All Honourable Men (6 page)

“As evidence of our good faith?” Ranklin suggested. “For good future relations?”

The Commander was still looking at him. “Umm. Well, perhaps. . . Did you like this van der Brock?” he asked casually.

“Like him? I don't think so, particularly . . . He was more like . . . family. One of us.”

That was just the sort of answer the Commander's temper had been waiting for. “No he bloody well wasn't! Only
we
are us.”

The fog cleared the next day and more typical March winds blew in. The railway companies found out where their trains were and began moving them to where they ought to be. Scotland Yard made no visible progress on the Gunther case and wished the popular papers would shut up about it. Ranklin surreptitiously opened a file on the case and kept it in the Registry – a single, albeit locked, bookcase – misleadingly labelled “Historical/Biblical Espionage”. The Commander believed he'd invented spying and wasn't interested in history.

So Ranklin wasn't worried that he'd found the file when he was called into the inner office. The Commander fluttered a message at him. “They want you at a meeting at the Admiralty – or rather, they want me or our Turkish expert.”

“Who's ‘they', sir?”

“It sounds like a conference of the powers: the Foreign Office and the India Office, as well. That's why I'm not going myself.” He grinned. “They may have wheeled out the big guns to bully me into something and they can't if I'm not there. So just say what an interesting idea and you're sorry you can't take a final decision yourself.”

“The India Office?” That Office handled, as one would expect, Indian affairs, and Ranklin hadn't thought of it as being interested in Turkey. But, old-maidishly, India could imagine enemies at very long range. Until now, it had usually been Russia, but with her more-or-less an ally, perhaps the Turkish Empire – stretching to the Gulf of Persia – had been promoted to bogeyman.

“Yes, them. The only other clue is that they expect you to be
au fait
with the Baghdad Railway. What d'you know about it?”

Ranklin shuffled his thoughts. “It adds on to the existing line from Constantinople into central Turkey. They're building an extension through the mountains on the south coast and down across Syria to Baghdad. And probably further, to Basra and perhaps the Persian Gulf—”

“‘They' being?” the Commander prompted, smiling.

“Some German company—”

“Right. Hold those two thoughts in mind: a German company and the Persian Gulf, and you'll see what's exercising minds at the Foreign Office. Sir Aylmer Corbin's going to be at the meeting.”

“Ah.” Corbin headed the anti-German faction in the Foreign Office, seeing the shadow of a
Pickelhaube
helmet darkening the map of Europe. Asia Minor too, it now seemed. “Do you know who else will be there?”

The Commander consulted the message. “Hapgood from the India Office. You don't know him? He's a very. . .
worthy
chap. Most able.”

Or, decoded, Hapgood did not come from one of the great landed families. Presumably not even from one of the great university families, who made up in brains what they lacked in acres. Well, bully for Hapgood making it to the India Office. Poor isolated sod.

“I believe he's one of a select few who understand the rupee.”

To Ranklin the rupee was just currency. “Understands it?”

“Perhaps he can make it do tricks. Climb a rope and disappear.”

“I'd think anyone in the City can do that with mere pounds,” Ranklin said with some feeling.

“I don't know who else. The meeting's at three o'clock so you've time to swot up the latest on the Railway.” The Commander struck a match, lit the message, and moved the match to his loaded pipe as he watched the paper burn out in an ashtray. He disliked paperwork, which was a good thing in espionage; on the other hand, he set fire to a lot of wasterpaper baskets.

* * *

The alcove in the Admiralty entrance hall hadn't been built for a life-size statue, so a rather small version of Nelson watched Ranklin hand over his hat and coat. Then he was led up a stone staircase, along a corridor with a vaulted roof like a tunnel, and into a room that seemed more like a study than an office.

A well-heaped fire blazed in the grate, being poked constantly by a man in vice-admiral's uniform sitting on a corner of the leather-and-brass club fender. Three other men in civilian clothes sat in a collection of chairs, the one in the best leather arm-chair being Sir Aylmer Corbin of the Foreign Office.

Ranklin couldn't remember ever having been introduced to Corbin; from a certain moment Corbin knew him, but the moment itself had passed unnoticed, at least by Ranklin. It was the way things worked in Whitehall: once you realised a man was important or useful, you
knew
him and be damned to introductions.

