THIRTY-NINE

In the dawn he watched them coming up the hill. Hokhodiev had shaved, probably gone out in the very early hours and woken some barber, made himself look neat as a pin. He smiled as he crested the hill and saw Ryzhkov sitting there beneath the wall. ‘That Ukrainian fool went out and got himself a whore. He doesn’t look so good, if you ask me, eh?’

Dima was trailing up the cobbles behind him. It was still cool, not quite dark, but he had his coat off with the sleeves tied around his waist and was rubbing his head. He saw them and managed to raise one arm to wave.

‘This is very unprofessional behaviour,’ Ryzhkov said.

Hokhodiev laughed. ‘Don’t get him any more pissed off than he is,’ he said.

‘What happened?’

‘Who am I to know. Some problem with the girl. The price, who knows.’

Dudenko came and squatted down beside Ryzhkov. He had brought up a bottle, and now he hastily began to uncork it. He saw Ryzhkov’s look.

‘Don’t worry, it’s water,’ he said and took a long drink, then held out the bottle to Ryzhkov. ‘This might be my last time, right?’

‘If you’re lucky,’ Hokhodiev said and nudged him with his knee so that he fell over on to the pavement.

‘This is very unprofessional of you, I may have to reprimand you,’ Ryzhkov said. The water was a good idea, he thought.

‘Old man, I told you . . .’ Dudenko jerked the pistol out of his jacket, spun it round and round his finger, and then slipped it back in the jacket.

‘This is very unprofessional,’ Ryzhkov said. He got to his feet and shook his legs. His back was stiff from sitting there in the dark against the wall. ‘Let’s go, eh?’ The sky was starting to lighten. ‘Are you ready?’ He stepped out into the street. There was nobody down the little lane watching. He was sure of it. Everything was dark down there. He’d been on the look-out for two hours and had seen nothing. Dima stood up and came out into the street. He had his gun inside his jacket and was carrying it in his arms like a baby. ‘I’ll see you around the back, then,’ he said and started walking down the street. His shirt-tail was out and he had his arm wrapped up in his jacket for some reason; he looked just like what he was in reality, a young man returning from a whorehouse.

Hokhodiev walked out into the centre of the street and urinated.

‘This is all we need, to get arrested for public defecation . . .’ Ryzhkov said. His feet were still numb and he stood there jiggling one foot after the other.

‘It’s very unprofessional, I agree.’

Ryzhkov began walking up the street to the wall. It was low on one side and there was a lamppost there to climb up. A great olive tree curved over the bricks and the whole site was dark. Halfway up the street he stopped between two houses, turned and unbuttoned his trousers and urinated against the wall, still watching the house at the end of the lane. Nothing.

He could see Hokhodiev down at the entrance to the lane, looking up his way. He stepped out into the street. Down at the corner Hokhodiev lifted his hand.

He started towards the wall.

He stepped up on to the base of the lamppost and then dug his toes into the bricks. The plaster had fallen away in patches and he found a place and then pushed off the lamppost and reached his fingers over the stones—just a little flick, a pat with his fingers. It was all stone, rough enough. He stepped back on to the ledge of the lamppost and then jumped again, reached over and pulled himself to the top and then lay there for a moment on the top of the wall, listening and staring down into the gloom.

Just below the olive tree was a pen for what seemed to be two goats. A little shed that looked like its roof might hold. He let himself down on to the creaking goatshed and then jumped down as lightly as he could into the centre of the pen. He let himself out, left the door open, thinking that if he’d woken anyone that they might just think it was the goats. It might give him a few seconds. He could see under the edge of the eaves of the Black Hand’s house. He decided that if someone was out on the balcony he would be able to see them. He waited, watching for any movements. Nothing.

Ahead of him was the open courtyard, a series of steps up to the first floor of the house; he waited and then ran lightly across to the shadows on the far side. From somewhere a chicken squawked. Something moved in the darkness ahead of him as he made it across and started up the steps.

At the top he looked over on to the balcony, and then turned and lifted his head and tried to see Hokhodiev down in the lane. There was a shadow beneath the landing of the stairs leading to the balcony. Ryzhkov knew Dima was waiting back there to cut off the runners. He listened and gradually raised his head higher to look up on the balcony. From somewhere he thought he could hear singing. He got to his knees and stepped out and on to the wall. Stood there and counted to thirty to give Hokhodiev time to get up the steps.

