by Gavin Lyall
All Honourable Men
Gavin Lyall
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
1
On Tuesday nights the hotel had a violinist and a pianist in the parlour. This was odd because in every other way it was the sort of hotel where, if you asked for an extra blanket, you got told instead how warm a night it was. But the best musicians did not play in Gloucester Road hotels, and Lajos Göttlich had heard their small repertoire too often already, so he escaped to the dimly gas-lit lobby. To go out meant spending money, but he might manage to borrow an evening paper off the receptionist.
However, the receptionist was listening to some tale being spun by the out-of-work Irish chauffeur who had been there only a week (and had asked for “Danny Boy” on his first evening; he had got “In a Monastery Garden” for his impertinence). Lajos heard the receptionist say: “A Rolls-Royce?” so he paused, half-hidden behind an aspidistra plant, and listened.
“Can you drive one?” the receptionist was asking.
“I can drive anything,” the Irishman said confidently. “Anyways, I did drive this one. Quite a nice motor-car, I’m thinking.”
“Gosh.” The receptionist imagined himself being able to describe a Rolls-Royce as “quite nice”. “And will he buy it?”
“If he listens to me. And if he don’t listen to me, why’d he hire me, then?”
“Oh, absolutely. Are you going to stay on here, now?”
“I’d not be knowing jest yet. Mind, I wouldn’t be saying no if he wanted me to move into the Savoy with him, close and convenient.” The Irishman cackled. He had a lean, dark piratical look – an old face on a younger loose-limbed body – and averaging the ages Lajos had reckoned he was little over thirty. But you had to be young to understand all these new mechanical toys that obsessed the world: motor-cars, air-ships, aeroplanes.
The Irishman – was his name Jarman? Gorman? Lajos wished he could remember – caught sight of him and waved cheerily. “And a very good evening to ye, Mr Göttlich.”
“He’s found a position,” the receptionist said.
“Excellent! May I offer my congratulations?”
“Ye can do more’n that: ye can come out and have a drink wid me.”
Gorman – he was pretty sure it was Gorman – was obviously going to be so insistent that Lajos could seem reluctant. “It is rather cold, is it not?”
“ ’Tis a lovely spring evening and I’ll not hear a word against it. Be getting yer coat, then.”
“If you wish.” A man who lived at the Savoy and sent a new-hired chauffeur to pick out a Rolls-Royce for him . . . Lajos would have walked naked through a snowstorm to hear more.
* * *
Mr Carstairs was not an impressive man, but Lajos had long ago learnt not to judge a man’s bank balance by his physique. Shortish – shorter than himself – a bit tubby, fair-haired and with a boyish, optimistic face (the rich, Lajos had observed, did things their own way, wearing young faces on old bodies). At home in his Savoy suite, Carstairs wore just waistcoat and trousers of very dark grey, with an old-fashioned wing collar and one of the dullest neckties in London. But the gold watch-chain across his stomach could have anchored a battleship.
They introduced themselves and Carstairs waved at a silver tray. “Help yourself to some coffee, it should still be hot. If not, I can—”
“I am sure it will be fine.” The room was big and warm and, being at the back of the hotel, quiet. A small writing-table by one window was piled with company reports and suchlike; today’s Financial Times lay on the floor.
Carstairs had been lighting a pipe. Now he asked abruptly: “How did you hear of me?”
“As I said in my letter, friends in the City mentioned that you had recently returned from South Africa—”
“Just over a week ago.”
“—and that you had been asking about investment opportunities in oil.”
“I was.” Carstairs sat back in his chair, puffed his pipe and looked critically at Lajos. But he hadn’t the face for strong expressions: everything came out boyishly innocent. “And are you looking for an opportunity to make some money out of me?”
“I certainly hope not to be the loser by our acquaintance,” Lajos said, unperturbed. “And I am not here on a charitable mission. But may I start with a warning?”
Carstairs nodded.
