by Peter Greene
Slater emerged from behind King’s Brick Bakery, on the corner of Thames and Fish Street, and watched the path and pattern Gorman was taking about the structure. He was moving counterclockwise, meaning that something was suspicious about their meeting, and Gorman could have been followed. He then noticed Gorman turn abruptly to his left and cross the street, disappearing into an alley beyond. This told Slater to meet on the opposite corner in one hour, inside whatever business was there—in this case, a cheese shop.
In precisely one hour, under the cloudy afternoon sky, Slater entered the Gollon Cheese Shop and Winery and nodded to the shopkeeper. Making his way to the rear, he paused by the wheels of Dovedale Blue.
“Too soft and mild of taste for me,” said Slater softly.
Out of the shadows appeared Gorman.
“Try some Wensleydale,” said the marine. “It is a bit crumbly and has a honey, acidic taste.”
This, of course, meant that Slater was free to speak and that Gorman also felt they were secure and had complete privacy. Had Gorman recommended Pont-l'Évêque—well, they would have been running for their lives, naturally.
“What’s new, old friend?” asked Gorman, taking a seat at a small tasting table. “You are out of uniform, Lieutenant.”
“Good to see you, Captain,” said Slater as he sat, his dark eyes and hair almost completely hiding his features in the shadows. “And I haven’t been in uniform for almost two years. Ever since I began working for you.”
The men shook hands heartily.
“Some interesting news from Gibraltar,” said the lieutenant. “The Echo is missing.”
“Missing? Could she be late?” asked Gorman. “Not uncommon for one of His Majesty’s ships to be late.”
“Even for late, she’s late,” said Slater with a chuckle. “It’s been almost a month, and she hasn’t reported.”
“That’s not good,” said Gorman. “No one claims to have sunk her?”
“No,” answered Slater, “and while I was discussing the ships coming and going with Admiral Crampton—he’s at Gibraltar Station now—he mentioned her. No reports of skirmishes, no reports of bad weather, nothing. Pirates, I thought, but they are rare these days—and besides, the Echo? Not one except Paladin can catch her.”
“No ships lost since the truce was signed,” said Gorman.
“I watched the harbors, asked a few of His Majesty’s sailors and several captains of merchant vessels. No one has any news.”
“Well, Frey and Fairchild have seen Lupien about town,” added Gorman. “Mostly at the docks.”
“That Russian bottlehead?” said Lieutenant Slater. “He’s never up to any good. We ought to take him to potter’s field and be done with him forever.”
“I sent Frey and Fairchild to bring him in for a nice, quiet cup of tea and a pleasant conversation,” said Gorman, smiling.
“He takes sugar in his tea, I’ll wager. Give him a few lumps for me?”
“With pleasure,” said Gorman. “He is working with another man, though we have yet to identify him. Goes by the name of ‘O.’ Frey and Fairchild followed him after one of his meetings with Lupien. They trailed him to a public stable in Van Patten Wood, where he mounted a horse. They followed after renting two beasts themselves.”
“Did they catch him?” asked Slater.
“He gave them the slip,” said Gorman, shaking his head. “Have you any news?”
“Of this Mister O? Never heard of him before,” said Slater.
The men continued sharing news, suspicions, and the whereabouts of some of the more interesting characters they had been following in their network. After an hour, they both grew nervous. They had been in the shop for a long while, and that could appear suspicious to others. Simultaneously, they both stood.
“Getting late,” said Slater. “Where am I going next?”
“Back to Gibraltar as soon as you can. Keep an eye out,” said Gorman.
“I will, Boss,” said Slater.
At this same time, moored to the quay at Wapping and sitting as pretty as a picture, was the small brig HMS Cayman, with twelve guns and two masts. Sadly, she was overlooked by the many lieutenants seeking their first command, due to her small size and relegated duty of transporting nothing of importance. She was always instructed to avoid all contact with the enemy, though possibly, on very rare occasion, she was allowed to fire a few rounds of colored smoke at some local celebration. But to the man leaning on the corner of the first pillar of the Wapping Bridge, the Cayman was of great interest.
