The Plot

Chapter One

Paris, 1895

Theodor Herzl had arrived by train early that morning, and now in the late afternoon, gazing over the city’s rooftops, he was overcome with the heavy head of a tired man. He was not, by nature, given to complaint, but even he had to admit that the atmosphere in the room was oppressive. The dry, summer heat was baking through the bay windows, and the gentlemen lit their cigars behind him as a valet discreetly poured the brandy. While the tray was being offered around, Herzl looked out at the Tower in the distance. It wasn’t just the heat that was sapping his strength. Slowly, he shook his head and turned to face the others. Some were busy staring at the clouds of smoke rising toward the ceiling, and the rest milled around, a few reading the spines of the books laid out on the shelves around the room. He looked at Rothschild, reclining in his chair and holding court at the same time.

I tell you, Rothschild was saying to those around him, pointing the unlit end of his cigar for emphasis, Dreyfus is innocent. And Zola will prove it.

Herzl watched on as the others murmured and harrumphed in reply, but no one said anything of consequence. Looking down for a moment, he felt the passion rise in him again, that twisted mix of anger and frustration, and before he knew it, he was striding into the middle of the group.

Innocent or guilty, it doesn't matter. Dreyfus today. Tomorrow it could be you or me.

He was in their midst now, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Rothschild eyeing him in turn, but he had started and there was no stopping him.

Jews the world over are in disarray. Persecuted, marginalized, he went on, Anti-Semitism cannot be eliminated, but it can be avoided. The only way is to unify them... and only way to protect them, is to create a Jewish state.

It was their turn to look at him now; the little man with the big beard. Still in his mid-thirties, Herzl was used to stopping the conversation. He knew most of the men in the room thought him mad, but from his reading, he knew that every visionary, from Noah onwards, had been thought of the same way.

He had his supporters though. The first to speak up was Count Newlenski, his voice an aristocratic boom that everyone in the room was obliged to listen to.

That’s what I’ve been saying about Palestine. And I have just the man to do it; Wolffsohn here has the details. David, have you heard from our contact?

Wolffsohn shifted uncomfortably. Rothschild was still looking intently at Herzl through the smoke.

I have been attempting to arrange a meeting, but it’s... Wolffsohn hesitated, It’s complicated. His eyes went to Herzl now.

I told my newspaper not to be so one sided about the Armenian issue, Herzl said, the conversation pausing again after he spoke. Rothschild took a pull of his cigar, but never took his eyes off him. An early evening carriage could be heard rattling along outside.

Oblivious, Newlenski cut through the dead air and smoke, Fact is, ever since the Russians trounced the Turks, San Stefano has given them the opportunity to essentially make Turkey their client state. And the Brits and French fear this. It would upset the balance of power in the eastern Mediterranean. We can take advantage of the situation with the Turks.

Herzl remembered San Stefano. He remembered the news of the massive Russian victory first filtering back to Pest, where he and his friends had drank by the Danube and raised their glasses toward Moscow. He was an atheist then; his Judaism something he tried to hide. He thought of how they had celebrated the victory over the Ottoman Turks, the same army that had crushed the Hungarians centuries before at Mohacs, and then marched all the way to the gates of Vienna itself. Back then, it was the Poles who had ridden to the rescue. While Herzl and his friends drank that night, it was the Cossack riders pushing the Turks back; the Russian army rolling, unstoppable, across the Balkans. He and his friend’s emotions had run from elation to fear at the power of the Russians as their evening wore on.

Now, here in the room with his fellow Jews and backers, his emotions remained mixed, but he had a purpose, and that purpose was the homeland.

At the mention of the Turks, Rothschild’s eyes left Herzl for the first time and settled themselves on Newlenski.

Kindly do not mention the Turks. They owe my bank so much money that I may have to reduce the size of my yacht from two hundred feet to one hundred and eighty.

