Dorchester Terrace

IT WAS THE LAST day of February, bright, gusty, and cold. Stoker came into Pitt’s office looking grim.

Pitt waited for him to speak.

“More bits of information keep coming in that look like they’re about this assassination attempt.” He was ill at ease, his shoulders stiff. “We’re fairly certain as to the identity of the man asking about train signals near Dover, and we have at least a possible identification of one of the men asking about how points are changed.”

“Who are they?” Pitt asked.

“The man who asked about the signals was Bilinsk, we think. The French are pretty sure about it. They’ve been following him for a while, in connection with an assassination in Paris. He was seen at least once with Lansing—”

“Our Lansing?” Pitt asked sharply.

Stoker’s face tightened. “Yes, sir. That’s the worrying part. We thought Lansing was in prison in France, but they let him go.”

Pitt felt a sudden chill. Lansing was English, a cold, clever man with allegiance to no one, and—as far as they could tell—to no cause. Why the French had released him was irrelevant now, but Pitt would find out later. It could have been some technicality of the law. A good lawyer could often find one, and Lansing would be both willing and able to employ such a man. Or, worse, someone else might have paid for his lawyer, just to get him loose.

Pitt looked up at Stoker. “And Lansing was the one who asked about the points and the freight trains?”

“Yes, sir,” Stoker answered. “Word is that he’s an expert on transport, especially trains: signals, altering the switches on lines, diverting trains, blowing the couplings, that sort of thing. Exactly what Mr. Blantyre said.”

“Any others?”

“Not yet, but we’re still working.”

“Anything else about Alois Habsburg?”

“Nothing. I can’t see any reason at all anyone should want to assassinate him,” Stoker admitted.

“Except to embarrass Britain, and Special Branch in particular,” Pitt replied. “Which it most certainly would.”

Stoker nodded. “That’s what it looks like. The queen thinks well enough of us after the business at Osborne House, but there are plenty who don’t. And most people don’t even know about Osborne House, and never will.”

“I know.” Pitt pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, his shoulders tense. “There are quite a few who think our power is a threat to their freedom, and to their privacy. A few decades ago, people thought the same of the police.”

“Idiots,” Stoker said under his breath. “They send for the police fast enough if there’s a burglary, a riot, or even a kidnapping. We’re like the army: Nothing’s too good for us if there’s a war, and then when it’s over they want us to become invisible—until the next time.” The contempt in his face carried an uncharacteristic bitterness.

Pitt could not help but agree with him, even if he chose not to voice it.

“We need more information,” he replied. “Who is Duke Alois Habsburg, exactly? What sort of entourage is he bringing with him? I don’t care if that’s a breach of his privacy or not!”

Stoker pulled a sour face. “Difficult to find out anything much about him, except the usual, superficial things: where he was born, his parents, where he is in reference to the succession—which is nowhere. He’s not really a politician, more of a philosopher, and a dabbler in science. Very clever fellow, by all accounts, but a dreamer. He might invent something brilliant one day. Or maybe write a couple of books about existence, or identity, or something. At least that’s what his own people say. So far, he’s never done anything that makes any difference.”

“And he’s related to our queen?” Pitt pursued.

“By marriage, yes. Distantly—so is half of Europe.” Stoker’s face still reflected his exasperation. “Alois may be a favorite of hers. I’ll find out, but he doesn’t sound the sort. He’s nice enough, but she doesn’t go in for a lot of heavy thinking.” He stopped abruptly, a faint pinkness in his cheeks, aware that he had expressed his opinion rather too freely.

“He could just be looking to impress her, and perhaps he also feels like a trip to London,” Pitt replied with a faint smile. “But he may just be pretending to be an academic dreamer, when he’s really a brave man doing an important job.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Stoker conceded with obvious reluctance. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Who’s coming with him?” Pitt asked. “How many of the entourage are actually guards of one sort or another?”

Stoker sighed. “From what we’re told, they’re mainly domestic servants: valets and butlers—that sort of thing. Probably couldn’t tell a stiletto from a fire iron.” He blinked. “Doesn’t the palace supply servants for guests?”

Pitt found himself smiling. “Butlers, of course; valets are different. Each gentleman wants to have his own, who knows his likes and dislikes, probably carries all the remedies he might need, and is fully aware of his weaknesses.”

“It’s another life, isn’t it?” Stoker observed, smiling thinly.

“As are ours, to many of the people we meet,” Pitt noted.

Stoker shook his head but he was still smiling. “We’ve got to protect this man, sir, whoever he is. If he’s killed anywhere in our territory, it’s going to get very ugly indeed. Some bastard’s going to come out of the woodwork and blame us.” He winced. “Not to mention however many of our own people get killed or crippled at the same time.”

“I know,” Pitt agreed, thinking of Blantyre’s warning. “That could even be the purpose of the whole thing. Poor Duke Alois might simply be the means.”

Stoker’s face paled. He said something under his breath, but would not repeat it aloud when Pitt looked up at him.

PITT RETURNED TO THE Foreign Office that afternoon, knowing he had no possible alternative. As before, the first person he was directed to was Jack Radley. They stood facing each other in the luxurious but impersonal waiting room with its formal portraits of past ministers on the walls.

“I hope this is about something different,” Jack said. He shifted his weight very slightly from one foot to the other.

“It is about new coincidences,” Pitt replied, also unable to relax. Neither his professional responsibility nor their personal relationship allowed him any ease. He knew how deeply it would affect Charlotte if this new situation divided her from Emily. All the past experiences they had shared, the family memories and the adventures, would be shadowed by the present tearing of loyalties.

Jack’s face had tightened, turning the corners of his mouth down.

“I have much more information regarding the probability of an assassination attempt against Duke Alois Habsburg,” Pitt began. “The duke may be only a minor relation of the queen, but you don’t have to be in the Foreign Office to imagine what it would do to Britain’s reputation in Europe, and everywhere else, if the man was shot while he was here, visiting Her Majesty—do you?”

He was a little more sarcastic than he had intended, his own fear lending an edge to his voice.

“I imagine Lord Tregarron would not be indifferent to such an event, or to his own position in the matter if it should occur,” he added.

Jack stared at him in silence, but his face was distinctly paler. For several seconds he weighed the new situation.

“You’re sure you are not being unnecessarily alarmed?” he asked.

