All Honourable Men

13

Despite being the end of the line for the Orient Express, Stamboul station was surprisingly unpretentious: no great arched glass roof, just individual canopies over each platform. Since they couldn’t get through Customs until the porters had unloaded their luggage, nobody could rush and the platform turned into a social occasion. Relatives fell into each others’ arms, friends shook hands, hotel agents tried to find who had booked with them and tout for more. And both the British and German Embassies had guessed the private coaches would be at the front of the train, so arrived through the crowd at a diplomatic scamper.

“Harriet, Lady Kelso?” Very correct. “I’m Howard Jarvey, Second Counsellor at the Embassy.” He was tall and slightly stooped, with a head that was lean and, when he raised his top hat, virtually bald. Yet he had a dark moustache that Ranklin couldn’t keep his eyes off; it looked dead, like a moustache on a skull.

Jarvey turned to him, forcing Ranklin to raise his eyeline a few inches. “The Honourable Patrick Snaipe? Splendid. Did you have a good journey? – we heard there’d been some trouble . . .”

“Just brigands,” Lady Kelso dismissed them as she might have done a mosquito.

“Really?” Jarvis was a little surprised to have the topic ended so quickly. “Ah . . . the Ambassador’s having a little dinner tonight, if you feel up to it-”

“How sweet of him. I’d be delighted.”

“Splendid. And you, too, Snaipe.” No “Mr”: he was on the diplomatic ladder here, and the bottom rung of it. “No need to call on the Ambassador formally, it isn’t as if you’re joining our little family. Seven-thirty, the Embassy’s very near the Pera Palace. I’m afraid we can’t offer you a lift now, the Embassy motor-car’s . . .” But Ranklin never learnt what, since Jarvey had escorted Lady Kelso out of ear-shot.

The crowd was thinning and Ranklin became aware of O’Gilroy at his elbow, whispering: “I need ye and the passport to get me off’n the platform.”

Ranklin had forgotten that, but his diplomatic status eased them through the Customs hall and he left O’Gilroy outside as if finding them a cab.

In fact, O’Gilroy had great difficulty in not finding several cabs, along with porters, guides, half a dozen boarding-house touts, several things to eat or drink, and some offers he could only guess at. Any idea of standing there and taking stock of his new surroundings vanished. He could only stride off purposefully, like trying to out-run a cloud of midges on a beach.

The Customs exit was at the side of the station. After a hundred yards or so, he had worked his way round to the front, end-on to where all the lines – only four of them – terminated. The crowd there seemed more concerned with its own purposes, and he found a table on the outskirts of the station buffet and sat down.

The first thing he saw was a shop sign – probably. But it wasn’t that he couldn’t read the words, the very letters meant nothing. In the twilight a few electric lamps had wavered on, but far more oil lamps were flaring up, lighting alien faces in strange clothes, jabbering incomprehensibly. And behind that, the jingle, clatter and yells – the Turks shouted in deliberately low-pitched voices – of horse-drawn traffic, and behind that the rumble of unseen ships’ sirens. Shapeless, rowdy and menacing, the world tried to engulf him. He clutched the familiar pistol in his pocket for reassurance-

A waiter stood looking at him impatiently. O’Gilroy managed to croak: “Cafe, please,” and the waiter nodded and went away. He had spoken to this world, and it understood! He leaned back, nestling in a surge of confidence, lit a cigarette and set to watching the crowd more calmly. Almost all were men: the very occasional women wore black from head to foot, held a fold of cloth across their faces and generally looked as unmysterious as a bag of washing. But even allowing for it being a cold evening, the men were barely less drab, except that most wore the scarlet flowerpot of a fez. So much for the “colourful East”.

But they were still different, and in so many aspects of clothing, mannerism, movement, that he stood no chance of blending into any crowd. He needed something to do, besides sit and look. So after he had drunk what they seemed to think was coffee he moved on.

On the opposite side of the station from where he’d first come out, a dark road lined with warehouses ran parallel to the lines of the goods yard. There was nowhere to loiter inconspicuously, so the most O’Gilroy could do was confirm that there was a gate into the yard – there was, and it was guarded – then see if the road led anywhere else. It dissolved into a tangle of alleyways with the loom of bare trees and a barracks-like building beyond, so he turned back.