They all laughed at this, including Herzl. The perilous nature of the Ottoman Empire was known even to the man on the street. It wasn’t just the might of the Russians that was pushing them back either; the British Prime Minister had also begun appropriating the Tsar’s label of the ‘sick man of Europe’ when referring in his speeches to the monarchy of the Sublime Porte.

Newlenski waited for the laughter to die down before making his play.

What if I were to say to you, Baron Rothschild, that the Turks might be willing to offer something more valuable?

Rothschild now looked at him as he had at Herzl moments before. Newlenski played the trump.

Territory in Palestine for a Jewish homeland.

The stony silence in the humid air was broken by Rothschild’s snort of derision.

Preposterous.

Newlenski smiled.

The British and French Prime Ministers are working out the idea at this very moment.

This time, no one replied.

Though the gentlemen in Paris couldn’t be sure, Newlenski was correct. As Herzl and Rothschild digested the momentous news along with their brandy, in Downing Street, another group of gentlemen were seating themselves at a long table. Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, 3rd Marquees of Salisbury and Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, turned his head to where two aides were unfurling a large map on a stand behind him. He looked wearily at the outline of the Balkans and the Levant, with the Ottoman Empire sitting in the middle of it all, colored in light purple, and surrounded both east and west by the white of the Russians.

Turkey today. The Liberals tomorrow. Ireland the day after no doubt. Never ending. Oh well, best foot forward and all that...

He cleared his throat and looked across at his French counterpart. The low conversations and shuffling stopped, and the meeting was called discreetly to order. All eyes were on the Prime Minister.

He began, You see gentlemen, as long as Turkey remains the Sick Man of Europe, Russia can have its way with her... er, him. They have no money to build railroads to bring troops to the front. No money for arms. The Sultan’s troops are barefoot in the snow. The Crown is at a loss to know how to stop the damn Ivans from carving up Turkey like, well... like a turkey.

The Frenchman smiled, but not at the joke. His accent was as thick as his voice was low.

But if there is no Turkey, we take over the Empire.

Gascoyne-Cecil looked at him: Bourgeois, Prime Minister of the Third French Republic. The Englishman knew what he and his government were up to. France was busy. Busy building itself up for the storm that was coming. It was more than twenty years now since the Germans, led by the Prussians of course, had shown France that a new Europe had dawned. Gascoyne-Cecil was old enough to recall the fifties, when he was still a young man, and Germany was an idea rather an actual reality. In those days, one might refer to ‘Germany’, if one referred to it all, in the same way as one would refer to a field or a park. It was a geographical space, not a power.

Then, Bismarck had changed that. First, the Danes, then the Austrians, and finally, almost unbelievably, France; all had been swatted away, and suddenly there was a German Empire sitting astride central Europe, with a population bigger than both Britain’s or the French, and an army that even the Russian Emperor balked at the thought of taking on.

That same Germany now held two former French provinces, which it claimed were historically German areas, though Gascoyne-Cecil had neither the time nor the interest in finding out if that was true. What he was interested in was the fact that France was in the process of acquiring any strip of land it could in Africa and Asia, building the strength and the wealth to field an army that would be a match for the Germans. France, everyone knew, wanted revenge.

Along with his blatant colonial aspirations, Gascoyne-Cecil could smell the stench of Republicanism off the Frenchman, and it riled his aristocratic nostrils. His public schooling had taught him enough history to understand the French attitude toward the Ottoman Empire. Frenchmen had led the way in the Crusades and ruled the Crusader States that followed for a few centuries in that part of the world. Any white man traveling through the Near East was still referred to as a Franji, a Frank, in their memory.

Their bloody memory.

Gascoyne-Cecil also knew that the French had come to an agreement with the Russians just the year before.

Ha! The autocrats and the Republicans in bed together. What splendid dinners they all must have.

The Russians also had a reason to want to see the end of the Ottomans. They were after all the Third Rome, following on from the Orthodox Greeks, the Byzantines, the Romans...

Whatever they called themselves.

Either way, the Russians had their eye on Constantinople, the city they claimed as their Orthodox inheritance.

Of course, it’s no coincidence that control of Constantinople would give them control of the Straits and access to the Mediterranean...