“The job is about thinking ahead, Jack. If you mean am I jumping at shadows—no. I think there’s enough evidence now to take the threat seriously. Am I certain I’m not being distracted by a deliberately manufactured plot, in order to draw my attention away from something else, something more important? No, of course I’m not. Bluff? Double bluff? I don’t know. Is Tregarron prepared to take the chance that a member of the Austrian royal family will get killed in a train crash, along with a few score of Britons? If he is, then we should replace him with somebody who is a little less free with human life, and our reputation. Someone who can see the scandal, the outrage, the reparations likely to be demanded if such an assassination were to happen. Not to mention someone prepared to explain it to Her Majesty, with full inclusion of the fact that Special Branch told you details of the possibility, and you decided it was not worth your trouble to listen.”

Jack took a deep breath, then clearly changed his mind.

Pitt smiled bleakly.

“I’ll tell Lord Tregarron what you have said,” Jack answered. “If you would wait here, I shall come back as quickly as I can.”

It proved to be a full quarter of an hour before Jack returned. The minute Pitt saw his face, he knew Tregarron would see him, but under a degree of protest.

Pitt followed Jack out of the waiting room and along the corridor to the arched door. At the word of answer, Jack opened it.

“Commander Pitt, my lord,” he announced, and stepped back for Pitt to go inside. This time he left them alone.

Tregarron was standing behind his desk, silhouetted against the late winter sunlight in the window beyond. He turned to face Pitt. His face was shadowed and therefore difficult to read.

“Radley tells me that you have continued to pursue this idea of a potential assassination attempt on Duke Alois. That you seem to be sure there may be something in it.” He said it almost expressionlessly. “He advised me that we should take it seriously, at least insofar as, if there was even a shred of reality behind it, then it could be disastrous in its effect on our reputation, as well as costing a great many British lives. Is this your view?”

“Yes, sir,” Pitt replied, grateful that Jack had put the core of the matter forward so succinctly. “It is a threat we cannot afford to ignore. Even if the attempt is completely abortive, we would look incompetent if we did not act. And worse, the Austrian government might assume that we were indifferent to the situation, or even complicit.”

He was pleased to see the immediate concern in Tregarron’s face, even though it was accompanied by considerable irritation.

“That seems to be rather more decisive than when you first mentioned it to Radley a few days ago,” he observed critically. “Why on earth should any dissident faction in Austria wish to cause such a disaster in order to assassinate a relatively harmless and, may I point out, powerless young minor aristocrat, of no political interest at all? It makes no sense, Pitt. Have you consulted Narraway on this extraordinary idea of yours?”

Pitt felt as if the blood was burning in his face. He hoped Tregarron would not see it. He made a supreme effort to keep his voice calm and level.

“No, I have not. Lord Narraway is no longer privy to the information gathered by Special Branch, and it would be a breach of my oath of discretion to discuss with him such matters as he does not need to know. And as far as political knowledge and judgment of affairs in the Austro-Hungarian Empire are concerned, I am advised that you are the expert, and therefore the appropriate person for me to consult with, sir.”

Tregarron’s mouth tightened. The irritation in his expression was clear as he turned slightly and walked over to the fireplace. He sat down in the large, comfortable chair facing the door, still with his back to the light, and waved for Pitt to sit opposite him.

“Then I suppose you had better tell me the precise evidence that led you to this extraordinary conclusion,” he said, reaching to poke the fire. “Duke Alois is a man of negligible importance in Austrian affairs, let alone European. He is coming here solely because he has a certain charm and Her Majesty apparently likes him—or, to be more precise, likes his mother, who is no longer able to travel. Who on earth would possibly benefit from assassinating him? And I would point out that if anyone did wish to, they have had ample opportunity to do so in his own home, without taking a trainload of innocent people with him.” He stared at Pitt, his heavy eyebrows raised, disbelief written in every line of his face.

Pitt swallowed. The thought came to his mind that Tregarron would not have spoken to Narraway in this tone, but he dismissed it, not as untrue, but as hampering his own ability to deal with Tregarron with confidence. He must not allow comparisons to cripple him. He had weaknesses Narraway did not, but he had strengths too.

He sat a little more comfortably in his chair and crossed his legs.

“If I had the answer to that question, sir, I would not need to ask you for anything more than confirmation of the fact, possibly merely as a courtesy. Duke Alois appears to be a pleasant young man with nothing to commend him except his royal connections. That doesn’t mean he is of no importance at all. Sometimes such men are the perfect pawns for others.”

A shadow crossed Tregarron’s face, but he did not interrupt.

“However, I think it seems likely that he would be a target, not for who he is, but simply because he is available,” Pitt continued. “If he were to be killed while here in England it would be extremely embarrassing to Her Majesty’s government, and there are always those who would find that to their advantage—”

“In Austria?” Tregarron said with open disbelief.

“There is nothing to prove that the plan is specifically Austrian,” Pitt pointed out, seeing the surprise in Tregarron’s eyes with sharp satisfaction. Clearly that thought had not occurred to him. “It could be German, French, Italian, even Russian,” he added. “Our power makes it inevitable that we have many enemies.”

Tregarron leaned a little forward, the whole attitude of his body altering. “Details, Pitt. I am perfectly aware of our position in Europe, and in the world. Most of what you say has always been true. Why now? Why this particular young man? You had better tell me the precise facts and observations that have come to your notice, and leave the interpretation of them to me.”

Pitt remained silent. His mind was racing. The man’s arrogance was breathtaking. He was treating Pitt like some junior policeman reporting a burglary but incapable of seeing it in the context of a larger plan. Narraway would have had a response to wither Tregarron so that he never presumed to override him again in such a way.

But the words, the confidence, even the composure to do so eluded Pitt, and he felt like the gamekeeper’s son he used to be, called up before the master of the house. Except that Sir Arthur Desmond had never treated him with such contempt.

If Pitt refused to offer the details now, it would imply that he did not have them. It was on the tip of his tongue to offer sarcastically that all Special Branch junior staff would report, in writing, to Tregarron, but he dared not. He could not function if he made an open enemy of this man.

With the difficulty of it almost choking him, he replied, “How much detail would you like, sir? There are regular sources up and down the country who give us information, and we have connections in France, Germany, and Austria with relation to this particular event. We have our own people, and we also have relations with the equivalent to Special Branch that most European countries have, in one form or another.” He watched Tregarron’s face and saw a flash of anxiety. Perhaps it was a sudden realization that Pitt was better informed than he had supposed.

