20

The French First Lady of Genoa

Wake already wasn’t feeling well when he arrived—an hour late—the stress of his deteriorating family situation upsetting his stomach and making him edgy. Then he entered the French embassy’s ballroom and instantly felt worse. The gaslights at the consulate’s soirée were the brightest Wake had ever seen. Piercingly bright—bringing slices of pain through his eyes directly into the recesses of his brain. The headache was instantaneous and brutal. Wake cringed. Even the string quartet’s music was conspiring to hurt his head.

“What the hell kind of music is that?” Wake grumbled to Davis, who met him at the door of the ballroom and was regarding him dubiously. The naval officer was late, but at least he was there, though Davis thought he looked in pretty bad shape.

“That music would be from Giuseppi Verdi, the famous Italian composer. And please don’t make any negative comments, Peter, since the great man himself is standing over there in the corner. Next to his mistress, Teresa Stolz, the acclaimed soprano.”

Wake just wanted the infernal racket to stop hurting his head. “What’s this Verdi fellow famous for, anyway?”

“Well, that particular music, for one,” said Davis, trying to be patient. “It’s from Aida, the opera he composed for the Khedive of Egypt to celebrate the opening of their canal. A canal our French hosts built, by the way.”

A giant hand slapped Wake’s shoulder from behind, almost knocking him down. Strom suddenly filled Wake’s vision. “Why, if it isn’t our gallant Lieutenant Wake. Glad you could make it, Lieutenant.”

“Ah, thank you, sir. Sorry I’m late.”

Strom let out a belly laugh and slapped Wake’s shoulder again. “Not to worry, Wake. I’m just happy you’re here,” the joviality left his voice and his eyes, “to do your job. You are it around here for the U.S. Navy, Lieutenant. No one else to help you for a while.”

“Yes, sir. The job will get done, sir.”

“I know that, Lieutenant. No doubts there. Introduce him around, Dan. I want the lieutenant up to date and immediately ready to fulfill his duties as naval representative,” said Strom as he moved away to mingle with the other guests.

Wake looked at Davis. “You had to tell him I was late?”

“I don’t work for you, Peter. I work for him. Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”

Davis started with Verdi, an older, flamboyantly bearded man with imperious eyes that glanced dismissively at Wake. The composer didn’t bother to introduce Stolz, standing next to him, who appeared to be not enjoying the evening at all. After a round of courteous preliminaries, Davis steered Wake away and toward a tall, hatched-nosed man in a Royal Navy formal dress coat, the shoulders of which supported enormous gold epaulets, dwarfing every other officer’s in the room. The man was surrounded by lesser-ranked naval officers chuckling over some joke.

“Vice Admiral Drummond, it’s good to see you again, sir,” began Davis. “May I introduce Lieutenant Peter Wake, of the United States Navy, sir? He will be our naval representative here for a bit, while the squadron’s away.”

“You certainly may, Mr. Davis. Good to meet you, Lieutenant Wake.” Drummond waved a hand at the others. “Gentlemen, kindly introduce yourselves to Lieutenant Wake.”

The British officers went around the circle, introducing themselves and their assigned ships. Peter Allen wasn’t among them, and Wake asked about the Royal Marine. They said he had the watch aboard that evening and would pass along Wake’s good wishes. Each officer made small talk as they introduced themselves, mundane words with forgettable monotony—until the last one. He had prematurely graying hair above serious gray-blue eyes that were mismatched with a smiling mouth. Wake thought him in his early thirties, about his own age, but the man’s demeanor was of someone far older, a man used to commanding men. As the other Royal Navy entourage departed to follow their admiral toward the bar table, this officer shook Wake’s hand with a firm grip, holding it for an instant longer than usual.

“Commander John Fisher, Lieutenant Wake. Commanding officer, HMS Vernon.”

Wake almost fell down. He instantly envisioned that night at the dockyard on Antigua, remembering well the crate that had stenciled on it Vernon, and the name Fisher. “The torpedo school at Portsmouth, sir?”

“The very same, Lieutenant. It’s still a bit new. Do you know of it?”

Wake was aware Fisher was scrutinizing him, but whether from his worn-out appearance or his West Indies escapade he knew not. “Only by reputation, sir. It has an excellent one, as do you.”

