The Spider of Sarajevo

by Robert Wilton

  Now, under his right hand, the confirmation of the extent of his failure. In an empty attic in Brussels, a man had been found stabbed to death. The increasing elusiveness of the old man’s agent was now explained. A line of reports stretching back over six months was almost certainly fabrication. And, once again, he was nowhere.

  The image came unbidden, as it always did. A village in southern Africa; and a memory from the turn of the century. Springfontein. The wind blowing up the dust; a door banging; a face thick with sweat; the chaos. A defeat, and an education. A lesson in the brilliance of the man against whom he had set himself.

  His opponent only used violence when absolutely necessary. It was becoming necessary more often.

  In the reports around him on the desk, the chaos of Europe gathered. Not only in the games of Empire, in Persia and Africa. Not only in the territorial squabbles of the Balkans, and the economic fevers and the elaborate intrigues of the continental powers. But at home: Ireland divided and ready for civil war; espionage and sabotage in factories, military bases and dockyards across Britain. The country was being eaten away from within, while her enemies gathered without. The greatest peril for more than a century, and he was nowhere.

  And then, from more than a century ago, an echo. A scheme of one of his predecessors. Might that serve to lure out his enemy? What had he left, against the Spider?

  The Old Man

  The Revd R. T. Satterby

  Grange House

  Buxton

  26th March 1914

  My dear _____,

  I recall you saying when last we met that you had difficulty finding good and intrepid researchers, particularly women, and that I would oblige you if I should happen across some promising young person and bring them to your notice.

  If this concern of yours holds, I wonder if I might recommend to you Miss Flora Hathaway.

  You may understand something of the daughter through the parents. He is a doctor, whose assiduity is matched only by his suspicion of the novelties of his profession (I once joked that he probably found Harvey’s work unproven and Jenner a veritable charlatan, which he found not at all amusing), she is a woman of the most energetic devotion to deserving social cases, and the severest judgement of the ills that cause them. They incline more, I may say, to the Old Testament than the New, and the girl has been raised in an atmosphere of uncompromising – one might say puritanical – rigour. The lack of sentiment of the parents has meant that they have made no allowances for their eldest child being of the gentler sex; a first-born son would have had no more robust an upbringing.

  That these two should produce a daughter of unusual determination and steadiness is no surprise. But it is only to providence that we may ascribe the force of her intellect. (There is a younger brother, but he enjoys neither the strength nor the strictness of critical reasoning to transcend the limits of his world.) She is highly perceptive, and Amazonian in power of logic. The generosity of a local benefactress enabled her to study a year at the University of London, where I believe she did very well.

  She is in her later twenties, I should say. There was to have been a marriage to a doctor, but he died; now there is talk of clerical work in Manchester. If the young woman should prove fit for some academic or administrative work of benefit to you, I should be delighted to have been of service; and I must confess it would please me to see her out of this place and stretched, for otherwise I fear her lot will be marriage to a man stupider than she, or governess.

  Are you out and about much these days? From up here in the wilds I confess I still assume the life of you London chaps positively Babylonian, even a guarded old elephant such as you. I have ordered young Rolfe’s new Suetonius, and I hear that Stanislaus’s boy is off to Antarctica (‘young people are in a condition like permanent intoxication’, indeed). Beyond these, and the sheep-centred insights of the local quidnuncs, I am ignorant – while yet remaining,

  Yours ever,

  Satterby

  [SS G/1/894/1]

  How many carriages on the train? Six, was it? And eight compartments to a carriage. Assuming—

  James Cade caught himself. Supposition multiplied by supposition equals gross error. He stood, stepped over the outstretched legs of the other inhabitant of the compartment, yanked down the window and stuck his head out. The whole world roared and he recoiled, as the windows of another train flashed past in front of him. Out again. But the track was too straight to—

  A tapping nearby, and he looked down. The other man in the carriage, tapping on the window and looking none too chirpy. He pulled his head in, smiled, offered a placating gesture and returned to the sixty-mile-an-hour wind. Fifteen seconds of gulped breaths and whipping hair and at last the track made an obliging concave bend.