“Most of what we hear is merely observation of people we know altering their habits or movements,” he continued. “People they talk to, places they frequent. Such changes can be indicative of planning …”

“Don’t treat me like some policeman in training, Pitt!” Tregarron snapped. “I have neither the desire to become a detective, nor the time. For God’s sake, man, do your job! You are supposed to be commander of the Branch, not some young constable on the beat!”

Pitt clenched his teeth. “I am giving you my opinion based on the evidence, Lord Tregarron. You asked me for the details. They are a collection of small observations made of changes in habit; of people asking unusual questions; new alliances between people who have no known past in common; people spending money for no obvious reason; unusual patterns of travel; information about known dissidents meeting each other and dealing with new people; evidence of guns or dynamite being moved; people disappearing from their usual haunts and turning up elsewhere. Even, on occasion, people dying unexpectedly in accidents or murdered. Do you want me to continue?”

Tregarron’s face was slightly pink. “I wish you to tell me why you think any of this points to the attempted murder of some wretched minor prince of the Austrian Empire while he is traveling on one of our trains on his way to visit our queen. I can’t understand why it is all so plain to you. You seem to expect me to put this man off without any other reason beyond the uncertainty, perhaps the jitters, of our very new head of Special Branch.”

There was a slight curl of contempt on his lip, which he did not bother to hide.

“It looks to me as if you’ve lost your nerve, man!” he went on. “Promoted beyond your ability. I told Narraway that, at the time. You’re an excellent second-in-command—the best. I’ll give you your due. But you are not born or bred to lead! I’m sorry you pushed me into the position where I am obliged to tell you so to your face.” He did not sound sorry as much as simply angry.

“You may be right, sir,” Pitt said stiffly, struggling to get his breath. “On the other hand, Lord Narraway may be. We had both better hope that his assessment of what abilities are required to lead Special Branch is better than yours.” He rose to his feet. “If not, then we can expect some extremely unpleasant consequences, beginning with an assassination in London, a serious embarrassment for Her Majesty, and possibly an icy relationship with the Austro-Hungarian Empire, with a demand for reparations. Good day, sir.”

Tregarron shot to his feet. “How dare you—” He stopped suddenly.

Pitt stood still, his eyes wide, waiting.

Tregarron took a deep breath. “How dare you imply that I do not take this threat seriously?” He slammed his fist into the bell on his desk. A minute later there was a brief tap on the door, and Jack came in, closing it behind him and stopping just inside the room.

“Yes, sir?” he said unhappily, deliberately avoiding Pitt’s glance.

“Come in,” Tregarron barked.

Jack walked a few steps closer and then stopped again. “Yes, sir?”

Tregarron stared at him. “Pitt seems to believe that Duke Alois Habsburg is the possible target of an assassination attempt, albeit an ignorant, messy, and pointless one. He doesn’t know who the would-be assassin is, nor the purpose of the exercise, only that the outcome would be very ugly indeed.”

“It would be, sir,” Jack agreed, “and it would also give Austria an enormous weapon to use against us for years to come.”

“For God’s sake, I can see that!” Tregarron snapped. “The point is, we can’t jump at every shadow. We have to exercise our critical judgment, not dance around like puppets on strings to the tune of every fear, real or not, likely or not, even possible or not. What is your assessment of this one, Radley? Do you agree with Pitt, on the basis of this host of minor alterations in behavior of informants, spies, and general hangers-on? Or do you think that they are part of the climate at large and that we should hold steady and not lose our nerve?”

Pitt was seething. “I certainly did not recommend losing our nerve, sir,” he said hoarsely.

Tregarron’s glance did not waver from Jack. “You recommended telling Duke Alois not to come,” he retorted. “That is losing our nerve, Pitt. That is telling the emperor Franz Josef, and the rest of the world, that we cannot manage to protect visiting princelings from mass murder in a train wreck, so they had better stay in Vienna, or Budapest, or wherever the devil it is they come from—where they have the ability to keep their trains safe!”

“Where it is not Britain’s responsibility if they are killed or not,” Pitt countered.

Jack’s face went white. He still avoided Pitt’s eyes.

“Then what do we do?” Tregarron demanded. “Do we make him welcome, or do we tell Her Majesty that we cannot protect her great-nephew, or whatever he is, and she had better tell him to stay at home?”

“We would be the laughingstock of Europe, my lord,” Jack replied very quietly. “I think we should give Commander Pitt all the extra men he may need, regardless of the cost and the inconvenience, in order to protect Duke Alois.”

Tregarron looked at him with surprise and some disbelief. “You think this whole thing could be real?”

“No, sir,” Jack answered. “I think it is so unlikely as to be all but impossible, but we cannot afford to ignore it. Commander Pitt has twenty years’ experience with intrigue and murder, and if we ignore his warnings we will be entirely to blame if something should happen. Our position then would be untenable.”

“But bloody unlikely!”

“Yes, my lord, unlikely, but not impossible.”

“I’m obliged for your advice.” Tregarron turned to Pitt, looking at him sourly. “I suppose you have to come to me with what you judge to be some serious threats, but I can’t be second-guessing you at every turn. You’re supposed to make your own judgments. As soon as you get a little more used to your position, I expect you to do so. Good day.”

Pitt was too furious to speak. He inclined his head very slightly, then turned on his heel and strode out.

Jack caught up with him in the corridor a dozen yards beyond Tregarron’s door.

“I’m sorry,” he said in little more than a whisper. “But he does know what he’s talking about, and the evidence is pretty thin.”

“Of course it is,” Pitt said between his teeth. “People don’t leave a trail that leads back to them. If they did, we wouldn’t need police, let alone Special Branch.” He did not slacken his pace, and Jack had to lengthen his own stride to keep up with him.

“Come on, Thomas,” he said reasonably. “You can’t expect a man in Tregarron’s position to accept a story as basically unlikely as this one, unless you have real evidence. He knows Austria, and he gets regular reports from all the people we have there, and a few others as well. He’s damned good at his job.”

Pitt stopped abruptly and swung around to face Jack. “Would you have said that, in those words, if it had been Narraway who’d come to you with suspicions? Or might you have given him the courtesy of assuming that he also was good at his job?”

The color flushed up Jack’s face. “I’m sorry. That was incredibly clumsy of me. I—”

Pitt smiled bleakly. “No, it was regrettably honest. And that is not a quality you can afford to exercise if you hope to rise in the diplomatic corps. One day you may also be damned good at your job, but it isn’t today.” He started to walk again.