“And you as well, Lieutenant,” Fisher replied as Wake’s heart stopped. Fisher knew of him? That meant he also knew about his escapade in Antigua. He struggled not to look anxious while Fisher continued. “I heard of your work in the Caribbean back in sixty-nine, by accounts, against quite a maniacal foe, under rather difficult circumstances. Commander Russell of HMS Plover told me of it a few months ago when he reported aboard Vernon. Said he assisted you a bit. He’s a great admirer of yours.”

Wake hoped his sigh of relief wasn’t audible. “Commander Russell is an outstanding naval officer and a considerable credit to the Royal Navy, sir. I am honored that he spoke kindly of me.”

Fisher allowed a chuckle to emerge. “Rodney Russell didn’t speak kindly of you, Lieutenant Wake. Nothing that benign. No, he said you were the most bloody dangerous pirate in the Caribbean and he thanked God he was on your side in that affair! He thinks you are a warrior, which is high praise indeed coming from him.”

Davis stood there amused, and Wake didn’t know what to say. Russell had been part of the search for a pirate, a mission that ended in Wake’s court-martial in Washington, at which Russell testified for the defense. “I am appreciative of that, sir and hope Commander Russell is doing well.”

“That he is, Lieutenant. He is attached to me at Vernon. A torpedo specialist and instructor.”

Davis cleared his throat. “The automotive torpedo. That’s the new weapon of the future, isn’t it, Commander?”

“I believe so, Mr. Davis. Though some of our more senior officers think it a silly contraption, bound for failure.”

Wake was intrigued now. He had the feeling Fisher was toying with him, baiting him, but he couldn’t resist. “You’ve done some innovative work in that area, haven’t you, sir? I think I’ve read about it. And there are some scientists over here working on it as well.”

The smile returned, but the eyes were as serious as ever. “I think you haven’t read about the Royal Navy’s efforts, Lieutenant. Such matters are confidential, of course. But yes, we have been working on improving our weaponry and much has been done in the field. By Europe’s navies, and by your navy also, at Newport I believe.”

There it is, Wake told himself. They know that I know. The confrontation between Captain Gardiner and the British authorities in Antigua must be known by Fisher too. Probably a copy of the report must have been sent back to the Admiralty, he surmised.

“I wish you good luck in your endeavors, sir. It’s amazing how fast the science is advancing. I hear the torpedoes are moving at ten knots now and up to a thousand yards.”

“Really?” replied Fisher, “Where would you hear something like that?”

“Wardroom gossip, sir. Nothing definitive.”

“Ah, yes, the ever-elusive wardroom gossip—a fount of knowledge for naval officers over the centuries. Well, I must go and say hello to others here. Have an interesting tour here in the Med, Lieutenant. Your first time here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then it will be very interesting for you, I’m sure.” Fisher started away.

“I’ll see you around then, sir,” called out Wake. “Our squadrons frequently interact, I understand.”

Fisher stopped, turned and smiled. “I think not, Lieutenant. I’m not here with the squadron and won’t be in Genoa very long. Off on holiday to see English friends on the other side of Italy.”

Before Wake could ask where, Fisher was gone, merged into the crowd. But by that point Wake could guess Fisher’s destination—Whitehead’s torpedo factory in Fiume, along the Austrian-Hungarian side of the Adriatic Sea. On the other side of Italy.

***

The evening was excruciating for Wake, his head pounding, mouth dry, and eyes blurred. He drifted from person to person as Davis introduced him to a bewildering array of self-impressed people, whose positions in life he gave up trying to remember, except for one very eccentric character, Craven Walker.

The disheveled Walker was a Singapore-born English vulcanologist studying the volcanic formations of the Mediterranean. He had a personal research project on the use of thermal energy to illuminate lamps and power engines. Walker launched forth with a monologue on lava that almost drove Wake to scream, but he endured until Davis came over and introduced him to a matron of the Milan opera, who then waxed on about Verdi’s latest efforts, which she pronounced as magnifico.

Wake didn’t come into contact with the one person he both feared and was curious to meet. Then, as he drank his sixth glass of water sans gaz—he couldn’t bear even the mere thought of alcohol—Wake heard Davis’ tone rise in volume and cheerfulness beside him.

“Ah, Consul General Faber, what a wonderful evening you have arranged! The feast of St. Peter Damian is well complimented by your efforts this evening. You may remember me, I’m Dan Davis of the American consulate, sir.”

