The Spider of Sarajevo

by Robert Wilton

A glimmering of admiration; of confederacy; of loyalty. As part of his effort to demonstrate co-operation and humility, Duval paid for her ticket. Which, in a way, made her his wife after all.

  Sir, NICOLAI Military Intelligence returned twenty-four-hour journey Prague. Travelled alone which unusual and with unknown purpose. Suspicion of high-profile visitor now. DUVAL left Berlin St Petersburg train. Monitored by German police German Military Intelligence plus suspected representative French Deuxième Bureau.

  [SS D/2/98, SS G/1/893/16 AND SS X/72/153 (DECYPHERED)]

  The old man watched the message slip; traced its edges with his two index fingers.

  Poor Duval. Encircled by hounds, and still running.

  And where is the Spider? His fingers hovered over the paper. In Prague? In Berlin?

  Nicolai and the Spider. A triumph for the Spider, to get his hands on the German network in Britain; a boost for the Germans. The discipline and structure of German Military Intelligence, and the subtlety and reach of the Spider’s contacts. United in the service of a belligerent enemy.

  A breath. For a moment he saw the faces of his four: Duval, Hathaway, Cade and Ballentyne.

  Keep running.

  Eventually Duval was walking out of the office and out of the station, breathing in the soaring architecture and no longer the focus of every eye in St Petersburg.

  ‘Made a bit of an ass of yourself, I’m afraid.’ He’d been uneasy about involving the British Embassy, but when the policeman had assumed he’d want to contact them he’d not wanted to raise new suspicion by refusing; besides, he really hadn’t done anything wrong in Russia, not yet; and a friendly face couldn’t hurt.

  Giles Lisson wasn’t a friendly face. This wasn’t the first of his snooty remarks, and Duval’s ability to maintain the pose of humble regret, on an empty stomach, was weakening fast. He’d been hating the Giles Lissons of the world since he was a boy.

  ‘Parents always wanted me to make something of myself; beggars can’t be choosers. And this beggar got a night with a pretty girl.’ Not nearly as much as he’d wanted, but Lisson didn’t need to know that. He glanced at Duval as they stepped down onto the cobbles, affronted. ‘Anyway, thanks for hoicking me—’

  ‘We’re not done yet.’

  Duval didn’t care for the tone. ‘No motor car?’ he said as they set off through the bustle of a square. Might get a drink out of it, at least.

  ‘Not for you.’ Lisson turned to him, as the crowd washed around them. ‘Can you remember Millionaya Ulitsa? Millionaya Street?’ Duval nodded. ‘Last door at the western end, by the canal. Be there in thirty minutes exactly.’

  Duval was glad to be rid of him for that long, at least. As he walked, he became increasingly aware of St Petersburg around him, and he liked it. The boulevards had been cut with an eye not for the houses but the spaces; there’d been someone in control, and he’d known about proportion. The buildings themselves were fine, often monumental but generally elegant with it. And canals: more space, more light, and a constant freshness as he walked. People pretty ugly, but they couldn’t complain about their surroundings, at least.

  The morning was overcast and none too warm, but he welcomed its crispness. With time to spare he followed one of the canals; changed some money, bought a piece of fruit, watched an argument between a man on a boat and a man on the bank for a few moments.

  Millionaya Street was grand and quiet. The occasional carriage rattled past him, bouncing on the cobbles and slipping in the slime that coated them. The buildings were large, as he came near the end by the canal, but somehow faceless, and jumbled. Their frontages were the other side, against the river.

  The last door was set into the wall, sheltered and shadowed. He waited, then knocked; waited some more. The street, the great buildings, were silent behind him. Eventually the door opened, and a rodent of a man looked at Duval, then past him at the street.

  The rodent grinned, said, ‘Owight sa?’ and beckoned him inside. Pure cockney. Duval followed down dirty corridors and up three flights of stairs, until one further door opened to reveal the other side of the building, mosaic-floored and grand. They stepped across a corridor, the cockney knocked on a door and opened it and Duval found Lisson.

  ‘Thank you, Harvey.’

  ‘Sa.’ The door closed.

