“What about the Scandinavians or the Dutch?” asked Wake.
“No influence down here in the Med. Little influence elsewhere in Europe. King Oscar’s new up there in Sweden and King Christian’s too busy making money. Doesn’t have time or interest in playing Continental politics with the big boys.”
“So it appears that the Brits are the most powerful and therefore influential, followed by the Germans and then the Austrians.”
“Yes, that’s pretty much it. The problem though, is that the French and the Italians want to be more powerful. And the French are starting to think they’re more powerful.” Davis shook his head. “That leads to posturing or double-dealing. These folks are absolute masters of that.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ll see.”
18
Diplomats, Mohammed, and Missionaries
Davis exhaled slowly, then breathed the night air in. “Come on, let’s go in. I need to introduce you to the consul general. He’s definitely not your average diplomat. And I can show you who’s who in there.”
Wake just wanted to go back to his room and rest—his mind was awash with names and events and histories of the countries in the region. More than ever, he felt inadequate for the job ahead. But instead, he buttoned his coat and followed Davis, marveling at the man’s ease at handling the strong champagne, recitation of all that information, and ability to energize again and put on a chameleon-like change in demeanor upon reentering the swirling chaos of the ballroom.
Wake was three steps behind Davis when the younger man stopped and pointed to the corner. “Ah, there he is, by the bar, as one would expect. Come along and meet my boss.” The crush of people pushed Wake toward a middle-aged, salt-and-pepper-haired man whose massive frame undulated as he laughed loudly at a joke told by a pretty girl.
Davis smiled ingratiatingly as he touched the man’s shoulder. “Sir, this is Lieutenant Peter Wake, who’s been at the hotel for about a week waiting for the squadron to return. Lieutenant, this is Mr. Beauregard Strom, Consul General for the United States at Genoa.”
Strom turned and slapped a huge hand into Wake’s, booming out a Southern-tinged greeting that could be heard across the room. “Why, hello there, Lieutenant. Good to finally meet you. Sorry we didn’t have a chance to meet before this. Hope you’re as comfortable as can be expected over there at that hotel. I know it isn’t much. Funding constraints, you see.”
Wake was nonplussed. He was six feet tall himself, but Strom was taller and bigger by fifty pounds, an imposing figure. And the man was completely different from every other diplomat Wake had met in his career. He wasn’t soft-spoken or suave. He had what sounded to Wake to be a Louisiana accent and a voice that was without elitist affect, sincerely jovial and direct to the point. Unlike most of the diplomats he had met, who usually made his skin crawl with suspicion, Strom was someone Wake instantly liked.
“Thank you, sir. An honor to meet you. The hotel room is adequate for my needs, sir.”
“Adequate! It’s a dump, Lieutenant. But it’s all we can do. Has young Dan here given you a briefing on the situation with your squadron, and Europe in general?”
“Yes, sir. A good one.”
Strom leaned forward and lowered his tone, his bass voice still audible above the tinkling of glasses and the string music. “Europe is a stew, Lieutenant. A stew of poisons that’s been brewing for centuries. I’ve been here since Grant sent me in seventy. It was really a mess then, what with the Germans making monkeys out of the French and everybody wondering what would come next. Getting slightly better now, though. Things are calming down a bit. Still, the trick is to sit at the table and compliment the stew, just don’t eat it. If you catch my drift. The navy will have to be careful to not alienate the people in charge of Europe. Especially around here, in Italy. They get mighty touchy about some things.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Wake reflexively to what he considered an order.
“By God, a sailor’s answer! Did you hear that, Dan? I do believe we’ll be seeing a lot of Lieutenant Wake in the future, since Case’s squadron will be stationed here until May and probably beyond.”
Strom put a hand on Davis’ shoulder. “Dan, let him know about northern Africa and the Ottomans too. That’s the area where things will be changing. We want to be extremely careful down there.” Then the consul general engaged an elderly man in conversation, switching into what sounded to Wake like fluent French.
“I’ll do that now, sir,” acknowledged Davis to Strom’s back, picking up two more champagnes, before gesturing Wake back to the balcony.
“Interesting man,” offered Wake when they arrived back at their perch overlooking the city. With the rain clouds lifted, the ancient lanterna lighthouse winking over on the western side of the harbor, and the night cloaking the city filth, Wake thought Genoa looked its best. Or it could be the champagne, he realized, as Davis replied.
“Very interesting. I’ll tell you about his background later. But first I’d better cover the lands of Mohammed. Completely alien culture.”
Wake laughed as he gestured around them. “Dan, I thought all this was pretty bizarre.”
“It is, but the Ottoman world makes this place look like home.”
“All right, what about this infamous Muslim world? I hear we have to rescue missionaries there frequently,” asked Wake after unbuttoning his coat again in the cool air.
Davis nodded. “Yes, and sometimes it’s the same ones over and over. Blustering fools. Worse than the politicians who curry their favor back home and bully us into supporting their crusades against non-Christians—that means Muslims, by the way. The missionaries don’t care about Jews.”
“Why do the politicians back home curry the favor of a few missionaries on the other side of the world?”
“Because
