Kingdoms Fall - The Laxenburg Message (16 page)

K
stared at Gresham coldly. Wilkins lit a
cigarette, and pulled out his flask, sending the message that he and Gresham
were not leaving until the information Gresham requested was provided.

“We must play the cards we are dealt, Madam,”
said Gresham. “We will take that information, and then it would be best if we
had no further contact with you.”

“What do you mean to do, Mister
G
?”

“I would rather not say. My friend here and I
are merely British soldiers on leave and apt to get into all kinds of trouble.
It may turn out that the British government would want to apologize for our
misconduct, but deny any prior knowledge of our intentions.”

She stared at Gresham a moment longer, then
sighed and produced a pen and paper from her desk. She jotted down a few brief
notes. When she completed her list, Gresham took the paper and read it over.

“Thank you, Madam. You have been most helpful.”
said Gresham. He made eye contact with Wilkins, and the two rose and left the office.

“What
do
we mean to do, David?” asked
Wilkins after they had walked a while through the busy evening streets.

“Civilians talk about armies mobilizing like it
means nothing. For a country like Bulgaria, mobilizing hundreds of thousands of
men, especially during the autumn harvest, is a serious commitment – it’s
expensive and costs the country food and therefore lives. If Bulgaria is truly
mobilizing its army, then it can only mean that they have already signed a
treaty with Germany and Austria – a treaty which undoubtedly makes all sorts of
promises to Bulgaria, such as Serbian territory. The Prime Minister must have
proof of the Bulgarian treaty with Germany when he goes to the King. It may
make all the difference.”

“If what you say is true, Venizelos will be
forced to defy his King, David,” Wilkins said with concern.

“That is exactly what we must make certain.”

Wilkins stopped. Of course he knew they were
doing the right thing for the British Empire, but it was a serious matter to
prod the Prime Minister of Greece to defy his country’s King. “Very well, but
in that case we must obtain proof certain.”

“Since you prefer to be in uniform, James,
let’s go to the hotel and change into those clothes. I think tonight we should
be regular army officers on leave. Then I want you to find out where the Chief
of the Gendarmerie, that fellow Vasilakos, resides. Make certain we can catch
him at home tonight. He will be our avenue to the Prime Minister. I’ll locate
the Germans, and we’ll meet in front of the archeology museum at midnight.”

Wilkins eyed Gresham intently. Clearly Gresham
was prepared to push the political situation to a crisis, and Wilkins surprised
himself by finding that he was prepared to back up his friend and colleague.
They rushed back to the hotel.

Gresham ducked out the back door quickly and
walked to the district where the two most likely and most knowledgeable German
agents were believed to reside. There was no lack of German-speaking customers
at the public houses in that district, and Gresham entered one uncertain of the
reception he would receive. In his British uniform, he immediately drew the
attention of every eye. The Germans and Austrians, some of whom were in uniform
themselves, looked at him with amusement and disdain. Gresham sat at a table
and called for whisky.

“No, no, my friend,” said a friendly and somewhat
inebriated Austrian officer, in English. “You are in Greece now, so you must
order the wine. If you cannot order correctly, we shall have to throw you out.”

“The only wine I’ll drink comes from France,
and I don’t expect you’ve got any,” replied Gresham coldly.

“Not yet, perhaps, but it’s just a matter of
time. Then try the
uozo
– a local aperitif; it’s quite delicious.”

“No, thanks; I’ll stick to whisky.”

“Perhaps you should return to your dark dirty
pubs, then, Englishman. You have no appreciation for the treasures of Greece.”

 “I’m looking for an old schoolmate who
I’m told lives in this district.”

“There is no other Englishman here.”

“He’s a German, from Berlin; his name is Ernst
Muller. We spent a year at Oxford together, but he moved to Athens to work for
the Ambassador. Do you know him?”

“No, but I might be convinced to ask my friends
for you.”

“You are very kind, and I shall repay your
kindness by buying you and your friends a bottle of the Greek wine, if you will
allow me.” said Gresham, sipping his whisky.

“Most thoughtful, but the wine is cheap.”

“Then gold, as I am most anxious to see my old
friend and find out whether he intends to return to my sister and the child he
left behind in England.”

 “Ah, now I see your intent most clearly.
Money will do. Allow me to ask for you.” The Austrian stepped to his friends
and conferred with them a moment. There was some dispute as to whether to
assist a British officer, but as Gresham placed five gold sovereigns on the
table, the dissenters were quickly out voted.

At last the Austrian returned to Gresham’s
table and carefully lifted and pocketed the sovereigns. “There is a café three
blocks from here, the
Piraikon
. You will find your friend there most
evenings. Now you should leave, as some of my friends would like to take your
money and cut your English throat.”

Gresham rose and walked calmly to the street
without another word.

The
Piraikon
was an almost identical pub
nearby, bustling with Germans and Austrians who were drinking wine and steins of
beer. Ducking into an alley, Gresham lowered his tie, dirtied his face and
tousled his hair. He staggered out of the alley and approached the
Piraikon
drunkenly. At the door, he stopped.

“Where is Ernst Muller?!” he shouted.

A deathly silence fell, as Gresham scanned the
room to see if his intended target could be identified. He staggered into the
crowd, pushing through past the customers to the middle of the room.

“Ernst Muller!” he shouted again. A young man
sitting by himself at the rear looked about nervously.

“Go back to Gallipoli, Englishmen, and die with
the rest of your army,” said a bald pot-bellied German businessman standing
nearby.

“I’ll be damned before you get away with it,
Ernst,” Gresham cried out drunkenly to the businessman. ‘Where are you,
Ernst!?”