Gascoyne-Cecil had a good idea of what was talked about at those dinners, when the white-tied, free Frenchmen would sit down with the Dukes and Counts and other cousins of the Tsar. He knew what they were planning.

Get rid of the Turks and then concentrate on boxing in the Germans.

It was all very simple really.

But Gascoyne-Cecil was not having that. If anyone was the inheritor of Rome at the end of this century, it was the British Empire, and all roads led to London now.

The Prince of Wales can gaff about courting these frogs, but I’m not about to forget Napoleon. That said… best be diplomatic though, what?

It’s not that easy Monsieur, Gascoyne-Cecil said, trying to sound conciliatory, The Russians would take over Istanbul before we could get ships to Greece. We need Turkey. We just don’t need a damned Ottoman Emperor running the place.

Bourgeois waited for him to finish.

There is a way, monsieur,

Even the man’s name irritates me.

We’ve been over that.

Bourgeois gave a Gallic shrug.

It is a shame that Disraeli is no longer prime minister. He would have understood.

Gascoyne-Cecil bristled at the name.

Poppycock. He was no more Jewish than I am, and he would have said the same thing. Your idea is foolhardy. The Sultan is too proud.

Still with his arms crossed and his eyes on the table, Bourgeois managed to look unconcerned, even as he argued.

"My sources indicate that the Sultan is... how do you say...malleable at this point. Let us face it, you said it yourself. Turkey is broke. They need hard currency."

Damn his eyes if he thinks he’s getting into Syria... I didn’t see off Gladstone and that damned Irishman Parnell to have a Frenchman come in here and...

The crown is in no position to...

But Bourgeois cut him off.

With all due respect monsieur, the money would not come from the Bank of England. It could come from the Bank of Rothschild.

Gascoyne-Cecil sat back and took this in, while Bourgeois opened the file sitting in front of him and removed the top sheet. He politely slid it across the shiny oak table to the Englishman.

That’s absurd, Gascoyne-Cecil said, picking it up, Everyone knows that Turkey has defaulted millions to the Baron. Nevertheless, he started reading.

But they have something the Baron wants even more than money. You see, he can give the Jews a home.

Gascoyne-Cecil had finished reading, but his face still said that he was unconvinced.

But the Sultan is trying to re-establish the Muslim Caliphate; he’d never do that, he said, holding the letter up in front of him. Bourgeois smiled again.

A cat with cream this one...

Quite right, Prime Minister Cecil, but the Zionists don’t know that. Let them think that the Sultan will grant the Jews a homeland, in exchange for further investment in Turkey. All we care about is funding the Turkish army to keep the Russians from taking over Istanbul.

And keeping those Russian bayonets pointed at Berlin no doubt, you dog.

Gascoyne-Cecil couldn’t help admiring the Frenchman’s duplicity, despite his execrable ideology.

Lamentable he is not one of us really, oh well...

Quite so, Monsieur Prime Minister, eh, Bourgeois. He made sure the word dripped with aristocratic sarcasm when he said it, That will be our job.

No one is getting to those straits except the Royal Navy.

Chapter Two

Istanbul

The Sultan had a plan. No, the Sultan had a vision. And the Sultan was talking.

I tell you, this is the time to unify Muslims all over the world under the banner of the Ottoman Empire...

His advisors looked on at him. They knew from long experience what he was going to say, but they listened nonetheless.

Muslims the world over are in disarray, he went on, Colonized, persecuted, marginalized. And this new mosque overlooking the Golden Horn will inspire them to come together in a new caliphate.

He gestured out across the waters from the terrace where they stood. Stretching before them was the Golden Horn, the majesty of the Hagia Sophia; Istanbul, behind them Europe, in front, Asia. Sometimes, those who lived in the palace would suddenly remember where and who they were, like a man who realizes that he is dreaming. That was what the Sultan’s palace was like, a dream. For nearly four and a half centuries now, the city that was the center of the world had been Turkish, and for some, it felt like the long dream was coming to an end. For a moment, however, they all followed the Sultan’s hand and took a moment to relive the glory that had gone before; it wouldn’t be long until the dawn broke, and they had to face the arrival of a new morning, after all.

