Viewed dispassionately, D’Erlon seemed about Ranklin’s age but, of course, taller and wore rimless glasses. His white tie was definitely too big and floppy.
Corinna was standing close, waiting for a private word with her fiance, so Ranklin backed off, accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter and looked about the room. Apart from the royal-blue curtains across the windows, it glowed with warm browns and shades of orange. The walls were panelled in, probably, mahogany to match the furniture that effectively divided the place in two. The far end was arm-chairs, small tables, shelves of leather-bound books. The near end had a round table with chairs that looked too comfortable for dining where Dahlmann and D’Erlon had been sitting. In all, it looked expensive but cosy in a masculine and late-night way.
Bertie had replaced Corinna with D’Erlon and she came smiling up to Ranklin, standing by the sideboard where the drinks were kept.
“And how are you finding Constantinople, Mr Snaipe?” Then she lowered her voice. “Is Conall with you?”
“Oh, fascinating. Utterly fascinating . . . Yes, he’s here, too . . . What’s going on tonight?”
She turned to survey the room. “A little polite banging of financial heads together by Mr Billings in the hope that he’ll find out what the hell’s going on . . . I was talking to Lady Kelso over dinner. She’s quite a woman – Don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes. I had two days of her on the train.”
“Only now she’s living in exile in Italy.”
“She’d be worse off in Britain, with society cutting her dead.”
“I don’t think that says a hell of a lot for English society.”
“Would it be different with New York society?” And when she didn’t answer that, Ranklin went on: “I’ve been on the outside looking in, too. Not the way she is, but . . .”
“Yes, I know . . . But all because she walked out on a stupid bastard of a husband-”
“Not just that.”
“No, maybe – but she’s certainly paying for it now. And now your Government’s using her: what’s she going to get out of that?”
Ranklin shrugged. “Thanks – for trying. Nobody seems very hopeful she’ll achieve anything.”
Corinna looked at him belligerently. “Aren’t you along to make sure she doesn’t?”
“May we pass lightly over why I’m here? We’re all part of some great game of nations-”
“Not me. Anyhow, she’s alone, with nobody behind her. Going into those hills to talk to that bandit. Suppose it goes wrong? Who’s going to get her out?”
“I’ll do my best. I hope you really believe that.”
After the briefest pause, she said: “Yes, I do . . . but you’re working pretty much alone, too. Your people won’t acknowledge you or send help. But you’re used to that, you’ve accepted it.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know. But something.”
Ranklin shivered. That something had sounded like a lighted fuse.
Then Corinna caught Billings’s eye and went to sit next to him at the table. The seating divided clearly but not blatantly into the two Americans, the two Frenchmen, and Dahlmann by himself. Ranklin realised that the waiter had quietly vanished; rather than be the only one left standing, he also took a seat, coincidentally between Bertie and Billings but with his chair pushed back to show he didn’t really belong. It looked rather as if they were about to start a card game, only there were no cards and no money on the table. There were only glasses, ashtrays and single sheets of paper in front of Corinna and Bertie.
Billings hunched forward to open the proceedings, leaning gradually back as he spoke. “Now Dr Dahlmann’s gotten here, I’m hoping maybe we can finally figure out if I can be any use in this loan business . . . Though I’m kind of fuzzy about what chips the Deutsche Bank has in this game.”
“My bank has many and wide interests in the Turkish Empire.” Dahlmann spoke with quiet authority: this was his world. “And there is also the unissued part of the 1910 loan we and the Viennese banks made to Turkey. They may demand that we complete that.”
“Can you remind me how much that is, Dr Dahlmann?” Corinna asked.
“About three million Turkish pounds.”
D’Erlon made a gesture that swept the three million aside. “But now we are talking of a loan of over thirty million pounds.”
Did I think there was no money on this table? Ranklin wondered.
Dahlmann gave a small, tight smile. “It is still a factor – along with the Baghdad Railway bonds still held by the Imperial Ottoman. Which I think your Government will not let you sell on the Paris market.”
Corinna said: “Because they don’t want the French investing in a German project.” Everyone else must already know that, so she could only have been saying it for Ranklin’s benefit.
Billings said: “All this must be important, but it’s going to take time to work out. Now, Talaat Bey himself told me that Turkey’s broke. Just plain broke. They’re scratching for pennies.”
“I do believe,” Bertie said languidly, “that they have just reduced their soldiers’ pay from a medjidieh, that is -” he paused for calculation “- perhaps seventy-five of your cents, to under twenty cents – per month.”
“Sure. Exactly. So, while you’re sorting out the details of your long-term loan, why shouldn’t Sherring’s and I get together a short-term loan to tide them over? – say five million of their pounds for maybe three months?”
“At what rate?” D’Erlon asked.
“Ten,” Corinna said. It was quite remarkable how much she could get into one syllable: confidence that it was right, yet with a hint of flexibility.
“Ten?” Dahlmann queried. And he was a professional, too: in his voice ten became preposterous, a fairy-tale.
Billings said: “We could talk about that. But Turkey needs money fast, and we can have this on the counter in a week.”
“And no strings attached,” Corinna said. “No complications about rights of our citizens or concessions to build this and that. Just cash down.”
D’Erlon and Bertie looked at each other, then D’Erlon shrugged and said: “If you wish to put it to the Committee . . .”
“Not without you back us,” Billings said firmly. “You boys know the people here. But the way I see it, a short-term loan should help you, give you time to get your details just right. And with Turkey broke . . .”
D’Erlon said bluntly: “You were invited by the Turks, Mr Billings. Not by us.”
Corinna stared at him. “Are you telling us to keep our filthy dollars to ourselves?”
Bertie interceded quickly and more gently. “Tell me, what would happen in the American Army if your soldiers’ pay was reduced suddenly by three-quarters?”
Billings frowned. “Mutiny, I guess.”
“Exactly. In France, I am sure, also. But here . . . the soldiers are not being paid anything anyway, so what do such reductions matter?”
There was silence. Billings reached slowly, drank the last of his champagne, and looked at Corinna. “It seems, my dear, there’s more ways of being broke than we knew about.” He got up and took his empty glass to the sideboard. She gave D’Erlon a thoughtful look, then followed.
Dahlmann, to whom all of this had been music to a deaf adder, said: “May I ask what matters concerning French interests in Nort Africa are to be involved?”
Bertie said casually: “I believe it is accepted that France has a duty as protecting power in Morocco and Tunisia.”
“And in Syria?”
Bertie made a delicate balancing gesture. “It is difficult. . .”
“We had heard talk that France might ask for rights for Arabs, even a dual Turkish-Arab state, like Austria-Hungary.”
“Truly?” Bertie’s face was smooth and bland now. “Most interesting. But there is always talk.”