Kingdoms Fall - The Laxenburg Message (34 page)

“You may yet have that opportunity. Tell me of
this attack. When will Germany strike?”

 “February 12, two weeks from today,” he
said.

“You are truly blessed for your great faith and
humility, Your Majesty. Together let us pray that you will have your chance.”
Gresham said, making the sign of the cross over Charles. “
Deus
misericordiarum Pater, per mortem resurrectionemque Filii sui mundum Sibi
reconciliavit et Spiritum Sanctum in nobis remissio peccatorum, per ministerium
Ecclesiae indulgentiam tibi tribuat et pacem Dei et Pater peccata in nomine
Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti
.” Then Gresham knelt beside Charles.
They prayed and talked on until the sky grew dark.

           
“What happened?” Wilkins whispered, as he and Gresham strode quickly back to
the New Castle, rushing to fetch their belongings and leave for Switzerland in
the sedan that Charles had offered to Gresham.

           
“He believed every bloody word. He told me the Germans are about to attack
Verdun. We must get to France immediately.”

Wilkins
laughed. “If there is a Hell, David, you will certainly be there, but you damn
well won’t deserve it.”

I
t was reassuring to be
out of Austria but Gresham and Wilkins were anxious to return to France as
quickly as possible. The Archduke’s fine automobile and driver took them
straight across Austria to the Swiss border in record time. Ordinarily,
Austrian security officials made it almost impossible to leave Austria during
wartime, but Gresham and Wilkins had papers from Archduke Charles that could
not be questioned by anyone except the Emperor himself. After entering
Switzerland, they boarded a train to Zurich where Gresham was at last able to
wire Mackenzie about the Kaiser’s plan to attack Verdun. Unwilling to even wait
for a reply, he and Wilkins traveled quickly on to Basel.

           
In Basel, in the corner of Switzerland that intersected with both France and
Germany, it seemed everyone was either a diplomat or a spy – German, French,
Russian, British or American. Gresham was eager to avoid intrigue and so he
insisted they promptly cross over the Rhine into France. Railway passage to
Bar-Le-Duc, the closest stop to Verdun on the overnight train to Paris, was
available, but once across the river it was none too easy for Gresham and
Wilkins to convince the French authorities that they were truly British
officers. Out of uniform, and with no papers apart from their false Swiss
passports, they had to explain that they had urgent military intelligence for
the French command and rely upon Wilkins’ aristocratic sense of outrage and
good French until they were finally permitted to enter France “provisionally”.

           
A few hours into the train journey, the middle of the night, Wilkins and Gresham
were sitting up in second class playing Picket when the train stopped at the
station at Nancy. There, two gendarmes approached them with pistols raised.

           
“
Tu viens avec nous, on nous ordonne de vous amener à la station
.”

           
“
Qui a ordonné que
?” Asked Wilkins.

           
“
Le capitaine, bien sûr
.”

           
“Very well,” he said, standing and getting his coat. “David we must see the
local security officials here in Nancy.”

           
“Perhaps we will find someone at last who can get us in contact with the French
command,” Gresham said skeptically. He had been unwilling to simply broadcast
news of the impending German attack; it would benefit the French significantly
if Germany’s Crown Prince William did not know the French were aware of the
Verdun plans, and so Gresham had resolved to tell no except the most senior
French or British commander they could locate. Now they would have to suffer
through more interviews and explanations for some regional constable. Gresham
huffed in exasperation as he collected his case and overcoat.

           
They were escorted across the plaza to a nondescript two-story yellow stone
building and asked to wait in a small office with no windows. They waited. In
an hour, they went back to playing Picket. In two hours, Wilkins was napping in
his chair. In three hours, Gresham discovered that the door was locked. And in
four, the door finally opened.

           
One gendarme entered and stood beside the open door, followed by a short, thin,
middle-aged Frenchman in a simple brown wool suit and spectacles who entered
the office with a folder. His hair was straight and coal black, and his eyes
twinkled maliciously. He closed the door behind him. Gresham kicked Wilkins to
wake him up.

           
“Well, well, gentleman, good morning,” said the Frenchman as he settled in at
the table.

           
“If it is morning, sir, we would not know it,” Gresham argued. “I must protest.
We were taken off our train, have been up all night, and locked in this office
for the past four hours. Is that any way to treat your allies? The Captain and
I have important military business and must reach General Joffre’s headquarters
as soon as possible. You must allow us to proceed immediately.”

           
“Now, now, now. I don’t know what your business is and I don’t know who you
are. You wouldn’t be the first gentlemen to enter France from Switzerland
claiming to be British soldiers.”

           
“I am Captain James Wilkins,” he said, rousing at last, “with the Tenth
Manchester Regiment.”

“I am Captain Forest of the Border Regiment,”
Gresham added.

           
“Are you? Very good, that’s very good. I will ask the questions, please. What
were you doing in Switzerland?”

           
“We were passing through,” said Wilkins.

           
“From where?”

           
“We are not at liberty to say,
Monsieur
; it is a matter of military
security.”

           
“I see, yes, yes.” The Frenchman sighed and removed his spectacles to wipe
them. “To whom do you report?”

           
“General Sir Bryan Mahon,” said Wilkins quickly.

           
“Mahon? Where is he now?”

           
“Why, he is in France, Monsieur.”

           
“No. No, Mahon is in Greece now,” said the Frenchman sternly. “Were you with
Mahon in Greece?”

           
“We are not at liberty to say,” Gresham repeated.

           
A look of impatience, perhaps even anger, swept briefly across the Frenchman’s
face.

           
“Captain Wilkins, Would you be kind enough to wait for a moment in the next
office and allow me to speak with Captain Forest alone?” The Frenchman turned
to the gendarme: “
Emmenez-le à la salle suivante et d'envoyer Francois
.”