“You are too late. You should have begun ten years ago. Better still, twenty. Now, oil has become too big a business. With the invention of the motor-car, with navies building warships that run on oil, it is now a game of nations, of empires. Even the Rothschilds, so I understand, are pulling back.”
“Hm. Are you saying there’s no more oil to find?”
“No, no. Of course there is oil still to be found, but – are you a mining engineer, Mr Carstairs?”
“No, I made my little packet finding engineers who knew what they were doing and backing them – and managing them when they needed it.” He smiled. “Which was a bit more often than they expected.”
Lajos nodded approval. “That is a rarer talent than most people understand. And you like being your own boss?”
Carstairs puffed contentedly. “I’m spoiled that way.”
“Then you are looking for someone who can find, or has found, oil – and does not know what to do next?”
“Something like that.”
Lajos seemed about to go on, then paused. Finally he said: “One more warning, Mr Carstairs: oil needs both patience and reliable finance. Do you understand how much it can cost to drill one well in the deserts of the East? At least £100,000.”
But Carstairs came through that test without batting an eyelid.
“And that is before you have paid all the baksheesh to the local sheikhs and government officials, before you must build a pipeline to get the oil out, perhaps also a refinery, charter ships . . . Shall I tell you what so often happens then, Mr Carstairs?”
“Go ahead.”
“You run out of money. Somehow, when you see a fortune within reach, the banks become reluctant. They have heard rumours, perhaps your concession is not legally so perfect, they fear a war in that area, shipping rates are going up . . . Ah, such rumours! And then, like the handsome prince in the fairy-story, there comes one of the big companies – Shell or Standard or Anglo-Persian – who saves you. That is, they buy you out for a fraction of what you have spent. And they live happily ever after.”
Carstairs took his pipe out of his mouth and squinted at Lajos. “Are you trying to scare me off?”
“No, I only want that you do not say you were not warned.”
“Then what do you advise?”
“Start by thinking you will sell out to the big companies. Go only so far, spend only so much, to prove there is oil – and then sell. As long as they know you are not hungry, that you do not need to sell, then they will become hungry – and a big, hungry oil company is a wonderful sight. Even better, you may have a pack of them, bidding like wolves against each other for your well.
“But they w
ill not buy just rumours, a concession to drill. They are offered a hundred every day. So you must spend some money to prove your strike.”
Carstairs got up and walked to the window, trailing thoughtful smoke-puffs. He stared down at the wind-scuffed brown Thames and a small steam-tug, foaming at the bows yet making almost no headway against the combined ebb and current.
“That sounds like good advice. Worth something in itself.” He swung around. “So what I’m looking for is someone with a good, likely concession to drill in – where? Mesopotamia? Persia?”
“Not Persia: Anglo-Persian is too powerful there. And Mesopotamia only if you trust the new Turkish Government . . . but I think first of the little sheikhdoms on the Persian Gulf.”
“That’s still part of the Turkish Empire, isn’t it?”
Lajos’s Eastern European background showed in a fluid rocking movement of his hand. “It is a long way from Constantinople. And a long time since the Turks were powerful enough to beat on the gates of Vienna. Yes, I think the Gulf is the most likely place, and I have a little connection there. I must find out – discreetly of course – what is the true situation.”
* * *
The map was a beautiful map – even as reproduced by the blueprint process, which made it look slightly smudged and, of course, blue. Every sand-dune seemed to be shown by delicate hatching, and the stylised shoreline, where desert met the waters of the Persian Gulf, appeared to ripple with the gentle surf. It was a work of art.
Perhaps a mining engineer would have preferred a work of geology, but the oil concession was clearly marked as a rectangle of red ink, exact position and area noted. It even had a little oil derrick drawn in.
“Artistic licence,” Lajos explained with a smile. “However, the true licence from Sheikh Mubarak is also here – witnessed, you observe, by a British vice-consul.”
