Tidal Effects (Gray Tide In The East Book 2) Page 12

  “Precisely so, Your Majesty,” Sixtus acknowledged. He rose and bowed again.

  Shonbrunn Palace, Vienna

  The Billiards Room, Shonbrunn Palace

  The Walnut Room, Shoenbrunn Palace

  Chapter Two

  Philadelphia, July 19, 1923

  It had been an irritating morning for the Managing Editor of the Philadelphia Inquirer. He had hardly been sitting at his desk long enough to review the big story on the poison ring, when a call from his bookie came in. Naturally, he had to drop everything and talk to the fellow. The man was completely unreasonable. The bookie had been threatening to ruin him by putting the word all over town that John Curtis did not pay off his gambling debts, unless he was paid in full, immediately. Curtis was having a harder and harder time putting him off. All this fuss over a trifling few thousand dollars!

  But the call this morning was not a new demand for money. Instead, Curtis was told that his debt would be taken care of, so long as he agreed to meet a man with the unlikely name of Ausstehend in his office at 9 o’clock. What could he do but agree?

  There was a sharp rap on his door. His secretary opened the door and stuck her head inside. “A Mr. Auster… hand?” Betty said uncertainly, stumbling over the unusual name, “…is here to see you, boss.”

  “Right,” Curtis said resignedly. “Send him in, please.”

  His unwanted visitor was a tall man, who Curtis guessed was in his mid-thirties. He was dressed in what was obviously a tailored suit, and an expensive one at that. He looked both wealthy and European. From the name, he supposed that the man was either German or Austrian.

  “Good morning, Mr. Curtis. May I sit?” Ausstehend’s English instructor had evidently been British, judging by his accent, but Curtis was reasonably certain that his visitor was not a subject of King George V.

  “Yes, of course, please take a seat,” Curtis said, indicating a wooden chairs in front of his desk.

  Ausstehend placed his Homburg on the desk and offered a kid-gloved hand for Curtis to shake. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ausstehend.” Curtis said, taking the hand. “You have a rather unusual name, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  The man displayed a tight smile. “Ausstehend is merely a convenience, not my actual name, naturally. It is the German word for ‘unpaid’.”

  He sat and said, “I realize that you are a busy man, Mr. Curtis, so I do not propose to take any more of your time than absolutely necessary. I am here on behalf of my employers to ask a few simple favors of you. You will not suffer from cooperating with their requests; indeed, you will find that they are most generous.”

  Curtis wondered whether the man was some sort of criminal. If not, why would he use a pseudonym? “Perhaps you should get right to your business, Mr… whatever your name is, before I decide to throw you out of my office.”

  “Oh, I think that would be a mistake,” the man said. He reached inside his jacket and retrieved a folded slip of paper. He dropped the paper on the desk. “Open it, Mr. Curtis. It is a token of my employer’s good intentions.”

  Curtis unfolded the paper, glanced down at it, and then looked back up at his visitor. “This is my I.O.U. to Marrucci…” (this was Curtis’ importunate bookie) “…and it’s marked ‘paid’. Now what do you want from me that would be worth that kind of money, I wonder?” he asked suspiciously. “I will tell you right now, sir, you are wasting your time if you expect me to agree to involve myself or my newspaper in any illegal activity.”

  “No, no, Mr. Curtis, you need have absolutely nothing of the sort to fear,” the man said. “I have only two requests, neither of which is illegal or immoral. On the contrary, I expect your newspaper to derive considerable benefit from our association.”

  Curtis’ suspicions were allayed, at least temporarily. “All right then, what do you have in mind, exactly?” he asked.

  “I want you to ask one of your employees, Mr. Raymond Swing, I believe he is your foreign affairs editor, to travel to Europe for the purpose of interviewing the leaders of Russia, Austria-Hungary, Germany, Italy, France and Great Britain, on the current state of international relations on the continent,” the man said. “We will ask you to sign off on letters to the various governments requesting the interviews.”

  This was not even remotely like anything Curtis was expecting. He sat back in his chair, and contemplated the anonymous man in silence for a time. “Well,” he said at last, “I agree that would be a nice series for the Inquirer to run. What I don’t see is why you think the leaders of those countries will agree to interviews with an American reporter. I also can’t help but wonder what’s in it for you, or rather for your employer, whoever that may be.”

