Fazackerley handed across the diplomatic passport with the cheering comment: “You understand that this confers only as much immunity as you can squeeze out of it? You can expect virtually no backing from us if you get yourself into any sort of trouble. If that happens, we’ll say that you misrepresented yourself as an old friend of Lady Kelso’s and we gave you the same sort of temporary protection we’re giving her, and we’re sorry we didn’t know what a fearful rotter you really were.”
Ranklin nodded appreciatively. As alibis went, it should stretch to cover the Foreign Office if things went wrong. Just the Secret Service Bureau up to its slimy tricks again.
He unfolded the document and was impressed despite himself. It might have little backing, but the least sensitive border guard could scarce forbear to cringe before the dignified imperialism of that passport.
He checked the Snaipe personal details, then sprinkled the paper with drops of coffee, rubbed them in with a fingertip and began crumpling its edges. “Don’t want it to look as if I’ve only joined the Service today,” he explained.
Fazackerley smiled. Hapgood prompted him: “You were going to mention travel arrangements.”
“Oh yes. The German Embassy said you’ll be met in Strasbourg tomorrow evening. It seems they’ve managed to borrow a . . . well, not quite a private train, but a couple of coaches from the Emperor Wilhelm’s one. It sounds as if the whole thing has Very High approval.” He frowned a little at that, and Ranklin himself wasn’t overjoyed. If the German Emperor was taking an interest, the details were likely to be carefully scrutinised, and he was one of the details.
“What do they want private carriages for?”
Fazackerley shook his head. “Something about having to collect people at different places in southern Germany, including Lady Kelso . . . I didn’t cross-examine them, we want it to seem just a minor administrative chore for us.”
Ranklin approved of that. Then Hapgood suggested: “Or perhaps they want something safe and private to carry a ransom in gold? That could be a useful opportunity. Anyway, worth watching out for.” He smiled, in an encouraging team-spirit way, then took a paper from an inside pocket. “I’ve made a few calculations that might prove useful. I was working in sovereigns, but since gold is valued by weight, this should apply, roughly, to any coinage. Twenty thousand sovereigns should actually fit, without any other packing such as canvas bags, into a box only a foot square. However, they’re unlikely to, because they weigh approximately three hundred and sixty pounds.”
“Two mule-loads,” Ranklin said absently.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You reckon about two hundred pounds to a mule-load.”
“Fascinating,” Fazackerley said. “Your Army experience, no doubt. Still, it might be relevant, since I imagine the final stages of this journey will be by horse or mule. And are you otherwise all prepared?”
“I think so.” Already the world of Whitehall offices was becoming unreal, fading into translucence as Ranklin’s mind reached out on the journey ahead. He pocketed the passport and stood up. “It’s going to be crack-of-dawn stuff from Dover tomorrow, so I’m getting down there tonight. Just one more thing: our Embassy in Constantinople – are they expecting the Hon. Patrick Snaipe?”
Fazackerley stood also. “They’re expecting a genuine honorary attache, so keep up the front; a pity if they unmasked you. Still, they should be too panic-stricken at entertaining the notorious Lady Kelso to notice you much. Good luck.”
* * *
A model of servile sobriety, O’Gilroy raised his bowler and asked: “Would it be the Honourable Patrick Snaipe I’m addressing, sir?”
Just as important as each of them playing their parts was the relationship between them – almost a third character in itself. And no time like the present to get started. So Ranklin acted surprised. “Yes? Ah, yes. You must be Gorman, of course. Er . . .” He directed a rather vacuous scrutiny at O’Gilroy, who was wearing the traditional manservant’s “pepper-and-salt” suit under a long dark overcoat. “Yes. Yes, you’ll do. See to my baggage, will you? Just the two suitcases, they’ve got my initials on them.”
“Certainly, sir – only ye haven’t said where we’re going.”
“Haven’t I? Oh, Strasbourg. Yes, definitely Strasbourg. Well, get on with it, man. Find a porter.”
“There was one other thing, sir . . .”
“What? What other thing?”
“In yer letter, ye mentioned a week’s wages in advance. One golden sovereign.”
“Ah yes. As regards that . . .” Ranklin leant a little closer and said: “Balls.”
“Very good, sir.”
The compartment’s ashtrays were full, so O’Gilroy lowered the window just long enough to pitch his cigarette butt into the grimy, windy afternoon. “So we jest find a strong-box full of gold, change half of it for lead, and run away laughing?” He shook his head in wonder. “Does that Foreign Office get all its fellers from mad-houses, like yeself?” He thought a little more. “Mind, do we get to keep the gold if’n we do get our hands on it?”
“Sorry, I never thought to ask. The thing to remember is putting some blight on the Railway – in any way we can find.”
“Mebbe we should start a union.”
Neither the time of year nor time of day made the train popular, so they had a first-class smoker to themselves and could step out of character while Ranklin explained their purpose.
“Oh – did you hear about Gunther van der Brock getting killed?”
“I did that.” O’Gilroy’s face turned grim. “And a whisper around the parish that somehow we’d been mixed up in it. I been keeping me head down on that front.”
Ranklin nodded gloomily, though it was no worse than he’d feared. “He may have sold the Railway plot to the FO, and it may have been the Germans who had him killed – so they may be suspicious of anybody like us turning up on this trip.”
“Thank ye for telling me. What was ye thinking of doing about it?”
Ranklin shrugged. “Just keeping an eye open for it. . . Are you armed?”
“I am.”
“I’m sorry; but that had better go out of the window before we cross the frontier. I don’t think a manservant would carry a pistol, and we have to assume they’re going to search our baggage at some point.”
“And yeself?”
“Going into brigand country, I think the Hon. Patrick would bring a pistol. You can always borrow it if needs be.”
“Yer usual popgun,” O’Gilroy said sourly. He loved anything mechanical and new, and nothing more than his Browning semi-automatic pistol. Ranklin had simply pocketed a Bulldog revolver, such as any gentleman might sport unsuspiciously. O’Gilroy despised it, but really, so did Ranklin. As a Gunner, he didn’t think anything that fired less than a 13-pound shell was serious.
“And we’re going all the way to Constantinople?”
“And beyond. We stick with Lady Kelso.”
O’Gilroy lit another cigarette. “Then ye’d best be giving me one of yer lectures, ’fore we meet up with anybody.”
A lecture? Ranklin felt he should haul a lantern-slide projector out of his hand-baggage, cough and ask if he could be heard at the back. But some precis of whatever country they were heading for had become a necessary routine. O’Gilroy’s self-assurance made it too easy to forget how much basic education – and educated conversation – he had missed by being born in an Irish back street.
On the other hand, he had no fashionable opinions and prejudices to unlearn.
Ranklin coughed (he couldn’t help himself) and began: “I’ve only spent a few days in Constantinople years ago, so this is very much school-room stuff. . . The Turkish Empire’s a big place. Theoretically it covers most of North Africa and the Levant as far east as the Persian Gulf. So it’s got a very mixed bag of inhabitants: Arabs, Kurds, Armenians, a lot of Greeks and God-knows-what-else. And the average Turk doesn’t think much of any of them.