All Honourable Men

by Gavin Lyall

  One other thing he remembered from the war was that oxen might not be fast but they kept going indefinitely. So these buggers might have begun a hike of thirty or forty miles . . . Him, too?

  * * *

  It could have been a diplomatic drawing-room almost anywhere in the world and identifiable as British only by the royal portrait on an end wall. But its rather cluttered elegance was a comfortable contrast to the outside of the building which, apart from the size of the windows, had the style of a prison block, right down to a high wall and gatehouse. Ranklin had bowed over the hands of His Excellency the Ambassador and his wife, who claimed to be delighted, grinned at Lady Kelso, the guest of honour, and been whisked away by Jarvey, looking even more Death-like in white tie and tails.

  “I’d like you to meet David Lunn, one of our secretaries. I’m sure he’ll look after you.”

  Lunn was young, almost as short as Ranklin and had a puppyish enthusiasm that wouldn’t last long in the Diplomatic. “You came in the Kaiser’s private carriages and got held up by bandits, didn’t you?” He was openly envious. “Did you get involved?”

  “Er, not really. They held up the front of the train and we were at the back. And it turned out that we had a Maxim gun on board and that scared them off.”

  That brought a hush of interest. “Most fortunate,” Jarvey murmured. “Er – who manned this gun?”

  “The kitchen staff.” Since that sounded a bit stupid even for Snaipe, he added: “My manservant – he’s been a soldier – reckoned the whole carriage staff were soldiers. And the Turkish gentleman travelling with us, Zurga Bey, is probably an officer. Do you know him?”

  They swapped glances but got no profit from it. “No help, Turks only having one name,” Jarvey said. “Do you know if this Maxim gun is being taken south with you?”

  “No idea at all, I’m afraid.”

  Lunn said happily: “Perhaps they’re planning to blow old Miskal Bey out of his stronghold. He’ll probably cut and run at the first shot if it’s the first machine-gun he’s met.”

  As Snaipe, Ranklin couldn’t point out that Miskal Bey had been a soldier and Lunn bloody obviously hadn’t. But Jarvey was more cautious: “Perhaps, perhaps . . . And when do you leave for the south?”

  “When I’m told,” Ranklin said. “Dr Dahlmann of the Deutsche Bank seems to be in charge – so far. I don’t think he’s actually coming with us, but I got the idea there was a certain amount of hurry involved.”

  “Quite probably. I understand they’re badly delayed on the Railway by all this.”

  Reluctant to let the conversation wander off from the exciting new toy, Lunn said: “I wonder if the Committee knows about this machine-gun.”

  “I imagine,” Jarvey said, “that every beggar in the street knows about it by now. Excuse me, I’d better get back to H.E. . . .” He drifted off to collect the next guest from His Excellency.

  Ranklin sipped his sherry and glanced around. There were about ten people in the room by now, so probably they were heading for a dozen or fourteen. And, of course, with men badly outnumbering women; most Turks simply never brought their wives out, and some Europeans would be bachelors or travelling alone.

  “You’re quite new to the Service, aren’t you?” Lunn was saying with exaggerated casualness.

  “Oh, the paint’s hardly dry on me.”

  Lunn grinned. “You haven’t got your name in the List yet, I noticed.”

  Noticed be damned. The moment they’d heard he was coming they’d rushed to look him up and try to read between the lines. The Army would have done exactly the same, so he should have foreseen this.

  “I think I’m only a sort of honorary attachment. I don’t know if I get onto the List or not – Tell me, how is life here?”

  Lunn was easily sidetracked into showing off his new-found knowledge. “Actually, you know, Turkey’s a particularly difficult posting. Most people don’t realise how different it is. A bit like Japan, I believe: a totally strange culture and religion, but with an overlay of European civilisation. . .” Ranklin kept his expression fascinated while he let his eyes and mind wander. An obvious Turk had just come in – alone, of course – which made eight men as against Lady Kelso and three Embassy/British community women . . . and another woman just coming in, late and apologetic . . .

  Corinna.

  Naturally.