“Thomas!” Jack grabbed him by the arm, hard, forcing him to stop. “Listen. I think you are jumping at shadows, and after the business in St. Malo, and then Ireland and what happened to Narraway, I don’t entirely blame you. But you can’t force Tregarron to go against his own knowledge of the people and the country. If you really believe something is threatened, then I’ll arrange for you to see Evan Blantyre at short notice. I’ll tell him it’s a matter of urgency, even that there could be very unpleasant consequences if we make a bad judgment.” He looked at Pitt expectantly, his eyes wide, his stare direct.

Pitt felt churlish. It hurt that he had to be offered, as if he had never met Blantyre, a meeting that would have been instantly granted to Narraway. Was it his lack of experience, and the fact that Narraway was indisputably a gentleman, while he was not? Or was it that Narraway had amassed a wealth of knowledge about so many people that no one dared defy him? Whatever the case, none of this was Jack’s fault, and Pitt knew he would be a fool to squander the few advantages he had: the strength of family and the bonds of friendship, which Narraway had never possessed.

He forced the resentment out of his mind.

“Thank you,” he accepted. “That’s an excellent suggestion.”

JACK WENT BACK TO Tregarron’s office with sharply conflicting emotions. He was certain he had done the right thing in promising to arrange for Pitt to speak in depth with Evan Blantyre right away, yet at the same time, he believed that Tregarron would not approve it. He was not even sure why. To some extent Pitt was overreacting, but that was better than reacting too little, or too late. Belittling him and making him doubt his own judgment helped no one.

He reached Tregarron’s door again and tapped lightly. On the command to enter, he went back in.

Tregarron was at his desk. Papers on a different subject were spread out in front of him. He looked up at Jack, his expression still slightly angry.

“I’d like you to look through these and give me your opinion, Radley,” he said, pulling the papers together more neatly. “I think Wishart is right, but I’m predisposed to that view anyway. Do you know Lord Wishart? Good chap. Very sound.”

“No, sir, I don’t,” Jack replied, holding out his hand and taking the papers.

“Must introduce you some time.” Tregarron’s smile lit his face, giving it a unique charm. “You’ll like him.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jack was flattered. Many people wanted very much to meet Lord Wishart, and few did. Emily would be delighted. He could picture her face when he told her. Then he had a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that it was a sop, for having been so abrasive toward Pitt. Tregarron was quite aware that Pitt was Jack’s brother-in-law. He wanted to say something further, but he had no clear idea what it would be.

He looked down at the papers Tregarron had given him. They were to do with a proposed British diplomatic mission to Trieste, one of the Italian cities still under Austrian rule. This matter was largely cultural, with some mention of Slovenia. It was complicated, as was every issue that dealt with the Austrian Empire.

He saw an opinion written in Tregarron’s flowing hand and read the first two sentences. Then he went back and reread it, thinking he had made a mistake. It was in direct contradiction to information Tregarron had received only yesterday.

“By this afternoon, Radley,” Tregarron prompted.

Jack looked up. Should he question what he had just read, or would it be seen as exceeding his duty, perhaps even criticizing Tregarron himself? He decided to say nothing. There would be an explanation for it, some additional fact of which he was not yet aware. If he read the whole report, it would explain the apparent anomaly.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, forcing himself to meet Tregarron’s eyes and smile briefly. “Thank you.”

Tregarron nodded and bent his attention to the papers on the desk again.

WORD FROM BLANTYRE CAME more rapidly than Pitt had expected. He had thought their meeting would be arranged the following day, at the earliest, but Blantyre asked for him that same afternoon.

Pitt grasped his coat and, forgetting his hat, went out to catch the next passing hansom. He ran up the steps two at a time, arriving a little breathlessly at Blantyre’s office door. Uncharacteristically for him, he straightened his tie, eased his shoulders to help his jacket lie a little more gracefully, and then raised his hand to knock.

The knock was answered almost immediately. A secretary ushered him in and, without any waiting at all, he found himself in Blantyre’s office. They shook hands, and then Blantyre motioned for him to be seated.

“Sorry for the haste,” Blantyre apologized. “I have another appointment I couldn’t shelve, and tomorrow I have one meeting after another. Tell me as briefly as you can, and still make any sense of it, what you know and what you’ve deduced.”

Pitt had already prepared what he meant to say during the hansom ride. He began without a preamble.

“We followed all the leads you gave us, and we are almost certain of the identities of the men asking questions about the timetables, signals, and points. There are various pieces of further information, observations of new and unlikely alliances formed by people we know as troublemakers and sympathizers with anarchy or violent change. Such evidence as we have indicates that the intended target is Duke Alois Habsburg, as you said.”

Blantyre nodded. “What is the weight of the evidence now, in your judgment?”

“Too serious to ignore,” Pitt said without hesitation. “It may be an extraordinary collection of coincidences, but surely that happens once in a hundred times, or less.”

“From my own experience of Austro-Hungarian affairs, which is considerable, I still think it’s extremely unlikely. But ‘unlikely’ isn’t good enough; we must be sure it’s impossible. I need more details, and I haven’t time to get them now, or to give this appropriate thought.” Blantyre frowned and stood up. “Can you come to dinner at my home this evening? You and your wife would be most welcome. We can allow the ladies to retire to the withdrawing room, and we can talk at length, and you can tell me all the details you are free to discuss, bearing in mind that I also serve the government, and Her Majesty. I know how to keep a secret. Between us we should be able to judge the gravity of the threat, so you may react appropriately.”

Pitt rose to his feet feeling as if a great weight had been taken from him. He had found an ally: perhaps the one man in England able to help him assess the value of his information.

“Thank you, sir,” he said with profound feeling. “We would be delighted.”

Blantyre held out his hand. “No need to be particularly formal, but we’ll make a pleasure of it all the same. Eight o’clock is a trifle early, but we will need the time. This matter may, after all, be very grave.”

Pitt took his leave and walked down the corridor rapidly, smiling. It had been more than a professional success. A man of substance and high office had treated him with the same dignity as he would have treated Narraway. There had been no condescension in his manner. For the first time in a while, Pitt was happy as he went down the stairs and out into the bitter wind knifing along the street.

WHILE PITT WAS SPEAKING with Evan Blantyre, Charlotte had decided that she should telephone Emily, no matter how awkward she felt. Though the quarrel had been primarily Emily’s fault, one of them had to make the first move toward reconciliation, before the rift became too deep. Since Emily apparently was not going to do it, then she must. She was the elder anyway; perhaps it was her responsibility.

When she picked up the receiver to put the call through, she half hoped Emily would be out making calls. Then she could satisfy herself with the virtue of having made the attempt, without actually having to negotiate some kind of peace.

