‘À présent!’ snarled the man again, gesturing unmistakably at the chair.
A short time later a younger, more open-faced man entered with another, older, and sat opposite. ‘How can we be of service to you?’ he asked mildly, in French.
‘Oh, ich verstehe nicht französisch,’ Renzi said weakly, clutching his case but inwardly exulting. If this was not a French naval officer, he stood well flammed. The only task now was to beat a hasty retreat with his precious information.
At his words the younger glanced at the other significantly. ‘D’Allemand,’ he muttered.
The older nodded and replied in French, ‘He’s a spy, of course.’
‘You think so, mon amiral? A spy who thinks to come right up and knock on the door? And doesn’t know French? Even the English are not that stupid!’
So the older must be Duperré, he surmised, discreetly noting his features with interest.
The younger turned to Renzi and, with an encouraging smile, said kindly, ‘We know you’re a spy, my friend. Now we’re going to take you outside and execute you.’
Renzi smiled back, but spread his hands sorrowfully in incomprehension. ‘Sorry, sorry. You spik Engleesh, I unnerstand.’
As if he was to be fooled by that old trick.
‘Merde. Go and find someone with German for this imbecile,’ the young man said, and, with another sharp look at Renzi, left.
The swirl of the day resumed: voices raised, orders loudly given amid much bustle. Renzi caught snatches of what was being said, every bit worth hearing.
‘… the admiral said … took a fat sugar scow off Morant … get this signal off … he must be at the rendezvous point as agreed by …’
It was conclusive. He had both heard and seen enough. This was indeed the tactile reality and proof of what he had logically foreseen. Sudden impatience seized him – but then he realised that the greatest danger was yet to come: if the German speaker was a native, could he keep up the pretence?
A cold wash of apprehension went over him. He was comfortable with the Hochdeutsch of Goethe but city slang was beyond him.
Footsteps approached and the young man brought in a nervous waiter, still in his apron.
‘Guten Tag. Wie heißt du?’ he asked, after prompting.
Renzi felt a flood of relief. The man was Alsatian with an atrocious accent.
He beamed. ‘My name is Haugwitz, a merchant of Bremen. Do tell these gentlemen that I have no wish to intrude, merely to ask the way to this address.’ He handed over the paper with a winning smile.
It was passed across for scrutiny. The young man looked up, then reached out for Renzi’s case.
‘Tell Monsieur Haugwitz that I am admiring his satchel. Where was it made at all?’ He detached it from Renzi’s grasp and rummaged inside while Renzi nervously allowed that it was a family heirloom, passed down from his father and therefore from Oldenburg.
The papers inside were riffled through, then replaced and the case handed back. ‘Tell him he’s a fool to turn east, the apothecary is to the west – over the channel in Otrabanda. Show him out, and point him in the right direction.’
It was translated and Renzi made much of thanking all in sight. Smothering a sigh of relief, he gave a friendly wave and set out once more.
Chapter 9
Mysterious land under their lee, the three frigates glided quietly inshore, a thickening in the gloom of a moonless night. As one, sail was struck and their anchors tumbled down – the Curaçao expedition came to its rest.
‘Well, now, Nicholas. How do you feel that you’ve caused an armada such as this to stir?’ Kydd said, in a tone that suggested he was only half in jest. They were together on deck, watching as the ship secured from sea.
‘If truth be told, rather less than overjoyed, brother.’
‘Since your report I’ve never seen Dacres so far heated. Volleys orders in all directions like musket fire, rages at his flag-lieutenant for not performing miracles and conjures another frigate from somewhere for the final assault.’ Kydd shook his head in wonder. ‘What was it you told him?’
‘Naught but what I witnessed. It was not a conversation I’d like to repeat and I’m glad to be out of it now, having done my duty.’
‘How so?’ Kydd asked curiously.
‘Well, if you must know, he made me swear on my honour to the truth of what I was telling him, high words about a gentleman’s honour and so forth. An inquisition to which I’m unaccustomed, dear fellow.’
‘You can surely see that he’s concerned he’s not following some fantastical logical theory that will be laughed at later if—’