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
