All Honourable Men

15

A man in a private naval uniform met them on the quayside, helped Corinna down and led the way to a white-painted motor-launch waiting near the bridge. From within its cabin, Ranklin couldn’t see where they were going nor where they’d got to except that it must be Billings’s Vanadis and moored not far off shore. They went up a gentle gangway amidships, turned aft, and almost immediately into a big room or cabin or whatever. Big enough to look low-ceilinged, which it wasn’t, and to be lit in pools of light from wall – and reading-lamps.

Billings himself was only a little taller than Ranklin, with a face like a frog. A friendly frog, however, with a wide smile under a large area of clean-shaven upper lip, who seemed pleased to meet them all.

“Mr Snaipe is escorting Lady Kelso on her diplomatic mission,” Bertie said as the only explanation for Ranklin.

“Is that so? You should have brought her along. When I get home, Mrs Billings will be most annoyed not to be able to disapprove of me meeting her.” He had a growly American accent but spoke reflectively, contrasting with Corinna’s crispness. “Now let me introduce you . . .”

There was Dahlmann, whose manner suggested he had hoped for a few Snaipe-free hours, but Ranklin watched Corinna go smiling up to another man and peck his cheek. So this had to be D’Erlon. He was extraordinarily handsome.

Until studied more closely. Then his eyes were too close-set and too pale, his fair hair was too long, his nose should have been more prominent or less so, there was an underlying weakness to his firm chin, and his ready smile seemed untrustworthy.

“-and Monsieur Edouard D’Erlon,” Billings was saying, “a partner in D’Erlon Freres and a director of the Imperial Ottoman Bank.”

Viewed dispassionately, D’Erlon seemed about Ranklin’s age but, of course, taller and wore rimless glasses. His white tie was definitely too big and floppy.

Corinna was standing close, waiting for a private word with her fiance, so Ranklin backed off, accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter and looked about the room. Apart from the royal-blue curtains across the windows, it glowed with warm browns and shades of orange. The walls were panelled in, probably, mahogany to match the furniture that effectively divided the place in two. The far end was arm-chairs, small tables, shelves of leather-bound books. The near end had a round table with chairs that looked too comfortable for dining where Dahlmann and D’Erlon had been sitting. In all, it looked expensive but cosy in a masculine and late-night way.

Bertie had replaced Corinna with D’Erlon and she came smiling up to Ranklin, standing by the sideboard where the drinks were kept.

“And how are you finding Constantinople, Mr Snaipe?” Then she lowered her voice. “Is Conall with you?”

“Oh, fascinating. Utterly fascinating . . . Yes, he’s here, too . . . What’s going on tonight?”

She turned to survey the room. “A little polite banging of financial heads together by Mr Billings in the hope that he’ll find out what the hell’s going on . . . I was talking to Lady Kelso over dinner. She’s quite a woman – Don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes. I had two days of her on the train.”

“Only now she’s living in exile in Italy.”

“She’d be worse off in Britain, with society cutting her dead.”

“I don’t think that says a hell of a lot for English society.”

“Would it be different with New York society?” And when she didn’t answer that, Ranklin went on: “I’ve been on the outside looking in, too. Not the way she is, but . . .”

“Yes, I know . . . But all because she walked out on a stupid bastard of a husband-”

“Not just that.”

“No, maybe – but she’s certainly paying for it now. And now your Government’s using her: what’s she going to get out of that?”

Ranklin shrugged. “Thanks – for trying. Nobody seems very hopeful she’ll achieve anything.”

Corinna looked at him belligerently. “Aren’t you along to make sure she doesn’t?”

“May we pass lightly over why I’m here? We’re all part of some great game of nations-”

“Not me. Anyhow, she’s alone, with nobody behind her. Going into those hills to talk to that bandit. Suppose it goes wrong? Who’s going to get her out?”

“I’ll do my best. I hope you really believe that.”

After the briefest pause, she said: “Yes, I do . . . but you’re working pretty much alone, too. Your people won’t acknowledge you or send help. But you’re used to that, you’ve accepted it.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

“I don’t know. But something.”

Ranklin shivered. That something had sounded like a lighted fuse.