Then he jumped.

It was wrong from the start—someone sleeping there in the shadows. A man he hadn’t seen. He woke as Ryzhkov hit the edge of the balcony, his knee shattering the grille that had been flung open because of the heat. Ryzhkov saw him jerk awake, try to roll over on the mat where he’d been sleeping, try to curl over and get to his knees. Ryzhkov balanced there on the railing, one hand holding on to the awning, reached into his belt, took out the revolver, and shot the man straight down into his body, so that he sat down again and fell back against the wall, a big spout of blood pumping out of his neck, one, two, three.

Now someone was yelling and he heard Hokhodiev shooting, once, twice and then another sound, a shriek, someone hurt badly, and by then he was through the curtains into the front room of the apartment. Something moved in front of him and he raised the revolver to shoot before he saw that it was Hokhodiev fighting with a man. They twisted past him and he saw one of the students coming out of the back room. He had a rifle in his hands and lifted it to aim. Ryzhkov stepped out of the window and started walking at the boy who he fooled with the bolt and shot him twice through the stomach. Behind him there was a great crash and he turned in time to see Hokhodiev smash a stool into the broken face of one of the students. There was a flash off to his side and he saw that there was someone there, someone who had been sleeping on the floor, back in the corner behind the stove. He turned but knew already it was too late.

There was a crashing at the doors, it meant someone was going in or going out and he could hear someone shooting outside. Dima . . . he was thinking, thirsty Dima . . . There was another flash and he shot at a man he could hardly see standing there in the darkness, not having time to aim, turning the corner and heading into the rear of the building.

Something hit him, someone running in panic through the gloom, and he fell back on to the floor. The Serbs were screaming at each other now. He put his hand out to get up but slipped in the blood of the boy lying there in the hallway. Someone ran past and he saw that Hokhodiev was down on the floor in the front room. There was a gunshot outside the door and he turned to shoot back but saw Dima standing there. Someone was wailing outside. He finally got up, turned away and stepped into the bedroom. The grille had been torn out and the tiles broken away outside the window. He heard men yelling in the back street.

Hokhodiev was waiting for him on the landing and they started down the stairs, stepping over one of the students, wounded, who was trying to crawl back up. He reached out and tried to trip them as they went past, his touch weak as a baby’s.

There were another six cartridges in Ryzhkov’s pocket and he filled the cylinder as they ran around behind the building. There were three of the Serbs ahead of them. They had another with them who was limping along. There was blood all over the stones there. The street curved down towards the river and they skidded downhill. There was a great yell and he saw Dima sprint past him. The Serbs rounded a corner and Dima plunged blindly around it, his gun raised to fire.

Ryzhkov arrived at the corner just as Dima shot the wounded student who had crouched there inside a doorway to ambush them, a stupid trick, the kind of thing you would do with snowballs. Below he saw the three Serbs glance back over their shoulders and then run into the market.

By the time they had got to the edge of the market, Hokhodiev had come up behind them, Ryzhkov watched him, he was running with a limp from the fight, the gun looked heavy in his hand. He worked his way into the narrow alleys.

At the end of the lane he could see people running back up the hill the way they’d just come down; he could hear the police whistles in the distance. He walked blindly through the market. Most of the stalls were shuttered, their awnings tied down. But there were some early risers. He saw Dima a few yards away walking briskly, bending over to check under the tables. There was a crack and he turned and looked towards the end of the lane, at the edge of the market, where Hokhodiev suddenly appeared, his arm raised, carefully aiming at someone and shooting once, twice.

They ran out into the street. He could see a smear of blood across Hokhodiev’s shirt. The merchants and their apprentices had woken now. An old man stepped out of a doorway in front of them. He was thin as a picked-over chicken leg and as brown as polished wood. He was dressed in a fez and a long white robe. He stood looking at them, and then bowed as they ran down the hill.

‘Are you all right?’ Ryzhkov asked Hokhodiev, pointing down to his shirt. Hokhodiev pulled his shirt-front up to look, shook his head. He was still running with the limp. Ahead of them the street was crowded and they slowed, he put the pistol back in his belt. The Serbs were too far ahead of them. Gone down towards the quay. In the distance there was a shrill whistle that echoed off the yellow buildings. A sudden flight of gulls lifted off the roof ahead of them.

