The Spider of Sarajevo

by Robert Wilton

  Fat chance. For when he strolled out into the night, through the cobbled streets towards the Fortress, and was tempted into a café, sudden bright art nouveau elegance after the ancient gloom outside, the first face he saw was Belcredi.

  Damn the man. It had to be coincidence, but… And a hatred for the whole stupid game swelled in his chest, a refusal to skulk around after other men.

  If he’s innocent then I will seem innocent; if he’s not, then I have nothing to lose.

  ‘It’s Herr Belcredi, isn’t it?’ Ballentyne said pleasantly, dropping into a chair, and saw the shock. You knew. You bastard, you guilty… You were after me. ‘Recognize you from a photograph. We’ve never met, but I’ve heard about you. Ronald Ballentyne. Thought I’d come and say hallo.’ He smiled, with all the malice he could find. ‘Do I disturb you?’

  ‘Herr Ballentyne.’ Calculating furiously. The sense that for once his enemies were on the back foot meant a great deal to Ballentyne; he held the smile. ‘I’ve read, of course… Yes. Customs in the Albanian villages; property marking and property disputes, that was you, I think?’

  Ballentyne nodded. Part of his brain maintained the fiction that this was a civilized conversation between scholars.

  ‘That’s me. I wondered if I might have seen you at one of the conferences – Lyons, or the Royal Anthropological last year – but I don’t think you were there.’

  Belcredi looked nettled. ‘My theories do not always appeal to the old men.’

  ‘We’re a new science, Herr Belcredi. Our pioneers must be men of courage.’

  And, insanely, they talked. Belcredi was open about his travels among the Muslims of different countries of the region, the residue of half a millennium of Turkish rule. Ballentyne ordered a whisky, and Belcredi even sought his opinion on the attitudes of the Christian villagers of the mountains.

  A moment of earnestness, but as if by mutual embarrassment they moved on hurriedly.

  ‘You’re still chasing your thesis of the affinity of the Muslims and the German peoples?’

  Belcredi smiled; proud, patronizing. ‘The Muslims who live in the old empires – the Turkish Empire, and also others – they are unhappy, Ballentyne.’ The smile, a little manic. ‘I help them to… articulate their unhappiness. I try to understand it. You can appreciate that, I think.’

  ‘You’re exploiting their beliefs. Their simplicity.’

  ‘If the great imperial powers make war on the Teutonic races, the people who have suffered in those empires must react as the instinct takes them.’ Ballentyne considered this sourly. ‘And what of you? You… You’re a distance from your villages.’

  He knew I was here, and he was trying to track me. Did he know that I knew he was here? If either of us was innocent, this approach would seem natural.

  But neither of us is innocent any more.

  Late in the afternoon at the Margaretenhof, with the light cool on the hall’s chequerboard tiles, a woman’s hand – unwatched – had placed an envelope in the basket from which a servant would soon take letters to the post office. Even sooner, a man’s hand – unwatched – took the envelope out again.

  Later, elsewhere: ‘Hildebrandt, I have had a telegram from my acquaintance at the Margaretenhof.’

  Hildebrandt waited.

  ‘Do I infer that German Military Intelligence has had some little difficulty there?’

  Still he waited.

  ‘Well, perhaps I may at least be able to help Colonel Nicolai, in my small way. Having guessed that she had aroused the concern of your colleagues, my man has intercepted a letter that Fräulein Hathaway was sending home.’ Now Hildebrandt started to smile. ‘Naturally I do not wish to—’

  ‘The Englishwoman acquired the key of one of von Moltke’s aides, broke into the man’s room, exchanged his document case for a few hours, and has therefore gained sight of the most sensitive papers.’

  Krug’s control broke into a delighted smile, and then he tutted elaborately. ‘This lone young woman? In the heart of Germany, with all those Military Intelligence experts around?’ A deep breath. ‘I confess a growing interest in Fräulein Flora Hathaway. My correspondent writes of her… in almost emotional terms.’ The smile, and the affectations, switched off. ‘His intervention – my network – has afforded you a small delay in the sending of the letter, but soon it must be allowed to be sent. I do not make my activities known. You leave for Belgrade at any moment, I think, and your Englishman?’ Hildebrandt nodded, and Krug echoed the gesture. ‘You have your hunter’s eye. Before you go, kindly urge Colonel Nicolai to do promptly whatever he needs to with Miss Hathaway.’

