All Honourable Men (32 page)

“Ah, India. . . always there are Englishmen fighting in other people's countries.”

“I don't think it's only Englishmen; history's full of mercenary armies . . . The Irish fighting for Napoleon, the Pope's Swiss Guard . . . Perhaps warriors just gravitate to wars.”

“Perhaps so. But they cannot expect to be loved by those who fight for what they believe. Or to be trusted.”

Streibl was already halfway out of the tent and looking
impatient. Zurga gave a little smile, a nod, and followed. Ranklin sat down on the bed and wished he had a drink, a proper one. Perhaps Lady Kelso . . .

Ever the Compleat Traveller – more compleat than he, anyway – she had a small silver flask of brandy. Ranklin took it almost neat.

“I've just had a visit from Streibl and Zurga . . .” He told her about Streibl's requests and his refusal.

“What was all that about?”

“I'm not sure, but perhaps they've counted the ransom and found it lacking. And—”

“Do they suspect you?”

“Not of that. . . I'd have to have known about the ransom all along and come to Constantinople with a load of lead discs. But I dare say they'd like Miskal to suspect me. Anyway, getting us to take it to him would help blur the issue for them.”

She thought this over. “But we
could
have taken a message for them. Then opened it and read it and found out more of what they're planning.”

He looked up in astonishment: really, women had absolutely no standards. Also, why hadn't he thought of that?

“Er . . . yes. Bit late to change our minds . . . But may I tell you what I think?”

“Please do. What do you think, Patrick?” She was suddenly a dutiful little girl at kindergarten. “Or is your name really Patrick? I suppose it might not be.”

Along with the smell of the charcoal brazier, there was a feminine scent in the air and even – remarkable in this landscape – the crushed-grass smell tents
ought
to have. They were sitting decorously apart, her on a stool, he on a spare camp-bed –
not
hers – and talking in little more than whispers.

“Never mind that. . . I now think the Railway's always had a three-step plan. First comes your appeal to Miskal. Then paying the ransom; I don't believe Zurga ever intended his own visit, that was just to explain him away. But then, when they've got their engineers back, they have to make sure Miskal never
tries this sort of thing again. And the surest way to do that is kill him and all his crew. I think that's Zurga's real job, as an Army officer – only I can't guess how.”

“Zurga can't do much just by himself,” she said slowly. “He'll need . . . well,
something
. Have we seen any sign of that?”

“We wouldn't. Think about it: Miskal must know everything that goes on in this camp. Even now there's nearly a thousand workers here, I gather, and the people running the coffee-houses and stalls, men coming and going all the time. If I were Miskal I'd have half a dozen informers here.”

“Yes, I suppose so . . .”

“And the Railway must know that. So whatever they're planning they'll keep it out of the camp. If Zurga's going to attack the monastery . . .” he paused, trying for the umpteenth time to work out
how
; “. . . he'll get there by some other route.”

“And you're sure that's what he's planning?”

“Why else is he here? I think he's quite capable of storming the monastery while we're there and then saying Miskal killed us – except that might kill the hostages, too. The ransom shows the Railway hasn't abandoned them . . . And in a way, they've become hostages for
our
safety, now. But,” he added, “when this is over, you might try and persuade Miskal to go back to the desert or wherever.”

“And I told you, he doesn't
belong
in the desert – or ‘wherever'.” Her dutifulness was all gone now.

Ranklin made a vague helpless gesture. “He can't win against the Railway. It's just too big a project, thirty thousand men working on it in summer, so Streibl said. Nobody really controls something that size: it has its own momentum. If Miskal stays where he is, the Railway's going to crush him.”

The
Vanadis
crept into Mersina harbour just before dawn. Or at least, that was where everyone on board hoped she was creeping through the dark mist. It was a tense, soft-breathing time. The engines churned slowly, almost silently, so the ting of the engine-room telegraph and the shouts of the man taking depth-readings in the bows were clearly audible. Corinna and O'Gilroy were up and watching from the portside rail, and they weren't alone: a surprising number of spare crewmen were there as unofficial lookouts,
willing
the land to show itself – but not too close.