  “As to the second question, while your curiosity is perfectly understandable, I am not at liberty to offer an explanation at this time. I have no doubt that the reasons for the request will become clear in the future,” the man said. “With regard to actually securing the interviews, I can promise you that at least some of the European leaders will consent to meet your man, if you allow us to arrange the inquiries. We only need your permission, and Mr. Swing, of course.”

  Curtis thought it over. He could not think of any way this proposal could hurt either him or the Inquirer. He nodded. “O.K. I agree. Swing’s been talking about going back over to Europe anyway. If you can actually get him these interviews, he’ll be happier than a pig in…” he paused and finished, “…clover.” When he saw that this metaphor was received with a blank face by his visitor, he said, “I’m sure that Mr. Swing will be very excited about this assignment.”

  “So, unless there’s something else we need to discuss further,” Curtis said, picking up the phone, “why don’t I ask Ray Swing to come down here to meet you and hear your proposition?” He spoke a few quiet words into the phone, and then hung up.

  “While we’re waiting, why don’t we pass the time playing a little game?” Curtis asked. “I’ll try to guess who is employing you and why, and you’ll try to keep a poker face when I name the right one. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  The man allowed himself a humorless smile. “It is my observation that people are able to derive amusement from any number of activities. Some take pleasure from playing cards, some chess, and some even find diversion wagering on horse races…” Curtis made a sour face to acknowledge this dig. “… so I do not doubt that you would find a pastime such as you have suggested to be diverting, Mr. Curtis. I, however, would not, and I trust you will not be offended if I decline to participate in your little game.”

  Chapter Three

  Berlin, July 29, 1923

  The cabinet meeting had just ended, and the big room was echoing with the sounds of a dozen hushed conversations between the Kaiser’s ministers and their assistants as they exited the great hall.

  Unlike his colleagues, the Foreign Minister, Franz von Papen did not walk out with his underlings. Instead, he waved them off and followed the Kaiser to the door that led to his private apartments in the Stadtschloss.

  “Excuse me, Your Majesty,” Papen said, “there was one other matter which I should bring to your attention.”

  Kaiser Wilhelm turned to look at his Foreign Minister. “Then why did you not mention it at the cabinet meeting, Papen?” he asked irritably. Wilhelm had plucked the Catholic Center party politician from obscurity because he was an aristocrat and, more importantly, because he was considered by both his friends and foes alike to be a man who had virtually no ideas of his own, and would therefore be easy to manage. The Kaiser wanted to keep foreign affairs in his own hands as much as possible, as he had a very high opinion of his own diplomatic abilities and a correspondingly low opinion of everyone else’s. He did not much care for his Foreign Minister, finding him rather dull-witted, and as a Catholic, personally distasteful. “The purpose of these cabinet meetings is for my ministers to inform me about those matters of state which they wish to bring to my attention,” Wilhelm caustically reminded Papen.

  If Pa
pen took the slightest offense at this insult to his intelligence, or even noticed the Kaiser’s sarcasm, he gave no sign. “This was a matter which Your Majesty instructed me to bring to you privately, rather than at cabinet meetings.”

  Wilhelm scowled. “Oh, very well then, come along,” he said ungraciously. “You can tell me about whatever it is while I am changing.”

  A tall soldier in the full uniform of the Imperial Guards, including a spiked helmet with the German eagle in silver across the brow and a gilded cuirass, opened the door for the Kaiser. Followed by Papen, he entered a small room furnished in Louis XIV. There was a marble-topped desk, a few upholstered chairs and a medium sized sofa, all carved with the elaborate curlicues characteristic of the period. There was also a tall standing cabinet decorated with paintings of Arcadian landscapes on the front panels. As the Kaiser entered, a servant flung open the doors of this cabinet to reveal a dozen outfits. At the same time, another servant rushed up to Wilhelm, and helped him to slip off the medal-encrusted Field Marshal’s coat, which he had worn at the cabinet meeting.

