“Half a day,” Tibor shrugged. “More, perhaps.”
The Emperor spent much of the summer in the little mountain resort near Salzburg, playing (it was said) at being just an ordinary citizen and being surprised when everyone stepped aside and bowed.
“So Berchtold,” Ranklin deduced, “will advise the Emp-, King, whether or not to accept the new frontiers in the peace treaty.” He hastily indicated the newspaper, to excuse his knowledge. According to it, the treaty was almost ready for signing in Bucharest, but Austria disliked the way Serbia was gaining land to the west. It was another step towards seizing a port on the Adriatic – where a Russian fleet might one day drop anchor.
So there was a ready-made quarrel with Serbia – if the Emperor wanted to take it up. And the Archduke would have been urging Berchtold to advise the Emperor to do just that. If they let the treaty be signed without objecting, the excuse for war was gone by default.
“And is that what Hazay is telegraphing to the Munich newspaper?”
But Tibor was frowning suspiciously. Ranklin offered his cigarettes and Tibor took one, but it didn’t stop him wondering why a business adviser was so interested in the detail of Balkan politics. But then a waiter arrived with two glasses and Tibor scattered some coins in return. Ranklin hadn’t realised the order had included him, and distrusted small glasses of almost clear liquid.
“Szilva,” Tibor explained: plum brandy. “Egeszsegere!” He swallowed half in a gulp; Ranklin sipped cautiously. “’Why do you like to talk with Stefan?”
“He knows more than he can get printed. And my employer – you know who I mean?” Tibor nodded, thinking he did know; “ – well, he doesn’t pay me to tell him what he can read for himself.”
“He wants to know all about this?” Tibor waved a hand at the newspaper.
“I’ll tell you what he wants to know, perhaps you can answer him,” Ranklin said boldly. “Is there going to be a war? When? Who’s going to be involved? And who’s going to win?”
Tibor sat back in his chair. Then he said: “Capitalists.”
“He’d agree. What about the peasant with half a dozen gold pieces buried under his hearth? He wants to know whether to move his money, too.”
“But the peasant does not care if everybody else knows also,” Tibor said shrewdly. “The capitalist wants to know in secret, to move before others move. He wants truth, but to hide it for himself. But – ” he finished his brandy; “ – Stefan does not telegraph about the treaty, it is about Colonel Redl.”
“Ah.”
“You know about the Colonel?”
“What I read in the papers – and Stefan was talking about him yesterday.” He daren’t seem too interested: what would Sherring care about an intelligence scandal?
But, perhaps for the same reason, Tibor insisted on “boring” him with what Hazay had uncovered. “He has learnt of a meeting between the Archduke Franzie and General Conrad, after Redl has shot himself. Franzie talks to him as if he is a common soldier.” Tibor relished that. “He makes him stand to attention and tells him he is a pig-head to make Redl kill himself and not answer any question. That now they cannot know what Serbia, what Russia, knows about their Army and its plans. And also, that it is wicked to make a good Catholic do a mortal sin.”
Now that, a complete irrelevance to Ranklin’s non-Catholic mind, had the truth of a detail nobody would think to invent. “Really?” he said, his uninterested tone hiding his thoughts. If true, if true, that confrontation meant the Archduke was well aware of the danger in starting a war here and now. So could he really have been advising one?
“So now,” Tibor said, “you will tell your Capitalist this truth also?”
“Perhaps – but only if the censors stop it being published.” And he could see just why those censors wouldn’t want such dissension in the high command made public. “Why is Hazay taking such a risk? – it must be a risk.”
“They cannot shoot him for it. And he does it for truth, so everybody will know, not just capitalists.”
Ranklin nodded absently and sipped his brandy. “Would you ask Hazay to telephone me at the Margaret Island hotel?”
“He says he will see you tonight, if you go to the American’s speech.”
“He’ll be there?”
“All journalists are invited.” So somebody wanted to make sure that Hornbeam got well and undeniably reported.
“All the same, I’d like to talk to him as soon as he gets back from – from Komarom. I might have some extra truth he’d be interested in,” he added as bait.
Tibor stared at him without expression, then said: “All right – Enemy.” He lumbered away and Ranklin watched without really seeing.
Damn, he was thinking. And damn again. This may change everything.
Dr Ignatz Brull’s stern-but-kindly expression changed into one of astonished horror. “You are telling me that Professor Hornbeam will announce that the Habsburg Law can be broken? – to make Duchess Sophie become Empress? Du Liebe Gott!” Although the British Consul, Brull’s origins had obviously been German-speaking. His accent was now just a constant mild flavour – except when he got astonished.
“I fear the papers his daughter found allow of no other conclusion,” Ranklin said sadly. He had cleaned up the details of the discovery.
“And you say that the Archduke himself sent a copy of the Law to Dr Hornbeam? Then surely he must be mad. He will destroy himself.”
“Er – no; I said it could appear that the Archduke was behind it all. For myself, I rather doubt that. I fear it may be a move to discredit the Archduke, destroy his influence … But I’m probably wrong. As Consul here you know far more about such matters.”
Dr Brull acknowledged this with a nod and then sat frowning with thought. Apart from the length of his moustache, he looked like a – no, the bank manager of a county town: comfortable, reliable, knowing his job and knowing his table would be kept free at his lunchtime restaurant. He did not look as if he dabbled much in international intrigue, but he was all Ranklin had.
Budapest was a Consul-General’s post but was awaiting a new C.-G. being sent from London; Dr Brull was just keeping the seat warm for his new chief. It was, Ranklin feared, a reasonable guess that he wouldn’t want that chief to find the seat too hot.
Dr Brull took off his thick-lensed spectacles and tapped them on the table. “I believe you are correct, Mr Ranklin. The Archduke’s advisers – and he would have to communicate with Professor Hornbeam through them – would never permit him to do anything so foolish.”
“But to the man in the street,” Ranklin said, “to the reader of tomorrow’s newspapers, that thought might not occur.”
“It might not occur to the Emperor, either,” Dr Brull ruminated. “And some of his advisers might not hurry to point it out. The Archduke seems to be in good standing with the Emperor at the moment. There is a rumour – I trust you will not pass this on – that the Emperor plans, on his birthday next week, to make the Archduke the Inspector General of the Army.”
Which would give him the right – officially, not just as a Habsburg – to curb General Conrad’s ambitions. Ranklin said: “But that would go by the board if …”
“I fear so.” Dr Brull put his spectacles back on and focused on Ranklin. “You did right to bring this to my attention.”
“My patriotic duty,” Ranklin simpered hopefully.
“But of course, this is none of our concern.”
Ranklin stared. “But – don’t you feel that this is political news that should be sent to the Ambassador in Vienna? Or even direct to London?”
Dr Brull smiled indulgently. He was used to agitated British citizens coming in with “news” (usually cafe gossip) that should immediately be telegraphed to the Foreign Secretary personally. Like a good bank manager, it was his duty to be polite – but firm.