“I shall be going ashore to wake this consul,” Corinna announced. She was looking warm but not elegant in a coarse fur coat down to her knees and a hat tied on with a scarf. “Are you packed?”

“I am, but I've been thinking—” O'Gilroy began.

“Always a mistake,” Corinna said, and if he had been listening properly, he'd have realised that wasn't a quip but a warning.

“It could be bad country up there . . .”

“You're going to get masculine and protective; I have perfect pitch for that. So you think I'll be in the way?”

The yacht's fog-horn let off a blast that made them jump. The sound faded, echoless, into the mist and nothing answered. It had sounded not authoritative but a plea.

O'Gilroy said doggedly: “I was near ten years in the Army, South Africa and all, and we was trained for this sort of thing. . .”

“I've ridden through rough country before. D'you know what parts of the United States are like?”

“Ye know I don't,” with impatient sullenness.

“And you've never heard of Isabella Bird in the Rockies? Or Gertrude Bell, for Heaven's sake, in this part of the world itself and down through Syria? And what about Lady Kelso herself? – she's literally twice my age.”

“But with the bandits and all—”

“There's bandits all over the world. And women die from tripping over carpets in their own drawing-rooms. I'm not doing something stupid and I'm not doing something I haven't done before. And I'm only doing it to help Lady Kelso out—”

“And there could be nearabouts a war starting up there! A shell from a mountain gun isn't going to stop and ask whose daughter ye are!” O'Gilroy flashed, now truly angry.

“No, and it's not going to rape me or take me hostage for being what I am. So at least I'll get fair treatment from
it
!”

Then a ripple of shouts and sighs ran along the deck as an irregular line of lights showed ahead – well ahead – and the shapes of other ships and their sparks of coloured light formed in the mist. The
Vanadis's
engines beat more confidently and she swung in a half-circle, stopped and dropped anchor a couple of lengths from the
Loreley
.

* * *

Dawn came later in the mountains. Later than Ranklin had dragged himself from his tent, anyway. Some of the lamps hung on poles and stalls were still alight, defining the line of the camp's high street, leading the way towards the mess hall and coffee.

Streibl was already there, almost alone at this time, though there was clattering and chatter from beyond the partition to the kitchen. Ranklin mumbled a greeting and poured himself coffee, then flopped into a chair. After one cup – as a guest he was doomed to a small, polite demi-tasse while Streibl drank from a big mug – he helped himself to a fresh bread roll and potted meat.

Lady Kelso came in. At the time Ranklin was in no state to realise it, but she must have thought for weeks about what to
wear for the moment when she would re-meet her Arab lover. And had decided on a tricky balancing act between East and West – but done with taste and expense. She might look just a dark bundle, but Miskal would appreciate the fine wool and silk, and see that the shawl she was obviously ready to use as a Muslim head-covering was in dark blue, not black. Both her own woman and a reminder that she had been his woman seemed to be the message; God knows if she'd got it right.

“And we're off as soon as we've finished breakfast?” she asked brightly.

“When you are ready.” Streibl seemed sombre, subdued. “The horses are being saddled now.”

“Are you coming with us?”

Streibl seemed surprised at the idea. “No, you will have a guide . . .”

Ranklin asked: “All the way there and back?”

“I think he will not want to go into Miskal's monastery, but—”

“Then may I see a map of the countryside, please? I'm still responsible for getting Lady Kelso back safely.”

It probably wasn't secrecy that bothered Streibl, just the Hon. Patrick's intelligence. “Are you . . . do you . . . understand maps well?”

Coldly polite, Ranklin asked: “How many thousands of acres does
your
family own?”

* * *

As the mist lightened, the nearby
Loreley
took on colour as well as shape. A bugle sounded and a number of sailors hurried about her deck, but they looked as if they were just being naval, not useful. And the steam launch moored at her companion-way looked cold.

Another ship had been hooting invisibly for twenty minutes; now she formed in the mist as the silhouette of a small liner and slid past. Just then, Corinna came back on board; she looked grim.

