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

a friend.' Vila coughed; he was going behind the boss's back, any more information would cost. Breitner knew he’d have to make his first tug on the thread. He threw down everything that was in his wallet - a month's pay.

*

General Oskar Potiorek, the military Governor of Bosnia and Herzegovina, was in no mood to take any chances. He preferred to administer his provinces from the comfort and security of his residence. However, he'd felt compelled to come to Ilidza and oversee the conversion of one of the Hotel Bosnia's rooms into a chapel for the Archduke's devotions on the Sunday morning of his visit.

The conversion had cost over forty thousand golden crowns, not an inconsiderable part of his budget, but General Potiorek felt it was money well spent. The Archduke was an extremely devout man, who'd publicly rebuked Conrad von Hotzendorf, the Chief of Staff, for not attending mass during the autumn manoeuvres.

The Governor was determined that that would not happen to him. The Heir Apparent had already twice blocked his attempts at promotion and he felt he couldn't leave something as important as the conversion to his subordinates, so he had decided to make a spot inspection.

Since inviting the Heir Apparent to come to Sarajevo after the summer manoeuvres, Potiorek had taken it upon himself to personally supervise every detail of the stay, from the temperature at which the Heir liked his wine served, to the correct length of the stirrups he used.

Potiorek had staked a great deal of his reputation on the success of the Royal visit, in the hope that it would boost the prestige of the Monarchy in the provinces. He'd replaced Varesanin as a "strong" governor three years previously and was expected to top a brilliant career by becoming Chief of Staff, and he wasn't going to fall now at the last fence.

His inspection had been satisfactory and now he could retire to the Konak, his splendid residence, for the evening. He was still feeling uneasy, as he knew it would take just one simple event to set the Archduke on a rampage and to ruin the visit and his career.

He saw a tall youth with a short, black moustache and a sports cap in the hotel's lobby - exactly the type he didn't want loitering. General Potiorek, realised he’d left his security detachment outside and he was about to have them called when a coarse shriek echoed across the hotel lobby, striking horror into the Governor's heart.

'Here, take your pound of flesh!' a lumbering great oaf in a frock coat was shouting as he was being dragged towards the exit by a croupier and a concierge. He shrugged them off and threw a handful of coins onto the floor.

Potiorek was outraged; things like this simply could not happen. He stormed across the lobby towards the altercation, as the oaf continued his spectacle with the croupier.

'I'm sorry, “sir”. We only accept official chips at the table,' the croupier was patiently explaining.

'I don't have any official chips left!' the oaf shouted back at the top of his voice.

'Then perhaps you'd like to retire from the game,' the croupier said. He wasn't having much luck pushing the man towards the door.

'No, I wouldn't like to bloody well retire from the game. Don't you understand? I have to win it back!'

'What the hell's going on here?' Potiorek demanded.

The oaf gave him the same look of cold fury that the Governor had seen all too often on the faces of Serb students. 'This lackey refuses to take my note.'

The croupier bowed, embarrassed as he recognised the Governor. 'I'm sorry, Excellency. The gentleman has lost rather heavily.'

Potiorek addressed his comments to the Serb “child”. 'Young man, I don't take kindly to Serb ne'er-do-wells entering exclusive establishments and causing a scene.'

‘You puffed up buffoon! I'm...' but before he could finish his sentence, a slight man in his thirties had run through the door, grabbed the oaf and kneed him in the groin, causing him to double up on the floor.

The slight man tipped his hat to the Governor. 'Excuse me, Excellency. I'll throw this scum out.' The Governor eyed him suspiciously. He knew this man; his name was Breitner and he was a pariah – but he evidently had his uses.

'Come on, you Serb riff raff!' Breitner ordered.

'But I'm not...' the hapless oaf yelped, cut off as Breitner kicked him in the face, and then, with the aid of the croupier and the concierge, started pulling him up, ripping his frock coat in the process.

Chapter 17

Johnny felt battered and sick as he came round. He remembered being dragged down a corridor which stank of carbolic. He thought he might have won something - he certainly felt as if he'd been in a rugby match. He remembered getting the beating of his life in the final of the inter-house cup, and still smashing his way through to score the winning try in the dying seconds of the game.

The metallic screech of a door opening brought him back to the present. He was lying on the floor of a cell, his clothes in rags and his whole body throbbing. A slight figure was grinning at him from the doorway.

'Good, you're awake. I trust you slept well?'

'Breitner…' Johnny recognised him and tried to sit up. He didn’t understand how this had happened. He'd been winning and then it had all gone bad. Breitner had beaten him up and dragged him into the police station above the City Hall.

'What the hell do you think you're playing at, Breitner? I'm a member of His Majesty's Civil Service.'

'Call me Laszlo. This isn't one of your English public schools,' Breitner said, helping Johnny to sit up.

'No? Well you certainly act as if it is.'

'Do they teach you how to lose so ignobly, in those schools?'