Wake had indeed, but had never donated or even given it much thought. His rather meager weekly offerings to the Methodist church in Pensacola had been for that congregation’s benefit. There was so much need for help in the recovering South that he never contemplated foreign aid and dismissed the appeals he’d seen. “The politicians don’t want to alienate voters, so they make it look like they care.”
“Yes,” Davis grumbled. “And when the missionaries scream for help to the local U.S. consulate after they’ve gotten into some dicey situation or other, the consulate passes the call onto you—the American navy. You get to go and rescue them.”
“How often?”
“Couple of times a year. Usually it happens over in the Levant, where we’ve got a lot of missionaries. They love living in the Holy Land, trying to convert people who have been doing just fine with Mohammed for the last thousand years. Once they’ve insulted and aggravated the locals enough to get the attention and retribution of the regional Ottoman authorities, in comes a request for a warship to intimidate the natives. Missionaries have extra-legal status. Generally, they are considered by the Ottoman Empire not to be under the authority of the local courts and laws. So the local leaders try their best to ignore them. And remember, the Turks control everything, to varying degrees, from Persia to Algiers. Morocco is one of the few Arab places that’s independent of the Ottoman Empire.
“However, if the authorities get frustrated and actually end up doing anything against a missionary, then the request is for a bombardment. If a missionary is imprisoned, then a landing party is called to go ashore. Bombardments and shore parties are rare, maybe once a year. Boy, the Ottomans do not like that. Not at all.”
“It’s a request, though. A consul has no command over a ship captain.”
“No, but they try. We’ve got a fool of a consul at Beirut who cannot get along with anyone. The Consul General at Constantinople, George Boker, tries to keep him from doing a lot of harm, but the idiot manages to make himself infamous anyway, constantly asking for his country to back him up with gunfire. Tried once to make a local pasha eat dirt for insulting him. And no, I’m not jesting.”
“Hmm. What about the Europeans? What do they do?”
“Same thing with their gunboats. They’ve got missionaries everywhere too. Hell, their diplos are even more bloodthirsty than our consuls. My impression is their navies use it as good opportunities for gun practice. You’ll hear ’em brag about it. Of course they want to expand their empires. We don’t have an empire.”
“Which of the European powers are where in northern Africa?” inquired Wake. Northern Africa was in the squadron’s area of responsibility.
“Spanish have enclaves in Morocco on the Med. The French have a large presence in Morocco and Algiers, and a bit in Egypt. The Italians are big in Tunis and Tripoli. The Brits are big in Egypt. Of course, the French built the Suez Canal, but the Brits are edging them out pretty fast. That’s their main route to India now. Crucial for them.”
Wake heard a bell ring. Davis pulled out his watch and said, “Damn, it’s that late already? This soirée is over, Peter. Sorry, I got to talking and forgot the time—didn’t even introduce you around to the other legations. Well, at least you’ve got the general lay of the land now.”
“Thanks for that, Dan. You’ve given me a lot to think about. I appreciate the help.”
“Well, you still need to know about the diplomatic personalities here. Guess I’ll have to do that at lunch before the next bash, which is only a few nights from now.”
Seeing Wake’s reaction, Davis laughed. “Don’t worry. Usually they’re only once a week. This week is unusual. The French are throwing this next party for the feast of Saint Peter Damian. That’s to gain favor with the Italians—you see Peter Damian is an Italian saint. Very big around here.”
“The French consul does that reception?” asked Wake, his mind swimming with an image of Catherine.
“Oh, yes. And let me tell you, they do know how to give a good party. I’ll give ’em that.”
Davis and Wake joined the throng exiting the main doors to the street. Wake was trying to memorize all that he’d just learned when Davis pointed to a man entering a closed carriage where a gowned woman waited in inside, her face hidden in shadow.
“Hey, there they are now. Consul General Henri Faber de Champlain. A real live hero of the Third French Republic, and his wife. I’ll tell you about him later, but I’ve got to see to my own consul general now. Good night, Peter.”
Wake vaguely answered, but his eyes were on the man glowering out of the carriage’s window at the crowd as it trotted off down the darkened street. Wake felt a chill go through him as he looked at those cold eyes.
19
The Empires’ Men
Wake met with Davis over lunch two days later, getting further background on the situation around the Mediterranean. At Café Cavour, on the shady side of the Piazza Portello, Davis explained Strom was out of town and he had plenty of time that day to fill in Wake on who exactly was who, in the diplomatic corps at Genoa. Between bites of pasta, he proudly described it as one of the plum diplomatic assignments of Europe because of its economic importance and central geographic location. Then he flashed his boyish grin and added that its proximity to the casinos and ladies of the Cote d’Azur didn’t hurt either.
“And, of course, how can you help it? Everybody loves Italy, Peter. Especially these fellas coming from northern Europe. You think it’s cold and wet here—try Hamburg or Copenhagen or Saint Petersburg.”
Devouring a mound of toasted
