No, the Plan was a spider’s web, each strand with its own discrete connections, but all of them leading to the centre, with him in control of everything. The smallest tremor in the web would bring his attention to bear, he would move rapidly to the troublesome situation, deal with any problem that might arise.
And to bring someone in at this late date would mean more risk. A jealous second-in-command would recognize the Plan for what it truly was – an elaborate strategy to preserve the Andrianov business interests. Ideology, while important and sometimes synonymous with his success, was mostly a smokescreen. What he had to do was to provide the leverage, the ideas, and the impetus to bring Russia into a war for which it was ill prepared. Only Evdaev would have advance warning and would emerge as a hero, but Tsar Nicholas would be humiliated. And a second defeat after Japan would be the last straw. Losers always change their leaders, and that would be his moment. Publishers had been paid, articles already prepared, politicians cosseted, all of them standing ready to inflame the population. With the Duma a madhouse, the right men would come forward at the critical instant and call for abdication and arrest; stripped of its intricacies, that was the Plan.
He stepped out of the huge vehicle and peered around the corner of the station. Now he could see the train approaching along the tracks from Rumania; there was another careful whistle and at the signal box he saw the points change as the switch was thrown that would shift the train on to the line leading from Bulgaria to Serbia.
‘Tea, excellency?’ The chauffeur had come out. He was holding a tray with a single steaming mug on it. The fragrance of the tea was strong in the morning air, a scent of oranges and something darker. Everything was different in the Balkans…
He took the offering without a word and carefully sipped. Together the two men watched the train pull up to a watering tower. There was a great hiss of steam as the engine braked to a stop, a rumbling as the couplers collided with each other along the length of the train.
‘Do you want your boots, excellency?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ They moved back to the car and he sat on the edge of the seat, took off his dress shoes, and laced up a pair of walking boots over his trousers. It was already getting warm, the mist was rising over the railway sidings and he could see clearly the trees beyond, the open fields extending to the east. The countryside was damaged from the recent movement of troops, even the station had not escaped. A fire had blackened one end of the building and there were holes where bullets had chipped the bricks around the entrance.
Andrianov fished into his pocket for the key and walked down the train to the first of the goods wagons. When he got to it he broke the Bulgarian military seals, and opened the doors.
He pushed his foot into a cleat and clambered up. Inside the wagon were two Schneider 122mm field artillery pieces nailed to the floor of the rail car and secured with chains and chocks. Their steel barrels were newly painted field grey. In the shadows at each end of the wagon, turned over with their wheels removed for cartage, were the guns’ caissons. Andrianov checked the serial numbers, stood for a moment in the gloom, touched a finger to the lip of the muzzle of one of the pieces. It was raw metal, painted with thick grease to protect against rust. The finest product of the Putilov plants. The guns had been ordered to reinforce the Bulgarian army; only his money and Count Ivo Smyrba’s willingness to betray his country had diverted them to this tiny shunting yard.
He turned to exit the wagon and saw a young man standing there. ‘Welcome to Greater Serbia, excellency,’ the young man said. His accent was Serbian and something else, maybe Galician. His hair was matted and his white shirt was spotted with soot. He hadn’t shaved for weeks and he clearly had been riding along in the engine. ‘There’s no need to check further. Nothing’s been touched.’
Andrianov stood there for a moment looking at the stranger. Then he climbed down. Together they slid the doors closed and started down the line of carriages. There were fifteen of them and a random inspection was enough.
‘I am Krajic,’ the young man said. He had taken out a cigar himself and struck a match against the side of a car as they walked. ‘I’ve been with the shipment since it crossed the Danube. Well, too bad for Bulgaria – it’s spoils of war, now. That will teach these barbarians to turn on us, just because they don’t think they got enough in the peace settlement, eh?’ The way he said it exuded self-satisfaction. A proud young man. Beneath the flap of his jacket, Andrianov saw the handle of a revolver. He stopped.
The young man caught the direction of his look. ‘Apis sent me, and let me tell you something, friend. If I’d been planning to do you, you’d be well done by now.’ He paused for a moment and then came the clear white smile of the new Serbia.
‘Good…’ said Andrianov and together they continued to the rear of the train. Andrianov stopped in front of a wagon and broke a second set of seals. The locks snapped open, the doors slid away. Another two howitzers indistinguishable from the first pair except for their serial numbers.
‘The shells are stacked in the last two wagons, but it’s not enough. We’ll need many more than that,’ the boy put in.
‘I thought the war was nearly over? Haven’t you taken what you wanted?’ Andrianov could not resist prodding him.
‘As long as we’re winning I see no reason to sue for peace. They can talk all they want to in London, but this is our land and we will have it back. We don’t call it Greater Serbia for nothing. We were here running things long before the Turks came along, long before the Bulgarians took advantage, and we’ll have it back. We’ll have all of it back,’ the boy said grimly, looking down at the gravel as they walked along the tracks.
Andrianov inspected the last two wagons – artillery shells packed standing upright with wooden collars and, alongside, separated boxes of fuses. There was an interval of two empty flatbeds and behind them a last carriage packed with crates containing bags of smokeless powder. They put out their cigars and waited while the stationmaster undid the locks, terrified of making a spark.
Andrianov moved through the pallets and checked the seals and when he pronounced everything satisfactory and rewarded the sweating stationmaster with his envelope, the man smiled and bowed profusely. A second young Serbian had detached himself from the engine and had walked down the train to meet them. ‘We can leave anytime,’ he said to Krajic.
‘Would you care to share some lunch?’ Andrianov offered. The chauffeur had packed a hamper in case there had been some delay.
‘The faster we get away from here, the faster we can kill some Bulgarians.’ Krajic laughed and the second boy joined in. The stationmaster beetled on ahead of them, anxious to be done with the entire thing.
‘You seem to be adept at difficult tasks. You certainly are courageous,’ Andrianov said to the two of them. The second one nearly blushed. Andrianov reached out and grasped the young man’s shoulder. ‘Give Apis my thanks for taking extra precautions.’
‘It’s only logical,’ the boy said. ‘There’s value here.’ He looked back along the train.
Andrianov smiled. ‘Maybe I will need you in the future. Occasionally I need men who can do difficult things. I look for men who can keep sight of the future, I look for someone with heart. Such men are valuable. I may call on you for a favour at some time. I am expanding my business interests here, eh?’
The boy laughed. ‘Business? That’s for later, eh? We are both from the action cell, and when the Bulgarians finally come to their senses and surrender, then we’ll hide these guns until we can turn them on the Austrians and regain Bosnia.’
They