Gavin Lyall - Spy’s Honour

“But the peasant does not care if everybody else knows also,” Tibor said shrewdly. “The capitalist wants to know in secret, to move before others move. He wants truth, but to hide it for himself. But – ” he finished his brandy; “ – Stefan does not telegraph about the treaty, it is about Colonel Redl.”

“Ah.”

“You know about the Colonel?”

“What I read in the papers – and Stefan was talking about him yesterday.” He daren’t seem too interested: what would Sherring care about an intelligence scandal?

But, perhaps for the same reason, Tibor insisted on “boring” him with what Hazay had uncovered. “He has learnt of a meeting between the Archduke Franzie and General Conrad, after Redl has shot himself. Franzie talks to him as if he is a common soldier .” Tibor relished that. “He makes him stand to attention and tells him he is a pig-head to make Redl kill himself and not answer any question. That now they cannot know what Serbia, what Russia, knows about their Army and its plans. And also, that it is wicked to make a good Catholic do a mortal sin.”

Now that, a complete irrelevance to Ranklin’s non-Catholic mind, had the truth of a detail nobody would think to invent. “Really?” he said, his uninterested tone hiding his thoughts. If true, if true, that confrontation meant the Archduke was well aware of the danger in starting a war here and now. So could he really have been advising one?

“So now,” Tibor said, “you will tell your Capitalist this truth also?”

“Perhaps – but only if the censors stop it being published.” And he could see just why those censors wouldn’t want such dissension in the high command made public. “Why is Hazay taking such a risk? – it must be a risk.”

“They cannot shoot him for it. And he does it for truth, so everybody will know, not just capitalists.”

Ranklin nodded absently and sipped his brandy. “Would you ask Hazay to telephone me at the Margaret Island hotel?”

“He says he will see you tonight, if you go to the American’s speech.”

“He’ll be there?”

“All journalists are invited.” So somebody wanted to make sure that Hornbeam got well and undeniably reported.

“All the same, I’d like to talk to him as soon as he gets back from – from Komarom. I might have some extra truth he’d be interested in,” he added as bait.

Tibor stared at him without expression, then said: “All right – Enemy.” He lumbered away and Ranklin watched without really seeing.

Damn, he was thinking. And damn again. This may change everything.

Dr Ignatz Brull’s stern-but-kindly expression changed into one of astonished horror. “You are telling me that Professor Hornbeam will announce that the Habsburg Law can be broken? – to make Duchess Sophie become Empress? Du Liebe Gott!” Although the British Consul, Brull’s origins had obviously been German-speaking. His accent was now just a constant mild flavour – except when he got astonished.

“I fear the papers his daughter found allow of no other conclusion,” Ranklin said sadly. He had cleaned up the details of the discovery.

“And you say that the Archduke himself sent a copy of the Law to Dr Hornbeam? Then surely he must be mad. He will destroy himself.”

“Er – no; I said it could appear that the Archduke was behind it all. For myself, I rather doubt that. I fear it may be a move to discredit the Archduke, destroy his influence … But I’m probably wrong. As Consul here you know far more about such matters.”

Dr Brull acknowledged this with a nod and then sat frowning with thought. Apart from the length of his moustache, he looked like a – no, the bank manager of a county town: comfortable, reliable, knowing his job and knowing his table would be kept free at his lunchtime restaurant. He did not look as if he dabbled much in international intrigue, but he was all Ranklin had.

Budapest was a Consul-General’s post but was awaiting a new C.-G. being sent from London; Dr Brull was just keeping the seat warm for his new chief. It was, Ranklin feared, a reasonable guess that he wouldn’t want that chief to find the seat too hot.

Dr Brull took off his thick-lensed spectacles and tapped them on the table. “I believe you are correct, Mr Ranklin. The Archduke’s advisers – and he would have to communicate with Professor Hornbeam through them – would never permit him to do anything so foolish.”

“But to the man in the street,” Ranklin said, “to the reader of tomorrow’s newspapers, that thought might not occur.”

“It might not occur to the Emperor, either,” Dr Brull ruminated. “And some of his advisers might not hurry to point it out. The Archduke seems to be in good standing with the Emperor at the moment. There is a rumour – I trust you will not pass this on – that the Emperor plans, on his birthday next week, to make the Archduke the Inspector General of the Army.”

Which would give him the right – officially, not just as a Habsburg – to curb General Conrad’s ambitions. Ranklin said: “But that would go by the board if …”

“I fear so.” Dr Brull put his spectacles back on and focused on Ranklin. “You did right to bring this to my attention.”

“My patriotic duty,” Ranklin simpered hopefully.

“But of course, this is none of our concern.”

Ranklin stared. “But – don’t you feel that this is political news that should be sent to the Ambassador in Vienna? Or even direct to London?”

Dr Brull smiled indulgently. He was used to agitated British citizens coming in with “news” (usually cafe gossip) that should immediately be telegraphed to the Foreign Secretary personally . Like a good bank manager, it was his duty to be polite – but firm.

“But what news, Mr Ranklin? Nothing, as yet, has actually happened. It may not happen – ”

“But if this is an attempt to destroy the Archduke’s influence at this time …”

“Many would say that was not a bad thing, Mr Ranklin. The Archduke has a reputation for advocating warlike solutions to political problems.”

“But the …” No: there was no point in bringing up the Redl affair. You learnt this from a friend of a journalist who’s trying to get it published in Munich, Mr Ranklin? Well, well; we’ll just have to wait and see, then, won’t we?

“May I ask,” Dr Brull said, “if you have sent this news to your employer?”

That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Ranklin thought impatiently – and then realised that Brull meant Reynard Sherring.

“He, ah … his representative …”

“I see,” Ranklin saw, too: Brull suspected him of using the Consular Service to spread rumours so that Sherring could make a killing in the stock market. Just as Tibor had suspected. It was really rather hard when all you were trying to do was a decent, honest bit of spying.

Ranklin found O’Gilroy in his bedroom, staring down at the gravel forecourt. “Are you feeling all right? What are you doing hiding away up here?”

“Yer wicked past’s caught up with me ,” O’Gilroy said gloomily. “Ye recall the Austrian Major I sold the code to in Paris? – well, ’twas him the Baroness was meeting this morning.”

“Oh dear me.” Ranklin sat heavily on the bed. “Did he see you?”

“No, and might not be knowing me ’cept for me voice.”

There was the snag: Irish accents were rare in European society. Most Irishmen rich enough to travel had only got that way by adopting English attitudes and accent.

Ranklin nodded. “What happened, then?”

“I followed them across the bridge heading for Castle Hill. I was in a cab. Then we lost them, but found the car outside of the officers’ mess at the barracks on the Hill. I couldn’t be following when they came out, but he’d changed into plain clothes and left his luggage so that’s where he’s staying, thank God, and not here. I came on back quickish.”