21

Soldier of Fortune

Even while his heart melted at the vision of her gentle smile, soft hair, and sad eyes—as if the intervening months had not happened and they were both still at Martinique—Wake realized that his appearance must be anything but attractive. He felt worn out, while she looked young and fresh and feminine.

“Madame Faber,” offered Strom. “May I present Lieutenant Peter Wake of the United States Navy? Lieutenant Wake represents our navy here in the Mediterranean at the moment. Lieutenant, this charming lady is Madame Catherine Faber de Champlain, wife of the consul general of the Republic of France, a man whom you’ve already had the honor of meeting.”

Wake stood spellbound as she stepped forward with her hand extended. He took it in both of his and kissed it, fighting the desperate urge to pull her into his arms.

“Enchanté, Madame Faber,” he said, ignoring the shocked faces of Strom and Davis, who immediately deduced their shy naval officer already knew the lady.

“Merci, Lieutenant—” Catherine’s eyes darted suddenly and Wake belatedly registered that her husband had rejoined the group and was watching him. Feeling his cheeks heat up, he tried to think of something to say, but his mind went blank.

Faber slid an arm around his wife and gestured toward the dance floor. “Voulez-vous danser, ma chérie?” Without waiting for her, he headed to the center of the room where couples swirled to a Chopin waltz.

“Excusez-moi,” she said with a little curtsy to them all, before following Faber.

There was a moment of silence among the three Americans, broken by Strom. “It appears you have met the lady, Lieutenant. But I thought you said you’ve never been to the Med prior to this?”

“I haven’t been across the Atlantic before this, sir. I met the lady at Martinique in December. She is a delightful person.”

Strom was worried by Wake’s reaction when he saw the Frenchman’s wife. “I know she is delightful, Lieutenant. I also know she is married—to a high-ranking French diplomat. Kindly remember that. Your behavior will reflect upon our national character.”

When he heard Strom’s words, Wake’s headache hammered his temples and before he knew it he retorted, “Consul General—I am married also, and you, sir, are on the edge of insulting my honor and that of the lady in question . . .”

“You dare to chastise me?” Strom seethed, his bulk leaning forward so others couldn’t hear. “Let’s get something straight here, Wake. I don’t give one iota of a damn about your honor. It doesn’t impress anybody around here. You’re just another underling here, another minion who does servants’ work for a joke of a navy. So don’t you ever dare to get high and mighty with me, you little pipsqueak. I’ve killed bigger, badder, and brighter men than you in war, boy.”

Wake got ready for the blow he was sure would come as Davis stepped between them, laughing loudly as if one of them had told a joke, then whispering, “Gentlemen, please. Nothing untoward has happened, so let us not make a scene. I think some cool champagne would do us all some good. Please, gentlemen.”

Strom glared at Davis, then relaxed and laughed as he punched Wake hard on the arm. “Say, that was a good one, Lieutenant,” he bellowed. “You had me going there for a moment!”

The hit looked playful but Wake’s bone ached. He felt Davis step on his shoe, took the hint and swallowed his pride, muttering loudly, “Yes, sir. My humor is sometimes misunderstood. Dry, I’ve been told. I’m glad you appreciated it.” Then, quieter, “I apologize for any misunderstanding, sir. The lady and I are brief acquaintances. I didn’t mean for it to appear like anything more.”

Strom paused, then said, “Perhaps I jumped the gun a bit myself, Lieutenant. Got nervous. Lesson learned for us both. This is a dangerous continent in more ways than one. Just beware of the women here, Lieutenant. Be very wary of them. They start wars more often than you know.”

“Very good, gentlemen,” whispered Davis, his relief evident. “I think the particular lady’s beauty excites emotions beyond the norm. I’m sure we can put this in perspective and that no one meant any offense. I’ll go fetch us some refreshments.”

When Davis brought the drinks over Strom lifted his in a toast. “To beautiful ladies, and lessons we’ve learned about them.”

***

“There are three ways to get to Porto Fino, all of which present challenges,” explained Davis as he ate his trout during lunch in the sporting club overlooking the harbor. It was the prettiest day Wake had yet seen in Italy, for the new week had brought with it sun. The Lanterna lighthouse stood above the harbor a mile across the crowded anchorage, the bright day reflecting in an almost reddish glow from its 380-foot tower of squared stonework. Faded pastels of the homes in the hills surrounding the city came to life and Wake was seeing colors in Genoa for the first time.

“Are you going with me?” asked Wake, concerned about heading out across a country whose language he didn’t understand or speak.

“Wasn’t invited, Peter. You’re the lucky one.”

“Hmm, don’t know about that yet. Is the consulate paying for my transport?” asked Wake.

“No, it was a personal invitation, so we can’t fund it, Peter.”

“Then tell me about the cheapest way to get there. Lieutenants don’t make much money, Dan, and almost all of mine goes to my family.”

“Ah, then it’s the donkey carts for you, my friend. Italy traveled like an Italian—a poor Italian. It’ll take about three days to go the fifty miles, at least.”

“Three days for only fifty miles! I could walk it faster.”