Now Corbin bobbed up to shake Ranklin's hand. He was a smallish man with pale eyes and a thin, stretched face like a featherless baby bird's. His movements had a birdlike briskness, too. “Ah, Captain Ranklin from the Bureau. You may not know Vice-Admiral Berrigan, our host here? And Hapgood from the India Office? And you've met Fazackerley.”

Ranklin smiled and nodded to them and sat in the empty chair. The Admiral stayed seated on the club fender, poker in hand, and with one leg – perhaps a false one – stuck out stiffly. His expression was one of curiosity, an expression that said: “I thought you'd be grubbier.” Ranklin was getting used to it around Whitehall. Hapgood, the rupee expert from not-quite-the-right-family, just sat smiling, a large fair young man looking like the hero of a school story. You were sure that whatever he had done to get his nose broken at some past time must have been an honourable something. Or perhaps Ranklin felt an instinctive sympathy for him as the other social outsider here.

No matter whose office it was, Corbin was clearly in charge. He launched straight in: “Captain, as your Bureau's Turkish
expert, you're doubtless up to date on the progress of the Baghdad Railway and its recent problem?”

“I've no inside knowledge on this at all.” Ranklin decided to be frank. “So this is just culled from the newspapers. The biggest problem seems to be breaking through the Taurus Mountains in southern Turkey, having to build long tunnels and bridges and so on. On top of that, work seems to have stopped because a local bandit has kidnapped a couple of German railway engineers and beaten off a rescue attempt by a Turkish Army detachment that was supposed to be guarding them.”

“Reasonably accurate. However, the ‘bandit' which the newspapers variously describe as a sheikh or pasha is actually a local chieftain figure who ranks as a bey and is named Miskal. A gentleman of advanced years and at least part-Arab extraction. Now, do you know who I mean by the Dowager Viscountess Kelso?”

“I don't think I've heard of her.”

“Or Harriet Mayhew, as she started life?”

“That rings a bell. Wasn't she the woman who—?”

“Whatever it was, the answer's almost certainly Yes. I think she was one of those women who read too much Byron too early . . . sometimes I think there was hardly a carpet in the Middle East without some runaway Englishwoman sprawled invitingly across it, and mostly the fault of that damned poet . . . Anyway, she seems to have made a fairly disastrous early marriage to a diplomatist posted out there, kicked over the traces and ran off with some desert sheikh. Didn't stick with him, of course; seems to have done the round of sheikhs' tents more regularly than the milkman.”

Admiral Berrigan chuckled gently. All senior sailors develop some foible, and with a perfectly-cut uniform that had never been near the sea, a non-regulation cravat and pearl pin, he had clearly chosen dandyism. It made a change from drink or religion.

Corbin smiled briefly and went on: “Then – her charms fading, I dare say, and thinking about providing for her old age
– she married the fourth Viscount Kelso. He was a widower by then, good deal older than her, and they settled down in Italy – she couldn't come back to Britain by then, of course. Even the Marlborough House set wouldn't have touched her . . . He didn't last long. One likes to think,” he went suddenly pious, “that he died happy. Satiated, anyway.

“Of course, there was a frightful row with the family over his will. In the end, I think, she had to threaten to publish her memoirs . . . Anyway, they let her keep the villa on Lake Maggiore and a reasonable remittance – provided she stayed abroad. And that would be the end of the story,
except
that in her desert-carpet days she had a fling with Miskal Bey when he was a young officer in an Arab regiment. And our Foreign Secretary, in his wisdom and his quite sincere desire to get the Baghdad Railway off the agenda of Anglo-German disputes, has asked her to use whatever influence she still has with Miskal to get the Railway engineers freed. Nobody knows whether she still has such influence: the point is to show willing on our side. And the Germans have accepted gratefully.”

“The Turks also?”

“Since the prisoners are German nationals, the Turks seem to be giving the Railway pretty much free rein.”

“Tell me, who do you regard as actually running Turkey nowadays?”

Corbin cocked his head and looked at him with a birdy, beady eye. “Isn't that the sort of the question we should be asking
you
?”