  Days passed empty for Duval in St Petersburg. A city of great beauty, with ugly people forced into hiding by its grandeur. A city of refinement, where barbarism lurked in shadows and public offices. A city of all his pleasures, but he couldn’t seem to care about any of them. The prospect of a woman, of a drink, of a ballet: trivial; fatuous.

  He found Rüdiger Frosch as instructed and watched him in two cafés before approaching him in the bar of the Grand Hotel.

  The German was a caricature of joviality, a gallery of smiles and nudges, and eyes that promised to keep on swelling until a joke was shared. He ignored Duval’s claim to be an Irish nationalist sympathizer who’d been told by friends of his part in smuggling rifles to Ulster. ‘Assertions of identity are so irrelevant, are they not?’ Another smile. ‘Come! Sit – sit!’ They sat at a newly empty table. ‘On which side of the Irish Sea are these friends?’ Duval flinched, and Frosch laughed gaily. ‘Oh, such a muddle in Britain in these days, or no?’

  Duval tried to look grave. ‘Accusations of treachery aren’t something we take lightly. Either side of the Irish Sea.’

  ‘Of course! Every luxury in the British Empire, including the luxury of principle. The rest of us cannot be so pedantic.’ Duval’s face still merited a giggle, it seemed. ‘Come, my friend. One half of London and one half of the British Army supports the men who got those rifles. I should apply for a government pension.’

  Duval managed to chuckle. ‘You probably know better than I do how much support there was. It went so high?’

  ‘My dear fellow, King George the Fifth gave me his personal blessing. No, you don’t get no names from me. Most of them are known by the newspapers anyway. Just think about it: that whole shipment, and most of all the payment – how was that managed, without many blind eyes and deaf ears?’

  ‘They must have been laughing in Berlin – seeing the British tearing at each other for once.’

  ‘Who needs Tirpitz and his battleships, when they can start a civil war instead?’

  Duval took a breath. ‘Hence the, er, the extra cargo.’

  Frosch’s grin died, and then after a moment’s consideration was reborn as a smile. ‘Ah, you heard about him. Well, even the British might not start a civil war without a little help. But here’s a free secret for you’ – he leaned in, and so Duval did the same – ‘he wasn’t Berlin official. Our people didn’t know him; their people didn’t know about him. So, we ask ourselves’ – a single finger waggled rhetorically – ‘who was he then? And we answer— Ah! My dear friend! No, no, join us!’ The newcomer was the image of a respectable clerk. Spectacles; neat moustache; cautious – especially at being yanked down into a chair by a drunk German smuggler. Frosch was oblivious. ‘You will enjoy this, my friend. We were complimenting Berlin on provoking a civil war in Britain and so not having to fight a war themselves.’

  A superior, lifeless smile emerged from under the moustache. ‘It is not against Britain that Germany wants to fight her war, but against her own working men. Even if the lion gave up his empire tomorrow and all his warships, Germany would still find a pretext for war, against someone, because they would rather that the German proletarian was fighting in France or in Russia, and not in the streets of Berlin.’

  Frosch leaned towards Duval and spoke in a stage whisper that could have been heard ten feet away. ‘Afanasiev is a true revolutionary
. A Menshevik. He comes to the Grand to slaughter the rich, or no? But not before pudding, heh?’

  ‘First there is comedy,’ Afanasiev said primly; ‘then there is tragedy. I will meet with anyone, anywhere, who is ready to discuss a more equal society.’

  Frosch spoke over the last words. ‘So to say, here we are! What a crew! One, the shipper and smuggler’ – he slapped his chest – ‘whose companions must suspect he is a German spy.’ The grin flashed. ‘No? Two, the anarchist who has a good chance of being an Okhrana spy. And three, the Irish who could be spying for Russia, for Britain, or even for Germany.’ Duval felt his empty stomach; Afanasiev looked like a respectable clerk who’d been told a dirty joke.

