All Honourable Men (24 page)

He was still alone with his guard, who didn't look like the average Turk, being bulky, bearded and wearing some sort of turban rather than fez, a padded and embroidered jacket and baggy white trousers. These were probably clues enough for an old Eastern hand to say “Ah, a Hobgoblin from the Blarney region” but O'Gilroy had regressed to his Army days and saw him as just another bloody native.

The Hobgoblin hadn't displayed a pistol, but had made a point of expertly-casually carving up an orange with his curved
knife, and O'Gilroy had got the message. But the man's build would have made him a handful anyway.

So he just sat and smoked and thought through his headache. He had to start with the idea that he had made a mistake. But Bertie had been following him anyway – or been close behind some inconspicuous Hobgoblin who had followed him to the Bazaar – which meant he had been suspect already. So was it Bertie's men who had been watching the launch last night and brought back a description of him? Probably; firing off that pistol had spoiled his pose as a tourist. And there didn't have to have been only two of them: maybe another on the waterfront, studying him as he talked to the Germans afterwards.

But then where had he gone wrong? He reckoned he had played his part cleverly enough in the Bazaar coffee-house, hinting at his own corruptibility, ready to listen as Bertie revealed his own schemings . . .

And
that
, he suddenly saw, had been wrong. He hadn't hit a false note, he'd been playing the wrong tune. Instead of being upright, loyal to his master, touch-me-not, he'd been clever. One hint of cleverness was all Bertie had needed to confirm his suspicions – and here he was.

So now would they really let him go? The French – still assuming Bertie really was working for them –
were
allies, of a sort, and maybe they just wanted him out of the way while they got on with their own plans. But he wasn't going to count on it. He wasn't going to count on anything but his own nastiness from now on.

* * *

Wherever they were going, it didn't seem to be to the crossing to Haydar Pasha station; the car was heading north-east alongside the Bosphorus.

“I can tell you now,” Dahlmann told them now, “that you do not go by railway: we said that to deceive anyone who . . . anyone. Instead, you will go in the
Loreley
, the
stationnaire
. You understand?”

Lady Kelso seemed to, Ranklin didn't. “When I come first to Constantinople,” Dahlmann explained, “all the Powers had
stationnaires
here. Yachts for the Ambassador, like Herr Billings's yacht, but sailed by the Navy.”

“Are we catching her at Therapia, then?” Lady Kelso asked, looking out of the car windows.

“That is correct, Lady Kelso. I hope you do not object to sea travel.”

“I'm sure it'll be more comfortable than the train – but how long will it take?”

“Perhaps three days. But by the Railway to the camp on the north of the mountains needs also a long time, more than a day, by horse. And more uncomfortable for you.”

He smiled at her but got only a twitch of a smile back. She might be feeling a bit like a secret parcel. And that reminded Ranklin: “So we'll arrive on the south side of the mountains; what about the gold?”

Dahlmann peered at the glass partition that kept the driver in his place but seemed reassured. “Always it was to go in the
Loreley
. The boxes Dr Streibl sent to Haydar Pasha were – how do you say?”

“Dummies?”

“Yes. Dummies.”

“Very clever,” Ranklin said. “But if you do have to give Miskal this ransom, I assume you'll want him to sign something saying he promises to leave the Railway alone in future?”

After a moment, Dahlmann said: “That is a matter for the Railway.”

“Quite an important matter, I'd think.” He'd more or less raised this on the train; he was interested to see if they'd followed it up. It seemed not.

Lady Kelso said: “If he gives his word, that's what matters. Not legal agreements.”

“Honourable man, is he?”

“Yes . . . In his own way,” she conceded.

“Oh, I think that's true of most people,” Ranklin said
blithely. “Just odd how often that way turns out to be what they want to do anyhow.”

He felt her, sitting next to him on the car's back seat, lean away so that she could stare back at him more intently. He went on smiling innocently straight ahead.

