Bea.”
She laughed merrily. “Don’t be a fool. I’m her maid, Nina. Who are you?”
Lev introduced himself and Spirya and explained how they came to be there, and why they could not buy dinner.
“I’ll be back tonight,” Nina said. “We’re only going to Cardiff. Come to the kitchen door of Ty Gwyn, and I’ll give you some cold meat. Just follow the road north out of town until you come to a palace.”
“Thank you, beautiful lady.”
“I’m old enough to be your mother,” she said, but she simpered just the same. “I’d better take the princess her paper.”
“What’s the big story?”
“Oh, foreign news,” she said dismissively. “There’s been an assassination. The princess is terribly upset. The archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria was killed at a place called Sarajevo.”
“That’s frightening, to a princess.”
“Yes,” Nina said. “Still, I don’t suppose it will make any difference to the likes of you and me.”
“No,” said Lev. “I don’t suppose it will.”
CHAPTER SEVEN – Early July 1914
The Church of St. James in Piccadilly had the most expensively dressed congregation in the world. It was the favorite place of worship for London’s elite. In theory, ostentation was frowned upon; but a woman had to wear a hat, and these days it was almost impossible to buy one that did not have ostrich feathers, ribbons, bows, and silk flowers. From the back of the nave Walter von Ulrich looked at a jungle of extravagant shapes and colors. The men, by contrast, all looked the same, with their black coats and white stand-up collars, holding their top hats in their laps.
Most of these people did not understand what had happened in Sarajevo seven days ago, he thought sourly; some of them did not even know where Bosnia was. They were shocked by the murder of the archduke, but they could not work out what it meant for the rest of the world. They were vaguely bewildered.
Walter was not bewildered. He knew exactly what the assassination portended. It created a serious threat to the security of Germany, and it was up to people such as Walter to protect and defend their country in this moment of danger.
Today his first task was to find out what the Russian tsar was thinking. This was what everyone wanted to know: the German ambassador, Walter’s father, the foreign minister in Berlin, and the kaiser himself. And Walter, like the good intelligence officer he was, had a source of information.
He scanned the congregation, trying to identify his man among the backs of heads, fearing he might not be there. Anton was a clerk at the Russian embassy. They met in Anglican churches because Anton could be sure there would be no one from his embassy there: most Russians belonged to the Orthodox Church, and those who did not were never employed in the diplomatic service.
Anton was in charge of the cable office at the Russian embassy, so he saw every incoming and outgoing telegram. His information was priceless. But he was difficult to manage, and caused Walter much anxiety. Espionage frightened Anton, and when he got scared he would fail to show up-often at moments of international tension, like this one, when Walter needed him most.
Walter was distracted by spotting Maud. He recognized the long, graceful neck rising out of a fashionable man-style wing collar, and his heart missed a beat. He kissed that neck whenever he got the chance.
When he thought about the danger of war, his mind went first to Maud, then to his country. He felt ashamed of this selfishness, but he could not do anything about it. His greatest fear was that she would be taken from him; the threat to the fatherland came second. For Germany’s sake he was willing to die-but not to live without the woman he loved.
A head in the third row from the back turned, and Walter met the eye of Anton. The man had thinning brown hair and a patchy beard. Relieved, Walter walked to the south aisle, as if looking for a place, and after a moment’s hesitation sat down.
Anton’s soul was full of bitterness. Five years ago, a nephew whom he had loved had been accused, by the tsar’s secret police, of revolutionary activities, and had been imprisoned in the Fortress of Peter and Paul, across the river from the Winter Palace in the heart of St. Petersburg. The boy had been a theology student, and quite innocent of subversion; but before he could be released he had contracted pneumonia and died. Anton had been wreaking his quiet, deadly revenge against the tsar’s government ever since.
It was a pity the church was so well-lit. The architect, Christopher Wren, had put in long rows of huge round- arched windows. For this kind of work, a gloomy Gothic twilight would have been better. Still, Anton had chosen his position well, at the end of a row, with a child next to him and a massive wooden pillar behind.
“Good place to sit,” Walter murmured.
“We can still be observed from the gallery,” Anton fretted.
Walter shook his head. “They will all be looking towards the front.”
Anton was a middle-aged bachelor. A small man, he was neat to the point of fussiness: the tie knotted tightly, every button done up on the jacket, the shoes gleaming. His well-worn suit was shiny from years of brushing and pressing. Walter thought this was a reaction against the grubbiness of espionage. After all, the man was there to betray his country. And I’m here to encourage him, Walter thought grimly.
Walter said nothing more during the hush before the service, but as soon as the first hymn started he said in a low voice: “What’s the mood in St. Petersburg?”
“Russia does not want war,” Anton said.
“Good.”
“The tsar fears that war will lead to revolution.” When Anton mentioned the tsar he looked as if he was going to spit. “Half St. Petersburg is on strike already. Of course, it does not occur to him that his own stupid brutality is what makes people want a revolution.”
“Indeed.” Walter always had to adjust for the fact that Anton’s opinions were distorted by hate, but in this case the spy was not entirely wrong. Walter did not hate the tsar, but feared him. He had at his disposal the largest army in the world. Every discussion of Germany’s security had to take that army into account. Germany was like a man whose next-door neighbor keeps a giant bear on a chain in the front garden. “What will the tsar do?”
“It depends on Austria.”
Walter suppressed an impatient retort. Everyone was waiting to see what the Austrian emperor would do. He had to do something, because the assassinated archduke had been heir to his throne. Walter was hoping to learn about Austrian intentions from his cousin Robert later that day. That branch of the family was Catholic, like all the Austrian elite, and Robert would be at mass in Westminster Cathedral right now, but Walter would see him for lunch. Meanwhile Walter needed to know more about the Russians.
He had to wait for another hymn. He tried to be patient. He looked up and studied the extravagant gilding of Wren’s barrel vaults.
The congregation broke into “Rock of Ages.” “Suppose there is fighting in the Balkans,” Walter murmured to Anton. “Will the Russians stay out of it?”
“No. The tsar cannot stand aside if Serbia is attacked.”
Walter felt a chill. This was exactly the kind of escalation he was afraid of. “It would be madness to go to war over this!”
“True. But the Russians can’t let Austria control the Balkan region-they have to protect the Black Sea route.”
There was no arguing with that. Most of Russia’s exports-grain from the southern cornfields and oil from the wells around Baku-were shipped to the world from Black Sea ports.
Anton went on: “On the other hand, the tsar is also urging everyone to tread carefully.”
“In short, he can’t make up his mind.”
“If you call it a mind.”
Walter nodded. The tsar was not an intelligent man. His dream was to return Russia to the golden age of the
