Stone's Fall (33 page)

Much of this information, I argued, could be bought at the right price. In addition, I realised that many politicians were susceptible to a certain amount of coercion through exposure of their finances; I also proposed that money and time should be spent on obtaining detailed information about the bribes and other inducements politicians were known to accept. This could then be used to constrain unfriendly action, or to obtain any more specific information that was required. Finally, I recommended that all the money involved be channelled through German banking houses to make it seem that it was they, not we, who were indulging in this activity.

It was, if I may say so, quite impressive. All but revolutionary in fact; however obvious all this might seem now, the application of commercial logic to what had up until then been a military and diplomatic enterprise caused some consternation. Of those who saw my note, some were outraged, others appalled and a few were intrigued. Many considered my arguments vulgar and distasteful—although most of those disapproved of any form of espionage at all.

CHAPTER
6

And some people were prepared to fund the operation. I received instructions from Mr. Wilkinson that friends would back me, and that I was to go to Paris, and that I was now to be a journalist working for
The Times,
a somewhat steep social descent after Barings. I should see the editor to find out how to do this once the man had been informed that he was to employ me. Then I was summoned to another lunch. I was expecting Mr. Wilkinson; instead I encountered John Stone for the first time.

“Your chief investor,” Wilkinson said, waving at him. “Potentially. He felt that before he put money into you, he should see if you are worth the effort.”

I studied him carefully as Wilkinson slid out of the room to leave us alone. He was about fifty, and quite unremarkable to look at. Cleanshaven, with thinning hair that was touched with grey, and dressed in a fashion that was proper and yet entirely anonymous. The cufflinks, I noticed, were of simple design and inexpensive; he wore no ring; he had none of the sleek prosperity about him that men like Lord Revelstoke, the Chairman of Barings, managed to exude. No whiff of cologne, no sign of hair oil, expensive or otherwise. He could have passed as—anything he wished. Certainly, he drew no attention to himself.

Physically, also, he was unremarkable. Not handsome especially, nor ugly. His eyes were attentive and held their subject with great fixity; his movements were slow and measured. Nothing hurried him, if he did not want to be hurried. His calm was one of confidence and—I would have said if the description wasn’t ridiculous—contentment.

I had heard the name, but it had scarcely registered with me. Stone was not yet the force he has since become in British industry; his reputation as a sophisticated manipulator of money was growing, but not to the point where he could no longer hide his achievements. He was known as the man who had combined Gleeson’s Steel and Beswick Shipyards but there was still no reason to think he was anything other than an ambitious and competent man of industry. Accordingly, although I was polite, I was not overawed by the encounter.

He surprised me, though. For the most part these industrialists are difficult people to converse with, self-made men for whom industry is everything and who judge conversation to be the stuff of the weak. They despise bankers, on the whole, for contributing nothing to society, and for acting as parasites on their endeavours. They are either overwhelmed by the likes of Wilkinson or aggressive in showing their disdain. Stone was none of these things. He was mild-mannered, almost as though I was doing him the favour. For a long time the conversation steered around anything other than the reason for the luncheon.

“So you plan to go to Paris?” he asked eventually, as though I had let slip my desire to see the sights.

“In a week or so, if all goes well.”

“And Barings? They are not upset to let a man of such promise leave?”

“They seem more than ready to bear their loss with fortitude,” I replied, with a touch of slight bitterness. When I told Barings of my decision, they had merely nodded, and accepted the letter of resignation. Hadn’t even asked for an explanation, let alone tried to dissuade me.

“I see. You cannot blame them really. Defending the Empire is very admirable, but doing it on Barings’ time is quite another. Don’t judge them too harshly. Banking is not a business which has much use for individuality. Even Revelstoke thinks that initiative and daring should be his sole preserve. It is a great error on his part. Mind you, I believe he has an equally low opinion of me.”

“Might I ask why?”

“Oh, he regards me as an upstart,” Stone said with a faint smile, but he did not seek to convey the idea that Revelstoke was beneath contempt as a result. Rather he reported it in a manner which was entirely neutral, even as though the Chairman of Barings might have a point. “It is nothing personal, you understand. But he thinks I don’t understand money.”

“And you think you do?”

“I think I understand people, and Revelstoke takes too many risks. He has made a great deal of money out of it and so is emboldened to take even more. He believes he is infallible, and that will spell ruin, sooner or later. Hubris, you know, can destroy a banker as well as a Greek hero.”

Now, someone criticising Lord Revelstoke, acknowledged through out the world as one of the greatest bankers in history, made me feel a little uncomfortable.

“He is surely the greatest innovator in banking of the age,” I said.

