A King's Commander (38 page)

“Perhaps they see in French occupation a new order, sir?” Alan asked, reminded of his talk with Senator di Silvano earlier. Or, with his besotting mistress, at the least. “Mean to say, surely there are some benighted fools who believe all this Democratic, Mob-ocracy cant. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity . . . the franchise given to just anybody.”

“Granted, Lewrie,” Twigg allowed. “Rather perceptive of
you,
I must say. Yes, sirs . . . even at home, well. Priestley and those of his ilk, the gimlet-eyed . . . Reformers. Fortunately, they're not rich enough to afford private armies and mobs of thugs, nor do they possess constitutions of an active nature that might allow them to conspire . . . beyond printing a few odd penny tracts. And we've shut all that down, quite successfully. In Ireland, there are more worrisome combinations . . . but then in Ireland, there bloody always are! Gallacio is, for his rather advanced age, very active in certain societies . . .”

“So, do you know his associations, Mister . . . Silberberg,” Thomas Mountjoy interrupted, “you may discover the principal conspirators in Tuscany. And I suppose you have already done that, or are in the way of doing it?”

“Quite so, young sir,” Twigg said with relish. “Though it is rather like playing a good hand of whist, with no cooperation from a partner you've never met, right after the first distribution of the cards. Knowing the deck has been arranged beforehand . . . but in whose favor, hmm? One discovers information as to who holds what, one bid or lay-down at a time. An intellectual passion. Rather, a most cold and logical
dis
passion. But, hugely enjoyable, even so.”

“I should quite imagine it is, sir!” Mountjoy enthused. “So . . . you know who the others are, some of them?”

“I fear I must play my cards close to my chest, Mister Mountjoy,” Twigg said, disappointing him. “Though I have found the identity of another large financial risk-taker. The others, I suspect, are talkers, rather than doers. In Tuscany, there was . . . ‘B-R' . . . do you recall?”

“Aye, sir . . . ‘B-R' was owed twenty percent, do we believe what was in the small ledger, and not the captain's.”

“Bruno Randazzo . . . a very prominent young fellow. Educated in Paris, not so long ago. Travels widely,” Twigg ticked off. “Was in the south of France, overland, about the time of Toulon. From what I believe to be correct, three other sets of initials belong to men from Tuscany, five-percenters. They fit, they match the names . . . they are in Randazzo's, and Gallacio's, social circles. A few, however, conform to no one.”

“Those, you believe are Genoan, I take it,” Lewrie said, as his cat shifted about, settling back to sleep with a little grunt. “Which is why you're here?”

“That, sir,” Twigg said, turning in his chair to face him, “and the fact that, as you suspected, this combination of ships' owners, and ardent conspirators, have good intelligence of our squadron's arrival . . . in the first instance . . . and of its movements in the second . . . three of the sets of initials, I have come to believe, reside in Genoa. Two of them are five-percenters . . . while the last commands . . .”

“Thirty percent, sir,” Mountjoy announced. “The lion's share. He must be a player even bigger than Gallacio. A richer man, perhaps. Or, one more devoted to Genoa's conquest, and the coming of a French-enforced new order.”

“Or a cabal of three, or six, or thirty . . .” Lewrie shrugged. “And I suppose our captive Frog spy told you nothing in that regard.”

“Absolutely nothing, I'm afraid.” Twigg sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “There's a very good possibility that the wretch never dealt face-to-face with any of the larger principals, at all. I strongly suspect it was done through anonymous representatives, agents, or ships' captains. Solicitors or mistresses, that sort of thing. A good conspirator never tips his own hand . . . when he may use some poor cully more expendable as a go-between. I had hopes my noble opponent, being so new and unused to the ‘trade,' might not have developed the sophistication as of yet, but it appears he has. The French have always been good at spy-craft. In their damn' blood, worse than Italian schemers.”

“It may be, sir, that one of the five-percenters from Tuscany may be more important to their plot than Signore
Gallacio,” Mountjoy posed with a puzzled look. “Gallacio may be in full sympathy, and in complete accord with one more political. And is throwing his wealth, his ships and money into it. The same may obtain in Genoa.”

