THIRTY-EIGHT

‘We hit them tonight,’ Ryzhkov said.

Back in their rooms, he and Dima planned the raid, then Dima left to relieve Hokhodiev, and for the space of a half-hour Ryzhkov had the place to himself. He stood looking over the roof tiles. Thought about the possibility of composing some sort of note that he could send to Vera to let her know he was alive, that there was still some hope. Then he thought that perhaps he should wait for the next few hours to be over. Since he might not come out of it alive, and what was the sense of that? Hello, I love you. I’m going to be dead or in jail for ever in the next few hours. Hokhodiev came in and filled him in. Another troika of student revolutionaries had made their way to headquarters.

‘These were the ones making the deliveries, I’d say.’ They’d all had suitcases. ‘Heavy, by the looks of it.’ Together they constructed a detailed map of the house and lanes surrounding it; the building itself sat at the end of a short lane, forming a cul-de-sac. A watcher from the upstairs windows would be able to see anyone who approached via the lane. The only other way in was over the wall and through the garden of a neighbouring house, then a climb up to the roof and hop down on to the stairs leading to the balcony.

Ryzhkov shook his head and looked up to meet Hokhodiev’s eye. It was a bad way in, and it was also the only escape route. ‘Fine, but when we hit them, where do they run? It’s good to always leave them somewhere to run. If they can’t run, they’re cornered, they just dig in harder. Not very pretty, brother . . .’ Hokhodiev muttered.

Ryzhkov left and walked to a grocer’s and purchased bread, cheese, and a bottle of red wine, counted out his dinars for the smiling assistant, and trudged back up the hill, running the permutations over and over in his mind.

Before he left to take a look at the house, he and Hokhodiev decided that Dima would wait on the adjacent roof with a view of the staircase to cut off the only escape route. Other than that there were no changes, nothing new they could come up with to give them a better chance. Dima would approach from the rear, Hokhodiev would go directly up the lane and Ryzhkov would go over the wall, through the garden, climb on to the roof. Then he and Hokhodiev would crash into the rooms through the door and a window . . .

‘And then?’ Hokhodiev said. A little smile was playing across his face.

Ryzhkov shrugged. ‘If they fight, we kill them. If we can we take their guns, or their bombs, and then—’

‘It’s the “then” that I’m thinking about,’ Hokhodiev laughed.

‘Then we escape ourselves. If the noise hasn’t brought them, we call the police. Hopefully there will be some evidence in the rooms that will lead to their arrest, but at the very least they’ll be off the streets during the parade . . .’ He stopped, running out of ideas. The plan was as thin as tissue.

‘Ah . . .’ Hokhodiev said and sat back. ‘Well . . . as a master strategy, it’s slightly flawed.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘But, still, brother, we hit them. We hit them hard. We kill as many as we can, wound the others. If any escape, we give chase, but then . . .’

‘Then we go straight to the railway station. We tag along behind the motorcade.’

‘Running.’

‘Running. Yes, if we can. We’ll just have to push our way through. We can take it in stages, like a relay, maybe.’

Hokhodiev looked at him for a long moment, the smile deepening. After a moment he reached out and put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

‘Together, then . . .’ he said.

Ryzhkov checked his watch. They agreed that the raid would begin at five. He checked to make sure the revolver was loaded, that his knife was in his pocket.

‘I’ll see the two of you at the wall,’ he said and looked around the room to check. He would never be coming back there again.

‘Here . . .’ Hokhodiev said. He took one of the mineral cases out of the cupboard and extracted a roll of banknotes. ‘It’s marks, roubles, francs . . . some of everything.’ He made three piles of money on the table.

‘What about afterwards?’ Ryzhkov said, watching him count out the notes.

‘I’m going back, I think. Do whatever I can to get Lena away from her relatives. She’ll be going crazy, I can’t leave her to that.’ He said it without looking up to meet Ryzhkov’s eye. They both knew the dangers.