“He is the greatest gambler,” Stone said sourly. “And so far he has had the greatest luck.”

I tried to change the subject.

“Ah, loyalty,” observed Stone. “Not a bad quality. But it is possible to be loyal and critical at the same time. They are two qualities I insist on, in fact. The sycophant is the greatest of all dangers in an organisation. I have never fired a man for disagreeing with me. I have dismissed several for agreeing when they knew better.”

“On that subject, what exactly would my position be?” I asked a little crossly. “Do I run the risk of being summoned back to England because I agree with you about something?”

“I will have no say in the matter at all,” he replied evenly. “You are to work for Mr. Wilkinson, not me. I merely provide the means for you to do so. As an experiment. Obviously, if Mr. Wilkinson decides the experiment is not working, or that it costs more than it is worth, then we will have to think again.”

“Why are you providing the means? It is a very great deal of money.”

“Not so very much,” he said. “And it is money I can easily spare. I thought your approach was interesting, and amateurism annoys me wherever it occurs. I almost consider it my duty to eradicate it. And if not my duty, then my hobby.”

“An expensive hobby.”

He shrugged.

“So expensive I do not quite believe you.”

“Call me a patriot, then.”

“I know little of your companies, Mr. Stone. Such things are not my area of expertise. But I remember reading that you have supplied weapons to every single enemy our army and navy might face. Are those the actions of a patriot?”

It was an insulting remark, but deliberately made. I needed to find out what I was getting myself into.

“It is not the task of my companies to make Britain more secure, it is the duty of Britain to make my companies more secure. You have the relationship the wrong way round,” he said quietly. “It is the task of a company to generate capital. That is its beginning and its end, and it is foolish and sentimental to apply morality to it, let alone patriotism.”

“Morality must apply to everything. Even the making of money.”

“A strange statement for a banker, if I may say so. And it is not so. Morality applies only to people. Not to animals and still less to machines.”

“But you are a man,” I pointed out, “you manufacture weapons of war, which you sell to all who want to buy them.”

“Not quite,” he said with a smile. “They must be able to afford them as well. But you are right. I do. But consider. If one of my torpedoes is fired, and hits its target, many people will die. A terrible thing. But is the torpedo to blame? It is but a machine, designed to travel from point A to point B and then detonate. If it does so, it is a good machine which fulfils its purpose. If not, it is a failure. Where is there any space for morality in that?

“And a company is also merely a machine, supplying the wants of others. Why not blame the governments who buy those torpedoes and order them to be used, or the people who vote for those governments?

“Should I stop building these weapons, and deny governments the chance to murder their citizens more cheaply and efficiently? Certainly not. I am obliged to make them. The laws of economics dictate that. If I do not, then a demand will go unsatisfied, or it may be that the money is spent on a less worthy machine, which would be an inefficient use of capital. If men do not have torpedoes, they will use cannon. If there are no cannon, they will use bows and arrows. If there are no arrows, they will use stones and if there are no stones, they will bite each other to death. I merely convert desire into its most efficient form and extract capital from the process.

“That is what companies are for. They are designed to multiply capital; what they make is irrelevant. Torpedoes, food, clothes, furniture. It is all the same. To that end they will do anything to survive and prosper. Can they make more money employing slave labour? If so, they must do so. Can they increase profits by selling things which kill others? They must do so again. What if they lay waste the landscape, ruin forests, uproot communities and poison the rivers? They are obliged to do all these things, if they can increase their profits.

“A company is a moral imbecile. It has no sense of right or wrong. Any restraints have to come from the outside, from laws and customs which forbid it from doing certain things of which we disapprove. But it is a restraint which reduces profits. Which is why all companies will strain forever to break the bounds of the law, to act unfettered in their pursuit of advantage. That is the only way they can survive because the more powerful will devour the weak. And because it is in the nature of capital, which is wild, longs to be free and chafes at each and every restriction imposed on it.”

“You justify selling weapons to your country’s enemies?”

“To the French, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“And the Germans and the Italians and the Austrians?” he added.

“Yes. You justify that?”

“But they are not my country’s enemies,” he said with a faint smile. “We are not at war.”

“We may well be soon.”

“True enough. But with which country, do you think?”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” he admitted. “I would sell them the weapons even if I knew that we would be at war with them in six months’ time. It is not my job to conduct foreign policy. Such sales are not illegal and anything which is not forbidden is permissible. If the Government decided to ban sales to France, then I would comply with the law. At the moment, for example, I can see a great deal of money to be made in building shipyards for the Russian Empire. But the Government does not wish Russia to have a shipbuilding industry. I would like to supply the Tsar with our new submarines, as the Russian Government would pay handsomely for them. Again, I do not.”

