Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (15 page)

We had to get under way immediately.

Xel-ha Anchorage, Mexico

Tuesday afternoon

13 December 1892

“Pass the word for the executive officer to come to my cabin,” I said into the speaking tube connecting to the bridge.

When Gardiner arrived, I forwent any preamble and gave him his orders.

“I have just received new intelligence that completely alters the situation, Commander, so the plan has changed. First, send Mr. Lambert ashore and have him find his contact man to cancel the Dzul meeting. Next, ready the ship to get under way immediately for Key West. Understood so far?”

“And will this be another high-speed run, sir? The boilers . . .”

I interrupted him. “Yes, it will be.”

“So what am I supposed to tell the officers when they ask the reason? Are we chasing the Germans again?”

I decided right then not to take him into confidence about the details. Norton Gardiner, of Boston's Beacon Hill, was completely incapable of understanding the reasoning behind my sudden decision, the fact it was based on subtle information contained in my foreign lover's letter, or the enormous consequences of Martí's assassination.

“The reason is secret and will remain so until I decide it can be divulged. No, we are not chasing the Germans. And I don't have time for a discussion right now—just make it so, Commander. And have Bosun Rork come here. That is all.”

The moment he departed my cabin, I heard Gardiner transform his hatred of me into growling to the officer of the watch for Lambert and Warfield to “Get to the bridge this instant for new orders!”

Soon the shouts of petty officers mustering their work details rang about the ship. Arriving in front of my desk five minutes later, Rork assumed his usual pose of patient subordination, though I noted his right eyebrow was slightly raised in anticipation. I had no doubt the whole ship was abuzz with the captain's latest abrupt decision.

I pointed to the pertinent paragraphs on the second page of Maria's earlier letter and said to him, “Read this, Rork, and tell me what you think.”

As usual, he read it twice. “Well, damned if it don't look like we were played the fool, sir—lock, stock, an' barrel. 'Tain't the square-heads at all, is it? Nay, the Spaniardos an' Cubans, yet again. Our old game.”

“That's what I thought also. Just wanted your thoughts. Damn it all, Rork—I made a terrible mistake thinking it was the Germans in Mexico.”

“Yer not alone on that score, sir. The admiral an' me thought it was the right answer, too. Bloody well done false-flag op, it was.”

“Worked on me. And now we've got to rectify this and do it quick.”

He rubbed his false left hand. “But ooh, it makes me spike itch. Marrón an' his crew o' poxy bastards've got our ol' friend Martí as their target, an' we've got wee little time to stop 'em, don't we? The quartermaster says he's laying a course for Key West.”

“Yes, we're heading there immediately. I'll explain to the admiral and we'll find Martí's whereabouts.”

“Aye, an' nary o' them'll be easy,” said Rork with monumental understatement.

Once he'd departed for the foredeck, I turned to the next phase in my alteration of strategy—one needing a certain amount of finesse. How I would explain to the admiral I had been wrong in my hypothesis about the message, that I had angered the Germans by thwarting them, and it was now imperative we save Martí's life?

José Martí was of absolutely crucial importance to our relations within the hemisphere and our country's future; far more than some peasant rebel in a remote stretch of Mexico. His assassination inside the United States would have unforeseeable and catastrophic consequences.

The admiral would not be pleased by the pending diplomatic row with the imperial German government over my rerouting their chartered collier, but he would understand the significance of Martí, of that I had no doubt. The major dilemma I faced in briefing him was going to be his first question: “And how did you determine any of this is the actual situation, Commander Wake? You were certain before about the Germans in Mexico . . .”

I was definitely not, under any circumstances, going to mention Maria. That would merely confirm his prior suspicions about her and reignite his hopes to use her as an informant. No, Walker would have to trust me when I told him a confidential source conveyed information illuminating the true nature of Drake's message. I dared not even tell him where the source was located.

It would not be easy to stand up under his scrutiny or wrath,
for John Grimes Walker had formidable powers in both areas. He had been privy to several of my intelligence sources in the past and would expect that privilege now. But I had to preserve my darling's anonymity, for with a monster like Marrón involved, her very life depended on it. Would Walker guess her identity anyway? I would have to convince him not to idly speculate on my source's identity with anyone, a delicate task to accomplish with an admiral.

The swirl of worries kindled memories of the first time I saw Maria in the summer of 1892 and the regrettable way we parted that evening.

French Embassy

H Street

Washington, D.C
.

Thursday evening

14 July 1892

It was the evening of Bastille Day and I was at one of Washington's most famous diplomatic cocktail parties of the year—the French embassy's annual celebration of the French Revolution's storming King Louis XVI's home in 1789. Though many of Washington's elite had already fled the capital's humid summer, quite a few also endured another ten days of it just so they could attend the French party. Everyone who was anyone sought an invitation, and hundreds of the city's favored personages received the gold-embossed summons in the distinctive blue envelope.

