The Spider of Sarajevo

by Robert Wilton

  co-operative relationship with you. But the fact is that until I get to the, er…’ He’d nothing against a bit of grease on the wheels, once he knew the right wheels, but he really didn’t have any spare cash to hand.

  In the end he found a packet of shortbread in a half-unpacked bag, and the man went away holding it, uncertain but mollified.

  The papers came back the following morning. They had each – including the copy of the Army & Navy catalogue and the letter from the Bruntsfield Links Golfing Society – been stamped with an elaborate swirling shape, which he took to be some Ottoman mark, and a seal showing an eagle – splayed and crowned – which definitely was not.

  MOST SECRET

  FACTORS PERTINENT TO THE BELFAST GUN-RUNNING: AN APPRECIATION

  Sir, the following collation of reports and deductions is in answer to your request, and tends I would suggest to support the concerns you expressed. While trying to avoid subjective remarks about the reporting from other (Military) departments, the following of necessity draws attention to differences of fact or interpretation.

  1. The affair was widely reported in the press, as far back as when the weapons were being loaded on board ship. The two reports from Military Operations sources emphasize the informality and amateurishness of the business, compounding the impression of an escapade that was bold and eccentric but essentially harmless. In this context it is worth rehearsing the complexity and skill of the arrangements, and the elements of deception that were required to bring off the operation. The original shipment as it was loaded in Denmark was substantial in size as well as cost. (The very roughest estimate suggests a weight not less than 150 tons.) The original vessel was obliged to flee the Danish authorities to make open sea. Off Ireland, the shipment was transferred wholesale to a second vessel, purchased for the purpose. This second vessel was disguised with a new name while en route. A third vessel was acquired and directed into Belfast harbour with deliberately erratic and suspicious movements, functioning successfully as a decoy from the real landing occurring at Larne farther up the coast. Meanwhile a large number of personnel was deployed and co-ordinated to provide both a security perimeter or cordon around the landing and to transport the rifles. Some may present it as an idiosyncratic ‘show’ by enthusiasts. It was also what amounts to a substantial military operation, involving the choreographed movements of personnel, motor vehicles and maritime vessels, a high degree of logistical and organizational skill, and a careful and deliberate campaign of deception.

  2. As has been reported on Military channels, there were at least three different makes of rifle in the shipment, none of them the most modern type, and this materially weakens the capability and flexibility of the shipment. Yet more than twenty thousand rifles of any vintage, and several millions of rounds of ammunition, must be reckoned mischief enough, and it is surely specious to try to diminish the severity of the affair on this ground.

  3. It is not within the purview of this appreciation to comment on the perception that the shipment, while illegal, was essentially benign because designed only to increase the defensive capacities of elements whose avowed aim is the preservation of the current constitutional settlement as it pertains in Ireland. It must though be observed that, however loyal the intention and however passive the action, it will serve significantly to inflame sensitivities in this already volatile place, particularly among the Irish nationalist ‘Volunteers’. The risk of armed unrest in this corner of the Kingdom is sensibly greater than before the shipment and greater than if it had never happened.

  4. Several factors suggest that the sophisticated organization behind the operation involved powers outwith Ulster, specifically German official elements and most probably related intelligence actors:

  i. That the weapons were purchased and originated in Hamburg is not conclusive of official complicity, but the involvement of the dealer Benjamin ‘Benny’ SPIRO comes near so being. He is routinely used as a factor or cover by German government departments. (You may also remember his role as agent for KRUG in the Mexican machine-gun scandal last year.) It is very unlikely that he would contemplate so substantial and so political a trade without the acquiescence of his patrons in Berlin;

  ii. The complexity of the arrangements on land is arguably within the capability of the ‘Ulster Unionist Council’ and their U.V.F.. We have indeed tracked and reported the activities of CRAWFORD and ADAIR in this direction. The shipment itself is consistent with our estimates of their financial resources. However, the sophistication and scope of the maritime element is on or beyond the margins of the capability that we would have expected of the U.U.C./U.V.F. We are still unable to identify the HELLER named as one of the parties to the transfer of ownership of the second vessel in 1912 and then earlier this year;

  iii. A Danish source reports that when the weapons were loaded aboard ship in Langeland, a passenger joined too. No link may be confirmed, but it is possible that this is connected to and corroborates the suggestion that an unknown passenger disembarked with the rifles at Larne;

  iv. That the destabilization resultant from the affair suits German interests does not logically imply German official complicity. Yet it is consistent with it.