  ‘Look, Lisson, thank you again, but do I really need—’

  ‘London told me to expect you. They probably hadn’t imagined so public or ignominious an arrival, but…’ – he looked up from a pretence of papers – ‘as you say, beggars can’t be choosers.’

  Duval pulled a chair forwards from against the wall, and sat.

  ‘Have you reported recently?’ Lisson was brandishing a pen.

  ‘Oh, is that what that’s for?’ Lisson lowered at him, then made ready to write. ‘I sent some drawings from Berlin. For obvious reasons I didn’t say what they were.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘They, er…’ – he smiled pleasantly – ‘they’re a map – disguised, obviously – of the submarine dock at Kiel.’

  Lisson’s pen sagged, and he looked up doubtfully. Duval nodded.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me.’

  So Duval told him: his other researches in Kiel; getting into the dockyard; the battleships; the submarine dock; the escape through the drawing office; the plans of the barrel, the Foster sight, the turret, the more complicated machinery.

  Lisson interrupted occasionally; not, as Duval had first expected, to tell him to exclude the excitement, but instead to ask for more detail. Lisson was a prig, but he was methodical, which was presumably some benefit in this game.

  ‘Get the name on the shop?’

  ‘No, Lisson, I didn’t get the name on the bloody shop.’

  ‘Hmm. Pity.’

  ‘If I’d only thought to ask one of the sentries.’

  Lisson looked up; frowned. ‘No need to get ratty, old chap.’

  ‘I was hounded out of Germany – which, by the way, was why I picked up the girl – and got pinched before I’d even properly arrived in Russia, all in your service. I think I’m entitled to blow off steam.’ He glanced around the office. ‘Is it sensible for you to meet me here – me being such a desperado?’

  Lisson looked distasteful again. ‘Meaning you’d rather we were scurrying around the slums in disguise. You’d be better off with my – well, let’s not call Lockhart my colleague; probably just your type, anyway. Melodramatic bloody Scotchman.’ He leaned forwards and tapped the desk. ‘Bit of common sense is a much better disguise than all the false beards and secret knocks. Better if we’re not seen meeting around town. Embassy back door and a wary eye are good enough.’

  ‘Such a disappointment.’

  Lisson’s face was austere. ‘It is not the empire that is the servant of your fantasies of adventure, but you who are the servant of the empire.’ Obviously a practised line. ‘Grief, the trouble we’ve had from popular fiction.’ He sounded genuinely affronted. ‘North Germany is crawling with British officers using their holidays to thwart invasions while dressed as gypsies or bicycling clergymen. There’s enough chaos in Russia as it is, without amateur enthusiasts getting involved.’

  ‘You won’t be needing me, then.’

  ‘Up to you, old chap. You’re happy to pay your own fare home, are you?’ Lisson didn’t wait for an answer. ‘You’re obviously able, Duval. You can make yourself useful here. Worthy contribution, I’m sure.’ He pulled open a drawer, and counted out a handful of banknotes. ‘Enough to be getting along with, I should think. Put up at the Angleterre. We’ll send word. Any message including the word “yesterday” and the name of a Russian writer will also include a number somewhere; means meet here at that hour.’

  Duval stood, collected the money, and made for the door.

  ‘Duval.’ He looked round. ‘Odd thing, surely. In that office where you hid out; the drawing you saw.’ Duval shrugged. ‘Written in English, I mean.’

  Flora Hathaway in another mig
hty entrance hall, trying to swallow new surroundings and being scrutinized.

  Heinrich Auerstein had the height and bearing of Gerhard von Waldeck but, lacking a moustache, the face seemed more austere.

  ‘Gerta von Waldeck,’ he said to her companion, Hathaway left to one side along with their baggage. The surname made it clear on whose behalf she was welcome.

  ‘Lieber Herr,’ Gerta began, Dear Sir, as if he were a business correspondent or a schoolmaster, ‘my father sends you his respects.’

  It was a different Gerta, cool and buttoned, and Hathaway felt a moment’s ache.

  There was a further pair of formal sentences of greeting, then Auerstein turned towards her. ‘Fräulein,’ he said with a little bow, like a willow creaking, ‘I bid you welcome to my house. A friend of Waldeck is a friend of Auerstein, and you honour me by your visit.’ It was charming, and cold. I do not feel welcome, and yet I am being welcomed. The hallway, chequerboard tiles and lots of wood, stank of ancient duties.