  Frosch raised his hands in show of harmlessness. ‘But don’t worry, dear friends. We have nothing to fear! In the unlikely situation that we all speak the truth, God blesses us for our holiness and he keeps us safe. Or, as long as we are all three spies, we drink together very happily, yes?’ Duval, caught between amusement and concern, waited for the punchline. Frosch leaned in, head low and leering up at them. ‘But heaven protect the man who alone is telling the truth, for he’s in real trouble!’ And his head lurched back and burst into giggles. He’d thought that was very funny.

  A smile crept over Afanasiev’s face, dead. He excused himself.

  The grin disappeared from Frosch’s face like a light going out, and he watched the Russian’s back weaving through the tables. ‘Revolutionaries I don’t mind; good tough businessmen. But why can’t they none of them have a sense of humour?’ His hand fell fat on Duval’s wrist, while his eyes continued to watch Afanasiev out. ‘Well, my friend, whatever you are. Have you got what you wanted? Can we share a little supper now?’

  Together they put away a mountain of roast duck and apple, harassed the waiters and got more than half drunk. Frosch chattered of his activities, without once giving a name or a fact that could interest the police. His integrity was a professional asset rather than a scruple, and people were mentioned in the same dispassionate tone as shipping crates. And to be abandoned as easily; Duval got the impression that more than one had been lost in transit over the years. Duval accepted the role of apprentice, and amused the German with stories of his little schemes and exploits.

  They’d got on to characters they’d met on their travels – without naming names – and in the middle of this comparison of rogues great and small Frosch started to describe a Latin who travelled Europe: ‘Always a pretty woman, always some game – little game, yes? Deception, smuggling, fraud – always luxury; his father was a shopkeeper, but sometimes he calls himself a marquis even. I could not—’

  And Duval had blurted ‘Valfierno’ before thinking.

  Frosch’s smile died, and the face and body sagged. ‘You do business after all.’ The eyes were cold again.

  ‘No – honestly, no.’

  ‘You have business with this man.’

  ‘No. I have… I have unfinished business with a woman he called his daughter.’

  Frosch watched, considered. He hadn’t quite caught his breath after his cataloguing; he sighed twice. The second sigh caught in his throat, and became a chuckle, which rose into laughter, and then he was shaking and roaring and punching Duval on the arm. ‘In all this! In this time, and this world, that is what you think of! Oh, my friend, I like you very much.’ He put his arm round Duval’s shoulder. ‘We have another bottle, yes? Then I tell you proper secret, about Vienna.’ He yelled for the waiter.

  When Duval got back to the Angleterre, Lisson was waiting in the lobby, a policeman slumped on the sofa beside him. Duval’s levity shrivelled immediately.

  Lisson seemed uncomfortable, which was an improvement. ‘Look, Duval: sordid business; you’re one of the few who can identify her. Might do yourself a favour, too; and us. Regain some good odour with the Russians. Make up for the inconvenience you’ve caused us all, what?’

  The body had been found in an attic room in the Sennaya; if the landlady had been less nosey, it might have lain there much longer. The policeman’s lantern made ill shadows of the damp and the peeling paper as they climbed, flight after flight of stairs.

  The room when they reached it was mean: a mattress without sheets, a shelf without books, a table without a chair, a small skylight without light. On the mattress, a pale thin underdress veiling a pale thin body – a hip bone, her breasts, pushed ghostly through the material – was the woman called Anna.

  The police had found an empty bottle next to the body; they suspected an overdose of laudanum.

  ‘So? This is woman? This is woman on train?’ The policeman escorting him was barely five feet tall.

  They’d found almost nothing in her bag. What she’d brought out of Germany and the night train she’d lost, given, or hidden; or the landlady had taken it, or the police.

  ‘You recognize?’

  Her young sleep face, white and transparent.

  He thought of it alive, thought of her skipping out of Germany ahead of the police, lighting on him, her hand under his arm.

  He took a breath; shook his head. ‘This isn’t her. She’s still free somewhere.’