Then Corinna caught Billings’s eye and went to sit next to him at the table. The seating divided clearly but not blatantly into the two Americans, the two Frenchmen, and Dahlmann by himself. Ranklin realised that the waiter had quietly vanished; rather than be the only one left standing, he also took a seat, coincidentally between Bertie and Billings but with his chair pushed back to show he didn’t really belong. It looked rather as if they were about to start a card game, only there were no cards and no money on the table. There were only glasses, ashtrays and single sheets of paper in front of Corinna and Bertie.

Billings hunched forward to open the proceedings, leaning gradually back as he spoke. “Now Dr Dahlmann’s gotten here, I’m hoping maybe we can finally figure out if I can be any use in this loan business . . . Though I’m kind of fuzzy about what chips the Deutsche Bank has in this game.”

“My bank has many and wide interests in the Turkish Empire.” Dahlmann spoke with quiet authority: this was his world. “And there is also the unissued part of the 1910 loan we and the Viennese banks made to Turkey. They may demand that we complete that.”

“Can you remind me how much that is, Dr Dahlmann?” Corinna asked.

“About three million Turkish pounds.”

D’Erlon made a gesture that swept the three million aside. “But now we are talking of a loan of over thirty million pounds.”

Did I think there was no money on this table? Ranklin wondered.

Dahlmann gave a small, tight smile. “It is still a factor – along with the Baghdad Railway bonds still held by the Imperial Ottoman. Which I think your Government will not let you sell on the Paris market.”

Corinna said: “Because they don’t want the French investing in a German project.” Everyone else must already know that, so she could only have been saying it for Ranklin’s benefit.

Billings said: “All this must be important, but it’s going to take time to work out. Now, Talaat Bey himself told me that Turkey’s broke. Just plain broke. They’re scratching for pennies.”

“I do believe,” Bertie said languidly, “that they have just reduced their soldiers’ pay from a medjidieh, that is -” he paused for calculation “- perhaps seventy-five of your cents, to under twenty cents – per month.”

“Sure. Exactly. So, while you’re sorting out the details of your long-term loan, why shouldn’t Sherring’s and I get together a short-term loan to tide them over? – say five million of their pounds for maybe three months?”

“At what rate?” D’Erlon asked.

“Ten,” Corinna said. It was quite remarkable how much she could get into one syllable: confidence that it was right, yet with a hint of flexibility.

“Ten?” Dahlmann queried. And he was a professional, too: in his voice ten became preposterous, a fairy-tale.

Billings said: “We could talk about that. But Turkey needs money fast, and we can have this on the counter in a week.”

“And no strings attached,” Corinna said. “No complications about rights of our citizens or concessions to build this and that. Just cash down.”

D’Erlon and Bertie looked at each other, then D’Erlon shrugged and said: “If you wish to put it to the Committee . . .”

“Not without you back us,” Billings said firmly. “You boys know the people here. But the way I see it, a short-term loan should help you, give you time to get your details just right. And with Turkey broke . . .”

D’Erlon said bluntly: “You were invited by the Turks, Mr Billings. Not by us.”

Corinna stared at him. “Are you telling us to keep our filthy dollars to ourselves?”

Bertie interceded quickly and more gently. “Tell me, what would happen in the American Army if your soldiers’ pay was reduced suddenly by three-quarters?”

Billings frowned. “Mutiny, I guess.”

“Exactly. In France, I am sure, also. But here . . . the soldiers are not being paid anything anyway, so what do such reductions matter?”

There was silence. Billings reached slowly, drank the last of his champagne, and looked at Corinna. “It seems, my dear, there’s more ways of being broke than we knew about.” He got up and took his empty glass to the sideboard. She gave D’Erlon a thoughtful look, then followed.

Dahlmann, to whom all of this had been music to a deaf adder, said: “May I ask what matters concerning French interests in Nort Africa are to be involved?”

Bertie said casually: “I believe it is accepted that France has a duty as protecting power in Morocco and Tunisia.”

“And in Syria?”

Bertie made a delicate balancing gesture. “It is difficult. . .”

“We had heard talk that France might ask for rights for Arabs, even a dual Turkish-Arab state, like Austria-Hungary.”

“Truly?” Bertie’s face was smooth and bland now. “Most interesting. But there is always talk.”

“I am sure it will be simpler if only Morocco and Tunisia are included.”

Bertie smiled his lazy smile. D’Erlon, who had been sitting between them looking just blankly handsome, roused himself. “Do you speak for Turkey now, Dr Dahlmann?”

Dahlmann pretended to look around. “They are not here. And if we do not consider their interests tonight, it will take many days of drinking much coffee . . . So: the matter of raising Customs dues . . .”