‘The station . . .’ he said, and they stepped out on to the wide street that curved along past the cathedral.

They walked along now, suddenly tired, Hokhodiev taking his fedora off and wiping his brow on his sleeve. Dima ran past them, and crossed the street.

‘He’s wide awake now,’ Hokhodiev said.

In the distance he could hear military music, and ahead of them there were the first of the crowd crossing the street to be at the quay in time to stake out their favoured places for the parade. The street was a long one. He and Hokhodiev split up and he crossed, now about fifty metres behind Dudenko. They’d been lucky, Ryzhkov thought. Only Hokhodiev had been slowed down, and if they continued to be lucky perhaps the students would abandon their plans.

There was no sight of the three Serbs. They were gone, rushing ahead to either improvise an attempt on the archduke or to stop, retreat and plan a strike on some safer, less bloody day.

He rocked back on his heels as a police wagon dragged along by four sweating horses careered around the corner just ahead of him, rushing back up the hill toward the house of the Black Hand. By now word of the gunfight would have reached whoever was responsible for the security procedures for the archduke’s visit to the capital. Perhaps they would be prudent, cancel the parade . . . But he knew it wouldn’t happen. Austrian pride, if nothing else, would cause Franz Ferdinand to walk into a hail of bullets rather than acknowledge the Serbian threat, even in the most fractious province of the empire.

Down the hill he heard a strange crashing. For a split second he thought it was artillery and then recognized it as the firing of a salute as the royal carriage arrived at the station. He quickened his step, trying not to break out in a run. At every turn he scanned the side alleys for the three Serbs. Now, the task was harder. The streets were swelling with ordinary citizens, and the men had broken out their dark jackets even in the heat. He made his way to the Appel Quay. He had come out at a side street near the museum. There was a large plaza there and the crowd had gathered and were leaning out, staring down the street where the band was playing. He looked around for Hokhodiev and Dudenko, but they had become separated. His mind was whirling, trying to decide where to go, what to do next; trying to imagine what it would be like to be an angry, nineteen-year-old Serbian terrorist. He stepped through the crowd, pushing his way to the front, muttering apologies and trying to accent his speech towards the softer-sounding local dialect.

When he got to the street he craned his neck but could see nothing but a pair of Bosnian constables advancing along the edges of the cobbles, one on each side of the street telling people to step back on to the kerb. The crowd bowed as they went, then sprawled right back into the street. He began to edge his way along, allowing the man to push him back when they passed, then stepping out behind him and walking towards the procession. He could hear the crowd cheering ahead of him as the motorcade made its turn from the station and accelerated along the broader quay. Ahead of him he saw Kostya push his way out on to the street, cross to the embankment and start walking along a few metres ahead of the cars. Already the motorcade had slowed to accommodate the press of well-wishers. For a city supposedly divided against the rule of his dynasty, thousands of Sarajevans had come out to cheer the spectacle.

Now Ryzhkov saw the leading escorts, hussars mounted on twin matched greys riding in advance of the motorcars in an effort to press the crowd back against the shopfronts. For a moment Ryzhkov stopped, standing there in the centre of the street. Just ahead of him was a Sarajevo police constable, a middle-aged man with a red face and a big stomach. He was laughing with someone he knew. He looked over and saw Ryzhkov standing there. Ryzhkov smiled at him, nodded. Pointed down at the oncoming parade. The old man turned to look down the quay, and when he did, Ryzhkov stepped back into the crowd and began working his way back up the street. The matched greys reached him, the crowd rippled back on to the pavement. Constables were marching along the street, in a vain attempt to keep ahead of the motorcade. He saw Hokhodiev across the street working his way along, pushing people out of the way.

And then he saw the face.

A small man, hardly more than a boy, really, with a shock of dark hair that flamed away from his skull, in wild black swirls. The hint of a dark moustache, the hard eyes. He recognized him from the house of the Black Hand. He was standing only a few metres away, surrounded by the cheering crowd. The noise was deafening. The growl and chatter of the motorcars seemed to fill the universe. Ryzhkov squeezed his way through the crowd. For a moment he lost sight of the boy and when he located him he saw he had changed position, pushing his way up to the edge of the street.

