The Assassins by Alan Bardos (best novels in english txt) 📗

hacks. ‘Young man, you’re right, I don’t understand you. I have absolutely no idea what you’re about or why you’ve been sent here, other than that it obviously isn’t something that would occupy a gentleman.’

Johnny tried to stifle a smile. He’d made a name for himself at school by behaving like a cad on the rugby pitch and introducing dirty play no gentleman would dream of using. He’d proved so effective that he was made one of the school 'bloods'. Despite the rhetoric of playing fair, nothing mattered except having the school colours on a cup. Johnny took his collar off and marched out of the Consulate. It was time for him to take a different tack.

Chapter 13

Laszlo Breitner stared blankly at his basement office. It was little more than a storage cupboard, but it had served its purpose. He picked up a copy of his report and made his way through Sarajevo’s City Hall, to the police station on the top floor of the building.

He was oblivious to his surroundings, as he planned what to say. The meeting he was going to was the culmination of months of work. Breitner knew that it would be an uncomfortable experience, he’d had to beg and plead for it, but he could not allow himself to be distracted by cynicism. If things went well he would be back on the path of the righteous.

Breitner entered the police station, receiving a terse greeting from the gendarme behind the desk, and knocked on the door of Leo Pfeffer.

‘Come in,’ Pfeffer called from behind the door and Breitner entered.

Leo Pfeffer, an investigating judge of the Sarajevo District Court, languished behind his desk. He was in his late thirties, bloated, pasty and already wore a bored expression.

Viktor Ivasjuk, Sarajevo’s Chief of Detectives, paced around the room. Neither of them looked pleased to be wasting their time on Breitner.

Pfeffer picked up the copy of the report that Breitner had sent him when he first asked for the meeting. Breitner would have preferred to see someone more senior but it was said that Pfeffer was a rising star.

‘You seem to think that there is some kind of plot going on in Sarajevo - is that correct, Breitner?’ Pfeffer asked, and looked wearily at Viktor.

Breitner took hold of himself and tried to ignore the hostility that surrounded him. In his time he’d dealt with threats to the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy far beyond the capacity of these men, but then he reminded himself he’d had the support of the cream of the Imperial Army. ‘Yes, that is correct, Herr Pfeffer. I believe there to be a very serious situation developing in Sarajevo.’

‘And how is this any different from the other myriad of idiotic rumours that pour into this office every day?’

‘We are facing a wave of nationalism that is sweeping through the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. There have been attacks across the Balkans and I believe that there is a very real threat from local nationalists here, the so called “Young Bosnians”,’ Breitner said, prompting Viktor to stop pacing.

‘Peasant school children,’ Viktor Ivasjuk snarled. He was a tall, lean man with an aquiline nose and a reputation for intimidation.

Breitner had faced worse. ‘I believe that these peasant school children are working with Serbian Intelligence.’

‘But you have no evidence for that,’ Pfeffer said.

Breitner opened and closed his fists in frustration. The decaying, medieval institutions of his beloved Monarchy were completely incapable of understanding, let alone combating the new threat emerging in the Balkans.

The Emperor had decreed that his ministries only concern themselves with their own immediate areas of responsibility. The Joint Ministry of Finance, which Breitner served, only dealt with Bosnia and Herzegovina. This meant there was no circulation or assessment of intelligence, or any coherent study of the South Slav problem. Consequently, Vienna had little or no idea of the increasing anger amongst the South Slav youth towards its rule.

Breitner had been trying to correct this disaster, at least in the provinces for which he was responsible, by attempting to build a coordinated approach to intelligence gathering.

‘As you can see from the report, I’ve cross-referenced information gathered from intercepted mail, rumour and the propaganda pouring across the border from Serbia,’ Breitner said.

‘You’ve come to us with at best speculation derived from nothing more than the adolescent ramblings of Serb delinquents.’ Pfeffer waved Breitner’s report at him.

‘And wild threats put about by Serbian Intelligence to have us running around chasing our tails,’ Viktor added.

Breitner shrugged. He was struggling to weld these different strands of half-truths, boasts and hearsay into a comprehensive profile of the threat presented by the Young Bosnians and to filter out the talkers from the doers who might be in league with Serbian Intelligence.

He'd been in post for a year and was only just starting to understand the tidal wave of contradictory information and misinformation which Serb Intelligence were adept at producing, and the apocryphal statements which the Young Bosnians used. Each one fancied himself a poet and they wrote cryptic letters to each other, full of metaphor and analogy, to disguise their true meaning.

A knock at the door saved Breitner from answering Viktor or Pfeffer’s criticisms. A handsome young clerk entered with the careless air of a matinee idol and handed Pfeffer some papers to be signed.

‘Ah Pusara, you’re a fair representative of Bosnian youth?’ Pfeffer asked.

‘Yes sir, I believe that I am,’ Pusara answered.

‘Would you say that there is a wave of nationalism sweeping through the youth of the Monarchy?’ Pfeffer asked.

‘I don’t believe that there is any doubt where the loyalties of the young men of the Monarchy stand,’ the youth answered, with an amused smile.

‘There you are Breitner,’ Pfeffer said, as if he’d presented the decisive argument in the cross examination of a witness. Breitner knew all about Mihajlo Pusara and didn’t doubt what the