But the footman at the other end brought Emily to the telephone within moments of Charlotte being connected.

“How are you?” Emily asked guardedly.

“Very well, thank you,” Charlotte replied. They could have been strangers speaking to each other. The planned conversation disappeared from her head. “And you?” she asked, to fill the silence.

“Excellent,” Emily answered. “We are going to the theater this evening. It is a new play, supposed to be very interesting.”

“I hope you enjoy it. Have you heard from Mama and Joshua lately?” Joshua Fielding, their mother’s second husband, was an actor. It seemed a reasonable thing to ask. At least it stopped the silence from returning.

“Not for a couple of weeks,” Emily replied. “They are in Stratford. Had you forgotten?”

Charlotte had, but she did not wish to admit it. There was a touch of condescension in Emily’s tone. “No,” she lied. “I imagine they have telephones, even there.”

“Not in theatrical boardinghouses,” Emily replied. “I thought you would know that.”

“You have the advantage of me,” Charlotte said instantly. “I have never had occasion to inquire about one.”

“Since your mother frequents them, and you seem to be concerned for her welfare, perhaps you should have,” Emily returned.

“For heaven’s sake, Emily! It was a simple question—something to say.”

“I’ve never known you to be at a loss for something to say.” Emily’s tone was still critical.

“There is a great deal you have never known,” Charlotte snapped. “I was hoping for an agreeable conversation. Clearly that isn’t going to happen.”

“You were hoping I was going to say something to Jack about helping Thomas in his present predicament,” Emily corrected her.

Charlotte heard the defensiveness in Emily’s voice, and hesitated for a moment. Then temper and loyalty to Pitt got the better of her.

“You overestimate my opinion of Jack’s abilities,” she said coldly. “Thomas will get himself out of any difficulties there may be. I am sorry I disturbed you. This is obviously a conversation better held at another time, perhaps some distance in the future when you are less defensive.”

She heard Emily’s voice calling her name sharply, but she had already moved the receiver away from her ear. This was only going to hurt more the longer she continued talking. She replaced the instrument in its cradle and walked away with a tightness in her throat. It would be better to find something useful to do.

CHARLOTTE WAS DELIGHTED WHEN Pitt came home and told her of the invitation to dine with Blantyre and his wife. It was a social occasion that promised to be most enjoyable. However, of much more importance to her was the relief she saw in Pitt over the fact that someone had finally listened to his concerns.

For years he had shared with her much of what he had done. She had been of help to him in many cases, especially those concerning people of the class into which she had been born, and he had not. To begin with, he had considered it meddling, and had been afraid for her safety. Gradually he had come to value her judgment, especially her observation of people, and her strength of character, even if he still feared for her safety in some of her wilder interventions.

Emily too had involved herself, demonstrating both courage and intelligence. But that was in a past that now seemed distant; they were much further apart than they used to be. She did not blame Emily for feeling a greater loyalty to Jack than to her sister. She herself gave her first passionate and instinctive allegiance to her husband. But the knowledge still carried a sense of loss, a longing for the laughter and the trust, the ability to talk openly about all kinds of things, trivial or important, which had always been part of her life and her relationship with Emily. There was no one else she would trust in the same way.

But she forced it from her mind and smiled at Pitt. “That will be excellent. It will be lovely, and a decent excuse to wear a new gown I have bought for myself, rather than one borrowed from Emily or Aunt Vespasia. I have a very fashionable one, in a curious shade of blue. It will be more than equal to the occasion.”

She saw Pitt’s amusement.

“Adriana Blantyre is very beautiful, Thomas. I shall have to do my best to not be constantly overshadowed!”

“Is she brave and clever as well?” he asked with sudden gentleness. “Or funny and kind?” He did not add the rest of what he implied. She knew it, and felt the blush of self-consciousness creep up her cheeks, but she did not lower her eyes from his.

“I don’t know. I liked her. I look forward to knowing her a little better.” Then suddenly she was serious again. “Thomas, does Blantyre matter to you? Is he going to help you?”

“I hope so,” he replied. “Jack arranged it.”

A hurt inside her slipped away. “Good. Good. I’m glad.”

She wished he were free to tell her what troubled him, apart from the burden of taking on Narraway’s job. She wanted to assure him that he was equal to it, but such assurances would be meaningless, because she had very little idea what it was that bothered him in the first place. She did not know whether his skills matched Narraway’s, or even if they ever could. They were very different from each other. Until their experience in Ireland, she had thought of Narraway as intellectual, and happy to be alone. Whether that was natural to him or he had learned it, it had become his habit. Only when he lost his position in Special Branch had she seen any vulnerability in him, any need at all for the emotional warmth of others. How blind she had been. It was something she thought of now with a dull ache of guilt. She preferred to put it from her mind. That would be easier for Narraway too. He would not wish to think she remembered every emotion in his face, perhaps regretted now. Some things should remain guessed at, but unspoken.

Regardless of such moments, there was a professional ruthlessness in Narraway that she believed would never be natural to Pitt. Indeed, she hoped it would not.

That was part of the difficulty. Two of the things she loved most in Pitt were his empathy and his love of justice, which would make leadership and its terrible decisions more difficult for him.

She had not yet found any way in which she could help him. Blind support was all she could offer, and it had a very limited value. It was, in some ways, like the love of a child; in the dangerous and painful decisions, he was essentially alone.

She looked at him now, standing in the middle of the kitchen as Daniel came in with his homework, and she saw the deliberate change of expression as he turned to his son. She knew the effort it cost him to put aside his worry, saw his hands clenched in frustration even as he smiled at Daniel and they spoke of history homework, and how best to answer a complicated question.

“But how is that the Holy Roman Empire?” Daniel asked reasonably, pointing to the map in his schoolbook. “Rome is way down there!” He put his finger on the middle of Italy. “It isn’t even in the same country. That’s Austria. It says so. And why is it holier than anywhere else?”

Pitt took a deep breath. “It isn’t,” he said patiently. “Have you got a map of where the old Roman Empire used to be? I’ll show you where it became the Eastern and the Western Empires.”

“I know that, Papa! And it wasn’t up there!” He put his finger on Austria again. “Why is all that bit part of the Holy Empire?”

Charlotte smiled and left Pitt to do his best with conquest and Imperial politics. No one else had ever been able to give a morally satisfying answer, and she knew Daniel well enough to expect a long argument.