Now came the first of the motorcars. Sarajevo’s mayor, dressed formally, waved at the crowd; beside him was the commissioner of the police, a gloved hand raised in salute. Ryzhkov saw the young Serb step out on to the kerb.

The second car was just passing; like the first, its roof had been folded back. He saw Franz Ferdinand, unmistakable in his famous silver helmet topped with a spray of black-green feathers; seated beside him, the duchess in her immaculate white dress, smiling at the crowd.

Suddenly his eye caught Hokhodiev as he jumped out into the street; another of the Serbs was right beside him, his arm raised to throw a bomb. At the last moment Hokhodiev reached him, slapping at his shoulder. The two of them collided and the young Serb slipped down on to the cobbles.

The bomb looked like a dark ball, so small as to be almost comical. It arched above the street heading straight for the Hispano. The terrorist had been late, or perhaps Hokhodiev had spoiled his aim; the bomb fell short, bounced on the roof’s leather cover and rebounded against the back of the duchess’s neck. She looked startled and reached back to see what had hit her. By that point Hokhodiev had stumbled over the terrorist, thrown himself out into the street and nearly reached the back of the car.

Ryzhkov heard someone shouting; a military officer who was riding in the royal car got to his feet and was turning halfway around. Just ahead of him the young Serb had reached into his coat and stood there poised waiting for the car to come into range. Hokhodiev was trying to climb up the rear bumper of the car, slapping at the little black bomb that wobbled there, its fuse fizzing and hissing, he managed to knock it off on to the street and fell down, vanishing from Ryzhkov’s sight behind the great Hispano.

From across the street people were was screaming. The bomb-thrower had picked himself up from the gutter and plunged into the crowd. He reached the edge of the quay and tried to climb the wall and escape down to the nearly dry river bed, but the crowd was on him and he vanished, pulled down into the mob.

Now the bomb exploded on the cobbles beneath the third car with a sharp crack that sent everyone in the street cowering. The car went crazily out of control as one of the wheels shattered. He saw Hokhodiev, knocked down to a sitting position by the blast, get to his feet and fall back into the crowd. Two blue-clad Austrian police constables ran up behind the stricken car and plunged in after him. The whole street was filled with the smell of burning chemicals.

Suddenly the young Serb was brushing right past Ryzhkov. For a moment their eyes met, and then he was gone, pushing his way through the mob. Ryzhkov turned and began chasing him along the quay. The boy was just a fleeting shadow, appearing and disappearing through the crowd.

He followed as best he could. There was a loud roaring and the archduke’s motorcar raced along the Quay, much faster now, the crowd jumping out of its path at the last moment. He stumbled off a high kerb and looked around frantically. He was dripping with sweat. The boy was gone, nowhere, vanished into the heat-haze. Ryzhkov went back and stumbled up a side street. There was a flash of black, someone in a cheap suit veering off the street into the maw of the cathedral. He stayed over to the side of the street, trying to hide in the shadows as he ran up the hill.

Even with the doors open it was cool in the great stone building. Someone came in behind him and he whirled, thinking that the student might have come around and was attacking him, but it was Dima. His shirt was soaked and he had pulled out the shirt-tail to conceal the pistol in his waistband.

‘Have you seen Kostya?’ he spluttered.

‘No, did the police get him?’

‘I think he got away, but I saw you running so I thought—’

‘He came in here—’ Ryzhkov said and the two of them divided and started walking deep into the cathedral down the aisles at the side. The building was virtually empty. By the time Ryzhkov got to the apse, he was running ahead. There was a sound in front of him and he rushed forward to an exiting doorway. The light hit him as he pushed through the heavy door and immediately a gunshot rang out, it sounded doubled in his ears and a spray of rock dust and splinters flashed in the corner of his vision.

He fell to the flagstone steps automatically, pulling his knees up into a ball even as he groped for his pistol. The boy was already running away too far for a shot at the corner and over the fence behind. Dima stepped over him, Ryzhkov rose to his seat and together they ran towards the corner.