Faber, a tall square-shouldered man in his late forties with unruly black wavy hair, stopped in mid-sentence in a conversation with a woman beside him and regarded Davis neutrally for an instant. Faber’s eyes, devoid of emotion, scanned Davis up and down, after which he replied, “Merci, monsieur,” and returned to his conversation in French. Wake looked around, but Catherine was nowhere in sight. His heart started to pound, knowing she must be close.

Davis shrugged at Wake and tried again. “Excusez-moi, Votre Excellence. But I have been asked by Consul General Strom to introduce our naval representative to you, sir. May I have the honor to formally introduce Lieutenant Peter Wake, temporary representative in this region of the United States Navy.”

Without waiting for Faber to respond, Davis continued with great flair, “And, Lieutenant Wake, it is my great honor to introduce His Excellency, Henri Faber de Champlain, hero of Paris, scientist, adventurer, and Consul General for Genoa and northern Italy for the Republic of France.”

Wake thought Davis’ fawning a bit obvious, but saw Faber straighten when the word hero came out. The Frenchman eyed Wake, then droned rapidly.

“Bonsoir et bienvenue á la Mer Méditerranée, Lieutenant. Bonne chance avec votre mission.”

Wake got the gist of it—he was welcomed to the Mediterranean and wished good luck—and was about to try a reply in French when Faber abruptly turned around again and spoke to an older man in Italian. Davis raised an eyebrow and slightly shook his head, so Wake said nothing and began to move away, worrying if Faber’s rudeness had anything to do with his attention to Catherine in Martinique.

But he didn’t have much time to ponder the question before Genoa’s British diplomat arrived, with Strom beside him. The Louisianan boomed out an introduction.

“Well, here’s Wake! Consul General Brown, this is Lieutenant Peter Wake, our head navy man in these parts while the squadron’s off sailing someplace. Lieutenant, this is Consul General Montague Yeats-Brown, of Her Britannic Majesty’s government.”

Brown shook hands politely. “It is an honor to meet you, Lieutenant. And a pleasure for me as well. I have an affinity for ships and the sea. If we can ever assist, please let us know.”

Despite his throbbing head, Wake decided to try his hand at diplomacy. “Thank you, sir. I understand you have a beautiful yacht. The Black Tulip, I believe.”

Brown’s face lit up. “Very good, Lieutenant! By Jove, I think you’ve got a good one here, Beauregard. He’s actually done some inquiry about the diplomatic corps upon arrival. Very commendable.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Wake. “Just some preliminary information that Mr. Davis here was kind enough to share with me. I found it interesting that you’re a sailor. What exact type of ship is Black Tulip, sir? Someday I’d like to see her.”

Brown exploded with mirth. “Lieutenant, you shall! I’m having a simple little weekend affair at my castle at Porto Fino and you can see her in all her glory there. Can you come for overnight on a weekend?” With a mock serious scowl Brown lowered his voice, sounding like a vicar preaching. “This is where you say yes, young man.”

Brown seemed sincerely friendly and Wake had never seen, much less been in, a real castle. “Ah, well, yes, sir. It would be a tremendous honor to visit your castle. Thank you very much for the invitation.”

“Excellent decision, Lieutenant. It will be in a week.” He gestured toward Strom. “My friend Beauregard and his lovely lady will be there, along with some other diplomats, a couple of our own naval staff officers and a few other charmers that always seem to appear. An interesting and diverse assembly, I think.”

Brown’s face beamed. “And now, Beauregard, I must pay my respects to his eminence the cardinal over there—after all, it is a saint’s day!”

As Brown conversed with the red-capped Catholic cardinal of Genoa, Wake asked, “Sir, did I say something wrong about the Black Tulip to Consul General Brown?”

Strom shook his head while grinning at Wake’s discomfort. “No, Wake. Nothing’s wrong. Just that there’s a bit of good humor in what you said and you’ll find out why when you arrive at the castle. Davis here will assist on your travel arrangements.” Strom looked over Wake’s shoulder. “Oh, I see we have the good fortune to have the first lady of the consulate among us tonight.”

Wake turned and felt his legs weaken. Not four feet away was Catherine, stunningly beautiful in that same green gown from St. Pierre, and looking directly into his eyes.