“No, you couldn’t. There are mountains that go all the way down into the sea between here and there. The crow may only fly, or a ship steam fifty miles, but you’ll do at least a hundred, what with all the curves and switchbacks and such.”

Wake sighed. “Very well, what about the train?”

“Expensive, only six to seven hours.”

“Six to seven hours? And a steamer?”

“The most expensive. Five hours, give or take a few.”

“Train it is, then.” Wake sighed. “I wonder. Do I really have to go? Can I get out of this?”

“Up to you. But everyone is expecting you to go now. It’s an invitation many wait a long time for. You would be insulting Brown. National pride, Peter.”

“Damn. Wish a little national money went with it to pay the way. All right. I’ll go.”

***

The train station at Genoa was in total confusion. Wake’s experience in Latin America was nothing like what he was seeing here—a combination of technological achievement and cultural chaos. He said goodbye to Davis, who had translated the purchase of round trip tickets for Wake, then edged his way onto the train and found his seat by a window. The private compartment could hold four, but the only others there were an elderly couple heading back to Rome from Milan. The occupants nodded politely to each other but could not converse beyond pantomime.

Wake was settling in, about to read the foreign issue of the London Times, when he noticed a commotion on the platform, forty feet from the window. A tall, barrel-chested passenger in an oversized plain tan coat and carrying a valise had grabbed a local panhandler—Wake had seen him plying his trade aggressively earlier and thought him a pickpocket—by the collar and was kicking him in the rear. The street scoundrel produced a knife and flourished it in the face of the tall man, screaming something in Italian. The man in the coat immediately let go of the thief, but did not retreat. Instead his lip curled up on one side—not quite a smile but close—as if he regarded his adversary with curiosity.

The man in the coat was different from the small crowd who stopped to watch the confrontation unfold. He stood straight, with short-cropped black hair, large expressionless eyes, and a Vandyke goatee worn like an insignia of rank. His appearance added up to obvious command bearing and Wake marked him as a military or naval officer, nationality as yet unknown.

Without warning, the officer’s right hand swept up, grasped the knife hand of his assailant, swung the blade through an arc and in one fluid move plunged it into the thief’s eye. The military man then executed a right oblique and marched up the steps and into the train.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd as the target, which is how Wake thought of the thief, crumpled to the deck of the platform. Wake was amazed that during the whole time the valise never dropped from the officer’s left hand. The entire event took seconds.

The older couple watched the drama as well, exchanging words in fearful undertones. The lady’s clucking became a stifled scream when the compartment door opened seconds later. There stood the man in the overcoat.

“This compartment five?” he said in an aggravated tone with an American accent. Wake and the couple were astonished. The man tried again, louder, more frustrated. “Camera cinque?”

Wake came to his senses. “Yes. Yes, this is compartment five.”

“Good, this is where my seat is then. You sound American.”

“Ah, yes. Peter Wake. Massachusetts.” Wake gestured to the frightened people sitting opposite him. “These folks are from Rome, I think. They don’t speak English. I don’t really speak Italian.”

“Michael Woodgerd. Ohio.” He nodded to Wake and then to the wide-eyed couple, who bobbed their heads quickly in return. Outside on the platform the police were arriving on the scene, listening to a dozen accounts of the incident while they examined the body. Two people pointed to the train.

“Did that man try to steal your money?” asked Wake, still incredulous at what he had witnessed.

“No. He was kicking that little dog over there. For fun,” said Woodgerd, shaking his head and pointing to a mangy brown emaciated dog cringing in the corner of the waiting area. “I think he broke her ribs, the slimy sonovabitch. She was only begging for food and he kicked her hard half a dozen times. Could hear her cry out on the street and none of these damn scum,” Woodgerd waved at the crowd, “were stopping him.”

“Oh, I didn’t see that part. I just saw you kicking him.”

“Yep, a little equalizer for what he did to the dog. That bastard didn’t seem to like it when he had it done to him.”

“Then he pulled a knife on you. I saw that.”

Woodgerd swiveled his head toward Wake, eyes locking on him as a deathly grin spread across his face. “Yeah . . .”

“I suppose that’s self-defense on your part, then.”

Woodgerd nodded slowly, never removing his eyes from Wake’s. “Ya shouldn’t kick little dogs. Or pull a knife on a man unless ya know how to use it. He didn’t.”

“Yes, well, I see your point.” Wake sat uncomfortably close to Woodgerd, their forearms touching on the seat’s armrest. The man was at least four inches taller than Wake and twenty to thirty pounds heavier, all of it muscle, he suspected, though the coat hid Woodgerd’s frame. The moment was interrupted when the train’s whistle screamed and steam blew by the window.

“Been a very long friggin’ day,” sighed Woodgerd. “Don’t know about you, but I’m gonna catch some sleep.” He exhaled loudly again, tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

The train jolted a few feet, then rumbled slowly forward, picking up speed. Wake glanced outside and saw one policeman scanning the windows of the train. He wondered if they had come aboard. Then the station was behind them and they chugged slowly east through the city.