The Sultan, though, was intent on returning to the glory days. The plan for this return lay on the table in front of him. Even a layman could see sense in the magnificence of the design with a cursory glance. The towering mosque would dominate the skyline, visible to ships probably scores of miles from the harbor. It would outshine anything built in the city since the time of Justinian.

But, as always, the treasurer was there like an alarm clock to wake everybody up.

Sire, this is a noble thought, he said - quick to add of course, And one that I wholeheartedly support..., he paused, looking yet again for the most delicate way to explain his position.

Unfortunately, the Ottoman Empire has participated in more than a dozen significant wars in the last hundred years, nearly all to the detriment of the empire’s finances. Such a project as you describe will cost millions, and we are so deeply in debt now that we can barely afford fuel or food imports. It pained him to go on, but he knew his duty, And no one will lend us enough to buy them.

He hung his head at this last statement, both out of reverence for the Sultan, but also in shame for himself and that the empire had come to this pass.

The Sultan, however, was not to be put off.

But that is exactly my point! We can’t count on the English, the French... Least of all the Russians. They want to see the Ottoman Empire shrink away to nothing.

He paused, looking for the words that would make them see as he did. Finally he used that phrase he hated so much, We are not the Sick Man of Europe! We are the Ottoman Empire!

Quietly, Huseyn Hilmi Pasha stepped forward.

Gentlemen, there may be a third way, he said quietly.

The Sultan turned as Hilmi Pasha walked forward until he stood at the center of the terrace, looking so calm it was as if he was taking in the evening breeze from the Bosporus. He took a moment to gaze at the water before he spoke.

He began slowly, I recently received inquiries from one Count Fillip Michal Newlenski, an associate of the Austrian Zionist Theodor Herzl.

The Sultan eyed him intently and then walked to a low table and selected a book from a small pile. Hilmi Pasha noted the latest Sherlock Holmes collection, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, among the treatises and tracts. The monarch was known to be a great admirer of Conan Doyle’s work. For a fleeting second, he thought of how the Sultan’s wit and flair for deduction matched that of the English detective, before he turned and spoke again.

You mean this Herzl, Hilmi Pasha? He turned the book in his hand and read the spine, Der... Judenstaat.

Hilmi Pasha bowed, Yes, of course, sire.

The Sultan raised and lowered the book in his hand, as if weighing its value.

His work is well-known to us, and his fantasy that a Jewish state might be created in Palestine terrifies the devout Muslims who have lived there for hundreds of years.

Hilmi Pasha bowed again, Yes, of course, sire. But if I may..., he looked up and waited for the Sultan to nod his assent before continuing, He has recently written to us and his letter contains a rather... interesting proposal. From the folds of his jacket he produced a letter, and held it up to the Sultan while bowing at the same time, If I may?

The Sultan nodded again, and the advisor began to read.

My dear Huseyn Hilmi Pasha, I write on behalf of the Baron de Rothschild. The enormous debt the Ottoman Empire owes to the European banks, especially those of the Baron, is crippling.

The Sultan flushed, and his voice was laced with bile, I will not be insulted by this moneylender!

Hilmi Pasha allowed the Sultan’s words to blow away in the early evening air before asking,

May I please continue?

Quietly, the monarch spoke.

Go on.

Hilmi Pasha read, It is well known that the Russians seek to destroy the Ottoman Empire further. Their intention is to weaken it even more after taking control of the Western territories of Macedonia, Serbia, and Montenegro.

The Sultan stared at him, almost daring him to go on. This was something even the dogs on the street knew. Hilmi Pasha was a man known for his wisdom, and bravery, there had to be a point, a reason for him bringing this to his monarch’s attention.

Yes ... yes. What does this have to do with anything?

