Stone's Fall (48 page)

CHAPTER
20

I had not forgotten the matter of Elizabeth and her diaries, but the rest of Tuesday and much of Wednesday morning was used up preparing. Stone’s telegraph operator was back in business, so I was at least able to communicate faster, and if my own entreaties had not been enough, the state of the markets proved more persuasive. Hour by hour, the news had been getting worse. More and more people suspected some hideous crisis was in the making. Credit was drying up; suspicion was already beginning to focus on Barings, which was publicly giving assurances that nothing was amiss, while privately panicking and trying to raise as much money as possible. Members of the family pledged their houses, horses, works of art. Debts and favours were called in, assets were offered at knockdown prices, but all that did was stoke the speculation that something was going very badly wrong. Bit by bit, panic began to spread; interest rates rose, volumes in the markets began to oscillate wildly, prices followed. Time was running out. Goschen decided to come to Paris. He had no alternative.

The meeting would be in the last place anyone would ever suspect that an event of such importance would happen. When I asked, Elizabeth agreed without hesitation, and immediately went into high activity, laying in food, drink and everything else that might be needed. It was only a little different from a meeting of her salon; the topics of discussion would merely be more serious. And after many hours of labour I checked my watch. My appointment with Drennan was coming close. It was time to go.

It was a long shot, admittedly, but it was worth a try. Certainly I did not wish to risk confronting Drennan directly; I knew him too well. He had beaten me last time we met, and I had no confidence that he would not do so again. It would have been good to know exactly what he was up to, but I had concluded this was a luxury I could do without. The last thing Britain needed was an espionage scandal inflaming French public opinion against all things English just at the moment when France was being asked for assistance. Indeed, I was more and more sure the two were connected.

I arrived in the rue Daru about half an hour early, approaching from the boulevard de Courcelles and then down the rue Pierre-le-Grand, and went into an apartment block on the corner. Facing me over the road was the Alexandre Nevskii Cathedral, Eastern and entirely out of place in that strict and regimented quarter of apartment buildings, the different-sized domes and gold mosaics looking as though they had been dropped from the sky by accident. It had been built a few decades previously for the Russian community in Paris, as a sign of their presence and to give a focus for their social activities, and had proved a singular success, even though the local residents, apparently, did not entirely approve.

I climbed up the servants’ staircase at the back of the lobby, all seven flights of scrubbed, cheap wood set against poorly painted walls, in contrast to the richly polished, carpeted appearance of the residents’ staircase, until I reached the corridor at the top which led to the tiny cubicles that the servants slept in under the eaves. Halfway along there was a skylight, which I opened. It was noisy, but I knew there would be no one to hear, and I levered myself out onto the roof, and manoeuvred into a position where I had a clear view of the cathedral.

I kept my head low, and scanned the small square in front of the entrance with my binoculars; a faint sound of singing told me there was a service going on. A few people were hanging about, and I thought I saw what I was looking for. A man, well dressed, sitting on a bench reading a paper; another by the door looking at the order of service pinned up in a small glass case. Two more talking by a tree to the left.

My heart sank. It was all so amateurish. Drennan was too old to fall for that. A man reading a newspaper in the semidark? People idly chatting in the cold? He wouldn’t go near the place. One glance and he’d take fright.

And then I saw him; he too was coming early, walking along the street bundled up, hat pulled down over his head, dressed anonymously, not scruffily, not respectable. Like a shopkeeper or clerk. Only his walk, long and loping, gave him away. He also wanted to get there first, to be able to see me before I saw him. He’d taught me that; I had anticipated him.

He took no precautions: all the methods and techniques he had so painstakingly and painfully drilled into me he didn’t use. He didn’t look around, didn’t pause to check the landscape, did nothing. He just crossed the street, walked across the little square, began to climb the steps. I was puzzled. He was coming to see me, but he was taking no precautions, almost as though we were on the same side, as though he considered me not a threat.

The man by the order of service moved to intercept him, going close, taking him by the arm; I saw the bench man drop his newspaper and begin moving forward; the conversationalists started to spread out, one to each side, forming a circle behind his back.