  6th May, 1914

  [SS I/17/35]

  A couple of weeks after his arrival in Constantinople, Cade discovered a warehouse packed with silk on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, the residue of a merchant who’d died leaving some spectacular debts, pressing creditors, a tribe of daughters and a rather panicked younger brother. He bought the whole stock for cash, and sent a telegram home re. the opportunities for a combination of wholesale brokering and direct retail.

  So he was feeling pretty spruce when he arrived in the evening at the British ambassador’s residence – an enormous Italian-looking thing. The ambassador was an ideal: tall, in good enough shape at fifty-odd to make the splendid blue tail-coat look elegant rather than silly, monocled, and topped off by a bicorne hat and feathers. Courtesies; the ambassador shook hands, held the glance politely, then turned to his next guest.

  Then back. ‘Cade… You’re the businessman, I think.’

  ‘I am, Sir Louis.’ A flicker of doubt.

  ‘A little more trade and a little less diplomacy, and we’d all be better off, I fancy.’ Cade felt uncomfortable for the first time, as if he were somehow betraying both his roots and the task that had brought him here. ‘Edinburgh, I think.’ Cade nodded. ‘Seem to remember my father mentioning your family once. Something to do with his consultations on tariffs. Your father, perhaps, or grandfather.’

  Cade & Cade part of the establishment at last. ‘The old man’s always pretty free with his opinions on tariffs, sir.’ But he never thought his name would be heard from an eye-glass and feathers. Now Cade escaped.

  He’d felt rather pompous putting on his own tail-coat and the white bow tie – at home rarely more than an annual bit of pantomime for some guild dinner or other – but as he looked out across the expanse of the salon he found himself about the plainest man in the room.

  ‘Try the sherbet punch.’ Burley, the Embassy man, taking a drink from a roaming waiter and pushing it into Cade’s hand. ‘Come along; I’ll get you started.’

  The room was a fancy dress parade: an Arabian Nights fantasy of Asian get-up – silks and brocades in hats and scarves and sashes and even jackets or pantaloons – mixed with every kind of uniform, from relatively restrained get-ups like the ambassador’s to arrangements that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a pirate captain.

  He was introduced to a Frenchman – joke from Burley about the Auld Alliance before he disappeared again – and Cade managed two lines of small talk then asked about French interests in Constantinople. ‘Oh, we have none,’ Monsieur Andrassy replied. ‘But everyone else is here pursuing this interest or that interest, and so we feel we must be here so that we do not miss out.’

  ‘Everyone I speak to goes on about how weak the Ottoman Empire is. Always good stuff going cheap when a bu
siness goes bust.’

  Then there was one of the ubiquitous Germans, and Cade was wary. But Herr Hessler, large and over-pink and straining his old-fashioned tail-coat at every seam, was an archaeologist and ignorant – insensitive, indeed – on all aspects of diplomacy, and they had a cheerful few minutes on the cultural influences competing within the empire.

  And then there was a Russian, demanding to know what Cade as an Englishman knew of English intentions regarding Russia’s rightful claim on the straits dominated by Constantinople. Cade explained that since he was neither English nor a diplomat and knew nothing of what the man was talking about, damn all was the answer. The Russian recoiled, but then he was back on the offensive, goatee beard and bad breath thrust up into Cade’s face, more unhappy than before: a Scotsman who claimed not to know what was planned for the straits was even more sinister than an Englishman who did. Was Mr Cade aware of the geography of Russia? Was Mr Cade aware of Russia’s tolerance, her sacrifices for peace, during a series of European crises over the last decade? Did he know the proportion of Russia’s exports and imports that went through the straits, and how many billions of roubles per month had been lost when Turkey had unilaterally closed the straits in 1912?