Next to the Cayman was HMS Danielle, still under minor repair. As famous as it was, even with the many people of town who came to see her and discuss her adventures, the sleek seventy-four was of little concern to the man on the bridge.
A few berths down, past some very uninteresting first-rates, sat HMS Drake, a thirty-six-gun sloop with shapely lines and a dark mahogany stripe down her sides. She was nearly ready to sail, the man noticed, and was most likely fully outfitted with crew. He smiled and wrote down a few notes in the journal he was carrying.
Specific ships in the harbor were observed and noted: number of masts, sail configuration, hull type, number of guns, tonnage, length, and beam. Many of these attributes needed to be estimated, but the man on the bridge had been observing ships his entire life and had taken pride in the fact that he was an accurate estimator. Had he decided to lead a more customary life, he could have possibly used this talent in service of the navy, a ship builder, or even an insurance company. But those were not his ways. He observed these ships for his master, Commodore Ian Kharitonov.
Lupien completed writing the essentials of the smaller ships in the harbor in his book, pleased that he had found a few vessels with an appropriate number of guns to suit the purposes of his employer. In the Black Sea, the commodore had little use for larger ships such as the Danielle. The prey in that area could only be caught with fast, agile craft with adequate firepower. Large, lumbering ships of more than forty guns would be easily outrun by the smaller frigates and sloops used by the Ottoman Navy. Their small size made for easy maneuverability, and to catch one—or more—a sleek, fast, and lightly armed ship would stand the best chance. Ships such as HMS Echo and HMS Paladin were the perfect models.
The Cayman and the Drake, though not as perfect as the Paladin or Echo, would do nicely. Along with the other ships he had documented, Lupien felt he could fulfill Commodore Kharitonov’s next order with ease. He closed his book and turned to walk across the bridge to the east and begin the long walk home.
At first, he noticed nothing out of the ordinary: the sun was steadily setting, the breeze had picked up slightly, and the surrounding area was now quiet as many had gone home for the day. Even work on the ships in the dockyard had ceased. It wasn’t until he had reached the center of the bridge that he noticed the man on the other side. He stood with his hands on his hips, his head slightly down, hood close to his brow, and his eyes burning a hole through Lupien. Stopping, Lupien immediately looked over his shoulder, and saw behind him another figure, gray beard visible under his hood, heading toward him quickly.
Gorman’s men! he thought. How could I have been so foolish as to not notice them? I knew it was too soon to explore the harbor! Damn that Kharitonov and his orders!
Frey, the man now facing him, was moving quickly and produced a long knife, allowing it to flash in the failing light, making sure Lupien had seen it.
“Now, now, now, Mister Lupien. Time for a little talk is all,” said Frey. “Be a good fellow and come along nicely.”
Lupien answered by rushing as fast as he could in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, Fairchild had moved closer and now stood in his way. He pointed a gun at Lupien’s head.
“Look at what I’ve got ’ere!” said Fairchild. “One o’ those new percussion-cap pistols. Extremely accurate. And the reload? Fast, like magic. Shame to ’ave to use it, such a pretty thing it is.”
Lupien knew he had only one choice. He relaxed c
ompletely, as if to say, “All right, you have me now,” and after a moment, he spun himself to face the rail of the bridge, ran as fast as he could, and leapt over the side.
Gorman’s spies rushed to the edge and looked down just in time to see a splash. Fairchild fired a shot, reloaded in mere seconds, then fired a second round into the water. It missed its mark. Lupien surfaced a few yards down the Thames. As he took a huge breath, Fairchild fired again. A small splash erupted in the dark water a few feet to Lupien’s right.
“Darn!” cursed Fairchild.
“Ya missed!” said Frey.
“I know that! Go in after ’im!” said Fairchild.
