All Honourable Men (22 page)

“Yes, isn't he?” Her smile was brief and flat. The lift stopped at her floor. “Well, I guess I'll see you at the Imp Ott Bank in the morning. Good night, Mr Snaipe.”

She left him to creak and shudder on up to the smaller rooms above.

As he had more or less expected, “waiting dutifully” to O'Gilroy had meant filling the room with cigarette smoke, then going to sleep in, not on, Ranklin's bed.

Ranklin opened the window and when he turned round again, O'Gilroy was wide awake.

Ranklin took a seat. “Please don't apologise. How did you manage?”

O'Gilroy slid the revolver from under his pillow and passed it over. “I used one shot. Had to,” and began telling his story.

“You think that box was full of explosives?”

“When a coupla fellers drop a box and every soldier goes flat, what d'ye think's in it? Turkish Delight? Nor machine-gun ammunition, ye could roll that down a mountain and never—”

Ranklin nodded.

“Could be a lot of the other boxes, too.”

“I suppose it doesn't
have
to be anything to do with Miskal – but yes, we have to assume it is. So perhaps they're hoping to blast him out of his stronghold. But if they assume they can get that close, why not just overrun the place?”

“Do we know what this place looks like? Mebbe there's a cliff, like, they could blow down on his head.”

“Or blow up his water supply, ‘thirst' him out, as it were . . . No, I don't know anything about his stronghold, except that it's an old monastery, so anything might be possible . . . And the launch kept going, straight across the Bosphorus?”

O'Gilroy nodded. So it was almost certainly delivering the boxes to Haydar Pasha station, start of the Baghdad Railway. “And you're sure these other two, the Turks who attacked you, were also watching?”

“Certain sure. Mebbe they was down on the quay before, watching the loading close up. There was a lot of coming and going.”

“But we don't know who they are, or working for . . . What can they report about you? Did you say anything?” O'Gilroy shook his head. “Then only your general build and that you wore a bowler hat. . . just for safety, scrap that. Have you got a cap? Then wear it. I give you special dispensation.”

“Yer too kind. And what happened to yeself?”

“Nothing urgent – I think. I'll tell you in the morning. But
now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get some sleep in my own bed.”

“Sure, and I was jest warming it for ye.”

* * *

Constantinople got its weather either from Russia or the Mediterranean, according to the wind. But that morning it had got muddled and was offering bright blue sky with a northeast wind like a Tartar sword. After a late breakfast, Ranklin went back to his room to meet O'Gilroy and run through events at the Embassy and on Billings's yacht. Then sent him off to buy a coat suitable for the mountains, directing him back across the Galata Bridge to the Grand Bazaar.

“Anything at all as long as it's warm: leather, sheepskin, looks don't matter.” He paused. “I wouldn't be sending you there if they did, but you should have quite a choice.”

After he'd gone, Ranklin wished he'd told him to pick up some lead shot, too. If some miracle put them within reach of the gold coin, he'd better be prepared. So he went out early himself, found a gun dealer in the
Grande Rue
where most of the European shops were, and bought a kilo of No. 3 shot. Then he took a cab to the Imperial Ottoman Bank.

The moment he got there, he realised he knew the building already since its bulk dominated the lower slope of Pera: at least seven storeys high and with the south side looking more Indo-Chinese than Turkish with bits of wide roof sticking out three-quarters of the way up. Perhaps the French had got muddled and sent the plans to the wrong address. Ranklin walked up the broad steps at five to eleven and realised he didn't really know who to ask for.

“M'
sieu Lacan?
” he tried, but that meant nothing. Reluctantly, then: “Ou M'
sieu D'Erlon?
”

“
Ah, oui – vous êtes I'Honorable M'sieu Snaipe?”
In Constantinople French that sounded very much like the Orrible Mr Snaipe, but Ranklin agreed and presented his card. He didn't need to: a flunkey was detailed to escort him personally. Up a
wide staircase to the main “public” floor which, if not truly grand in the Sultan's-palace sense – a sultan would hardly have chosen so much
brown
marble – was grand enough since it was all some sort of marble: square pillars, counter tops and the Eastern-style grilles instead of balustrades. And with that odd habit banks have of building to show how little they care about money, the core of the place was pure wasted space: an indoor courtyard surrounded by umpteen levels of balconies to a glass roof.

