no less than Lord Hawkesbury, the foreign secretary of Great Britain. In fact I have a communication from him addressed to you.'
'Oh?' Fulton said.
Renzi drew a deep breath. 'Indeed so.' He went to a picture on the wall and felt behind it, detached the packet and opened it. 'Here.' He handed it over, letting Fulton feel the quality of the paper.
'It's in code.'
'Naturally. For your protection, should the French discover you are treating with the English.' Renzi took it back and smoothed it. 'However, I shall now decipher it before you as your assurance of its authenticity.'
'Don't trouble yourself. If you're fooling me we'll find out soon enough. Just tell me what he's got to say.'
Renzi's stomach contracted. It was the last throw of the dice. 'Well, in it the foreign secretary welcomes your interest and notes the terms you are asking, including the forming of a plenary committee and, er, your one- hundred-thousand-pound fee. I'm happy to say he sees no insuperable bar to any of your provisions.'
'Go on.' There was no reading anything in Fulton's face.
'Of course, he trusts you will understand that there can be no question of payments until your inventions have been properly examined and tested in England.'
Fulton wheeled about. 'That's it? No advances, no promises?'
'I do assure you, sir, that should you trust us with your naval secrets then the government will treat you with the utmost liberality and generosity in strict accordance with the importance of your inventions.'
'And that's all?'
'At the moment, it is.'
Fulton sauntered over to the window and looked out over the rooftops. 'Are you seriously suggesting I pack my bags and leave on the strength of
Dread stole over Renzi: Fulton was not going to accept the offer and therefore he was going to walk off for ever. He had his grim instructions. Fulton was facing away, unsuspicious, and it was not in public. Would a protest that he had had no idea Fulton was any one but a common intruder fool the French long enough to buy him time to get away? He had so little time to think.
Rising silently, he tiptoed over to the bureau and eased open the drawer. The knife glittered up at him. With it he would end the life of one whose mind had dreamed of voyaging with Neptune, and had so brilliantly succeeded. Renzi reached for it but at that instant he became aware that Fulton had swung around. The man cleared his throat and said abruptly, 'Yes, I will.' He moved back across the room. 'I trust you. We'll go back to England together.'
Renzi went rigid, then his hand moved to the decanter. 'A drink, then, Mr. Fulton?' he said huskily, and splashed cognac into two glasses. 'To brighter times.'
He'd done it! Against all the probabilities he had brought it off. Then despair flooded him. How were they to flee across France ahead of vengeful pursuers when he had only the sketchiest plan prepared? When they were seen together the conclusion would be obvious.
The solution, when it came, was an anticlimax. Renzi would find an excuse to return to England alone, using his diplomatic passport. At the last minute Fulton would arrive at Calais to join the cartel ship and they would leave together. Fulton's papers from the ministry gave him access to all the northern ports and, in any case, as a neutral he could not be prevented from leaving.
Renzi left it until the last possible moment. The tedious carriage ride with another petulant young lieutenant had been a trial—but finally, rising above the low Customs building ahead, he saw the upper yards of the cartel ship. His heart beat faster for it would mean the end to the nightmare.
He sat outside a nearby tavern in the warm sunshine where he was able to view the comings and goings into the building, and as time wore on for the evening sailing, he grew more and more anxious. There was no sign of Fulton.
It was impossible that he should return without him, but who was to say that Fulton had not arrived early and was at this minute in his cabin? Or that word had been sent from Paris to detain him?
They had let him alone to take his last fill of France, but when he passed through the gates and was processed aboard, there would be no turning back. In an agony of indecision Renzi waited until just two hours before departure; then he rose, paid the tavern-keeper and walked slowly to the hall.
There, he handed in his passport and other papers, which were notated, and after guarded pleasantries, he was escorted to his ship. He mounted the gangway and stopped to breathe in the familiar tang of tar, timber and shipboard odours, a poignant moment after his recent travails.
Nodding civilly to the dour captain, he enquired casually if any Americans were on board. It seemed there were not and none expected. It was hard to take and, with a sinking heart, Renzi watched the lines singled up, the capstan bars shipped for warping out.
Two hours had become one: in despair, he allowed himself to be shepherded below with the other passengers in preparation for the awkward manoeuvre out into the stream, hearing the clunks and slithers of rope-handling above, the business-like squeals of the boatswain's calls and sharp orders.
Then came the shuddering creaks as the hull took up after the lines were thrown off. It was all over. They were on their way out.
As the first dip and heave of the sea took the vessel, Renzi realised they were clearing Calais Roads. Shortly afterwards passengers were allowed on deck into a soft, violet dusk. The excited chatter of the others depressed him and he wandered forward to where the jib sheets were being hardened in. The lines were belayed, the seamen dispersed, and then he became aware of another, standing in the shadow of a staysail. The man moved towards him.
'You—where . . . ?'
'Thought I'd come aboard at the last minute, just in case,' Fulton said casually.
