Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

  “I’m not certain I follow you, sir. Are you suggesting a form of clandestine mediation?”

  “Not at all. This agency operates with the sole intent of furthering the interests of its principal—in our case the Crown of Great Britain.”

  “A form of espionage, then.”

  “No, sir,” Bloomsbury said coldly. “It is never that. The practices of gathering intelligence and acts of secret assassination have their place, but are beneath notice for this agency. It is in the realm of princes and governments that it has its calling.”

  “Do be plain, sir, I beg. If this is your following, I honour you for it but its remit is not clear to me. Do you—”

  “I will be plain, my dear Farndon. With distressing regularity there are situations in this world that loom suddenly to menace the interests of this country. If there is any possibility that I can be of value, that I perceive an opening, however slight in the crisis, I will hasten there to see what can be achieved.”

  “Alone?”

  “Quite. No one troubles an English milord, for they are patently harmless and useless, yet are known to have the priceless gift of the ear of the highest in the land. I am thereby well placed to listen sympathetically to grievances, be open to the radical and place dismaying information where it will have the most effective consequence.”

  “Then I begin to see how—”

  “But my enterprise goes beyond this, far beyond. What if a situation arises that demands, shall we say, a need to show resolution, commitment, even? In a cause sympathetic to England, perhaps, or a player too timid to act without he has a shadowy friend to reassure him? It is out of the hands of ambassadors and their ilk for they and their positions are open and known, but it is a very different matter for me, able to take any stance I desire with them.

  “You see, I have been invested with secret competences, powers to commit England to any course of action I deem necessary and which may be trusted therefore by the recipient. In this way may be accomplished what the blunt weapon of a whole army division or your naval fleet may not.”

  “This is extraordinary to hear, sir! You imply that the government of the day will allow you this latitude, and support you in it ex post facto?”

  “These powers are used sparingly and as a last resort, but I have had occasion. Much the more common is the innocent subverting, the guileless deception, the empathetic audience and, still more, the vacuous entertaining.”

  “You will have had your successes, I’m persuaded.”

  “It is to be admitted. You’ll recollect when we first met in ’ninety-four?”

  “In difficult circumstances in the Caribbean.”

  “Yes—that was when I carried in my bosom the knowledge of the treacherous plot of the Spaniards to fall upon our possessions there, in forward anticipation of a declaration of war. This was won from a disaffected Don, whom I suborned in the usual way. And, more recently, in the assassination of the Swedish prince, there were elements more than willing to be turned and … Well, I find I am an old man babbling, I do apologise.”

  “Sir, do not, I pray! You have my most earnest admiration—as much for what you have not said as what you have revealed to me.”

  “I knew you’d understand, my friend.”

  For some reason the words touched Renzi greatly. He coughed self-consciously and said, with much feeling, “And I’d believe you’d be finding it hard to resign yourself to inactivity, sir.”

  “Yet I have the consolation of my dear wife, who has been by my side over these years …”

  “Sir, purely out of unforgivable curiosity, is the marchioness privy to what you’ve been undertaking?”

  “There are no secrets between us,” he answered simply. “Else what might she think?” he added, with a dry laugh.

  There was an awkward pause.

  “Sir, I have to thank you for your hospitality, and look to—”

  “Capital brandy. Another?”

  So there was to be a postscript.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The marquess resettled himself in the high-backed chair, cradling his glass. “You’ll be wondering why I’ve told you this. It is for a purpose.”

  “Sir?”

  “The times are dolorous but I cannot respond any further to the call. I must needs pass on the banner to another.”

  Renzi sat upright. “Sir! If by that you mean—”

  “I do. In all my dealings with humanity I cannot think to find another more nearly suited to my trade. You are upright, honourable and possessed of an acute moral sensibility. Unusually, this is coupled with a most complete experience of the world in your nautical travels and similar—and while I’m well aware of your views on covert activities, our Mr Congalton was at pains to laud your successes with the Duc d’Auvergne in Jersey, and may I point out, so recently as Curaçao and later.”

  He smiled briefly. “Your matchless performance in Paris was observed with envy by myself, who was powerless to act in the matter, and”—he held up a hand to stop the protests—“this can only demonstrate you are undoubtedly possessed of the prime requisites for a species of discreet diplomacy in every respect. And now, since your élever your qualifications are complete.

  “Lord Farndon, I invite you to take my place as—shall we say?—an ambassador extraordinaire to serve your country as is seldom that a single individual can. The going will be onerous, the burden dire—but your reward is the sure knowledge that there will be very few indeed who can lay claim to have served Crown and country as lies within your power.

  “What do you say, sir?”

  How could he refuse the offer? It was a clarion call to purpose in his life, the noble cause of his country. Guiltily he knew that it would as well offer the danger and excitement he craved in exotic parts of the world—his wanderlust would be more than satisfied.

  He knew he could do it: already his mind was seething with possibilities. His ethnical studies had given him a certain name in scientifical circles that was genuine and would open doors abroad. And he was virtually unknown to the French. The Mr Smith who had gone to Paris on cartel was untainted by discovery and would never be mistaken for the elegant Lord Farndon, while the activities of an obscure ship’s secretary in the remote Caribbean would not be brought up in the glittering chancelleries of Europe.