Still a part of the North Atlantic Squadron staff, I had been
temporarily sent up to headquarters in Washington for the month of July to facilitate the diplomatic and training functions of an upcoming squadron tour of South and Central America. The French party was a disagreeable part of this task—as stated before, I heartily despise formal affairs and wearing the full dress uniform—but I was expected to cement goodwill ahead of the visit of our squadron's ships to Martinique, Guadeloupe, St. Barthélemy, St. Martin, and French Guiana. The assignment required me to hobnob with the cultured class at the champagne bar, pretend I enjoyed their company, and use my embarrassingly fractured French to repeatedly compliment my hosts and their country. My cause was greatly helped by the fact that I had worn one of their awards—the Legion of Honor—since 1874.

Halfway through the ordeal, I was standing with champagne flute in hand, desperately trying to stay awake as some old fellow from Martinique, in faded striped trousers, tails, and sashes, mumbled inane somethings in French about the glories of the Napoleonic wars when he had been an ensign. Then I saw her.

Crimson satin gown trimmed in black lace over a perfect figure, long dark hair covered by a simple black mantilla veil, expressive dark blue eyes, confident bearing—the whole effect was just stunning. She came closer and I could see her smooth skin was perfectly accentuated by unusual jewelry: a carnelian onyx and emerald necklace, earrings, and bracelet, in an ornate Moorish motif. It was not only unusual, it was very expensive and probably at least four hundred years old, from the Muslim-Jewish era of the Iberian Peninsula, before their expulsion in 1492 at the hands of the Christians.

She caught me watching her from eight feet away while she tried unsuccessfully to get the bar steward's attention. A cautious smile briefly crossed her face, then she turned away, as if embarrassed. Her age was difficult to determine with accuracy, for the smoothness of her skin, the flash of her eyes, and the lightness of her step indicated a playful demeanor, so unlike the stodgy matrons who formed the majority of the female attendees.

But the smile lines of her mouth and eyes showed life experience, as did a quiet strength. I guessed at forty to forty-five; not too young to be offended by an approach from my fifty-three-year-old person.

Immediately observing no escort was in sight for this damsel in distress, which I found astonishing, I executed a perfect parade ground column-oblique-left away from my chattering old companion and shaped a course toward the obviously more convivial company at the champagne bar. He never even noticed my absence.

Now, at this point let me say I fully realize the cynics will probably assume the lady was well accustomed to getting men to do her bidding, and probably was in the employ of some entity to accomplish just that, with the goal of obtaining useful intelligence as a byproduct. They will think me, an officer with an extensive history in the secret service of his country, a valuable target for such an effort, usually known as a “honey trap.” But I would remind them that I, far more than the average man, have had to deal with many such predatory females in my life, particularly during my clandestine service around the world. Having employed women as honey traps against adversaries, and had them attempted against me, I am quite experienced at discerning them, even when beautifully disguised in satin gowns at soirees. This was not a honey trap.

She obviously was Spanish, but French is the language of diplomatic cocktail parties, so I ventured forth in that lingo and asked if I could help her. “
Bonsoir, madame. Puis-je vous aider?
” At least, that is what I tried to say.

Barely able to politely stifle a laugh at my terrible accent, she fluttered an ornate little fan quickly past her face and answered in remarkably fluent English. “Thank you, Commander. Yes, I would appreciate your aid, since I need something cool to drink in this heat and the steward seems to be dominated by the Dutch ambassador and his entourage at the moment.”

“It will be the work of only a moment,
madame
.”

Three steps away, I interrupted the Dutchman and his fellows
by canting my head toward the lady and saying, “Gentleman, a disaster has occurred. My beautiful companion is thirsty and I must divert the steward away from you to obtain her refreshment.”

All eyes gazed admiringly at the lady, followed by a chorus of “Certainly! But of course!” The barman hopped to his duties with a will and produced two chilled glasses filled to the top for me.

Bowing to her in my best imitation of a European swell, I handed a glass to the lady. “Madame, your relief from the heat of a Washington summer has arrived—I hope you enjoy it. May I introduce myself? I am Commander Peter Wake, of the United States Navy, at your service.”

She favored me with a smile that spread effortlessly across her face and was pleasantly genuine, unlike most of the others in the room. Now I could see the dark eyes were actually indigo blue. They sparkled wonderfully, transforming her whole persona from dangerously mysterious to gentle friend. It was as if we'd known each for years and shared a joke. Then and there, my heart melted and I had to learn more about her.

“Thank you so much, Commander Wake. I think you just saved my life!” She extended a hand. “I am Maria.”

Full Spanish names are complicated, giving recognition to names, and sometimes the pedigrees, of both maternal and paternal families. I was intrigued that she was so informal, almost American. Kissing her hand, I asked, “Just Maria?”

She bowed her head slightly in contrition. “Most of your countrymen are confused by our traditional introductions, but I see by the awards on your chest I was mistaken about you. Obviously, you are a man of the world. My formal name is Doña Maria Ana Maura y Abad.”

“Maura, as in the Spanish political leader?”

Antonio Maura was well known to be a liberal on the matter of Cuba, favoring not independence, but full autonomy within the Spanish empire. I had asked the question as neutrally as I
could, but she reacted with wariness. Not many Americans knew of Maura.