Jason Goodwin - An Evil eye

“Pretty tight,” Palewski said. “And gloomy.”

“Until Fevzi Pasha sailed into Alexandria and gave up the fleet.”

Palewski frowned. “Gloomier still, I’d have thought.”

Yashim shook his head. “On the contrary. I think Fevzi Pasha’s defection may save the empire.”

Palewski gave a dry laugh. Yashim turned.

“Britain and France, you said, don’t care who governs Istanbul-as long as it isn’t the Russians. But the British are very touchy about anything that crops up along their line to India. Since Napoleon’s day the French feel they have a sort of proprietary interest in Egypt and the Middle East. Protecting the Catholics, for example. Both want to preserve the balance of power in Europe.”

“What are you suggesting, Yashim?”

“Fevzi Ahmet may have inadvertently done what no one has managed to achieve for twenty years-least of all Husrev Pasha. He fights yesterday’s battles, Palewski. Two fronts-the Russians and the Egyptians. Until now, we haven’t had allies. Don’t you see?”

“That by defecting to the Egyptians-?”

“Fevzi Ahmet has forced the issue. Either the Powers let it go, in which case the Russians organize a protectorate in Istanbul, and the khedive rattles his saber over the Middle East-”

“Or the British have to intervene. Yes, I’m beginning to see what you mean. The empire needed outside help-and now it can’t refuse.”

“It was the bridge that made me see it. You said it yourself: the bridge is theater. And so is diplomacy. Fevzi Pasha built a bridge that would bring European Pera into Istanbul. The next thing, ambassador, is a diplomatic approach to the French.”

Palewski startled. “When you say ‘ambassador’-?”

“It can’t be Husrev Pasha. It isn’t his job to spell out the weakness of the Ottoman state. I can’t do it. The only Englishman I know is a thirdgrade secretary to the ambassador.”

“Ah, yes. Mr. Compston. I can’t quite see him shaping European policy for years to come.”

“But you could. You’re neutral and you have the rank. The French ambassador is a friend, isn’t he? Just have a word in his ear, and let him do the rest.”

Palewski glanced around. They were passing the mouth of the lane that led down to the British embassy. “Speaking of Compston, he dropped in earlier. Rambled on about how you saved his watch or something. Seems to feel he’s under some sort of obligation to you.”

Yashim waved his hand impatiently.

“Well, he was most anxious to talk to you, Yashim. Felt he owed you something, can’t remember what it was about.” Palewski screwed up his eyes. “A tip about some papers, I think. He said to get in touch-you’d know why.”

Yashim pulled a face. “I’ve no idea.”

“No matter. He’s at the embassy, apparently-and we’re just passing. Perhaps…”

Yashim stopped. “All right. I’ll drop in, now.”

The wrought-iron gates of the British embassy were surmounted by an escutcheon that showed a unicorn and a lion pawing at a crown.

Yashim gave the unicorn a mental salute as he passed under the gate: the mythical beast amused him. On the face of it the British were a supremely practical people, interested in trade and fond-like Compston-of speaking their own mind, but the unicorn suggested a fanciful streak. Compston’s obsession with the poet Byron was a case in point: the beefy English boy who appeared with a startled look at the top of the stairs was obviously not a soul in romantic torment.

He came down the stairs dragging on an overcoat.

“I say, Yashim efendi, what?” He took Yashim by the arm and steered him across the hall. “Coffee? Good little French place around the corner.” He glanced around, and lowered his voice. “New boy from London. Wretched little sneak. Best not to be seen hanging about here.”

A pimply young man looked up from a desk. “Going out, Mr. Compston?”

“Change of air. Been a bad smell in here these last few weeks, daresay you haven’t noticed?”

Compston crammed on his hat and stepped outside. “Good dig, what? Bad smell, ha ha!”

Yashim let him lead the way to a small cafe on the Grande Rue.

“Messieurs? Qu’est-ce que vous desirez?” The owner was a Frenchman, stout and bald, with an elegant mustache. He had a napkin draped over his arm.

Compston ordered coffee, in his execrable French; Yashim asked for a verbena.

He watched as Compston spooned sugar into his cup and stirred it nervously.

“I say, Yashim efendi-” he began; then he seemed to check himself. “What price the new bridge?”

“The bridge? What of it?”

“Do you think it’ll ever work? Fizerley says no, bound to collapse. Esterhazy-he’s at the imperial embassy-says it’ll stand. We’ve got a bet on it.”

Yashim felt a twinge of impatience. “Forgive me, Mr. Compston. Our friend Palewski mentioned something you wanted to talk to me about. The bridge? I don’t quite understand.”

“Ah, yes, well-never mind about the bridge, efendi. Silly question.” Compston flushed slightly. “My pater’s not awfully keen on gambling himself. No, what I really wanted to talk about were these.”

He fished in his waistcoat and brought out a packet of papers.

Yashim gave a start. “I’ve seen these before. But how on earth-?”

“Found ’em, efendi, just lying in the grass. The night you saved my watch, on Chalki.”

He set the packet on the table and patted it, then pushed it over toward Yashim.

“I–I wanted you to have ’em. Never occurred to me you might have dropped them, but I see that now. You know what they are?”

Yashim eyed the packet. “Not exactly,” he admitted cautiously. “I glanced through them. I didn’t have much time, and my Russian’s none too fluent anyway.”

“I read Russian, Yashim efendi.”

He said it with modest diffidence, as if he expected Yashim’s reaction.

“You?”

Compston gave an apologetic shrug. “Never found much time for it, until I came across Pushkin.”

“Who?”

“Alexander Pushkin. He’s a Russian poet, dead now.” Compston absently reached into his waistcoat pocket and ran his fingers up a silver chain. The watch appeared in his hand. “Killed in a duel just a couple of years ago. Affair of the heart,” he added wistfully.

“Like your Byron?”

“Not bad, Yashim efendi. Put like that, you’re right. Pushkin is the Russian Byron. Languages don’t agree with me, but somehow Russian works.” He gave a short laugh. “They’re letters, written to your Kapudan pasha. I sort of pieced it together. Didn’t think much more of ’em, not until we heard about the Egyptian business. Then I thought of you. Here they are.”

“You didn’t think about them?” Yashim could not keep the note of surprise out of his voice. “Why not?”

It was Compston’s turn to sound surprised. “Well, there’s not much to them, efendi, is there? Or didn’t you read them? Sorry, of course

…” He frowned. “They’re nothing too important, judging by the hand. Common threats-I know your secret, a word from One Who Knows, that sort of thing. You know-your time is running out.”

“Blackmailing letters? From Galytsin?”

Compston raised an eyebrow. “Galytsin? No, no. But blackmailing letters, all right. Damned obscure. Full of spelling mistakes, just what you’d expect from some Russki blackmailer. Lowest form of villainy, blackmail. I don’t say Galytsin wouldn’t stoop to it, but he could never have written those letters.” He pointed at the packet. “Have a look yourself.”

Yashim scooped up the bundle and slipped it into his waistcoat. “Thank you.”

Compston waved a hand. “Please, don’t mention it. Feel much better now-one good turn, all that sort of thing. I say-” He pulled a worried face and bent to catch Yashim’s eye. “As a matter of fact, you won’t mention that we’ve met? Better not. Fizerley, well. He’s a bit of a stickler.”