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

answer would be if questioned precisely what his loyalties to the Monarchy were.

‘May I go to lunch now?’ Pusara asked with a theatrical bow. His name had come up in one or two of Breitner’s lines of enquiry; he was a member of various nationalist groups and an associate of the man Breitner wished to investigate. An actor by calling, Pusara had opted to stay in his homeland and work as a clerk, rather than follow the path of fame and fortune elsewhere.

Breitner watched Pfeffer look at the clock and saw that it was twelve thirty. The Judge appeared annoyed, Breitner suspected, because he was missing his own lunch. ‘Yes, of course, my dear fellow. You are a creature of habit aren’t you?’ Pfeffer waited until he had left before adding, ‘Excellent fellow - a good clerk is so hard to come by.’

Breitner thought it best to keep his observations to himself. As far as he knew, Pusara hadn’t done anything illegal and he didn’t wish to bring down any further derision on his investigation.

‘What exactly is it that you want, Mr Breitner?’ Pfeffer asked.

‘I’ve identified a member of a Young Bosnia cell. He lives a few streets away from here and is recruiting members to carry out an act of great Serbian patriotism.’

‘And you’ve gleaned all this from the scribbling of these semi-literate rejects? It doesn’t seem a very solid premise from which to turn the city upside down,’ Pfeffer said.

‘I’d like to have him brought in for questioning, or at the very least a few men to help carry out surveillance of his boarding house,’ Breitner replied, trying to maintain his dignity.

‘Have you taken these mad ideas of yours to your own chief? You are part of the political section for goodness’ sake.’

‘A very lowly member of the political section,’ Viktor added.

‘Yes, with very limited power to take action. My chief has passed my warnings on to Governor Potiorek, who chose to discount them,’ Breitner said, ‘along with those of the Chief of Police and the speaker of the Bosnian Parliament.’

‘I see - doesn’t that tell you something, Mr Breitner?’ Pfeffer asked, harshly.

Breitner finally lost his temper. There was only so much scorn he could take. ‘It tells me that our dear, beloved military Governor is just as dull and mutton-headed as the dull, mutton-headed bureaucrats he serves in Vienna.’

The two men looked at Breitner, lost for words, although eventually Pfeffer managed to say, ‘I understand that you came to Sarajevo with a jaded past, chased out of the army and with something of a reputation.’

Breitner inadvertently touched his chest where his service ribbons had been worn, but they were gone. He no longer wore the uniform of the Emperor and a year on still felt its loss deeply and expected to mourn its loss for the rest of his life.

‘Breitner, you may not have any regard for the consequences your actions have on your career or the careers of those around you or the Monarchy in general but I do care and I have no intention of letting you drag me down with you. Now leave my office and do not trouble me with this nonsense again,’ Pfeffer said coldly.

Breitner managed a half bow and hurried back to his basement office - the path of righteousness would have to wait.

Chapter 14

Johnny Swift admired Sarajevo from a terrace cafe on the western edge of Bascarsija, the old town, where Sarajevo merged into the new Imperial buildings of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. The city had been built on the banks of the shallow Miljacka River, at the bottom of a thickly wooded valley. Two storey, white-washed houses with red-tiled roofs spread out from the city up the surrounding mountains, making Johnny feel as if he was at the bottom of a giant basin.

The centuries old conflict between east and west had become fused in the city. Minarets, domes and artisan shops, their wares spilling out onto roughly cobbled streets, stood side by side with ornate neo-renaissance banks, hotels and offices. The call to prayer and the sound of the gentle flow of water fountains mingled with the roar of the trams and the bustle of a modern western city.

He finished his burek, which seemed to be a kind of pasty and poured himself another thimble of coffee from a long handled copper jug. He dipped a sugar cube into the rich dark sediment; it had taken him a while to work out that this was how to drink it, but it was almost second nature to him now. Johnny was at one with his environment; the contrasting character of the city echoed the conflict that was going on in his mind. He was sorely tempted to stay here and revert back to his true self, letting the perfectly cut tennis lawn which the Diplomatic Service had turned him into, run wild with the persistent weed of his self destructive side, but he knew that would prove Sir George right, and that would never do.

Johnny remembered what he was about and glanced at the crowded street below. The mix of cultures was most apparent in the dress of the people. It reminded him of an ‘Arabian Nights’ themed party he’d attended in Paris with Libby.

He watched as a blonde man wearing a fez and baggy oriental clothes walked past a group of mountain people in crimson scarves and pointed shoes, then stopped to say hello to a man in a suit and tie. The variety of dress was endless but what really caught Johnny's eye were the women in brightly coloured veils. They had a serene passion about them as they returned his admiring looks with a seductive sway of the hips.

It had taken Johnny a few days to acclimatise to the city as he brushed up on the language and planned what to do next, but