“I am to stay with you for the next few days.”
“Stay? Here?” She waved her hand, and the servant who had admitted him left the room. “I’m not sure Harvey will agree.”
“Harvey has already done so. This is a most vital matter, Julia.”
“To do with us?” There were pink spots in her cheeks.
“No. It is an international business. I may as well tell you, Caterina is in Sarajevo with some of her friends.”
“You mean she has left you again?”
“No. She is working for a secret organisation, which means to assassinate the Archduke when he comes here on Sunday.”
“Caterina? Murder? That sweet little girl?”
“Believe me, she comes from a long line of assassins.”
“Good Lord!” She got up, poured them each a glass of sherry. “When did you find out?”
“I knew it before I married her. It is a very long story, and I really do not wish to go into it now. The important thing is that she, and her friends, are stopped. I have sent Harvey to warn the local police. My job is to find her.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Not precisely, but I think I can find out. All I need is somewhere to stay, out of the eye of the police, until I do that.”
“And then?”
“I shall carry her across the border to Serbia, and make sure she doesn’t do anything like this again.”
She sipped her drink. “And us? When do you complete your mission? Or is this a part of it?”
“My mission is completed.”
“Well, then . . .”
“But I must sort out this mess before I can consider anything else.”
“I see,” she said coldly.
“Look, Julia, please be adult about this,” Berkeley said. “I cannot stand by and allow my wife either to commit murder or be hanged.”
“Of course. I understand where your duty must lie, Berkeley. And I must stand back and act the good wife to Harvey and wait, patiently. I will show you to your room.”
“I am grateful for your understanding,” Berkeley said. “And for the use of your house. But the sooner I start on finding Caterina the better for all of us. I will see you at dinner.”
He kissed her hand.
*
Berkeley headed towards the old part of the city and asked a policeman for the whereabouts of Hamid the Cobbler. The directions were simple enough, the distance not far. There were crowds of people on the streets, but few took much interest in the tall, well-dressed and obviously foreign gentleman who walked with a slight limp, swinging his cane, even if he was also untidy and unshaven.
He entered the shop, where a big, heavy man was bent over a workbench.
“Hamid?” Berkeley asked.
The cobbler looked up. “I am Hamid.” He spoke Serbo-Croat.
“I am looking for my wife.”
Hamid gazed at him.
“Her name is Caterina Townsend,” Berkeley said.
Hamid’s eyes flickered. “I know no one of that name.”
Berkeley glanced at the street and the people, then at a door leading to the interior of the shop. “I think we need to speak in private.”
“I have no desire to speak with you in private,” Hamid said.
Berkeley unbuttoned his jacket to reveal the Browning in his belt. “I think you do.”
Hamid gazed at the gun, swallowed, and laid down his hammer. “Why do you wish to find this woman, Caterina Townsend?”
“Because she is my wife.”
“I know a woman called Caterina Slovitza,” Hamid said.
“She’ll do. Where is she?”
“I do not know. But she is coming here, tomorrow.”
Berkeley considered him: the man was clearly lying, but about what? The Englishman had very little choice – to start a fracas now, even if it meant taking this man inside and shooting him, would not bring him any nearer to finding Caterina. It might, in fact, make it impossible.
“Very well,” he said. “I will return tomorrow. At what time?”
“She will be here at ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Thank you. And Hamid, if she is not here, I am going to place you under arrest and hand you over to the police to be hanged for conspiracy. Please bear this in mind.”
Hamid glowered at him and picked up his hammer.
Berkeley returned to the consul’s house, slowly. He had no desire to be alone with Julia right now. His relations with her, and with Caterina, were simply too ambivalent to be considered. He could only concentrate on the immediate business of saving Caterina’s life . . . and preventing a war!
Braddock was already at home when he returned. The consul was in a very excited state. “They won’t hear of it,” he said.
“You told them of the plot?”
“They were totally contemptuous. There are always plots, they said. If we were to cancel or postpone every visit by royalty because of a supposed plot, no one would ever leave Vienna. And even in Vienna there are plots. Have you found your wife?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what are we to do?”
“I think I am going to be able to find her, tomorrow.”
“And her accomplices?”
“I’m working on it. Look, you have done all you can. You heard of this plot, and you did your duty and warned the police. If they choose to ignore your warning, that is their business. No blame can be attached to you.”
“But if they find out that I have you staying in my house . . .”
“I shall be gone before they can make anything of that.” Berkeley smiled at them both. “I’m for an early night. Tomorrow may be a busy day.”
“You realise that Julia and I are on the official guest list, to meet the Archduke at the town hall?”
“Then I suggest you get a good night’s sleep as well,” Berkeley recommended.
He was less sanguine than he made himself appear. He was still working very much in the dark. He did not know how many of Gregory’s pupils were involved, and he did not know the extent of Caterina’s own involvement. Nor did he yet know the exact assassination plot. These were things he would have to find out tomorrow. And then? He could not hand the conspirators over to the police without involving Caterina. And merely to remove Caterina would not prevent the plot. He simply had to overawe them, use his position as field commander of the Hand to make them abandon the conspiracy.
