The Dardanelles Conspiracy

by Alan Bardos

  ‘As it happens, it might be opportune to use Swift to my advantage,’ Sir George said moving towards the drinks cabinet then stopping.

  ‘And the purpose of your long overdue visit is that you wish to involve me in one of your little plots?’ Libby asked, annoyed by the conversation now.

  ‘Swift is a man of rather base predilections, which makes him easy to control.’

  ‘He does lack a certain savoir-faire, but his expertise in other things more than makes up for it... What precisely will this entail?’ she asked, trying to maintain her indifference, although Sir George thought he heard a note of excitement in her voice.

  He glanced at the painting of the Grand Canal. It was a Canaletto. The invoice had been attached to the letter that Libby had sent him when she asked for his help to save Swift. Sir George assumed it must be an original for the price he was expected to pay. Indulging her had long ceased to be charming. He supposed with the uncertainty caused by the war, art would be a more prudent investment than stocks and shares and could at least be put to good use.

  ‘I just need you to take a trip to Venice. You might even get there for the end of the carnival.’

  ‘Venice?’ Her surprise was palpable. For once he’d managed to breech her defences.

  ‘Will you do it, even in winter?’

  ‘Go to Venice, with Johnny? Yes, of course.’

  ‘You won’t be going with Swift per se. All I need you to do is distract him. I’ve made arrangements to ensure you are kept apart.’ Sir George managed to keep a measured calm in his voice, despite the growing nausea in his gut. He knew it was impossible to separate them, but he had to maintain some kind of pretence. All that mattered was that she did as she was asked.

  ‘If I find that you have chosen to debauche yourself with Swift you will have to condescend to live within your means, like a jilted courtesan, eking out a modest existence in last season’s gowns.’

  ‘So you’re using your wife as bait for some kind of trap for her former lover?’ Libby asked, not surprised to find her husband was just a squalid careerist.

  ‘I prefer the term insurance. You are to ensure Swift goes where he’s sent. There is rather a lot riding on this,’ Sir George said. If she insisted on being stained by the likes of Swift, he might as well use it to his advantage. Any feeling he might have for her were secondary to his career.

  ‘You can rationalise it as much as you want George, but I think we both know that you are using your wife for something distasteful.’

  ‘My only intention is to send my wife to safety with a monthly allowance to indulge her every want.’

  ‘But I won’t be able to indulge my every want with Master Swift?’ The gibe appalled Sir George.

  ‘Isn’t he a little obvious? His type are ten a penny in any rugby club, singing bawdy songs and vomiting beer.’ Sir George found the conversation utterly repugnant, but he couldn’t grasp her fascination with Swift.

  ‘Yes, but that’s his charm. On the outside, he seems pedestrian, but underneath he’s brash and shameless, with a real hunger and energy, that one finds liberating.’

  Sir George coughed, choking back the bile filling his throat. He gave in and moved to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large gin.

  ‘Darling, shall I not have a drink?’ Libby teased.

  ‘Pour it your damned self.’

  ‘George, you are jealous? How wonderfully primitive of you, but really there is no need to be. You have everything he wants, acceptance and a place of privilege and prestige.’

  ‘He certainly has ambition,’ Sir George managed to say through mouthfuls of gin.

  ‘But Johnny’s not ambitious in a vulgar way like you. He has a burning desire for something he'll never have but you always will, and I find that romantic,’ Libby said taking a step towards Sir George.

  ‘And what, pray, is that?’ he asked, trying not to grind his teeth.

  ‘Well, me, of course.’ Libby kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘Now tell me what this trip to Venice involves.’

  Chapter 8

  The hospital orderlies crammed Johnny into the back of a red Paris taxicab, with little consideration for his hangover. The taxi pulled away from the imposing shadow of the Hôtel des Invalides with a lurch that sent shock waves up Johnny’s back.

  He wished he had something to keep his alcoholic stupor going. In happier times Johnny had used the little snub-nosed taxis to go from his favourite maisons de rendezvous to Montmartre and then to work. He had always been able to get a shot of absinthe from the driver for a couple of francs.