CHARLOTTE DRESSED FOR THE dinner as she had done in her early twenties, before her marriage, when her mother had been trying desperately, and unsuccessfully, to find her a suitable husband.

She had chosen a color and style that flattered the warmth of her skin and the hints of auburn in her hair. The cut of her dress showed the soft curves of her figure to their best advantage. It was fashionable enough to feel up to date, but not so much that in a few months it would be outmoded. She had Minnie Maude help her coil and pin her hair so it had no chance of slipping undone. To have one’s hair falling out of its coiffure would be deemed just as disastrous as having one’s clothing fall off! And rather more difficult to put right again.

In the lamplight, she was not sure if she observed one or two gray hairs, or if it was only a nervous imagination. Her mother, many years her senior, had only a few. And of course there was a remedy for it. Apparently iron nails steeped in strong tea for fifteen days make an excellent dye for darker hair! Rinsing the hair in tea was, she considered, good for it every so often anyway.

She wore very little jewelry. This was not only as a matter of style, but also because she owned very little, a fact she did not wish to make obvious. Earrings were sufficient. There was natural color in her face, but she added a little rouge, very, very discreetly, and put a tiny dab of powder on her nose to take away the shine. Once she was satisfied that it was the best she could do, she would forget it entirely and focus on whoever she was speaking to, listen with attention, and answer with warmth, and if possible, a little wit.

They had hired a carriage for the evening. To keep one all the time was an expense they could not afford, nor was it needed. If that day were to come in the future, perhaps it would be after they had moved to a house with stables. It would be exciting to make such an upward climb in society, but it would also force her to leave behind a place in which they had known much joy. Charlotte was perfectly happy not to have such a burden at the moment. She sat back in her seat, smiling in the dark as they were driven through Russell Square, its bare trees thrashing in the heavy wind. They turned left up Woburn Place, past Tavistock Square, open and windy again, then along the shelter of Upper Woburn Place and into the flickering lamplight of Endsleigh Gardens.

The carriage stopped and they alighted at the Blantyres’ house, where they were welcomed in by a liveried footman. He showed them immediately to a large withdrawing room where a blazing fire shed red and yellow light on leather-upholstered chairs and sofas, and a carpet rich in shades of amber, gold, and peach. The gaslamps were turned low, so it was difficult to see the details of the many paintings that decorated the walls. In a quick glance all Charlotte noticed was their ornamental gold frames, and the fact that they seemed to be mostly land- and seascapes.

Adriana Blantyre came forward to welcome them, a step ahead of her husband. She was dressed in burgundy velvet. Its glowing color emphasized the fairness of her face and the amazing depth of her eyes. She looked both fragile and intensely alive.

Blantyre himself greeted Charlotte with a smile, but his glance returned to his wife before he offered his hand.

“I’m so pleased you could come. How are you, Mrs. Pitt?”

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Blantyre,” she replied. “Good evening, Mrs. Blantyre. It is such a pleasure to see you again.” That was not merely good manners. On the brief occasions she had met Adriana, she had found her to be quite different from most of the society women she knew. She possessed a sparkling energy and a dry sense of humor that lay more in what she did not say than in any quick ripostes.

They sat and talked casually: light comments on the weather, the latest gossip, rumors that were of no serious consequence. Charlotte had time to look at the paintings on the walls, and the very beautiful ornaments that graced the mantel and two or three small tables. One was a porcelain figurine of a woman dancing. It had such grace that it seemed as if, at any moment, it would actually move. One of the largest ornaments was a huge statue of a wild boar. It stood with its head lowered, menacing, yet there was a beauty in it that commanded admiration.

“He’s rather fine, isn’t he?” Blantyre remarked, seeing her gaze. “We don’t have boar here anymore but they still do in Austria.”

“When did we have them here?” Charlotte asked, not really because she wanted to know, but because she was interested in drawing him into conversation.

His eyes opened wide. “An excellent question. I must find out. Have we progressed because we no longer have them, or regressed? We could ask that question of a lot of things.” He smiled, as if the possibilities amused him.

“Have you hunted boar?” Charlotte asked.

“Oh, long in the past. I lived for several years in Vienna. The forests around there abound with them.”

Charlotte gave an involuntary little shiver.

“I imagine you would greatly prefer the music and the dancing,” he said with certainty. “It is a marvelous city, one where almost anything you care to dream of seems possible.” He looked for a moment at Adriana, and there was an intense tenderness in his face. “We first met in Vienna.”

Adriana rolled her dark eyes and a flash of amusement lit her expression. “We first danced in Vienna,” she corrected him. “We met in Trieste.”

“I remember the moonlight on the Danube!” he protested.

“My dear,” she said, “it was the Adriatic. We didn’t speak, but we saw each other. I knew you were watching me.”

“Did you? I thought I was being so discreet.”

She laughed, then turned away.

For an instant Charlotte thought it was out of modesty, because the look on Blantyre’s face was openly emotional. Then she caught something in the angle of Adriana’s head, the light catching a tear in her eye, and felt that there was something she had missed entirely, far deeper than the words conveyed.

A few minutes later they were called to the dining room, and its lush, old-fashioned beauty took all Charlotte’s attention. It was not the least bit English; there was a simplicity to the proportions, which lent an extraordinary grace, and a lush warmth to the coloring.

“Do you like it?” Adriana asked, standing close behind her. Then she apologized. “I’m sorry. If I ask, how could you possibly say you did not?” She gave a rueful smile. “I love England, but this room carried the memory of my home; I want people here to like what I used to know and love as well.” Without waiting for an answer, she moved away to take her place at the foot of the table, while Blantyre sat down at the head.

The meal was served by footmen and a parlormaid, silently, and with a discretion born of long practice. First there was a clear soup, followed by a light fish, and then the main course of lamb in red wine sauce. The conversation moved easily from one subject to another. Blantyre was a highly entertaining host, full of anecdotes about his travels, especially his time in the capitals of Europe. Watching his face, Charlotte saw an undisguised enthusiasm for the individuality and culture of each place, but a love for Austria that superseded all the others.

He spoke of the gaiety and sophistication of Paris, of the theater and art and philosophy, but his voice took on a new intensity when he described the Viennese operetta, the vitality of it, the music lyrical enough to make everyone wish to dance.

“They have to nail the chairs and tables to the floor,” he said, almost seriously. He was smiling, his eyes staring into the distance. “Vienna’s always in my dreams. One minute you cry there, the next you laugh. There is a unique richness in the blend of so many cultures.”