  * * *

  Once off the bridge, the ox-carts turned right, along the Galata quay where it appeared that serious steamers and trading schooners moored to unload. And since ships bring their own international environment with them, the warehouses, chandlery shops and cafés opposite them were familiar and welcoming. Most of the signs were in English, too, or at least French.

  Then two men stepped forward, one holding up his hand, and O’Gilroy recognised the imposing figure of Herr Fernrick. The carts stopped, the work crew closed up about them, so this was their destination. They had come, O’Gilroy reckoned, less than half a mile and that was a relief, too, given the potential range of oxen. It was time to choose yet another café.

  * * *

  Naturally a single, respectable woman like Corinna had a value beyond rubies on the English-speaking dinner-party round, so Ranklin should have expected her there. And talking of rubies, she had those, too: indeed, she must have chosen the dress to match her necklace, and its slightly dated look as a kindness to that company. But she still made the other women – perhaps excepting Lady Kelso – look part of the furnishings. Watching her toss back her head in a burst of free laughter, vivid, magnificent yet pliable, Ranklin ached at her unattainability – and knowing that with a single mistake she could wreck him.

  She swept a smile around the room, froze on him, almost grinned, and looked quickly away. He breathed out and gulped his drink. But they were still fated, by Jarvey’s diligence as a diplomatist, to meet eventually.

  “. . . and finally, may I present the Honourable Patrick Snaipe, one of our honorary attachés who’s escorting Lady Kelso? Mrs Finn, who represents her father, Reynard Sherring, in financial matters that are quite above my head.”

  “Patrick Snaipe,” she repeated, committing it to memory. She held out her gloved hand. “So you’re travelling with Lady Kelso? What an interesting assignment.”

  “Er, yes. Fascinating. We came down in a party led by Dr Dahlmann of the Deutsche B—”

  Jarvey interruped: “I think Mrs Finn probably wants to get away from banking for the—”

  “No, no,” she assured him. “So Dr Dahlmann – I’ve never met him – is he here for the loan negotiations or the Railway?”

  “Both, I think, but I believe he’s staying in Constantinople for the negotiations while we go on south.”

  “Fascinating. If you don’t know that part of the world, you must attach yourself to Bertrand Lacan – ‘Beirut Bertie’ as the English here call him. He’s just got back from Paris, probably getting told what to say at the loan negotiations, but he’s quite an expert on the south and Arab matters . . .” Then she let Jarvey haul her off to more distinguished company.

  “That’s our Bertie, over there.” Lunn indicated a man aged about fifty, modestly stout, with a round, pleasantly relaxed face wearing his eyes permanently half-closed. He also had a sun-tan that was unique in a room full of correct diplomatic pallor.

  * * *

  In between a small white-painted liner and a drab little tramp steamer lay a flight of stone steps leading down to water level. Not far down, since in these tideless waters the quaysides were not high. And poking above the side O’Gilroy could see the brass funnel of a big launch, letting off lazy wisps of smoke into the dim lamplight. Rather too dim for the task of dragging heavy boxes – two men to a box – off the carts and down the steps, but Herr Fernrick seemed to prefer it that way.

  For all that, such activity on this quay was obviously normal and attracted no attention except from a couple of uniformed men who had strolled up, been shown some documents and handed a little something, and
strolled off. That also seemed normal.

  Since he would be recognised if seen, O’Gilroy had chosen not the nearest café but one almost fifty yards off. It had a better-dressed, more European clientele than the cafés back across the bridge, but the view was poor. He could just see that the boxes were of fresh bright wood, in many shapes and sizes, and varying weights. There were always two men to a box, but they obviously had more trouble with some than others.

  Then one of the men lost his footing on the shadowed, slimy stones, a box crashed down, and half the work-party threw themselves flat.

  * * *

  Ranklin was placed midway along the dinner table between the seemingly inevitable Lunn and the wife of a British resident – a lawyer, he gathered. A string quartet in what might have been Albanian costume played in a corner.

  Luckily the wife wasn’t at all interested in Snaipe’s diplomatic past: what fascinated her was the brigands and the Kaiser’s carriages – such as did Lady Kelso really sleep in the Kaiser’s bed?

