The Dardanelles Conspiracy

by Alan Bardos

  ‘Oh, hell!’ Grey said. Sir George gasped as if he'd been slapped in the face and then spun around as he heard a world-weary voice calling. Balfour was heading towards them, evidently intent on another discussion on wheat exports.

  ‘Smyth, just send the name over to my office and they'll arrange the details.’

  ‘Certainly, Sir Edward,’ Sir George retreated before he could change his mind.

  Chapter 6

  Hysterical screaming unnerved Johnny Swift as he was marched down a long, whitewashed corridor. The echo of his footsteps, slapping on the stone floor, could barely be heard above the noise.

  He passed the open door of a ward and could just make out the soft undertones of Mozart’s piano concerto number 21 in C major. The scratchy gramophone was a small glimmer of tranquillity that gradually soothed the man’s distress. Johnny stopped to listen to the music and control his shaking.

  A doctor with a comb-over and sharp pointy beard stormed into the ward and started ranting. The music stopped abruptly and the man’s murmuring began to intensify, setting off the men around him. The music apparently didn’t fit with the doctor’s treatment regimen.

  Johnny was shoved by one of the old sailors in his honour guard and continued up the corridor, following a shambling French orderly.

  The sailors had driven Johnny straight here from Colonel Woking’s office and seemed to be under the impression that Johnny was in their charge. He was surprised that his uncle had arranged for him to be brought to the Hôtel des Invalides. Johnny assumed that it being a French military hospital, they would specialise in the perennial bouts of venereal disease that afflicted his uncle.

  In spite of this inconvenience Johnny was glad to be in Paris again and looking forward to exchanging war stories with his uncle. Johnny actually had some to tell now. Then, suitably fortified with brandy, they’d go to a bawdy house. Johnny knew them well from his year of service at the embassy and there he could forget this place, and the men he’d left in the trenches.

  The orderly knocked on a door and went in without waiting for a reply. Johnny pushed him aside and strode into the office. ‘I say, was all this really necessary, Uncle… ‘

  Johnny stopped dead. Sir George Smyth was sitting behind a desk, with an amused look playing across his refined face. He walked round to the sailors and handed each one a crisp five-pound note.

  ‘Gentlemen, thank you so much for your assistance and please enjoy the rest of your leave.’ The sailors saluted and one of them handed Sir George an envelope before leaving.

  ‘I must say, Swift, you do have a knack for surviving. Come the apocalypse it will just be you and the Four Horsemen.’ Sir George signalled for Johnny to sit down. Johnny held his ground and faced his former superior.

  ‘What are you doing in Paris, Sir George? Shouldn’t you be in London flattering some undersecretary?’

  Sir George smiled malevolently. ‘Do you remember the last time we spoke? You promised to look in on my wife, when you were next in Paris. It seems the circumstances are quite different from the way you imagined them, aren’t they?’

  Johnny shrugged and decided to sit down.

  ‘That little idea of yours to stop the war proved to be quite prescient, by the by.’ Sir George sat back behind the desk. A relentless smugness still seeped from his very being.

  ‘Keep out of it and let Austro-Hungary and Serbia fight it out. Could well have worked you know, judging from the hash the Austrian’s made of the invasion of Serbia and the resistance the Serbs put up. There might have been an opportunity to bring both sides to the negotiating table.’

  ‘Really?’ Johnny couldn’t help feeling pleased that he’d been right.

  ‘I believe that even now, the essence of your plan could prove of value. In that the fate of Europe could be decided in the East. If Turkey can be knocked out of the war, the situation in the Balkans will change and a backdoor into the Central Powers opened.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ Johnny was intrigued, flattered to be brought into Sir George’s confidence.

  ‘It is not only possible, Swift, it can be done without firing a shot.’

  Sir George went to the window and looked out onto a tree-lined courtyard. He pointed at the golden dome of Napoleon’s tomb rising above them. Johnny wondered if Sir George had brought him here just so he could invoke his great hero.

  ‘Napoleon said that, “great ambition is the passion of a great character”.’

