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.