Ranklin smiled blandly. “Certainly – once our Bureau is as large and well-funded as the Diplomatic Service.”

Corbin considered this. “Perhaps we'll neither of us live to see that. . . ah,
happy
day . . . Then, to answer your question: officially, the Committee of the Young Turks – number and composition a secret, but according to our Embassy in Constantinople, dominated by Jews and Freemasons.” He paused, then smiled wryly. “Which seems, one has to admit, rather unlikely for a Muslim country. Perhaps we should remember,
charitably, that our Ambassador there is rather new . . . However, of this Committee, a handful seem to be taking over, as one would expect: Talaat, Enver, Djavid, the ones who get their names in the papers. And I dare say it'll eventually boil down to one strong man, it usually does. Or another revolution, of course . . . May we get back to Lady Kelso?”

Ranklin nodded. “How old is she by now?”

Corbin blinked at this lapse in taste, but perhaps decided that Lady Kelso's reputation wouldn't suffer too much damage. “In the region of sixty, I believe . . . And in undertaking this mission, she becomes effectively a nominee of the Foreign Office, so it is quite logical that we should provide a Diplomatic Service escort . . . Perhaps you follow my drift?”

“Ah . . . yes, I think so.”

“Excellent.” He took out his watch and glanced at it. “I must apologise, I'm keeping some tedious but self-important visitor waiting. But I think we've covered the broad picture. My colleagues will fill in the details for you.” They shook hands and he scuttled away.

Bewildered, Ranklin looked around the remaining three. But nobody else seemed surprised at Corbin's disappearance. Fazackerley, still looking young but anxious beyond his years as he had at the Savoy, re-arranged a sheaf of papers, peeked over his spectacles, and took up the thread. “Returning to the Railway itself for the moment. . . The mountains there aren't especially high, no more than ten thousand feet, but they are, it seems, very steep and jagged. And the winter weather must have made things very difficult. So while everyone seems to know just where Miskal Bey and his captives are – apparently in an old hilltop monastery – it would still take an army to dislodge him. Particularly since someone seems to have sold him repeating rifles.”

“Pity they didn't make it Maxim guns,” Admiral Berrigan muttered.

A little frown, as if he'd seen someone pass the port the wrong way, crossed Fazackerley's face. “So if we might return to policy matters . . .”

“Difficult,” Hapgood suggested.

Fazackerley nodded briefly. “Traditionally, Britain has never really
liked
the Baghdad Railway. The possible threat to India—”

“Dammit,” Berrigan whacked the poker into the fire, “it's far more of a threat to our oil in Persia, and . . . anywhere else.”

There was a pause while nobody mentioned Kuwait.

“Quite so,” Fazackerley agreed. “And while we all applaud the Foreign Secretary's desire to reassure Germany, it still might be that the national interest would not suffer from a prolonged delay in completing the Railway. If you follow me.”

Young he might be, but Fazackerley had learned the Foreign Office's elliptical manner well. And suddenly Ranklin saw why Corbin had left: he was going to be asked to sabotage the Railway – somehow – and there are some things a man of honour cannot bear to hear himself saying.

But then there was a discreet knock on the door, the Admiral called: “Come!” and a messenger came in with a tray of tea things. Berrigan said: “Ah, tea,” in a ritual way, and heaved himself onto his stiff leg to do the pouring. The messenger checked the coal scuttle, then the windows and said: “I expect you've seen enough of today, haven't you, sir?” and pulled the heavy red curtains across a view of the forecourt. He turned on a couple more desk lamps, asked if there was anything more and went out.

The ceremony left the room feeling even more warm and grandly cosy, and while Fazackerley and the Admiral took it in their stride, Hapgood clearly relished it. Similar rituals would be going on all over Whitehall – in rooms of a certain rank and above – but Ranklin felt unsettled; the drawing of the curtains against the outside world had been too symbolic. He and the Bureau belonged on the outside.

Setting aside his cup, Fazackerley glanced over his spectacles. “If we might return to the kidnapped engineers? – What the newspapers do
not
know, and we've only just learned, is that a fortnight ago this Miskal sent a message to the builders
demanding a ransom equivalent to £20,000 in gold coin. So, if this is paid, tunnelling could be restarted very soon.