“Me?” asked Frey. “I-I can’t swim!”
“You were in the navy!”
“Nelson can’t swim either!” said Frey in his defense.
“Hogwash!” said Fairchild. “Oh! For ’eaven’s sake! ’E’s getting away! ’Ere!” He handed the pistol to Frey. “And don’t shoot! It’s gettin’ dark, and ya might hit me!”
Frey took the gun.
Fairchild leapt into the water.
By now, the sun had all but set, and Fairchild had enough trouble getting his bearings in the water, much less being able to locate Lupien. He swam about in the cold river for twenty minutes, though to no effect. Giving up the search, he turned toward the shore. He could see Frey sitting on a tree limb close to the edge of the river, looking at something he had found. Fairchild laboriously made his way to the riverbank. Exhausted, he climbed out and sat down.
“Take my coat,” said Frey.
“Obliged,” said Fairchild, who did so and wrapped himself in the garment. “What have ya got there?”
Frey smiled. “It seems our lit’le fish found it hard ta swim with ’is notebook in ’is ’ands. Must ’ave dropped it when ’e ’it the water.”
Fairchild scrutinized the book in the dim light. He could see handwriting, some smeared ink, and some dripping pages.
“What does it say?”
“HMS Drayton,” said Frey, “sixteen guns, two masts, three hundred fifty tons, small crew. HMS Annie, converted merchant to sixty-four guns, three masts, five hundred fifty tons. HMS Cayman, twelve guns, two-masted sloop, two hundred tons.”
“All ships in the harbor,” said Fairchild.
“Let’s memorize the list ’n toss it back,” said Frey. “He will surely look for it ’n ’opefully believe it is still secret.”
“Excellent idea,” said Fairchild. “Then we report ta Cap’n Gorman. He’ll know what this is about!”
The men read the ship names to each other several times, using the light of the gas lamps from the bridge above. Then, satisfied, they tossed the book onto the bank of the river.
Hours later, at a small pub on Ayliff Street near Whitechapel, two men sat at a corner table near a small fireplace, one in a fine coat of wool, the other wearing nothing but a large quilt. With only the two patrons, the house seemed quiet enough for conversations, especially of the private kind. The men whispered and sipped their dark drinks as they looked into the fire. Besides lending light to the scene, the flames dried the wet clothes that had been draped across an iron grate, at times needing to be adjusted by the smaller of the two men.
“Getting drier,” said Lupien as he pulled his quilt tighter about his neck.
“This is bad news,” said Orvislat as he stared into the flame.
“Maybe it is; maybe it isn’t,” said Lupien. “I don’t think they knew why I was there. I recovered my book. Surely they would have taken it had they found it.”
Orvislat winced, and shook his head.
“No, they might have not. They are experienced. They may have memorized the list and set the book down to fool us.”
Lupien shook his head.
“We don’t know that. It is as good a chance as not that they didn’t see the list.”
Orvislat snorted his discontent.
“Stay away from the dockyard and piers. You may have to move to Portsmouth.”
“Kharitonov will not be pleased,” grumbled Lupien.
“He never is,” said Orvislat. “I will have Wilder arrange for the Drake. Then I too will lay low.”
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the crackling of the logs, becoming captivated by the glowing embers. A simple thing like the warmth of a fire could calm them. To these men of the world of espionage, enjoying the simple things in life, and relishing them for a few hours, seemed like heaven. Eventually, however, they must come down to earth.
“And we have more bad news,” said Orvislat, finally. “The boss informed me that the bag had been tampered with before it was opened in the library.”
“Did you open it?” asked Lupien as he rearranged his wet socks.
“Of course not!” said Orvislat in a hoarse whisper. “I never touched the thing except to position it in the hiding place! Did you open it before you gave it to me?”
“Me?” asked Lupien. “Never! I don’t want to lose my life for curiosity’s sake! I simply take the pouches from my drop point and deliver them to you without stopping anywhere for anything.”
