All Honourable Men

by Gavin Lyall

  “Do we know what this place looks like? Mebbe there’s a cliff, like, they could blow down on his head.”

  “Or blow up his water supply, ‘thirst’ him out, as it were . . . No, I don’t know anything about his stronghold, except that it’s an old monastery, so anything might be possible . . . And the launch kept going, straight across the Bosphorus?”

  O’Gilroy nodded. So it was almost certainly delivering the boxes to Haydar Pasha station, start of the Baghdad Railway. “And you’re sure these other two, the Turks who attacked you, were also watching?”

  “Certain sure. Mebbe they was down on the quay before, watching the loading close up. There was a lot of coming and going.”

  “But we don’t know who they are, or working for . . . What can they report about you? Did you say anything?” O’Gilroy shook his head. “Then only your general build and that you wore a bowler hat. . . just for safety, scrap that. Have you got a cap? Then wear it. I give you special dispensation.”

  “Yer too kind. And what happened to yeself?”

  “Nothing urgent – I think. I’ll tell you in the morning. But now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep in my own bed.”

  “Sure, and I was jest warming it for ye.”

  * * *

  Constantinople got its weather either from Russia or the Mediterranean, according to the wind. But that morning it had got muddled and was offering bright blue sky with a northeast wind like a Tartar sword. After a late breakfast, Ranklin went back to his room to meet O’Gilroy and run through events at the Embassy and on Billings’s yacht. Then sent him off to buy a coat suitable for the mountains, directing him back across the Galata Bridge to the Grand Bazaar.

  “Anything at all as long as it’s warm: leather, sheepskin, looks don’t matter.” He paused. “I wouldn’t be sending you there if they did, but you should have quite a choice.”

  After he’d gone, Ranklin wished he’d told him to pick up some lead shot, too. If some miracle put them within reach of the gold coin, he’d better be prepared. So he went out early himself, found a gun dealer in the Grande Rue where most of the European shops were, and bought a kilo of No. 3 shot. Then he took a cab to the Imperial Ottoman Bank.

  The moment he got there, he realised he knew the building already since its bulk dominated the lower slope of Pera: at least seven storeys high and with the south side looking more Indo-Chinese than Turkish with bits of wide roof sticking out three-quarters of the way up. Perhaps the French had got muddled and sent the plans to the wrong address. Ranklin walked up the broad steps at five to eleven and realised he didn’t really know who to ask for.

  “M’sieu Lacan?” he tried, but that meant nothing. Reluctantly, then: “Ou M’ sieu D’Erlon?”

  “Ah, oui – vous êtes I’Honorable M’sieu Snaipe?” In Constantinople French that sounded very much like the Orrible Mr Snaipe, but Ranklin agreed and presented his card. He didn’t need to: a flunkey was detailed to escort him personally. Up a wide staircase to the main “public” floor which, if not truly grand in the Sultan’s-palace sense – a sultan would hardly have chosen so much brown marble – was grand enough since it was all some sort of marble: square pillars, counter tops and the Eastern-style grilles instead of balustrades. And with that odd habit banks have of building to show how little they care about money, the core of the place was pure wasted space: an indoor courtyard surrounded by umpteen levels of balconies to a glass roof.

  It was also busy: unlike the cathedral calm of a British bank, this looked as Ranklin imagined the Stock Exchange to be: prosperous-looking men stood chatting in groups or sat in niches, many of them wearing fezzes above well-filled European suits or frock coats. Waiters weaved through them carrying silvery trays of coffee cups and tea glasses. And everybody smoked. It seemed an amiable way to do business if that’s what they were doing.

  The flunkey led him down a quieter corridor away from the busyness, around a few corners, knocked and opened a door, and there was Edouard D’Erlon, smiling, handsome, well-dressed and welcoming. There were also Corinna, looking bored, Dahlmann looking sour and Streibl, who seemed happy since he was probably daydreaming of railways.

  * * *

  This must be the Grand Bazaar, only Ranklin had forgotten to tell him it was entirely roofed over. So at first sight it was a tunnel of murmuring humanity, churning in the dimness, with lamplight winking off cascades of metalwork. On second sight, it was a whole labyrinth of such tunnels, reeking of spices, tanned leather, hot metal and people. It was daunting but it was also much more like the Mysterious East than anything O’Gilroy had yet seen, so after a moment’s pause, he stepped inside.