“There is a law against that?”

“Oh, dear no. The laws of the land are not only those on the statute book, as approved by Parliament. But I am told that my business here would suffer, and naturally I listen to such warnings. In my opinion it is a mistake. Russia will surely learn how to make battleships and submarines; all we are doing is delaying this by a few years, while also making enemies of them and denying ourselves considerable profit.”

“You are very honest.”

“Not at all. Only when there is no reason not to be.”

I considered all this, a passionate speech delivered in an utterly dispassionate, dry manner, and tried to make sense of it. When talking of capital, Stone spoke more like a romantic poet than a businessman.

“And where do I fit into this?”

“You? You will make the Government better able to take correct decisions, if you do your job well. At the same time, you will provide a better view of the future, so that I can plan more accurately.”

“Presumably you want there to be conflict.”

“Oh, no. It is a matter of complete indifference to me. I merely wish to be ready for whatever occurs.”

“And the safety of the country? The Empire?”

He shrugged. “If I had to judge, I would say that the Empire is inefficient and wasteful. It has no purpose and little justification. Undoubtedly the country would be better off without it, but I do not expect many people will ever agree with me. Its only justification is that India deposits its gold in the Bank of England, and that has allowed the gigantic increase in our trade with the world by strengthening the pound sterling.”

I found Mr. Stone an alarming man. I had anticipated working for the Government, a patriot labouring for the public good. Not for a man like John Stone. Only towards the end of our interview did I see something else in him; puzzling, and unexpected.

“Tell me,” he said as we stood to leave. “How is your father?”

“As usual, I think,” I said. I felt as guilty as I was surprised; I had not made the journey to Dorset to see my father for some while, and as I have mentioned, every time I went, there seemed less point in doing so.

“I see.”

“You know him?”

“We were acquainted, once. Before he became ill. I liked him. You look very much like him. But you do not have his personality. He was gentler than you. You should be careful.”

“Of what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Of getting too far away from your father’s nature, perhaps.”

And he nodded at me, wished me well in a formal, impersonal fashion, and left.

CHAPTER
7

Having damned all others for their ineptitude and promised an entirely new way of collecting information, I found that I was left entirely without any assistance or instructions as a result. So, show us, seemed to be the general opinion and I discovered later that there were many—of the few who knew anything of this experiment—who wanted me to fail dismally.

Saying what you will do on paper is one thing; doing it is another, and I had not the slightest idea how to proceed. Getting myself to Paris was the first step, fairly obviously. After that I would have to make it up as I went along. My official employers were somewhat more useful to me; George Buckle, the editor of
The Times,
accepted my sudden irruption into his life with remarkable calm and handed me over to a junior reporter called McEwen for instruction about how to write for a newspaper, as well as practical guidance on the uses of telegraph machines for transmitting any stories I might feel like writing. The fact that
The Times
wasn’t required to pay me no doubt made Buckle more easygoing about my existence.

Then I left, arriving in Paris one Wednesday morning. My luggage had already gone on ahead, and I was little encumbered by baggage. So I went straight to the offices of
The Times
—offices being a misnomer, as they were in truth little more than a single room which contained nothing that might indicate its purpose except for bundles of old French newspapers on the floor. The door was unlocked and the room was empty, but on the desk was a little note addressed to me: would I be so kind as to join the writer, Thomas Barclay, in the nearby restaurant for lunch?

I was so kind; a waiter led me over to the right table, and I joined the man who was, theoretically, my new colleague.

Thomas Barclay was in his late forties at that stage, with a fine flowing beard that was russet coloured. He had enormous ears, an oddly pointed nose and an intellectual forehead. He frowned a lot to show high seriousness, a tendency he had acquired, I suspect, through spending too much time studying German philosophy in Jena, although the effect was to make him look more confused than thoughtful.

He was, fortunately, about as serious a journalist as I was, but had been in Paris for nearly twenty years by this stage. He had written a book review in the
Spectator
in the early seventies and, as he had shown a willingness to live abroad, had been offered the job as Paris correspondent of
The Times
on this basis alone. His reports were few and far between, and always couched in such vague language that it was often impossible to ascertain what, exactly, was the subject. For Barclay, the importance of an event varied in direct proportion to the importance of the person who had given him the information, for he was a most fearful snob, and could work himself into a lather of excitement over an invitation to a prestigious salon, or dinner at a senator’s private house. Their words he treated like finest gold dust, but he was so discreet he could rarely bring himself to report them without wrapping his information up in so many circumlocutions that their significance was totally lost. Besides, he had of late become the President of the British Chamber of Commerce in Paris, which post he took most seriously, thinking, rather oddly, that it was a position of the highest political and diplomatic importance, rather than a mere dining club for foreign traders.