  And, above all, it was an honourable and decent occupation.

  Natural caution, however, dictated he find out more before accepting.

  He spent a restless night but there was never any question: if his queries were satisfied he would consent.

  “Well, dear fellow, have you considered your position?”

  “I have, sir. And I’m to say that I do accept, should certain queries I have be satisfied.”

  “Good man! Well, fire away.”

  They were quickly dealt with.

  In the matter of his standing with the government of the day, he would be made a Lord Chamberlain’s Gentleman of the Presence, to kiss hands with the King as his liege man of demonstrable privy loyalty, but his prime and only contact would be a certain Mr Congalton in the Foreign Office, the only one to know his true mission—and who was most keen to meet him.

  Necessarily his actions, if revealed, would be repudiated by the authorities and no military or civil jurisdiction would have knowledge of him. While this left him completely alone, on the other hand it allowed him to act without orders, hindrance or the necessity to report to a superior.

  It would become more complicated if he should need to invoke external forces. As a matter of routine each flagship in the Navy, wherever based in the world, would carry among its sealed orders a single envelope. He could demand its opening with a code phrase and it would contain an instruction to the effect that the name it contained was authorised to request a movement or action of a ship or squadron forthwith.

  Communications would be sparing: he would be left alone to make decisions with the best information to hand and it would be understood that any actio
n of his would have been made in the light of this.

  In all, it was a relationship of complete discretion, immense trust and grave moral responsibilities. And precisely as he would want it.

  “Sir, you have answered me in full. I do now accept the honour.”

  The formalities were settled without delay. After his visit to the palace he was immediately taken to see Mr Congalton.

  A spare, abstemious man of indeterminate years, he inhabited a windowless office at the rear of the grand building in Whitehall. In its hushed atmosphere Renzi was left to make acquaintance of the man who would know everything, whose reach spanned the planet and who would stand between him and those who would never know of him.

  “The marquess has served us faithfully since the American war,” Congalton said drily. “He will be a hard man to follow, sir.”

  It was a long afternoon but he heard much more of the marquess’s career, his many successes and rare defeats. It was a useful way to perceive how it had been done: the stratagems and intelligence, creative improvisation and inhuman patience that had achieved so much, always over extreme odds.

  He saw how his position in the world was paradoxically both a perfect character for his work but, as well, made him a figure of prominence unable to step back into an anonymous background. Too important to overlook, too exalted to suspect.

  He learned of the limitations of his office: the tyranny of time, of being unable to be in two places at once—the stark impossibility of some situations.

  A post of great loneliness with none to applaud and none to grieve.

  “You will want to be apprised of the state of the world as you would see it, my lord.”

  He did, and his eyes were opened. This was no dry reciting of the news of the day: this was a view from the centre of the web, informed by intelligence won from the heart of the opposing forces, which hid nothing of the desperate grappling of the two principals on the world stage and the scrambling of lesser powers to profit by their preoccupation.

  He was exhilarated—and awed. How could he, a single man, conceivably alter the balance in this titanic struggle?

  “What in your opinion is the greatest threat to us at this minute?” Renzi asked.

  “For your answer, I ask you to recall our strategy at its core. That Bonaparte is imprisoned in Fortress Europe, and while he may strut up and down he is helpless in the larger arena. He needs to burst out into the world, either by crushing and eliminating us or finding a corridor out of the continent.”

  “Yes, I grant this.”

  “He has an opportunity.”

  “The Levant?”

  “He sees that our allies, Turkey and Russia, are poised for war against each other. If he is successful in an intrigue with Sultan Selim in Constantinople and detaches him from us he stands to gain an overland route direct to India and the world, not a fathom of salt water to send our fleet—and we are lost.”

  “Quite. Are the French succeeding, do you think?”

  “They began in 1802 at the armistice, and ever since have been steadily wooing him with advisers and soothing words and now, it’s reported, with guns. Our ambassador there, Arbuthnot, is no match for the French in this game, especially ranged against their General Sébastiani, who is a close friend of Bonaparte. He’s a fellow Corsican and was hand-picked to ingratiate himself to a commanding position, which now, we must grudgingly admit, he has achieved.”

  A reluctant smile appeared. “I have the distinct feeling that my first engagement will be among the pavilions and harem of the Topkapi Palace. Am I right?”

  “It is always yours to refuse, my lord.”

  “Very well. Shall we plan?”

  There was remarkably little to discuss. The only operational objective that could in any way be defined was that the French intriguing and influence in Constantinople must at all costs be countered. The stakes were colossal: if they succeeded in taking Turkey from the British, Bonaparte would have his highway out of Europe, and falling on India from landward, the end of Britain and its empire would not be long behind.

  It was now left to him to travel out as soon as it was possible to do so.

