalberg had mysteriously disappeared, and when Box asked Kershaw where he was, he just smiled and shook his head. For most of those three days they idled away their time in the militia barracks beyond the Landwehr Canal.

  The twenty-first dawned a hot and sunny day. The royal wedding was to take place at eleven o’clock in the morning, and Thalberg had sent an orderly to Kershaw with a detailed plan of the procession. Die Kapelle an der Brücke had a rear entrance in a side road beyond the bridge, and when the party approached it, just after half past ten, they were saluted by one of Thalberg’s detachment of Brandenburg Lancers, posted at the door.

  A winding stair led up to the room over the arch. It contained two windows, one overlooking the building on the opposite side of the road, and another, little more than a decorative slit, from which it was possible to see down the bridge to the road beyond. The room was evidently used for storing chairs and old bundles of music from the chapel below.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Kershaw, ‘there is little time left. Box, and you, Kolinsky, please sit against the back wall on those chairs. Sergeant-Major Schmidt, take up your position at the side-window, and identify each carriage as it begins to cross the bridge. Here is the printed programme. Morrison, prepare the rifle, and hold yourself in readiness. Pray God that our mission today be successful. If we fail, and The Thirty triumph, then I think we shall all die.’

  He’s right, thought Box, and all our lives will depend on how good a shot the colonel is when the moment arrives. He sat back on his rickety chair, and thought fondly of King James’s Rents. The cheerful conversations of the waiting crowds came up to them from the street below.

  At half past ten, Colonel Kershaw moved into action. He took up a position in the centre of the room, his left foot slightly advanced, to provide the necessary counter to the anticipated weight of the Lee-Metford. He stared out of the open window for what seemed an age, while the others listened to the excited babble of voices rising up to them from the festive crowd.

  ‘He’s there now,’ said Kershaw quietly, still staring straight ahead. ‘He’s facing the open window of a room on the second floor of that building. He seems to be alone.’

  A sudden cheer went up from the street, and Sergeant-Major Schmidt, who had been posted as observer at the narrow side window, said, ‘The first carriage, holding six foreign guests.’ They could all hear it clattering over the bridge, and then a moment later the cheering was renewed, this time more prolonged, and accompanied by wild clapping.

  ‘Second carriage: the bride and groom with their attendants.’

  ‘He’s raising a rifle to his shoulder,’ said Kershaw. ‘Morrison, give me the Lee-Metford.’

  Morrison placed the rifle carefully in Kershaw’s hands, at the same time saying crisply, ‘Magazine on, one in the breech, safety-catch off.’ Kershaw raised the weapon swiftly to his right shoulder, fixing his eye on the brass telescopic sight. The cheering continued; it had taken upon itself the character of a continuous approving commentary on the day’s events.

  ‘Third carriage: the Chancellor and his wife, with Colonel-General von Lowenstein and the Grand Steward.’

  Colonel Kershaw seemed to have been transmuted from a man to a statue. He stood quite motionless, and scarcely breathing, or so it seemed to Box. This was not the quiet, diffident gentleman whom Box usually encountered in some odd corner of London. The figure now standing in the centre of this little room was an instrument of Nemesis, in which all the powers of intellect and emotion had been refined to one single, overriding purpose.

  Outside, the cheering suddenly rose to a deafening crescendo, and at the same time a military band launched into the solemn melody of the Imperial Anthem, Deutschland über Alles. It was hardly necessary for Schmidt to tell them that the Kaiser’s carriage was about to cross the bridge.

  Box, sitting transfixed on his chair near the door, saw Kershaw’s finger tighten on the trigger of his rifle. The sound of the shot, when it came, was deafening, but effectively masked by the frantic cheering down in the street, and at the same time a triumphant ringing of bells from the chapel bell tower conspired with the adulation of the frantic crowd to hide the sound of Kershaw’s single shot.

  ‘Got him,’ said Kershaw, qui
etly, and they all saw the expression of quiet pride that transformed his face, even though he had gone as white as a sheet. He handed the rifle back to Morrison, and turned to face Arnold Box.

  ‘Sir,’ whispered Box, ‘have you killed your own man, Grunwalski? Was that the only way?’

  ‘It wasn’t Grunwalski, Mr Box. It was Doctor Kessler, and he was alone in that room. I waited until I saw his finger moving from beyond the guard to fire his cursed assassin’s bullet, and then I shot him through the heart. He should have left his finger on the trigger, as I did; his over-cautiousness cost him his life.’

  When Kershaw and his party emerged cautiously into the side-road behind the chapel, they found the Lancer still on duty. In the main road, the crowds showed no sign of dispersing, and it was impossible not to catch something of the festive atmosphere. Excited children were waving little German and Italian flags, while their parents chattered and laughed as they waited for the newlyweds to emerge from the chapel. They were also waiting to cheer their popular 35-year-old sovereign, who, unknown to them, had just escaped death by a hair’s breadth.

  Box could see the orange and gold collar tabs of the Brandenburg Lancers gleaming as they stood on guard in front of the gaunt office building facing the bridge. Those men would have ensured that no one entered or left the building without prior authorization. It had been Thalberg’s responsibility to arrange this, and other matters. Box could see the still open window on the second floor.

  The guard on the main entrance stood aside, and Kershaw led his men up a narrow wooden staircase. The first-floor landing gave entrance to a number of offices, all locked for the weekend. They ran up to the second floor, where a door stood wide open. They rushed into the room that had been used by the would-be assassin.