An hour later, after stopping many times for street traffic, they emerged from the old city and crossed the Bisagno River into the outlying hill country. Without warning Woodgerd startled Wake, who had begun to doze.

“So why are you in Italy, Wake?”

After what he had seen earlier, Wake was unsure of how much to tell the man. “Just traveling down to see friends at Porto Fino.”

“Hmm. Army or navy? You got a hellova tan, so I’m guessing navy.”

Stunned, Wake worried where this was heading. “And how exactly did you know?”

Woodgerd smiled his death-grin again. “I can spot a believer every time. Got real good at it during ‘The Recent Unpleasantness,’ as those Rebel fools call it. Saw believers die by the thousands. Oh yeah—you’re a believer, Wake. No doubt on that.”

Wake struggled to control his anger, “Want to explain that?”

“Not a very hard thing to deduce, Wake. You’ve got an honest, open, strong face. You don’t have the jowls of a glutton, the nose of a drunk, the breath of a smoker, the hands of a clerk, the clothes of a banker or a farmer—or a tourist, for that matter. You spoke well and gently, smiled at the old folks to calm them, and are polite to me, even though you don’t like what I’m saying. You sit straight up, look me in the eye, keep your voice controlled, and haven’t fled the compartment—a sign of discipline. It’s obvious you’re an American officer. And thus, a gentleman. Ah yes, a believer in doing the right things for the right reasons. God, flag, and family. I’m not any of that, which is obvious, of course, and you don’t very much like or trust me.”

Wake replied with a level tone, “You’re absolutely right on all accounts.” He was aware that the elderly couple was watching the exchange like frightened animals. “But, as you say, it wasn’t very hard to deduce all that. So what are you doing in Italy, Mr. Woodgerd?”

“Just passing through, from Budapest. Unlike you, Wake. You’re not on leave. Nope, I can tell you’re working. Stationed with the European Squadron probably, but they’re not here, so you’re on independent assignment, I’d wager.”

Woodgerd’s arrogance was overwhelming, but Wake maintained a cool countenance, extremely curious as to who this man really was, and what he was about. “And how is it that you know so much about naval affairs, Mr. Woodgerd?”

Woodgerd’s laugh came out as a cynical hiss. “Naval affairs? I don’t know jack about what you squids do, and I don’t care to know. I just know one when I see ’im. You’re useless on land, and that’s where I ply my trade.”

“Which would be?”

“I kill people.” Woodgerd made the statement flatly, without shame or pride or threat.

“I just saw an example of that. Very efficient.”

The hiss again from Woodgerd. “Oh, that fool? No, not that. I kill soldiers.”

“So you’re a mercenary?”

“We prefer ‘soldier of fortune.’ Sounds so much more pleasant. And the fortune part is important. Very important.”

“Former U.S. Army?”

The death grin returned, followed by a gleeful, “Yep. That’s where I learned the basics of killing soldiers. Four long years with that Godforsaken Army of the Potomac chasing ol’ Marse Bobby. Learned that true believers are valuable to have around as cannon fodder privates, but disasters as commanding officers. Too damned weak. Good thing Grant finally came along though. Now that whiskey-soaked sonovabitch knew what to do—kill. As fast and as many as you can.”

Having seen combat ashore and afloat himself during the war, Wake was unimpressed by Woodgerd’s comments. “Four years? Volunteer or regular?”

“West Point. Class of fifty-nine.”

“A regular. So you must have been made at least a brevet lieutenant colonel by the end of the war.”

“Colonel . . . before they cashiered me in sixty-five.”

Dishonorably discharging a colonel was highly unusual. Especially a West Point colonel. Wake had to ask. “For what? After what I saw I can’t imagine it was for cowardice.”

“Conduct unbecoming an officer of the United States Army, and theft of regimental funds.”

Wake wanted to ask more but Woodgerd’s tone negated that. Still, Wake’s curiosity was whetted. “Very interesting, Mr. Woodgerd. Sounds like an eventful life. So who do you kill soldiers for now?”

“Fella named Hassan. He’s the brand new sultan of Morocco. Heading there now for a three-year contract. Advisor to the sultan and colonel of the royal guard. Pays better than my last job with the Khedive in Egypt, guarding French canal engineers.” Woodgerd looked pensive for a moment, then wagged his head sarcastically. “You know, I don’t think Sultan Hassan likes the French very much. Neither do I, really. Hmm, I wonder if he’ll want me to kill them. Can you imagine that, Peter Wake?”

The only thing Wake could imagine at that point was getting away from the madman. Woodgerd was more than merely another cynical veteran—he looked dangerously unstable. He reminded Wake of the man he had been ordered to track down—and kill—in the Caribbean five years earlier. That man had been an American officer also. And a maniacal killer, turned pirate, in addition.

Glancing at the couple across from him and smiling at them for reassurance, Wake nodded a vague reply to Woodgerd and gazed out the window at the hills that were becoming mountains with each mile.

When he turned back Woodgerd was asleep again, a tranquil smile spread on his relaxed face, as if dreaming of something pleasant. The notion of what that might be made Wake particularly uneasy.