‘He’s a fast bastard,’ Dima spat as they dashed across the street. A few old women jumped out of the way, watching the three crazy men chasing each other through the streets.

They found themselves moving higher through the city. The boy was gone now and they came upon a fountain in a square and they each put their mouths under the spigot and drank long cold draughts while the other stared around at the dark doorways, one hand on the butt of his pistol, waiting for a shot to ring out.

Now ahead of them was the town hall, and another crowd which had gathered at the steps. The cars were lined up, and Ryzhkov stood there for a moment, the archduke’s itinerary flashing through his memory. He knew that the young assassin hadn’t given up on his mission. On the steps the mayor was concluding his address. Ryzhkov saw the tall silver helmet, the blindingly white dress and picture hat of the countess. The words were echoing blurs against the stones of the buildings that ringed the square.

‘The boy has a pistol, he’ll have to get close to do any good,’ Ryzhkov said and once again he and Dima began to encircle the crowd, trying to pick out a single figure among hundreds.

There was a long rolling ‘Zivio!’ from the crowd. Men had hoisted their children on their shoulders for a better view. The mob was well dressed for the most part, Austrians and the better-off Muslims. A sea of dark faces, red fezzes, starched white shirtfronts and dark jackets. The dignitaries had repaired inside the hall for refreshments.

As Ryzhkov meandered through the crowd, he picked up snatches of conversations. A pair of assassins had made an attempt on the life of the archduke, a man was saying. A bomb had killed one of the governor’s aides. No, two bombs had been thrown, a lady-in-waiting had been wounded and taken to hospital. A miracle of great fortune: the crown prince himself had heroically picked up the grenade and tossed it to the safest place possible — beneath the car following his in the parade. No, dozens had been killed, including women and children. Soldiers were en route from the barracks on the west side of the city. Riots had broken out at the station. Pasic, the Serb Prime Minister, had made an announcement that he deplored the action of the terrorists—news of it had arrived by cable, but as proof of a gigantic conspiracy, the news had arrived before the bomb had even been thrown!

Ryzhkov moved through it all, pushing his way through the blur of conversations, the press of the citizenry gathered there in front of the huge façade. He worked his way around to the edge of the steps, looking at the crowd surrounding the vehicles. Now the police had put half a dozen constables around the cars as a cordon. According to the itinerary for the remainder of the day—the royal couple were due to visit the museum on the way back to their hotel in Ilidze. There would be another grindingly slow motorcade through Sarajevo’s twisting streets. From the doorway of the town hall he could hear chamber music drawing to a close. There was a ripple of polite applause. A man in Austrian military dress appeared at the top of the steps. Subordinates rushed to confer with him, and then hurried away. A second squad of policemen rushed out and began to push the crowd further out into the plaza. Ryzhkov recognized the military man, he had been riding in the archduke’s car in the front seat. Now he went along the line of vehicles, conferring with the chauffeurs; moments later the engines were started.

A flash of panic seized Ryzhkov; he found himself being pushed out to the edge of the street with the rest, his eyes travelled along the front ranks of the mob, trying to pick out the assassin. He saw Dima squirming through the crowd, earning dirty looks and elbows as he forced his way through. His gaze was dark and fixed ahead of him. Then Ryzhkov saw the boy again.

He had thrown away his cravat and grabbed a fez to conceal his appearance. He had yet to see Dima and now Ryzhkov pushed his way out past a policeman and began running towards him. Somewhere behind him a whistle sounded, someone clutched at his back. He saw the boy look up wildly as Dima charged through the crowd. At the last moment he turned and saw the young Russian plunge towards him. Ryzhkov was almost across the cobbles when a policeman spun him off balance and he slipped to one knee, another policeman was rushing towards him as he got to his feet and dived into the mob. The crowd was screaming, trumpets were sounding as behind him the archduke appeared on the steps. Now he saw the young boy savagely swipe at Dima with his pistol, connecting with his jaw and sending him to the pavement. They were only a few feet apart when the mob rushed forward to divide them.

Dima rolled over and shook himself. Ryzhkov was on his hands and knees, people were stepping all around them. Dima opened his eyes blearily, got up on one elbow. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine . . .’ he said, shaking his head again. Ryzhkov put an arm around him and hauled him to his feet. The young Serb was gone. Behind them there was a final cheer and the motorcade pulled away, heading back along the quay.

