“Perhaps, but-”
“I think you are forgetting,” Ranklin said firmly, “that Lady Kelso is on a mission for His Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. The ransom is nothing to do with that. I must therefore advise her not to link herself with it in any way whatsoever.”
Zurga was standing at the brazier, automatically holding out his hands to it, but so detached that Ranklin sensed he was, by now, in charge. He had abandoned more than the beard: he was now a soldier in soldier’s country.
Gloomily, Streibl tried one more throw: “Then would she take a message to Miskal Bey?”
“Provided it is open, and I can read it, then I may advise her-”
“But surely-”
“Lady Kelso is not a courier for the Baghdad Railway Company. She is on a mission for His Majesty’s Secretary-”
“Yes, yes. You have said that.” He glanced at Zurga and got heavily to his feet.
Zurga asked: “May I ask where you obtained that coat?” He indicated the sheepskin affair now spread on the camp bed.
“My brother brought it back from India. He’s in America at the moment, so . . . It seemed made for this sort of country.”
“Most suitable. I ask because there was an Englishman who fought with the Greeks against us in 1912, an officer of artillery, and we heard that he wore such a coat. They called him the Warrior Sheep.”
“Really? The Warrior Sheep? Most amusing.” Ranklin forced a laugh. Damn it! – to risk your alias with a scruffy old coat . . . “Was he any good – as a warrior?”
“Perhaps.” He stroked his cheek past the scar. “Or lucky. It is the same thing, for warriors, I think.”
“Well,” Ranklin said, determinedly cheerful, “he wasn’t my brother, anyway. Probably some other chap who’d served in India. I think most of our officers do, sooner or later.”
“Ah, India. . . always there are Englishmen fighting in other people’s countries.”
“I don’t think it’s only Englishmen; history’s full of mercenary armies . . . The Irish fighting for Napoleon, the Pope’s Swiss Guard . . . Perhaps warriors just gravitate to wars.”
“Perhaps so. But they cannot expect to be loved by those who fight for what they believe. Or to be trusted.”
Streibl was already halfway out of the tent and looking impatient. Zurga gave a little smile, a nod, and followed. Ranklin sat down on the bed and wished he had a drink, a proper one. Perhaps Lady Kelso . . .
Ever the Compleat Traveller – more compleat than he, anyway – she had a small silver flask of brandy. Ranklin took it almost neat.
“I’ve just had a visit from Streibl and Zurga . . .” He told her about Streibl’s requests and his refusal.
“What was all that about?”
“I’m not sure, but perhaps they’ve counted the ransom and found it lacking. And-”
“Do they suspect you?”
“Not of that. . . I’d have to have known about the ransom all along and come to Constantinople with a load of lead discs. But I dare say they’d like Miskal to suspect me. Anyway, getting us to take it to him would help blur the issue for them.”
She thought this over. “But we could have taken a message for them. Then opened it and read it and found out more of what they’re planning.”
He looked up in astonishment: really, women had absolutely no standards. Also, why hadn’t he thought of that?
“Er . . . yes. Bit late to change our minds . . . But may I tell you what I think?”
“Please do. What do you think, Patrick?” She was suddenly a dutiful little girl at kindergarten. “Or is your name really Patrick? I suppose it might not be.”
Along with the smell of the charcoal brazier, there was a feminine scent in the air and even – remarkable in this landscape – the crushed-grass smell tents ought to have. They were sitting decorously apart, her on a stool, he on a spare camp-bed – not hers – and talking in little more than whispers.
“Never mind that. . . I now think the Railway’s always had a three-step plan. First comes your appeal to Miskal. Then paying the ransom; I don’t believe Zurga ever intended his own visit, that was just to explain him away. But then, when they’ve got their engineers back, they have to make sure Miskal never tries this sort of thing again. And the surest way to do that is kill him and all his crew. I think that’s Zurga’s real job, as an Army officer – only I can’t guess how.”
“Zurga can’t do much just by himself,” she said slowly. “He’ll need . . . well, something. Have we seen any sign of that?”
“We wouldn’t. Think about it: Miskal must know everything that goes on in this camp. Even now there’s nearly a thousand workers here, I gather, and the people running the coffee-houses and stalls, men coming and going all the time. If I were Miskal I’d have half a dozen informers here.”
“Yes, I suppose so . . .”
“And the Railway must know that. So whatever they’re planning they’ll keep it out of the camp. If Zurga’s going to attack the monastery . . .” he paused, trying for the umpteenth time to work out how; “. . . he’ll get there by some other route.”
“And you’re sure that’s what he’s planning?”
“Why else is he here? I think he’s quite capable of storming the monastery while we’re there and then saying Miskal killed us – except that might kill the hostages, too. The ransom shows the Railway hasn’t abandoned them . . . And in a way, they’ve become hostages for our safety, now. But,” he added, “when this is over, you might try and persuade Miskal to go back to the desert or wherever.”
“And I told you, he doesn’t belong in the desert – or ‘wherever’.” Her dutifulness was all gone now.
Ranklin made a vague helpless gesture. “He can’t win against the Railway. It’s just too big a project, thirty thousand men working on it in summer, so Streibl said. Nobody really controls something that size: it has its own momentum. If Miskal stays where he is, the Railway’s going to crush him.”
22
The Vanadis crept into Mersina harbour just before dawn. Or at least, that was where everyone on board hoped she was creeping through the dark mist. It was a tense, soft-breathing time. The engines churned slowly, almost silently, so the ting of the engine-room telegraph and the shouts of the man taking depth-readings in the bows were clearly audible. Corinna and O’Gilroy were up and watching from the portside rail, and they weren’t alone: a surprising number of spare crewmen were there as unofficial lookouts, willing the land to show itself – but not too close.
“I shall be going ashore to wake this consul,” Corinna announced. She was looking warm but not elegant in a coarse fur coat down to her knees and a hat tied on with a scarf. “Are you packed?”
“I am, but I’ve been thinking-” O’Gilroy began.
“Always a mistake,” Corinna said, and if he had been listening properly, he’d have realised that wasn’t a quip but a warning.
“It could be bad country up there . . .”
“You’re going to get masculine and protective; I have perfect pitch for that. So you think I’ll be in the way?”
The yacht’s fog-horn let off a blast that made them jump. The sound faded, echoless, into the mist and nothing answered. It had sounded not authoritative but a plea.
O’Gilroy said doggedly: “I was near ten years in the Army, South Africa and all, and we was trained for this sort of thing. . .”
“I’ve ridden through rough country before. D’you know what parts of the United States are like?”
“Ye know I don’t,” with impatient sullenness.
“And you’ve never heard of Isabella Bird in the Rockies? Or Gertrude Bell, for Heaven’s sake, in this part of the world itself and down through Syria? And what about Lady Kelso herself? – she’s literally twice my age.”
“But with the bandits and all-”
“There’s bandits all over the world. And women die from tripping over carpets in their own drawing-rooms. I’m not doing something stupid and I’m not doing something I haven’t done before. And I’m only doing it to help Lady Kelso out-”