It was also busy: unlike the cathedral calm of a British bank, this looked as Ranklin imagined the Stock Exchange to be: prosperous-looking men stood chatting in groups or sat in niches, many of them wearing fezzes above well-filled European suits or frock coats. Waiters weaved through them carrying silvery trays of coffee cups and tea glasses. And everybody smoked. It seemed an amiable way to do business if that's what they were doing.

The flunkey led him down a quieter corridor away from the busyness, around a few corners, knocked and opened a door, and there was Edouard D'Erlon, smiling, handsome, well-dressed and welcoming. There were also Corinna, looking bored, Dahlmann looking sour and Streibl, who seemed happy since he was probably daydreaming of railways.

* * *

This must
be
the Grand Bazaar, only Ranklin had forgotten to tell him it was entirely roofed over. So at first sight it was a tunnel of murmuring humanity, churning in the dimness, with lamplight winking off cascades of metalwork. On second sight, it was a whole labyrinth of such tunnels, reeking of spices, tanned leather, hot metal and people. It was daunting but it was also much more like the Mysterious East than anything O'Gilroy had yet seen, so after a moment's pause, he stepped inside.

After a few minutes he no longer noticed the noise, a constant babble that echoed from the vaulted roof where a
little light, green where it filtered through plants wind-seeded on the roof, came from small glassless windows. He also realised it was divided into districts: a whole tunnel of stalls selling brassware, then one selling carpets, then embroidered silks . . . and all the stalls tucked into arches like miniature versions of London railway bridges. Happily anonymous, he just wandered, weaving around porters under massive loads and men carrying tea glasses on trays with handles like shopping baskets. He smiled and shook his head at imploring stallkeepers – who couldn't follow far from their stalls – confident he'd find what he wanted eventually.

* * *

After the inevitable tea or coffee they had finally got down to business and the whole party – now about a dozen including various Bank employees, one of which wore a uniform and pistol belt – were tramping along a dim-lit corridor somewhere beneath the Bank. Dahlmann plucked Ranklin's coat and hissed: “Why are you here?”

“Er, Beirut Ber – M'sieu Lacan – invited me to come as a witness.”

“You should not have agreed. It connects the gold with Lady Kelso's mission.”

“Oh, sorry about that,” Ranklin said, cheerily vapid.

Dahlmann glowered. “Also, your manservant – did you know he was going about the city alone last night?”

“Really? I sent him out to buy some tobacco and he hadn't got back by the time I had to go to the Embassy . . . Probably got lost. Did
you
find him for me?”

“Ach, no . . . I heard . . .” Dahlmann shouldn't have opened a subject without thinking where it might lead. “Then you did not send him to . . .”

There, he'd done it again. Ranklin helped: “To buy some tobacco? Yes, I told you. He didn't break any laws, did he?”

“No . . . I think . . .” He pulled himself together and in an announcing whisper said: “You must be ready to leave today at
three o'clock. Half past two,” he amended, allowing for vapidness.

There was a clicking of keys and bolts from the front of the column and they had arrived at a vault of whitewashed stone with a single light bulb dangling from a recent cable in the ceiling and several oil lamps hung around the walls. But they weren't what lit the room: their light was sucked in and glowed back by a tabletop of gold. Among all these moneymen, Ranklin was the only one who should have been impressed, but there was a long moment of reverent silence from everyone.

Then D'Erlon made an elegant if flamboyant gesture and said: “
Bitte, Herr Doktor Dahlmann
—”

Looked at more soberly, the gold didn't really cover the table, which was big and solid, since there was plenty of room for a set of brass scales and a heap of small canvas bags as well. But someone had spent a happy morning arranging eight hundred stacks, each of twenty-five twenty-five-franc pieces so that they covered nearly a square yard to a depth of about three inches. And the result was certainly impressive.

Dahlmann must have begun his career as a mere cashier and hadn't forgotten his dexterity with the stuff of human happiness. He bent down and squinted to make sure the stacks were all of even height, picked one up, flickered through a count, paused to examine a coin or two more closely, then another stack . . .