  Six passenger carriages. He pulled in his head and closed the window with deliberate completeness. ‘Do beg your pardon. One must be sure, you see?’ He smiled at the frown, stepped back over the legs, slid open the compartment door and stuck his head into the corridor. Not eight compartments but ten.

  He sat. Sixty compartments; maximum three hundred and sixty passengers. How many termini were there in London? Half a dozen? How many long-distance train journeys a day? Ten thousand passenger up-journeys a day? What would they want on a train? Food, surely. A hot drink. Soup? Available at stations, of course. But on a longer journey… Longer journeys often expresses, and therefore a higher proportion of richer passengers. But now problems of supply and storage; potential mishaps at point of sale. Pretty girl in an apron?

  The door slid open, and a soldier’s distinctive uniform cap thrust in. Young face. Military supplies? Cade smiled, the other occupant frowned, and the soldier murmured something to a companion in the corridor and moved on. Cade pushed the door shut. Something to read. Newspapers? Delivery and licensing. Books? To sell or borrow? Average length of journey…

  He turned to his fellow resident, and smiled. ‘Pardon the interruption, but I noticed the size of your trunk up there. Is it a long journey you’re making?’ London. ‘Yes, of course. And we’re fearfully under-supplied, aren’t we? Something to eat, perhaps. Something to read.’ A grunt of acknowledgement and, as if to reinforce the point, the other man pulled out a copy of the Glasgow Herald and walled himself in with it.

  Cade skimmed the advertisements on the front page – surely a ludicrously low price for a pair of boots; where had the false economy been made? – and settled back into his seat.

  A conversation between two strangers. A conversation in the Philosophical Club that had become a supper. The older man’s interest in the firm of Cade & Cade; interest in his ideas; sympathy for the limitations of commercial life in Edinburgh.

  And then a letter from London; a business proposition for the firm of Cade & Cade, and in particular for Mr James Cade.

  Nine times out of ten a bust: someone wanting money, or a partner to do all the work. But he was due a trip to London anyway. How many termini in London?

  David Duval drained the cup, licked the taste of cold tea from his teeth, and surveyed the wreckage of the bed-linen. Through the half-open door, the sound of plumbing.

  Cheap plumbing; an ugly counterpoint to her singing. Cheap plumbing, threadbare rug, an early night, cold tea and a familiar unease.

  It might be time for tears; for a letter and a rose. He was becoming over-critical and sentimental, both of which were rather nauseating. She was becoming habituated and faintly desperate, both of which were alarming. Any more of this would be futile and unfair; destructive only. He saw his jacket on the chair-back, his bag beneath it; a pretty shabby total of a life.

  He pulled himself up against the pillow, felt the cold thrill of the bed-frame on his neck, and forced his shoulders back against it. Sentiment was bad; self-loathing was worse. He ran a hand over his jaw, then smoothed the moustache with finger and thumb. A touch of Victorian melodrama in the moustache; life needed a bit more of the spirit of that moustache. Must keep moving.

  The jacke
t, and consequently the thought of the letter inside it. Hadn’t forgotten our entertaining conversation over drinks – Duval had; rather festive evening – which might explain it; but thoroughly enjoyed talking to you – of course; a scholar but not one of these stay-at-home chaps – no indeed; and wondered if you might be the man for a job –

  Always.

  Under his hand, the residual warmth from where her rump had recently been, and from the bathroom the singing. Dark against the net curtain, his jacket, with the letter.

  From the chair beside the bed, David Duval picked up a sixpence. He settled it precisely on finger and thumb, brought it in front of his face, and flicked it high.

  Ronald Ballentyne reached Whitehall early, and did one circuit of St James’s Park to fill the time. The lake felt like a lung in the middle of London’s monumental greyness, where the smallest building was an institution. He weaved among the prams trying to keep his eyes on the water, the trees, the white morning sky.

  The porter in the Foreign Office lobby, all sleepy mahogany, took a second glance at his face while checking the list of visitors, and Ballentyne ran an instinctive finger along his cheek. The scar was fading, but felt tender and wide.