He was delighted to see me, and not in the slightest perturbed either that no one had asked his opinion about my coming, or by my utter lack of experience. “Very few people in England have any interest in what goes on outside the Empire,” he said cheerfully, “as long as it does not affect them. For the most part you can write anything you wish, and for all important events a straight translation from a reputable Paris paper will do excellently well. I wouldn’t bother running around trying to get interesting stories, if I were you. No one will read them and they probably won’t even get published. The only subject worth extending yourself over is a society scandal. They always go down well as they confirm the readers’ opinions about the low morals of the French. Book reviews, if you don’t mind, I will keep for myself. Theatre only if Bernhardt is involved.”

I told him that he was welcome to keep all the book reviews. “I thought,” I said tentatively, “I might write some stories about the Bourse.”

He frowned. “If you wish, go ahead. I wouldn’t find it very interesting myself. But it takes all sorts, of course.”

“I was given a few names,” I added. “It would be rude not to call on them.”

“Good heavens, yes. Go ahead. Please don’t think I intend to direct you in any way. As long as you write one story every fortnight, more or less, everyone will be delighted with you.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

“I did one yesterday, in fact,” he said. “So we’re in the clear for a while. If you do the next one…”

I said I thought I could manage to write something in a fortnight, and he leaned back in his chair, beaming at me. “Splendid. That’s taken care of. Now, where are you living?”

In fact, I was in a hotel and ended up staying there for the next year; it was the cheapest option, as I did not want the expense of a household, and it was perfectly adequate. Domesticity has never been one of my great desires in life and certainly was not then; a comfortable bed and decent food are my sole requirements, and the Hôtel des Phares—in reality, a few rooms above a bar, with an obliging landlord whose wife was happy to do my laundry and cook some food—provided both.

I will pass over my daily life, as much of it was of little interest and consisted mainly in laying down those webs of information and making those acquaintances which journalists and other seekers of information require. How this is done is fairly obvious, and consists primarily in making oneself as personable and harmless as possible, in creating a void which others seek to fill through conversation. From such gossip come hints and clues which lead, sometimes, to other things. I made my acquaintance widely for I found the French both charming and welcoming, quite unlike their reputation. I cultivated the traders of the Bourse, the playwrights of the Latin Quarter, and the politicians and diplomats and soldiers who scattered themselves at random across the city. They all, I believe, considered me somewhat dull and without any opinions of my own; it was not my role to have any.

And in August I went to Biarritz, where the new rich of the Republic went to mingle with old names and titles and keep themselves properly distant from the People, a group they admired in principle, but did not actually want to have anything to do with on a social level. It was a glorious sight to watch, for a brief while, a testament both to the wealth of the rich, and the capacity of the French to amuse themselves. All of French society that mattered squeezed itself into a stretch of coastline bordered by the Hôtel du Palais to the north, and the Hotel Métropole to the south, these two separated by a mile or so of glorious beach, and many dozen villas of exuberant and fanciful design. The town was at the peak of its prosperity then; Queen Victoria herself had come to visit the year before, the Prince of Wales showed up every year. Princess Natalie of Romania lived in exile in a handsome villa up the road; the first Russian grand dukes were putting in an appearance. The English had colonised the entire region from Pau to the Pyrenees to the coast, apparently forgetting that Aquitaine was no longer theirs.

For weeks on end, all day and all night, there was an endless round of entertainment for the well connected, and even for those who, like me, could be suspected of being well-connected. My introduction to society came through the good offices of Mr. Wilkinson, who arranged for Princess Natalie to invite me to one of her soirées. From that point, word went round swiftly that I was someone who should be known—although no one knew why. They were prepared to invite me so they could try and discover my secret. I was variously reputed to be an immensely rich banker, a bastard child of the Duke of Devonshire, a breeder of champion racehorses and a man with vast landholdings in Australia. All indicated that I was someone who should be invited to parties, and so I went, carefully ambiguous in my replies to all probing questions, and always insisting that I was really just a journalist on
The Times.
No one believed me.

The poor Princess was a drab and dreary woman, alas. A perfectly sweet temper and a kindly soul, but she had only her tragic situation and title to recommend her to the very demanding French, who expect their women to be beautiful, intelligent, elegant, charming and fascinating at all times and in all circumstances. The Princess was thoughtful, plain, serious and not given to smiling for fear of showing her bad teeth. But she was a princess, so was bound to command the respect of these devoted egalitarians.

