All Honourable Men (20 page)

“But you were not hurt?”

“Thanks to the grace of Mary, Mother of God, I was not.”

The Embassy man didn't translate that, just shook his head. The policeman asked another question.

“And where were you going in that street?”

“From God-knows-where to more of the same. I was lost. I reckoned if'n I was going down hill I'd be finding the quay and mebbe the bridge and know where I was. And I suddenly think Mebbe there's someone following me and I looks and mebbe there is, so I take a turn or two and they're still there behind me and God knows now I really
am
lost and so I'm hurrying, Jayzus, I'd've been
running
if they knew how to make proper streets in this town, and then I see the lights here and mebbe they see them and reckon it's their last chancst to get me and one of them yells and one of them shoots and I come down that street mebbe faster'n the bullet, for all I know.”

Another of O'Gilroy's strengths was the apparently random wordiness of his lies.

The policeman was either convinced or overwhelmed, although he'd written hardly any of this down. They were seated at a table in a café – not, thank God, the one O'Gilroy had watched from, but the one nearer where the launch had moored: Herr Fernrick, Albrecht, the train guard, the police –
man, a couple of Turks – maybe they were something to do with the Embassy, too – and the man asking the questions. Now he had one of his own, not from the policeman: “You did not . . . meet them? They were not waiting in that street?”

You mean watching what you were doing loading that launch?

“Jayzus, mebbe I passed them way back, but I told ye, they was
following
me. Was a lucky thing ye fellers being here, mebbe they'd've followed me right out here, otherwise. Was ye jest passing or having a drink or something?”

Go on, you bugger, let's hear a lie from
you
, for a change. But the Embassy man just asked: “Did you see what they looked like?”

“I told ye, they was
following
me. And have ye seen those alleys back there? – a bat'd be walking in those.” O'Gilroy shrugged. “I think mebbe they had those flowerpot hats on.”

The Embassy man had a conversation with the policeman, perhaps wanting him to ask why O'Gilroy was roaming the streets (O'Gilroy had a story to explain that), but the policeman had obviously heard enough. He finally stood up, not rudely, but decisively.

“How would I be getting a cab in this town?” O'Gilroy asked.

The Embassy man came close to asking a question, then sighed and said: “I will show you.”

“Will he know where the Pera Palace is? Can I be trusting him? How much does it cost?” It was best, he felt, to keep the man smothered with words. And on top of his regret at not being able to tell his story about why he was on the streets, he had suddenly realised that he
hadn't been behaving illegally at all
. Apart from shooting a hole in a wall, and that had been justifiable self-defence. He started to feel quite self-righteous. A bit disconcerted, too.

* * *

Bertie, Corinna and Ranklin shared a cab from the Embassy down to the Galata quayside.

“Just who,” Ranklin asked, “is this Mr Billings I'll be imposing on?”

“To me,” Corinna said, “he's a client of my father's bank. To the Turks he's a rich man who might put together a loan for them. To the United States he's a Chicagoan turned more-or-less New Yorker, and head of Union Carbide. To you, he's a good host with a nice line in comfortable steam yachts.”

From the dimness in his corner of the cab, Bertie chuckled. “I pass.”

* * *

O'Gilroy talked his way into the Pera Palace hotel and then, using some of his surplus self-righteousness, into Ranklin's room (of
course
he had to arrange his master's things for him, he'd never hear the last of it, God alone knew how the man had got dressed for the Embassy without him . . .).

Once inside, he locked the door, then sat down and muttered to himself a report of his evening, trying to discard the lies and avoid turning guesses into facts. When he was satisfied, he actually did a bit of re-arranging of Ranklin's clothes, made up a bundle of laundry, found where Ranklin had hidden his spare ammunition and reloaded the fired chamber of the Bulldog revolver.

What to do with the spent cartridge? – that wasn't something to be left in a wastebasket. In the end, he pocketed it, planning to throw it in the water tomorrow. And after that. . . His own room was a cubby-hole in the attic, no better nor worse than most servants' bedrooms, but definitely not within reach of a bath. However, nobody in the place would recognise him yet, so he half-undressed, put on Ranklin's expensive dressing-gown and strolled along to the guests' one at the end of the corridor.

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 Fréres 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 fiancé, 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.