Ken Follett - Fall of Giants

He bought a copy of the People. The trouble in the Balkans was not big news here: the British were more worried about Ireland. A minority of Protestants had ruled the roost there for hundreds of years, with scant regard for the Catholic majority. If Ireland won independence the boot would be on the other foot. Both sides were heavily armed, and civil war threatened.

A single paragraph at the bottom of the front page referred to the “Austro-Servian Crisis.” As usual, the newspapers had no idea what was really going on.

As Walter turned into the Ritz Hotel, Robert jumped out of a motor taxi. He was wearing a black waistcoat and a black tie in mourning for the archduke. Robert had been one of Franz Ferdinand’s set-progressive thinkers by the standards of the Viennese court, albeit conservative by any other measure. He had liked and respected the murdered man and his family, Walter knew.

They left their top hats in the cloakroom and went into the dining room together. Walter felt protective toward Robert. Since they were boys he had known that his cousin was different. People called such men effeminate, but that was too crude: Robert was not a woman in a man’s body. However, he had a lot of feminine traits, and this led Walter to treat him with a kind of understated chivalry.

He looked like Walter, with the same regular features and hazel eyes, but his hair was longer and his mustache waxed and curled. “How are things with Lady M?” he said as they sat down. Walter had confided in him: Robert knew all about forbidden love.

“She’s wonderful, but my father can’t get over her working in a slum clinic with a Jewish doctor.”

“Oh, dear-that’s harsh,” Robert said. “His objection might be understandable if she herself were a Jew.”

“I’ve been hoping he would warm to her gradually, meeting her socially now and again, and realizing that she is friendly with the most powerful men in the land; but it’s not working.”

“Unfortunately, the crisis in the Balkans is only going to increase tension in”-Robert smiled-“forgive me, international relations.”

Walter forced a laugh. “We will work it out, whatever happens.”

Robert said nothing, but looked as if he was not so confident.

Over Welsh lamb and potatoes with parsley sauce, Walter gave Robert the inconclusive information he had gleaned from Anton.

Robert had news of his own. “We have established that the assassins got their guns and bombs from Serbia.”

“Oh, hell,” said Walter.

Robert let his anger show. “The arms were supplied by the head of Serbian military intelligence. The murderers were given target practise in a park in Belgrade.”

Walter said: “Intelligence officers sometimes act unilaterally.”

“Often. And the secrecy of their work means they may get away with it.”

“So this does not prove that the Serbian government organized the assassination. And, when you think logically about it, a small nation such as Serbia, trying desperately to preserve its independence, would be mad to provoke its powerful neighbor.”

“It is even possible that Serbian intelligence acted in direct opposition to the wishes of the government,” Robert conceded. But then he said firmly: “That makes absolutely no difference at all. Austria must take action against Serbia.”

This was what Walter feared. The affair could no longer be regarded merely as a crime, to be dealt with by the police and the courts. It had escalated, and now an empire had to punish a small nation. Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria had been a great man in his time, conservative and devoutly religious but a strong leader. However, he was now eighty-four, and age had not made him any less authoritarian and narrow-minded. Such men thought they knew everything just because they were old. Walter’s father was the same.

My fate is in the hands of two monarchs, Walter thought, the tsar and the emperor. One is foolish, the other geriatric; yet they control the destiny of Maud and me and countless millions more Europeans. What an argument against monarchy!

He thought hard while they ate dessert. When the coffee came he said optimistically: “I assume your aim will be to teach Serbia a sharp lesson without involving any other country.”

Robert swiftly dashed his hopes. “On the contrary,” he said. “My emperor has written a personal letter to your kaiser.”

Walter was startled. He had heard nothing of this. “When?”

“It was delivered yesterday.”

Like all diplomats, Walter hated it when monarchs talked directly to one another, instead of through their ministers. Anything could happen then. “What did he say?”

“That Serbia must be eliminated as a political power.”

“No!” This was worse than Walter had feared. Shocked, he said: “Does he mean it?”

“Everything depends on the reply.”

Walter frowned. Emperor Franz Joseph was asking for backing from Kaiser Wilhelm-that was the real point of the letter. The two countries were allies, so the kaiser was obliged to sound supportive, but his emphasis might be enthusiastic or reluctant, encouraging or cautious.

“I trust Germany will back Austria, whatever my emperor decides to do,” Robert said severely.

“You can’t possibly want Germany to attack Serbia!” Walter protested.

Robert was offended. “We want a reassurance that Germany will fulfill her obligations as our ally.”

Walter controlled his impatience. “The problem with that way of thinking is that it raises the stakes. Like Russia making supportive noises about Serbia, it encourages aggression. What we ought to do is calm everyone down.”

“I’m not sure I agree,” Robert said stiffly. “Austria has suffered a terrible blow. The emperor cannot be seen to take it lightly. He who defies the giant must be crushed.”

“Let’s try to keep this in proportion.”

Robert raised his voice. “The heir to the throne has been murdered!” A diner at the next table glanced up and frowned to hear German spoken in angry tones. Robert softened his speech but not his expression. “Don’t talk to me about proportion.”

Walter tried to suppress his own feelings. It would be stupid and dangerous for Germany to get involved in this squabble, but telling Robert that would serve no purpose. It was Walter’s job to glean information, not have an argument. “I quite understand,” he said. “Is your view shared by everyone in Vienna?”

“In Vienna, yes,” said Robert. “Tisza is opposed.” István Tisza was the prime minister of Hungary, but subordinate to the Austrian emperor. “His alternative proposal is diplomatic encirclement of Serbia.”

“Less dramatic, perhaps, but also less risky,” Walter observed carefully.

“Too weak.”

Walter called for the bill. He was deeply unsettled by what he had heard. However, he did not want any ill feeling between himself and Robert. They trusted and helped one another, and he did not want that to change. On the pavement outside, he shook Robert’s hand and clasped his elbow in a gesture of firm comradeship. “Whatever happens, we must stick together, cousin,” he said. “We are allies, and always will be.” He left it to Robert to decide whether he was talking about the two of them or their countries. They parted friends.

He walked briskly across Green Park. Londoners were enjoying the sunshine, but there was a cloud of gloom over Walter’s head. He had hoped that Germany and Russia would stay out of the Balkan crisis, but what he had learned so far today ominously suggested the opposite. Reaching Buckingham Palace, he turned left and walked along the Mall to the back entrance of the German embassy.

His father had an office in the embassy: he spent about one week in three there. There was a painting of Kaiser Wilhelm on the wall and a framed photograph of Walter in lieutenant’s uniform on the desk. Otto held in his hand a piece of pottery. He collected English ceramics, and loved to go hunting for unusual items. Looking more closely, Walter saw that this was a creamware fruit bowl, the edges delicately pierced and molded to mimic basketwork. Knowing his father’s taste, he guessed it was eighteenth century.