  Cade could honestly answer ‘no’ to all of these. But, feeling that he didn’t know enough about the possibilities arising from Russian traffic through Constantinople, he tried to make a conversation out of it. The Russian wasn’t having it: beyond a couple of statistics he understood little about trade. Eventually Cade took advantage of him choking on his own excitement, and the providential arrival of a waiter with more sherbet punch, to step away.

  The uniforms and costumes, for all their extravagance, tended to make the men more similar rather than less. They all seemed constricted, and somehow inadequate against the pretensions of their outfits. The women, on the other hand… all shapes and sizes were on show, monstrous bloated wives and pretty petite daughters, and a spectrum of complexions. All the subtleties of shading from Europe and the Near East were here, harmonized or accentuated with their silks and lace, and to James Cade it all screamed of market.

  Near him now: a man he’d been introduced to before… Visited before. Ministry of Finance. Deputy something-or-other. Name something like Otto-… Otman. Osman. Surname rhymed with Caesar. The number two chap, the man who had some idea what he was talking about and kept the place ticking over and tried to prevent the number one chap from doing anything too stupid.

  Such had been Cade’s deduction, anyway. The same phenomenon in public institutions the world over. Nothing said by the fellow himself. Merely polite and rather worried observations about the effect of European tensions on price stability, the unreliability of supply routes through the Balkans, and the complexity of administration given the strong German presence.

  ‘Why, it’s Mr Cade, I think.’

  Had he mentioned a wife? Children?

  A careful, contained chap.

  ‘Mr Riza, isn’t it? A pleasure to see you.’ Polite smiles. ‘Glad to see a friendly face. How’s your son?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Cade.’ This smile was genuine. ‘He’s doing well enough. Fit and strong. Needs to concentrate on his mathematics more.’

  ‘Quite right, sir. Trains the brain, maths. Discipline.’

  ‘I thought that, for English gentlemen’ – Cade suppressed the wince – ‘your Latin and Greek came first.’

  ‘Oh, I did my share. My mother wouldn’t let me off. But my old father, Mr Riza, he’s a businessman through and through. Bleeds in pounds sterling. He bred me to numbers; had me doing accounts and interest before I could recite any of my Herodotus.’ The Turk nodded pleasantly, and captured new drinks for them both. ‘But tell me: your son – will he follow you into the ministry or, I don’t know… politics, or the army?’

  Osman Riza considered this soberly. ‘It has always been our tradition, Mr Cade – over centuries – that the most worthy and rewarding career is in public administration. It has enabled the humblest men to rise to the greatest power through ability alone. Now, I’m afraid…’ – he shook his head slightly – ‘some of these certainties are changing.’

  ‘Fellows on the make? Wanting short cuts to success?’

  ‘As you have surely been warned, there are no short cuts in the empire’s administration.’ His little moustache wrinkled at the humour, and Cade tried to produce a smile of comparable restraint. ‘But since the instability of a few years ago, our politics is a good deal more boisterous and it infests the administration more extensively.’

  ‘Must make life complicated for a professional like you.’

  ‘I am a servant of the regime, Mr Cade. I do my duty as well as I may. But Europe – your government and others like it – sees us as enfeebled, and obsolescent. Like greedy relatives – pardon me – around a dying man, they come with advice and hectoring and trying to get us to sign papers which we but half understand.’

  ‘Perhaps that explains – I mean, I’m sure we’re all as bad as each other – but I’ve seen a surprising number of German uniforms around the city.’

  Again the smile, grave and delicate. ‘The Germans are here to train our army, Mr Cade, as the British have been here to train our navy.’ He settled his glass on an adjacent table. ‘But…’ – the eyes flicked down, and up again – ‘the style is rather different.’

  ‘Ah, Cade.’ Burley out of nowhere, touching his elbow. ‘Just the chap. Would you excuse us?’ They were duly excused with a half bow, and Burley guided him away. Cade looked over his shoulder as he went, catching Osman Riza’s prolonged glance. ‘Didn’t want you trapped in some tiresome Turkish pontificating. Look, here’s another sherbet for you.’ Burley introduced him to a hearty gaggle of three British residents whom Cade knew for truly tiresome. Cricket. Corruption. The price and unreliability of servants. He escaped.

