The Dardanelles Conspiracy by Alan Bardos (best ereader for pc TXT) 📗

of cheap brandy. Johnny had seen the old boy off by toasting all the stories his uncle had told him about his part in building the empire. The way things were going, Johnny supposed he’d be presiding over its collapse.

It was regrettable that Staff Nurse Lee-Perkins hadn’t been there to console him. She hadn’t cried when they had marched him off to court martial and she’d probably assumed that he’d been up against a wall by now.

The taxi pulled up outside the station and they got out under a glass marquee. The last time Johnny had been in a Paris station was August 1914 and he’d just arrived in triumph, at the Gare de l’Est with little idea of the catastrophe that awaited him.

Johnny caught the odd derisive stare from French soldiers, in their red trousers and blue coats, waiting for their own catastrophe. It made Johnny feel self-conscious in the black frock coat and grey trousers that Sir George had supplied him with. The standard dress for a junior diplomat.

Sir George hailed a train conductor as he found their platform and began to make arrangements, pointing at Johnny and indicating that Fitzmaurice’s luggage should be taken aboard a waiting train. It looked like Johnny had to carry the valise he’d been given with a change of clothes, onto the train himself.

The sudden screaming of an express train in the distance made Johnny jump in terror and he threw himself to the ground. A group of French soldiers wearing white Kepis looked on placidly.

Johnny picked himself up and smiled at the French troops. There was no way he could rejoin his unit and make things right, but he could join the French Foreign Legion and fight. He’d heard that a number of disgraced British officers were regaining their honour that way. Fitzmaurice had boarded the train and Sir George was still in the midst of discussion with the train Conductor. It would have been the simplest thing to slip away into the crowd.

The French soldiers started to whistle and cheer. Johnny glanced round and saw Lady Smyth, sweeping down the curving wrought iron staircase of a mezzanine restaurant. Confident in the knowledge that she would always dominate her environment, be it a ballroom, society salon or a mainline station packed with troops.

The sea of blue and red parted as Lady Smyth strode purposely along the platform, knitting itself back together again behind her.

She was exactly the same as the last time Johnny had seen her at the East station, flatters and porters vying to serve her. Libby passed Johnny without a flicker of recognition, her nostrils flaring like a thoroughbred, and ascended a first-class carriage.

There seemed little choice for Johnny but to follow her. It was what his uncle would have done. The Conductor, who had been talking to Sir George, stepped out in front of him and pointed towards the second-class carriages.

Chapter 9

Johnny tried to distract himself by counting the red tiled farms meandering past, while the train made its way through a flat winter landscape. He knew they were passing through Northern Italy, on their way to Turin. After that he had no idea where they were going, nor did he particularly care. He’d had a terrible journey stuck in the compartment he shared with Fitzmaurice, revising Turkish grammar and trying to come to terms with his uncle’s death.

As he got older the only real excitement Johnny ever had were the visits his uncle paid him at school. A retired cavalry general he commanded instant respect in Simpson, his house master, who allowed Johnny to be taken on trips. This invariably involved running errands for him, before a hearty dinner and stories from his Uncle’s time in America and the Crimea. They’d then frequented the best bawdy houses in town.

This special treatment soon aroused the jealousy of the other boys at school, who knew full well that the large Welsh gentleman, who accompanied his mother on Founders’ day was his step-father. Rumours began to spread that his uncle was really Johnny’s father.

All his uncle ever told him was that he’d met Johnny’s mother at a great house when it had hosted Edward VII. Soon after his uncle had been obliged to arrange for her employment in Russia, to avoid a scandal.

Sunlight played on low clouds above a distant mountain range, giving them a light blue halo. Johnny supposed he’d never know now if his uncle had been his father. He certainly couldn’t ask his mother. That would be far too embarrassing for all concerned and open wounds better left forgotten.

Johnny felt the best way to respect his uncle’s memory would be to make his way to Libby in first class. It couldn’t be a coincidence her being on the same train as him. She must obviously still be after him, or else she wouldn't have asked Sir George to help him.

Fitzmaurice tapped Johnny sharply with his walking stick. He was proving to be an irritation, insisting they stay together so he could prepare Johnny. ‘Are you listening, Swift? The Young Turks are a mixed bag of political parties and affiliates, junior army officers and minor civil servants.'

‘Young Turks?’ Johnny turned away from the window. ‘I’m familiar with the Young Bosnia movement from the last little jaunt Sir George sent me on, but I haven't heard of the Young Turks.’

‘It's the general term for the coalition of interests that make up the Ottoman government. In my opinion, there has never before been a more corrupt collection of thugs and adventurers to murder their way into government. Did Sir George teach you nothing?’

‘That was more his wife’s province,' Johnny said. Baiting Fitzmaurice was the only way to make the journey bearable.

Fitzmaurice's face flushed, but he continued his lecture. 'The main faction within the Young Turks is the Committee of Union and Progress. The CUP seized control of