  She said something formal and gracious, and Auerstein left them in the care of a housekeeper.

  From the walls, stuffed animal heads stared down at Hathaway, extravagantly horned and haughty.

  Another reception at the British Embassy, the glittering from chandeliers and chests, colours and feathers and a hundred murmurs. The British ambassador was saying to the minister of finance, ‘Now that’s a name I keep hearing: Riza. He’s one of yours, isn’t he? Won’t say he’s been exactly helpful to us – been pretty strict with our people on some of the procedures, I understand – but he’s certainly most impressive. Must be reassuring to you to have that sort of chap’s loyalty.’

  Cade had contrived to be nearby; he turned away with a smile. Might help.

  The white tie and get-up was feeling a bit stiff; perhaps he was putting on weight. He wriggled inside the waistcoat, and gazed around the hall. He’d a list of half a dozen people he wanted to see. To two – including the minister – he wanted to give only a couple of words of acknowledgement and respect; keep himself in the picture. He wanted to nag Burley on a point of embassy procedure with his correspondence, he wanted to get a meeting with the Austrian deputy ambassador to get recommendations of possible commercial contacts, and he wanted to talk shop with a couple of foreign merchants.

  He did not want to see Muhtar. Actually, he did, in a Leith dockshed with the police paid off and no limit of rules or rounds, so that they could go at it in the old style. ‘Mr Cade!’ But here he was. At least there had been a ‘Mr’. Perhaps he was feeling a little humbler now.

  Muhtar stood a few feet off. Their respective stances created a space, but also the first glances of interest.

  ‘You have been most busy, have you not? You are trying to destroy the business of my family.’

  ‘All business is risk, sir.’ He said it quietly. ‘You should not take on more than you can suffer.’

  ‘And how much can you suffer?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll bear up. Try me. Next time, rather than sending your thugs to cripple a lad, you come and call on me, and we’ll settle it ourselves.’

  For a moment Muhtar seemed to be considering it. Then he pulled himself up into a kind of dignity. ‘Hardly the behaviour of gentlemen.’

  ‘I’ve no claim to be a gentleman, Muhtar. And you surely do not.’

  Muhtar was heating up properly, but held himself in. ‘And have you considered our little discussion about your attitude to other people’s treasures, Mr Cade?’

  The arrogance of it, and the crassness in this setting with so many people around, were staggering. Oh, laddie, you’ve not a clue about the Scots, have you?

  He leaned forwards, pleasant. ‘I have, Mr Muhtar. And I’ll see you in hell; we could discuss it further at that point, but until then I’ll mind my own affairs and I suggest you do the like.’

  He’d meant it to be discreet; but the curse at least had travelled, and there were a couple of wide glances and what might have been a gasp.

  Muhtar gaped at him, then turned away, looking rather stiff.

  It took a few moments to focus on the faces around him again. The whirl of colours and chatter spun past, and his anger eased. There was a face in front of him: sort of solid – a moustache large but trim – fit-looking type of fellow. ‘Mr Cade?’

  Recapturing courtesy. ‘I am.’

  ‘I’m Major Valentine Knox. I’ve been hoping to catch up with you.’

  In the world of Constantinople, the theatricals and the emotions, London seemed more than a continent away. It took Cade a moment. The man in front of him waited, silent.

  ‘Of course. I was told to expect you. You’re – you’re out of uniform.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you. Bit less conspicuous.’ Knox glanced around the hall. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Fine! Grand. Some… some promising stuff, I think. I’ve sent four reports.’

  ‘This evening is us meeting for the first time, and you as a friendly sort of chap inviting me as a new boy in town to call on you tomorrow. We can talk shop then.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What was up with that chap just now? Looked a bit fraught.’

  Parts of his world colliding. ‘That? Oh… he’s nothing. Misunderstanding. Don’t really know him.’

  Major Knox considered this; considered Cade. ‘I see.’

  ‘Herr Krug: Colonel Nicolai’s reporting shows that the Englishwoman Hathaway is going on to stay at the Margaretenhof.’

  ‘I know that name, surely.’

  ‘It is the country estate of Auerstein, the—’

  ‘Auerstein?’