  Across the room, two pairs of eyes watching James Cade. ‘Him, do you see?’ A nod. ‘Smiling to the waiter. With the strong jaw and chest.’ A firmer nod. ‘Him.’

  Cade stepped out of the pantomime reception room and looked over the garden, an acre or more of trees and winding paths. The evening was warm, lanterns had been arranged among the paths, and the air smelled of fruit – an oasis of citrus amid the city’s reek. He was drawn out into it.

  As he reached the bottom step and crunched into gravel, a man turned and saw him.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’ A little bow. There was a woman with him. ‘We met, I think. At the bank. I am Varujan.’ Cade reintroduced himself. With one poised palm Varujan indicated the woman beside him. ‘Please allow me to introduce my sister, Mrs Charkassian. Ani, this is Mr James Cade, a businessman lately come to Constantinople.’

  Not his wife, then; Cade took a second look. She was a beauty, right enough. She offered her hand, and he took it, contriving the little head-nod that he was developing in lieu of a proper bow. ‘Ma’am.’ She dropped her eyes.

  The large, dark, almond eyes under a high forehead; firm jaw and full lips. A Lauriston lad could go far astray here. Her eyes had come up again and she was holding the glance, actually looking at him.

  He smiled, and pulled his focus round to the man. ‘We weren’t properly introduced at the bank, Mr Varujan. You are… Turkish, presumably?’

  Varujan’s lips twitched. ‘Armenian, Mr Cade. My family is Armenian.’

  ‘Oh, you must excuse me. I do apologize; haven’t got the hang of these—’

  ‘Not at all.’ A smile was managed. ‘The price of the benefits of being part of the Ottoman Empire. We are a subject people, and must accept it.’ He raised a gaunt finger. ‘While remembering our own culture and identity.’

  A voice at his shoulder and he turned away, and Cade was left with the woman.

  ‘And your husband?’ he said, partly as a reminder to himself. ‘Mr Charkassian works…?’

  ‘He is dead.’ It was said soft.

  ‘Oh, forgive me.’

  ‘How could you have known?’ She was stil
l watching him squarely. A glance to the side, a demure smile, and her voice dropped. ‘Please excuse my brother’s… heat. He is most passionate on the subject of our identity.’

  ‘Not at all. Myself, I’m a Scottish subject of the British Empire. And everyone here calls me English. I sympathize completely.’

  Her lips opened slightly, apparently struck by the comparison. Her eyes wandered in thought a moment. ‘It is becoming the defining question of our city, and all of the empires should heed it. Of our city, of our world, and of our time.’ She looked at Cade again. ‘Who one is, and who one is not.’

  Perhaps two hours after Rheims the train had slowed, and then clanked and hissed to a stop. Down to one side, dawdling around islets, the Moselle was overtaking them. Looking out of the window at an angle, along the train, Flora Hathaway could see the grey suggestion of a town ahead. Metz, would it be? The Baedeker would have it, but she wanted to see if she’d remember it first.

  The landscape surged in waves around the train, long slopes stretched with vines and sudden crests, thickly wooded. This was one of the great borderlands of the world. The French and Germans had been ebbing and flowing back and forth through these valleys since… since before Germany and France had existed. Metz, and the Lorraine around it – Lotharingia, of course; she tried to remember the mediaeval politics – were German now; for the forty years since the last war, and for the time being.

  From along the corridor, the rumble and slam of the compartment doors being slid open.

  A strange habit. Britain was usually busy with her colonial aggressions instead. When had we last…? The Crimea, of course; which had been a madness of geo-political logic, barely explicable even while it was being fought. Before that Napoleon.

  The rumble and slam, now from the adjacent compartment.

  We liked to steer clear of the Continent’s troubles, didn’t we? Much easier to send an over-ambitious young woman, craving… something. Visions of her previous visit: a magnificent bookcase; carved wood; tea and cheese that looked familiar but tasted different; handsome courteous young men; refreshingly serious girls; an extraordinary cake, which her host’s child refused to touch.