  ‘Swift, are you with us?’ Sir George asked.

  Johnny began to orientate himself. He was sitting on a pull-down seat in front of Sir George and a slight, weaselly man with a full empire moustache.

  ‘Yes, Sir George, bright and eager,’ Johnny replied and tipped out of his seat as the cab stopped, banging his knee on the wooden slats of the floor. ‘I do beg your pardon, Sir George,’ Johnny said, climbing back onto his chair.

  ‘Compose yourself, Swift. I have someone important to introduce you to.’ Sir George indicated the man with the moustache. ‘This is Gerald Fitzmaurice. He was formerly with the British Embassy in Constantinople. You will be travelling together and he was brought into this expedition at some not inconsiderable effort on my part.’

  ‘Good to have you along, Fitz. My Turkish is pretty basic. I had a go at learning it to assist Sir George with a trade delegation.’

  ‘I will most certainly not be acting as your translator, you young fool, and you will address me as Mr Fitzmaurice.’ Fitzmaurice spoke with a soft Southern Irish lilt that he somehow managed to make aggressive.

  ‘Beg pardon gov, meant no disrespect,’ Johnny replied.

  ‘Swift, don’t be impudent,’ Sir George sighed. ‘And don’t be fooled by the Irish peasant accent or his sickly middle-class appearance. Fitzmaurice is as sure-footed an operator as you can ever hope to meet. You are to listen to him and do precisely as he says, is that clear?’

  Fitzmaurice coloured at the backhanded compliment. It was the highest praise Sir George could bestow on someone from outside his social class.

  Johnny shrugged. A few months ago, Sir George’s anger would have worried him. ‘Please forgive my rough manner, Sir George. I must be a little windy, dodging German artillery can do that to one.’

  ‘From what I understand you did precious little of that, choosing instead to put your German to ill use,’ Sir George said, making Johnny feel momentarily guilty and frustrated. He had no idea how to explain himself. When spoken in the cold light of a hangover, what he had done sounded appalling.

  ‘It is, as a matter of fact, due to your mastery of German that you are here,’ Sir George continued. ‘Your court martial papers stated that you can speak German like a Prussian officer. Not something I can say I noticed when you worked for me.’

  Fitzmaurice gave Sir George a concerned glance, undoubtedly questioning the soundness of his choice, before saying, ‘I will be taking you through your paces in Turkish and providing a detailed overview of the political situation in Turkey.’

  ‘How thrilling.’ Johnny glanced out of the window at the sweeping lines of graceful buildings. Files of marching troops started to appear as they approached the grand façade of the Gare de Lyon. Johnny felt slightly envious they were going to do something honourable, fighting a decent war. While he was heading off on some silly errand with a tired old man. He wondered what his uncle would do in this situation.

  Johnny had had a little memorial for the old duffer the previous night, after the orderly brought him civilian clothing and a bottle of cheap brandy. Johnny had seen the old boy off by toasting all the stories his uncle had told him about his part in building the empire. The way things were going, Johnny supposed he’d be presiding over its collapse.

  It was regrettable that Staff Nurse Lee-Perkins hadn’t been there to console him. She hadn’t cried when they had marched him off to court martial and she’
d probably assumed that he’d been up against a wall by now.

  The taxi pulled up outside the station and they got out under a glass marquee. The last time Johnny had been in a Paris station was August 1914 and he’d just arrived in triumph, at the Gare de l’Est with little idea of the catastrophe that awaited him.

  Johnny caught the odd derisive stare from French soldiers, in their red trousers and blue coats, waiting for their own catastrophe. It made Johnny feel self-conscious in the black frock coat and grey trousers that Sir George had supplied him with. The standard dress for a junior diplomat.

  Sir George hailed a train conductor as he found their platform and began to make arrangements, pointing at Johnny and indicating that Fitzmaurice’s luggage should be taken aboard a waiting train. It looked like Johnny had to carry the valise he’d been given with a change of clothes, onto the train himself.

