All Honourable Men

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When the ladies had withdrawn, the men remained standing for a few moments, waiting politely to see who wanted a private word with whom.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 fiancee 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 cafe the city rose steeply; he had passed alleys and side-streets that were just flights of steps. He sauntered out of the cafe, 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.

And there was a street of steps, narrow and dark but as good as he’d find, and with a lowish building at one corner, so if he could get high enough to see over that. . . He started climbing.

Used as he was to cities and their sudden boundaries, the change was still startling. In a few yards he went from brightness and the smell of the sea to darkness and the stink of humanity – of far too much humanity. He kept his eyes on the ground: the smell wouldn’t break his ankles, but the steps might; they were perhaps two feet apart but even the “flat” bits sloped, and were built of irregular, misshapen stones.

When he thought he might be high enough, he stopped and looked back. Not quite, just a few more steps . . . about where a couple of figures were standing and casually muttering, dimly outlined against the glow from an uncurtained window. O’Gilroy started wheezing heavily, to excuse his slow progress and pauses.

He passed the two men, noting only Turkish dress and fezzes, and stopped a little higher to look back. Now he could see most of the launch, moored stern-on to the quay to fit between the bigger ships. It had a canopy over most of its near-fifty-foot length and the funnel was pouring smoke as it worked up the energy to leave. A few minutes more and he’d have seen all he could . . . but he wished those bloody Turks would move on.

Then one of the bloody Turks did. He tramped softly up past O’Gilroy – and stopped, a few steps higher. Nobody had said a word, or done anything quickly, but suddenly O’Gilroy was surrounded and his situation felt very different. His heart went into double time and he edged against the wall as he glanced back at the launch. It was moving, clanging its bell as it poked cautiously out into the slow swirl of lights in the bay. It vanished under the stern of a moored steamer, but that was just the angle of O’Gilroy’s view, not a turn. He waited until it re-appeared, still heading straight out, then looked around at the Turk above him.

Who was leaning against the wall and watching. Watching O’Gilroy? But they had been here first, they had to be watching the launch, picking this place for the same reason he had . . . However, they were certainly watching him now. He gripped the pistol in his pocket, wishing it were his own proper grownup one . . .

The launch kept going. If it wanted to turn, surely it had room now, but it kept straight on for the faint lights of the far shore. The figure below relaxed and began to turn round, but O’Gilroy stared on at the lights of the launch, now beset by so many other lights . . . He heard a movement behind him.

All pretence gone, he launched himself across the steps, skidded, but ended with his back against the opposite wall, both Turks as much in front of him as he could manage. They stopped, then moved to close on him from above and below. He pulled the gun from his pocket.

But what would a gunshot do in this blasted town? Bring an avalanche of police or pass unnoticed? Then the lower Turk made a move that could only be drawing a knife, and ended any choice. He fired high past the man, into the far wall.

That stopped them. There was a moment of ringing silence, then from one of the houses a woman screamed. She couldn’t have seen anything, perhaps she felt it had been been a dull day so far, but it changed things. The lower Turk moved back and up past O’Gilroy, snarling something – then they both ran.

They went upwards into the dark unknown, O’Gilroy went down, towards the quayside lights that now seemed as warm and familiar as his own bed, stuffing the gun into his pocket. People were gathering at the bottom of the street, the work-party among them.

O’Gilroy reached the quay gibbering and gesticulating with fright. He’d been attacked, fetch the police, the British consul, the army, fetch his mother – then recognised Albrecht in the crowd and grabbed him like a brother, pointing and gabbling.

* * *

Izzad Bey, as the senior male guest, led the way to rejoin the ladies, the Ambassador properly hanging back as rearguard. As the non-diplomatic guests trailed out, Jarvey said to Ranklin: “If you’re going to this yacht later, we’d be interested in anything Bertie says about the loan and Arab rights.”

“Of course . . . but are they connected?”

The Ambassador chuckled. “He’ll connect ’em. Gone a bit native, wouldn’t you say, Howard?”

“Arab native, anyway. Seems fascinated by them. And don’t believe that guff he hands out about seeking a life of luxury: he’s never off the back of a camel and I wouldn’t call that luxury.”

They began strolling towards the door. The Ambassador blew cigar smoke, frowned, then asked: “Just what did the Office in London actually tell you to do, Snaipe?”

“Just to stick by Lady Kelso, sir. Give her such protection as I could.”

“Hm. But you don’t know that country at all, I think? And she must know it well, better than any of us, I dare say.” He turned to Jarvey. “Do you think Snaipe should hire an armed guard of men, Howard?”

Jarvey said sombrely: “They might prove of some use.”

The idea appalled Ranklin, and he fumbled for excuses. “Won’t we be mostly surrounded by Germans with their own Turkish Army guards?”

Jarvey said: “I don’t think you’ll find those guards going up into the mountains with you, not after what happened to them last time. A body of men you’ve hired yourself might prove more loyal – if they’re properly led.” His doubts were clearly whether Snaipe could lead a cat to cream.

Ranklin said tentatively: “I’d rather go along with what Lady Kelso wants, sir. Either she’s still got some personal influence with Miskal or she hasn’t. I think an armed guard might simply be . . .” He shrugged, and if they wanted to interpret that as “a mistake”, fine; what he actually meant was “bloody stupid”.

