To All Eternity Page 5

  What was more serious, both Russia and Austria were dipping their fingers into the Balkan pie. The Russians claimed to be behaving honourably, as traditional defenders of the Slav race, but the British at least suspected that they had their eyes on the possible acquisition of Constantinople, a Russian dream for many years, and one which Whitehall was determined to frustrate.

  The Austrians were being much more blatant in their desire to get hold of the province of Bosnia-Herzegovina, still officially Turkish but overrun with Austrian traders and merchants. It was pretty generally accepted that the only reason the Austrians had not simply marched in and occupied the province was fear of Russian reaction. This could well provoke a war, which might spread; if Austria was officially allied to Germany and Italy, these were essentially defensive arrangements growing out of fear of Russia and France, who were also allied. Hence the Austrian desire to remain friendly with Britain, which was legally allied to no one save Japan, despite all the press agitation about the Entente Cordial.

  It did seem to Berkeley, however, that with so much suspicion and ambition on every side, the Balkans were a possible source of big trouble, and even if he was on a specific mission it was still his duty, as a serving British officer, to observe and report anything that he supposed might be of use or value to his government. This he fully intended to do, when he got home. But as the train entered Serbia, he became aware of an even more disturbing feeling.

  Serbia was the first of the old Turkish provinces to have gained independence. This had been achieved with both Austrian and Russian assistance, and Serbia had settled down to become a usefully powerful little state, despite being rent within from the rivalry, which in the past had involved even murder, between the two families of Karageorgevich and Obrenovich. The current King, Peter Karageorgevich, had come to power only five years previously, following the murder of Alexander Obrenovich, and the country remained in a very disturbed state.

  He asked Pathenikos about it.

  “Ah, it is very bad,” the Greek said, as usual rolling his eyes. “Since the assassination of King Alexander . . . you know about this?”

  “Remind me.”

  “They say it was his marriage.”

  “I remember reading about it. Not everyone approved. Of the lady.”

  “The lady, Mr Jones? She was hardly that. Her name was Draga Mashin and she was lady-in-waiting to the King’s mother, but was dismissed because of her immoral misconduct. She was ten years older than the King, and she was said to rule him like a mother. So she was very unpopular. But the King was already unpopular, because he ruled like a dictator. His father was forced to abdicate, you must remember. The Serbs have always regarded the Russians as their friends and protectors, but the King excluded the pro-Russian faction from his cabinets and leaned towards Austria.”

  “But didn’t I read that Tsar Nicholas II of Russia attended the marriage?”

  “Yes, he did, sir.”

  “Didn’t that give it the seal of approval?”

  Pathenikos shrugged. “No doubt he was advised to do so by the pro-Russian faction. The point is that the people were very unhappy about the King’s pro-Austrian stance. And when in addition he brought his father back from exile and made him commander-in-chief of the army, well . . .”

  “So a group of army officers invaded the royal palace and shot the King and Queen Draga. But that was five years ago.”

  “Yes, sir. And as a result of that, the Karageorgevichs regained control. King Milan is virulently anti-Austrian, so the entire government policy has been reversed. Yet the country remains unsettled. There are those who side with King Milan, but there are also those who fear the might of Austria, and wonder if the support of Russia is really of any value, certainly since that débâcle in the Far East, and all the social trouble in Russia itself.”

  Berkeley wondered how all this political turmoil was helping Anna Slovitza . . . or otherwise.

  *

  Being badly in need of a bath and a shave he checked them in at a hotel, and sampled some Serbian wine with his dinner. Next morning he paid a visit on the chief of police, who he discovered spoke good English. So Pathenikos was left outside.

  “Mr Jones,” Colonel Savos said thoughtfully. “That is a common name in England, is it not?”

  “Actually, it’s Welsh,” Berkeley said. “Although my family has been English for generations.”

  “Quite so. And you were a soldier before you became a lawyer, and have been wounded.”

  Berkeley raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t really expected to meet a Sherlock Holmes clone in Belgrade.

  Colonel Savos smiled. “It is very simple, really, Mr Jones. Your movements have the precision of a man trained in drill. But you also walk with a limp.”

  “Very good,” Berkeley said. “I was in the Sudan as a soldier, yes. But after I was wounded, I had to try something else, don’t you know.”

  “I understand. And now . . .” He lifted the letter Berkeley had given him and frowned at it. “Anna Slovitza. Inheriting money in England. Very odd.”

  “Do you know the lady?”

  “We have never met. Do you know the lady?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. Only her name.”

  “Yes. Well, I am bound to tell you, Mr Jones, that I do not believe this letter.”

  “I’m sorry, I do not understand.”

  “I do not believe that Madame Slovitza has inherited any money in England.”

  “My dear fellow . . .”

  “Oh, I am not impugning you, sir. But I think you are being duped.”

  “Duped?” Berkeley demanded, suitably outraged.

  “I think this is a means of conveying money from England to Madame Slovitza, certainly, but the money itself, I suspect, is a donation to her cause.”

  “Her cause?”

