Invasion

His order was taken by a waif-like girl in an apron who, on hearing his accent, ran back to the patron, who came over to peer at him suspiciously.

But he had his story, and, with a suitably woebegone expression, then the ostentatious checking of francs, it seemed to persuade the man that he would be no trouble. What did he desire to drink? Why, absinthe would answer—he had heard of but never tried this newly fashionable tipple. So monsieur has a taste for Paris? Then the verte would probably most appeal. Mademoiselle—ici!

An odd pinch-waisted glass was brought with an intense green liquor in the base and a narrow, spike-ended spoon placed across the rim. A lump of sugar was put on its slotted bowl and ice-cold water poured over it, clouding the result to an opalescent milkiness.

Fascinated, Renzi took it, inhaling the wormwood aroma appreciatively. He sipped: the complex of herbs took him by surprise but was, he concluded, very agreeable. Remembering his duty he downed it resolutely and, before long, felt the subtle tendrils of inebriation begin to spread.

Another? Certainly. A few curious glances came his way. The liquor had a lazy potency that was deceptive and even a fine onion soup did nothing to halt the muzziness stealing over him.

He became aware of someone drawing up a chair beside him. At last—they were making their move! But it was a girl. They chatted amiably but she pouted and left when he kept reaching for his absinthe. The spirit took a deeper hold. His inner being calmly noted a curious rotation of perspectives, a plasticity in objects as his mind gently separated from its corporeal existence.

He noticed a distraction to one side and drunkenly turned in his seat—it was a man, smiling affably, who introduced himself as one who so deplored this unfortunate state of hostilities between two such great nations, and who seemed not to notice his befuddlement.

It took a convulsion of will to realise that the moment had come. Fighting lassitude, he fumbled for the elusive French that expressed his solemn agreement and hope that this fine city might soon be open once again to any English hearts seeking to pay homage.

The man agreed and summoned more absinthe for his new friend—his opinion on a clear variety, La Bleue, was earnestly solicited. Renzi allowed it a splendid drop and confided it was going far in helping him overcome his woes. His head swam.

Woes? Surely not! Another La Bleue persuaded Renzi to unburden and, to the man's sharp interest, he obliged passionately.

Rather than the loneliness of a foreign country, it seemed it was more the cruel fate of the prisoners-of-war that grieved him. They were getting nowhere in the negotiations and all the time men on both sides were spending their years in unjust captivity, merely for doing their duty to their country.

Renzi grew more emotional: to see the conditions of the prison hulks in Portsmouth and Sheerness, it would wring the heart of the devil himself—and now there was talk of building a massive fortress prison in the middle of remote Dartmoor. He struggled for words to describe the desolate heath, the hopeless pallor of the prisoners, families unseen whose grief at the separation . . .

To Renzi's relief the man's interest declined and, finding he had an appointment, he departed.

What was left of his rational being exulted—and, with a seraphic smile, he surrendered all and slid to the floor.

The next morning his plea of illness was relayed to Haslip—Renzi didn't care how it was received as, despite his hammering head, he was gloriously triumphant: by some mysterious working of the brain, he had woken with a glorious, vital inspiration at the forefront of his consciousness.

He now understood the real reason for Fulton's hiding away in the stews of the Left Bank—and with it he had the key to making an approach. He lay back in growing satisfaction, letting all the pieces come together. And they fitted as snugly as he could have wished.

It was the character of the man. His was a brilliant and fecund mind; in a few short years he had changed from an artist of the first rank into a self-taught engineer, able not only to conceive of but actually bring to realisation dread engines of war. But that very quality, his lonely genius and single-minded drive to achieve, had made him almost completely self-reliant, never needing the support and comfort of an organisation. And, like many deeply immersed in a project of their own conception, he was suspicious and wary.

The vital clue was what he had said about a business footing for his endeavours. Greed for gold did not figure in this: he was using a commercial mechanism to control the project and remain at its head. But thinking that Paris would agree to such a novel prospect— commercialising the art of war—was both naive and futile.

However, if Fulton was holding out for a business relationship, that would explain both the conspicuous absence of the military about him and his humble lodgings. With the French standing firm, the man was probably fast running out of money.

Was this, then, his chance? Despite his thudding head, Renzi felt a leaping hope. After his short talk with Fulton he felt certain that, for him, the bringing into the world of his creations stood above all else. He had almost certainly chosen to go with the French as having the greatest need for a war-winning sea weapon against the all- conquering Royal Navy, and the radical talk might be just that.

It was time to act—but was he prepared to stake everything, even his life, on one drunken insight? He had until that night to decide.

Slipping out of the hotel quickly, Renzi stepped down the avenue and into the darkness, pausing only at the corner to glance back. As far as he could tell, his previous night's debauchery had succeeded and no one was interested in him. He pushed on as if he was heading for the Bastille. Then he took a last precaution. At Le Marais he chose a narrow street, turned down it and hid in the first alley he could find. He had not long to wait: he had been followed.

As the man pressed past urgently Renzi was out and behind him. Hands clasped, he brought his fists down hard on the nape of the man's neck, then dragged his pursuer, senseless, into the alley. In the blackness he went through the man's pockets, taking a watch, money, papers. He stuffed them away and, for good measure, took the coat, a stout fustian, then left. Now free to move, he cut abruptly right and across the Seine by the Pont Marie, dropping the coat into the river as he went.

He headed directly through the Latin Quarter to Fulton's address, slowing when he got near. A watcher stood at the corner opposite. This was another matter. Close in with the wall and at full alert, the man could not be taken by surprise. Lights showed in the top floor—Fulton was there.

Renzi's resolve hardened. Should he kill the man? But that would only awaken suspicions. Then he remembered