Stone's Fall (43 page)

CHAPTER
17

I left him sitting down at his desk to write to colleagues and associates, to begin sounding out opinion; I did not even pause to wonder how it was that he was not surprised that a mere journalist should know, or care, so much. I was in a hurry now; I had plenty enough to do. First stop was the British Embassy, but, as I had anticipated, it was closed, and (because it was the British Embassy) no one was prepared to tell me where I might find the Ambassador. He was a man who valued his leisure, and would under no circumstances have it disturbed. I would have to wait.

Next came the Russian Embassy, which was also closed. Not completely, such places never were; I walked in, and wandered around until I found someone to ask where I might find the military attaché. The answer was forthcoming soon enough: 27 boulevard Haussmann, I was told, the second floor. It was a good half hour by foot, quicker by cab but there was none to be found, so, at three o’clock in the afternoon, I knocked on the door of Count Gurunjiev and was let in by a servant who looked as though he had just got off a horse after a long ride across the steppe.

The apartment was lavishly furnished and had a strange, almost spicy aroma quite unlike any smell you find in a house inhabited by French people. I never found out what it was, but it gave the subsequent meeting an undeniable air of foreign adventure. It was not at all unpleasant, but not the sort of aroma that fades from your mind once your nose gets used to it. I dearly wanted to know what it was, but could not find any assuredly polite way of asking.

I had never met Gurunjiev before; he did not come to Elizabeth’s salon, but rather visited her separately, normally on a Tuesday afternoon. I learned later, by means which I do not wish to elaborate on, that he had always been one of her more generous supporters, although not at all the most extravagant. I had expected a strapping man of the officer class, a cross between a hero in a Tolstoy novel and an image of Alexander II on horseback, but got neither of these. Gurunjiev was good-looking enough, I suppose, but not especially tall, not particularly well built, and with no military air to him at all. Not the Cossack type, in fact. Rather, he was distinguished by a face of such abundant good nature that it was impossible to dislike him for a second; a clear forehead surrounded by dark hair, deep-set brown eyes, a straight nose and delicate, almost feminine mouth. The thought of him being intimate with Elizabeth crossed my mind for a fraction of a second, but that fragment was damaging to my purpose, so I did my best to suppress it. It was unfortunate, because he was a delightful man in every way; I could see exactly why Elizabeth considered him to be well qualified for his role. The only surprise was that she had managed not to fall properly in love with him.

“This is a most unusual visit,” the Count began with a warm smile. He did not seem in the slightest bit annoyed, even though I had interrupted him at some meal. His voice was rich and civilised, his French excellent, and he gestured me to sit in the most natural way possible. “Who are you?”

“Well,” I said, “I came to you because I have heard of you from the Countess von Futak.”

“Any friend of the Countess is naturally someone who is welcome in my house,” he said coolly. “Although I did not realise that our friendship was so well known.”

“It is not, sir. I was speaking to her on a matter which has given me some concern, and she then revealed that she had made your acquaintance, considered you a friend, and told me I had to inform you of what I knew as a matter of urgency.”

“I see. And one must always follow her advice. When you are done, I hope you will join me at our table. My family is always ready to welcome a new acquaintance.”

You see? I am prepared to trust in your absolute discretion, because I have complete trust in hers, is what he meant. You will, no doubt, find it easy to respond with equal understanding.

“I’m afraid I have previous engagements, otherwise I would accept with great pleasure. But thank you for your kindness.”

“Then begin.”

“Very well. You must understand that what I am about to tell you is in the strictest confidence. I do not need to say that to a man like yourself, of course; but my superiors would consider my behaviour to be questionable, at the least, should they come to hear of it. You will have to find your own means of explaining your knowledge of what I am about to tell you.”

He gestured that such a thing was entirely understandable. “Good. I am a journalist, working for
The Times.
In addition I also do a little work for the Foreign Office of Great Britain.”

“A spy?”

“I have undertaken to acquire any sort of information which might assist the well-being of Britain and its possessions. Please do not misunderstand me if I say that I am very good at it, and that in this job I also, inevitably, learn of things which concern other nations as well.”

“Such as Russia?”

“When I began this job, I took over from a man called Arnsley Drennan, who subsequently found employment selling his services to the highest bidder. He is a man of the greatest violence and the smallest morals. His history has been one of war, and deceit, and killing. He is an American.”

“Go on.”

“I know relatively little about him. No one does. He is in his fifties and was once a soldier in the Civil War. It was there, I believe, that he began to acquire his skills as a murderer. Certainly he is an expert in his profession. He is able to slip unnoticed behind a man and slit his throat as quickly and as quietly as a mouse. His virtue for many people is that he has no allegiance and so is difficult to find, or follow.”

“And what was Her Majesty’s Government doing by employing such a man?”

“They no longer do so. But it may well be that they employ someone similar in his place. As do the Government of France and the Government of Russia.”

He bridled noticeably at this statement, and began to deny it.

“You know quite well it is so. Six months ago a pair of Estonian nationalists drowned in the Danube. Do you really think they just fell in when they were drunk? A revolutionist was found with his throat cut last month in Rotterdam. Again, do you really think this deed was committed by an argumentative comrade? That such people are dealt with through the courts alone?”

He looked decidedly uncomfortable at this, but also I could see the glimmerings of a thrill in the way he sat. All people—all men, I should say, as I have discovered that women are by and large impervious to the charms of the occult—can be easily fascinated by such tales. They like the idea of possessing hidden knowledge. Only the very sensible truly prefer not to know. Only the saintly are truly appalled. With luck, I could exploit this weakness and go some way to solving two pressing problems at one and the same time. If I was careful and if I was lucky.

“Go on.”