  “Er, no, we didn’t have the Kaiser’s actual Schlafwagen—”

  “And when the brigands attacked you, is it true that she offered herself to them?”

  “Good Lord, no. They didn’t get within a hundred yards of our carriages.”

  Obviously disappointed, the wife gazed at Lady Kelso, seated next to the Ambassador. “I do think it’s noble of H.E. to entertain a woman with such a reputation. Does she usually wear Turkish – no, it was Arabian – dress?”

  “She didn’t on the train and I doubt she does in Italy.”

  “I’ve heard that when she was here as a diplomatist’s wife, that was how she made her assignations. All wrapped up like that, even your own husband wouldn’t recognise you, everyone assumes you’re just a servant carrying a message. That’s how Turkish wives do it today. In the streets of Constantinople, one feels one is absolutely surrounded by infidelities.”

  “Really? That must make shopping trips much more interesting.”

  Across the table, between a vase of flowers and a lump of Embassy silver, he caught Beirut Bertie’s lazy smile.

  So did the wife. “Now, M’sieu Lacan, you know all about Turkish and Arab customs, isn’t that so?”

  “Not those customs, alas, dear lady. Only dull matters such as the proper conduct of blood feuds.”

  “Come now, I’m sure a Frenchman wouldn’t waste all his time on the laws of feuding.”

  “Ah, but my time belongs to my Government.”

  Ranklin asked: “Are you also a diplomatist, M’sieu Lacan?”

  The wife said: “Beirut Bertie – that’s what we call him and he has to pretend he doesn’t know – has worked for everybody out here.”

  “True, but it began with the Diplomatique – as it now seems fated to end. All my life I have sought only simple luxury. Early on, I was seduced by childhood books of life in the East: I pictured myself reclining on cushions, sucking sherbet – have you ever sucked sherbet, Mr Snaipe? It is quite disgusting – and surrounded by poorly-clad dancing-girls. I was, I admit,” he sighed, “a rather advanced child. But when I found no dancing-girls in the Diplomatique, I moved to work for the Imperial Ottoman Bank. And alas, they had no dancing-girls either, so I went to the Anatolie – the Railway company when it was French owned – and can you guess what I found?”

  “No dancing-girls?”

  “You have great insight, Mr Snaipe. All the luxuries I have found in the East have been brought from Paris or London. Including the dancing-girls. So – why argue with fate? – I came back to the Diplomatique.”

  “Where he does nobody-knows-what, mostly in Beirut and Damascus and Baghdad,” the wife said, “but I think he’s a spy.”

  Bertie made an elegant gesture of hopelessness. “You see, Mr Snaipe? – how my search for a life of humble luxury makes me a misunderstood outcast of good society?”

  * * *

  When a trained soldier throws himself flat, others don’t stand about asking questions, and O’Gilroy almost vanished under his table. Certainly he spilled his coffee. But nothing else happened. The Germans picked themselves up and wiped themselves down, while the Turks in the work-party watched in astonishment. Then Herr Fernrick moved in, bollocking the man who’d slipped while his companion – presumably speaking Turkish – reassured the others.

  The waiter came up and suggested, in French, that O’Gilroy would want another coffee. But apart from feeling such coffee was better spilt than drunk, he wanted something stronger now. A little bad French and good will narrowed the decision down to a raki, whatever that was.

  On the quayside, work restarted, slower and more cautiously, and O’Gilroy looked around to see if anyone else in the front of the café had noticed. Then, because Herr Fernrick was also glaring round to see if he’d attracted attention, went back to his postcards. But his hand was trembling. He had, guessing the weight of that box, been altogether too close to a hundred pounds of explosive nearly going off.

  14

  When the ladies had withdrawn, the men remained standing for a few moments, waiting politely to see who wanted a private word with whom. Bertie murmured to Ranklin: “In small, isolated communities, do you not find that female conversation seldom rises above the waist? As a topic, Lady Kelso must be a Godsend.”

  “Have you run across her before?”

  “No. But her trail. . . stories, memories, they live on in the desert . . . It is a bit like meeting a living myth . . .” His face went serious, and he looked away.