Carstairs passed the document to his solicitor Mr Jay, an aristocratic-looking young man, younger than Lajos had expected, but wearing a proper founded-1803 suit and a true legal air of sceptical puzzlement. “Signed in October 1912,” he observed. “Eighteen months ago. What progress has been made in that time, Mr Göttlich?”
“As I told Mr Carstairs, drilling equipment, the latest Parker Rotary patent machinery, has been landed in Kuwait and is now being erected.” Lajos dealt Jay a full hand of overseas cables and copies of letters. “Drilling should, I understand, start within the month.”
Carstairs crinkled his brow in a boyish frown. “Then why should Mr Divine pick this moment to sell out?”
Lajos gave a sad, exaggerated shrug. “A complete collapse of his health, I am sorry to say. His doctors have ordered him to Switzerland. Between ourselves, gentlemen,” his voice grew confidential, “I fear his sickness has much to do with the slowness of developing this concession: it needs a younger, more energetic man to make things move along. Also one who has not lost badly on the French market. But that is rumour, please do not repeat it.”
Mr Jay coughed dryly. It wasn’t the true Saharan cough of a seasoned solicitor, but it was a good junior version. “The motives for Mr Divine’s selling are not legally germane. What concerns me is (a) whether Mr Divine is the true owner of the shares – which the company register appears to show him to be, and (b) whether Mr Göttlich has the right, as trustee, to sell them on his behalf. Which this document –” he routed among the piles of paperwork scattered across the hotel room’s coffee-table “– appears to show that he is.”
The slight exasperation on Carstairs’ face dared Lajos to get annoyed. “Why do you always say appears? Do you suggest because I am not an Englishman that I—”
“Calm down, Mr Göttlich,” Carstairs soothed. “I never yet met a legal gentleman who’d say it was wet if he was swimming, just it appears to be.”
But this only seemed to annoy Jay in turn. “Nor can I say,” he said coldly, “that there is a single grain of sand in this part of Arabia, a single drop of oil under it, nor a nut or bolt of drilling machinery preparing to seek it out. Only that it appears that you would have a good case against Mr Göttlich if this transpired not to be so.”
Carstairs was just starting to soothe the lawyer when there was a knock on the door and he let out a bellowed welcome instead. Gorman, dressed in a grey chauffeur’s livery and polished black leggings, came half-in. He touched his peaked cap. “Jest wondering, sor, if ye’d be wanting the motor in the next hour, or should I be getting an early lunch?”
“Hang on a moment, Gorman, I may want you to witness my signature and then pop down to my bank and pick something up in a short while. Help yourself to some coffee and find a seat somewhere.”
“That’s kindness itself, sor.” As Gorman bent over the coffee tray he gave Lajos an enormous wink.
“Where were we?” Carstairs resumed. “Oh yes, I was calming you down, Mr Jay. Consider yourself calmed. Anyway, I shall be going out in a week or so to see what I’ve bought into, and meanwhile Mr Göttlich isn’t likely to head for Switzerland for his health, so we’ll just have to wait and see what appears – all right?”
“I am very pleased you say that,” Lajos announced. “And if these were my own shares, I would most happily wait until you had seen the concession for yourself. But Mr Divine is seeking a quick sale, so . . . May I remind you that the German Hamburg-Amerika Line also sails to the Gulf these days?”
“Does it? Didn’t know the Germans were interested in that area.”
“Most certainly. You may have heard they are also building a railway from Constantinople to Baghdad – perhaps further. I believe they would like it to go to Kuwait. But the British have a certain understanding with Sheikh Mubarak – in return for protecting him from his own Turkish masters.”
“Does that understanding have anything to do with oil?”
Lajos smiled confidentially. “Who knows how the impassive British Foreign Office thinks? But if we may return to more prosaic matters . . .”
“Like the price?”
* * *
“Carstairs,” Ranklin grumbled. “Carstairs. Nobody’s called Carstairs except in schoolboy spy stories.” He finished signing the name. “And doesn’t a false name invalidate the whole deal?”
