* * *
The map was a beautiful map – even as reproduced by the blueprint process, which made it look slightly smudged and, of course, blue. Every sand-dune seemed to be shown by delicate hatching, and the stylised shoreline, where desert met the waters of the Persian Gulf, appeared to ripple with the gentle surf. It was a work of art.
Perhaps a mining engineer would have preferred a work of geology, but the oil concession was clearly marked as a rectangle of red ink, exact position and area noted. It even had a little oil derrick drawn in.
“Artistic licence,” Lajos explained with a smile. “However, the true licence from Sheikh Mubarak is also here – witnessed, you observe, by a British vice-consul.”
Carstairs passed the document to his solicitor Mr Jay, an aristocratic-looking young man, younger than Lajos had expected, but wearing a proper founded-1803 suit and a true legal air of sceptical puzzlement. “Signed in October 1912,” he observed. “Eighteen months ago. What progress has been made in that time, Mr Gottlich?”
“As I told Mr Carstairs, drilling equipment, the latest Parker Rotary patent machinery, has been landed in Kuwait and is now being erected.” Lajos dealt Jay a full hand of overseas cables and copies of letters. “Drilling should, I understand, start within the month.”
Carstairs crinkled his brow in a boyish frown. “Then why should Mr Divine pick this moment to sell out?”
Lajos gave a sad, exaggerated shrug. “A complete collapse of his health, I am sorry to say. His doctors have ordered him to Switzerland. Between ourselves, gentlemen,” his voice grew confidential, “I fear his sickness has much to do with the slowness of developing this concession: it needs a younger, more energetic man to make things move along. Also one who has not lost badly on the French market. But that is rumour, please do not repeat it.”
Mr Jay coughed dryly. It wasn’t the true Saharan cough of a seasoned solicitor, but it was a good junior version. “The motives for Mr Divine’s selling are not legally germane. What concerns me is (a) whether Mr Divine is the true owner of the shares – which the company register appears to show him to be, and (b) whether Mr Gottlich has the right, as trustee, to sell them on his behalf. Which this document -” he routed among the piles of paperwork scattered across the hotel room’s coffee-table “- appears to show that he is.”
The slight exasperation on Carstairs’ face dared Lajos to get annoyed. “Why do you always say appears? Do you suggest because I am not an Englishman that I-”
“Calm down, Mr Gottlich,” Carstairs soothed. “I never yet met a legal gentleman who’d say it was wet if he was swimming, just it appears to be.”
But this only seemed to annoy Jay in turn. “Nor can I say,” he said coldly, “that there is a single grain of sand in this part of Arabia, a single drop of oil under it, nor a nut or bolt of drilling machinery preparing to seek it out. Only that it appears that you would have a good case against Mr Gottlich if this transpired not to be so.”
Carstairs was just starting to soothe the lawyer when there was a knock on the door and he let out a bellowed welcome instead. Gorman, dressed in a grey chauffeur’s livery and polished black leggings, came half-in. He touched his peaked cap. “Jest wondering, sor, if ye’d be wanting the motor in the next hour, or should I be getting an early lunch?”
“Hang on a moment, Gorman, I may want you to witness my signature and then pop down to my bank and pick something up in a short while. Help yourself to some coffee and find a seat somewhere.”
“That’s kindness itself, sor.” As Gorman bent over the coffee tray he gave Lajos an enormous wink.
“Where were we?” Carstairs resumed. “Oh yes, I was calming you down, Mr Jay. Consider yourself calmed. Anyway, I shall be going out in a week or so to see what I’ve bought into, and meanwhile Mr Gottlich isn’t likely to head for Switzerland for his health, so we’ll just have to wait and see what appears – all right?”
“I am very pleased you say that,” Lajos announced. “And if these were my own shares, I would most happily wait until you had seen the concession for yourself. But Mr Divine is seeking a quick sale, so . . . May I remind you that the German Hamburg-Amerika Line also sails to the Gulf these days?”
“Does it? Didn’t know the Germans were interested in that area.”
“Most certainly. You may have heard they are also building a railway from Constantinople to Baghdad – perhaps further. I believe they would like it to go to Kuwait. But the British have a certain understanding with Sheikh Mubarak – in return for protecting him from his own Turkish masters.”
“Does that understanding have anything to do with oil?”
Lajos smiled confidentially. “Who knows how the impassive British Foreign Office thinks? But if we may return to more prosaic matters . . .”
“Like the price?”
* * *
“Carstairs,” Ranklin grumbled. “Carstairs. Nobody’s called Carstairs except in schoolboy spy stories.” He finished signing the name. “And doesn’t a false name invalidate the whole deal?”
“I doubt it’ll ever be questioned,” Mr Burroughs said sunnily. “Least of all by Gottlich-Divine. Did you suspect-”
“Since Gottlich means divine, I did rather.”
“Anyway, the ?14,000 is real enough; he’s not going to want to give that back – the company owes more than that to the American drill-makers. Thank you for saving us a few thou’, by the way. You obviously drove a hard bargain.”
“We’ll take yer thanks in cash,” O’Gilroy suggested.
Mr Burroughs was momentarily flummoxed, unused to hearing men in chauffeur’s kit say things like that. Then he smiled uneasily and began sorting the paperwork. In fact, he was uneasy with the three agents anyway. It might have been the unease people feel when meeting actors off-stage but still in their greasepaint and costumes, only it wasn’t. And they knew it but said nothing.
“So,” Burroughs went on quickly, “thank you for a most satisfactory conclusion: Albemarle and Dover Trust now owns a controlling interest in Oriental Pearl Oil and Pipeline.”
“Is there really any oil out there then?” Lieutenant J asked. He was stretched almost horizontal, feet on the table and defying his suit, which wanted to sit up in a proper legal manner.
Burroughs hesitated and glanced at Fazackerley of the Foreign Office, who moved his eyebrows in a diplomatic but otherwise meaningless way. “Oh well, you can hardly be gossips in your, ah, profession . . . The answer is that there quite likely is, but the concession isn’t in Kuwait any longer. The British Government helped Sheikh Mubarak define his boundaries last year in an agreement with the Turks, and the concession now falls just outside them. So the Sheikh’s signature is no longer worth anything as regards that patch of sand.”
“So?” Lieutenant J prompted, and Burroughs realised he had to go on.
“However, there certainly seems to be oil in Kuwait – I believe it’s oozing out of the ground in places, so perhaps even the experts can’t be wrong – and Oriental Pearl also owns the lease on a stretch of foreshore. Gottlich insisted the company bought it from himself; he used to run a pearl-diving business there, he knows Kuwait well. And that bit of foreshore is the only suitable place for an oil pipeline terminal and dock.”
“Ah. I noticed mention of a stretch of beach,” Ranklin said, standing up. “I didn’t know its importance.” He went into the bedroom to start packing.
“So,” O’Gilroy said thoughtfully, “if’n the boundaries hadn’t been spelled out, mebbe Mr Gottlich’d be a rich man? – and honest with it?”