It would be an outrageous compliment to call the road surfaces here cobblestones: they were just vari-sized rocks hammered into the half-dry mud. The idea of pavements hadn’t occurred to anyone yet, so he had to squeeze himself against a wall as a procession of three ox-carts lumbered by. They were empty, but with enough men on the driving seats to form a work-party and as they passed he heard a snatch of conversation – and was sure it was German.

He saw them turn into the yard gateway and walked back to the front of the station. There he bought a four-day-old London newspaper and a handful of postcards, then found another cafe. Now he could pick one not obviously overlooking the goods yard road since a convoy of ox-carts would be slow and highly visible. Here also they had the idea that coffee meant a thimbleful of sandy sour treacle, so perhaps it was a common Turkish delusion. He dried the tabletop with his sleeve and began to write postcards.

* * *

The immediate lobby of the Pera Palace hotel – built by the Wagons-Lit Company specifically to house its Orient Express passengers – was quite small and a little austere.

“Has my man Gorman got here yet?” Ranklin asked, and was told, of course, No.

“Silly ass,” he grumbled. “Went looking for some bit of baggage he’d misplaced . . . Get someone to unpack for me, would you? I’ve got to tog up for dinner at the Embassy, but right now I want a cup of tea. You do make a decent cup of tea, I trust?”

And having established Snaipe’s character yet again, he drifted up a few steps and turned into the public rooms, where things got more palatial. High-ceilinged, chandeliered and most overlooking a park and the ships gliding up the Golden Horn, the idea was obviously to give you the feeling that you were experiencing Constantinople without getting your shoes muddy or your back stabbed. The furniture and decor blended Eastern patterns with European comfort without satisfying either the discriminating eye or backside, but got high marks for trying.

There he had to order tea, even though he’d have preferred coffee, and face up to the fact that he could run into Corinna at any moment. He felt . . . That was the trouble: he didn’t know and had, so far, avoided trying to find out.

Ranklin took the mature and reasonable view that the world was crowded with women who adored him. To start with, those whom he had left behind must obviously still yearn for him, while those who had given him the push would now be bitterly regretting it. And others who, once they got to know him . . . So all he had to do was get over what he felt for Corinna.

Then just what did he feel for her? He had known from the start that it was hopeless to fall in love with her – but neither had he fallen in hopeless love with her. Hopeless love was a special condition that suited some people very well, being very stable and requiring minimal effort. Men who locked up their private lives in cabinets marked Hopeless Love had the energy to go out and build empires.

Ergo, he was not in any sort of love with Corinna. Therefore it only remained to get over. . . let’s say, his annoyance that she was going to marry this ghastly French banker. He just wished . . . But set aside what he wished: there was the practical problem that they could bump into each other – she was probably staying at this hotel – and she might address him as Ranklin. She should know better, but to be fair (reluctantly) to her, she wasn’t a trained agent. Not even British, among her other faults.

He could ask at the desk who was staying here – that would be unsuspicious – but he daren’t pretend that Snaipe would know her. If O’Gilroy were back, he could be sent with a discreet note . . . He wondered how he was getting on.

* * *

The Army had used similar wagons in South Africa and O’Gilroy knew that oxen were creatures with just one speed. The wagon-drivers made plenty of noise, but mostly to warn other traffic that they were coming through, unhurried but virtually unstoppable. Now that the wagons were loaded (and with tarpaulins tied over the top, to baffle snoopers) the work-party ambled alongside. There were about a dozen of them, half Turk and half German, with Albrecht and the guard from the train staff among them. Because of that, O’Gilroy stayed well back, stopping to admire the view or consult his map to keep from catching up.

They were now, he reckoned, halfway across the Galata Bridge, low, wide and long, that led to the Pera side. Anyway, in front lay a hillside sparkling with lights brighter and more numerous than the area they had left. And the crowd on the bridge seemed to overflow onto the water. Lights, on small steamers, ferries, sailing ships and rowing-boats, weaved their way to, apparently, one massive impending collision. Yet somehow a clamour of hoots, clangs and shouts kept them apart. Or perhaps drowned the sounds of drowning, for all he could tell.

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 cafes 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 cafe.

* * *

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 attaches 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 cafe but one almost fifty yards off. It had a better-dressed, more European clientele than the cafes 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 cafe 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.