“Oh, very good, sir. Yes, I'd thought of that,” Twigg complimented. “But . . . one must consider that for a wealthy man to expend a considerable part of his fortune 'pon a conspiracy against his native people, he'd wish more say than the rest in the outcome. More so than a coffeehouse schemer, or a street-corner ranter. There are revolutionaries, with scythes in their hands . . .
and,
there are the political animals, who pull the strings of the puppet show. The ones who end up top dog when the others have faded back to their ineffectual ditherings, once the revolution's accomplished.”

“So, who do you suspect, Mister Twigg?” Lewrie asked, yawning. “The initials in the ledger, as your Mountjoy could have told you, Lewrie, are . . . ‘U-R',” Twigg announced, though barely above his most ominous whisper. “Our French spy knew no one by any name, which might coincide. He's not a practiced liar, but intractably mute upon almost every subject. Nor does our Mister Drake, who is familiar with all the merchant class, or ruling class, who might have a deep-enough purse to be our ‘U-R.' Nor do any of the romantically idealist young men of Genoa match. He has suspicions among those, as to the identity of our ‘sardines' . . . but nothing of the biggest of fish, whom we seek. Nor do I. But I shall, in time,” Twigg prophesied with a cunning leer of eventual, almost foreordained triumph. With the great pleasure it would be to see this mysterious “U-R” ruined, once he was revealed.

“Now, as to the matter of the French knowing our ship movements so quickly, Lewrie . . .” Twigg snapped, turning brusque once more.

“Easily solved, sir.” Lewrie yawned again, recrossing his legs so one foot didn't fall asleep, too. “Every bloody Genoese would sell his mother for a groat. Might as well try to eradicate cockroaches, as dam up the flood of information.”

“I expected no less, sir.” Twigg glared. “'Tis not the first time I've been in this part of the world, d'ye know. What I was about to say . . . before your blithe dismissal,
sir . . .
was that while we cannot hope, indeed, to limit, much less totally eliminate, the many informers along the Riviera, who do it out of spite for our embargo, love of Frog radical Republicanism, money, or a love of intrigue . . . we may turn it to our advantage. This Midshipman Hainaut, for example, who's to be exchanged. Mister Mountjoy might be quite useful, in planting with that young man some false scents, some superficially convincing truth, along with a hard kernel of falsehood, to confuse them. Feel up to playing a part, Mister Mountjoy?”

“Aye, sir. Sounds intriguing,” Mountjoy replied, barely able to contain himself at the prospect of being “useful.”

“Mister Drake and I have some . . . uhm, associates,” Twigg said, his death skull of a face creasing in malicious good humor. “We are privy to certain information about the French, as well. For instance, there is to be a convoy, soon. The presence of this squadron has cost the French the ability to supply their army with coasters sailing independently. You'll know it when you hear it, not before, Lewrie. We are told that several small warships of a counterpart French coastal squadron will guard them to their destination. But were the Frogs to believe that our squadron would be off at sea, under the horizon, out to stage another raid such as yours on

Bordighera, to descend upon a
larger
Savoian port, well . . . there you are, then. A weakening of the convoy escort, a dispersion of force to the wrong place, at the wrong time . . . yet an important convoy full of supplies taken.”

“And the French unable to trust in the complete accuracy of all they hear, in future, I take it, Mister Tw . . . Silberberg?” Mountjoy exclaimed with a giggle.

“He's smart, Lewrie. Smart as paint, as you sea dogs say.” Mister Twigg beamed again. “I will give you the particulars, Mister Mountjoy. Hainaut will carry it to his master. I will arrange for his immediate exchange, to speed things along, since they do need speeding, given . . .”

“The timing of the convoy's arrival, wherever,” Lewrie gathered. “That, and a few more important items,” Twigg agreed.

“I am at your complete disposal, sir,” Mountjoy volunteered. “Then let us repair to yon dining area, for a moment or two,” Twigg decided. “So I may coach you on what it is you need to say for Hainaut to repeat. And how it might be best discovered to him. May I prevail upon you, Lewrie . . . to borrow your dining room, and your clerk for a further time?”