“I saw the consul all right,” she answered O'Gilroy's querying expression, “and got the usual sermon about a woman's place . . . But worse, there's only one automobile in town that can take that caravan road, a Ford T, and it's been booked by telegraph from guess who? Yes, Beirut Bertie.”

“Probly his ship now.” O'Gilroy nodded at the liner.

She nodded. “A
Messageries Maritime
from Smyrna . . . how the devil did he get there? Anyway, are you prepared to be polite to him? . . . No: you'd better stay out of sight.
I'll
be polite – to start with. After that we can descend to blackmail and threats of violence.”

The ride ashore in
Vanadis's
launch was chillier than the still March dawn itself. The yacht's Captain, foreseeing himself having to report Corinna's rape/death/disappearance to Billings, had made just as much fuss as O'Gilroy. But she didn't want to start the trek already exhausted by argument, so cut him off by demanding a parcel of food – and a rifle for O'Gilroy.

That helped keep
him
quiet, fiddling with its unfamiliar lever action. It was a Winchester repeater with a feeble-looking short cartridge. “The gun that won the West,” as the Captain proudly pointed out. O'Gilroy thought the West might have been won rather quicker with a rifle that fired further than he could spit, but said nothing.

There was a small crowd waiting at the iron quay and, in the roadway behind it, the deceptively spindly-looking and dusty Ford Model T, hung with extra tyres and petrol cans. Along the wharf, bundles and boxes of freight were stacked head-high and O'Gilroy faded away among those.

Bertie was the first ashore from the liner's launch, dressed for the mountains in a shaggy goatskin coat and riding breeches and carrying a small haversack and a leather rifle case. He directed a couple of porters to take his bags into the town, then turned towards the car – and saw Corinna.

He was startled but recovered quickly and raised his shapeless mountain cap. “Mrs Finn, is it not? I am most charmed to meet you – but surprised. I had not thought—”

“Mr Billings lent me his yacht. You recall he was thinking of
buying those Baghdad Railroad bonds? And he wanted someone to look over the property.”

“Ah yes, it is quite logical. Then you are about to visit the camp . . .”

“Not right now. They can't receive me until tomorrow, so I reckoned today I'd take a drive up the old caravan road. Only what do I find? – that you've booked the only automobile that could tackle that road. And I wondered . . .”

There was a small frown on Bertie's forehead, and behind it his mind must have been racing, yet he kept his lazy smile. “Ah . . . I would be, of course, delighted. I myself wish to spend some hours up there . . . But perhaps the driver can take you on, show you the Cilician Gates, and while it is hardly the weather for a picnic—”

“Matter of fact, I'd like to spend a few hours myself. Rescuing Lady Kelso from the monastery, a few things like that.”

Bertie seemed to relax. He abandoned the smile, and his voice got more matter-of-fact. “Ah. Yes. But this is not just a girlish adventure, I fear. There is—”

“Oh, I know that. I may know it better than you. About Zurga Bey. Or Kazurga, actually, I think – the Tornado? – is that right? And what he's up to.”

Bertie cocked his head on one side and looked at her. “I did not know lady bankers were so well informed. Yes, I got a message from Theodora . . . I wonder who you spoke to, Mrs Finn?”

Corinna gave him one of her wide, bright smiles.

Bertie went on: “I admit I should have been more clever . . . But I only heard of him as a man with a beard, and Turkish officers do not have beards. So I already know Kazurga Bey will be here . . . but you say you know what he is planning?”

“The price of that is a little ride up into the hills. And some help hiring horses. But I'll throw in keeping quiet about a French diplomat consorting with Turkish bandits.”

“The Quai d'Orsay allows me much freedom . . . And by now I much prefer to work alone. So I must manage with just
knowing that Kazurga is here.” He put on an expression of regret. “I am most sorry, Mrs Finn, but I assure you it is for your own good—”

“Tell you what else I'll do,” Corinna smiled. “I'll even try and persuade my friend Mr Gorman not to shoot you for past services rendered.”