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

me, there won't be a rathole deep enough for you to crawl into! You and your sort would do anything to keep me away from my subjects so that you can turn them against me.'

Breitner took a step back, propelled by the sheer force of Franz Ferdinand's anger. The Archduke stormed back into his suite, quickly followed by his entourage.

Breitner felt a hand on his shoulder and found that Colonel von Merizzi was next to him. 'You're staying with me, Breitner. I can't have you causing any more mischief today.'

*

Nedjo Cabrinovic left the pastry shop and walked up to Appel Quay, ready to face his destiny. He pondered whether he should record the moment in some way, for posterity. He was wearing his best suit and after the trouble he'd caused at home Nedjo felt he should leave something of himself for his family.

‘Why so glum, Nedjo - have you been stood up? All dressed up and no girl to impress?’

Nedjo grinned - his friend Tomo was walking towards him. They’d spent many a happy hour taking girls out along Appel Quay. Nedjo decided for sure then what he would do.

‘This will be a momentous Vidovdan, Tomo - a day of great deeds. We must record it with a photograph.’

‘Why not?’ Tomo readily agreed and they found an open photographer’s on Circus Square where Nedjo posed with the copy of Narod tightly rolled up in his hand and his arm discreetly covering the bomb under his jacket.

*

Gavrilo Princip crossed Lateiner Bridge and entered the park on the opposite bank. He needed to be as inconspicuous as possible and loitering at his position next to the bridge was a sure-fire way of attracting unwanted attention from the police.

‘Stop, Princip! Wait there!’The sudden shout sent a jolt of fear through Gavrilo and he spun round, trying to identify who was calling him.

Maxim Svara, the son of Sarajevo's public prosecutor, was coming towards him. Princip started to hurry away but a hand grabbed his arm.

‘Gavro, where are you going? You remember Maxim?’

‘What?’ Princip said with a start. It took him a moment to understand what was happening. ‘Spiric?’

Rather than the burly gendarme Princip had been expecting, he was being accosted by an old school friend.

‘We just wondered if you managed to pass your exams in Belgrade,’ Spiric said, as Maxim caught up with them.

‘No, I failed,’ Princip replied tersely, but then quickly realising his good fortune, he invited Maxim and Spiric to walk with him. There couldn’t have been a better ruse than taking a Sunday morning stroll through the park with the son of the public prosecutor, while at the same time blending in with the loyal subjects who'd gathered at the Ottoman style bandstand to listen to jaunty, marching music.

It all felt seductive and false, something his elder brother would have enjoyed. Gavro glanced up at the ramparts of the imposing police station that overlooked the park and wondered how many more Sunday mornings like this there would be after today.

*

Cvjetko Popovic was frustrated by the change in weather. He'd been hoping for the rain to continue, so that he could wear a woollen cape that would hide the bulges the bomb and pistol made in his jacket. He was afraid that the cape would now make him look conspicuous in the summer heat.

Eventually, Popovic decided to risk the cape as the better option and made his way to Appel Quay, with the bomb concealed in his right hand pocket and the gun in his left.

Since he’d had the honour of being asked to take part in the assassination Popovic had existed completely for this moment. He'd stopped studying, ignored the news and barely noticed the jokes of his friends; it all seemed pointless and childish. The only thing he cared about was this day - the day he would take revenge on the tyrant for all his oppressive policies and the day he planned to die.

Popovic had lived the assassination a thousand times in his imagination. His friend in the second cell, Vaso Cubrilovic, would be at his side. Vaso would throw his bomb, stopping the Archduke’s car and in the chaos, Popovic would throw his bomb and open fire. He'd save the last bullet for himself, to use after he’d taken the cyanide which Ilic had given him.

Unfortunately, it would not happen that way now, Popovic reflected sadly; he would be with Jovo, a stranger. He found his place in front of the tobacconist’s, on the corner of Cumurija Street, across from the bridge, and he looked at the crowd gathering around him under the shade of the linden trees that lined the city side of the embankment. Ilic's face came into focus through the blurred sea of shapes.

'Where is Jovo?' Ilic asked.

'I don't know. I've just got here,' Popovic shrugged.

'Damn - I knew he was all talk. I'm going to check that the other two are in position, then I'll come back.'

'I can do my duty without a wet nurse!' Popovic was indignant.

Ilic patted Popovic reassuringly on the shoulder and moved out into the blurred mass around him.

*

Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie, Duchess of Hohenberg, glowed in the bright sunshine as they emerged from Sarajevo Station. Franz Ferdinand's uniform was now complete, with a gold-braided ribbon around his waist, white gloves and a peacock feathered hat. The Duchess was elegant in a white silk dress, an ermine fur over her shoulders and a wide brimmed hat. Breitner thought they presented a splendid target.

If Franz Ferdinand had taken Breitner's warnings seriously he certainly didn't show it, radiating calmness when General Potiorek invited him to inspect the honour guard, which was parading in full dress and service medals. These troops, in Breitner's opinion, would have been much better employed lining the streets, actually guarding the Heir.