“Have at it, sir,” Lewrie said, unable to say much opposed. He was certain Twigg had risen considerably in the Foreign Office's secret bureaus since the Far East, and had the ear and patronage of people who could crush a pipsqueak naval commander if Twigg wished it. There was spite enough, of the lingering kind, between them already.

“And I will thank you, on your honor, sir,” Twigg cautioned him with a sternly risen finger. “To go aft. There are matters you are not to know yet. Or at the least, be able truthfully to deny knowing.”

“You . . . !” Lewrie spluttered, getting to his feet in anger. “I swear, you're too full of yourself, sir, to row me, in my own cabins . . . !”

“Our sovereign's writ allows me, sir,” Twigg cautioned. Though he showed all signs of relishing Lewrie's embarrassment.

• • •

“There, done now?” Lewrie snapped, once Mountjoy had been told what to do, and had departed for his cot. “How dare you, Twigg. There is the matter of respect from my officers and crew that a captain can't allow to be trampled! By a goddamned
civilian!
An outsider, a . . . !”

“Oh, do sit down and cease your pious rant, Commander Lewrie.” Twigg sighed wearily, making free with Alan's brandy bottle. “I know you of old, sir . . . perhaps a great deal better than you shall ever, of yourself . . . one more word, and I might decide, in the King's Name . . .”

Twigg left his full threat unspoken. But he had invoked enough. Lewrie shut up. And sat down.

“First of all, sir, you know how impatient I am with the custom and usage of naval or military blockheads.”

“You made that perfectly clear in the Pacific. Sir.”

“Secondly, sir,” Twigg went on, ignoring Lewrie's bile. “Your use of my true name, after I cautioned you to not . . . and in that rather loud voice, too. Tsk tsk. Were it to result in my death, sir, should one of your crewmen blab inadvertently, well. That is one thing. But the utter confusion of a great many schemes, should the enemy come to know of me, or my involvement, were they to begin to suspect that I'm a spy, would unravel more enterprises than this. And result in death, or torture, for a great many others. So I will instruct you this one last time to keep your wits about you, in spite of your resenting me, and kindly refer to me, even in your dreams, as Simon Silberberg, the harmless bank clerk, too ‘gooseberry' ineffectual to be any harm. Can you do that, Lewrie?”

“Aye. Sir.” Alan glowered.

“Good. Sir,” Twigg mocked. “You may not believe this, Lewrie, but . . . I rather like you. I have a great admiration for your qualities as a sailor, and a doer. As a commission sea officer.”

“Oh, bloody . . .” Alan groaned. “Pull the other one.”

“No, I do!” Twigg smiled cadaverously. “Whatever made you the greedy, grasping opportunist you've become, so much more dangerous and useful than the usual sea dog, I know not. But when you're
of
a
mind to put your mind to a problem, 'stead of loafing, or muddling through like the rest, you're bloody inspired. Desperation, perhaps? It's no matter. I value men like you, Lewrie, they're damn' rare. Damme! Bordighera! Caught 'em with their breeches down, and buggered 'em, as deep as a mop stick would reach, my word! And
Il Briosco?
How many of your contemporaries would be that clever, sir? That devious?”

“You're pissing down my back . . . Mister Silberberg.” Lewrie smiled back, a wickedly mirthless smile of ill-humor. “Sounds like I'm set up for something. Know
you
of old, I do. You use people.”

“Aye, I do,” Twigg most amiably admitted.

“Now you think you're going to use
me,
again?”

“Of a certainty.” Twigg chuckled. “There's even a possibility you'll enjoy it. This fellow Hainaut will be rejoining soon, his mentor and patron. This French senior officer. Know who he is?”

“Die Narbe . . . Capt'n Scar,” Lewrie shot back, happy to have a bit of knowledge that Twigg perhaps didn't, for once. “Early on, last summer, we heard he also went by ‘Ugly Face' or ‘Hideous.' Ran convoys to Corsica, too, before it fell.”