“I doubt it’ll ever be questioned,” Mr Burroughs said sunnily. “Least of all by Göttlich-Divine. Did you suspect—”
“Since Göttlich means divine, I did rather.”
“Anyway, the £14,000 is real enough; he’s not going to want to give that back – the company owes more than that to the American drill-makers. Thank you for saving us a few thou’, by the way. You obviously drove a hard bargain.”
“We’ll take yer thanks in cash,” O’Gilroy suggested.
Mr Burroughs was momentarily flummoxed, unused to hearing men in chauffeur’s kit say things like that. Then he smiled uneasily and began sorting the paperwork. In fact, he was uneasy with the three agents anyway. It might have been the unease people feel when meeting actors off-stage but still in their greasepaint and costumes, only it wasn’t. And they knew it but said nothing.
“So,” Burroughs went on quickly, “thank you for a most satisfactory conclusion: Albemarle and Dover Trust now owns a controlling interest in Oriental Pearl Oil and Pipeline.”
“Is there really any oil out there then?” Lieutenant J asked. He was stretched almost horizontal, feet on the table and defying his suit, which wanted to sit up in a proper legal manner.
Burroughs hesitated and glanced at Fazackerley of the Foreign Office, who moved his eyebrows in a diplomatic but otherwise meaningless way. “Oh well, you can hardly be gossips in your, ah, profession . . . The answer is that there quite likely is, but the concession isn’t in Kuwait any longer. The British Government helped Sheikh Mubarak define his boundaries last year in an agreement with the Turks, and the concession now falls just outside them. So the Sheikh’s signature is no longer worth anything as regards that patch of sand.”
“So?” Lieutenant J prompted, and Burroughs realised he had to go on.
“However, there certainly seems to be oil in Kuwait – I believe it’s oozing out of the ground in places, so perhaps even the experts can’t be wrong – and Oriental Pearl also owns the lease on a stretch of foreshore. Göttlich insisted the company bought it from himself; he used to run a pearl-diving business there, he knows Kuwait well. And that bit of foreshore is the only suitable place for an oil pipeline terminal and dock.”
“Ah. I noticed mention of a stretch of beach,” Ranklin said, standing up. “I didn’t know its importance.” He went into the bedroom to start packing.
“So,” O’Gilroy said thoughtfully, “if’n the boundaries hadn’t been spelled out, mebbe Mr Göttlich’d be a rich man? – and honest with it?”
“Possibly. Only possibly.” Burroughs finished stuffing papers into his attaché case and snapped it shut. “We know Mr Divine or Göttlich of old and he isn’t a real crook. None of this was planned. He’s the sort of man who meets a setback, feels the world’s done him down and he’s got a right to do someone else down. Men like that seldom get rich. Well, thank you gentlemen. Thank you,” he called to Ranklin, “Mr, ah . . . Carstairs. Are you coming, Fazackerley?”
“I’ll catch you up downstairs.” When Burroughs had gone, he went to the bedroom door. “Are you ready to leave, Captain?”
“Nearly. Ring for a porter, would you? And a taxi – at the River entrance, I think. Just in case. And you’ll settle the bill, will you?”
“Umm, er, of course.” Fazackerley was there to do such things but, after all, he was the Foreign Office and they merely Secret Service. So he frowned at Lieutenant J’s brandy-and-soda. “I imagine you chaps normally pay for your own drinks?”
“No, no, quite wrong,” J said complacently. “Us spies never do that. But do tell, what’s the FO doing being so chummy with the oil biz?”
“Excuse me, I’d better ring for that porter.”
2
The Secret Service Bureau lived in a jumble of attic rooms in the roof of Whitehall Court and the Commander, who headed the Bureau, lived in one of the bigger rooms. He was a stocky man with a face like Mr Punch, who vastly enjoyed the job, had surrounded himself with ship models, gadgets and a collection of pistols, dubbed himself “Chief” and signed papers “C”.