Schoolboys!
*
“What are you going to do when you find her?” Braddock asked at breakfast.
Berkeley had, somewhat to his surprise, slept well; even Julia had had the sense not to attempt to come to him with her husband in the house.
“I may bring her back here, in the first instance,” he said. “Will that be all right?”
Braddock glanced at his wife nervously. “I suppose so. But it does involve us rather heavily.”
“My wife is a British citizen,” Berkeley reminded him. “And therefore is entitled to the protection of the British consul until I can get her out of the country.”
“Yes, I suppose that is true. But if she is involved in anarchy . . .”
“She will, at worst, have to be deported. But I would still hope to get her out of the country before it comes to that.”
“I see. And her friends?”
“They may have to take their chances. But they are all very young. We may be able to work something out there. Now I must be off.”
“And good luck,” Braddock said.
“I’ll put out fresh towels,” Julia volunteered. “For Caterina, when she comes.”
“Thank you,” Berkeley said.
He hurried to the cobbler’s shop. As it was a Saturday, the streets were even more crowded than the previous day, and now, as he had changed his clothes and shaved and wore a top hat, he was even more conspicuous.
He looked for an increased police presence but there was hardly a uniform to be seen. Either the authorities were indeed
determined to ignore Braddock’s warning, or they were using plain-clothes men to infiltrate the crowds. He had to hope it was the latter.
Hamid the Cobbler was working as before; the shop was otherwise empty. But he seemed in a better humour today. “Ah, General Townsend,” he said. “I will put up a plaque, that on the twenty-seventh of June 1914 my shop was visited, a second time, by so famous a man.”
“Where is my wife?” Berkeley demanded.
“Inside.”
Berkeley was surprised. This was too easy. “Is she alone?”
“Of course.”
As before, Berkeley had no doubt he was lying. “If she is not,” he said. “I will come back and talk to you about it.” He unbuttoned his jacket, went to the door, tried the handle. The door was not locked, and he pushed it in while remaining in the shop.
There was a lantern glowing to illuminate the otherwise dark interior, revealing a poorly furnished Moslem dwelling. Caterina stood on the far side of the room, facing him. Her face was composed, but defiant.
Berkeley stepped inside, keeping his back to the wall, while he took in the rest of the room. It certainly appeared to be empty. “You are an incredibly silly little girl,” he remarked, in English.
“You have always carried out your duty, obeyed orders, and been proud of it,” she said. “Women can have orders, duty, too.”
“Killing, and being killed, is man’s work.”
“That is a matter of opinion.”
“And who gave you these orders that have to be carried out?”
“Gregory.”
“Gregory is dead.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You killed him? You killed Gregory?”
“No, I did not, Karlovy did that. Actually, he was shooting at me. Still, the fact is they are both dead. Therefore I am now in command. And I am aborting this conspiracy, now. You will return with me to Sabac.”
“You were never in command,” she snapped. “If Gregory is dead, then I am in command. And I will avenge my parents.”
“Caterina . . .” He stepped towards her, and the door behind him opened. He had been careless – too many years of relying on Lockwood always to guard his back. But Lockwood was in Belgrade by now.
His hand dropped to the Browning, but Caterina had already drawn her weapon. “Please do not make me do it,” she said.
Berkeley hesitated. He could kill her, but equally she could at least hit him. And if he died now, it would not stop what was going to happen.
Even supposing he could kill Caterina.
A gun muzzle was thrust into his back, and a hand came round to secure the Browning.
“Do not harm him,” Caterina said. “I am sorry, Berkeley, but you must remain here for the next twenty-four hours. Then you will be free to go. I give you my word.”
“You foolish girl,” he said. “You are going to get yourself killed.”
“I will have done my duty.”
There were several men in the room now, and one came round in front. Berkeley recognised Princip.
“Why has he come here?” the boy asked.
“To tell us that Gregory is dead,” Caterina said.
“Gregory? You killed him!” Princip accused.
“No, Karlovy killed him,” Caterina said, “apparently by accident. Nothing has changed, except that we owe it to Gregory to succeed in our mission.”
“And him?”
“My husband will stay here until our task has been completed.”
How like her mother she had become.
“Take him into the inner room,” she said, and opened the door behind her.
This led into a bedroom, with a single four-poster bed, a table, a straight chair, and another table with a washbasin and ewer. Through another open door there was a toilet.
“I’m afraid we must tie you to the bed, Berkeley,” she said. “There will be someone with you at all times, to release you to use the toilet or to eat. This man will be armed, and he will not hesitate to shoot you if you attempt to attack him or escape. Please be sensible. And perhaps it may be possible . . . Well, all things are possible.”
“You are committing suicide,” Berkeley said again.
“I am doing what must be done,” she said. “Please lie on the bed.”
There were now seven people in the room with him. All were very young and therefore inexperienced. But he did not suppose he could take them all on together. On the other hand, if they intended to leave him with but a single gaoler . . . Even Caterina, who had seen him in action, did not really know with what she was contending.
