When he reached the third floor he paused, trying to remember how to get to the secluded balcony walk Brown had shown him. The door to the right of the tower room was slightly open and he opened it and stepped out into the moonlit walk. It abruptly hit him that this could be a trap, the walk was a perfect ambush site. His mind raced with the possibilities of who and why. It might be an irate Faber, or a humiliated Moltke—or even cold, calculating Fisher, intent on stopping him from intruding further on British torpedo innovations. Halting, Wake peered around the shadows that filled the corners and background areas, wishing he had a weapon and chastising himself for even getting into this position.
Tensed for an attack, Wake crept forward and around the curve of the tower wall. He decided that if he saw no one in another ten feet he would return to his room and stop this foolishness. Then footsteps clicked on the flag stones of the walkway behind him—his only route of escape blocked. He spun around in a crouch, prepared to lunge to the wall side of the narrow space and throw his attacker over the waist-high rampart.
Catherine, still in the green gown, let out a little laugh, continuing into a stifled giggle as Wake clutched his chest in shock and caught his breath. “Oh Peter! You don’t have to be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”
He let out a sigh and collapsed against the wall, “Good God above, Catherine. I damned near killed you out of fright! I got to thinking when I walked out here that maybe this was all a trap.”
“It is. . . .” came the sultry whisper in his ear while her body molded against him.
Wake’s heart was still hammering. He wrapped his arms around her, stroking her long soft hair as she laid her head against his chest.
“Your heart is beating very fast,” said Catherine. “Are you all right? It really is safe here, Peter. No one will attack you. We are alone.” She looked up at him, her sad eyes dissolving his tension. “It is our moment, Peter—no one else’s. Our special moment in time, sotto la luna.” She touched his cheek and smiled. “It means ‘under the moon.’ I think that right now in our lives, each of us needs to have someone hold us gently.”
They embraced each other for a long time, neither talking nor moving from their spot, just caressing each other, as the moon slowly soared high across the night sky. Wake realized Catherine was not wearing a corset and held her waist tightly, inadvertently making her squirm away.
“Ooh, ça chatouille!” she laughed.
He thought he’d hurt her. “What?”
“I am, how is it that you say? . . . ticklish . . . there.” She returned to his arms and put his hands back where they were. “It is a good feeling, Peter. S’il vous plait, mon cheri, do not stop what you are doing—you do it very well. And I need you to keep doing it.”
“Catherine . . .” he said, terrified of where this was heading, but incapable of stopping. “Where is your husband?”
“Passed out drunk and dead to the world. As usual.”
“Catherine, I want to hold you, to do more than hold you, but this is—”
She put a finger against his lips. “I know what you are going to say, Peter. Please do not say it. Let us just hold on to each other and dream, shutting out this sick world. Just you and me, making a memory here, under the moon, we will remember forever.” Her hands glided over his back and then downward, around his hips, making him moan. Wake held her face, so very soft in his hands, and bent down to kiss her, something he’d wanted to do at Martinique, and at Genoa, and earlier that very evening.
“You know, by all reason, we shouldn’t be doing this, Catherine,” he murmured, inches from her lips. He knew he was crumbling inside, losing any semblance of restraint. “But I can’t help it. You have this incredible effect on me, this overwhelming power. I don’t know exactly how you do it, but I—”
Out of the darkness came Variam’s deep voice.
“Ah hmm! . . . Sir, may I respectfully suggest that you and the lady return to your rooms. There could be some unpleasantness in a moment, as Consul General Faber is heading this way. And he appears to be rather considerably agitated.”
Variam stepped forward into a shaft of moonlight, his white turban almost glowing above his blood-red tunic. The three of them made a momentary tableau, eerie in the moonlight, Wake and Catherine stunned by fear.
“This way, sir.” The Sikh pointed back toward the door to the inside. His tone then changed from request to command. “Immediately, sir.”
25
In Bocca al Lupo!
They followed Variam through a hidden paneled door that was recessed in the wall next to the main circular stairway. Catherine’s dress swished in and Variam closed the door just as the heavy clump of footsteps came up around the last curve of the main stairs. The major-domo lit a match and reached for a lamp on a shelf, then led the way down a narrow and steep set of stone steps.
Wake waited for a shout from the other side of the wall, but none came, and as he descended he tried to unravel the confusion that was fogging his mind. How did Variam know where they were? The envelope was sealed. How did he know that Faber was coming? What did Faber know? What did Brown and Strom know? How was he going to get out of this?
Variam stopped and opened a door. “Here, sir. Your room is on this