           
“
Avec moi, s'il vous plait
,” the gendarme said, gesturing to Wilkins.

           
“Really, this is intolerable,” said Wilkins. “If you would only escort us to
the French army headquarters near Bar-Le-Duc, I assure you your concerns will
be eased.”

           
“Please, Captain, allow me a moment with Captain Forest.”

           
 “Very well, but I insist that you allow me an opportunity to send a wire
to my superiors.”

           
“Yes, of course, in a moment.
Merci
.”

           
Wilkins left the room with the gendarme. A few seconds later, two others
entered the room:  A large, brutish man also dressed in a simple wool suit
and a tall, austere woman in a simple dress, boots and dark leather trench
coat. The brute stood behind Gresham, as the little Frenchman opened his papers
again. Gresham sat patiently as the Frenchman reviewed his papers, minute after
minute. The woman lit a cigarette and smoked impatiently. The room was quiet
and hot, and Gresham could hear only the deep breathing of the brute standing
behind him, the woman sucking on her cigarette, and the little Frenchman turning
over his papers one by one. There seemed no reason for the delay, but Gresham
was uncertain whether to antagonize the local official further. At last the
Frenchman took a deep breath and exhaled slowly and looked up into Gresham’s
eyes with a slightly malicious smirk.

           
“Now, Captain, perhaps we can speak more openly, yes? Let us speak of Greece.
Have you traveled in Greece under name of Gresham?”

           
“I am not at liberty to say,
Monsieur
; it is a matter of military
security. You must deliver us to the French army immediately. I will not
tolerate -”

           
“THAT IS ENOUGH!” the little Frenchman screamed. “Captain, I must inform you
that you perfectly match the description of a gentleman sought for the murder
of two Red Cross personnel in Salonika and a German envoy in Athens. So I must
insist that you answer my questions. There shall be no more evasion. Were you
or were you not in Salonika and Athens last autumn?”

           
“No,” Gresham lied coldly.

           
Suddenly, the fist of the brute behind him smashed mercilessly into the right
side of Gresham’s head, knocking him from the chair.  The brute instantly
hauled Gresham up by the collar and threw him back into the chair. Gresham’s
head was swimming and he felt queasy. A slight trickle of blood dribbled from
his right ear. He noticed the woman was now staring at him intently, her eyes
like daggers. The little Frenchman pulled a small pistol from his coat pocket
and held it aimed at Gresham.

           
“I must insist that you answer truthfully, Captain.”

           
Again, the brute swung at Gresham, this time pounding his rib cage from the
side. Gresham could hear a crack, and a jolt of lightning shot across his
chest, forcing the air from his lungs.

           
“I would like to know who told you that Ernst Muller was a German agent?”

           
“F--- off.”

           
Another blow to Gresham’s rib cage knocked him from the chair, forced the air
from his chest, then the brute’s foot swung up into Gresham’s gut and he
retched.

           
“
Vous apprenez rien. Dépêchez-vous
,” the woman said sternly to the
little Frenchman.

           
“What did Fräulein Häberlin tell you of her superiors, Captain Gresham?” The
little Frenchman demanded.

           
Gresham remained silent, still gasping for breath.

“Did Fräulein Häberlin give you the names of
her contacts in France or England?”

“No, but she squealed like a pig when I f---ed
her.”

The brute swung again for Gresham’s ear, but
the sudden sound of gun shots in the hallway outside the room threw off his aim
and his fist glanced off the back of Gresham’s head, knocking him to the floor.

“
Vois ce que c'est
,” the Frenchman said
anxiously to the brute. The large man rushed to the door and opened it. As he
opened the door, a bullet struck the brute square in the chest and he sank onto
the floor with a choked scream. The Frenchman turned to see what had happened,
and the woman swore angrily. Gresham summoned all his remaining strength to
leap at the little Frenchman. He twisted easily away in his chair, but Gresham
managed to knock the pistol from his hand. The brute, lying on the floor, was
shot again, this time directly in the face, and his jaw exploded in a mist of
bone and blood. The little Frenchman sized the moment to leap from the room and
down the hallway. Gresham slumped onto the floor and seized the Frenchman’s
small pistol just as Wilkins rushed into the doorway.

“Good God! We’ve got to get out of here!”
Wilkins screamed. Gresham was unable to get off the floor, barely able to move
at all. Wilkins, noting the tall woman standing unconcerned against the wall,
rushed to pull Gresham up by the arm. Wilkins held a French handgun and pointed
it at the woman. “
Au revoir, mes amis
,” she said as Wilkins dragged the
still-befuddled Gresham to the doorway. Wilkins fired twice down the
passageway, and then pulled Gresham across into another office with windows
looking out upon the train station. Gresham staggered to the window and pulled
up the sash, then turned back to Wilkins. “Where is the little Frenchman!?” He
gasped. The Frenchman had fled during the fight. 

           
“Get out the bloody window, David,” Wilkins barked. Gresham wanted to pursue
the little Frenchman, but several men were firing at Wilkins from the end of
the hallway. Gresham lowered himself gently onto the pavement and into the
early morning light. Wilkins leapt out beside him, and helped Gresham across
the train station plaza. There was a
Mors
sedan parked on the road in
front, and Wilkins pushed Gresham into the passenger seat then climbed over to
the driver’s side, intent on stealing the automobile. Three gendarmes rushed
out of the building behind and began firing their pistols. The glass windshield
shattered as Wilkins swung the sedan into the road. Another bullet grazed Gresham’s
arm, and he clasped his hand over the dribble of blood on his sleeve. Wilkins
turned again and they sped from the town.