Hilmi Pasha bowed, and continued, Your majesty has not the resources to resist them, the Russians that is. The Baron regrets the fact that you are unable to repay his loans, but he supports your majesty’s right to rule over a sovereign state...

The Sultan swallowed noticeably. Who was this journalist to tell him, him, the ruler of the world, that he would be allowed to rule? Did Suleiman the Magnificent have to listen to such impertinence? Sultan Abdulhamid II thought not. Every fiber of his being told him to grab a scimitar and lay waste, figuratively if not literally, but his discipline, acquired over long years, also told him that this was something he needed to hear.

Hilmi Pasha, meanwhile, hadn’t paused Free from the encroachment of other countries. Therefore the Baron is willing to induce all European banks to forgive your debts.

The Sultan had forgotten the bile that had risen in his throat just seconds before with the mere mention of forgiveness of his debts. As quickly as it had appeared, the relief also vanished. The same experience that had taught him discipline had also taught him wariness.

You are joking? he said, Why would he do that?

Hilmi Pasha smiled; he knew he had him hooked, but was careful not to pull the line too tightly just yet. His voice remained even, impassive, as he answered.

There is more. The Baron also knows that to mount a successful military campaign against the Russian invaders, the building of the Hijaz Railway, among other expensive development projects, will provide Turkey with the ability to move men and material to the front when necessary, to defend your sovereignty.

What does he want in return, to make the Ottoman Empire a Jewish homeland?

This was the moment; Hilmi Pasha knew it.

"No, sire. To make Palestine a Jewish homeland." He stopped to gauge the Sultan’s reaction, but seeing no discernible sign of distaste, he played his last card.

And I, humbly, advise your Majesty to consider the offer because it would clear most of the Empire’s debts.

He knew where this position would leave him if the Sultan was displeased.

The Sultan still kept his voice low, That would be a betrayal of Islam.

I must continue now.

Your majesty, the Zionists will give you two weeks to decide, the words were even painful to say. Will you at least meet with one of their representatives?

Which one?

Theodor Herzl.

The Sultan’s already straight back seemed to stiffen even further.

I don’t need two weeks. I don’t need two minutes. I categorically refuse to trade the purity of the caliphate for any amount of money if it means granting charter allowing the Zionists to settle in Palestine.

With that, he turned and swept from the terrace, attendants and guards in his wake, leaving both the Treasurer and Hilmi Pasha bowing at his back.

Back in London, meanwhile, the business of high politics continued. Once he had seen off the French from Downing Street, Prime Minister Gascoyne-Cecil made his way to the Foreign Secretary’s office, where he enjoyed conducting business. Most of his career in government had been spent at the foreign office, first as Secretary of State for India some thirty years before. Next, he was Foreign Secretary himself under Disraeli. Now with him long retired, Gascoyne-Cecil was both Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary simultaneously.

Strolling along on a splendid London evening, the streets pleasantly busy with other walkers, he recalled his first year as Foreign Secretary years before and how he had done his best to find a settlement that would satisfy all the powers of Europe, Turkey included.

It was, what, 1878 perhaps? Berlin. The Congress they called it. Like 1815, after Napoleon. Back then, they had Wellington and Metternich and Talleyrand. Great men. And that brute, Tsar Alexander, berating them all. Berlin was a bad idea for a location last time, even if Bismarck had called it in the first place. Say what you want about Bismarck, once he had his Empire he went out of his way to keep everyone happy. The rascal was hardly the honest broker he liked to make himself out to be. No. He was more, what did he say in that speech? Blood and iron. Yes, that was it. He’s gone now, Old Otto, put out to pasture to write his memoirs by young Kaiser William the Second. Or Wilhelm, if you like. Hard to believe that puppy is our Queen’s own grandson... but there it is, I suppose…

Lost in thought uncle? The French can leave me rather despondent too, I fear. The familiar voice cut across Gascoyne-Cecil’s meandering thoughts and he looked around, startled. Skipping up the pavement behind him came his nephew - a model of energy and buoyancy.