  The male guest of honour, Izzad Bey from the Porte, roughly the Turkish Foreign Office, had now moved up alongside H.E. the Ambassador and they were also, and openly, discussing Lady Kelso.

  “But,” Izzad was saying, “her liaison with Miskal Bey must be twenty, at least twenty-five years ago now.”

  “Then you don’t put her chance of success very high?”

  “The time is not the problem. Perhaps she will get to meet Miskal Bey again. But no matter how good her arguments may be – to be merciful, to let the engineers free – how can he appear to be influenced by a woman? Rather than risk that, he may even harden his resolve to keep them as prisoners.”

  “Might be counter-productive, you think?”

  “It is just possible.”

  “Hmmmm.” It was half a hum, half grunt. “Well . . . we aren’t sending her, we only offered her as a possible mediator. And your Government and Wangenheim – the German Ambassador here,” he explained to Ranklin, “accepted the offer, so . . .”

  Izzad smiled. “And if the Railway is not restarted soon, perhaps you will not weep too much.”

  “Oh, I think the recent discussions have settled everybody’s position on the Railway quite amicably.”

  “Or swept them under the carpet. The very best Turkish carpet, of course.”

  “But probably you’ve got enough on your plate with the new loan negotiations. Am I allowed to ask how they’re going, now that you’ve got M’sieu Lacan back from Paris? Talking to Mrs Finn tonight, she didn’t seem too happy. But I thought she was only out here as fiancée of . . . who is it?”

  “D’Erlon,” Bertie supplied. “Edouard d’Erlon. But no, the lady is here very much in her own right – or her father’s. She most certainly understands finance.”

  “Really? We’re quite beset by influential women tonight. They seem to be taking charge. Perhaps my successor will be wearing skirts. Although I wonder if she’ll appreciate a good cigar.” And he puffed luxuriously.

  They all laughed. Then Bertie went on: “But I fear she has some trouble appreciating the problems of finance in this country. As does her countryman, Mr Billings.”

  “Finds it difficult to see how you translate your passion for Arab interests into eighths of one per cent, eh? I can’t blame her for that.”

  Bertie smiled politely, but this was obviously a delicate subject. “But doubtless matters will arrange themselves. Indeed, tonight I am invited on board Mr Billings’ yacht for a ‘pow-wow’ when I
leave here.”

  “Gosh!” Lunn couldn’t stay silent. “You’re going, of course?”

  “How can I resist? I have been aboard far too few millionaires’ yachts in my poor life. Also I understand that Dr Dahlmann of the Deutsche Bank will be there.”

  “You travelled down with Dahlmann, didn’t you?” Jarvey said to Ranklin, quickly but casually.

  Ranklin nodded. “Seemed a nice enough chap . . . A bit bankerish, if you know what I mean.”

  They smiled sympathetically. Bertie said: “Really? Then would you do me the honour of introducing me, Mr Snaipe? I’m sure Mr Billings would want me to bring you.”

  Ranklin looked at the Ambassador. “I’d be delighted, but perhaps . . .?”

  “Oh, you go along, Snaipe. Unless you’re jaded by millionaires’ yachts.”

  * * *

  The box now being carried was the thirty-eighth and must be the last, O’Gilroy realised: the rest of the work-party was putting on its coats and lighting cigarettes, and in a minute or two the launch would move off. Obviously he couldn’t follow, but he might at least get an idea of which way it was heading. He looked around.

  The quayside itself was no use, quite apart from blundering into the work-party; the ships moored along it blocked most of the view. He might have done best to sprint back to the bridge, but that was too far. So he had to get high, higher than the decks of the moored ships, to see which way the lights of the launch turned. And it must be showing lights: to go without in those waters would be like crossing Piccadilly with your eyes shut.

  Then he remembered that behind the café the city rose steeply; he had passed alleys and side-streets that were just flights of steps. He sauntered out of the café, turned left and found only an alley too narrow to give any useful view. So he reversed, towards the now-loitering work-party. He pulled his bowler hat down, turned his collar up, and walked with a stoop, not looking to see if he was being noticed.