  “Madame Slovitza is a well-known anarchist, Mr Jones. She is a member of a secret organisation known as the Black Hand. This organisation is directed against Austria. Specifically, the organisation is opposed to an Austrian takeover of Bosnia-Herzegovina. Well, I suppose, so are a lot of people. But not all of them spend their time blowing up trains or railways stations, or assassinating Austrian officials.”

  “Madame Slovitza does this?” Now Berkeley was suitably horrified.

  “There is an application before our courts for her extradition to Austria on a charge of murder, at this moment.”

  “Good lord! Will the application succeed?”

  Which would let him neatly off the hook.

  “I doubt it,” Savos said. “We live in a divided society, Mr Jones. Austria is our near neighbour, and is a most powerful neighbour. She is our biggest trading partner. But all this talk about the possible annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina . . . Were that to happen we would be half surrounded by the Austrian Empire. The army would favour closer relations with Russia. I do not think the judiciary would dare risk the wrath of the army by handing over Madame Slovitza to the Austrians for trial and public execution.”

  So, Berkeley thought, I could well be taking on the entire Serb army. He wondered if Gorman knew that.

  “And where do you stand in this, Colonel?” he asked.

  Savos gave a cold little smile. “I endeavour to keep the peace, Mr Jones.”

  “But you have not actually arrested Madame Slovitza.”

  Savos spread his hands. “She has committed no crime in Serbia. I have no reason to arrest her. Unless the Austrian deposition is successful in the courts.”

  “And you don’t think that is likely to happen. But I have an idea you know where she can be found.”

  “Certainly. As far as I know, she is at her home in Sabac. That is a town to the south-west of here, quite close to the Bosnian border. It is convenient for her, as if things were to go against her here, she could slip across the border before we could arrest her.”

  “Ah. As a matter of fact, that is something else that puzzles me. The lady is apparently Bosnian, yet she seems to be able to co
me and go through Serbia as she chooses. And you describe this place Sabac as her home.”

  “It is not as complicated as you suppose, Mr Jones. Anna Slovitza is Bosnian, as you say. But she was married to a Serb, named Slovitza, and thus has Serbian nationality.”

  “You said, was married.”

  “Yes. Her husband was captured by the Austrians a few years ago, and executed. Which is one reason why she continues the fight, almost recklessly.”

  “I see. I assume you have her address, in this place Sabac?”

  “I do. You mean to go there?”

  “I was sent here to contact Madame Slovitza, and inform her of her inheritance. I’m afraid it’s not my province at this stage to enquire whether it is an inheritance or a means of conveying money for her support. I can only act as instructed by my client in England.”

  “You would not care to divulge this client’s name?”

  “No, I would not,” Berkeley said. “It would be highly unprofessional.”

  “Of course. My secretary will give you the address. But if I may offer a word of caution, Mr Jones: Madame Slovitza is by the nature of her life and occupation a somewhat suspicious person. I think you need to proceed with caution.”

  “But, Colonel, you said she has never committed a crime here in Serbia.”

  Once again Savos’ smile was cold. “She has never committed anything I would consider a crime, Mr Jones.”

  *

  “Which probably means that if she or her friends lynch us they won’t be arrested,” Berkeley suggested to Lockwood.

  “But we are hoping she won’t do that, aren’t we, sir? We saved her life.”

  “Yes,” Berkeley said, feeling more of a despicable cad than ever.

  The line from Belgrade to Zvornik passed through Sabac, and as the distance was only some twenty-five miles they were there quite early the next morning. Now they had come down from the mountains, following the River Sava, and found themselves in a fertile plain. Sabac itself was a bustling river port.

  “It’s just along to the left,” Berkeley said, having committed to memory both the address given him by the Belgrade police and the town plan he had procured.

  Lockwood and Pathenikos hefted the bags and Berkeley strode out in front as well as his limp would let him, swinging his cane. He had formulated an initial plan of action, but that was to account for his return. As for getting her out . . . this had to be in the nature of a reconnaissance. Sabac was, as Savos had said, only a few miles from the Bosnian border. But he doubted that would be the right way to go. There were Austrian agents in Sarajevo, but he did not think they would dare arrest, or even take delivery of, Anna Slovitza. They would need to go north, to Hungary. That meant she would either have to be duped into accompanying them, or physically kidnapped. He rather suspected it would have to be the latter.

  What an occupation for an officer and a gentleman.

  But however he went about it, it would have to be very carefully planned; and if he had some ideas on how it could be done, nothing could be considered until Anna was first of all located, and it was discovered just how well protected she was.

  He deduced very rapidly that English gentlemen were not usual visitors to Sabac. He and his two servants aroused a great deal of interest, and soon there was an honour guard of small boys, and mongrel dogs yelped at him.

  “They want money, your excellency,” Pathenikos explained.

  “Tell them I have nothing to give them,” Berkeley said.

  Pathenikos shouted at the crowd, but did not have any effect, except that the boys shouted back. A few minutes later they were at the address, one of a row of tall, somewhat narrow houses, a few blocks from the river. Berkeley went up the steps and rapped on the door with the handle of his cane. He had to do this several times before a small window was opened.