  After a few minutes he no longer noticed the noise, a constant babble that echoed from the vaulted roof where a little light, green where it filtered through plants wind-seeded on the roof, came from small glassless windows. He also realised it was divided into districts: a whole tunnel of stalls selling brassware, then one selling carpets, then embroidered silks . . . and all the stalls tucked into arches like miniature versions of London railway bridges. Happily anonymous, he just wandered, weaving around porters under massive loads and men carrying tea glasses on trays with handles like shopping baskets. He smiled and shook his head at imploring stallkeepers – who couldn’t follow far from their stalls – confident he’d find what he wanted eventually.

  * * *

  After the inevitable tea or coffee they had finally got down to business and the whole party – now about a dozen including various Bank employees, one of which wore a uniform and pistol belt – were tramping along a dim-lit corridor somewhere beneath the Bank. Dahlmann plucked Ranklin’s coat and hissed: “Why are you here?”

  “Er, Beirut Ber – M’sieu Lacan – invited me to come as a witness.”

  “You should not have agreed. It connects the gold with Lady Kelso’s mission.”

  “Oh, sorry about that,” Ranklin said, cheerily vapid.

  Dahlmann glowered. “Also, your manservant – did you know he was going about the city alone last night?”

  “Really? I sent him out to buy some tobacco and he hadn’t got back by the time I had to go to the Embassy . . . Probably got lost. Did you find him for me?”

  “Ach, no . . . I heard . . .” Dahlmann shouldn’t have opened a subject without thinking where it might lead. “Then you did not send him to . . .”

  There, he’d done it again. Ranklin helped: “To buy some tobacco? Yes, I told you. He didn’t break any laws, did he?”

  “No . . . I think . . .” He pulled himself together and in an announcing whisper said: “You must be ready to leave today at three o’clock. Half past two,” he amended, allowing for vapidness.

  There was a clicking of keys and bolts from the front of the column and they had arrived at a vault of whitewashed stone with a single light bulb dangling from a recent cable in the ceiling and several oil lamps hung around the walls. But they weren’t what lit the room: their light was sucked in and glowed back by a tabletop of gold. Among all these moneymen, Ranklin was the only one who should have been impressed, but there was a long moment of reverent silence from everyone.

  Then D’Erlon made an elegant if flamboyant gesture and said: “Bitte, Herr Doktor Dahlmann—”

  Looked at more soberly, the gold didn’t really cover the table, which was big and solid, since there was plenty of room for a set of brass scales and a heap of small canvas bags as well. But someone had spent a happy morning arranging eight hundred stacks, each of twenty-five twenty-five-franc pieces so that they covered nearly a square yard to a depth of about three inches. And the result was certainly impressive.

  Dahlmann must have begun his career as a mere cashier and hadn’t forgotten his dexterity with the stuff of human happiness. He bent down and squinted to make sure the stacks were all of even height, picked one up, flickered through a count, paused to examine a coin or two more closely, then another stack . . .

  Around the vault were several hard chairs and one
elderly leather-and-gilt one, almost a throne. Probably it was for a Turkish grandee to lounge in while the infidels counted out his wealth, but Corinna got it this time. Ranklin began to feel bored, then decided Snaipe would be childishly fascinated by all this loot, so had to became that instead.

  Finally Dahlmann said: “Sehr gut. Danke,” and stood back.

  D’Erlon waved up two helpers who began scooping stacks into bags – five hundred coins to a bag, Ranklin reckoned – then sealing the drawstrings with a dab of wax. D’Erlon reached into a pocket and put half a dozen gold coins on the table. “Just in case we have made a mistake,” he smiled.

  Dahlmann looked at the coins coldly. “We are bankers. I am sure there is not a mistake.” And for once, Ranklin actually felt sorry for D’Erlon.

