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.” Istvan 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.
With Otto was Gottfried von Kessel, a cultural attache 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
