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

'No, no one of that name is listed at this establishment.'

'Would there be a lady under the name of Swift?' With her coquettish sense of humour, Johnny thought it might be possible that she’d used his name. 'She sometimes likes to travel incognito.'

The concierge flicked through the register once again and shook his head. 'There most certainly is no one of that name staying here.'

'Is there anyone under the name of Barton-Forbes?' Johnny knew she was capable of anything.

The concierge didn't have to check the register for that name. 'No. Tell me, is it usual for the British aristocracy to travel under such fanciful pseudonyms?' he asked, his moustache twitching with suspicion.

'Don't be impertinent,' Johnny replied, as he flicked a coin onto the desk, significantly under tipping the concierge and then strolling away.

There was nowhere else to look for Libby so Johnny repaired to the bar, consoling himself with the thought that at least she hadn't brought Pinkie to Sarajevo - that really would have been the limit. Johnny ordered a glass of rakija, the clear plum brandy that was a speciality of the area. It made him want to retch and swallow at the same time, the perfect drink to match how he was feeling. He quickly ordered four more and was contemplating a fifth when the familiar clatter of a rolling ball caught his attention.

He turned and watched a roulette wheel spin, immediately drawn by its power and wondered if it would summon Libby back to him. She always appeared when he was winning.

He cashed the last of his expenses money into chips. He was planning to try spread betting, in a low risk, low return strategy, but then he saw '19' emblazoned in gold on the green baize and he knew exactly what to do.

*

Laszlo Breitner surveyed the storeroom that acted as his office. It was a constant reminder of just how far he'd fallen. While his friends in Vienna and Budapest advanced their careers into grand offices, he worked in the basement of a provincial city hall. Breitner was usually phlegmatic about his situation, but the young Englishman had hit a nerve and brought home just how impossible his situation was.

He'd hoped for a moment that this Johnny Swift was the answer to his prayers, but inevitably he'd proved to be just as unperceptive and frivolous as everyone else.

Breitner thought he was onto something, a small thread through the labyrinth. He just needed a mythical hero, like Theseus, to follow that thread. He shook his head in disgust - he hated metaphor and had spent far too much time trying to think like the young dissidents he was tracking.

Breitner had learnt his craft in the cold, hard world of the Intelligence Bureau of the General Staff, conducting counter espionage operations within the Monarchy under the mentorship of Colonel Alfred Redl, who at the time was considered to be the brightest and ablest officer in the Imperial Army. He'd completely transformed the Intelligence Bureau, introducing modern methods and equipment, and he had proved to be an inspiration to Breitner.

After years of isolation serving in the Ninth Hussars, Breitner had found that he possessed an aptitude for this line of work and earned a transfer to Intelligence.

The Ninth was an elite Hungarian cavalry regiment, famous for its dash and revelry, with promotion dependent on whether or not you were a daredevil rider and gambler. Breitner was only ever going to be a junior adjutant, responsible for mucking out the stables. They were bad days: he wasn't popular with the young bloods who thought nothing of betting a month's pay on the turn of a card. The young Englishman had reminded Breitner of them, which, he realised, was why he'd taken such a dislike to him.

He was starting to feel that he should have stayed in the cavalry - his life would have been simpler. The last time he'd pulled a thread like this, everything had unravelled.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted Breitner's reflections. 'Come in!' he shouted, annoyed with his self indulgence. An official looking middle-aged man, who undoubtedly wished to store something in his office, entered. 'Yes, what is it?' Breitner asked impatiently.

'Sorry to disturb you, Mr Breitner. My name is Ivo Vila. I'm a detective here in Sarajevo. I understand you're interested in information about dissidents coming into the area, from Serbia?'

'Yes, that's correct,' Breitner replied, trying to soften his tone. He didn't want to alienate a potential source. Not having either the time or the resources to set up a comprehensive network of informants, Breitner had to rely on the varying cooperation of acquaintances and the local police for first hand reports.

Vila looked uncomfortable about what he had to say. 'I met the son of an old friend on the train returning to Sarajevo. My friend is a solid, respectable person, a confidant - but his son, well, his son was expelled from Sarajevo for radical behaviour. He went to Belgrade and fell in with students and such like.'

'I see.' Could be something, probably nothing, Breitner mused.

'There wasn't anything suspicious about him. We just discussed the impending visit by his Imperial Majesty, the Heir Apparent.'

Breitner's attention pricked. 'His name?'

'Nedeljko Cabrinovic,' Vila replied. Breitner knew that name. He stood up and started to shuffle through his notes, trying to remember where he'd heard it before. 'Was he old or young?'

'Just a boy - nineteen, I think.'

'And he was returning from Serbia. Was he travelling alone?' Breitner was firing off questions more to himself than to the detective. ‘When was this?’

‘A week ago.’

‘You’ve waited a week to tell me this!’

'I mentioned it to my chief and was told to leave it alone. Nedjo hasn't got a prison record, his expulsion has been expunged and his father is