And what, may I ask, is the Prime Minister of Great Britain and the Queen’s Empire doing dawdling the streets of London unaccompanied of an evening?

Ha! I could ask the Queen’s Secretary of the Treasury and Leader of the House of Commons the same thing, young Arthur.

Touché, Uncle. I will tell you what, this is not the United States, the Lord be praised, but there are dangers about. So if we meet any Italian anarchists or Irish rebels we shall deal with them together eh? A stout blow of the cane is what their sort needs. Knock some sense into them.

That’s the Balfour in you speaking, Arthur. You will earn yourself a bloody reputation if you’re not careful. Anyway, if you had studied the history of the Cecil’s, you would know that we prefer the pistol to the cane every time.

Both men laughed as they continued toward the Foreign Office.

So what has you so detached and in the realm of the cerebral on this fine evening, Uncle? There is so much to choose from at the moment.

Turkey, Arthur, and the Sultan.

Balfour nodded and made a sharp ah! of acknowledgment.

The Prime Minister continued, If the Congress of Berlin didn’t win the Turks over, I don’t know what can. You know that Disraeli went too far for them then in my view. I am at a loss to think what should be done now.

Arthur Balfour may have come across as detached and uninterested much of the time. Indeed, his habit of often staying in bed until noon had raised eyebrows in certain circles, accusations of insanity in others, but the man knew his brief, and he showed that now, coolly sizing up the situation and options before he spoke.

Uncle, the Congress reduced the great advantages acquired by Russia in the Treaty of San Stefano, but the Turks aren’t pleased that in return, Cyprus became our fiefdom, while our forces occupy Egypt and Sudan.

The Prime Minister had been looking at the ground while Balfour spoke, but he looked up now as he replied, Yes, the Sultan is a clever lad. He never bought for one minute our pretext of bringing order to those provinces.

The men parted for a moment to allow two finely dressed young women to pass and then came together again in the middle of the path.

So, he finished, How can we use the Turks deplorable financial situation to our advantage?

Balfour twirled his cane for a moment, thinking.

I’m afraid Herzl and his friends have not persuaded the Sultan to grant them an audience, much less invest in his crumbling empire.

They rounded a corner at St. James’s Park and began walking along Horse Guards Road, both of them allowing the space of the park on the right to give them the open air that they were otherwise deprived of in their offices and meeting rooms all day. The relative peace was also a Godsend after a day of catcalls and slanging matches in Parliament, the Commons for Balfour and the Lords for the Prime Minister.

I see, Gascoyne-Cecil said now, That is indeed a shame.

They walked a little further in silence before he continued.

We and our new friends, the French, were hoping that by appearing to serve the Jewish interests we could worm our way in and disembowel the Ottoman Empire from the inside before the Russians kill it by amputating more of its critical limbs.

And if you need any proof of whether they are capable of it or not, just ask a Pole the meaning of partition.

Balfour suddenly whipped his cane through the air in a vicious downward arc.

Then we have no choice except to launch our own attack, but the African and Indian campaigns have severely weakened the Royal Navy and Army.

They came on to the Mall and began to cross toward the Duke of York Column.

Ah Arthur, who are we to attack? The Turks, the Russians? God knows I’d love a crack at the French, just for old time’s sake. I really must talk to him about making these declarations without thinking things through.

My sources, the Prime Minister said, are of the opinion that Herzl and his colleagues are prepared to sweeten their previous offer and try to get through to the Sultan one last time.

And keep us isolated from all of this mess.

Balfour looked unconvinced. Now pointing his cane purposefully at the statue of the Duke of York atop his column, he looked purposefully at his uncle.

You and I, uncle, have the same feelings towards Herzl’s plans, but what if their offers fail?

You needn’t elaborate, Gascoyne-Cecil replied.

Chapter Three

The next night, across the Channel in Paris, four men stood around the door of a private carriage of the Orient Express train. On a weeknight such as this, passengers were few and far between in Gare l’Est, and the men had the platform practically to themselves. Nevertheless, Prime Minister Bourgeois kept