“His current employers are people who have no love of Russia. You are aware, I am sure, that the various revolutionist groupings have had very little success in fomenting any trouble inside Russia itself. They make a great deal of noise, but accomplish little. There are so many informers inside their ranks that they manage little before they are discovered. Anarchists of various sorts manage to blow up a restaurant or a bar every now and then, but there is little real point to what they do.”

“Yes. I know all this.”

“Good. Let me be blunt then. A group of Russian exiles have engaged the services of Mr. Drennan to effect an atrocity against Russia in France.”

This statement was greeted with silence, as the Count stared at me, the atmosphere suddenly dark and serious.

“And you know this how, might I ask?”

A difficult question to answer, as I didn’t know; in fact it was a tissue of lies from beginning to end.

“Russia is not the only country which keeps an eye on these people,” I said airily. “And I have been keeping an eye on Mr. Drennan. That was for my own protection as he resents my existence considerably, and I did not wish to become his next victim myself.”

“And this atrocity—?”

“I am afraid, sir, that I must interrupt here, and rather ruin my reputation. I must exchange this information, not give it.”

His handsome countenance darkened.

“Don’t concern yourself,” I said gently. “Even if you are not able to oblige me, I will still tell you all you need to know to prevent a catastrophe. But I would like your word that you will assist me, if you can do so. I desire no more than that.”

His eyes narrowed as he considered this offer, and I could see that he was calculating possibilities. He was not, I thought, quite so direct and straightforward as his manner suggested.

“Very well,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me what you want, then we will see if we can do business. Please bear in mind that I have noticed you have given me no proof whatsoever of what you say.”

“That will come. I hardly expect you to act on the unsubstantiated word of a total stranger. Very well, then. You have heard, I imagine, of Barings Bank?”

He looked totally astonished at the sudden change of direction, but nodded.

“In a few days’ time, Barings is going to get into considerable difficulties. It has to make a payment and does not have the funds to do so. It will, as happens in these circumstances, apply to the Bank of England for assistance. News of the problems will seep out, and many people will wish to convert their funds into something more substantial than paper. Other houses will also want gold from the Bank of England’s vaults.”

He nodded, but cautiously. It was clear he only just understood what I was talking about. “The Bank does not have enough. One does not have to be an expert to understand the difficulties that arise when a bank does not have enough money to meet its obligations.”

“I do not see—”

“In the past month the Russian state bank has withdrawn substantial amounts of the gold it habitually holds in London for safekeeping. It has withdrawn money from the Bank of England, and also from Barings itself. All for perfectly good reasons, I am sure, but if it were able to announce it was reversing this policy, then the problem would be significantly lessened. That is all I require.”

I had lost him, I could see. He was a man of diplomatic balls and negotiations between grand men. He understood not one thing about how empires are really made, or how countries satisfy the needs and desires of their people. It had never occurred to him to wonder how the food on his plate got there, how it was grown, harvested, moved from place to place and merchant to merchant along the great paths of invisible money that encircle the globe, tying every man and every town to each other so efficiently that most people did not even suspect they were there. He took it for granted. And we never value what we never think about.

“You want Russia to move gold…”

I suppressed a groan. “No, Excellency. There is no need to move it. Simply saying that you will not move it will be more than sufficient. Belief is as good as reality, where money is concerned.”

He frowned. “As you see, Mr. Cort, I know little of these things. Nor do I care about them much. An oversight on my part, no doubt. But it means that I have no idea whatsoever whether you are asking me a small favour or a gigantic one. We wish to make an exchange, but that depends on a fair price for each side. I do not know the value of what you are asking.”

“Then I suggest you consult one of your people in the Embassy who does know, Excellency,” I said. “But I would request that you do so swiftly. Time is of the greatest importance here.”

He surprised me then. He was not at all the sort of person I had imagined. He stood immediately and called for a servant. “Prepare my clothes. I must go to the Embassy immediately. And send messengers to”—here he reeled off a list of Russian names—“and tell them to meet me there within the hour.”

He turned back to me, and smiled. “I will meet my people, and attempt to understand what this is about,” he said. “I may need to get hold of you, so if you would leave your address…?”

I nodded.

“And I will hold you to your word, Mr. Cort. I must have that information, whether I can assist you or no.”

“You will have that, and willingly,” I said. “All I know at the moment is that Drennan is probably living on the Ile Saint-Louis, and that the plot involves an attack against the Russian cathedral some time next week. Please place guards around it. Twenty-four hours a day.” I gave Drennan’s description. “He is not a member of the Orthodox Church, cares nothing for Eastern music and has no opinion whatsoever of modern ecclesiastical architecture. If he goes there at all, it will not be for the state of his soul.”

“Then you have given me a great deal to do,” he said. “Diplomats must dress properly, and that takes an extraordinary amount of time.”

It was a dismissal, so I thanked him, left the room and headed back home.

I had made progress, or so I thought. That is, I had contacted two powerful people in the Russian and the French camps and opened communication. The next stage was to discover their price, if indeed they were prepared to sell. I realised, however, that I had little enough to offer in exchange.

And if the price was too high? What would happen then? I paused at a café in the rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré and ordered an omelette and a glass of red wine; I had not eaten since morning and I was desperately hungry. I might as well eat and think at the same time.

Britain would be desperately weakened, of course; trade all over the world would shrink; factories would close, ships be laid up. People would lose their jobs. The Government’s revenue, and its ability to pay for the Royal Navy, would fall. The colonies would then be exposed and vulnerable—India, South Africa, the Far East—and the French and Russians would move to drive home their advantage. What could we do? Except go cap in hand to the Germans, asking them to name their price. They would, no doubt, want a free hand in East Africa for a start, maybe much more than that. And would they even want to assist, sandwiched as they were between Russia to the east and France to the west?