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

'So we might as well spend a few days at the spa and have another little flutter. I'm sure we can find somewhere decent that will still take our notes.'

'My instructions are explicit, Lady Smyth. I really must go back,' Johnny replied, starting to feel temptation well up inside him.

'I see. George did mention something about one of his juniors being for the high jump,' she added casually.

Johnny convulsed. 'He...what?' A thousand possibilities flooded his mind, but he instinctively understood why he'd been recalled. 'Sir George must have found out about us.' Johnny looked at the telegram in his hand, not quite believing it to be true, but if Libby had settled the debts, it was the only possible explanation.

Chapter 2

'It is announced from Sarajevo that the Archduke Heir Apparent and his wife will come to Sarajevo and participate in manoeuvres.' The cafe's gaslight flickered as Gavrilo watched Nedjo read the newspaper clipping. Franz Ferdinand's arrogant face stared back at them.

Gavrilo shared his friend's restlessness. They both knew that the visit by the ‘arch tyrant’ would give them the perfect opportunity to take a sweet and bloody revenge for the suffering his empire had inflicted on the South Slav people.

'Rereading the notice won't get us the means to destroy the Heir,' Trifko, the third person at their table, remarked curtly.

Nedjo reacted to the edge in Trifko's voice. 'I don't want to stop the visit. Like you, I want to go home and welcome them. It's our moral duty to give the Heir a proper reception.'

'Is that a boast or do you actually mean to take action? Trifko replied calmly, ignoring Nedjo’s bluster.

All three had resolved to take action a month earlier, after Nedjo had received the clipping from a friend in Sarajevo. They’d made contact with an ex-Partisan, a fellow Bosnian Serb, who’d once shared the same lodgings as Gavrilo. He’d agreed to help them obtain the means, but little progress had been made since then and tension was starting to show.

Gavrilo was equally frustrated, but for now he was content to let the other two squabble. Gavrilo Princip tried to have as little to do with people as possible. Wherever he went, people took him for a weakling, seeing only his gaunt features and slight build, the legacy of a childhood under Austrian rule. Gavrilo often played along, pretending to be weak, but he knew that one day he would prove them all wrong.

He gazed at the other two as they argued. Like Gavrilo, they had trimmed moustaches and wore dark suits, rejecting the traditional dress of their parents. Gavrilo had known Nedeljko Cabrinovic for two years. They were both nineteen and committed to their cause, but Nedjo was often too emotional. He had a tendency to speak without thinking and would brag about the heroics he'd perform. It seemed to Gavrilo that he was desperately trying to throw off the stigma of his father, who was generally believed to be a police informant.

Trifko Grabez, Gavrilo's old friend, would be nineteen the following month on Vidovdan, the Serbs' national day. The son of an Orthodox priest, Trifko often appeared reticent, but Gavrilo knew his physical strength ensured he could take action when needed, as he'd proved when he was sentenced to fourteen days in prison and expelled from Bosnia for hitting a teacher who'd insulted him. The experience had left Trifko with the desire to make his country’s invaders pay for what had happened to him. It was a desire that Gavrilo had encouraged since Trifko's arrival in Belgrade.

Gavrilo glanced at the gas light above them - it still seemed like a marvel compared to the darkness of the peasant house he grew up in. The light cast a glimmering sheen on the other youthful dissidents from Bosnia and Herzegovina who gathered in the cafes of Belgrade's Green Wreath Square to drink coffee and talk, always to talk. The Acorn Garland was the favourite venue, as this was where the veterans from the Balkan Wars came to tell their stories.

'I will commit a true and noble deed for our people,' Nedjo crowed, drawing Gavrilo out of his thoughts.

'Action, action - enough of words!' Gavrilo protested, unable to listen any more.

'We must have the means, Gavro,' Trifko said. ‘We still need weapons, money and a safe route out of Serbia and into Bosnia.’

Gavrilo glared across the cafe at Milan Ciganovic, a decorated Partisan officer and their contact. He was at the centre of attention with a group of tough looking ex-Partisans.

Ciganovic hadn't been quite so commanding after the last Balkans War, Gavrilo reflected; he'd fallen on hard times like many former soldiers. Legend had it that Ciganovic had been so lice-ridden that he was actually thrown out of the Green Wreath Cafe. Gavrilo found that hard to imagine, to look at him now. A respectable clerk in the Serbian railways, he cut a powerful figure and Gavrilo knew that he wouldn't be moved or hurried.

'Perhaps I should go and ask Cigo for the means, now,' Nedjo said, seeing Gavrilo's apprehension. 'He will not refuse me!'

'Who could refuse the mighty hero?' Trifko said dryly.

Gavrilo cut them short, before they started to argue again. 'I will go.’

He made his way towards the veterans and Ciganovic looked up as he approached, calling across to him, ‘Gavrica!’

Gavrilo smiled wearily - he hated the nickname, 'Little Gavrilo'. ‘Do you have any news?’ he asked.

Ciganovic looked at his companions then back at Gavrilo. ‘News? There is no news?’ he answered mockingly.

The ex-Partisans laughed. Gavrilo shuffled nervously; he felt slightly uneasy in Ciganovic’s presence. Ciganovic was six years older than him and had actually done what Gavrilo could only dream of.

‘Come Gavrilo - sit and have a drink. I’m just teasing. There’s nothing doing.’ Ciganovic smiled good naturedly and offered him