Field of Mars (41 page)

‘Did you see that, brother?' he asked.

‘A test.'

‘Oh, yes. And our local boys failed by the looks of it, eh? Come on, I think I have them.' For the first time in a long while Hokhodiev smiled. They pushed their way out into the lane.

‘There,' Hokhodiev said, pointing to two young men striding up one of the twisting streets ahead of them. ‘I just saw them meet up, one was watching from back there—'

‘The boy on the ladder?'

‘That's our pigeon, and I'm almost sure I remember them from yesterday. I was on the quay in the afternoon, they were pretending to be tourists, they had a map and everything, asking directions, but anyone can see by their clothes . . .' The two men were dressed in suits, but their shoes were run down, the jackets rumpled and unpressed. Students. Angry young men.

‘They're so fucking cocky, they're not even trying to hide it,' Hokhodiev said.

There was another great cheer from the crowd as the Hispano lurched into gear and began to negotiate the narrow lane. If they managed to get off the street, they'd be safe enough for the night, Ryzhkov thought.

‘Quickly . . .' He looked around and saw Dima moving towards them. They followed the two young men up the hill, out of the old quarter and along a higher street where the buildings gave way to smaller houses. Ahead of them the assassins turned a corner and Dima rushed ahead to get a view down the lane. Ryzhkov continued straight on and turned at the next opportunity, Kostya had dropped back and tried to cut around behind the pair. Ryzhkov walked along the narrow streets. The district was quiet, only an occasional cry from an infant, a dog's barking, the calling of the crows to puncture the hot stillness. Women in twos and threes passed him as he walked along. Behind walls he heard children playing games in the shady gardens. An old man in his chair smoking and talking to himself. Ryzhkov saw Hokhodiev coming up the hill and he went over to meet him. Together they stood just around the corner in a narrow sliver of shade.

‘Dima's just there—' Hokhodiev said it without looking around. ‘The house at the end of that lane. They've got rooms up there, and—look—' He pulled Ryzhkov around the corner. Down the hill another three black-clad students were making their way up towards the lane.

‘Yes . . .' Ryzhkov breathed.

Suddenly Dima appeared at the mouth of the lane. He had taken off his jacket and bundled it under his arm, tied a kerchief around his head against the sun. He carried a basket in both arms, trying to look like he was doing something. He walked along pretending he hadn't noticed them.

‘One at a time,' Ryzhkov said and Hokhodiev nodded and stepped out into the street, walking slowly, reading a newspaper he'd picked up somewhere. Ryzhkov stayed in the shadow and watched as the three terrorists turned and made their way to the house at the end of the lane.

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.

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.