Invasion (18 page)

“You mean—to smuggle him back?”

“Goodness gracious, no! He's a citizen of the United States, a neutral, and is quite free to go where he pleases. Name of Fulton.”

The cartel ship left the pier at Ramsgate in the anonymous darkness and was soon butting into a chill south-easterly. The passengers scuttled below to light and warmth, but Renzi stood on the foredeck, clutching a shroud and burning with indignation.

He had been well and truly hooked, caught and landed. Dazzled by the daring thought of Paris in the summer he had not stopped to consider why he, Renzi, had been plucked out of obscurity to perform the task. The real reason for his visit turned out not to be spying but something infinitely worse and more dangerous. The stakes for him and England could not have been higher.

This Fulton, or Francis, the code-name he sometimes went by, was an extraordinary man, possibly a genius. From childhood poverty in Maryland he had attracted early support for his painting talent sufficient to have him sent to England, where he had shone as a portrait painter. He had spent some fruitful years in Devon, then come to the attention and patronage of Benjamin West, the president of the prestigious Royal Academy. In the course of time he had been hung beside the great masters.

On the continent the hideous excesses of the French Revolution had turned to power struggles and thence a fragile form of stability while energies were directed outward in war. With England convulsed in the bloody mutinies of Spithead and the Nore, Fulton had suddenly decided to leave and cross to France, where he had quickly taken up with the circle of expatriate radicals and friends of the Revolution who encouraged the blossoming of his growing republican idealism.

Then, within months, word had trickled back to England that, extraordinarily, Fulton had presented plans to the Directory for a “submarine boat” for use by the French Navy against the British. Why and how a noted artist had turned his talents to such fancies was not explained to Renzi. Then, after a coup in 1799, Napoleon Bonaparte had become Consul for Life and his attention had been drawn to Fulton's schemes. He had advanced the inventor funding to produce his first “submarine,”
Nautilus
.

If reports were to be believed, Fulton had indeed built it and trialled it in the Seine, submerging with his crew for an hour before horrified witnesses, then triumphantly returning to the surface. It seemed a far from practical weapon of war, but when he later manoeuvred the submarine confidently about the entrance to Le Havre and then the open sea, and talked of fitting it with his new exploding “torpedoes,” there was no more doubt but that the sinister and deadly craft was about to rewrite the rules of war.

He had been granted a personal audience with Bonaparte and had energetically begun to prepare plans for a bigger and more destructive submersible, but peace had been declared and development stalled. When war resumed, Fulton was well placed to demand what he would for a weapon that could be aimed directly at the one thing that denied the French domination of the world: the Royal Navy.

Since Napoleon's seizure of power, his network of spies and secret police had clamped a tight hold on the capital so reliable information was virtually impossible to get—but it did not take much imagination to realise that any maritime nation would be helpless against the possessor of such an instrument of destruction, utterly defenceless against something that could not even be seen. Who knew what was being promised to its inventor as Bonaparte gathered his forces for the invasion of England?

Renzi's task was simple: locate Fulton, detach him from the French cause and conduct him to Britain.

The unfairness nearly choked him. Why should such responsibility be placed on
his
shoulders? On sober reflection, though, he realised he was uniquely qualified for the job. After his hard experiences in Jersey, assisting a spymaster, he knew what to expect of the French system; he was intelligent yet unknown to the French, and with considerable experience of sea service. Added to that there was his undoubted moral integrity, the demeanour of a gentleman and the fact that his naval record would even show service on the North American station. That was why he had been chosen.

And it was a job that demanded the guile of just one man, not a force, and still less a full conspiracy. With numbers came the chance of betrayal, and the French would be merciless to any who threatened their trump card.

In summary, his task was to find where the man was hidden in the great city and approach him with unanswerable arguments as to why he should betray and turn on his benefactors—after he had unavoidably revealed himself to Fulton as a British agent, of course. And this to the man whose intercepted letters had described England's Navy as “the source of all the incalculable horrors” committed against the free citizens of the ocean and whose firm friend in Paris was Tom Paine, the notorious revolutionary.

It was the stuff of nightmares, a near impossible objective but one that had to succeed.

His mind reeled, his body oblivious to the cold and spray as they made for Calais and enemy country. He had no idea how he would begin: he was on his own with nothing but his wits and cunning.

A white flag prominent at her foretop-gallant masthead, the cartel ship hove to in Calais Roads to await inspection. To Renzi, dazed with lack of sleep, it was utterly unreal. So recently
Teazer
had been fighting for her life in these very waters, trying to prevent ships entering. Now here he was, on an English ship, about to be welcomed into that same port.

Soon they were making their way within a narrow staked passage through the mudflats, past the forts and into the inner basins crowded with invasion craft and dominated by the louring Fort Nieulay. Then came the sight of sour-faced
douaniers
on the quay, the sharp tones of the officer conducting exchanges and the indefinable odours of foreign soil.

As his passport was minutely examined Renzi felt himself in an increasingly dream-like situation that was paradoxically insulating him against the dread of the reality into which he was being sucked.

He and Haslip were separated from the others and conducted to a quayside office where their papers were checked yet again, then taken outside to a waiting carriage. A
gens d'armes
lieutenant helped them to board and, without comment, entered as well, signalling to the escort of two horsemen behind.

It was the usual gut-rattling journey into the interior, relieved only by regular stops for refreshment and a change of horses. No one spoke. Haslip had not been made privy to the real reason for Renzi's appointment and ignored him in a lordly way, while the lieutenant was not disposed to be friendly to an Englishman. Renzi stared out of the window at the flat, boring landscape, prevented from dozing by the gritty jolting—and the thought of the madness into which he was about to be plunged.