  As he moved towards a bench, a man in uniform stood up in front of him. A flicked glance in the direction of the porter, and then: ‘Mr Ronald Ballentyne?’

  Ballentyne hadn’t had much to do with uniforms. This one, sickly brown, looked like army.

  He nodded.

  The soldier – officer, presumably – something in the face and the confidence – held out a hand. ‘Knox. Major Valentine Knox.’

  A face about his own age, dark eyes under dark brows, and a splendid Kitchener moustache. Ballentyne shook hands and, to fill the silence: ‘I’m… pleased to meet you.’

  Major Valentine Knox seemed to consider this, as if unused to the reaction. The eyes narrowed a fraction. He said: ‘I’m your liaison officer, Mr Ballentyne.’

  ‘Liaison… for what?’

  The old man had a room of his own in the Foreign Office; a plaque on the door – one of the opaque titles favoured by bureaucracy, as if faintly ashamed of itself; the old man’s name not mentioned. Near the end of a corridor; not among the carpets and vast allegorical paintings of the great men, but not far away.

  Mayhew knocked. The location reflected the role: an occasional word of wisdom from an age now passing. He was bidden to enter.

  Mayhew had the impression that, if the old man were to rise from the high-backed leather chair, he would leave his shadow precisely marked in the dust.

  ‘They’ll be starting to arrive shortly,’ he said. One always seemed to speak quieter in these dusty bureaucratic places. He wished himself back in an officers’ mess. ‘The businessman first. At… ten.’

  The old man took a moment to consider, as if recalling himself to the twentieth century. ‘Thank you, Colonel.’ He stared into the empty blotter on the empty desk. ‘Good of you to keep me involved. Cade. I’ll sit in on that one. Might stick my head in on the ethnographer; touch of the old don. Duval you should do yourself; I fancy he’ll feel cleverer on his own with you. And you could let him think that, couldn’t you, Colonel?’ The eyes flicked up at him; Mayhew was piecing together the implication. Back into the distance. ‘Hathaway… I shall do myself. All right with you?’ The eyes into his again. ‘Merely suggestions.’

  Mayhew found himself nodding. He was a soldier. He recognized decisions; he recognized commands.

  Half a continent away, two men looked down from a gallery onto the audience chamber of an emperor – a Kaiser, the second Wilhelm of the Hohenzollerns of Germany.

  Below them, a final platitude from the emperor’s Austrian guest. ‘To it! To it!’ from the emperor, and silence. A moment of uncertainty as the protocol faltered, and then he led the party from the room in procession, German paired with Austrian. The slam of the door echoed around the marble.

  In the gallery, movement at last.

  ‘Why thank you, Colonel; that was most entertaining.’

  ‘You are my honoured guest, sir. Yet I hope you realize the unique privilege you have been afforded.’

  The honoured guest was dressed in a frock-coat, and he ran a palm down over the lapels as if checking his own sleekness. ‘Indeed, Colonel. Indeed I do. Not, of course, that we heard any surprises. One of your emperor’s many… virtues is his honesty. So no surprises. But two men of the shadows do not need to be reminded that the importance is not in the information itself, but in the perspective from which the information is gained.’ A finger slid along the marble balustrade. ‘Most impressive, Colonel.’ A smile. ‘Like so much in Germany.’

  Colonel Walter Nicolai removed his cap, pushed his hand over the bristles of his head and down the back of it – even those shaven hairs, his visitor thought, must be kept down – and covered up again. The perpetual frown, the world a constant affront, and a stiff nod. ‘We must be ready to crush them.’

  ‘Them? All—’

  ‘The British. The British Empire. There will be war in Europe.’ A gloved fist thumped on the balustrade at the end of each sentence, stamping it as official. ‘In the end Britain will be our greatest enemy. We must be ready to crush them.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Again the smile. ‘Yes indeed, Colonel. And yet the British will take some crushing, will they not?’ Another glance after the official party below. ‘As great men have found before, the Channel is not easily crossed. That empire is not easily overmastered.’ He saw the frown, saw the fist ready to have another go at the balustrade. ‘Which is why you and I, the men of the shadows, must do a little business, is it not? Why you come to me.’