Drennan turned, his hand went into his pocket. I heard nothing, it was too far away, but he fell onto his knees, looked up. The newspaper man came up close behind him, stretched out his arm to point at his head, and Drennan collapsed onto the stone steps of the cathedral.

It was done. One problem, at least, had been taken care of. I was back at Elizabeth’s house, washed and changed, in time to welcome Wilkinson and Goschen when they arrived in John Stone’s coach from the Gare du Nord at eight o’clock.

CHAPTER
21

It was a soirée to remember. One by one, they arrived, and I was only sorry that it had to remain entirely confidential. It would have had more of an impact on Elizabeth’s reputation than the arrival of the Prince of Wales had done. Not that many streetwalkers entertain the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the British and Russian Ambassadors, the French Foreign and Finance Ministers, the Governor of the Bank of France and a smattering of Rothschilds and other bankers at one go. Not that it was a social occasion; these were men of affairs, and it was what they were good at. I might even hazard a guess and say they all enjoyed themselves. From nine in the evening to five the next morning, they huddled in corners, disappeared in pairs or groups into side rooms, shouted at each other, looked tense, angry, worried, elated, relaxed and made jokes, then began the cycle of meetings anew. Those who were not engaged gathered round Elizabeth like chickens round a hen, and she distracted them with her conversation and charm, creating an atmosphere of the possible in a way only she could manage. Her chef, the incomparable M. Favre, excelled himself, and her wine cellar impressed even M. de Rothschild. I am firmly of the opinion that the slow onset of calm she generated did more to ensure an agreement than any other factor.

For my part I had little to do, but I was given the liberty of attending the private meetings of the English delegation, and the rare occasions when the meeting, more or less by chance, became more general. It was, however, made clear that I was to offer no opinions of my own. And I rarely had the opportunity of talking to any of the Russian or French party.

Count Gurunjiev did, however, take my arm shortly after he arrived. “A word, Mr. Cort,” he said quietly.

“It seems you were right,” he said. “A man was shot this evening as he was about to go into the Russian cathedral. He had no papers or identification of any sort on him, but he answers your description perfectly well. And he had a loaded revolver.”

“He caused no harm, I hope?”

“No. After your warning we were not prepared to take any chances. He was accosted, tried to run and was killed. We are currently persuading the police it was a murder amongst thieves, and best forgotten about. I’m sure they will agree; there have been too many of these incidents recently for them to want more publicity. What is puzzling is what he planned to do.”

He went off to pay his compliments to Elizabeth, leaving me with only a deep sense of relief. All I had to do was discover where Drennan had lived, and then collect the diaries, and I had time enough for that now. The urgency had gone out of one part of my life at least.

And finally the meeting proper was under way; the English were in Elizabeth’s salon, the French took over her library, the Russians were closeted in the sitting room. The dining room served as neutral territory, where all could talk freely. A ridiculous amount of time was lost in small talk, enquiries about the voyage from London, earnest entreaties that good wishes be communicated to everyone from the President to the Tsar to wives and sons and daughters. There was talk about hunting and politics as they slowly got the measure of each other, sidled towards the main subject which all knew must arise sooner or later, then backed away again.

It was necessary, all this, it set the tone, gauged emotions and nerves. Then, all of a sudden, as though some hidden decision had been taken, some sign given, Count Gurunjiev began:

“I fear Mr. Cort was trying to pull the wool over my eyes when we met the other day,” he began. “I discover that what he so skilfully described as a small matter of accounting is nothing of the sort.”

“And how is that?” Goschen asked.

“I do not understand finance: in that Mr. Cort was quite correct. But you make a mistake in thinking I do not understand politics, or diplomacy. His little matter of accounting seems to involve a fundamental shift in Russian foreign policy. And of French.”

“I think that is an exaggeration.”

Here it comes, I thought. They’ve been talking about it, they’ve agreed a joint strategy. Rouvier, I knew, had been bombarded by the Rothschilds all day, one banker after another presenting the case for intervention, for reversing the policy, and offering who knew what inducements; he was the only senior French figure who wasn’t there. Delayed by the Chambre des Députés, someone said. Will be along when he can leave. No doubt those who wished to pursue the matter and go ahead had also been putting their case as well. The Count was about to give the first hint of which side had triumphed.

