“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
