The Dardanelles Conspiracy Alan Bardos (reading a book txt) 📖

barracks life in his cavalry regiment, the elite Ninth Hussars. Breitner had managed to find his raison d'être in military intelligence. That brief period of contentment had been destroyed by the scandal of the Redl affair. The taint of his mentor's treachery was further amplified by the fact that Breitner was now known as the man who had failed to stop the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the heir apparent to the Habsburg throne.

Still a reserve officer, the declaration of war had given Breitner the chance to at least serve once again. He had been reinstated with his former rank of Major and assigned to an infantry regiment in the Second Army.

Breitner climbed out of the baths, flinching as he put weight on his mutilated leg. His days as a frontline soldier now looked to be over and with it any chance he had to play a role in his Monarchy’s fight to the death.

Breitner’s jaded past had marked him out as unreliable and every attempt he’d made to find a role in intelligence or even administration had been curtly refused. An embarrassing and irksome problem, he had been scuttled off to the Constantinople Embassy.

Breitner braced himself, feeling slightly sickened by the self-indulgence of his thoughts and stepped into the freezing water of the frigid zone. The shock of the cold surged through him. He could hear his father shouting at him to get his shoulders under. Whatever his future was in this place, it would all be resolved soon enough.

Dressed once again in the pike-grey Kaisersrock, the Imperial uniform, Major Laszlo Breitner presented himself at the Austro-Hungarian Embassy and was shown into a grand baroque room.

An immaculate official, complete with a sash and glinting medals of honour, greeted Breitner. The official looked like the very embodiment of the Habsburg Empire’s glorious past.

‘Welcome, I am Baron Ferdinand von Grubber.’ Von Grubber ran an appraising eye over Breitner. He nodded after a moment, satisfied that everything was correct, and guided him towards a sofa. Breitner felt the livid sabre scar on his face flush and wondered if this fastidious little man thought it was a duelling scar.

‘My principal role is to assist the Ambassador, His Excellency Johann von Pallavicini, on matters of etiquette, specifically diplomatic etiquette,’ Von Grubber said, settling himself on a chaise lounge. ‘As his Excellency is an expert in that domain, it affords me the opportunity to carry out other duties. Including, it would seem, a supervisory role. We have lost a number of people to the war.’

Breitner sensed that von Grubber considered himself far too senior for such a task. There should have been several underlings between himself and Breitner. Von Grubber picked up a sheet of paper and studied it for a moment, unsure how to proceed.

‘So you have been at the front?’ Von Grubber managed to ask finally and put down the sheet of paper.

‘Yes, both,’ Breitner replied.

‘Both?’ Von Grubber looked puzzled.

Due to an unfortunate mix-up during mobilisation, Breitner’s army group had been sent to the Balkans, where he found himself once again under the command of General Oskar Potiorek. As the military governor of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Potiorek had been directly responsible for the security of Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s visit to Sarajevo. He had proved to be an even worse general than he had a governor, launching a disastrous attack on Serbia.

The Second Army was eventually sent to Galicia in time to participate in a debacle in the East. Despite the regrettable mistakes of its leadership and lack of resource the Austro-Hungarian Army had managed to hold together. Breitner felt some small pride in that and the role he played in it. Nevertheless, the opening campaigns of the war had been a calamity for the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.

‘Both the Balkans and Galicia fronts, Baron von Grubber.’

'Ah, quite so.'

Von Grubber smiled pleasantly and apparently at a loss for anything further to add. The rules of etiquette did not seem to stretch to small talk about a war they both knew was going badly. Breitner suppressed his natural urge to question the competence of his superiors. He could still picture Potiorek in his grand residence, reclining on a green and red chaise lounge, ignoring his warning about the assassination plot. The same chaise lounge that Franz Ferdinand had later died on.

'How is the political situation here? I assume the strengthening of relations with our Turkish ally is a priority?' Breitner asked, trying to gauge what he was doing here.

'There has been some tension between the German and the Turkish Army commanders, but have maintained a delicate relationship with the Young Turk government. They can be quite charming. However, the situation with our German allies, or more precisely their Ambassador, is slightly more trying.’

Von Grubber beamed as an aide entered with coffee and a selection of cakes. 'Forgive my manners, Major Breitner, would you care for some refreshment?' Von Grubber offered Breitner a plate of baklava. ‘I’ve developed a taste for some of the local delicacies.'

Breitner bowed his thanks and took a baklava. The sweet honey and almond pastry reminded him of his time in Sarajevo and an overwhelming feeling of failure took away the resolution he’d achieved at the baths.

'As I’m sure you can appreciate, Major Breitner, the alliance between ourselves, Germany and the Ottoman Empire can at times become quite strained.' Von Grubber picked up another cake. 'To that end, our role here is vital to ensure a harmonious relationship continues between the alliance partners.’

'And the Allies are intriguing to exploit any potential weakness in our alliance?' Breitner asked, beginning to understand why he'd been sent here. 'No doubt a vital strategic position like Constantinople will be rife with enemy agents.'

'No doubt,' Von Grubber agreed.

'And you need me to neutralise their activities, in some kind of counterintelligence role?' Breitner had gained a great deal of experience in that area before the