“I imagine the interest rate that the Bank of France would charge for lending gold to the Bank of England will be very high. Naturally, you cannot expect the Russian Government to accept a lower reward.”

Better than saying there could be no deal at all. But he could still set the price so high that it would be unpayable.

“I never expected for a moment that would be the case,” Goschen said a little grumpily. “Of course, your assistance would be rewarded, and acknowledged in public, if you so wish.”

“Can you give me any reason why we should in any way give assistance to Great Britain?”

“From our point of view, or from yours? I can think of many.”

“Really? It is in Russia’s interests to weaken Britain as much as possible, surely? India, the Ottoman Empire, the Mediterranean, the Balkans. In all these areas our policies are diametrically opposed.”

“That is true. But I do not think your Government believes that Afghanistan is the major problem you face at the moment.”

“And what would you say that is?”

“Bismarck has gone. The treaty you had with Germany went with him. You have no allies, no friends, and you have a gigantic border facing the most powerful army in the world.”

“And England will come to our aid in exchange for a few bars of gold?”

“No. No more than it will help France recover Alsace. But you, as a military man, know that the Russian army is woefully unprepared for modern war. It has no railways to ferry troops and supplies; not enough factories to produce armaments; a navy which would scarcely trouble Nelson, even if the sailors were well trained. You are a vast empire, and a military pygmy. You have the men, but lack the more important aspect of modern warfare. Which is money.”

Good point, I thought, and nicely put. Goschen was revealing a combative streak I had not suspected he possessed.

“What we offer is to let the French assist you. They seem open to the proposal.”

“You want to buy us with other people’s money?”

“Britain’s banks are supreme in the world. For the past twenty years they have made a fortune out of South America. That, as you know, has now come to an abrupt end. So they will be looking for new markets. They will crowd France out of any they choose to concentrate on. We offer the French a free hand in Russia. We will offer only a token competition for form’s sake. France will be able to grow its banking sector, strengthen it in ways it could not otherwise do. And you will get all the money you desperately need.

“The point is,” Goschen continued, “if there is a general financial crisis, France will not be in a position to lend you a single centime. If the banks of London are crippled, so will many French banks be. Capital will evaporate, loans vanish like morning mist. If you want a modern army or navy, then you must leave your money in Barings’ vaults. What is more, you know this perfectly well.”

The Russian frowned. “I have been told similar things by my advisers. The doctrine that you must strengthen your enemy in order to defeat him I find a bizarre one.”

“It is nonetheless the case. I could name you at least six French banks which would be badly wounded if Barings fails. All hold Barings paper, all have loaned Russia money.”

“There must be more than that. You paint me a picture of paradox, where it becomes logical for us to help our worst enemy. But, in return, our worst enemy must help us.”

“Go on.”

Here it comes, here comes the bill, I thought.

“You are afraid of Russian influence; you must help us increase that influence. You fear our interference in the Ottoman Empire; you must make our interference more effective. You fear we want to build a fleet to challenge you in the Black Sea, the Straits, the Mediterranean itself. You must help us build a fleet that can defeat you. That is the price, Mr. Goschen. The Russian navy needs a shipyard on the Black Sea coast, capable of building and maintaining everything that floats. The latest weapons, the best facilities. If you agree to that, then I will believe you are serious, and we can then discuss Barings.”

“I’m afraid that would be impossible,” Goschen replied instantly. “Even were we minded to do so, it could not be done. No government would survive such a thing; any which tried would fall within weeks, and be replaced by one who promised to oppose it absolutely.”

“In that case, I fear we have difficulties,” said the Count sadly. “I have tried to be reasonable—you are no doubt as aware as I that we could have asked for very much more. If such a small thing cannot be done, then I can offer no more. I, too, have people to satisfy. I cannot propose something which seems like a humiliating failure.”

I pulled Wilkinson aside. “Keep him talking,” I said quietly. “What ever you do, do not let him leave. I have an idea. Just make sure he’s here when I get back.”