‘Go,’ Dima said, ‘Go . . . I’ll catch up with you. We meet at the seminary, as planned, yes?’

‘Find Kostya, watch out for the flics!’ he shouted but now the crowd had surged towards the plaza and they were separated like two twigs floating through a torrent.

He pushed his way to the edge of the plaza, began running down a side street leading to the quay. The route ran along the edge of the bazaar and the market was open now that the official ceremonies had concluded. Ryzhkov peered into the dark shadows, tried to remember the labyrinth of streets. Ahead of him he saw a dark head bobbing through the crowd, the face looked back over his shoulder, their eyes met and the boy turned and dug in his coat for his pistol.

Around him the crowd began to part, women screamed, a man slipped to the ground just in front of Ryzhkov. He suddenly felt naked, paralysed and terrifically vulnerable as, in front of him, the boy pulled the trigger. Something whizzed past him, sounding like an angry bee. Behind him the street erupted with screaming.

The boy dashed into the bazaar, upsetting an old woman who was tending a flower stall. Ryzhkov dug his pistol out and plunged after him, colliding with merchants and customers. All the time the screams were growing, an angry crowd forming behind them. He skidded through the debris the young man was leaving behind him in his panic, fell down, got back to his knees in time to see the Serb cut back out towards the street. Now there was the sound of car horns, a roaring of engine exhaust, and the gleam of brass shining in the sunlight. He saw the motorcade starting to pick up speed. The young terrorist must have seen it too—he was rushing along the edge of the market, his attention focused on the archduke’s car. Ryzhkov began running towards him as fast as he could. He had the revolver out and the hammer pulled back, stopped and aimed at the young man and pulled the trigger once, twice.

It only bought him a second—now the young Serb had plunged out of the market and was standing there in the doorway, oblivious to Ryzhkov’s approach. There was a great squealing sound as the Hispano braked to a stop at the corner by the bridge. Men’s voices cursing, a rising call of klaxons. The archduke was half-standing in his seat, saying something to the driver. There had been a mistake. The Hispano stopped, rolled forward, then shuddered into reverse gear. The duchess smiled and reached over to pat her husband on his arm. No one saw the boy from the Black Hand.

Ryzhkov screamed. It was supposed to be ‘Stop!’ but it came out as something animalistic, a great bellow of anger and regret. The boy turned and looked his way. His face was calm, almost sad. The dark eyes alert, piercing. He held his revolver down by his leg, and now raised it. Ryzhkov aimed, risking one more shot, too late. The bullet was high, passed the boy, over the street into the low river.

And then the boy stepped out into the street and shot his gun into the back seat of the Hispano.

The sound was like fireworks, two tiny cracks, like dry branches breaking. The archduke sat back like a man exhausted by the whole ordeal, reached up to touch his shoulder. His wife turned towards him. The Hispano was rolling backwards now, slipping away from the Serb. A man reached out and tried to slap the assassin’s gun away, two more were on him and the boy tried to whirl away, tried to run up the hill but now a police constable had him by the wrist and he spun around, held by his arms until they threw him to the ground. The policeman stood and saw Ryzhkov standing there, trembling, his pistol outstretched, poised and waiting to take a shot that would never come.

‘Halt!’ the policeman screamed, he raised his whistle to his mouth. There were howls from the people pressed all around him in the market. Ryzhkov turned and saw the sea of faces—someone was charging towards him wielding a wooden rake as a weapon. He slipped along the wall for a few feet; there was a sudden chorus of police whistles, and suddenly the light was blinding, the air in the street was like a hot pillow that had been pushed over his face. He threw the pistol into an open window and ran. He was crying and the street was a twisting, blurred illusion.

He ran, harder than he had ever run before.

Terrified now, terrified because he had failed. Failed utterly and completely. Terrified because Evdaev had won and because . . . because nothing had come out right, because he had left the woman he loved in a quixotic effort to put the world straight, because he was a fool, because he had always been a fool, because he had led his only friends into a death trap, and because now he was going to die there in that street, die in some alien capital for reasons that could only sound absurd when he would try to explain them to his final judge.

Behind him the voices were howling, ‘Assassin! Assassin!’