He lay on the bed, and his arms and legs were extended and secured to the four uprights. Caterina gazed at him for several seconds, but with no suggestion of love in her eyes, then went to the door, followed by her henchmen. One of the boys remained. He sat on the chair behind the table, facing the bed, ostentatiously placing a revolver on the table in front of him.
Berkeley did some calculations. It was now getting on for midday on Saturday. There were still twenty-four hours to go. The first priority was what Braddock and Julia might do if he did not return to lunch. Go back to the police? That was a possibility. But as they had no idea where he had gone, he doubted they would do that.
More likely they would just sit tight and hope he would turn up. That was certainly Braddock’s line of behaviour, whether or not he suspected a liaison with his wife. So, forget them.
He had twenty-four hours to get out of here. The only way he was going to stop an attack on the Archduke was by arresting all the Hand members in Sarajevo. Which might mean having to kill them. Including Caterina? And he did not know how many of them there were.
“So tell me,” he said pleasantly to the boy, “what is going to happen tomorrow?”
“You know what is going to happen, General,” the boy said. “We are going to execute the Archduke.”
“And his wife?”
“If she gets in the way.”
“I see. How are you going to do it?”
“A bomb will be thrown into their car while they are going to the town hall for the official reception.”
“You are likely to kill more than just the Archduke. And his wife.”
“That is the fortune of war,” the boy said.
Berkeley forced himself to be patient, to give the other conspirators time to leave the shop, but as it happened, before he was ready to make any move, Hamid came in with his lunch. The food was for all three of them, and the two men sat at the table, both with loaded revolvers in front of them, while Berkeley sat on the bed and ate the mutton stew, washed down by some rough red wine. He was then allowed to use the toilet, again watched by both men.
Caterina was not as innocent as he had supposed.
This went on for the rest of the day. One of the men was always with him, while presumably the other slept, but whenever he needed to be released the second gaoler was always called.
Here was a problem. They always kept their distance, and he was required to eat with his fingers. There seemed no way he could get at them. Unless . . .
That evening, when being allowed to use the toilet, he suddenly gasped and collapsed on the floor. Neither man approached him.
“What has happened to him?” the boy asked.
“It is some kind of attack,” Hamid said.
“What should we do? Suppose he dies?”
“Then he dies,” Hamid said. “It could also be some kind of a trick. Let him lie there.”
They waited, and after a while Berkeley gave up: lying on the cold stone floor was distinctly uncomfortable.
“That was a nasty turn,” he said, raising his arms as they pointed their guns at him.
They tied him to the bed.
Now he was becoming quite desperate. The hours were ticking away. This evening the Archduke and his wife and entourage would be arriving in the city. The boy had said a bomb would be thrown the next day outside the town hall, but there might also be an earlier attack.
And he c
ould do nothing about it.
He fell asleep from sheer mental exhaustion, trying desperately to think of some way of getting out of his prison without being instantly shot. But there was none. He awoke with a start and in a cold sweat. Sunday morning; it was going to happen within a couple of hours.
He turned his head and saw to his amazement that there was no one sitting at the table. He frowned, looked left and right. The lantern had been turned down and the room was very gloomy, the only daylight seeping in from under the door. But he was definitely alone.
Now was no time for finesse. He began to strain on his bonds, working both arms and legs with desperate urgency. The bed creaked noisily but no one came in. When he listened, he deduced there was no one in the shop either.
Equally, there was no great noise on the street. Nothing had happened yet.
He resumed work, panting and gasping. He knew there was no rope which would not slacken over a period of time. But how much time? He had no means of telling, save that even in the closed room it gradually grew brighter as the sun got higher; and hotter too, although that was at least partly his own body heat caused by his exertions.
He was almost despairing when there was a crack, and one of the posts fell in. The others followed immediately, and he could only be grateful that there was no canopy, or he might have been smothered.
But the collapse of the bed had slackened the ropes, and within ten minutes he was free. He seized the ewer, took a drink, and then poured some over his face. Then he contemplated the door; but that was not going to stop him now. He hurled himself against it, and it cracked. It took him several charges, and a badly bruised shoulder, before one of the panels splintered sufficiently for him to tear it out and get his hand through to slip the bolt.
The next room was empty, as it had to be or someone would have heard what he was doing. The street door was also closed, but as he went towards it, it swung in, to reveal Hamid.
“You were careless,” Berkeley said.
“The boy would go to see the fun,” Hamid said, and swung the hammer he was carrying.
Berkeley caught the wrist in his left hand and hit the cobbler with his right, putting all of his pent-up fury, frustration and fear into the blow, which struck Hamid in the stomach, and had him on his knees, gasping for breath. Berkeley wrenched the hammer from his hand, and as Hamid made another grab for his knees, used it to strike down. Hamid struck the floor on his face without a sound. Blood trickled from his scalp. Berkeley did not know whether he was dead or not, and he did not have the time to find out.
To All Eternity Page 30