Ranklin reckoned nobody would miss him, so took his glass back to the sideboard. Billings poured him some more champagne. “I started off thinking your City people were acting timid with this market, Mr Snaipe. Now, maybe I think they’re well out of it.”

“There’s still room for a short-term loan,” Corinna said doggedly.

“Sure – if your boy-friend at the Imperial Ottoman agrees. Not if he’s working against it behind our backs.”

“The moron.”

Billings looked even more frog-like with a wide grin. “Woah, woah there. You’re talking of the man you love.”

“Cretin.”

Ranklin hoped his sudden cheerfulness didn’t show. Billings consoled Corinna: “You know what I think? – I think I was hauled in just to get the French worried, hurry them to terms. So maybe we shouldn’t expect the French – like your Monsieur D’Erlon and Monsieur Lacan – to love us. They want the Turks in a hurry, not themselves.” He looked back at the table. “Just who is Monsieur Lacan, anyhow?”

“French Diplomatique,” Corinna said. “And he’s just got back from ‘consultations’ in Paris, so I guess he’s supposed to be slipping in clauses to help French policy while the Imp Ott handles the money side. Although they do say Lacan’s always pitching for Arab rights, always in the desert, speaks all the Arab dialects . . .”

Billings nodded. “Does that make him maybe a little senior to your boy-friend?”

“Right now, I can think of cockroaches who are senior to my boy-friend. He might have told me what he was doing. We could have had a nice simple little deal.”

“But perhaps,” Ranklin suggested, “a bit too simple for the Eastern mind. I think they like things rather convoluted: that way, everybody can believe they’ve come out on top.”

“Listen to the diplomatist,” Billings said. “Sometimes – if you’ll pardon me, Mr Snaipe – they know what they’re talking about. And there -” a nod at the table “- they’re talking more than money. They’re building empires . . .” He paused to look like a frog thinking. “What was that about Baghdad Railroad bonds?”

Corinna frowned as she searched her mental files. “The Imperial Ottoman took thirty per cent of the original bond issue back in 1903 . . . They were shamed into it by the old Sultan, but the French Government objected and outlawed selling them in France, so they’re still sitting in the vaults here.”

Billings winced at the thought of money all alone in the dark. “Worth what?”

“I think around sixteen million francs at par. Say just under three million dollars, and only earning four per cent.”

“So maybe your fiance would like to see those bonds stop mouldering and turn into something useful – like sixteen million francs? Or even a good bit less?”

Stony-faced as the Sphinx, Corinna said: “Maybe.”

Billings nodded and moved away, not directly towards the table but circling it, like a hunting animal positioning itself down-wind. Just then Bertie got up, stretched, and came over to refill his glass.

“Ca marche?” Corinna asked.

“Il marche. Slowly, of course . . . But another matter has occurred: it seems that Dr Dahlmann’s Bank is drawing half a million of gold francs from the Imperial Ottoman tomorrow and it would be proper to have independent witnesses. Would you care to add your distinguished signature, Mrs Finn? And, of course, that of the Diplomatic Service, Mr Snaipe.”

“I’m not counting any half-million francs,” Corinna objected.

“Oh, no, no. It is only a matter of taking a glass of tea – or coffee – and agreeing that the event happened. And being shown the most splendid bank itself, quite as noble as any sultan’s palace, if you have not already seen it?”

“I’ve seen it, but I’d recommend it to Mr Snaipe. And okay, I’ll come along myself.”

“I’ll be there,” Ranklin agreed. “Unless my Embassy needs me, and they haven’t shown much sign of it.”

“Excellent. At eleven o’clock? Splendid.” Bertie ambled back to the table.

“What on earth was that about?” Corinna wondered. “Do you know?”

Ranklin shrugged. “Is it usual procedure for such handovers?”

“God knows, I never deal in cash. I’d expect a few lawyers hanging around; they tend to swarm at the smell of gold. They’ll need some porters, too,” she added. “Half a million gold francs isn’t something you slip in your purse.”

A thickening haze of tobacco smoke was spreading from the table and fuzzing the outlines of the room, making it more like a card game than ever. Bertie was chain-smoking, Dahlmann puffing a cigar and D’Erlon waggling a long and, Ranklin felt, rather effeminate cigarette holder.