  Sir George turned away from the window, ‘The Turkish government was split over whether or not to join the war and indeed whose side to take. But while the Germans have plied the Turks with loans, our government made a number of blunders that led to the Turks coming into the war on the side of the Central Powers. Which of course you are familiar with?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Sir George looked to the sky in exasperation. ‘The key point is that at the start of the war, Churchill seized two Turkish cruisers under construction in England. All well and good there was a war on. But he did so without compensating the Turkish government. To compound matters the money to purchase the ships had been raised through public subscription and the Turkish people were up in arms. The Germans in a propaganda masterstroke sent two cruisers to Constantinople in compensation.’

  Sir George stopped. Johnny thought he’d been bottling up his frustration over that for a while. ‘With two state-of-the-art cruisers the pro-German members of the Turkish government were able to provoke a war with the Allies. Without the agreement of the rest of the leadership.’

  ‘So from what you’ve said most of the responsibility falls on the Admiralty. Weren’t you in a position to prevent all this, Sir George?’ Johnny asked, more out of interest than wanting to goad Sir George, although that was a bonus.

  ‘I’m glad you find the situation entertaining, Swift. My current position is purely in an advisory capacity. That will however soon change.’

  ‘It all sounds perfectly straightforward to me, Sir George. The Germans gave the Ottoman Empire two ships and some aid to come into the war on their side. Can’t we offer the Turks something similar to show them that it is equally in their interests to come out of the war?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Clever chap, that’s exactly what I expect you to do.’ Sir George gave a self-satisfied smirk. Johnny swore realising he’d walked straight into a trap.

  ‘Now I’ve taken the trouble of procuring you civilian clothing, readymade, but I don’t suppose you’ll notice the difference.’

  ‘I’m sorry Sir George, this has all been fascinating, but if you’ll excuse me I wish to see my uncle.’ Johnny got up to leave before he was entangled in another one of Sir George’s intrigues.

  ‘Just one moment, Swift, I haven’t finished with you yet.’

  ‘Your days of ordering me around are over.’

  Sir George picked up the envelope the sailor had handed him. Johnny saw the regimental crest on it and realised it was the envelope that the Colonel had given the sailor. Sir George took out Johnny’s blue court martial form and started to read it.

  ‘Fraternising with the enemy – attempting to warn them of an impending attack. Come now, Swift, you’re a bright lad. Do you really think that charges of this magnitude can be simply swept away and you can go on drinking and philandering as if nothing had happened? I arranged for you to be brought to Hôtel des Invalides, to keep you off the British books and away from the prying eyes of the army provosts. The commandant is an old friend. Do you imagine any of that was easy? I had to persuade the Director of Naval Intelligence to call in a number of favours. I did that because I have the perfect use for someone with your sewer rat instinct for survival and a proven track record for working with his countries enemies.’

  ‘You actually expect me to go to an enemy country and negotiate with its government?’

  ‘You won’t be negotiating as such, I have people for that. You’ll be conveying messages, not unlike the work you did for me before the war.’ He smiled w
ithout humour. ‘I need to test the waters to see if the Turkish government are receptive to a bribe and, if not, remind them that the Royal Navy will be there soon enough with its fifteen-inch guns.’

  ‘Look Sir George, you can’t simply send me off on something like that, my uncle won’t allow it.’

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t play that card any longer.’ Sir George said solemnly. ‘The gentleman in question died two weeks ago. Not really a shock, the way he knocked it back.’

  ‘No, I don’t understand. What am I doing here then?’ Johnny asked, his head spinning.

  ‘Don’t play games Swift. I know perfectly well that you had someone write to my wife, begging for your miserable excuse of a life.’

  ‘But I didn’t,’ Johnny whined incredulously.

  ‘Then how did my wife get a letter from a rather lyrical Welsh Corporal offering up prayers for your salvation and speedy return to the warm embrace of the battalion?’

  ‘Oh God,’ Johnny said remembering the confusion on the night he tried to warn the Germans. He’d had the letter from his uncle and Lady Smyth together and must have given the wrong one to Williams.