  “Don’t bother to get comfortable, Papen,” the Kaiser said, as his servants bustled around him, exchanging his military pants, blouse and coat for more comfortable and rugged hunting gear. “I have a weekend of hunting planned, and I am off to Rominten…” the royal hunting lodge on his East Prussian game preserve “…as soon as I have finished my business here. So say what you have to say, and be gone.”

  “Your Majesty, it concerns your Enemies of the Fatherland List,” the Foreign Minister replied. This was a secret list of evil-minded foreigners who the Kaiser believed were actively trying to destroy Germany and/or himself (not that he differentiated between the two). Winston Churchill and Sir Edward Grey had prominent places on the list, as did a number of other influential politicians and writers. Wilhelm had assigned Papen’s ministry the duty of keeping track of the doings of these dangerous foreigners. “It concerns the American reporter, Raymond Swing. He…”

  “I remember him,” Wilhelm interrupted. “The man is a viper. We extended every courtesy and convenience to him during the war, helped him in every way to perform his war reporting duties, and he has done nothing but display his ingratitude ever since, spewing out vicious, vile lies about Germany and myself.”

  “Just so, Your Majesty,” Papen agreed. “It has been learned that he about to embark on a tour of the capitals of Continental powers, to interview their heads of government…”

  “I do not recall receiving any such invitation!” Wilhelm exclaimed in outrage. “The man does not merely slander the good name of Germany, he now has the temerity to insult me personally!”

  “Actually, Your Majesty, I believe that a request for an interview was sent to you by his newspaper,” Papen said, correcting the Kaiser in an apologetic tone. “But knowing your feelings towards the man… well justified feelings!...” he hastened to add, “…it was thought best not to trouble you by bringing his insulting and ridiculous request to your attention.”

  “Yes, that is quite correct,” Wilhelm said, mollified. “Indeed, I wonder that anyone would care to waste time answering questions from such an incompetent, untrustworthy hack. Who has agreed to meet him?”

  “His itinerary thus far includes Brussels, Amsterdam, Vienna, Bucharest, Rome, London, and Paris,” Papen said, “but more stops are expected to be added as more governments respond.”

  “Vienna?” the Kaiser asked. “Emperor Charles has agreed to give the swine an interview?”

  “Evidently so, Your Majesty,” Papen answered.

  Wilhelm tugged at his mustache and frowned ferociously, indications that he was deep in the throes of thought. “This man Swing is nothing but a troublemaker, and I suspect that he is up to no good. I have a kind of special sense for these kinds of things, you know,” he said. “I can’t think why Charles would speak to him, unless...” The Kaiser paused. “The timing makes me wonder whether the Austrians have somehow gotten wind of our little operation in Budapest, and these interviews are somehow related to it. Have our people in the Austrian Foreign Ministry heard anything to indicate a breach in our security?” he demanded, frowning.

  “Oh no, Sire,” Papen assured him. “There is not the slightest reason to think that the Austrians know anything about it. Anything concerning the Budapest matter is assigned the highest priority; Your Majesty, would have been informed immediately if there was any such development, or even the suspicion of one.”

  Wilhelm nodded. “Even so, I do not trust the man, or the Austrians, for that matter, especially that Bourbon-Parma fellow. Have the American scribbler kept under observation, and report to me any suspicious activity our agents uncover. That is all, Papen. You are dismissed.” With this, the Kaiser swept from the room, his Foreign Minister forgotten, his mind now completely occupied with the prospects for deer on his East Prussian estate.

  Franz von Papen

  The Throne Room at the Stadtschloss, Berlin

  Photograph by Lukas Verlag

  Chapter Four

  Budapest, August 14, 1923

  Although it could boast neither the age and venerability of the Houses of Parliament in London nor the fame of the Capitol Building in Washington, the Országház, home of the Hungarian Diet, was nonetheless an impressive building, both inside and out. The walls of the chamber where the deputies met, which rose high overhead to a distant ceiling, were decorated in Slavonian oak carved in intricate detail, while at the front of the vast hall, the Speaker (which is to say, the Prime Minister of Hungary) sat surrounded by clerks and the other ministers of His Majesty’s government behind a lectern that resembled nothing so much as an oversized pulpit. In fact, the chamber looked very much like a very large High Gothic cathedral crossed with a British courtroom. This was precisely the effect the architect had intended to make with his Gothic Revival design. It was in short, a very imposing building. In certain respects, it was sometimes almost too imposing, as on the not infrequent occasions when the sheer size of the legislative chamber combined with its indifferent acoustics would overwhelm even the most enthralling orator. On this particular morning, the legislators were not being treated to anything like the most diverting speaker, nor the most inspiring subject.

