Invasion (21 page)

“Not only that, but you are being denied the fruits of your labours—even the means to sustain existence while you bring these wonders into the world. Mr. Fulton, I'm here to—”

“By God, you're English and you've come to put in your oar with me and Emperor Bonaparte!” he gasped in astonishment. “The barefaced hide of you, sir!”

A knot formed in Renzi's stomach: if he revealed his true identity he might court betrayal to the watcher outside, but if he denied it, he would have no standing by which to negotiate.

“It's true, isn't it? How can you know of my affairs,” Fulton snapped, “unless you've agents in the Ministry of Marine?” His eyes narrowed.

“Sir, if your heart is set on this, you must see that your present arrangement will not be the one that achieves it. Napoleon's France will never agree to putting a military master-stroke in the power of a Yankee businessman, no matter what the terms. You should see this, sir!”

Time was slipping away: at any moment the watcher might realise that the deliveryman had not emerged and become suspicious. And if he had made an error concerning Fulton's true situation he was done for.

“Well, Mr. Smith, or whatever your name is, I can tell you now, you're plain damn wrong in your reckoning. There's nothing stands between me and my arrangement save a little matter concerning the crew of the submersibles.”

“The crew?” Renzi said, mystified.

“If it's the barbaric custom these days to treat fire-ship crews as pirates and incendiaries, I want the French to stand surety that the enemy won't hang 'em—and take reprisals on their prisoners if they do.”

“Sir, I'd hazard they've been hanging fire over this for . . . a long time,” Renzi said quietly. For the canny French it would be an ideal sticking point to drag matters out. It was looking more and more certain that they were letting economic hardship do their work for them in forcing Fulton to hand over the plans and come to a different agreement.

“They'll get to it,” Fulton said uncomfortably.

“Perhaps,” said Renzi, seeing his chance. “But in the meantime it would grieve me to see a mind as worthy as yours brought to such a needy pass.” He fumbled beneath his waistcoat and found his money-belt. “Here—twenty English guineas.” He placed them on the table. Fulton made no move to stop him. “They're yours, sir, with my best wishes. There's no need to account for them—no one has seen me give them to you, have they?”

They were part of a sum he had signed for in far-away Walmer Castle and he would have to explain later but for now . . .

Fulton gave him a look of indignation. “If you're thinking I'd sell out for English gold . . .”

But Renzi had seen the gleam in his eye—the money meant decent meals, wine, a respite from creditors . . . independence. At the very least Renzi had bought his silence. The danger of betrayal had receded. “Sir, I would not think to imply such a thing. Do take it as your due.”

Fulton picked up the coins and slipped them into his pocket. “Accepted with my thanks—but I see myself under no obligation whatsoever.”

“Quite. I cannot help but observe that it's not without its merit to consider some kind of business relationship with Britain as will see your projects properly completed. I'm sure—”

“Are you an English agent?” Fulton asked.

Renzi caught his breath. “I'm authorised to offer you a contract with His Majesty's government for the full realisation of your works in a sum to be determined, and all possible assistance from the naval authorities under your direction.”

This was breathtaking gall. Renzi knew very well he had no such authority—in light of Fulton's commercial inclinations he had made it up on the spot.

“So it seems you
must
be an agent, Mr. Englishman. Well, unless I did not make myself clear before,” he said sarcastically, “let me inform you that my democratic and republican views are as—”

“Democratic? Republican? A singular position, may I say, for one who will now be seen as supporting the world ambitions of an emperor, no less, whose own views on—”

“Leave Mr. Bonaparte out of this!”

“I cannot see how that is possible,” Renzi said smoothly. “So long as you confine your labours to the cause of this French emperor the world must draw its own conclusions.”

Fulton's face reddened. He started to say something but thought better of it.

Renzi continued, in a brighter tone, “For one in the character of a businessman, I'm surprised you do not see the opportunity before you of enabling a helpless and frustrated navy before the invasion ports to enter unseen and put paid to the flotillas skulking within. For this power they will pay much, I'm persuaded.” Renzi pushed the vision. “In course, you will conjure such a fleet of submarine boats as will astonish mankind. Should you be paid by results, as you wish, then the elimination of two thousand invasion craft—”

“You're speaking for the British Admiralty?”

“Not at all. I speak for His Maj—the government of Great Britain, the prime minister, sir.”

Fulton paced about the room. “If such a thing were possible, it could only be under a copper-bottomed business contract that sees me in charge, and be damned to pettifogging interference.”

“Can there be any other way? We speak of results—what better way to secure them than to place the responsibility entirely in your hands.” Renzi smiled ironically. “You will appreciate that the practice of business is not entirely dissimilar in our two nations.”

Fulton scowled but said nothing.

A thought suddenly struck Renzi, one that appealed to his romantic streak. The submarine: how fitting—how exciting it would be if they were to make their dramatic escape in it from Napoleon's clutches safely to the open sea beneath the waves!

“Er, incidentally, where do you keep
Nautilus
at the moment?”

“She is no more.”

“Oh.”

Fulton turned his face away. “To keep myself I was constrained to break her up, sell the pipes and cylinders, all the ironwork.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” Renzi said softly, the vision fading.

“The French were in a right taking when they heard about it.” He grinned sourly.

As well they might be, thought Renzi. Without a working specimen, everything lay out of reach, confined within Fulton's fertile brain. It explained why they had held off seizing what they wanted and were now applying more subtle pressures.