  ‘Your choice is a simple one Swift, your court martial has merely been misplaced, not quashed. Now I can’t force you to do this job, but if you agree to help, I can have you assigned to special duties. If you survive and manage to complete your assignment, I’ll see what I can do for you. If you choose not to do this for your country, you will be returned to your unit for court martial and execution.’

  In two strides Johnny was at the door and back in the bedlam of the corridor. His way was barred by two large orderlies and the doctor with the comb-over. A small cardboard French flag prominently pinned to his waistcoat added to his general air of self-importance.

  Sir George came up behind Johnny. ‘Alternatively, I could have you committed here, the best hotel in town. In a ward for the cases they have no idea what to do with, shell shock I believe they’re calling it. No one will know where you are, as there is no formal record.’

  ‘You can’t do that, there’s nothing wrong with me,’ Johnny said, trying to control his shaking. The noise of the men down the corridor was already wearing on his nerves.

  ‘Really? What say you, Jean-Pascal?’ Sir George asked the doctor.

  ‘From my preliminary observations, the patient is clearly unstable.’ The doctor spoke with bored disdain. One patient was much the same as the other to him.

  ‘Perhaps you would care to conduct an examination before you jump to a hasty diagnosis, you quack.’ Johnny said. The doctor signalled to one of the orderlies who grinned at Johnny and punched him in the stomach.

  Johnny struggled to get his wind back, looking out of the window onto a grimy courtyard of little windows and staring faces. ‘OK, so you have me at a disadvantage, Sir George. I can’t possibly stay in this awful place.’

  ‘I’m afraid that you are going to have to – well, for tonight anyway, safely under lock and key.’ Sir George said and shock the doctor’s hand. ‘Thank you so much for your assistance, Jean-Pascal.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. You must come to dinner tonight.’

  ‘Regrettably, I have a rendezvous with madame la guillotine.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Her new apartment is quite something.’ The doctor patted his cardboard flag. ‘I assume everything is satisfactory and our arrangement will proceed as agreed.’

  ‘Yes, I will be making a sizeable donation to your patriotic fund,’ Sir George smiled stiffly.

  ‘This way.’ The orderly punched Johnny again and thankfully pulled him away from the screams, down a flight of creaky wooden stairs. When they got to the bottom, Johnny was dragged through a narrow stone corridor and pushed into a whitewashed cell, with a round arched ceiling.

  ‘Wait, brandy – cognac,’ he shouted at the orderly and tossed him all the coins in his pocket. The orderly looked unimpressed and Johnny threw him his wallet, before the door was slammed in his face.

  The realisation that his uncle had gone hit Johnny with the metallic crash of the door. They’d never exchange stories now. The silly old duffer had died just when Johnny needed him the most. It was just as well he reflected that he’d given Williams the wrong address or he’d have been in front of a firing squad and in the ground by now.

  Chapter 7

  ‘Lady Smyth, one is gratified to find you in good health,’ Sir George Smyth greeted his wife in as cold and offhand manner as he could muster. It didn’t pay for her to know the depth of his feelings. This was the first time they had seen each other since the outbreak of hostilities some five months previously and, judging by the reports he’d received, his absence had suited her rather too well.

  ‘I am equally gratified to see that our time apart has not translated into a nauseating display of affection,’ Lady Smyth replied with equal formality. Sir George marvelled at how Libby’s tone could convey such understated indifference.

  She had perfected the art of conversation into an exquisite blend of mockery and sarcasm that he was left quite breathless. It demonstrated a refined breeding that far outstripped his own rather grubby title, purchased by his great-grandfather along with a modest pile in Hampshire from profits made in the First Opium War.

  ‘You have seen fit to abandon our marital home,’ Sir George said, glancing around her chic boudoir, decorated in an oriental black and gold lacquered panelling, overlaid with brightly coloured birds.

  He was moderately annoyed to find that she’d taken an apartment on the Rue Bonaparte. It was presumably to remind him that he hadn’t yet lived up to his potential.

