The Assassins Alan Bardos (primary phonics .TXT) 📖

feared a Serb ambush. Franz Ferdinand was reminded of the time he’d been in the King of Spain’s wedding procession, when an anarchist threw a bomb at the King’s carriage, narrowly missing him.

'I'll speak to the Emperor,' he said.

'If you're expected to go to Bosnia then I must accompany you.'

'You know as well as I do, Sopherl, that it is dependent on the Emperor's permission. The protocols are quite clear.’

'With a woman at your side it is unlikely that anyone would attempt anything for fear of killing me,' Sophie said firmly.

Chapter 10

Gavrilo Princip put down the postcard he was writing to watch the river Drina meander along the shoreline of Koviljaca. He felt a deep spiritual affinity with this stretch of river. It was a powerful emblem of his people’s struggle for freedom. A hundred years ago the whole area had been at the centre of resistance against Turkish rule.

Gavrilo, Trifko and Nedjo had left Belgrade on Ascension Day, 28th of May. Following Ciganovic's instructions, they'd taken the steamer to Sabac and from there they'd been directed on to Loznica, where they’d met with Captain Prvanovic, a frontier guard who’d told them to come back the next day when he'd arrange their crossing into Bosnia.

Koviljaca wasn't far, so they'd decided to rest on the border between the free Serbs and the oppressed. Gavrilo was starting to feel the symbolic weight of the journey and the responsibility for what he was trying to accomplish. It wasn't a responsibility Nedjo had chosen to share. Koviljaca was a holiday town and Nedjo was in full holiday mood. Forgetting the oath they had made, he chatted to all and sundry and was even going to show an acquaintance he’d met the bombs tied around his waist.

Gavrilo and Trifko had managed to get Nedjo away before he gave the game away, but there had been an ugly scene. Tension still rippled between the three of them as they sat by the Drina, writing their postcards. Gavrilo saw this as an excellent opportunity to misdirect anyone who might be tracking them through their mail. He picked up his postcard and continued to write the note he was sending his cousin, telling him that he was on his way to a monastery to study.

'Gavro, would you like to add your greeting?' Nedjo handed him a postcard, waving the peace offering. 'It's for Vukosava.' Gavrilo warmed at the memory of Nedjo's clever sister and took the card, easing the anger he felt towards his friend.

Gavrilo scanned through Nedjo's words and flushed. Evidently Nedjo had felt the same sense of nostalgia that Gavrilo had at being in Koviljaca - but none of the responsibility. Nedjo had written out the lines of a poem commemorating the Serb heroes who'd fought the Turks here. It would be a clear indication to anyone who intercepted the postcard that Nedjo intended to become a Serb hero himself.

Gavrilo had had enough and showed the postcard to Trifko with a stern look. Trifko nodded his agreement; they both knew what had to be done for the good of their mission. Gavrilo tried to calm himself and spoke as quietly as he could. 'Nedjo, we're not meant to draw attention to ourselves, and what do you do?'

Trifko grabbed Nedjo's belt, exposing the two flask shaped bombs he'd tied to it, and said, 'You try to show off your weapons to the first person you meet.' Gavrilo was glad to have the big man with him for the confrontation.

Nedjo tried to shove Trifko back, infuriated. 'He was an ex-Partisan and a friend!' he shouted.

'You were going to tell him our purpose,' Gavrilo said. He was angry with himself for trusting someone so unreliable.

'You know the man. He's one of us,' Nedjo retorted. He plainly couldn’t understand what he'd done wrong.

'What your enemy should not know, do not tell, even to your friends,' Gavrilo said. It was one of the first things he'd learnt. 'The gendarme you were gossiping with on the ferry was not one of us,' he added. Nedjo had flouted his oath and endangered the mission from the very beginning, striking up a conversation with a policeman he’d met on the steamer from Belgrade. Gavrilo cringed at the memory.

'A true Serbian hero does not skulk from his enemies, like a dog,' Nedjo said.

'A hero does not signal his purpose to his enemies on postcards!' Gavrilo rammed the postcard back into Nedjo's hand.

'A few lines of poetry to my sister,' Nedjo explained, exasperated.

Gavrilo saw that there was no talking reason to him. Nedjo was a liability and they had to get rid of him. 'We think it would be better if you travelled separately - otherwise you'll wreck everything.'

'But you cannot mean it?' Nedjo was stunned.

'Give us your weapons. You can't be trusted with them and they will only implicate you the next time you open your mouth,' Gavrilo said, as forcefully as he could.

Trifko stepped closer and handed Nedjo his student registration card, adding his physical presence to Gavrilo's order. 'Here, you can use this to cross the border legally, without arms, and meet us in Tuzla.' Broken, Nedjo untied the bombs from his belt.

Gavrilo fought to keep up with Trifko as they hurried through Tuzla. He was exhausted from the journey; they'd been travelling at night, roughing it across country through appalling weather. He'd hardly eaten or slept in days and fatigue was starting to play on his nerves.

They'd been smuggled across the Drina into Austro-Hungarian territory without official papers, making them vulnerable to police checks and while being passed from safe house to safe house it had proved impossible to keep their weapons or purpose a secret from the peasants helping them.

Gavrilo had resolved to follow Ciganovic's suggestion and hand their weapons over to Jovanovic, the merchant in Tuzla who Cigo had said would