  “Oh, Nicholas, darling! Please pay attention, I beg. I was talking about the arboretum. If we plant now, they’ll blossom next summer and what a wonderful show they’ll make. We have only to pull down that old barn and put up one of those new glass houses and—”

  “I’m sorry, Cecilia, I was thinking on other things. Shall we go inside?”

  It couldn’t be postponed any longer. There was a dispatch cutter leaving from Plymouth for Gibraltar and he dared not miss the chance, not with its speed in the face of the urgency.

  “Dearest, you’ll never guess who I met in London.”

  “Tell me!”

  “The Marquess of Bloomsbury.”

  “Oh, how wonderful! Did you tell him—”

  “He extends to you every wish for happiness, my dear.”

  “Did he—”

  “Dear Cecilia,” he broke in. “I don’t know how to—to break this to you.”

  “Nicholas?” she said uncertainly, her hand going to her mouth in concern.

  “You know his work dealt with diplomatic matters of the highest degree of discretion?”

  “Yes, but he never spoke of it.”

  “He told me much, you may believe. Enough that I know now the frightful peril that England lies under at this moment.”

  “Nicholas, why did he … ?”

  “He knows me of old and has been told of Paris, Jersey and Curaçao. And since learning of my ennobling he has conceived that … that I am the one best placed to take up his work.”

  “You—you mean to be like him, to go about the world and … and …” she said, breathless.

  “That is what he desires me to do.”

  “You mean to say, to be the new …” She laughed delightedly. “Oh, darling! This is wonderful news! No—it’s marvellous! You’ve no idea how worried I’ve been that you’d be so discontented with a quiet life. This is just what you need.”

  She hugged him.

  “Then you’re not … ?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’m happy for you, can’t you see?”

  “Even if it means that I must embark immediately?”

  “If it’s an urgent matter there is no question—we must leave without delay.”

  “Cecilia. My love. There is no ‘we.’ I go alone. It’s much too dangerous for you, believe me.”

  “Nicholas—it has to be ‘we.’ I’m a strong woman and I want to be by your side.”

  “Sweetheart, this is no place for the woman I love so dearly. I will not—”

  “The marchioness went everywhere it took her husband—why not me? Am I less than she? Are you saying—”

  “No. I will not have it, Cecilia. I cannot have my attention diverted with worry and anxiety on your account.”

  “You’ve forgotten, Nicholas, that as lady companion I went everywhere with them both. And that included some odious and frightening places, believe me.”

  “Oh? You’ve never told me—”

  “Because I’ve not wanted to worry you, darling. Look, we’ll be just like them, together we’ll—”

  “No. And that’s my last word on it, Cecilia.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “THEY’RE OUT, SIR!” Curzon said urgently. The first lieutenant’s glass was on the opposite, northern, side of Bahia Cádiz.

  L’Aurore was alone, deep in the bay. She had gone in on reconnaissance to steal past the sheltering peninsula of Isla de León and look direct into the inner harbour.

  It was a very risky manoeuvre, usually done in boats.

  Nelson had gone down in legend for joining his boats’ crews and in the brutal hacking to escape the swarming gunboats that always came out to contest such spying.

  It rarely happened but there could be, as now, a combination favouring a ship to enter—nothing more than a light frigate, but no gunboats would dare approach her broadsi
de.

  Any variation in the weather could quickly spiral into disaster. It had to be a wind from the north: from the east, would be dead foul; from the west would embay and trap the intruder; and from the south would bring opposing frigates out from the port. And the timing of the tide was crucial: if the winds were slight an ingoing tide would set up an adverse current to the southeast while the ebb would see it press to the northwest.

  It was an enterprise never encouraged by admirals as the sight of a helpless frigate being taken would shake morale considerably—quite apart from the loss of strength to the fleet—and at the same time greatly raise that of the enemy. Only the most daring of captains would even consider it, but Kydd believed an accurate and timely account of all the assets facing them was worth the risk.

  “Wind’s turned fluky,” muttered the sailing master, eyeing the masthead vane. Without the steady north-northeasterly to rely on, they could find themselves perilously clawing their way out.

  “A few more minutes only, Mr Kendall,” Kydd said, the big signal telescope steadied over a midshipman’s shoulder as he, like all the officers, took careful note of what they could see on the inside of the peninsula, the great port complex of Puerto Cádiz. It was not only numbers they were after—they counted above thirty ships of size—but their readiness for sea. Sail bent on to the yard was a sure sign that a sally to seaward was in contemplation.

  Midshipmen Clinch and Willock, too, were eagerly recording the observations.

  “I make it eighteen o’ the vermin,” Curzon rapped, his eyes on the gathering swarm at Rota, opposite. Each gunboat had a single cannon in the bows: taken together, enough fire-power to seriously challenge a frigate.

  “They wouldn’t dare!” grunted Kydd. Dillon, at his side, faithfully noted down everything of consequence that was said, whether he understood it or not.

  “We’ll be headed if’n the wind backs a point further, sir,” Kendall said, more strongly. The leading edge of every sail was now fluttering; if the wind got past the board-hard canvas it would instantly slap it flat aback and they’d be dead in the water or, worse, a dismasted hulk.