“Here we are, the story barely a third done, and things are becoming unraveled,” said Orvislat. “Someone is on to us, and it has to be Gorman. You are sure the men on the bridge were his?”
“Positive. It was Frey and Fairchild,” answered Lupien. “Could they have been in the library at Wilder Manor?”
“No, I am sure I lost them in the woods,” said Orvislat. “They have seen you about town, and knowing your occupation, they followed you.”
“They might be on to you as well,” suggested Lupien as he took a warm and mostly dry sock from the fire and stretched it over his foot.
“Eventually, they will be,” said Orvislat, taking a long drink from his glass. “Let us hope we can complete one more mission and move on. England isn’t the only country with available ships, yet it is so convenient.”
“Ah,” said Lupien, raising a finger to make a point. “But it is the only one where your father is the ambassador and we have created a relationship with an insider to do our bidding.”
Orvislat smiled.
“My father, Ambassador Orvislat?” he laughed. “I have a father in every Russian Embassy in every capital in Europe! I will be reassigned if need be, to one of them. Maybe I will become Wodka in Poland, or Karhuski in Italy. I could become the son of Ambassador Najera in Spain. They have many ships that could suit our purposes. We will begin again if we must.”
Lupien shook his head, wondering who Orvislat really was, and what name was truly his own.
13
The Cove at Telašćica
On the sixteenth of April, the Paladin, under reduced sail, approached the fishing village of Telašćica from the south. Surrounded by rocky and barren hills that lined the coast of Dugi Otok, the town was now cast in the golden glow of the setting sun. The crew and officers could see the town’s few citizens going about their activities, and soon, all settled into a calm silence. The small bay that was the center of town was sparsely peppered with a few fishing boats and a single felucca, its raked masts and graceful lateen sails being taken in and secured for the night.
Paladin sailed onward to the northwest.
Harrison was at the bow, telescope in hand, surveying. After an hour under reduced sail, he still saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“Alexander!” he called. “Anything to report?”
“All clear astern, sir!” came the response.
“Time, Mister Moore?” Harrison asked.
“By the bell it will be six o’clock,” Jonathan answered.
“We are early, in spite of all our efforts to be late,” Harrison said. “You see, Jonathan, even when you make a mistake, you still bring us luck. Is Sean in the crow’s nest?”
“No sir,” answered Jonathan. “Lieutenant Quinn called him down when he replaced me. He is manning the point.”
“I hope his eyes are as sharp, then. Quinn! Quinn! Anything at
all?”
“Not a sail to be seen, sir!” came Quinn’s voice from above.
Harrison literally had men stationed about the main deck every few yards, all watching for a sail or the entrance to the cove. Additionally, he had Jenkins pipe the men to battle stations and had Alexander managing the guns and their crews, in case someone unexpected decided to appear.
At the stern, Marine Sergeant Hudson was flanked by Privates Hicks and Flagon, all leaning on their muskets, peering behind. They saw nothing.
“Pretty clear evening, eh?” said Hicks.
“’Tis that,” responded Hudson.
“Still enough light to see by,” said Sean.
“Not sure I like this plan, if ya catch my meaning,” continued Hicks after a moment or two. “Seems harebrained.”
“I agree,” said Sean. “When in London, we had a rule, Jonathan and I: never get in an alley that has no back door. And this cove we are supposed to find is just the same.”
“Sure as all the sea is salty, I never heard of anything like it,” said Hudson. “But those are our orders.”
They continued staring astern. It was then that Sean thought he saw something out in the offing. He stared for a bit, blinking and then rubbing his eyes. Could he be sure?
“Sergeant Hudson. Do you see anything directly astern?”
Commander Harrison, with his telescope pointed at the waterline to the east, scanned the shore for the tree and the rope. It seemed that the coastline was an unending series of small cliffs, a few scraggly trees, and certainly no relief from the rock outcroppings. Then, as the cliffs began to rise, he spied a tree and…was that a rope?