Free All Honourable Men by Gavin Lyall Page A

the details were likely to be carefully scrutinised, and he was one of the details.
    â€œWhat do they want private carriages for?”
    Fazackerley shook his head. “Something about having to collect people at different places in southern Germany, including Lady Kelso . . . I didn’t cross-examine them, we want it to seem just a minor administrative chore for us.”
    Ranklin approved of that. Then Hapgood suggested: “Or perhaps they want something safe and private to carry a ransom in gold? That could be a useful opportunity. Anyway, worth watching out for.” He smiled, in an encouraging team-spirit way, then took a paper from an inside pocket. “I’ve made a few calculations that might prove useful. I was working in sovereigns, but since gold is valued by weight, this should apply, roughly, to any coinage. Twenty thousand sovereigns should actually fit, without any other packing such as canvas bags, into a box only a foot square. However, they’re unlikely to, because they weigh approximately three hundred and sixty pounds.”
    â€œTwo mule-loads,” Ranklin said absently.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œYou reckon about two hundred pounds to a mule-load.”
    â€œFascinating,” Fazackerley said. “Your Army experience, no doubt. Still, it might be relevant, since I imagine the final stages of this journey will be by horse or mule. And are you otherwise all prepared?”
    â€œI think so.” Already the world of Whitehall offices was becoming unreal, fading into translucence as Ranklin’s mind reached out on the journey ahead. He pocketed the passport and stood up. “It’s going to be crack-of-dawn stuff from Dover tomorrow, so I’m getting down there tonight. Just one more thing: our Embassy in Constantinople – are they expecting the Hon. Patrick Snaipe?”
    Fazackerley stood also. “They’re expecting a genuine honorary attaché, so keep up the front; a pity if
they
unmasked you. Still, they should be too panic-stricken at entertaining the notorious Lady Kelso to notice you much. Good luck.”
    * * *
    A model of servile sobriety, O’Gilroy raised his bowler and asked: “Would it be the Honourable Patrick Snaipe I’m addressing, sir?”
    Just as important as each of them playing their parts was the relationship between them – almost a third character in itself. And no time like the present to get started. So Ranklin acted surprised. “Yes? Ah, yes. You must be Gorman, of course. Er . . .” He directed a rather vacuous scrutiny at O’Gilroy, who was wearing the traditional manservant’s “pepper-and-salt” suit under a long dark overcoat. “Yes. Yes, you’ll do. See to my baggage, will you? Just the two suitcases, they’ve got my initials on them.”
    â€œCertainly, sir – only ye haven’t said where we’re going.”
    â€œHaven’t I? Oh, Strasbourg. Yes, definitely Strasbourg. Well, get on with it, man. Find a porter.”
    â€œThere was one other thing, sir . . .”
    â€œWhat? What other thing?”
    â€œIn yer letter, ye mentioned a week’s wages in advance. One golden sovereign.”
    â€œAh yes. As regards that . . .” Ranklin leant a little closer and said: “Balls.”
    â€œVery good, sir.”
    The compartment’s ashtrays were full, so O’Gilroy lowered the window just long enough to pitch his cigarette butt into the grimy, windy afternoon. “So we jest find a strong-box full of gold, change half of it for lead, and run away laughing?” He shook his head in wonder. “Does that Foreign Office get all its fellers from mad-houses, like yeself?” He thought a little more. “Mind, do we get to keep the gold if’n we
do
get our hands on it?”
    â€œSorry, I never thought to ask. The thing to remember is putting some blight on the Railway – in any way we can