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

to his planned programme now and deliberated going back to his boarding house which was only a couple of streets away. Ilic was probably already there, he thought, as he looked at a large picture of a wine bottle that ran up the full length of the wall, advertising Hungarian champagne. It reminded him of the wine he'd drunk the previous night to wash away the bitter taste of failure and now he'd missed his chance again. Princip controlled his anger and decided that he would not leave while there was still a chance of taking revenge on the tyrant.

Mihajlo Pusara, Princip’s actor friend, tapped him on the shoulder, his handsome face glowing. 'Gavrilo, I knew Nedjo would do it if he saw the newspaper clipping announcing the Heir’s visit.'

'He hasn't done anything, Mihajlo, apart from fail,' Princip replied, irritated that Pusara seemed to be as quick to believe Nedjo's boasts as Nedjo was to make them.

'Do you think they are dumb enough to come back this way?' Pusara asked.

'Who can tell?' Princip answered. ‘The Bosnian Post reported that the motorcade would pass this way on its return from the reception at City Hall.’

Pusara read the street sign with the theatrical flourish of an actor. 'Franz Josef Street - how ironic. A great act of Yugoslav nationalism could be carried out in a street named after the Emperor.'

Princip looked at the narrow, innocuous looking side street. It was the perfect place to set an ambush and prepare to wait for his enemy, just as his ancestors had in the Grahovo Valley.

*

Johnny saw a commotion as he stepped out of City Hall; one of the conspirators was being dragged around the back to the police station, followed by a baying crowd.

He ducked out of the way, realising that things were getting pretty hysterical. The last thing he needed was for one of his former confederates to see him and involve him in a riot. There were more than enough gendarmes and army officers hanging around to make things difficult.

He needed to find the Archduke’s chauffeur before Breitner took him in to see the Governor. He’d only got a fleeting look at the chap as the Archduke's car drove past, but he was confident that the chauffeur would be with the line of neatly parked cars outside City Hall.

Johnny recognised the smooth lines of the Archduke’s car first and then saw the powerful frame of the chauffeur. He’d taken his jacket off and was crouched down at the back of the car, under the petrol tank. A grey-haired officer hovered behind him, waiting to hear his report.

'The damage looks fairly superficial, Colonel von Harrach, just some small scratches and dents from bomb fragments,’ the chauffeur said, standing up and putting his cap back on.

‘Very well Loyka, we'll see to it later,' the grey-haired officer said and then hurried up the steps of City Hall.

'Hello there - Loyka, isn’t it?' Johnny said, taking the opportunity to approach the chauffeur.

The chauffeur looked at Johnny, trying to identify the unfamiliar gentleman. 'That's right, sir. How may I be of service?'

'You might remember me from the incident this morning?'

'I can't say that I do.' The chauffeur's eyes suddenly changed, as he recognised Johnny. 'You're one of them!'

'What? No, I'm not!' Johnny protested, but it was too late - Loyka had grabbed him around the neck. 'I just need to talk to you. I need you to tell them what I did!'

'I'll tell them all right!' the chauffeur snarled before shouting to the gendarmes outside City Hall. 'I've got one of them. I saw him throw the bomb!'

Johnny tried to grapple with the chauffeur, but he was too strong. He could see the angry mob, which had been following the person taken into the police station, coming towards him. He wondered for a moment who it was that had been caught. Then he head-butted the chauffeur and as the man stepped back to hold his nose, Johnny got away a short, sharp jab that knocked him cold.

He hadn’t been the captain of his school’s rugby team for nothing, he mused, picking up the chauffeur’s cap. He had a vague plan, but before he could do anything, two gendarmes had him.

Johnny struggled to get away, but the mob surrounded them and started to kick and punch. He heard muffled shouts of command and a burly officer pushed his way through the mass of bodies.

'What the hell is going on here?' he demanded.

Johnny's relief turned to apprehension as the sun glinted on the officer’s monocle and he recognised Matthias, Libby's lieutenant. He smiled at Johnny, emphasising a livid, duelling scar on his left cheek. Johnny could smell the schnapps on his breath.

Matthias turned to the gendarmes. ‘How dare you accost a gentleman in the street like this!’ he shouted, but the gendarmes maintained their grip.

'This man is a terrorist - he made an attempt on the Heir's life,' one of the gendarmes replied.

Matthias looked at Johnny, enjoying his predicament. 'Who says so?'

'He does,' the gendarme said, pointing at the chauffeur, who was lying on the floor, still out cold and unable to corroborate the story. In his shirtsleeves and without his cap there was no way to identify who he was, which was as Johnny had planned.

'Lieutenant, I demand that you order these men to release me immediately. I work for the Joint Ministry of Finance. You can check with a Herr Breitner at City Hall that I am bona fide,' Johnny’s German master at school had been a Pomeranian Grenadier in the Franco-Prussian war and the German he’d taught him allowed Johnny to muster some authority. Matthias dismissed Johnny’s sham with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders.

'Actually, I was hoping for a chance to meet you again. You left with the young lady rather abruptly last night. No