Dahlmann couldn’t have been more relieved than Ranklin, but at least he could show it. “Thank you, Lady Kelso. And you also, Zurga Bey. Do you have anything more to say?”
Perhaps Lady Kelso’s change of mood was catching, because Zurga’s politeness seemed more than formal. “I much regret I still do not agree with Lady Kelso about Miskal Bey, though I do not know him. But, like her, if I fail I cannot tell you what you should then do. But also I must tell you that some of the Committee, the Government, will not want you to pay money to a man they think -” and he looked carefully at Lady Kelso “- is a bandit. So if you must pay, it must be most secret.”
It was a nice speech, seemingly not too rehearsed, and it put their little play back on track after Lady Kelso’s surprise derailment. And the story was now as Gunther had been selling it nearly a week ago.
Dahlmann said gravely: “Thank you, Zurga Bey. That is an important matter – secrecy. Now: I have already the opinion of Dr Streibl.” He seemed to remember Ranklin, and asked politely: “Mr Snaipe – do you feel you can say what your Foreign Office might recommend?”
Ranklin said: “Four hundred thousand seems a bit of an odd figure – was it the result of bargaining or does it translate into something easier in Turkish money?”
“An interesting observation. No, not in Turkish money, but the demand is for half a million francs, to be paid in new French gold coins. As you all know, such coins are the most common in Turkey, but at the Deutsche Bank we do not have so many, not new, so we must get it from the French Imperial Ottoman Bank in Constantinople. We will tell the French it is for wages and supplies. So I must beg you not to mention this to anyone – and especially, Mr Snaipe, your colleagues in the British Embassy.”
“Oh, absolutely our little secret,” Ranklin said. “As long as the French Bank isn’t going to be surprised at you suddenly wanting that much in coin . . .”
Dr Streibl abruptly came down to earth to say: “In Turkey almost all payment is in coin, only a few in Constantinople use the banks. And in summer we have perhaps thirty thousand workers building the Railway who must be paid, and also fed from food bought locally. Nobody is surprised that we need a lot of coin.”
Ranklin doubted the average Turkish worker saw any gold coin, not unless he got paid yearly, but he had another thought to raise: “One other thing occurs to me: with half a million gold francs, old Miskal Bey’s going to be able to buy a sight more repeating rifles, if he’s a mind to.”
“But that,” Dahlmann said smoothly, “is why we must hope Lady Kelso – or Zurga Bey – will manage to change his mind.”
The meeting dispersed slowly back to the saloon and sleeping compartments in a sober mood. The thing that struck Ranklin was that if the gold was coming from a French bank in Constantinople (and why should Dahlmann mention that at all if it weren’t true?) then it wasn’t already aboard this train.
So what, if anything, was?
11
In the service carriage, O’Gilroy was coming to realise he had to hit someone. The train staff had not made him welcome. They hadn’t expected anyone to bring a manservant, and when he took the fifth bunk in the sleeping compartment, it left only one spare for everyone to dump his kit on (their boss, who seemed to be called Herr “Fernrick”, shared another compartment with the chef, and good luck to him. In O’Gilroy’s experience all chefs were mad, bad-tempered, and had access to knives).
Only Albrecht, who tended the boiler and anything else mechanical, spoke English, and O’Gilroy had virtually no German. But this allowed them to make jokes about him in front of his face and that had kept them reasonably sunny for the first twenty-four hours. But in the bustle of preparing lunch while he lay on his bunk and smoked, the insults got plainer and demands to get out of the way less reasonable.
So he was going to have to hit someone. The old manly ritual. Knock one of them down, helpless, to show he was as good as they. Ten years ago, the thought would have cheered him. Or rather, he wouldn’t have had the thought, just lashed out from instinct. Now, at least he’d be working to a plan.
Of course, if they all ganged up on him, he’d be beaten to a pulp. But he didn’t think that would happen. It would mean broken bones and bloody faces and how would that look when serving dinner? The row could go all the way up to the Kaiser.
It wouldn’t be enough to pick on the smallest of them, which let one of the waiters off the hook. Nor Albrecht, partly because of the English, but also because he seemed the butt of jokes himself, being a Bavarian among Prussians. Which left the second waiter or, preferably, the guard. He was beefy enough, and if his face got marked, he wasn’t on public display.
The moment came after lunch. He had volunteered to help with the washing up, and they had seen to it that he got well splashed with greasy water. He was back in the compartment routing out a clean shirt when the guard jostled him and snapped for him to step aside.
“Fuck off,” O’Gilroy said over his shoulder.
That didn’t need translating. He felt everyone in the compartment go still.
The guard’s What-did-you-say? didn’t need translation, either.
“Tell him,” O’Gilroy said to Albrecht, “to learn some manners or bring his mother along to protect him. Tell him!”
Albrecht did, hesitatingly. There was a moment’s pause, then O’Gilroy felt the guard’s hand clamp on his shoulder and spun around, trying for a head-butt, realised he couldn’t make it and followed up with a left-hand punch whacking into the guard’s stomach. As he folded forward, O’Gilroy yanked him up by his lapels and rushed him against the door, slamming it shut and knocking a waiter aside.
“Bugger around wid me and I’ll break every fucking bone in yer body!” he spat. “Verstanden?”
The guard hung there, pop-eyed and gurgling for breath. Then the door tried to open behind him. O’Gilroy pushed him away, a cannon off the waiter and onto a bunk. The door opened and Herr Fernrick stood there, moustache bristling, eyes glaring.
Everyone except the guard snapped to attention, and O’Gilroy realised he had, too. The scene had an old, familiar feel to it.
Fernrick started to speak.
“Tell him,” O’Gilroy instructed Albrecht, “that I started it and I apologise.”
Albrecht began, but Fernrick shut him up. He looked at O’Gilroy. “Thank you, but I understand enough English . . . This place is too small for trouble, too small for trouble-makers. Do you understand? If anything more happens, I will report you to your master.”
He switched back to German to say what must have been much the same except longer and with a mention of the Kaiser. Then he slammed out.
As they relaxed with a collective sigh, O’Gilroy made a vulgar gesture at the closed door. And someone laughed. Then someone handed him his shirt off the floor, another gave him a cigarette.
It’s only in schoolboy stories that the man you’ve beaten shakes your hand and becomes your friend for life. Quite likely the guard had become his enemy for life, but what mattered was that the rest now accepted him. Just like in a new barrack room. Which wasn’t surprising, since he was now certain they were all soldiers.
* * *
With the party complete and now hooked up to a proper train – and one of the fastest in the world – the journey took on a new sense of purpose. Indeed, they let most of their own purposes drift into limbo and the journey take over. As they were bustled across the last of Bavaria and through Salzburg into Austria, they picked their favourite chairs and invented their own time-spending routines – just as a visitor to a strange city will quickly adopt a certain table at a certain cafe as his own. They were all used to long passive journeys by train and ship; it was what most travel was about.