  It was a typical day in the Diet of Hungary. Fewer than half of the seats in the great hall were occupied, and most of those relatively few occupants were displaying obvious signs that they wished they were elsewhere, as the white-bearded Professor Tomas Masayrk, elderly leader of the Young Czech Party (Masaryk was 73 years old) droned on in support of a new proposal for reorganizing the Kingdom of Hungary. This proposal had just been sent to the Diet by His Apostolic Majesty, King Charles IV (who was known as Emperor Charles I when he was wearing his Austrian hat) for its consideration.

  As the Professor’s words echoed in the great, high-ceilinged chamber, they were greeted with indifference or hostility from his auditors. Even the Prime Minister, Count Tisza, generally the soul of politeness, could not summon the energy to make a show of interest in Masayrk’s speech. It was all Tisza could manage to keep from dozing off. Even for this legislative body, which had never been accused of being especially alert, the air of boredom and inattentiveness was almost palpable.

  Possibly this was due to the heat wave, which had settled over the capital city of the Kingdom of Hungary a week earlier and had since showed no sign of moving on. The chamber was sweltering. It was more likely however, that the low levels of both interest and attendance were due to the proposed legislation itself, which had absolutely no chance of securing passage.

  Like its predecessors, the King’s new federal plan called for Hungary to be divided into a number of new territorial states (eight, under the current scheme) based on ethnicity, each of which would have its own legislature, prime minister and other officers, while continuing to share the common Royal and Imperial Ministries of Finance, Foreign Affairs and War. In short, the Czechs, Croats, Poles, and so forth would each stand in relation to the w
hole of the Empire exactly as Hungary and Austria did currently, as quasi-autonomous states. This federal model, based very loosely on the structure of the Swiss Confederation, had already been adopted in the Austrian half of the Dual Monarchy at the insistence of the Emperor, and over the objections of most of the German political parties, who stood to lose their control over the levers of power in the Empire.

  However, the Emperor could and did wield far greater political clout in Cisleithania (the Austrian lands of the ancient Hapsburg dynasty), than he did in Hungary. The Hungarians had complete control of the reins of government in the Transleithania (otherwise known as the “Lands of the Crown of St. Stephen”), and did not have slightest intention of relinquishing them, whatever the details of the King’s new plan of federation might be. Therefore, like the previous such proposals that came before the Diet on an annual basis, King Charles’ new plan for sharing power with the various ethnic minorities under Hungarian rule was dead on arrival in Budapest, and everyone knew it. Even had Masayrk been a spellbinder along the lines of William Jennings Bryan, it would have changed nothing. The new Imperial proposal was not going to become law.

  Suddenly, however, the day changed from utterly forgettable to one that no one who was present would ever forget. Mihaly Karolyi, the tall, dark-haired leader of the United Party of Independence and 1848 Party (which was generally known by the more convenient name of the “Karolyi Party”), the main opposition to the ruling Liberals, rose to his feet without asking for permission from the Speaker, and without preamble, began to berate the unsuspecting former professor of philosophy at the top of his lungs.

  “Hungary is a great nation, single and indivisible, and I defy you, the King or anyone else who would attempt to destroy it by dividing it up among a horde of lesser peoples!” he stormed at the astonished Czech delegate. Ignoring the excited gaveling and the demands for him to come to order by Prime Minister Tisza from high above the floor on the Government Bench, Karolyi ranted on. “I can no longer sit by and listen quietly as the enemies of my beloved Hungary attempt to destroy our great nation with their underhanded schemes. It is time, no, it is past time to sever the chains that tie us to the decaying Hapsburg Empire, time for an independent Greater Hungary to arise to greet its historic destiny, just as it is time for all true Magyar patriots to end their association with this lickspittle regime.” Here he pointed theatrically at the Government Bench, so that no listener would be left in doubt as to which “lickspittle” regime he referred. “Our work begins here, today, now!”