Adriana moved very slightly, and the change in the light on her face made Charlotte look toward her. For a moment, she saw pain in Adriana’s eyes, and in the shadows around her mouth, which was still too young for lines or hollows. Then it was gone. But for a second, Adriana had seemed utterly lost. Her hand was on her fork, and then she set it down with a clink, as if she could not eat any more.

Blantyre had seen it—Charlotte was quite certain of that—yet he went on with his tale of music and color, as if to avoid drawing attention to it.

The next course was served. Blantyre changed the subject and became more serious. Now his attention was directed toward Pitt.

“It has changed lately, of course,” he said with a little grimace. “Since the death of Crown Prince Rudolf.”

Adriana’s eyes widened in surprise, probably that he should mention such a subject at the dinner table, and with people they hardly knew.

Instantly, Charlotte wondered if Pitt’s real reason for being here could possibly be connected to the tragedy at Mayerling. But what concern could that be to British Special Branch? She looked at Pitt and saw a slight frown on his face.

“The emperor is a martinet,” Blantyre went on. “Sleeps in an old army bed and rises at half-past four in the morning to begin his work on the papers of state. He dresses in the uniform of a junior officer, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he eats only bread and drinks only water.”

Charlotte looked at him closely to see if he was joking. His stories had been full of wit and lighthearted mockery but always gentle. Now she saw no lightness in his face at all. His nostrils were slightly flared, and his mouth was pulled a little tight.

“Evan …” Adriana began anxiously.

“Mr. Pitt is head of Special Branch, my dear,” Blantyre said, very slightly criticizing her. “He has few illusions. We should not add to them.”

Adriana went very pale, but did not argue.

Charlotte wondered where the conversation was heading. How much of it was information that Pitt was seeking, and why had they come to learn it this way? She turned to Blantyre.

“He sounds rather grim,” she observed. “Was he always like that, or is it the effect of grief over the death of his son?”

Blantyre replied, “I’m afraid he was pretty much always a bore. Poor Sisi escapes whenever she can. She’s a trifle eccentric, but who could blame the poor woman?”

Charlotte looked from Blantyre to Pitt; she saw the mystified expression on his face before he could hide it.

“The empress Elisabeth,” Blantyre explained, eyebrows arched a little. “God knows why they call her Sisi, but they all do. A bohemian at heart. Always taking off for somewhere or the other, mostly Paris, sometimes Rome.”

Charlotte plunged in, hoping she was judging correctly that in some fashion this had to do with Pitt’s current case.

“Which came first?” she asked innocently.

Blantyre turned to her with a bright stare. Was that a ghost of amusement in his eyes? “First?” he inquired.

She looked straight at him. “Her desire to escape his being a bore, or his retreating into solitude because she was always off on some adventure?”

He nodded almost imperceptibly. “Neither, so far as I know. But Crown Prince Rudolf was caught up in a considerable conflict between his father’s rigid military dictatorship and his mother’s erratic flights of fancy, both metaphorical and literal. He was really rather clever, you know, when given half a chance to escape the straitjacket of duty.” He turned to Pitt. “He wrote excellent articles for radical newspapers, under a pseudonym, of course.”

Pitt straightened, his fork halfway to his mouth.

Blantyre smiled. “You didn’t know? It doesn’t surprise me. Not many people do. He was of the opinion that an Austrian invasion of Croatia would be a cause for war with Russia, which Austria would start against a completely anti-Austrian Balkan peninsula, from the Black Sea to the Adriatic. He said not only the present would be at stake, but also the whole future, for which Austria was responsible to the coming generation.”

Pitt stared at him. There was complete silence at the table.

“Almost a direct quote,” Blantyre said. “As closely as I can match the English to the German.”

“Evan, the poor man is dead,” Adriana said softly. “We will never know what good he might have done had he lived.” There was intense sadness in her voice, and her eyes were downcast.

Charlotte’s mind raced. She could think of no way in which a suicide pact between a man and his mistress, however tragic, could concern British Special Branch. And yet it appeared that Blantyre had introduced the subject very deliberately, even though it was hardly polite dinner conversation among people who barely knew one another.

Now Blantyre was looking at Adriana. “My dear, you mustn’t grieve for him so much.” He reached out a hand toward hers, but the table was too long for them to touch. Still his fingers remained in the open gesture, resting lightly on the white cloth. “It was his own choice, and I think perhaps all that was left to him. He was tired and ill, and desperately unhappy.”

“Ill?” she said quickly, meeting his gaze for the first time since Rudolf’s death had been mentioned. “How can you know?”

“Because now Princess Stéphanie is also infected,” he replied.

The expression in Adriana’s face was unreadable: surprise, pity, but—more complex than that—it seemed to Charlotte to include a kind of hope, as if a long-standing problem had at last been resolved.

“So it would have been the Archduke Franz Ferdinand anyway?” Adriana said after a couple of seconds.

“Yes,” Blantyre agreed. “Did you think poor Rudolf’s death could have had something to do with the succession? It wasn’t political, at least in that sense. If Rudolf had become emperor, he had planned to make the empire a republic and be president of it, with far greater freedom for the individual nations within.”

“Would that have worked?” Adriana asked dubiously.

He smiled. “Probably not. He was an idealist, very much a dreamer. But maybe.”

Pitt looked from one to the other of them. “Is there any doubt that it was suicide?”

Blantyre shook his head. “None at all. I know there are all kinds of rumors flying around, but the truth is far beyond that which is known to the public. But I believe that some griefs should remain the property of those who are the victims. That is about the only decency we can offer them. I am quite certain that his death and that of Marie Vetsera were by their own hands, and there were no others involved. Who has blame for the patterns of their lives is not an issue for us.”

Pitt seemed about to say something, then changed his mind, and instead made some remark about one of the many beautiful paintings on the wall.

Adriana’s face lit with pleasure immediately. “The Croatian coast,” she said eagerly. “That’s where I was born.” She went on to describe it, her words full of nostalgia.

Charlotte noted Blantyre’s face. There was a lingering sadness in his eyes as he listened to his wife remembering her childhood, the changing seasons, the sounds and the touch of the past.

Adriana said nothing more of Vienna, as if it were part of another world.

AFTER DINNER CHARLOTTE AND Adriana returned to the withdrawing room for tea and delicate, prettily decorated sweets.

“Your country sounds very beautiful,” Charlotte said with interest.

“It’s unique,” she said, smiling. “At least it was. I haven’t been back for several years now.”

“Surely you can go back, at least to visit?” Charlotte asked.