‘You’d better go, so the boy can get some sleep, eh?’ ‘Yes,’ Ryzhkov said, stuffed the roll of banknotes in his pocket and went through the door into the night.

In the darkness young men lay. Waiting.

Sleepless, or dreaming, staring into the blackness, thrashing about in their beds, about to become what they had always wanted.

Earlier that same day some of them had visited the cemetery to place flowers on the grave of Bogdan Zerajić, their compatriot who had been martyred in the midst of an unsuccessful assassination attempt on the governor. It was a small cemetery, meant for paupers and criminals, not at all well-tended, and the flowers they had brought were bright and artificial-looking against the parched grass on the hillside. After their prayers they looked up and saw it—Sarajevo, the gateway to the east. The heart of cherished Bosnia. Soon, yes, they had said to each other, making their young faces hard . . . yes, soon to be realized.

Oh, their names would be remembered, their fathers and uncles would nod their heads, bite back the tears, and take off their hats in pride. Girls of the village would swoon with their memory and shrines would be erected in their honour. Each one, now at the apex of this dark night, suddenly aware of his individuality, suddenly aware of the strength of their bond to the cause—the oaths they had sworn, the rituals and the promises made in blood, the obligations whose time had come round at last.

In the murky darkness the young men, unable to sleep, finally gave up, smoked, talked in whispers to their companions; admitted their passions, their fears, swore their loyalty to one another, then fell back into contemplation. Now a boy reclined, his head on the pillow, smoking, his eyes staring at the little packet on the table. Bullets enough and a little box with his cyanide capsule.

The ticking of a clock in the adjacent room, the sound of snoring, the sound of nightmares. The sound of their own breathing, struggling to remain calm, yes, Christ, to sleep, to husband their energies for what lay ahead. Death, quick or slow. Or capture and a last defiant suicide. Or the worst—failure. Death then was best. And if you die tomorrow, what then? The wait is over, yes?

Only a mile or two away, in the splendid villa that had been provided for their use, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand slept alongside his beloved Sophie. Did they dream? Did they snore? Did they find the covers too warm, did they roll over, their tranquillity suddenly disturbed by the approach of a demon yet to make himself known? In the great house others whose lot it was to rise in the very early hours had risen, were staggering to the lavatory, washing themselves, putting on their uniforms, bundling sticks into the stove, heating water—the ordinary start of an extraordinary day, for, graced by the presence of royalty soundly sleeping a few floors above them, they were nervous lest they fail in some domestic task.

In the city the multitudes were resting, clocks set to give them time to get to the quay for the morning’s procession. Clothing had been cleaned and laid out, the rudiments of breakfast already on the table, the most eager of the celebrity-seekers prepared for their planned early start to secure the best places with the best view of what all were sure would prove to be a memorable spectacle.

Andrianov waited in Vienna.

Treated himself to a grand dinner, a walk through the glory of the Vienna woods. The horizon, he reflected, was a perfect one, roses pierced with beautiful elms, the artfully placed sculpture—a virgin of purest stone, a perpetual advocate of the most exquisite and holy ideals of mankind.

All around him was the great seat of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the much-vaunted Dual Monarchy. Waltz music of course, filtering up the slope of the hill. Gaiety and the light sophistication of the smug Viennese. The growl of a motorcar with a faulty exhaust accelerating on the ring road. The dark shadows of bats flitting through the gardens.

He returned to the hotel, ignored the telegrams Rochefort brought in on a tray. The money was piling up. He had diversified as invisibly as he possibly could. Brokers across the continent were already concluding a series of sales to take place under a variety of accounts held by Andrianov or his proxies. He made his reservations on the morning train, sent Rochefort away, poured himself a glass of champagne and went in to where the girl was waiting in the other room.

And the earth spun on its axis. The stars arced across the sky. Babies cried out, dogs barked and the owls fell silent.

And men waited for their time.