  ‘Yes, I thought you might find the address appropriate.’

  She gave him a taunting smile and moved towards the drinks cabinet her satirical demeanour changing in the blink of an eye to demure. ‘Would you care for one?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ Sir George desperately needed something to take the edge of his disquiet. He didn’t care for the décor. It gave the place a dark and sinister atmosphere like a Shanghai madam’s opium den and reminded him of his ignoble linage. He imagined it made Lady Smyth feel like an eighteenth-century Venetian noblewoman, along with the strategic placing of a painting, that at first glance could have been a window overlooking the Grand Canal. Venice had long been a city that fascinated her since he’d been fool enough to take her there for a rather fraught honeymoon, fending off would-be Byrons and aspiring Casanovas.

  ‘Sherry, I presume?’ Lady Smyth asked.

  ‘Actually, I’ve recently acquired a taste for gin,’ he replied, inspiring his wife to cock a surprised eyebrow. The first hint of emotion she’d shown since their reunion.

  ‘Gin, really, how martial of you. Has your stint at the Admiralty blown away some of the cobwebs? Still I suppose that sort of nautical thing is in your blood. Surely rum would be more appropriate?’ Lady Smyth asked, her mocking a reminder that he was no more than a few generations from a common shipping clerk.

  ‘It’s most kind of you to show an interest in my career,’ Sir George replied dryly. He may not have been able to form a strong attachment to his wife, but he did admire her composure and effortless superiority.

  Libby, as she insisted upon being called, had been the scandal of the season when she first came out, Sir George mused, developing a reputation for insolence and a rather forward manner that far outshone her other accomplishments and drove off the most eligible suitors.

  Yet it was her spirit that drew Sir George, rather than the prestige her lineage would lend to his career. After meeting her, it surprised Sir George to find how much he detested the type of simpering maid he’d always dreamt of acquiring to run his household and whelp the dynasty he was building.

  ‘It’s most kind of you to take the trouble to see your wife,’ Libby continued and handed him a large gin.

  ‘I’ve had urgent matters to attend to.’ He sipped the crisp gin and felt it sooth away some of the tension he was feeling.

  ‘What is more urgent than atte
nding to your wife?’ Libby smiled sweetly and he felt a burning desire flood his loins. ‘I suppose as your people are… well, new money, it’s to be expected.’

  Sir George let the sting of her words pass before continuing. ‘Duty comes first, my dear, you know that. I have nonetheless taken the first available opportunity to arrange for your removal from this city of vice. Where you are at the mercy of the officer corps of any rampaging army that passes through.’

  ‘Oh, how sweet of you, but I’m not returning to London. What on Earth would I do there, roll bandages and make jam?’

  ‘I have no intention of sending you back to England, where your total lack of discretion would do me further damage. I’m packing you off to a neutral country.’ Sir George finished his drink and held the glass out for a refill.

  ‘Well, I won’t go,’ Libby answered, ignoring his proffered glass.

  ‘I had thought that since you were one’s wife and having vowed to love, honour and obey, you might for once do something one asked,’ Sir George answered, slamming the glass down. He was damned if he’d give in and pour his own drink.

  She gathered herself, emphasising a refined bone structure and noble breeding that stretched back to William the Conqueror. ‘George, please don’t be such a crashing bore. One seems to remember you vowing to worship me with your body, but that has been sadly lacking lately.’

  Sir George felt a slight stab at his manhood, but controlled his desire. Her scorn never ceased to invigorate him, reminding him of the insolent manner that had drawn Libby to him in the first place. Her only fault, Sir George felt, was the irksome tendency to scrape the bottom of the barrel in her choice of lover. While other men’s wives became the mistress of the Prince of Wales, his behaved like a back-alley trollop.

  ‘I’ve saved your office lackey, my dear,’ Sir George said, trying to placate her.

  ‘Did you really “save” Johnny for me, or have you something in mind for my little beau sabreur?’ She accented the phrase ‘handsome swordsman’, with a little kiss of her lips.