“Do you know what it amounts to? Almost nothing. A few ships of the line, ill-trained crews, foreign officers. Our navy is an illusion-a costly one, for us. The grand vizier thinks that it can stop the Russians. It can’t.”
“Not when it’s in Alexandria, certainly,” Palewski said drily.
“No-never. It’s not our style-we’re afraid of the sea. Look at Husrev Pasha. He’s an old Bosniac-what does he know of the sea? We’ve had two great engagements in the last few hundred years, and we lost them both. Lepanto, 1580. Wiped out. Navarino, 1827. Total collapse of the fleet.”
“‘God gave the land to the Turks, and to the Christians he gave the sea.’ I know the saying.”
They began to climb the Pera steps. “It’s the sea that counts, these days,” Yashim said. “We built our empire by land-because our cavalry was faster than the rest, and because we knew how to govern. All that has changed. It’s ships that matter, in trade and war. With ships you can conquer distant lands, like the British in India. On land, nothing much has changed. But you can bombard a city from the sea-guns, men, drawn anywhere in the world at an instant.”
“Istanbul has never been so vulnerable, that’s true.”
“That, too. When Mehmet the Conqueror took the city from the Greeks, he had one huge cannon dragged over the mountains to the city walls. And he attacked by land.” He swept an arm across the panorama. “Today, battleships could reduce Istanbul to rubble in a few days.”
“I had no idea you were such a strategist, Yashim.”
“I’m not. I’ve been thinking, though. For fifty years or more, the empire has been crumbling around the edges. Losing possessions to Russia on the Black Sea. Losing ground to Egypt in the south. It’s been like watching a bear attacked by dogs. In the end, the dogs will always win.”
“Decline, decline.” Palewski shrugged. “All empires, in the end, are doomed to fall.”
“Naturally-unless they receive unexpected aid.”
“Quite. But the Ottomans, as I’ve mentioned, don’t have powerful friends.”
“No-until now, we’ve simply managed our own decline, alone.”
They passed below the Galata Tower.
Palewski’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, until now?”
“It was what you said about the bridge that made me see it. Europe comes to Istanbul, is that what you said? For fifty years we’ve been clamped in a pincer between Russia and the Egyptians-and when the Greeks sought independence, the British and the French made sure they got it, too. No, we don’t have friends. We don’t even have an alliance of interests.”
“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.”
108
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.”