Bertie picked up his sheet of paper. “May we see what has been agreed? The Turkish Government may create and sell monopolies on playing cards, cigarette papers, alcohol and sugar.” He glanced at D’Erlon, then Dahlmann; both nodded. “Also we accept a one per cent rise in Customs dues and establishing octroi controls. The Deutsche and the other banks will not issue the second part of the 1910 loan-”

“That is for Turkey to say,” Dahlmann said calmly.

“Of course, Dr Dahlmann. I was forgetting.”

“And,” Dahlmann continued, “there are the Baghdad Railway bonds which you have not been able to sell for eleven years . . .”

D’Erlon’s nose wrinkled, very briefly, as if he’d remembered a bad smell.

Dahlmann said: “My Bank believes it can help you in that matter. Unfortunately the market value is not so high at present, but I think my directors would agree if I offered only ten per cent under market.”

“Why not market?” D’Erlon asked, but he couldn’t sound indignant about it.

Dahlmann smiled bleakly. “Because, if you could sell them at any price you would surely have done so in the last eleven years.”

Billings said: “Maybe I can bid a little higher, hey?”

There was a stunned moment, then consternation. All three jerked upright as if their puppet-master had sneezed. Then Dahlmann subsided, impassive but probably with his mind whirring, Bertie did his damnedest to look as if he were going back to sleep, and D’Erlon couldn’t repress a slow smile as he realised he might be running an auction.

“I’ve never owned a piece of a Turkish railroad before,” Billings went on with an innocent smile. “And maybe some of the boys back at the club would like a share. How much is the market value, Dr Dahlmann?”

Stiffly: “I am sorry, I do not have the exact figure.”

Standing just behind Billings, Corinna said: “It has to be well under three million dollars.”

“You see?” Billings smiled. “Chicken feed.”

Bertie said: “And you have such millions, just like that?”

“I came to Constantinople expecting to invest at least that much, Monsieur Lacan. Of course, we’d like to see a prospectus, if you can dig one out. But subject to that, count me as interested, Monsieur D’Erlon. You might say very interested.”

“I am sure you will find no problems in the prospectus.” D’Erlon was now looking positively sunny.

Dahlmann was not looking sunny. “We are trying to make a bigger picture, Mr Billings. To take off the board just one piece-”

Billings smiled again. “Then go right ahead and outbid me.” He got up and walked away with Corinna. Ranklin wasn’t sure he should go with them, but quite sure he shouldn’t stay with the other three. An urgent bluebottle buzzing had started between D’Erlon and Bertie, with occasional references to the rigidly gloomy Dahlmann.

At the sideboard, Corinna was saying quietly, “I think you are being a very naughty man, Mr Billings.”

Billings, back to the table, flashed a vast froggy grin. “It shook the bast-boys, didn’t it? And wouldn’t your father like a piece of a Turkish railroad?”

“He’d bust an artery. Are you serious about buying four per cent bonds?”

Another grin. “It all depends on the price, doesn’t it? There might be something in it, short term. Never mind the Baghdad end, I’m not interested in that, it’s the stretch they’re building now. It hasn’t gotten anywhere, so nobody uses it, there’s no return on what they’re spending. But once they bust through the mountains, they’ll have linked up the north and south coasts, and that’s got to be worth something in new revenue. So it could push up the price of those bonds.”

“I hope you’re right. I’ll start finding out what the current price is first thing tomorrow. But-”

“Thank you. Anyhow, I don’t like being used, Mrs Finn.”

“I can understand that. But. . . Mr Billings, I have a feeling this Railroad has troubles it can’t even guess at.” She was looking straight at Ranklin. “What do you think, Mr Snaipe?”

Ranklin tried a vacuous smile. “Just couldn’t say . . . but I’m off to see where they’re building it in a day or two, perhaps I’ll have a better idea when I get back.”

Billings nodded, intent now. “Of course, you’re going with Lady Kelso – That can’t be far from the sea, there?”

“I think where they’re tunnelling through the coastal range is about twenty or thirty miles inland.”

“Were you thinking of taking this yacht on down for a look?” Corinna asked.

“If I was staying longer . . . But I want to be in London next week . . .” He came to a decision. “If I went back by the Orient Express, would you like to take this boat down there and look for me?”

“Me? But I don’t . . .” Then Corinna seemed to remember something. “Sure. Sure I’ll go – if you trust my judgment of railroads.”

“Fine. That’s settled, then.”

It’s odd, Ranklin thought sadly, how seldom people lend me their steam yachts.