The Ambassador crunched out his cigar in an ashtray offered by a servant. “Perhaps. . . But in any case, your best plan may be to let Lady Kelso do her act, and then, whether she’s successful or not, get her away. Drag her by the hair if necessary. I’d rather have her complaining you’ve spoiled her coiffure than the newspapers saying we let her get murdered by that brigand. Don’t you think, Howard?”

Jarvey doubted Snaipe’s ability to do even that much. “Frankly, sir, and with all due respect to Snaipe, I wish the Office had sent Lady Kelso all on her own. This way loads us with a responsibility we can’t guarantee to fulfil.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, Howard. Masculinite oblige, don’t you think?”

* * *

One of O’Gilroy’s great strengths as a liar was his ability to believe – for the moment, anyway – that he was telling the truth. The Turkish policeman spoke no English, and since O’Gilroy was keeping his meagre store of French to himself, questions and answers had to go through the man who had been superintending the work-party along with Herr Fernrick. O’Gilroy assumed he came from the German Embassy.

“He says,” the man said, “that Constantinople . . . I think you say ‘bullies’? . . . they almost never use guns.”

“They used one on me. Ye heard it yeself, didn’t ye?” He shivered at the memory. And all the time Ranklin’s pistol was pressing against his thigh, well hidden by his overcoat. But why should the police search the victim? And double that for a Turkish policeman and a privileged European.

“But you were not hurt?”

“Thanks to the grace of Mary, Mother of God, I was not.”

The Embassy man didn’t translate that, just shook his head. The policeman asked another question.

“And where were you going in that street?”

“From God-knows-where to more of the same. I was lost. I reckoned if’n I was going down hill I’d be finding the quay and mebbe the bridge and know where I was. And I suddenly think Mebbe there’s someone following me and I looks and mebbe there is, so I take a turn or two and they’re still there behind me and God knows now I really am lost and so I’m hurrying, Jayzus, I’d’ve been running if they knew how to make proper streets in this town, and then I see the lights here and mebbe they see them and reckon it’s their last chancst to get me and one of them yells and one of them shoots and I come down that street mebbe faster’n the bullet, for all I know.”

Another of O’Gilroy’s strengths was the apparently random wordiness of his lies.

The policeman was either convinced or overwhelmed, although he’d written hardly any of this down. They were seated at a table in a cafe – not, thank God, the one O’Gilroy had watched from, but the one nearer where the launch had moored: Herr Fernrick, Albrecht, the train guard, the police – man, a couple of Turks – maybe they were something to do with the Embassy, too – and the man asking the questions. Now he had one of his own, not from the policeman: “You did not . . . meet them? They were not waiting in that street?”

You mean watching what you were doing loading that launch?

“Jayzus, mebbe I passed them way back, but I told ye, they was following me. Was a lucky thing ye fellers being here, mebbe they’d’ve followed me right out here, otherwise. Was ye jest passing or having a drink or something?”

Go on, you bugger, let’s hear a lie from you, for a change. But the Embassy man just asked: “Did you see what they looked like?”

“I told ye, they was following me. And have ye seen those alleys back there? – a bat’d be walking in those.” O’Gilroy shrugged. “I think mebbe they had those flowerpot hats on.”

The Embassy man had a conversation with the policeman, perhaps wanting him to ask why O’Gilroy was roaming the streets (O’Gilroy had a story to explain that), but the policeman had obviously heard enough. He finally stood up, not rudely, but decisively.

“How would I be getting a cab in this town?” O’Gilroy asked.

The Embassy man came close to asking a question, then sighed and said: “I will show you.”

“Will he know where the Pera Palace is? Can I be trusting him? How much does it cost?” It was best, he felt, to keep the man smothered with words. And on top of his regret at not being able to tell his story about why he was on the streets, he had suddenly realised that he hadn’t been behaving illegally at all. Apart from shooting a hole in a wall, and that had been justifiable self-defence. He started to feel quite self-righteous. A bit disconcerted, too.

* * *

Bertie, Corinna and Ranklin shared a cab from the Embassy down to the Galata quayside.

“Just who,” Ranklin asked, “is this Mr Billings I’ll be imposing on?”

“To me,” Corinna said, “he’s a client of my father’s bank. To the Turks he’s a rich man who might put together a loan for them. To the United States he’s a Chicagoan turned more-or-less New Yorker, and head of Union Carbide. To you, he’s a good host with a nice line in comfortable steam yachts.”

From the dimness in his corner of the cab, Bertie chuckled. “I pass.”

* * *

O’Gilroy talked his way into the Pera Palace hotel and then, using some of his surplus self-righteousness, into Ranklin’s room (of course he had to arrange his master’s things for him, he’d never hear the last of it, God alone knew how the man had got dressed for the Embassy without him . . .).

Once inside, he locked the door, then sat down and muttered to himself a report of his evening, trying to discard the lies and avoid turning guesses into facts. When he was satisfied, he actually did a bit of re-arranging of Ranklin’s clothes, made up a bundle of laundry, found where Ranklin had hidden his spare ammunition and reloaded the fired chamber of the Bulldog revolver.

What to do with the spent cartridge? – that wasn’t something to be left in a wastebasket. In the end, he pocketed it, planning to throw it in the water tomorrow. And after that. . . His own room was a cubby-hole in the attic, no better nor worse than most servants’ bedrooms, but definitely not within reach of a bath. However, nobody in the place would recognise him yet, so he half-undressed, put on Ranklin’s expensive dressing-gown and strolled along to the guests’ one at the end of the corridor.