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

not in my gift, Excellency. Our offer is not inconsiderable and no doubt you will be able to secure a percentage for brokering such a deal,' Fitzmaurice said impatiently.

'That is most generous,’ Talat said contemptuously. ‘However, we are well aware that Constantinople and large sections of our lands have been promised to Russia. Something my people will not tolerate.’

‘See reason, man, your government’s days are numbered. This is an opportunity for you to secure your future, before the whole thing comes crashing down around you,’ Whittall said, trying to mollify Talat’s objections.

‘One hundred thousand pounds or four million would mean little to me if I was hanging from a tree in the Hippodrome. As would happen, if I sell you a ship that was given to my people in compensation for a ship that your government stole from them in the first place. I would at least need to secure the future of our capital, before I could even consider such an offer.’ Talat stood up, resolute, no longer the nervy figure Johnny had first met. ‘As you cannot offer me that I see little point in continuing.’

Johnny followed Eady, Whittall and Fitzmaurice as they walked away from the conference room. Johnny wasn’t sure what it all meant for his future. The negotiations had failed, but there was still one more avenue he could pursue.

Eady was in a contemplative mood. ‘Talat’s right, of course. I wish I knew what they were bloody well playing at in London. If we’d had a bit more leeway, we might have been able to talk him round. The whole thing was a shambles from start to finish.’

‘He’ll get his comeuppance, jumped-up telegraph boy. How dare he talk to representatives of the British Empire like that.’ Fitzmaurice said malevolently.

‘So would you like me to go back to Constantinople and see if Enver Pasha would be more receptive to our offer? I’ll need some more cash…’

‘Never mind that, Swift,’ Eady cut in. ‘We’ve received word that you’re to report to the Headquarters of the new Expeditionary Force. Which I believe is going to be on Lemnos.’

‘Now Talat has rejected our peace offer, isn’t it worth pursuing Enver Pasha?’ Johnny asked.

‘Weren’t you listening Swift, you numb skull? There is no peace offer! It’s over.’ Fitzmaurice snapped.

‘Shouldn’t we report what’s happened and let London decide if they want to amend the offer?’ Johnny couldn’t believe they were letting this opportunity slip away.

‘Well, maybe you can make your report directly to our lords and masters, your orders come straight from the First Lord’s Office. You’re to be picked up from the harbour,’ Eady said, bored.

Chapter 32

Sir George Smyth whiled away the bitter sting of his failure with gin in the wardroom of HMS Phaeton as she transported him to Tenedos, a god-forsaken island at the mouth of the Dardanelles. Apparently it was being used as a base of operations against Turkey.

The journey had given the perfect opportunity to consider his position and he’d come to the conclusion that none of this was his fault. He had been pushed into an untenable position by Churchill and had gambled his career on an impossible diplomatic solution. When the prevailing appetite amongst the members of the War Council was for an invasion of Turkey. Consequently, he'd overreached himself. It was, Sir George concluded, the diplomatic equivalent of Napoleon taking Moscow. It most decidedly was not his Waterloo. Not that that was much of a consolation the problem, Sir George reflected, with being a genius was that there was always a wall of mediocrity lined up against you.

A trumpet call announced the end of Sir George’s deliberations. Reluctantly he staggered out after the other staff officers making their way towards the quarterdeck, at the back of the ship. He banged his shins as he clambered down the ladder that served as stairs and was swallowed by a world of grey steel and pipes.

He felt oddly content, being part of this cramped village of men. He liked the good order and efficiency. Everyone had a place and was acutely aware of it, and happy to be in it. It was like school, or, more precisely, British society as it should be.

Sir George reached the quarterdeck and joined his new chief, General Sir Ian Hamilton, and the other officers who had been thrown together to act as his staff.

The only person of interest to Sir George was Jack Churchill. The First Lord of the Admiralty’s brother, a connection he hoped to capitalise on. A well-built man with a bludgeon and a pistol stuck in his belt, he cut an impressive figure, which Sir George thought was more than could be said of his commanding officer.

Hamilton was in his early sixties, average height, trim and alert. Despite a slight limp, Hamilton constantly moved with a relentless energy and enthusiasm that Sir George found rather showy.

The vibration of HMS Phaeton’s engines reminded Sir George that he was on parade, and he became attentive as the cruiser steamed along the white cliffs of Tenedos and turned gracefully on the tranquil blue sea past the headland, and into a wide bay.

Sir George gasped, stunned by his first sight of a British battle fleet. He’d always thought of the Royal Navy and its precious ships as nothing more than an instrument for translating Great Britain’s power and will across the globe. He’d never considered what an intimidating spectacle it presented. Sir George was gripped by a surge of excitement. The coming campaign must surely give him the opportunity to restore his career. Tendos would be his Elba - not his St Helena.

One of the ship’s officers approached Hamilton and handed him a note. He read it and turned his terrier-like face to Sir George.

‘You, Smyth, you’re navy, make yourself ready. We have a council of war to attend aboard the Queen Lizzie,’ Hamilton shouted in