Suddenly two German officers tackled Gresham to
the ground. He flailed helplessly as the Germans punched his face and side;
Gresham was careful not to punch back. He scrambled to the street as the
Germans’ friends pulled them away, and he wandered off, staggering and
muttering about his poor sister – at least, until he reached the alley.

There, Gresham stopped and watched the pub. The
nervous young German man in fine civilian clothes soon left alone, and Gresham carefully
followed him, staying in the shadows. One block, then two, to a fine townhouse,
the very house believed to be occupied by one Ernst Muller. The young man
looked both ways, and used his key to enter the house, quickly closing the door
behind him.

The marble columns of the entrance to the new National
Archeological Museum were impressive, but they lacked the aura of antiquity
that permeated the rest of the city. At midnight, the museum was dark and
quiet, and Wilkins waited in the park in front of the museum, still uncertain
what Gresham planned to do. Wilkins was definitely more at ease standing alone
in the dark in the eerily quiet city now that he was in uniform. Earlier in the
evening, Wilkins had visited the nearest Gendarmerie and, after a bit of
bribery, gotten the address of the Athens Chief, Vasilakos. The gendarmes were
all vehemently anti-royalist, and Wilkins began to believe that Gresham’s
earlier reference to the unfortunate end of French King Louis XVI might not be
far from the truth.

At last, Wilkins could see a British officer approaching,
and indeed it was Gresham, more or less. Although in uniform, Gresham looked
like he had been out drinking and brawling: His hair was wild and wet with
perspiration, his uniform was disheveled and stained, his boots were covered
with muck, and there were a few bruises on his face and some evidence of a
bloodied nose.

“Where on earth have you been, David?” Wilkins
asked with concern.

“Just playing my part in our little drama. I’ve
been exploring the local pubs, especially those catering to the Huns. Afraid to
say there’s been a minor fisticuffs. That sort of thing is bound to happen when
a British officer mistakenly walks into a nest of bloody Germans. I’ve found
our prey, however. Let’s go.”

Gresham led Wilkins down a back alley, already
having learned the back streets of the complex city. It was a short distance in
the moonlight to the now-quiet public house where Gresham had made his public
display. Two more blocks brought them to Ernst Muller’s house.

At the door, Gresham pulled a neat set of iron
picks from his pocket and easily unlocked the clumsy, ancient brass lock. He
and Wilkins entered quietly and shut the door gently. In the dim light from the
street, Gresham took out his handgun, and Wilkins did the same. They quickly
searched the first floor of the house, which was empty, and started cautiously
up the stairs.

The bedroom door was closed. Gresham cracked
the door open enough for the two men to see Muller asleep in his bed. Gresham
entered first, his handgun raised, and Wilkins followed. They surrounded the
bed. “Muller, wake up,” said Gresham. Muller wasn’t asleep. He quickly twisted
and raised his Mauser pistol. Gresham smashed his handgun down on Muller’s
hand, breaking the German’s fingers and forcing the pistol from his hand.
Gresham leapt onto Muller’s chest and forced his M1911’s muzzle against the
young clean-cut German’s throat. “Make a sound and I will blast your throat
open.”

“
Ich spreche kein Englisch
,” Muller
growled.

“Well, we’ll find out in a minute, because I’m
going to cut off each of your fingers and toes until you learn how to speak
English.”

“
Ja
, alright, there is no need for such
violence,” said Muller. “I am no one; I am just a businessman.”

“You work with diplomats and pass information
for Germany. Those diplomats know the treaties with their country. And you know
what they say.” said Wilkins.

“When did Germany sign the treaty with
Bulgaria?” asked Gresham.

“I have no idea if there is such a treaty.”

“
Beginnen wir mit seinen schwanz
,” said
Wilkins, drawing a short field knife from the back of his belt.

“
Ja, ja, ja
, the treaty, it was signed
September 23,” said Muller, now truly panicking.

“And
how will your Kaiser reward his new ally?”

Muller shrieked, “of course I cannot tell you
that!”

Gresham carefully positioned the muzzle of his
handgun against Muller’s left elbow.

“Listen to me, you English pig –”

Gresham fired. Muller’s elbow shattered and his
blood and bone splashed across the bedspread. Muller howled in agony and the
smell of burnt flesh filled the room.

Gresham turned his head to see how Wilkins had
reacted to the shooting of their prisoner. He was gratified to see only cold
determination in his colleague’s eyes, and turned back to Muller. “I would like
to kill you, Muller. But since I cannot do so yet, I will have to enjoy hurting
you some more.”

“I cannot say!”

Gresham pressed the muzzle against Muller’s
left shoulder.

“Listen, Muller,” said Wilkins. “Your secrets
will not remain secrets long; it is just a matter of time before the terms are
made known. Better to just tell us now, than to suffer needlessly.”

“What was Bulgaria promised if they join
Germany in the war!?” Gresham yelled.

“I cannot –”

Gresham fired again. This time his bullet
entered the flesh of Muller’s left shoulder and scored across the bone. There
was a strong smell of flesh and droplets of blood sprayed across the bed and
wall.

Muller groaned. “Lower Serbia,” he gasped.

“What else?” Gresham asked, pressing the hot
muzzle against Muller’s right elbow.

“Macedonia – part in Serbia and part in Greece;
it will all be split between Austria and Bulgaria. That is everything – I swear
it,” groaned the German.

 “And when does the invasion of Serbia
begin?” asked Gresham.

Muller spit at Gresham and laughed: “Next
week.”

Wilkins bound up Muller’s shattered elbow and
shoulder in strips of bloody bed sheets and the German was dragged through the
dark city streets to the home of the Chief of the Athens Gendarmerie Vasilakos.
Wilkins pounded on the door. A portly, older Greek man answered the door in an
old, soiled robe and bare feet. His wild grey hair suggested he had been fast
asleep.