  ‘The old—’

  ‘I know who he is, Hildebrandt. Auerstein… Why do I—’ Krug darted to his desk with a speed that Hildebrandt had never seen in him, an arm stretching for a report. ‘Just yesterday… Yes! The British were conducting a check on Auerstein. But why…?’

  ‘He is quite well known for—’

  ‘Think, man!’ Hildebrandt flinched. ‘Or be silent. Or go and enlist as one of Nicolai’s policemen. An Englishwoman is travelling in Germany; it is nothing. Our reports show her to be unusual; it is trivial. German Military Intelligence mark her in the same café as a suspect Englishman; perhaps it is happenstance. But then Fräulein Hathaway decides to visit Auerstein, and within days British Intelligence are reviewing their records on Auerstein.’ He turned, face alight. ‘My friend, I think we will have a little gift for the worthy Nicolai.’ Then he was away into his papers again. ‘Oh, Fräulein Hathaway, you are altogether too much of a coincidence…’

  Seeing ourselves as others see us. Major Knox was sitting in Cade’s guest chair in the office, and Major Knox was appraising Cade. In his own chair, Cade was wondering what he was seeing.

  The council or the police come to check up on something. One of his own visits to a warehouse or a shop. Looking for the frayed edges. Listening for the false note. But nothing frayed or false in Cade & Cade. He felt a little surge of warmth at his father’s traditions, and his own fitness to uphold them. His office, he knew, looked prosperous but not luxurious; prudence and success.

  ‘I stopped into the embassy,’ Knox said. ‘Consensus seems to be you’re making a good thing of it here. London are pleased with what you’ve sent.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Satisfied customer.’

  ‘You’ve two particular sources, I understand.’

  ‘A senior official in the Ministry of Finance and a – well, sort of a clerk – in the Russian Trade Legation. It’s a… a commercial department of the embassy, really; oversees their trading activity; organizes supply to and fro particular Russian missions around the place. Constantinople’s a particular centre for them, because—’

  ‘What are these two bods doing it for?’

  Cade smiled. ‘You think like a merchant, Major Knox. Understanding the deal.’ Knox’s eyes narrowed. ‘My pal in the ministry is offended by the Germans – and others – poking their noses in; pulling the strings. And… I don’t want to s
ound sentimental, but he seems to find me a sympathetic ear. Friendly.’

  ‘Good. Nothing wrong with that. Can be the best possible bond. Sometimes the hardest to maintain.’

  ‘Gold sovereigns a bit less emotional, eh? That seems to be my appeal to the other lad.’

  ‘How did you come across him?’

  ‘Sort of threw himself at me. Spotted me as a likely source of spending money, I think.’ Knox nodded, once, but it was acknowledgement only, no comment or approval. ‘I’ve got a little puzzle with him at the moment, as it happens.’

  Knox’s eyebrows came up. Behind the moustache, nothing else.

  ‘I told him I wanted to know more about what the Russians are up to in Persia. Intentions; strategy. Seemed to be the sort of thing London would care to know.’ A nod. ‘Well, turns out there is such a thing – a document – because he’s heard his boss talking about it. But he’s not seen it; he was away when it was received, and it’s kept in a locked cupboard in the boss’s office, along with other important papers.’

  ‘Could he be persuaded to have a go?’

  ‘I’ve tried. Pushed him; promised him all the money in London. Not a chance.’ Jozef’s face this morning, dappled and flickering as they walked under the trees on the waterfront, and alarmed. ‘Got to the point I was scaring him, so I dropped it.’ The game becoming real.

  ‘Worth us having a go?’

  Cade’s face twisted. ‘Like your spirit, Major. I’ve the layout of the place from him, exact. But… well, I’m reluctant myself, tell you the truth. I’m fool enough for most games, but if I was caught – even linked…’ He shook his head. ‘If you tell me there’s something there that’s worth burning my whole position for, I’d consider it, but…’

  Knox grunted agreement. The suggestion of a smile under the moustache. ‘Not you, then.’

  ‘How’s your Russian, Major?’ Knox began to see the point. ‘The documents so far have been in English, I suppose because they get seen by some people in the chain who aren’t Russian. This document’s more likely in Russian.’