Around the vault were several hard chairs and one elderly leather-and-gilt one, almost a throne. Probably it was for a Turkish grandee to lounge in while the infidels counted out his wealth, but Corinna got it this time. Ranklin began to feel bored, then decided Snaipe would be childishly fascinated by all this loot, so had to became that instead.

Finally Dahlmann said:
“Sehr gut. Danke,”
and stood back.

D'Erlon waved up two helpers who began scooping stacks into bags – five hundred coins to a bag, Ranklin reckoned – then sealing the drawstrings with a dab of wax. D'Erlon reached into a pocket and put half a dozen gold coins on the table. “Just in case we have made a mistake,” he smiled.

Dahlmann looked at the coins coldly. “We are bankers. I am sure there is not a mistake.” And for once, Ranklin actually felt sorry for D'Erlon.

Already standing close, he picked up one of D'Erlon's coins. It was roughly the same size as a sovereign, and its neat, tiny detail was a wry contrast with the brutal crudity of the dungeon that was the natural home of such things in such quantity. He turned it this way and that to catch the light, then put it down again. “That reminds me: I'd better change some sovereigns into some of these, if this is the usual currency in Turkey. Can I do that upstairs?”

“Of course,” D'Erlon said.

Having filled ten of the bags, the helpers jammed them into a robust wooden box little bigger than a cigar box and nailed the lid on top. The hammering echoed like the day of doom in that space, and Corinna winced. D'Erlon was immediately solicitous, suggesting she go back upstairs.

“But if I'm to sign as a witness . . .” she objected.

D'Erlon glanced at Dahlmann, who was obviously going to stay put, and who said: “It is not important to me. I did not suggest witnesses.”

“I'll take Mrs Finn upstairs,” Ranklin volunteered, and a spare employee was detailed to show them the way.

* * *

Just wandering and looking was one thing, but when you wanted to buy something it all changed: now you were a victim. The coat O'Gilroy was trying on was, unquestionably, a winter coat: leather, and with a fur lining. But it also had embroidery on it that made him feel like a pantomime bandit. Still, it was warm and more-or-less fitted, so he tried asking the price.

If O'Gilroy understood the man, he was talking about the Turkish loan, not the price of a coat. He took it off and frowned at it while wondering what to do next. Damn it, he
needed
a coat.

“May I be of assistance?” He was a middle-aged man, not too thin, with a roundish face and sleepy-cat eyes. French, from the accent.

“That's kindness itself, sir. I was having a bit of trouble understanding the price.”

“Ah, here there is no price.” The man began to examine the coat critically. “There is just bargaining. Hm.” He pulled at a pocket, tore the stitching, and instead of apologising, frowned accusingly at the stallkeeper. There was a quick exchange of Turkish and the coat was tossed aside.

“You want a coat for cold and wet weather? Then it is best to do as the animals themselves do. They wear, you may have noticed, the fur or fleece on the
outside
. Odd, but perhaps they have reason.” He took what looked like a bundle of uncleaned sheep-shearings from the seller. “Like this.”

He helped O'Gilroy into it. “It may seem a little . . . primitive, but to clean it will make it to leak. Sheep do not wash, I understand.” He sniffed. “There may, I should warn you, be a slight danger of rape: possibly you smell most enchanting to other sheep. However . . .” He walked around O'Gilroy, looking critically. “It is comfortable?”

It was certainly warm right down to the knees, and when O'Gilroy found the pockets they were deep and seemed well-stitched. It was definitely
not
as worn in Park Lane, but he wasn't heading there. “Seems jest fine. Er – how much would it be costing?”

This launched a long, but essentially polite, episode of negotiation, reminiscence, an exchange of cigarettes, an offer of tea – delicately refused – and at last an apparent swearing of eternal fealty before the Frenchman said: “Nine francs. I am sorry I did not have time to get it cheaper, but . . .” So O'Gilroy handed over the equivalent of seven shillings and sixpence.

By now he had a good idea who the Frenchman was, and that he knew who O'Gilroy was – was pretending to be, that is. So he said: “Would ye be asking if he'd give me a receipt?”