  Already standing close, he picked up one of D’Erlon’s coins. It was roughly the same size as a sovereign, and its neat, tiny detail was a wry contrast with the brutal crudity of the dungeon that was the natural home of such things in such quantity. He turned it this way and that to catch the light, then put it down again. “That reminds me: I’d better change some sovereigns into some of these, if this is the usual currency in Turkey. Can I do that upstairs?”

  “Of course,” D’Erlon said.

  Having filled ten of the bags, the helpers jammed them into a robust wooden box little bigger than a cigar box and nailed the lid on top. The hammering echoed like the day of doom in that space, and Corinna winced. D’Erlon was immediately solicitous, suggesting she go back upstairs.

  “But if I’m to sign as a witness . . .” she objected.

  D’Erlon glanced at Dahlmann, who was obviously going to stay put, and who said: “It is not important to me. I did not suggest witnesses.”

  “I’ll take Mrs Finn upstairs,” Ranklin volunteered, and a spare employee was detailed to show them the way.

  * * *

  Just wandering and looking was one thing, but when you wanted to buy something it all changed: now you were a victim. The coat O’Gilroy was trying on was, unquestionably, a winter coat: leather, and with a fur lining. But it also had embroidery on it that made him feel like a pantomime bandit. Still, it was warm and more-or-less fitted, so he tried asking the price.

  If O’Gilroy understood the man, he was talking about the Turkish loan, not the price of a coat. He took it off and frowned at it while wondering what to do next. Damn it, he needed a coat.

  “May I be of assistance?” He was a middle-aged man, not too thin, with a roundish face and sleepy-cat eyes. French, from the accent.

  “That’s kindness itself, sir. I was having a bit of trouble understanding the price.”

  “Ah, here there is no price.” The man began to examine the coat critically. “There is just bargaining. Hm.” He pulled at a pocket, tore the stitching, and instead of apologising, frowned accusingly at the stallkeeper. There was a quick exchange of Turkish and the coat was tossed aside.

  “You want a coat for cold and wet weather? Then it is best to do as the animals themselves do. They wear, you may have noticed, the fur or fleece on the outside. Odd, but perhaps they have reason.” He took what looked like a bundle of uncleaned sheep-shearings from the seller. “Like this.”

  He helped O’Gilroy into it. “It may seem a little . . . primitive, but to clean it will make it to leak. Sheep do not wash, I understand.” He sniffed. “There may, I should warn you, be a slight danger of rape: possibly you smell most enchanting to other sheep. However . . .” He walked around O’Gilroy, looking critically. “It is comfortable?”

  It was certainly warm right down to the knees, and when O’Gilroy found the pockets they were deep and seemed well-stitched. It was definitely not as worn in Park Lane, but he wasn’t heading there. “Seems jest fine. Er – how much would it be costing?”

  This launched a long, but essentially polite, episode of negotiation, reminiscence, an exchange of cigarettes, an offer of tea – delicately refused – and at last an apparent swearing of eternal fealty before the Frenchman said: “Nine francs. I am sorry I did not have time to get it cheaper, but . . .” So O’Gilroy handed over the equivalent of seven shillings and sixpence.

  By now he had a good idea who the Frenchman was, and that he knew who O’Gilroy was – was pretending to be, that is. So he said: “Would ye be asking if he’d give me a receipt?”

  “A receipt?”

  “Ye see, me master give me the money for the coat and he’ll be wanting the proof of it.”

  “Ah, of course.”

  “And, er . . . mebbe if the receipt said twelve francs? Or fifteen, say? – he’d never be knowing.”

  One touch of dishonesty not only makes the whole world kin, it may make half of it think it has a hold on the other half.

  * * *

  “Gold,” Corinna said as they reached a daylit floor, “has its uses, but it doesn’t make people polite.”

  “Very philosophical. Are you taking the yacht south?”

  “Probably. When are you going?”

  “It looks like this afternoon.”

  “By train?”

  “I imagine so. It all being for the Railway.” They could, he supposed, catch one of the coastal steamers that linked Turkey’s ports, but it seemed unlikely.

  “So Lady Kelso will be on the opposite side of the mountains: you’ll be coming from the north and me on the south. Hm.”

  When she said no more, he asked a stray employee where he could change some sovereigns and was taken up to the long marble counter. The Bank might be French, but after fifty years in Constantinople it was now thoroughly bureaucratised, so this involved several flights of higher mathematics, half a dozen forms – and coffee.