  Pathenikos had already taken up a position in front of this, and now he spoke in Serbian. Berkeley understood the words English and Madame Slovitza.

  The face – Berkeley decided it belonged to a woman – peered left and right. Then it asked a question.

  “Madame Slovitza,” Pathenikos repeated.

  The woman made a terse remark and closed the window.

  “She says no one by that name lives here,” Pathenikos explained.

  “Then she is lying.”

  “Perhaps the police gave you the wrong address, your excellency.”

  “I do not think they did.” Berkeley rapped again, and when the window opened he thrust his cane into the aperture so that it could not be closed. “Tell her that I have some very important news for Madame Slovitza. From England. From John Smith.”

  Pathenikos translated and the woman replied. “She says we must wait.”

  “Very well. But I am not going to remove my stick.”

  The woman muttered, and disappeared.

  “What did she say?” Berkeley asked.

  “It is not repeatable, your excellency.”

  Berkeley grinned, and while he waited, surveyed the crowd which had now grown to include several men and women. These were all talking loudly.

  “What are they saying?” he asked.

  “They are hostile, your excellency. They ask why you are making this trouble.”

  “I am not making trouble,” Berkeley pointed out. “Yet.”

  There was movement beyond the door, and he heard the scraping of bolts. A moment later the door swung in. The hall was gloomy, but Berkeley stepped inside, to be seized by the shoulder and half thrown forward. He stumbled against a chair, and turned to see the door being slammed and bolted before either Lockwood or Pathenikos could enter.

  “I say,” he said. “My people.”

  His eyes had still not become accustomed to the gloom. But now a man stepped against him, and said something in a low voice. At the same time a long knife was presented to his throat.

  The Bride

  The man was speaking to him in a language he did not understand, and the knife was very close to his throat. Berkeley did not doubt he could deal with him, if necessary, but now that his eyes were accustomed to the gloom he realised there were several other men in the room, and he had not come here to get himself beaten up.

  “Listen,” he said. “I do not understand you. Do you speak German? Nein verstehen?”

  The man apparently did not speak German. He was in any event distracted by a banging on the door. Faithful Lockwood. Lockwood had the baggage, and in the baggage were their guns. But he would hardly start shooting on the street.

  “Listen,” he said again, and had an inspiration: he had a few words of Yiddish. “Ikh heys John Smith. Ikh bin an guter fraynd Madame Slovitza.”

  At last, communication. “You are lying,” said the man, also speaking Yiddish.

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  There was more banging on the door. The man with the knife gave instructions in Serbian, and two of the other men came forward, each taking one of Berkeley’s arms, to push him through an inner doorway. Here there was another hall, and a flight of steps leading up. He realised he had lost his hat, but was not given the opportunity to look for it.

  “We go up,” one of them said.

  “My people?”

  “They will be sent away.”

  “Listen, old boy,” Berkeley said, “you are not attempting to imprison me, are you? I am a personal friend of Colonel Savos.”

  Which was drawing the bow a bit, but these people couldn’t know that.

  They reached the first floor, and a corridor. A door on the right was opened, and he was pushed into a surprisingly well-furnished reception room, although here again, as there were shutters over the windows, it was extremely gloomy.

  “Colonel Savos sent you here?” asked one of the men.

  “No, he did not send me. But he knew I was coming; he gave me the address. He is expecting me back in Belgrade tomorrow morning.”

  “You are a police spy.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I am a close frie
nd of Madame Slovitza’s. I saved her life, quite recently. Perhaps you know of this. Now I need her help in return.”

  The two men considered him, and spoke to each other in Serbian. Then the spokesman said, “You will wait here.”

  It was Berkeley’s turn to consider. But he could not break his way out without engaging in a great deal of violence and possibly endangering his life; and to attempt it would not help him get close enough to Anna to arrest her. Lockwood was quite capable of operating on his own for a few hours.

  “You mean, I must wait for Madame Slovitza?”

  “Perhaps. Do not make trouble.”

  They closed the door behind themselves, and he heard a key being turned in the lock. They had definitely taken him prisoner.

  He opened the shutters but predictably there were bars beyond, and he was looking down at an inner courtyard in any event. But at least he had allowed some daylight into the room, and his first impression of comfortable elegance was confirmed. The home of an anarchist chieftainess, he thought. But there was money here.

  He took a turn around the room, looking at the various photographs in the gilt and silver frames on the dark-polished table and mantelpiece: a strikingly handsome man, in an absurd Napoleonic pose, one hand thrust into his jacket, chin tilted; the same man and a young very handsome Anna, wearing a wedding dress; Anna, seated on a settee, cradling a baby. That gave him a surprise; he had not supposed she was a mother. But why shouldn’t even anarchists be mothers?

  Then a photo of mother and daughter, wearing black, their faces sombre. But what faces! Anna was a most handsome woman; but her daughter, who had had an even more handsome father . . . she would be about twelve, he supposed, when the photograph had been taken, a child of quite unworldly loveliness, perfectly chiselled features framed in straight hair. In the photograph the hair appeared dark, but he suspected it might be the same colour as her mother’s.

  He wondered what had happened to her, heard the key turning in the lock, and gazed at her.