Fall of Giants

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 seventeenth century, and he was stupid enough to think that was possible. It was as if King George V were to try to re-create the Merrie England of Robin Hood. Since the tsar was barely rational, it was maddeningly difficult to predict what he would do.

During the last hymn Walter’s gaze wandered to Maud, sitting two rows in front on the other side. He watched her profile fondly as she sang with gusto.

Anton’s ambivalent report was unnerving. Walter felt more worried than he had been an hour ago. He said: “From now on, I need to see you every day.”

Anton looked panicky. “Not possible!” he said. “Too risky.”

“But the picture is changing hour by hour.”

“Next Sunday morning, Smith Square.”

That was the trouble with idealistic spies, Walter thought with frustration: you had no leverage. On the other hand, men who spied for money were never trustworthy. They would tell you what you wanted to hear in the hope of getting a bonus. With Anton, if he said the tsar was dithering, Walter could be confident that the tsar had not made a decision.

“Meet me once in the middle of the week, then,” Walter pleaded as the hymn came to an end.

Anton did not reply. Instead of sitting down, he slipped away and left the church. “Damn,” Walter said quietly, and the child in the next seat stared at him with disapproval.

When the service was over he stood in the paved churchyard greeting acquaintances until Maud emerged with Fitz and Bea. Maud looked supernaturally graceful in a stylish gray figured velvet dress with a darker gray crepe overdress. It was not a very feminine color, perhaps, but it heightened her sculptured beauty and seemed to make her skin glow. Walter shook hands all round, wishing desperately for a few minutes alone with her. He exchanged pleasantries with Bea, a confection in candy-pink and cream lace, and agreed with a solemn Fitz that the assassination was a “bad business.” Then the Fitzherberts moved away, and Walter feared he had missed his chance; but, at the last moment, Maud murmured: “I’ll be at the duchess’s house for tea.”