  Leaning on the counter, Ranklin observed: “I expected Beirut Bertie to be here.”

  “Me too, but Edouard said he’d got a cable calling him back to Beirut. He’s leaving later today.”

  It seemed odd to haul Bertie away from Constantinople and the loan negotiations at this stage – but Ranklin was keeping an open mind about M’sieu Lacan.

  So instead, he said: “Everything lovesy-dovesy with Edouard again this morning?”

  “What a revolting phrase. And mind your own damn business.”

  “Ah, the effects of gold again.”

  * * *

  “What a strange coincidence!” Bertie said, shaking his head in amazement. “Still, everyone comes to Great Bazaar. . . Do you know, I met your master only last night, at the British Embassy? He seemed charming. But then,” because he wanted to give O’Gilroy room to differ, “I am not his servant.”

  “Ah, sure he’s pleasant enough. Jest stupid, is all.”

  “I am sure you exaggerate . . . Has he been in the Diplomatic long?”

  “Not him. Doesn’t seem to stick at anything, what I hear. But he’s got money, and land in the Ould Counthry, so . . .” O’Gilroy shrugged at the way life was. He was giving, metaphorically, an imitation of a freshly ploughed field, waiting for whatever Bertie wanted to plant.

  They were sitting in one of the many small coffee-houses that were mixed in with the Bazaar’s stalls – the source, O’Gilroy realised, of all those boys hurrying about with trays of coffee and tea. Such boys provided the only sign of hurry; most of the customers were taking their time, some playing backgammon, others sharing a hubble-bubble pipe, each sucking at his ornate mouthpiece with a contemplative look.

  Bertie saw where O’Gilroy was looking and smiled lazily. “Hashish, probably. There are many ways of passing time, one’s life, one’s troubles . . . I still prefer more European vices.” He took a large silver flask from his pocket and filled his half-empty coffee cup, then proffered it. “I beg pardon – would you care to improve yours also? Here I cannot find proper cognac, but this is a passable imitation . . .”

  It had a strong brandy smell although it didn’t taste much like it. But anything was better than Turkish coffee.

  Bertie sat back and lit another cigarette. “Do you take much interest in diplomatic
affairs yourself, Mr Gorman?”

  O’Gilroy shrugged. “Ye hear a lot of talk . . . Seems pretty much mixed up, most’f the time.”

  “True, true, the world is very confused. But at least now Britain and France are allies . . . You must be a patriotic man yourself.”

  “Been a soldier of the Queen,” O’Gilroy offered. “And the King, too. Last one, that is.”

  Bertie nodded and seemed uncertain about how to go on. Meanwhile he called for more coffee. Then he said: “Do you think your master can have much influence with the Ambassador here?”

  Surprised, O’Gilroy blinked. “I . . . I wouldn’t be thinking so.”

  Two more cups of coffee arrived and Bertie drank half his in a gulp. “Quick, while the waiter does not see . . .” He topped up their cups from his flask again. “I think your Ambassador here is a most charming man. Charming. But perhaps too much of the right family, the right school, and the world today . . .” He leant forward confidentially. “I tell you, Mr Gorman, I am concerned about the German influence here, in Turkey. Britain has so great an Empire to think about, sometimes perhaps . . .”

  He seemed so close to saying something, to making some proposition, that O’Gilroy had to listen. But like an expert tightrope walker, Bertie went on teetering without taking the plunge. He just droned on, and his voice receded into the background murmur, the clattery of crockery, the click of backgammon pieces . . . Maybe it was getting cold, too, although O’Gilroy felt clammy . . . was it clammy? It was difficult to tell . . .

  Bertie was leaning forward again, looking concerned. “Are you feeling unwell? Finish your coffee and we can get into the fresh air . . . I can get you back to the hotel.”

  Obediently O’Gilroy emptied his cup – by now pure brandy – and swayed onto his feet. Bertie scooped up the sheepskin coat and supported him out into the crowded tunnel, then guided him. O’Gilroy concentrated on getting one foot in front of the other . . . Damn it! – what a time to get some foreign germ . . .