‘I don’t drink, Cigo.’
‘No, of course - your cause is all you need.’ Ciganovic drank the brandy and added matter-of-factly. ‘Preparations can’t be made until it is known whether or not Emperor Franz Josef will survive the bout of bronchitis he’s currently suffering.’
Gavrilo hid his impatience - it was the same story he was always given. The gentleman with whom Ciganovic was working to get the means didn't think that Franz Ferdinand, as heir, would travel, in case the old tyrant died.
'You must be patient, Gavrica. Now leave us in peace,' Ciganovic said, much to the amusement of his comrades. Gavrilo ignored them and turned away. He knew that all that he needed was the opportunity, and he would prove himself.
Chapter 3
A commissionaire escorted Johnny into the Embassy Chancery and left him to wait in the full glare of his colleagues. He was in a state of disgrace and Sir George wanted to make sure everyone knew it. The staff were certainly enjoying the spectacle and judging from their contemptuous looks they thought that Johnny would finally be getting his comeuppance. He hadn't seen people quite so gleeful since he'd been expelled from school.
The gilded door in front of Johnny eventually opened and he was summoned into a large, elegant office. The Duke of Wellington had purchased the imposing Parisian town house from Napoleon's sister, Pauline Borghese, complete with Imperial fixtures and fittings. It was rumoured to have become Pauline and the Iron Duke's love nest, when he was ambassador to France.
A hundred years later and Johnny could feel the puritan disapproval of the people now occupying the Embassy, conducted through the self-regarding figure of Sir George Smyth. Johnny was starting to think he should have returned to Paris when he was first summoned, instead of running up even more debt.
'This is exactly the sort of behaviour one should expect from a person of your ilk,' Sir George said with distaste. ‘Left to your own devices you revert back to your primitive state, in much the same way that a perfectly good tennis lawn is ruined by a persistent and indestructible weed.’
'Sir George, I…' Johnny began.
'Damn your eyes, I'm speaking!' Sir George bellowed and then sat back, enjoying the Imperial splendour of his chancery rooms. He was thirty five, the same age as Napoleon had been when he crowned himself Emperor of France. Sir George liked to style himself as the Napoleon of the Diplomatic Service.
'How on earth someone with your antecedents got into the Diplomatic Service is beyond me, Swift. Putting aside your questionable legitimacy, you're the son of a scullery maid.'
'My mother was a governess,' Johnny replied as blandly as possible. He knew it didn't pay to rile these sort of people.
'And your father is a school master? I can only assume you're here through nefarious means,' Sir George jeered. Johnny had found that the primary purpose of the Diplomatic Service was to provide outdoor relief to the aristocracy, not to be a means of social advancement to "jumped up louts".
'I passed the entrance examination and board. My father - my stepfather - is a languages master, which helped.' Johnny had a fleeting image of an angry Welshman shouting at him, while he struggled to conjugate verbs.
'Smacks of vulgar professionalism - it will never replace the patronage of breeding and the nobility of the gentleman amateur,' Sir George replied. He’d told Johnny often enough that administration should be practised as a sport - a leisurely sport, Johnny judged, from the copy of 'Le Petit Journal' on his desk. Its banner headline screamed the latest revelation from the Caillaux case, the current talk of Paris.
'I do have a connection through my uncle, whose patronage was, I believe, of some assistance,' Johnny countered.
'Well, your "uncle" can't help you now.' The note of sarcasm in Sir George's voice stung Johnny. He had clearly heard the rumour that Johnny's mother had fallen prey to the grizzled charms of a retired cavalry general. He'd remained something of a shadowy figure in Johnny's life, introducing him to all manner of vice, and to the Civil Service. Most importantly, he'd taught Johnny that discretion was the better part of valour.
'Sir George, couldn't we settle this amicably, as gentlemen?'
Sir George's refined features darkened. 'Gentlemen don't forge their superior's signature on gambling markers.
'Gambling markers? Not...' - 'Not having your wife?' Johnny almost added.
'Imagine my surprise when I received a demand for the immediate payment of my outstanding balance - on a debt secured under your snivelling name!' Sir George barked.
Johnny felt himself flush. Betraying emotion was the worst thing one could do, but Libby had told him that the notes had been extended.
'I did win the money back, briefly. Well, some of it.'
Sir George was not amused. He detested flippancy, something Johnny had discovered to his cost. 'How did an ill-bred functionary manage to run up such astronomical debts?'
'It was a redistribution of wealth,' Johnny shrugged. There was no way he could explain himself. He couldn't drop Libby in it, not just like that.
Sir George turned deathly pale. 'If I could, I would have you thrashed and thrown in prison, but to avoid a scandal you will be quietly dismissed. I can't have you reflecting badly on me, as your direct superior.'
Johnny looked again at the newspaper on Sir George's desk. Henriette Caillaux, the wife of France's former Finance Minister had gone to the office of Gaston Calmette and shot him four times with a Browning automatic, in reply to the smear campaign Calmette had been running against her husband.
By comparison, Johnny's little indiscretion was relatively minor, but the damage it would do to Sir George's reputation in Whitehall multiplied its severity exponentially. Johnny grinned.
'I don't know, Sir George. There's nothing they understand more in France than a cordial agreement between