Suddenly Adriana was very still. The delicate color of her skin became even lighter, almost as if it were translucent.

“I don’t think I would like to. Evan is very protective of my feelings. He keeps telling me that it would bring back old pain that is best left to heal, and perhaps he is right.”

Charlotte waited, believing an explanation would come. Even if it did not, it would be clumsy to ask.

“I’m sorry, I am making no sense. My father died a long time ago, and my mother some time before that. His death is something I still find hard to think about. Others loved him and grieved also, but not as I did.” For some minutes she had difficulty keeping her emotions under control. She looked at Charlotte with startling trust, as if there was clearly a friendship between them, but she did not say anything more.

Charlotte thought of her own elder sister’s death: the grief, the fear, the disillusionment that had followed it. It was during that series of murders that she had first met Pitt. She had grown up during that time, had learned to look more honestly at the people she loved. She had tried to accept failure, her own and theirs, and learn not to blame them because they fell short of her idealistic and rather immature perceptions of them.

She had no idea how Adriana’s father had died, but clearly it had been part of some complicated situation that had caused her much pain, if, even now, she would not speak of it.

Charlotte looked around the withdrawing room and chose a lovely, very ornate piece of carving in wood to admire and ask about.

The tension was broken, and Adriana responded with a flush of gratitude, giving an account of its history.

IN THE DINING ROOM, the butler brought in port and cigars; at Blantyre’s request he left them alone. Then the serious conversation began. Blantyre offered no preamble.

“I have looked more closely at the situation, Pitt. I have been obliged to change my mind. I admit, I thought you were being a little hasty and had jumped to conclusions. I was mistaken. I now believe that you are right to consider the danger serious, possibly even as catastrophic as it looks.”

Pitt was stunned.

Blantyre leaned forward. “Of course, the indications are slight: an inquiry about timetables, which seems natural enough; a desire to know how the signals work, in more detail than the average person knows, or wishes to; a technical description of how the points work. They do not indicate to the Foreign Office that there is anything amiss.” He gave a rueful, self-deprecating smile. “To me, knowing the names of the men concerned, it indicates that they plan something large and complicated enough to require the use of men who have killed before, and are willing to cause any number of civilian casualties in order to succeed.”

“Why Duke Alois?” Pitt asked him. “Does he actually have far more political significance than we realize?”

Blantyre’s face was very grave.

“I am unaware that he has any significance at all, but there may be a number of things that have changed since my last accurate bulletin. But even if he does not, this is a far bigger issue than the death of any one man, whoever he is.” He spread his hands on the white cloth. They were lean and strong.

“The Austro-Hungarian Empire is pivotal to the future of Europe. I don’t believe the government of Britain fully realizes that. Perhaps no other government does either. Look at the map, Pitt. The empire is enormous. It lies in the heart of Europe between the rising industrial strengths of the Protestant countries in the west, especially Germany, newly united and growing in power every year, and the old, fractured east, which includes all the quarrelsome Balkan states, and Greece, Macedonia, and of course, Turkey—‘the sick man of Europe.’ ”

Pitt did not interrupt. The brandy sat forgotten, the cigars unlit.

“And to the south is Italy,” Blantyre went on. “Like Germany, it is newly united, but still with that open wound in the north, an Austrian-occupied territory containing some of its most valuable cities. And then there are Serbia, Croatia, Montenegro, and the other Adriatic countries, where the real powder keg lies. Small as they are, if they explode, they could eventually take the whole of Europe with them.”

His hands tightened a little. “And to the north lies the vast, restless bear of Russia: Slavic in its loyalties, Orthodox in its faith. It’s ruled by a tsar in Moscow who hasn’t the faintest idea what really lies in his own people’s hearts, never mind anywhere else.”

Pitt felt cold. He began to understand where Blantyre was going with this train of thought.

“And Austria lies in the heart of it.” Blantyre moved his hand very slightly, as if it lay on a map, not the white linen tablecloth. “The empire has twelve different languages, and a multitude of faiths—Catholic, Orthodox, Muslim, and Jewish. Although admittedly the anti-Semitism is ugly, and rising, still the general tolerance is there. The culture is old and deeply sophisticated, and the government is long practiced at holding the reins of power strongly enough to govern, but lightly enough to give individual countries their breathing space.”

He looked at Pitt, judging his reaction.

“Teutonic Germany is impatient, chomping at the bit of its own power. Bismarck said, ‘chaining the trim, seaworthy frigate of Prussia to the ancient, worm-eaten galleon of Austria.’ We have not taken enough notice of that. The Germans are dangerous and growing increasingly restless. Their young lions are waiting to take down the old. But even that is only peripheral to the real danger. Austria is the heart where all the different interests meet, safely. Remove it, and there is no neutral core. Teutons and Slavs are face-to-face. Protestant, Catholic, Muslim, and Jew have no forum in which to speak familiarly. There is no longer a single culture where all take part.”

Pitt could see the indisputable logic in what Blantyre was saying.

“But why kill a minor member of the Austrian royal family, and here in England? What purpose does that serve?” he asked.

Blantyre smiled, his face tight, eyes bleak. “It doesn’t matter who it is; the victim is incidental. Assassinate him at home and the authorities might be able to cover it up, make it seem like some horrible accident. Do it in England, where they have no control, in the territory of one of the best secret services in Europe, and it cannot be hidden. And no doubt when you catch whoever is responsible, they will unmistakably prove to be Croatian. Austria will have no choice whatsoever except to try him and execute him, then to find all his allies and do the same—do you see?”

Pitt began to see, and the vision was appalling.

Blantyre nodded slowly. “It is in your face. Of course you see. Austria would then be at war with Croatia. Croatia is Slavic. It will appeal to its mighty Russian cousins, who will weigh in on its side, even if not invited to. Then Germany will come in on the side of German-speaking, German-cultural Austria, and before you can stop the landslide, you will have war, the likes of which we have never seen before.”

“No sane man would …” Pitt began, and trailed off.

“No sane man,” Blantyre repeated softly. “How many sane nationalist revolutionaries do you know? How many dynamiters and assassins who see only a few days ahead of them, instead of looking to the future, to six months, a year, or a decade?”

“None,” Pitt said almost under his breath. “God, what a mess.”

“We must prevent it,” Blantyre answered. “Special Branch may never have had a more important job to do. Any help I can give, any service I can provide, I offer it to you, day or night.”

Pitt stared down at the table, shoulders hunched, all the muscles of his face and neck aching.

“Thank you.”