Therapia was perhaps ten miles up the Bosphorus, a one-time fishing-harbour which had become a resort since the nations began building their summer embassies there, away from the heat, smells and infections of Constantinople. The German one was a whole walled compound of white-painted wooden buildings, now shuttered and looking empty, just across the road from the water. Moored a hundred yards off-shore was what must be the
Loreley
.

She had the sleek beauty of all steam yachts, with a clipper bow and overhanging stern, but in her case a rather middle-aged beauty (later, he learnt she had been launched nearly thirty years ago at Glasgow as the
Mohican
). The single funnel was rather tall and thin and she had three masts with sails furled along their booms, so probably she wasn't shy of using some help from the wind. Being Navy, there were two tarpaulined shapes right forward and aft – probably small-calibre quick-firers – and despite being Navy she was painted white with yellow funnel and masts and some gold fiddlededee around her bows.

There was a large steam launch waiting beside a wooden quay and sailors immediately started putting their luggage on board, so perhaps there really was some hurry. When they had got out of the car, Dahlmann announced: “I shall leave you here. Dr Streibl is now your guide.”

Nobody said how much they regretted the parting, so he went on awkwardly: “I must wish you much luck in your errand of. . . mercy. Mercy,” he repeated, trying to convince himself he'd got it right.

Lady Kelso looked to Ranklin and the Foreign Office for some appropriate and flowery words.

“Jolly good,” Ranklin said, and they all shook hands and
climbed down into the launch. Before they even reached the yacht, its funnel had begun to boil black smoke.

* * *

Bertie reappeared after about an hour, along with a second Hobgoblin carrying something that O'Gilroy didn't recognise but did not like at all.

“All is arranged,” Bertie smiled. “I am afraid tonight you must spend under my poor roof, and tomorrow you will be free. And so you will not be tempted to flee, and to make life simpler for my servants, I must ask you to wear this. . . rather medieval object.” It looked like a hinged dog-collar and chain but made of old and heavy iron. “I believe it is a true antique, at least two hundred years old, so perhaps you will regard wearing it as historical research and do not resist?” O'Gilroy had already decided not to: the two Hobgoblins would get it on him anyway, plus perhaps a broken arm. “Ah, splendid. I can assure you that Ibrahim has just cleaned it, quite possibly spoiling its value. . . I will not ask if it is comfortable, but it is quite becoming. And who knows what famous prisoners of past sultans may have worn it? You may care to feel honoured – but I will understand if you do not. But I forget my manners: Ibrahim I have named, your other guardian is known as Arif the Terrible.”

“What's he so terrible at?”

“I hope you will not find out. Now, before I catch my ship, we must have a little talk.” He pulled up one of the few chairs and sat facing O'Gilroy. “We all know Lady Kelso will talk to Miskal the famous bandit who was also once her lover. But suppose she does not persuade him to release the engineers? – what will the Railway do then? Remember – we are allies.”

O'Gilroy stuck a finger inside the iron collar. “Funny how that keeps slipping me mind.”

Bertie smiled his lazy smile. “I assure you . . . But what will the Railway do?”

O'Gilroy tried to shrug but the weight on his shoulders was too much. “No idea.”

“Perhaps they would offer money, that seems logical. Was there a hint of that?”

“And me stuck away with the other servants in the guard's van.”

Bertie nodded. “But of course.” He made as if to get up, then: “And when were you told of this task you must do?”

“I jest came with me master . . .” But O'Gilroy realised he mustn't harp on his “master”; best to keep Ranklin out of it, and out of Bertie's suspicions. “I think . . . when the fellers decided to ask Lady Kelso . . . they naturally wanted to send someone to help . . .”

“But
when
did they decide?”

What on earth was Bertie after? “Ye think the High-and-Mighty tell me things like that?” He could half-admit to being a spy and still be a fairly mere hireling.

And Bertie seemed to accept that. “I am late.
Au revoir
, Mr Gorman, and please give my apologies to your Chief.”

He went out with Theodora and Ibrahim, leaving O'Gilroy seated on a chair in the middle of the room, a dozen feet of chain in his lap and a puzzle on his mind. Did Bertie
really
not know about the ransom? Or had he wanted to know if the Bureau knew of it?