Her reign as the most important woman in Biarritz was as insecure as her claim to the throne of Romania had been; pretenders constantly appeared to challenge her. None was more dangerous than the Countess Elizabeth Hadik-Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala, a woman of exceptional allure who was making her first trip to Biarritz that year, and who had made the town, collectively, lose its head in excitement. French society—far more than English—was remarkably good at producing such people, or at adopting them. They formed a focus for men, let other women know what they should be wearing, created gossip to fill up dinnertime conversations, and were, quite simply, admired. Some were entirely artificial creations, very little more than courtesans with terrible manners and no breeding, who burned brightly then fell to earth when boredom set in. Others—such as the Countess, according to popular report—had more substance.

To be the object of fascination is a very considerable accomplishment; it requires impeccable manners, intelligent conversation, grace and beauty. It also requires that magical quality which cannot be defined, but which is easily recognised when it is met with. Presence, in a word; an inability to be in a room without everyone knowing you are there, however quiet your entrance and discreet your behaviour. An ability to spend lavishly, but without ostentation; the best of everything whatever its price, low or high. A knowledge of how to be simple when that is better, and extravagant when that is required, and never, ever, take a false step.

Such, in sum, was this countess with the impressively long name, and beside her the poor princess from Romania wilted like a flower in a drought. Not that this concerned me, of course; I was there for an entirely different reason; the social whirl was a backdrop for my activities and I paid only very little attention to it. I heard about the leading figures of the town, but conversed with only a few of them. My main reason for being there was very specific; I needed to discover something about coal. Equally, it was an opportunity to meet Mr. Wilkinson, who went walking every summer in the Pyrenees; he was a great expert on the flora and fauna of the region and published a book, just before he died, on wild flowers which is now a standard text on the subject, for those who are interested in such things—which, I must confess, I am not.

But the coal was the main reason, and the justification for spending a week in the Hôtel du Palais at John Stone’s expense. Britain was going through one of its periods of anxiety about the Mediterranean. It was always going through these, of course, but currently anxieties were higher than usual; the fear was that there was going to be yet another assault on Britain’s position in the Near East, with the Russian Empire and the French combining to pressure our interests in the Black Sea and Egypt, and hence our communications with India through the Suez Canal. Although the Royal Navy could cope quite easily with an assault by either fleet, the fear was that the French and Russians were going to combine their efforts, and dealing with both simultaneously would be a problem. That was why, more than anything, the Government was keen to prevent Russia building a shipyard on the Black Sea and so be in a position to service a major fleet in the region. That was also why the Russians were keen to do precisely that.

So were the French thinking of sending out their fleet from Toulon? That was what I was supposed to discover. All the usual sources of information had failed; if anything was planned, word had not yet filtered down to the ranks. But it probably would not have done; I doubted anything would materialise before the following spring at the earliest, in about seven months’ time. The problem was that, if Britain needed to reinforce its Mediterranean fleet, it needed to know soon, so that ships could be recalled from the West Indies, reequipped and sent out again. This also would take several months.

Hence my interest in coal. Battleships consume prodigious quantities of fuel, and keeping them at sea, ready for action, is a major logistical operation. Tens of thousands of tons of coal are required, and supplies have to be in place at coaling stations when they are needed. You cannot just send out some ships anymore; you need a lot of work in advance, for a battleship lying dead in the water, unable to move, is no use to anyone. While all navies kept reasonable quantities of coal scattered around the world, not even the Royal Navy kept that amount in place everywhere it might be needed.

Had the French navy been ordering coal in large quantities? Had they commissioned tenders from the Mediterranean merchant fleet to distribute it?

Were supplies being diverted from the Atlantic ports to the Mediterranean? If I knew the answers to these questions now, I would be able to tell the Government in London not only what the French navy would be doing next year, I could hazard a guess about French foreign policy in the near future as well.

To discover all this I ended up dining one night in August with a French naval captain and his mistress. He was a sweet man who should never have been in the military; he had not a shred of the martial about him and preferred collecting Japanese woodcuts to charging over the high seas ready to board an enemy. Family tradition and an overbearing admiral for a father had determined otherwise, however. Ordinarily, I would have spent time trying to come alongside the father, so to speak, but Captain Lucien de Koletern was quite interesting enough for me at that moment. For he was a terrible failure, poor man. His lack of ability in the business of commanding others had meant that the navy, with some acuity, had refused to allow him anywhere near anything that actually floated; instead he had been given a job in Paris, in which place he spent his time trying to avoid the disappointed frowns of his father and—more importantly—organising logistical supplies, in particular coal. For this he had some considerable talent; what he lacked in dash and flair he made up for in meticulous attention to detail and an obsessive concern with filing cards.