Victory

any evidence as to our origin.’

‘You will be speaking Italian? And what do you suppose I speak?’

‘You are the Russian officer in charge, of course. I am merely the humble translator.’

‘I can’t speak Russian, damn it.’

Renzi held himself in check. ‘Then, sir, may I put it to you that any mumbo-jumbo you can contrive will answer.’ If there were any Russian speakers on this Turkish coaster or among the French themselves they would be seen through, of course, in which case there would be no help for it.

‘Very well, we’ll be Russians.’

Renzi relayed this to the boats’ crews, who grinned delightedly at the conceit.

The afternoon passed slowly but as evening began to draw in there were faint shouts from the lookouts on the skyline. At last!

‘Into the boats!’ bellowed Howlett.

Sails taut and straining, they rounded the headland – and there, startlingly close, was a tekne. They quickly took position off its absurdly curved and ornamented stern-quarters and Stirk loosed off their twelve-pounder carronade. The shot sent up a mighty plume ahead of the little vessel, which lost no time in dousing its sails.

Renzi tensed. It was now the testing time. This could be the one – or not. The French might be aboard or the documents sent by hand of an anonymous messenger. The vessel might contain soldiers or even French sailors – there were infinite reasons why they should fail.

‘Lay us alongside,’ growled Howlett, fiddling with his foul-weather coat. ‘Silence in the boat!’ he snapped.

‘In Russian, if you please, sir,’ Renzi murmured.

As they neared the low gunwale of the tekne, the midshipman stood and roared at the bowman, ‘Wagga boo-boo ratty tails!’

‘Ahrr, moonie blah blah,’ the man replied, knuckling his forehead and obediently hooking on.

Red-faced, Howlett clambered over the gunwale and was confronted by a small group of men. One stepped forward and snarled some words angrily. Renzi felt a huge wash of relief. It was in French. And obviously these were not military men.

‘Mi dispiace, Signore, non capisco,’ he said mournfully, spreading his hands wide in the Italian gesture of incomprehension.

‘The cretin doesn’t know French,’ the first man said openly in that language to the older standing next to him, then beckoned irritably to the florid Turkish master. ‘Tell him to explain why he’s stopped us – we’re on urgent business.’

The message was passed. Renzi bowed politely and turned to Howlett. ‘Moo-juice blitter foo-bah sing-song . . .’ He fought down exultation – apparently there were no Russian-speakers at hand.

Howlett looked at the deck and mumbled, his very evident held-in anger perfectly suited to the performance. Blank-faced, Renzi replied in Italian to the cowed Turk, ‘My officer has been advised of the activities of pirates in this area and wishes to know what is this matter that is so urgent.’

‘Tell him it’s none of his business.’

Renzi came back: ‘He says your appearance is not the usual to be found in a Turkish trader. This close to Russian territory, my officer believes you to be spies, sir. Have you any evidence to the contrary?’

The Frenchman pulled back in dismay, saying to the other, ‘The idiot Ivan thinks we’re spies, Claude. What’s to be done?’

The older muttered, ‘Bluff it out . . .’

The first turned back and blustered, ‘This is outrageous! We’re on a mission to Count Mocenigo himself.’

The indignation faded as Stirk, summoned by Renzi’s quick wink, came across with five men fingering cutlasses.

‘My officer regrets that in the absence of such evidence you are to be arrested for questioning.’

Stirk tested the edge of his weapon with a horny thumb and gave an evil grin. ‘Watchee gundiguts barso!’

‘Think of something, Claude,’ the first muttered, ‘We could be choking for years in some stinking prison.’

Howlett leaned across to Renzi. ‘What the devil’s going on?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I demand to know.’

‘Fidgety fee t’ blarney,’ Renzi answered gravely, and passed on, ‘My officer says further that this vessel apparently without cargo is most suspicious and is to be confiscated as well.’

‘It’s intolerable, Claude!’

The older snapped, ‘I’ll show these pequenades something that’ll set ’em by the ears!’ He wheeled about and stormed off below, returning minutes later bearing an ornamented red box set about with golden tassels and an elaborate central cypher.

‘You recognise this?’ It was relayed on. ‘It’s from the Sublime Porte, Sultan Selim himself, who would take it personally should you further delay his friends.’

Howlett could hardly believe his eyes and spluttered with excitement.

Renzi bowed. ‘The officer admits he is mistaken and asks to be forgiven. Further, he wishes to make amends by conveying your box under our guard to Count Mocenigo himself.’ He firmly took the box from the dumbfounded Frenchman and handed it to Howlett with another bow. ‘Leave instantly!’ he whispered, and led the way over the side.