Gavin Lyall - Flight From Honour

“Sorry,” Ranklin said calmly, “but that’s the best I can do.”

“For the love of God,” Novak grumbled. “Is this what the famous English Secret Service employs? I should have left you there another year or – Come in!”

But the officer of the Austrian Landwehr who had knocked so perfunctorily hadn’t waited to be asked. “Ah, this is where you’re hiding yourself. I’ve been looking everywhere.” He sat down. “Remember to make sure this office is properly tidied before you go.”

Although Ranklin had never seen him before, he already knew him well. Every army has its plump, fussy staff officers who go unerringly for the least important detail and stick to it. The Captain’s stars on his collar were superfluous; the bunch of papers in his hand was his rank, his whole purpose.

He seemed to become aware of Ranklin and asked: “Who’s this?”

Stone-faced, Novak said: “This, Hauptmannn Knebel, is an English spy.”

Knebel didn’t seem impressed. He looked at Ranklin again, but only as if estimating his value in paperwork. “Then hadn’t you better get rid of him while we talk?”

“Ach-” Novak waved airily; “-I’m sure he already knows everything that’s going on here.”

“Then perhaps I should borrow him until this damned relief is done with.”

Novak acknowledged the quip by baring his teeth, then said: “He has been conspiring with the Conte di Chioggia.”

“Ah yes, it was about the Count.” Knebel shuffled his papers. “I have just spoken to the Kommandant, in person, on the telephone. He orders you to release the Count immediately.”

With Knebel, Novak had tried to curb his histrionics. But not now. “ Release him? Just when I’ve proved he’s a traitor? – after all these years?”

Secure behind his papers, his spectacles and an upturned but still non-belligerent moustache, Knebel seemed unconcerned. “Possibly, possibly, but your orders are still to release him. You can keep that one,” he added, indicating Ranklin.

“But they’re in it together! Listen, please listen to how I trapped them. Yesterday they met both at the Cafe San Marco and, more suspiciously, in the Galleria di Montuzza. So observe-” he held up a thick forefinger; “-that implicates this worm in whatever the Count is doing, but does not yet implicate the Count with this worm. You understand? But then, early yesterday, I get proof that this verminous-”

“Verminous?” That had been a mistake; vermin were something Knebel took seriously. “He didn’t pick up anything in our dungeons. I’ve had those dungeons inspected every-”

“No, no.” Novak waved his head in agitation. “It was just a way of talking. Poetic, you might say. Please let me continue. So – the proof implicates this . . . this man, and so each now implicates the other – you see? So I arrest them, put them together, and trap them into revealing more of their plots. And that is what has happened. Each proves the other is guilty!”

“Quite so,” Knebel said indifferently. “But your orders are to release the Count.”

“But,” Novak wailed, “if one is not guilty, neither is the other!”

“Possibly, but the Count is not regarded as an enemy of the Emperor. You may not know this, but-”

“He’s applied for Austrian nationality. Yes, of course I know about that nonsense.”

“Hardly nonsense, as you would see if you gave it some thought. Whether nationality is granted or not, just applying will ruin his name in the Italian community. He’s thrown away all his influence with them.”

“And doesn’t that tell you he’s up to something worse than usual? He wants to fool you into thinking he’s given up plotting, just when-”

“Ah, but it isn’t just the nationality, it goes further than that.” Knebel smiled confidently. “However, I cannot discuss such matters.”

“He has fooled you! He’s got you playing his game!”

“ I don’t play games,” Knebel corrected him. “I just obey orders. Whether you do the same is between you and the Kommandant – and, of course, your career.”

Novak said something explosive in Slovenian, then controlled himself. “Then let me tell you what they’re plotting. They’ve got an aeroplane, probably at Venice by now. No.” He turned to Ranklin. “You tell him. Confess again.”

Ranklin felt he was losing track of whose side he was on, but it was too late now. “It’s expected to fly over Trieste tomorrow and perhaps fire a machine-gun-”

Knebel was shaking his head gently, and Novak snatched back the narrative. “They want to stir up the shipyard workers, delay the battleships, fill the streets with whizzing bullets – perhaps even assassinate the Kommandant !” That was desperation.

But it was no use: machine-guns are soldiers’ business, and nobody is more relentlessly soldierly than a fusspot staff officer. Knebel shook his head again. “I can assure you that there’s only one type of machine-gun light enough to be carried in an aeroplane and that isn’t even in production yet.”

Novak glared at Ranklin, who said nothing, then scrabbled through Pero’s report. “Yes, here, my own informer heard them talk of machine-guns-”

“Hauptmann, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but it is leading you beyond your depth.”

“But they’ve certainly got an aeroplane,” Novak growled mutinously. “And if that flies over tomorrow-”

“It would indeed be a violation of our laws. But answer me truly: do you really believe our Italian workers are going to start strikes and riots because they’ve seen an Italian aeroplane fly over? – with or without machine-guns?”

It was like asking Novak to pull out one of his own teeth. His big body writhed in the chair. But it came out at last: “No. But-”

“Then stop acting like an old lady whose candle’s blown out. And if an aeroplane comes, let us soldiers worry about it. So.” He stood up. “I’ve passed on the Kommandant’s orders: you’re to release the Count. And if you still want to charge this one, complete the proper forms and we’ll take him over. Now I’ve got the relief to worry about. Remember what I said about tidying the office – and open a window to get rid of this cigarette smoke. Good evening.”

Novak watched the door close, then raged morosely: “Someone’s trying to pull down his Empire on his head and he pisses his pants about cigarette smoke !”

But Ranklin was thinking about the gulf in attitude between the Slovenian policeman and the Austrian soldier. Perhaps here was Novak’s commitment. And perhaps that gulf was wide enough for him to slip through. “So what now?”

Novak clamped his jaw and said through his teeth: “At least I still have you. If I can do nothing else, I can see you rot your life out in a dungeon. A truly verminous one, this time. And if there aren’t enough vermin, I’ll bring you more on visiting day!”

Ranklin nodded. “Yes, but that won’t help tomorrow. What was he saying about a relief?”

Novak scowled. “For a spy, you don’t like working at your job, do you?” Then he whacked his hands on the table-top, spilling an ashtray. “Dear God! – that’s it! The changeover of regiments at the Caserma barracks. The old regiment gone and the new one wandering around looking for the piss-house and nobody with the key to the ammunition cupboard when the trouble starts! Only the Castle Guard here. That’s why your friends chose tomorrow. Nothing to do with Oberdan – not much, anyway.” He forced himself to calm down. “They’ve thought this out.”

“Only you don’t believe there’ll be any trouble.”

“They’ve planned so much, there must be more . . . And there’s still those machine-guns – unless that was one of the Count’s damned fantasies?”