The Dardanelles Conspiracy by Alan Bardos (you can read anyone txt) 📕

Chapter 14

Laszlo Breitner knocked briskly on the front door of a large wooden house, in the centre of a line of drab waterside residences. Von Grubber had instructed him to report here and make himself useful to an Austro-Hungarian personage of great importance.

He stopped himself knocking a second time and looked instead at the Golden Horn. The great harbour was a mass of boats and ships that bobbed and darted through its shimmering water, which separated the ancient alleys and bazaars of the old city from Pera, the relatively modern quarter of Constantinople. Its mass of buildings was turning pink as the sunlight slowly bled away.

The sound of traffic carried towards him on a sudden sea breeze and he turned to admire the Galata Bridge which linked the two halves of the city. Behind it the Bosphorus glinted, dividing the European and Asian sides of the city.

He had heard people say they'd rather be a beggar here than a prince anywhere else. Breitner had no time for such sentimental piffle. To him this city was not a place of beauty and wonder, but a vital strategic position barring the Russian steamroller from the rest of the world.

The stretch of water that ran through it from the Aegean to the Black Sea was the choke point that the Central Powers had to keep pressure on.

While the faltering Russians were bottled up and cut off from its Western allies, victory was still possible for the central powers. If the Allies were able to open the Straits and equip Russia’s unlimited manpower, defeat would be inevitable. Making this the most important stretch of water in the world, over which the fate of empires would be decided and Breitner was wasting his time playing court jester.

He turned back to the front door and banged again. This time the door swung open and a haughty footman, dressed in fine yellow livery, glared at Breitner. He was wearing rouge and his hair had been elegantly oiled. Another jester to amuse his master, it could be worse, Breitner brooded. He could be a eunuch in fact rather than metaphorically.

‘I am Major Laszlo Breitner, I believe I’m expected.’

The footman swung the door open and showed Breitner into a lavishly decorated reception room bathed in pink sunlight, reflected onto the ceiling from the Golden Horn.

It was an Aladdin's cave of gaudy carpets, tapestries and carvings. Two fountains filled the room with the sputter of water and the smell of flowers and perfumes added to the rich cacophony assaulting Breitner’s reason. It had clearly been designed to dazzle whoever was weak-minded enough to pay credence to such things.

A series of photographs had been displayed in the centre of the room, the monochrome images were at odds with the violent colours that surrounded them.

Breitner moved toward the photographs, they were the usual collection of street vendors and mosques that every tourist brought on picture postcards, but there seemed to be something familiar about the style. The angle of shot, the imagery and sense of perspective gave more power to the images than the usual tourist trap nonsense.

The pictures led Breitner on a story from the Turkish people to portraits of the leading figures in the Young Turk government. The photographs seemed to look directly into the politicians’ souls, revealing their strengths and their lusts. What he saw worried Breitner and he wondered how such people could be trusted.

The portraits stopped abruptly and turned into the familiar landscape of the Hungarian planes, mixed with profiles of Count Tisza and other notable Hungarian statesmen; followed by pictures of his old cavalry regiment, parading through the streets of Budapest.

Breitner gasped. A young officer of the Hussars, trusting and happy, gazed doe-eyed at him. He betrayed his every emotion and feeling to the photographer.

‘You never did get to see that picture, did you, Laszlo?’ Breitner spun round, his blood suddenly on fire.

‘I’m glad to see that you still appreciate my work.’ A luminous figure moved towards him. The water reflections on the ceiling made him feel like the room was suspended in mid-air and for a moment he was again that weak, lovesick boy.

‘Edelweiss…’ Breitner whispered.

‘I haven’t been called that in a long time.’ Esther Weisz smiled and kissed his cheek. She had always reminded Breitner of Károly Lotz's painting the ‘Bathing Woman’. Although he was relieved to see that she was fully clothed in a coral pink dress, matching the light, and Breitner assumed that was why she’d kept him waiting until the sunset reached its zenith.

‘Forgive me, Miss Weisz,’ Breitner said abruptly, refusing to allow himself the sweet joy of her lips. The days of her teasing were long past. That photograph had been the first and only time he’d let himself feel pure abandonment.

Esther arched an eyebrow. ‘So formal. Very well, Major Breitner, won’t you take a seat?’ She offered him a divan and he perched on the unfamiliar seat, trying to maintain a dignified bearing.

‘I understand you saw my sister Kati, in Sarajevo,’ Esther asked politely, sitting across from him.

‘Yes, she was in good health when I saw her in June,’ Breitner said stiffly, as he tried to come to terms with seeing Esther again. She seemed downhearted by his lack of emotion and stared at him for a moment.

‘You do look very soldierly, Laszlo.’ Esther reached across and traced the scar on his face.

‘I took a sabre cut from a Cossack.’ Breitner tried to sound dashing and instantly regretted it.

‘Truly you were in a cavalry charge – against Cossacks? You always were a lot braver than you thought.’ She sounded full of admiration. Breitner cringed.

‘I was repelling a charge and the last thing I felt was brave. Especially when a Cossack’s horse smashed my leg…’ He stumbled on the words,