  ‘Correct. A great blow. A great coup of destabilization or sabotage—’ Nicolai stopped; the lines above his nose sharpened. An elegant hand had been held up in front of him.

  It withdrew to cover a discreet cough. ‘Perhaps. And perhaps not, Colonel. If I may suggest, the weakness of Great Britain is… her greatness itself. So vast an empire – so many sheep to watch, so many threats in the night – it is easily distracted.’ The hand conjured its truths out of the air. ‘Your colleague von Tirpitz may anchor his fleet opposite the Royal Navy and have them make faces at each other. Your armies may be ready to throw the British back into the Channel if they should cross it. But we… we shall be where their forces are not. We shall be… at once everywhere.’

  James Cade took in the character of the office: formal; leather-topped desk, kept well polished, but it wasn’t in regular use. He took in the two men opposite him: man in army uniform, lots of ribbons and brooches and what-not, good shoes; and an older man half hidden against the wall, face in shadow next to the window. And he took in his own position in this room.

  Am I buyer here or seller?

  The front man at the desk, the pitch man. And the chevy behind. Give him a top hat or a tattie, he’s still trying to sell.

  Hie away, old Dad of mine, where’s the deal here?

  ‘Very good of you to come here today, Mr Cade. Quite a journey.’ And this is the British government. Puts up a good front, don’t he? ‘My name is Mayhew; I’m a soldier, as you see. This is Mr – Robertson.’

  And I’m Wullie Wallace. He said something appropriate. Lord, was this real? Was this how the government men did their business? And Jimmy Cade round for tea.

  ‘Mr Cade, I won’t waste your time reciting your abilities to you. You’re a businessman; you know your own worth, I dare say. From various recommendations, we have a sense of that worth too.’

  I’m to be a buyer, it seems. Oh aye, keep it coming, pitch man.

  ‘We keep an eye out for men – men in all walks of life – with a certain resourcefulness; initiative. We have a particular need for men of business. It’s a world that has its own qualities, of course. But we want a man who can also, under his own name and credibly, sustain a position as a businessman of repute and success. We could spend time and money setting up someone or other with a business front. Or we could
take a man of established name; a name like Cade & Cade.’

  Could you now?

  Rather a frolic, though, wasn’t it?

  ‘You don’t take the low road, do you, Mr Mayhew? You come right out with it. Is this how you normally do these things?’

  The ghost of a smile from the chevy behind.

  The front man again. ‘To be honest, Mr Cade, it varies with… well, at root you’re a salesman, aren’t you? You know well enough how it’s played.’

  Cade smiled encouragingly.

  ‘To come straight at it: we want to set you up – you as James Cade, known representative of your family firm – in a business situation abroad. Let you run it as you choose, run it as a going concern. And at the same time you would act as… as agent, for His Majesty’s Government, keeping us in touch with… with—’

  Cade leaned forwards. ‘With the business climate as it affects your interests?’

  Again the smile from the shadows – patronizing sort of smile – and this time it stayed. Aye, keep smiling, old man.

  ‘Quite right, Mr Cade.’

  Long as you fellows don’t think you’ve got a fixed price.

  ‘Frankly, Mr Duval, we need men who are bit… a bit out of the ordinary. Who take the initiative.’

  Duval took a moment before answering. There was something about the soldier’s manner – snooty, maybe. With him, authority figures always were a bit. ‘I’ll be honest, Mr Mayhew.’ He fancied a flinch across the desk. Gotcha; you’ll get no ranks and sirs from me. ‘I’m not much of a boy for following orders.’

  ‘Mm. Creativity, Duval, takes different forms.’ No ‘Mr’. Fifteen-all, is it? ‘Your architect’s training means an eye to perceive and an eye to envision. We need both.’

  ‘Do I get one of those uniforms?’

  ‘No.’ Stronger than intended. ‘No, Mr Duval. No uniform, no rank. You will be who you are: David Duval, travelling student of architecture.’