His mind strayed to the last time he had been with Kydd before they sailed. It was soon after they had seen fit to inform Renzi of the true nature of his mission. Something in his face had sparked dismay in his friend: brushing aside Renzi's light prattle of holidays, Kydd had gripped his hands and wished him all good fortune for wherever it was he was going.

Villages became more frequent; here, little had changed in the years since, as a carefree young man, Renzi had passed through France on his Grand Tour, and as they neared the capital, he felt a surge of exhilaration at approaching the legendary City of Light.

The outer reaches of Paris were much as he remembered, and suddenly they were in the city. The same open spaces, narrow muddy streets and, rising above the stink of horses and coal-smoke, the enticing alien smell of garlic and herbs, always on the air. There were as many people on the avenues as before, but they were of a different kind, sombrely dressed and keeping to themselves as they hurried along. There were fewer shabbily dressed poor.

Renzi recognised the rue St. Honoré and, close by, the ancient church of St. Roche. Then the massive stone columns and classical pediments of the Hôtel Grandime came into view, and the carriage swayed finally to a stop. The lieutenant asked them curtly to remain and bounded up the steps. He returned with footmen, and they were ushered inside.

Conscious of a wary hush and hostile stares, Renzi completed the formalities, the eyes of the concierge flicking between him and the lieutenant. Their rooms were on the first floor, a larger inner suite and a smaller outer one, which he took for himself without comment.

“I shall dine alone, Smith, and shall not want to be disturbed,” Haslip said importantly. “See that you're able to attend upon me at ten tomorrow. Is that understood?”

It suited Renzi well: from his rooms he could slip in and out quietly as he pleased, and that Haslip wished to remain in his solitary glory was even better. His meagre luggage arrived and, worn out, he flopped onto the musty four-poster and closed his eyes. He drifted off quickly but woke feeling stiff and cold. Immediately the dread of his situation rushed back but he did not allow it to take hold. He finished stowing his gear in the old-fashioned drawers and splashed his face with water.

He patted his waistcoat pocket, and was reassured by the crackle of his passport. Then he went downstairs, with an air of jaunty defiance, ignored the watchful gaze of the concierge and strode out into the evening. Hesitating, he turned right, then walked purposefully along towards the vast Place Louis XV.

He emerged into its great spaces and slowed. This was now the Place de la Révolution and he was making pilgrimage to the spot where, just a handful of years ago, the guillotines had slithered and fallen before screaming crowds to end the lives of so many of France's ancient nobility.

The sense of loss of the older world was overpowering here, and he closed his eyes in melancholy. The feeling passed and he walked on rapidly—he needed the comfort of human company.

Inside a nearby tavern it was warm and dark, dense with pipe-smoke. Low candlelight played on the animated features of couples and the babble of talk ebbed and flowed. Renzi found a corner table and settled quietly, letting the memories return.
“Garçon!”
The tapster seemed not to hear and he repeated the call more loudly. Astonished faces turned to him as the man stormed across.
“M'sieur, un demi de bière, s'il vous plaît.”

The tapster came to an abrupt stop and peered at Renzi.
“Vous êtes anglais?”
he said disbelievingly.

Whether it was because of his square-cut English coat or his accent, Renzi did not know; but he was obliged to explain at length why an Englishman was on the loose in the Paris of Napoleon. In return he had to accept a scolding over his use of
garçon
and
monsieur
where now the egalitarian
citoyen
was expected.

A nearby couple made much of moving to another table and, behind him, a noisy incident was probably another pair ostentatiously removing themselves from the proximity of an Englishman, no doubt for the benefit of hidden watchers.

Alone, Renzi sipped his beer as the conversations started again and his thoughts turned to what lay ahead.

It was near impossible, but a start had to be made. The hardest thing of all would be to locate the American. He had his freedom to move about, but that did not mean he could simply go up and ask where the submarine inventor called Fulton was. Even the slightest interest in matters not directly concerning his official purpose in France would be reported and seized upon jubilantly as evidence that he was abusing his position to spy. The
Moniteur
would trumpet to the world such perfidy against “his innocent hosts,” and the worthy cause of the hapless prisoners-of-war would irrevocably be lost.

Renzi forced himself to concentrate: there had to be a way to Fulton if he had the wit to find it. Without question he was being followed. After Jersey, however, he was too wise in the ways of spying to try to shake them off. Once identified, an agent was a known quantity but, more importantly, a slick evasion would be the quickest way to guarantee the attention of Fouché's secret police.

The safest course would be to appear to make the most of his stay and move about, visiting and gaping. This would have them relaxing their surveillance and make furtive meetings more possible. He smiled wryly. Right at this moment he was where duty called— openly tasting the night life of Paris.

There was movement under the candlelight by the far wall as a raven-haired
chanteuse
and a darker central European violinist bowed together and opened with a soaring peasant air from the Auvergne which took Renzi back to long-past days of gaiety and passion. The singer made shameless play of her charms and held the room spellbound. Despite himself, Renzi was caught up in the charged atmosphere and applauded enthusiastically.

Then followed a sensual love lament. The tavern fell quiet as she held the audience with her tale of longing and suffering, loving and losing. Renzi couldn't help a sudden rush of feeling; for some reason she was reaching him with a message of humanity and grief that rose far above the gross distortions of war. As the urgent, pleading harmony enveloped him, his mind rebelled: he was furious at the pitiless logic that said the ultimate course for nations in disagreement was to throw themselves at each other in a struggle to the death.