Renzi gave what he hoped was a look of sincere sympathy. “No more than they deserve. A disgraceful treatment of a distinguished man of engineering. You will find that we British will—”

“You British!” Fulton snarled. “Have a care, sir—I've said naught about toadying up to King George, as I remember.”

“Nor should you!” Renzi came back swiftly. “As we both know, it is in the nature of a business arrangement only.”

Fulton stalked away and stood glowering out of the window.

“Above all things,” Renzi said, “you will agree that while you remain here you stand small chance of seeing your sea dreams realised. A firm contract with my government means you could be building within the month.”

There was no visible response. “Mr. Fulton, if—”

“You're asking I take up with the losing side,” Fulton retorted acidly.

“Do you not have confidence in your own device of war, sir?” Renzi replied coolly.

“I'll think on it.”

“Sir, I must press you to—”

“I said I'd think on it, damn you!”

“An understanding, perhaps, that—”

“Get out! Before I tip off your friend yonder.”

Renzi drew himself up. “Very well. Should you desire to discuss terms then, er, I shall be in touch. Good day to you, Mr. Fulton.”

He turned to go, but Fulton stopped him and pointed to the ceiling. “I'd advise you leave by that hole—it lets out over the roof,” he said, with a twisted smile. “No point in letting 'em know who you've been to see.”

“Why, thank you for your concern, sir,” Renzi said.

Fulton grinned. “ Shall we say I've seen my share of creditors?”

It was not until he was halfway back that the full implications of what had happened dawned on him. In effect, for all his efforts and personal danger, Renzi had nothing to show for it. The best that could be said was that he had been right in his insight and that Fulton had listened. Whether this might be turned to advantage was another matter.

Now he was faced with a near insuperable problem: he had slipped his shadow and, for a certainty, would now be trailed closely wherever he went. With Fulton under observation as well, how would they get together to conclude anything, even if the man was receptive?

At the Grandime Hotel he took care to reel in happily, a foolish smile in place, nodding to the silent men at the desk before he hauled himself up the stairs.

He flopped onto his bed and tried to recruit his thoughts. It had all happened so quickly, but at the same time he had achieved only a reconnaissance and, worse, he had lost the ability to continue any negotiations with Fulton. Even if the man could be persuaded, there was still the matter of an exit strategy, an escape route that would keep them ahead of the inevitable hot pursuit—the French would spare nothing to stop them.

Staring up at the dark ceiling he tried to bring together all the threads, but always reached the same conclusion. So near and so far—he could see no way forward on his own.

There was one last move open to him, one that he had been warned was only to be made in extreme circumstances, which did not include personal danger. This was to make contact with the network of agents in Paris, the precious few who remained after the recent catastrophic failure of the plot against Napoleon.

The next afternoon when Haslip was taking time for himself, Renzi made his way to the broad open spaces of the Place du Carrousel. This was where the plot to assassinate First Consul Bonaparte had so nearly succeeded two years before. The Breton giant Cadoudal had barely escaped with his life to try again the following year. Renzi carefully pinned a revolutionary red, white and blue cockade to his left arm and, with his hat firmly under the right, strolled through the gardens, admiring the flowers.

In the pleasant sunshine he nodded to the ladies, trying not to think of his deadly peril. A covey of screaming children raced on to the grass with a scolding woman in vain pursuit.

“Vous là! Oui, se tenir prêt les fleurs!”
challenged a gendarme, with a fierce moustache and red-plumed bicorne.
“Venez ici!”
he commanded, gesturing.

“Papers!” he demanded, when Renzi came up, one hand on his sword-hilt, the other outstretched.

Renzi fought down the impulse to run and fumbled for his passport, heart thudding. Passing promenaders gave them a wide berth.

“Oui, monsieur—les voici.”
The gendarme examined it closely, then looked up sharply. “The wolf howls only at the moon!” He stabbed his finger at the passport.

“Th–then it is silent!” Renzi answered nervously. It was the challenge and response, and he was now in contact with a royalist agent.

“What do you want?”

“A—a delicate matter. If you can arrange, in some way, a privy communication with a certain person . . .”

“When?”

“Er, as soon as possible.”

“Very well.” He thrust the passport at Renzi. “Be sitting at the park bench over my shoulder at four. Do you understand?”

Renzi nodded.

The gendarme smiled unexpectedly.
“Bonne chance, mon brave,”
he said, stepping back and folding his arms in dismissal.

In good time Renzi was sitting on the bench as instructed. At four there was no one, and at a quarter past the hour a young mother insisted on occupying the other end while she dandled her baby on her knee in the sunshine, cooing and clucking, inviting him to admire the now squalling infant.

It was a clever ruse and, within a few minutes, Renzi had been invited to impart the essence of the difficulty. In return he received a businesslike solution. A vase of flowers would later appear in his room. If he placed it in the window it would indicate that a message for Fulton was concealed under its base. Likewise, Fulton's message for Renzi might be found under the base should the vase appear again in the window. At the other end there would be different arrangements. How it was done was not his affair.

That night he wrote a short message, in anonymous block capitals, which simply explained how Fulton's new friend might be contacted and hoped that he would hear from him soon.

He placed the vase in the window and went to bed. In the morning when he woke it was still there, but when he returned from another morning of stupefying boredom at the prisoner-of-war negotiating tables, he found a different paper in the hollow base. Feverishly he tore it open.