The Dardanelles Conspiracy by Alan Bardos (you can read anyone txt) 📕

‘So you’re using your wife as bait for some kind of trap for her former lover?’ Libby asked, not surprised to find her husband was just a squalid careerist.

‘I prefer the term insurance. You are to ensure Swift goes where he’s sent. There is rather a lot riding on this,’ Sir George said. If she insisted on being stained by the likes of Swift, he might as well use it to his advantage. Any feeling he might have for her were secondary to his career.

‘You can rationalise it as much as you want George, but I think we both know that you are using your wife for something distasteful.’

‘My only intention is to send my wife to safety with a monthly allowance to indulge her every want.’

‘But I won’t be able to indulge my every want with Master Swift?’ The gibe appalled Sir George.

‘Isn’t he a little obvious? His type are ten a penny in any rugby club, singing bawdy songs and vomiting beer.’ Sir George found the conversation utterly repugnant, but he couldn’t grasp her fascination with Swift.

‘Yes, but that’s his charm. On the outside, he seems pedestrian, but underneath he’s brash and shameless, with a real hunger and energy, that one finds liberating.’

Sir George coughed, choking back the bile filling his throat. He gave in and moved to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large gin.

‘Darling, shall I not have a drink?’ Libby teased.

‘Pour it your damned self.’

‘George, you are jealous? How wonderfully primitive of you, but really there is no need to be. You have everything he wants, acceptance and a place of privilege and prestige.’

‘He certainly has ambition,’ Sir George managed to say through mouthfuls of gin.

‘But Johnny’s not ambitious in a vulgar way like you. He has a burning desire for something he'll never have but you always will, and I find that romantic,’ Libby said taking a step towards Sir George.

‘And what, pray, is that?’ he asked, trying not to grind his teeth.

‘Well, me, of course.’ Libby kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘Now tell me what this trip to Venice involves.’

Chapter 8

The hospital orderlies crammed Johnny into the back of a red Paris taxicab, with little consideration for his hangover. The taxi pulled away from the imposing shadow of the Hôtel des Invalides with a lurch that sent shock waves up Johnny’s back.

He wished he had something to keep his alcoholic stupor going. In happier times Johnny had used the little snub-nosed taxis to go from his favourite maisons de rendezvous to Montmartre and then to work. He had always been able to get a shot of absinthe from the driver for a couple of francs.

‘Swift, are you with us?’ Sir George asked.

Johnny began to orientate himself. He was sitting on a pull-down seat in front of Sir George and a slight, weaselly man with a full empire moustache.

‘Yes, Sir George, bright and eager,’ Johnny replied and tipped out of his seat as the cab stopped, banging his knee on the wooden slats of the floor. ‘I do beg your pardon, Sir George,’ Johnny said, climbing back onto his chair.

‘Compose yourself, Swift. I have someone important to introduce you to.’ Sir George indicated the man with the moustache. ‘This is Gerald Fitzmaurice. He was formerly with the British Embassy in Constantinople. You will be travelling together and he was brought into this expedition at some not inconsiderable effort on my part.’

‘Good to have you along, Fitz. My Turkish is pretty basic. I had a go at learning it to assist Sir George with a trade delegation.’

‘I will most certainly not be acting as your translator, you young fool, and you will address me as Mr Fitzmaurice.’ Fitzmaurice spoke with a soft Southern Irish lilt that he somehow managed to make aggressive.

‘Beg pardon gov, meant no disrespect,’ Johnny replied.

‘Swift, don’t be impudent,’ Sir George sighed. ‘And don’t be fooled by the Irish peasant accent or his sickly middle-class appearance. Fitzmaurice is as sure-footed an operator as you can ever hope to meet. You are to listen to him and do precisely as he says, is that clear?’

Fitzmaurice coloured at the backhanded compliment. It was the highest praise Sir George could bestow on someone from outside his social class.

Johnny shrugged. A few months ago, Sir George’s anger would have worried him. ‘Please forgive my rough manner, Sir George. I must be a little windy, dodging German artillery can do that to one.’

‘From what I understand you did precious little of that, choosing instead to put your German to ill use,’ Sir George said, making Johnny feel momentarily guilty and frustrated. He had no idea how to explain himself. When spoken in the cold light of a hangover, what he had done sounded appalling.

‘It is, as a matter of fact, due to your mastery of German that you are here,’ Sir George continued. ‘Your court martial papers stated that you can speak German like a Prussian officer. Not something I can say I noticed when you worked for me.’

Fitzmaurice gave Sir George a concerned glance, undoubtedly questioning the soundness of his choice, before saying, ‘I will be taking you through your paces in Turkish and providing a detailed overview of the political situation in Turkey.’

‘How thrilling.’ Johnny glanced out of the window at the sweeping lines of graceful buildings. Files of marching troops started to appear as they approached the grand façade of the Gare de Lyon. Johnny felt slightly envious they were going to do something honourable, fighting a decent war. While he was heading off on some silly errand with a tired old man. He wondered what his uncle would do in this situation.

Johnny had had a little memorial for the old duffer the previous night, after the orderly brought him civilian clothing and a bottle