  The day after her liaison with the major’s document case, Hathaway had woken surprised to find herself waking at all, and had wanted to avoid all human contact. But a late appearance for breakfast had happened to coincide with a mime-show, from the other end of the room, of Immelmann presenting Colonel Bauer with his document case. Immelmann concerned; Bauer indifferent but then registering the concern and wondering where he’d thought his case was and wandering off; Immelmann becalmed, unwilling to sit, glancing around the room, catching her eye. What is natural now? Then Bauer was back with reassurance and Immelmann’s case, and the mistake was rectified, and Bauer sat down with the cheeriness of a man who has done a good deed for an influential subordinate before breakfast. Immelmann sat, still looking out of sorts.

  Clearly he had found his key, or a spare. Clearly nothing had been linked to Hathaway, otherwise… surely they would have confronted her by now. Wouldn’t they?

  Gerta had not appeared for breakfast. Hathaway had spent the day hiding in the library; had returned to her room to retrieve a thick letter to her uncle from within the pages of a book; had put the letter out for posting; had retired to her room until dinner.

  There had been more guests at dinner; the talk had been of the next day’s shooting. Hathaway had buried herself satisfactorily among strangers; with their chatter untouched by previous events in the house, with their fresh air of a world outside, she felt the previous evening receding in time and immensity.

  After dinner, in the drawing room, she watched the cards again, until the obtuseness of the woman in front of her became too frustrating. She turned away and found Gerta immediately in front of her.

  For a moment, they waited, watched each other.

  Then Gerta said, ‘Transgressions?’

  Hathaway felt herself smiling faintly. ‘The things of a night.’

  As if a password had been offered, and accepted. Gerta’s fingers brushed her wrist, and they moved apart.

  Hathaway had gone to bed early; slept long, slept well.

  Then this morning: a white sky over the land, breakfast, the house bustling for the shooting, and a memory of duty – a desire to be clearly rid of it. Catching the servant crossing the hall: ‘Pardon me, did my letter – the letter for England – get off all right yesterday?’

  And the servant’s empty face: ‘But there was no letter to England in the basket, Fräulein.’

  Flora Hathaway’s world lurched sick and scared.

  An hour of mist, a treacly nauseous dream. It had all been arranged; everyone was going out to watch the shooting. The men had gone out first, with loaders and dogs. The women followed: Frau Auerstein and the older women in carriages; the younger women walking. Hathaway walked among them, trapped in a platoon of waterproof capes and tweed. The faces all seemed the same: solid-handsome, cold, assured. They chattered like men: cu
rt, boisterous, hard. An army as ominous as any that picked up a rifle and marched for the Kaiser. I should enjoy this company. At any moment they would turn on her, Kurfürstendamm-tailored impeccably mannered harpies, and tear her to pieces. And then they would walk on, haughty and athletic, and challenge their men to do as resolutely with their guns.

  If they had stopped her letter, they were onto her. If they had stopped her letter, she was cut off.

  Gerta walking close by her in the pack, hair pulled back and face fresh in the cold, moving easily in jacket and skirt that hugged her tight at breasts and waist and hips; another von Waldeck painting would have been sold to equip her appropriately for these occasions. Does she know? She turned and smiled at Hathaway, timid, genuine. She does not know.

  Run? To where? Ask for help? From whom?

  From Gerta. What could she do, and what would she do, whose duty had brought them to this place?

  They reached the assembly point after a quarter-hour, a clearing on the edge of scrub and thickets: a crowd of Germans, immaculate and impressive and armed, and one hunted Englishwoman.

  Cautiously, as if she might not be noticed, Hathaway looked for the faces she recognized.

  To her horror, she could tell immediately as she saw them one by one, a first catching of the eyes, which of them knew about her. Immelmann first of all, a gun carried alert and easy, a cold stare and then looking away. He knows. Eckhardt, less comfortable with his gun, did not know. Colonel Bauer was holding his gun tense, as if the Grenadier Guards might be coming through the undergrowth at any time, and he glanced up and saw her and his face hardened and he murmured something to the man beside him and the man stopped checking the breech of his gun and turned to look at her. Not a man she recognized; they were due to join a party from at least one other estate – or was this a confederate summoned from Berlin? Regardless, the two of them knew. Otto Auerstein seemed not to know.