The Assassins by Alan Bardos (read novel full .TXT) 📕

innocuous office boy might pose any kind of a threat to his property or chattel didn't occur to Sir George, until Johnny crashed his car into the wrought iron railings of a metro station.

'You're staying here… with him?' Johnny fought to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

'Alternately, we could take a gamble; you could stay here with me and try to win the money back, Johnny.'

They'd spent most of the journey to Vienna arguing about this, Johnny reflected bitterly. Libby had insisted that they repay Sir George. Apparently, it was the right thing to do and she had a position in society and wouldn't have it threatened for the sake of a few brass farthings. The idea of compromising her marriage any further than she already had was totally unacceptable to her.

'We have to win the money back. I have no intention of ending up like one of your brothel women,' Libby continued.

'How are we going to do that?' Johnny tried to explain patiently for the hundredth time that Sir George wouldn’t risk the scandal of a divorce and that they had no money, which Sir George obviously knew, as he hadn't asked for any back and was happy with just ruining Johnny.

'Look, if you're not going to help me, go and do this nasty little job for George, then come and find me at the spa. I'll think of some way of winning the money back.' By all accounts there was a very acceptable spa near Sarajevo, soon to be patronised by the Austrian Heir Apparent. 'If you do a good job and we pay the money back, George might actually allow you to return to the Embassy, without destroying too much of your career.'

They drove past the Statue of Athena, outside the parliament building, and she seemed to look down on him - regal and daunting. Johnny turned back to Libby; he knew that in her own way she was trying to be kind and help him. He nodded his agreement - he would do as she asked, somehow.

Chapter 8

Gavrilo thought that the old oak tree had the same shape as a man's body, making it a perfect target for the test. Ciganovic and two of his associates from the Partisans, Djuro Sarac and Milan Mojic, had been teaching Gavrilo and Trifko to shoot for the past six days.

Sarac, who'd been Major Tankosic's bodyguard during the war, now wanted to assess them, so he paced out a firing position from two hundred metres and another one from sixty. The deserted forests around Topcider Park made a good training ground, evoking in Gavrilo the memory of Mihailo Obrenovic, a Serbian prince murdered in these woods by Austrian agents, as he planned to free Bosnia.

Gavrilo opened fire at distance first and managed to score six out of ten. Closing to sixty metres he hit with all eight shots and watched with satisfaction as chunks of wood and bark flew from the tree.

Sarac then ordered him to run past the target whilst firing. At two hundred metres Gavrilo scored two hits, but from sixty metres he achieved three. Gavrilo felt as if he was following in the traditions of his ancestors as he ran through the trees. They'd laid ambushes for smugglers and brigands in the woodland around their village in the Grahovo Valley, Western Bosnia, where his father and grandfather had risen up against the Turks and beaten them, before his homeland was given to the Austrians.

Sarac congratulated Gavrilo. 'You've passed.'

'Well done, Gavro,' Trifko added. ‘You’re the better shot.’

Gavrilo shrugged off Trifko's praise. 'I trained with a Browning before Tankosic threw me out of the Partisans,' he said with a scowl.

'This will even things out, Gavro,' Trifko said, excited to have passed the test. 'We will be the spirits of revenge - avengers for Mihailo Obrenovic.'

'You should get in close to do it, if you can stand to,' Ciganovic told Gavrilo, grinning.

'I will think of Obrenovic and everyone murdered in our cause,' Gavrilo answered flatly. He wasn't sure if Ciganovic was mocking him for his score over distance.

A guslar's song filled Gavrilo with nervous excitement; maybe one day the guslars would sing a song of his exploits to the students and dissidents of The Green Wreath. The idea amused him briefly but he wasn't interested in personal glory - all he wanted was a chance to prove himself.

Princip had his books and a paper to read as they waited for Ciganovic, but he couldn't concentrate. 'The Russian Tsar has been killed,' he announced.

Trifko and Nedjo looked at him doubtfully and neither of them cheered. Gavrilo shook his head in mock shame. 'I'm joking. I wanted to see what kind of revolutionaries you are and how you'd react.'

'How are they supposed to react to such news?' Ciganovic asked as he joined them.

'How any true revolutionary should react to the death of a tyrant,' Princip answered.

'The Tsars have been the saviours of the Slav people since Peter the Great. Tsar Nicholas could be our only chance now against the Austrians,' Ciganovic replied.

'For Serbia maybe, but where were our Russian “big brothers” when we were annexed? Licking their wounds, after their humiliation against Japan. Maybe we Bosnians should look out for ourselves,' Gavrilo countered. Now he'd passed the test he did not feel quite so much in the shadow of the mighty Partisan. They were both after all Bosnians. Ciganovic was from a village not far from where Gavrilo had grown up.

'With a little help from our Serbian cousins, maybe?' Ciganovic, said indicating the sack he was holding.

Princip flinched at the jibe. He didn’t know if Ciganovic was playing devil’s advocate or if he believed Russia would come to their assistance, but he’d made his point.

Ciganovic smiled before discreetly handing him four Browning automatic pistols. The others looked around, but they were the