Ken Follett - Fall of Giants

With Otto was Gottfried von Kessel, a cultural attaché whom Walter disliked. Gottfried had thick dark hair combed with a side parting, and wore spectacles with thick lenses. He was the same age as Walter and also had a father in the diplomatic service, but despite having that much in common, they were not friends. Walter thought Gottfried was a toady.

He nodded to Gottfried and sat down. “The Austrian emperor has written to our kaiser.”

“We know that,” Gottfried said quickly.

Walter ignored him. Gottfried was always trying to start a pissing contest. “No doubt the kaiser’s reply will be amicable,” he said to his father. “But a lot may depend upon nuance.”

“His Majesty has not yet confided in me.”

“But he will.”

Otto nodded. “It is the kind of thing he sometimes asks me about.”

“And if he urges caution, he might persuade the Austrians to be less belligerent.”

Gottfried said: “Why should he do that?”

“To avoid Germany’s being dragged into a war over such a worthless piece of territory as Serbia!”

“What are you afraid of?” Gottfried said scornfully. “The Serbian army?”

“I am afraid of the Russian army, and so should you be,” Walter replied. “It is the largest in history-”

“I know that,” said Gottfried.

Walter ignored the interruption. “In theory, the tsar can put six million men into the field within a few weeks-”

“I know-”

“-and that is more than the total population of Serbia.”

“I know.”

Walter sighed. “You seem to know everything, von Kessel. Do you know where the assassins got their guns and bombs?”

“From Slav nationalists, I presume.”

“Any particular Slav nationalists, do you presume?”

“Who knows?”

“The Austrians know, I gather. They believe the arms came from the head of Serbian intelligence.”

Otto grunted in surprise. “That would make the Austrians vengeful.”

Gottfried said: “Austria is still ruled by its emperor. In the end, the decision for war can be made only by him.”

Walter nodded. “Not that a Habsburg emperor has ever needed much of an excuse to be ruthless and brutal.”

“What other way is there to rule an empire?”

Walter did not rise to the bait. “Other than the Hungarian prime minister, who does not carry much weight, there seems to be no one urging caution. That role must fall to us.” Walter stood up. He had reported his findings, and he did not want to stay any longer in the same room as the irritating Gottfried. “If you will excuse me, Father, I’ll go to tea at the Duchess of Sussex’s house and see what else is being said around town.”

Gottfried said: “The English don’t pay calls on Sundays.”

“I have an invitation,” Walter replied, and went out before he lost his temper.

He threaded his way through Mayfair to Park Lane, where the Duke of Sussex had his palace. The duke played no role in the British government, but the duchess held a political salon. When Walter had arrived in London in December Fitz had introduced him to the duchess, who had made sure he was invited everywhere.

He entered her drawing room, bowed, shook her plump hand, and said: “Everyone in London wants to know what will happen in Serbia, so, even though it is Sunday, I have come here to ask you, Your Grace.”

“There will be no war,” she said, showing no awareness that he was joking. “Sit down and have a cup of tea. Of course it is tragic about the poor archduke and his wife, and no doubt the culprits will be punished, but how silly to think that great nations such as Germany and Britain would go to war over Serbia.”

Walter wished he could feel so confident. He took a chair near Maud, who smiled happily, and Lady Hermia, who nodded. There were a dozen people in the room, including the first lord of the admiralty, Winston Churchill. The decor was grandly out of date: too much heavy carved furniture, rich fabrics of a dozen different patterns, and every surface covered with ornaments, framed photographs, and vases of dried grasses. A footman handed Walter a cup of tea and offered milk and sugar.

Walter was happy to be near Maud but, as always, he wanted more, and he immediately began to wonder whether there was any way they could contrive to be alone, even if only for a minute or two.

The duchess said: “The problem, of course, is the weakness of the Turk.”

The pompous old bat was right, Walter thought. The Ottoman Empire was in decline, held back from modernization by a conservative Muslim priesthood. For centuries the Turkish sultan had kept order in the Balkan peninsula, from the Mediterranean coast of Greece as far north as Hungary, but now, decade by decade, it was pulling back. The nearest Great Powers, Austria and Russia, were trying to fill the vacuum. Between Austria and the Black Sea were Bosnia, Serbia, and Bulgaria in a line. Five years ago Austria had taken control of Bosnia. Now Austria was in a quarrel with Serbia, the middle one. The Russians looked at the map and saw that Bulgaria was the next domino, and that the Austrians could end up controlling the west coast of the Black Sea, threatening Russia’s international trade.

Meanwhile the subject peoples of the Austrian empire were starting to think they might rule themselves-which was why the Bosnian nationalist Gavrilo Princip had shot Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo.

Walter said: “It’s a tragedy for Serbia. I should think their prime minister is ready to throw himself into the Danube.”

Maud said: “You mean the Volga.”

Walter looked at her, glad of the excuse to drink in her appearance. She had changed her clothes, and was wearing a royal blue tea gown over a pale pink lace blouse and a pink felt hat with a blue pompom. “I most certainly do not, Lady Maud,” he said.

She said: “The Volga runs through Belgrade, which is the capital of Serbia.”

Walter was about to protest again, then he hesitated. She knew perfectly well that the Volga hardly came within a thousand miles of Belgrade. What was she up to? “I am reluctant to contradict someone as well-informed as you, Lady Maud,” he said. “All the same-”

“We will look it up,” she said. “My uncle, the duke, has one of the greatest libraries in London.” She stood. “Come with me, and I shall prove you wrong.”

This was bold behavior for a well-bred young woman, and the duchess pursed her lips.

Walter mimed a helpless shrug and followed Maud to the door.

For a moment, Lady Hermia looked as if she might go too, but she was comfortably sunk in deep velvet upholstery, with a cup and saucer in her hand and a plate in her lap, and it was too much effort to move. “Don’t be long,” she said quietly, and ate some more cake. Then they were out of the room.

Maud preceded Walter across the hall, where a couple of footmen stood like sentries. She stopped in front of a door and waited for Walter to open it. They went inside.

The big room was silent. They were alone. Maud threw herself into Walter’s arms. He hugged her hard, pressing her body against his. She turned her face up. “I love you,” she said, and kissed him hungrily.

After a minute she broke away, breathless. Walter looked at her adoringly. “You’re outrageous,” he said. “Saying the Volga runs through Belgrade!”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

He shook his head in admiration. “I would never have thought of it. You’re so clever.”

“We need an atlas,” she said. “In case anyone comes in.”

Walter scanned the shelves. This was the library of a collector rather than a reader. All the books were in fine bindings, most looking as if they had never been opened. A few reference books lurked in a corner, and he pulled out an atlas and found a map of the Balkans.