All Honourable Men (18 page)

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 cafés 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 café.

* * *

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 attachés 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 café but one almost fifty yards off. It had a better-dressed, more European clientele than the cafés 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?”