“And there could be nearabouts a war starting up there! A shell from a mountain gun isn’t going to stop and ask whose daughter ye are!” O’Gilroy flashed, now truly angry.
“No, and it’s not going to rape me or take me hostage for being what I am. So at least I’ll get fair treatment from it!”
Then a ripple of shouts and sighs ran along the deck as an irregular line of lights showed ahead – well ahead – and the shapes of other ships and their sparks of coloured light formed in the mist. The Vanadis’s engines beat more confidently and she swung in a half-circle, stopped and dropped anchor a couple of lengths from the Loreley.
* * *
Dawn came later in the mountains. Later than Ranklin had dragged himself from his tent, anyway. Some of the lamps hung on poles and stalls were still alight, defining the line of the camp’s high street, leading the way towards the mess hall and coffee.
Streibl was already there, almost alone at this time, though there was clattering and chatter from beyond the partition to the kitchen. Ranklin mumbled a greeting and poured himself coffee, then flopped into a chair. After one cup – as a guest he was doomed to a small, polite demi-tasse while Streibl drank from a big mug – he helped himself to a fresh bread roll and potted meat.
Lady Kelso came in. At the time Ranklin was in no state to realise it, but she must have thought for weeks about what to wear for the moment when she would re-meet her Arab lover. And had decided on a tricky balancing act between East and West – but done with taste and expense. She might look just a dark bundle, but Miskal would appreciate the fine wool and silk, and see that the shawl she was obviously ready to use as a Muslim head-covering was in dark blue, not black. Both her own woman and a reminder that she had been his woman seemed to be the message; God knows if she’d got it right.
“And we’re off as soon as we’ve finished breakfast?” she asked brightly.
“When you are ready.” Streibl seemed sombre, subdued. “The horses are being saddled now.”
“Are you coming with us?”
Streibl seemed surprised at the idea. “No, you will have a guide . . .”
Ranklin asked: “All the way there and back?”
“I think he will not want to go into Miskal’s monastery, but-”
“Then may I see a map of the countryside, please? I’m still responsible for getting Lady Kelso back safely.”
It probably wasn’t secrecy that bothered Streibl, just the Hon. Patrick’s intelligence. “Are you . . . do you . . . understand maps well?”
Coldly polite, Ranklin asked: “How many thousands of acres does your family own?”
* * *
As the mist lightened, the nearby Loreley took on colour as well as shape. A bugle sounded and a number of sailors hurried about her deck, but they looked as if they were just being naval, not useful. And the steam launch moored at her companion-way looked cold.
Another ship had been hooting invisibly for twenty minutes; now she formed in the mist as the silhouette of a small liner and slid past. Just then, Corinna came back on board; she looked grim.
“I saw the consul all right,” she answered O’Gilroy’s querying expression, “and got the usual sermon about a woman’s place . . . But worse, there’s only one automobile in town that can take that caravan road, a Ford T, and it’s been booked by telegraph from guess who? Yes, Beirut Bertie.”
“Probly his ship now.” O’Gilroy nodded at the liner.
She nodded. “A Messageries Maritime from Smyrna . . . how the devil did he get there? Anyway, are you prepared to be polite to him? . . . No: you’d better stay out of sight. I’ll be polite – to start with. After that we can descend to blackmail and threats of violence.”
The ride ashore in Vanadis’s launch was chillier than the still March dawn itself. The yacht’s Captain, foreseeing himself having to report Corinna’s rape/death/disappearance to Billings, had made just as much fuss as O’Gilroy. But she didn’t want to start the trek already exhausted by argument, so cut him off by demanding a parcel of food – and a rifle for O’Gilroy.
That helped keep him quiet, fiddling with its unfamiliar lever action. It was a Winchester repeater with a feeble-looking short cartridge. “The gun that won the West,” as the Captain proudly pointed out. O’Gilroy thought the West might have been won rather quicker with a rifle that fired further than he could spit, but said nothing.
There was a small crowd waiting at the iron quay and, in the roadway behind it, the deceptively spindly-looking and dusty Ford Model T, hung with extra tyres and petrol cans. Along the wharf, bundles and boxes of freight were stacked head-high and O’Gilroy faded away among those.
Bertie was the first ashore from the liner’s launch, dressed for the mountains in a shaggy goatskin coat and riding breeches and carrying a small haversack and a leather rifle case. He directed a couple of porters to take his bags into the town, then turned towards the car – and saw Corinna.
He was startled but recovered quickly and raised his shapeless mountain cap. “Mrs Finn, is it not? I am most charmed to meet you – but surprised. I had not thought-”
“Mr Billings lent me his yacht. You recall he was thinking of buying those Baghdad Railroad bonds? And he wanted someone to look over the property.”
“Ah yes, it is quite logical. Then you are about to visit the camp . . .”
“Not right now. They can’t receive me until tomorrow, so I reckoned today I’d take a drive up the old caravan road. Only what do I find? – that you’ve booked the only automobile that could tackle that road. And I wondered . . .”
There was a small frown on Bertie’s forehead, and behind it his mind must have been racing, yet he kept his lazy smile. “Ah . . . I would be, of course, delighted. I myself wish to spend some hours up there . . . But perhaps the driver can take you on, show you the Cilician Gates, and while it is hardly the weather for a picnic-”
“Matter of fact, I’d like to spend a few hours myself. Rescuing Lady Kelso from the monastery, a few things like that.”
Bertie seemed to relax. He abandoned the smile, and his voice got more matter-of-fact. “Ah. Yes. But this is not just a girlish adventure, I fear. There is-”
“Oh, I know that. I may know it better than you. About Zurga Bey. Or Kazurga, actually, I think – the Tornado? – is that right? And what he’s up to.”
Bertie cocked his head on one side and looked at her. “I did not know lady bankers were so well informed. Yes, I got a message from Theodora . . . I wonder who you spoke to, Mrs Finn?”
Corinna gave him one of her wide, bright smiles.
Bertie went on: “I admit I should have been more clever . . . But I only heard of him as a man with a beard, and Turkish officers do not have beards. So I already know Kazurga Bey will be here . . . but you say you know what he is planning?”
“The price of that is a little ride up into the hills. And some help hiring horses. But I’ll throw in keeping quiet about a French diplomat consorting with Turkish bandits.”
“The Quai d’Orsay allows me much freedom . . . And by now I much prefer to work alone. So I must manage with just knowing that Kazurga is here.” He put on an expression of regret. “I am most sorry, Mrs Finn, but I assure you it is for your own good-”
“Tell you what else I’ll do,” Corinna smiled. “I’ll even try and persuade my friend Mr Gorman not to shoot you for past services rendered.”
Bertie turned slowly, unalarmingly, and saw O’Gilroy behind him, holding the Winchester by his side, one-handed but with his thumb on the hammer.
“Indeed you talk to the best people,” Bertie said. “And do you know? – suddenly, I find I am persuaded.”