And how and when it had learned?

Downstairs, the front door slammed. Watched by Arif, O'Gilroy went on sitting for a while, then decided What the hell? – he was never going to be left alone, so he'd best find out now what wearing this thing did to his movements. To shorten the amount of chain dragging on his neck he hung as much of it as possible on his shoulders and cradled the rest in both arms when he walked. Alternatively, he could just manage with only one hand holding up the weight and the end of the chain dragging on the floor, but it made a grinding clanking noise and was liable to catch on things. He had never thought of a collar and chain being such a handicap even when not locked to a wall. Mind, he couldn't recall thinking about such a thing anyway.

Arif watched – from a distance. He didn't look the
imaginative type, but at least he could envisage O'Gilroy clouting him with a length of chain. So could O'Gilroy: the problem was that it could only be with a short length at close quarters. Anything longer would take time to get started.

He also realised that the most comfortable position would be lying flat, with all the weight of the chain off his neck. So he did that on a heap of fancy cushions and watched the twilight thicken the shadows and dull the brassware around him.

Theodora came in and lit the paraffin lamps, then stood staring down at him. She radiated strong-mindedness and her favourite pose was feet well apart and hands – fists – on hips, as now. “So we have become a pasha? Ha. Do not think I am going to feed you
there
.”

* * *

For a long time, Ranklin just sat in his cabin – a good, large one, much bigger than the train sleeper – watching the banks of the Bosphorus go past. It went past at quite a lick, given that these were busy, narrow waters. The Captain had obviously been told not to dawdle.

He had unpacked, but that hadn't taken long since he had brought the minimum along with what he planned to wear in the mountains. So he had nothing to do save watch – and worry. He was
fairly
sure that O'Gilroy wasn't dead – though that might just be his own lack of imagination – and so must be locked up somewhere. But convincing himself of that didn't really help, because although he could guess at why almost anybody here – except maybe Corinna and the British Embassy – might have waylaid O'Gilroy, it was just guessing. There was too much that he didn't know.

There came a knock on the cabin door and he let Lady Kelso in. “I was coming to ask if you'd be changing for dinner,” she said, looking at his “travelling” tweed suit.

“My collar. That's about all I can do.”

“Me too. I mean, the same sort of thing.” She was wearing a plain wool skirt in dark blue and a high-necked white blouse.
He was about to suggest she sat down, but was a little too late. She asked: “Have you brought everything you'll need?”

“I think so. I'm not completely helpless without a servant.”

She smiled quickly. “I didn't mean to imply . . . Are you worried about him? – Gorman?”

“I am, yes. He's quite bright, you know, but he doesn't know Constantinople, not at all.”

“Ah, I forgot that you do.” There was a coolness in that comment that Snaipe wouldn't have recognised but Ranklin did. But he couldn't explain which aspect of Constantinople he was talking about.

She went on: “Are you afraid he's gone off the rails with drink or drugs, something like—?”

“Oh, no, not him.”

“Then you fear he's in deep trouble? – you don't think he might even be dead?”

“In trouble, yes . . .” How could he say O'Gilroy was a hard man to kill? Still, it all helped bring him out in worried frowns, and her in sympathy. It occurred to him that she might be here on a mothering mission: after all, he'd overplayed how much he relied on a manservant just to explain why he'd brought one.

And with O'Gilroy out of the running, he might need an ally. And they
were
supposed to be a team, after all.

She asked: “Do you know if Zurga Bey's on board?”

“I understand not. I expect he went on by train last night. Are we going upstairs?”

They found Streibl already in the main-deck saloon, and perhaps his enthusiastic re-welcome was the only sort he knew. “I hope you did not mind that we are so secret about coming by this boat? It is so complicated. Railways and politics should not mix; in Africa it was much more easy . . . I am sorry, do you wish a drink? Or coffee, tea?” He waved at a steward in a high-collared white mess jacket.

“I'd like coffee, please,” Lady Kelso said. “We seem to be going at quite a speed already.”

“Yes. We must go fast, naturally. The delay to the Railway . . .”