  The sudden screaming of an express train in the distance made Johnny jump in terror and he threw himself to the ground. A group of French soldiers wearing white Kepis looked on placidly.

  Johnny picked himself up and smiled at the French troops. There was no way he could rejoin his unit and make things right, but he could join the French Foreign Legion and fight. He’d heard that a number of disgraced British officers were regaining their honour that way. Fitzmaurice had boarded the train and Sir George was still in the midst of discussion with the train Conductor. It would have been the simplest thing to slip away into the crowd.

  The French soldiers started to whistle and cheer. Johnny glanced round and saw Lady Smyth, sweeping down the curving wrought iron staircase of a mezzanine restaurant. Confident in the knowledge that she would always dominate her environment, be it a ballroom, society salon or a mainline station packed with troops.

  The sea of blue and red parted as Lady Smyth strode purposely along the platform, knitting itself back together again behind her.

  She was exactly the same as the last time Johnny had seen her at the East station, flatters and porters vying to serve her. Libby passed Johnny without a flicker of recognition, her nostrils flaring like a thoroughbred, and ascended a first-class carriage.

  There seemed little choice for Johnny but to follow her. It was what his uncle would have done. The Conductor, who had been talking to Sir George, stepped out in front of him and pointed towards the second-class carriages.

  Chapter 9

  Johnny tried to distract himself by counting the red tiled farms meandering past, while the train made its way through a flat winter landscape. He knew they were passing through Northern Italy, on their way to Turin. After that he had no idea where they were going, nor did he particularly care. He’d had a terrible journey stuck in the compartment he shared with Fitzmaurice, revising Turkish grammar and trying to come to terms with his uncle’s death.

  As he got older the only real excitement Johnny ever had were the visits his uncle paid him at school. A retired cavalry general he commanded instant respect in Simpson, his house master, who allowed Johnny to be taken on trips. This invariably involved running errands for him, before a hearty dinner and stories from his Uncle’s time in America and the Crimea. They’d then frequented the best bawdy houses in town.

  This special treatment soon aroused the jealousy of the other boys at school, who knew full well that the large Welsh gentleman, who accompanied his mother on Founders’ day was his step-father. Rumours began to spread that his uncle was really Johnny’s father.

  All his uncle ever told him was that he’d met Johnny’s mother at a great house when it had hosted Edward VII. Soon after his uncle had been obliged to arrange for her employment in Russia, to avoid a scandal.

  Sunlight played on low clouds above a distant mountain range, giving them a light blue halo. Johnny supposed he’d never know now if his uncle had been his father. He certainly couldn’t ask his mother. That would be far too embarrassing for all concerned and open wounds better left forgotten.

  Johnny felt the best way to respect his uncle’s memory would be to make his way to Libby in first class. It couldn’t be a coincidence her being on the same train as him. She must obviously still be after him, or else she wouldn't have asked Sir George to help him.

  Fitzmaurice tapped Johnny sharply with his walking stick. He was proving to be an irritation, insisting they stay together so he could prepare Johnny. ‘Are you listening, Swift? The Young Turks are a mixed bag of political parties and affiliates, junior army officers and minor civil servants.'

  ‘Young Turks?’ Johnny turned away from the window. ‘I’m familiar with the Young Bosnia movement from the last little jaunt Sir George sent me on, but I haven't heard of the Young Turks.’

  ‘It's the general term for the coalition of interests that make up the Ottoman government. In my opinion, there has never before been a more corrupt collection of thugs and adventurers to murder their way into government. Did Sir George teach you nothing?’

  ‘That was more his wife’s province,' Johnny said. Baiting Fitzmaurice was the only way to make the journey bearable.

  Fitzmaurice's face flushed, but he continued his lecture. 'The main faction within the Young Turks is the Committee of Union and Progress. The CUP seized control of the government in June 1913, following the Ottoman Empire's defeats in Libya and the two Balkans wars. They have since purged any opposition to their government from the army.’

  ‘Are you aware that Sir George’s wife is travelling in First Class?’ Johnny interrupted. ‘It might be courteous to pay our respects?’

