All Honourable Men (19 page)

“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.

When the ladies had withdrawn, the men remained standing for a few moments, waiting politely to see who wanted a private word with whom.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.

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.
Masculinité 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.