I took Elizabeth’s carriage, which hurtled through the streets at the sort of speed which had pedestrians cursing me and the poor horses sweating profusely by the time we pulled up at the Hôtel du Louvre. I didn’t bother with an nouncing myself, just ran up the stairs, all four floors, and along the corridor to Stone’s suite, and hammered on the door.

“You must come. You’re needed.”

We were back in the carriage a few moments later, back at her house twenty minutes after that. We had been gone an hour, and the Russians were losing their tempers by the time we arrived. So, it must be said, were Goschen and Wilkinson, who felt like fools, having to make polite and meaningless conversation all that time.

“A private word, please,” I said, and the Russians nodded as we trooped out.

“This is John Stone, Chancellor,” I said. “I think he might be able to help.”

Goschen nodded. “How?”

“Is your objection to a Russian naval base fundamental? That is to say, is the problem the base, or the consequences of people knowing about it?”

“Both. It would dramatically shift the balance of power in the Near East. I suppose we could live with that, but the public would not wear it. We’d be massacred.”

“And if no one knew?”

“How could anyone not know? Don’t be absurd.”

I nodded to Stone, who I now saw for the first time working as a businessman. And by heavens he was impressive. He had only had a rapid account from me, and even with that he managed to take over and dominate the meeting with extraordinary speed.

“If the Russians want a base then they have to get it from Britain, practically speaking,” he said. “We are the only country which could mobilise the resources for the sort of thing they must have in mind. Enough to maintain a fleet”—here Goschen grimaced—“supplies, equipment, engineering shops. Clearly a major project. They don’t have the capital, the workforce or the expertise to design, build and run it. Nor, I must say, do the French have enough spare capacity to provide it. The Germans do, but won’t.

“Nor can we,” he went on. “Or cannot appear to. And there would be outrage in Britain against any country—France, say—which did. Is that correct?”

Goschen nodded. “It would be tantamount to an act of war if the French built the Russians such a thing.” “Well,” Stone continued thoughtfully, “it could be done. I’m sure that French banks would float the bonds to raise the money on behalf of the Russian Government; it could be a general fund for development. There would be no need to specify what it is for, if the interest rate was high enough. I could form a new construction company, registered in somewhere like Belgium, with shareholdings held in trust by banks across the Continent. As for the workforce, the crucial personnel would come from yards across Europe, directed at a distance by my companies. It would be perfectly possible to set up a structure so impenetrable that no one could ever find out who owned it. And the Russians could hail it as a triumph of Russian engineering, a sign of their industrial progress. I cannot speak about the strategic consequences, of course. That is outside my area of expertise. But if you are prepared to allow a base to be built, then it could be done without anyone knowing who was responsible.”

That was a summary; the actual discussion was much longer and far more technical. Goschen was both a moneyman and a politician and wanted to know exactly what Stone was suggesting. The more he heard, the more Stone dealt with his objections, the more I could see him regaining confidence and determination.

Eventually Goschen sat back. “Any further comments?”

Wilkinson shook his head, and there was silence.

“Then I suggest we talk to the Russians once more. Mr. Stone, if you would be so good as to come with us?”

I was left out of that one. The deal was done; the French and the Russians had both got what they wanted, and the end of the crisis was in sight. All they had to do was send the telegrams to deposit money in the Bank of England and it would be over. I could still hardly believe it; Britain had got off lightly; astonishingly lightly.

“You look tired, my friend,” Elizabeth said. She had come when she heard the others marching down the corridor.

“I’m afraid you’ve been a guest in your own house this evening.”

“Yes, and my chef might resign tomorrow. The amount these people eat and drink is astonishing. It all seems quite good-tempered, though.”

“I think they’ve been thoroughly enjoying themselves,” I said. “It’s what they love more than anything. I don’t think it would suit me at all.” I yawned. “Lord, but I’m tired. I’ll sleep well tonight.”

There was a ring at the doorbell, and a few moments later a footman came in with a card on a tray.

“Please show M. Rouvier into the sitting room,” she said, then turned back to me. “That is where the French are?”