  Fitzmaurice may have been a repressed middle-class Irishman, but he was no one’s fool. ‘Whether Sir George’s wife is or is not on the train is of no concern to you, Swift, now pay attention.’

  ‘Is it really that important that I know this? All I’m going to do is deliver messages,’ Johnny asked.

  Fitzmaurice knocked his cane on the floor. ‘Stop playing the clown! The success of this mission rests on the shaky foundations from which the current Turkish government are built and our ability to exploit and unravel them.’

  ‘But surely you don’t expect me to do that?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘That is beside the point. You will be told precisely what your role is nearer the time. For now it is my intention to enlighten you on the political situation, so you are less likely to ruin our chances of success.'

  Fitzmaurice fought to catch his breath. 'The Ottoman Empire has been in decline for well over a century. Something the Young Turks are acutely aware of – they are intensely patriotic and will do anything to prevent the disintegration of their empire.’

  Fitzmaurice sniffed derisively and poured himself a large brandy before continuing. ‘Like any demonic beast the Young Turks have many heads. The different power blocs within it were divided over what form any prospective alliance should take. The situation was still far from resolved at the outbreak of the War and the Turkish Government declared itself neutral. However Germany emerged as the front runner. Throwing money around and tarnishing the good name of the British Empire and those that served it. That is how I came to be here.’

  Fitzmaurice took on a deathly pallor. ‘Now I think you’ll have to excuse me, I have to rest. So you can eat in the dining car. I’ve decided to make a small pilgrimage when we reach Turin.’

  ‘Pilgrimage? I thought what we are doing was of vital importance.’ Johnny was amazed. Fitzmaurice didn’t strike him as someone who interrupted an important diplomatic mission on a random impulse.

  ‘Some things transcend the wants of men and the holy relic we are going to visit, the burial shroud of our Lord and Saviour, will benefit the immortal soul of even an unashamed miscreant like you. I’m sure, given where you are going, you would want to have your soul in a state of grace before you meet your maker!’

  ‘Do you think that’s likely? I mean that this is a one-way ticket.’ Johnny wasn’t surprised. Sir George wouldn’t be sending him after all if it were safe.

  ‘Have you not been paying attention?’ Fitzmaurice threw a t
hick book at Johnny. ‘Practice your Turkish vocabulary and you might stand a cat-in-hell’s chance of pulling this off. If you don’t, well, who knows?’

  Johnny picked up the book, a German to Turkish primer, and thumbed through the greying pages. It was all pretty basic stuff. ‘I’ll practice over dinner.’

  The Irishman waved an indifferent hand, drifting off into a wheezy sleep. Johnny put the book under his arm and made his way along the swaying carriage. He had a mission of his own to complete.

  He crossed into the next carriage and found the Conductor, blocking his way. He smiled happily. ‘Yes, signore, may I be of assistance?’

  ‘Hello, yes, I would like to see a friend of mine in First Class,’ Johnny replied in Italian.

  ‘I regret that is not possible, signore.’ He held up his hands apologetically.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Alas, your friend is not to be disturbed on any account.’ The Conductor shrugged.

  Johnny recognised Sir George’s cadence in the Conductor’s words. It explained why the Conductor was placed so strategically. Johnny decided to play on the Italian’s romantic soul.

  ‘Please, I implore you, I have an urgent appointment with the lady in this carriage.’ Johnny held up the book Fitzmaurice had given him. ‘She is expecting a lesson. I’m sure you wouldn’t wish me to disappoint a lady.'

  The Conductor glanced at the book and smiled shrewdly. ‘As much as it would please me to allow you to tutor the lady concerned, in Turkish grammar and vocabulary, it would not please her husband who has entrusted her to my care, with a letter of authority from a very senior official in the train company.’

  ‘I see, thank you anyway.’

  Johnny turned to leave and wondered if there was a way he could climb onto the roof.

  ‘Signore, wait. It does my heart no good to stand in the way of true desire. Before you do anything stupid, I can tell you that when the train arrives at Turin, the lady in question will be travelling on to Venice and will no longer be in my care.’