“I’d like you to meet David Lunn, one of our secretaries. I’m sure he’ll look after you.”
Lunn was young, almost as short as Ranklin and had a puppyish enthusiasm that wouldn’t last long in the Diplomatic. “You came in the Kaiser’s private carriages and got held up by bandits, didn’t you?” He was openly envious. “Did you get involved?”
“Er, not really. They held up the front of the train and we were at the back. And it turned out that we had a Maxim gun on board and that scared them off.”
That brought a hush of interest. “Most fortunate,” Jarvey murmured. “Er – who manned this gun?”
“The kitchen staff.” Since that sounded a bit stupid even for Snaipe, he added: “My manservant – he’s been a soldier – reckoned the whole carriage staff were soldiers. And the Turkish gentleman travelling with us, Zurga Bey, is probably an officer. Do you know him?”
They swapped glances but got no profit from it. “No help, Turks only having one name,” Jarvey said. “Do you know if this Maxim gun is being taken south with you?”
“No idea at all, I’m afraid.”
Lunn said happily: “Perhaps they’re planning to blow old Miskal Bey out of his stronghold. He’ll probably cut and run at the first shot if it’s the first machine-gun he’s met.”
As Snaipe, Ranklin couldn’t point out that Miskal Bey had been a soldier and Lunn bloody obviously hadn’t. But Jarvey was more cautious: “Perhaps, perhaps . . . And when do you leave for the south?”
“When I’m told,” Ranklin said. “Dr Dahlmann of the Deutsche Bank seems to be in charge – so far. I don’t think he’s actually coming with us, but I got the idea there was a certain amount of hurry involved.”
“Quite probably. I understand they’re badly delayed on the Railway by all this.”
Reluctant to let the conversation wander off from the exciting new toy, Lunn said: “I wonder if the Committee knows about this machine-gun.”
“I imagine,” Jarvey said, “that every beggar in the street knows about it by now. Excuse me, I’d better get back to H.E. . . .” He drifted off to collect the next guest from His Excellency.
Ranklin sipped his sherry and glanced around. There were about ten people in the room by now, so probably they were heading for a dozen or fourteen. And, of course, with men badly outnumbering women; most Turks simply never brought their wives out, and some Europeans would be bachelors or travelling alone.
“You’re quite new to the Service, aren’t you?” Lunn was saying with exaggerated casualness.
“Oh, the paint’s hardly dry on me.”
Lunn grinned. “You haven’t got your name in the List yet, I noticed.”
Noticed be damned. The moment they’d heard he was coming they’d rushed to look him up and try to read between the lines. The Army would have done exactly the same, so he should have foreseen this.
“I think I’m only a sort of honorary attachment. I don’t know if I get onto the List or not – Tell me, how is life here?”
Lunn was easily sidetracked into showing off his new-found knowledge. “Actually, you know, Turkey’s a particularly difficult posting. Most people don’t realise how different it is. A bit like Japan, I believe: a totally strange culture and religion, but with an overlay of European civilisation. . .” Ranklin kept his expression fascinated while he let his eyes and mind wander. An obvious Turk had just come in – alone, of course – which made eight men as against Lady Kelso and three Embassy/British community women . . . and another woman just coming in, late and apologetic . . .
Corinna.
Naturally.
* * *
Once off the bridge, the ox-carts turned right, along the Galata quay where it appeared that serious steamers and trading schooners moored to unload. And since ships bring their own international environment with them, the warehouses, chandlery shops and cafes opposite them were familiar and welcoming. Most of the signs were in English, too, or at least French.
Then two men stepped forward, one holding up his hand, and O’Gilroy recognised the imposing figure of Herr Fernrick. The carts stopped, the work crew closed up about them, so this was their destination. They had come, O’Gilroy reckoned, less than half a mile and that was a relief, too, given the potential range of oxen. It was time to choose yet another cafe.
* * *
Naturally a single, respectable woman like Corinna had a value beyond rubies on the English-speaking dinner-party round, so Ranklin should have expected her there. And talking of rubies, she had those, too: indeed, she must have chosen the dress to match her necklace, and its slightly dated look as a kindness to that company. But she still made the other women – perhaps excepting Lady Kelso – look part of the furnishings. Watching her toss back her head in a burst of free laughter, vivid, magnificent yet pliable, Ranklin ached at her unattainability – and knowing that with a single mistake she could wreck him.
She swept a smile around the room, froze on him, almost grinned, and looked quickly away. He breathed out and gulped his drink. But they were still fated, by Jarvey’s diligence as a diplomatist, to meet eventually.
“. . . and finally, may I present the Honourable Patrick Snaipe, one of our honorary attaches who’s escorting Lady Kelso? Mrs Finn, who represents her father, Reynard Sherring, in financial matters that are quite above my head.”
“Patrick Snaipe,” she repeated, committing it to memory. She held out her gloved hand. “So you’re travelling with Lady Kelso? What an interesting assignment.”
“Er, yes. Fascinating. We came down in a party led by Dr Dahlmann of the Deutsche B-”
Jarvey interruped: “I think Mrs Finn probably wants to get away from banking for the-”
“No, no,” she assured him. “So Dr Dahlmann – I’ve never met him – is he here for the loan negotiations or the Railway?”
“Both, I think, but I believe he’s staying in Constantinople for the negotiations while we go on south.”
“Fascinating. If you don’t know that part of the world, you must attach yourself to Bertrand Lacan – ‘Beirut Bertie’ as the English here call him. He’s just got back from Paris, probably getting told what to say at the loan negotiations, but he’s quite an expert on the south and Arab matters . . .” Then she let Jarvey haul her off to more distinguished company.
“That’s our Bertie, over there.” Lunn indicated a man aged about fifty, modestly stout, with a round, pleasantly relaxed face wearing his eyes permanently half-closed. He also had a sun-tan that was unique in a room full of correct diplomatic pallor.
* * *
In between a small white-painted liner and a drab little tramp steamer lay a flight of stone steps leading down to water level. Not far down, since in these tideless waters the quaysides were not high. And poking above the side O’Gilroy could see the brass funnel of a big launch, letting off lazy wisps of smoke into the dim lamplight. Rather too dim for the task of dragging heavy boxes – two men to a box – off the carts and down the steps, but Herr Fernrick seemed to prefer it that way.
For all that, such activity on this quay was obviously normal and attracted no attention except from a couple of uniformed men who had strolled up, been shown some documents and handed a little something, and strolled off. That also seemed normal.
Since he would be recognised if seen, O’Gilroy had chosen not the nearest cafe but one almost fifty yards off. It had a better-dressed, more European clientele than the cafes back across the bridge, but the view was poor. He could just see that the boxes were of fresh bright wood, in many shapes and sizes, and varying weights. There were always two men to a box, but they obviously had more trouble with some than others.