Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(30)

Kirstenfels’ frown returned. And Eddie could see the wheels of presupposition turning behind his gray, uncharitable eyes: I know they will not tell me the truth, so my guess about the Caribbean must be incorrect. But they want me to believe it in order to throw me off the real scent. Of course, I should check to see if this, too, is just a ruse—

Kirstenfels looked at Simpson whose face was once again wooden. “So, Admiral, since we are free to talk about the Caribbean, then—”

With a sharp look at Eddie, he cut off the reporter, “I cannot comment on any operations we might, or might not, have planned for the Caribbean.” The faintest hint of the histrionic had crept into his voice, at which Eddie nearly smiled: very well played, Admiral.

And Kirstenfels had obviously taken the bait. The instant he heard that slightly theatrical tone in Simpson’s prohibition on further conversation about the Caribbean, a tiny smile crinkled his lips. Eddie could almost see the thought bubble over the newsman’s head: So, the admiral play-acts at upset and worry. The two of them hope to mislead me into thinking my guess about the Caribbean was accurate. All in order to divert me from my first, best hypothesis: that they really are preparing for action in the Mediterranean. A smug expression flitted across Kirstenfels’ features and was gone all in the same instant, but Eddie knew the look of vindication and triumphant certainty when he saw it.

Simpson had folded his arms. “Is there anything else, Mr. Kirstenfels?”

The newsman rose, cap in his hands. “No, thank you, Admiral Simpson. Am I free to go?”

Simpson looked as though he had swallowed a gill of spoiled vinegar. “Unfortunately, you are, Mr. Kirstenfels. But any subsequent incidents will have consequences. You have been directly and personally warned not to pursue any further investigation into the ships we are building here or their potential uses. If you disregard that warning, I will hand you over to a judge to determine just how profound your disloyalty is in the eyes of the government of the USE. The Marines will see you out.”

“And I presume I am not allowed to ask any questions of your men that might be construed to be an inquiry into their ultimate destination in the Mediterranean?”

“Or the Caribbean,” Simpson added peevishly. If Eddie hadn’t known better, he would have truly believed that the admiral was now irritated at having to play-act at such lame and obvious conceits as prohibiting Caribbean inquiries.

“Or the Caribbean,” Kirstenfels agreed, almost facetiously from the doorway. “Good day, gentlemen.”

Simpson stared at the door for five silent seconds before turning toward Eddie and matching his smile. “Thanks for the quick thinking, Commander. He had me on the ropes for that first second, when he hit on the Caribbean.”

“My pleasure, Admiral. You’re quite the poker player. Masterful last bluff, by the way.”

The older man’s smile became slightly predatory. “Do you play poker, Commander?”

“Not with you, sir.”

“Ah. Well, in this case, that caution might indeed be more helpful than a gamesman’s daring. At any rate, I’m sure we’ll be hearing about our Mediterranean flotilla any day now.”

“Yes, but Kirstenfels’ report will be so premature that it will actually be meaningless.”

“‘Premature,’ Commander?”

“Yes, sir. As you pointed out honestly enough, we have no reason to go down there. But you left out an important qualifying word: ‘Yet.’”

Simpson’s rare light-hearted mood extinguished as sharply as a candle in a cold breeze. “Situations can change very dramatically and very quickly, Commander. We could find ourselves wishing for a Mediterranean fleet much sooner than our own timelines of ‘international eventualities’ suggest. But enough: we’ve lost a lot of time misdirecting that ambulance chaser. What’s the latest status update on the New World mission, Commander?”





Convent of the Dames Blanches, Louvain, The Low Countries





“Your Highne—I mean, Sister Isabella?”

The urgency in the novitiate’s tone caused the infanta Isabella to start—that, and a brief pulse of religious guilt. Once again, Isabella’s thoughts had drifted away from her devotions and novenas and veered into memories of her long-dead husband Albert and poignant fantasies of a family that might have been. “What is it, my child?”

“There is a . . . a penitent here to see you.”

“A penitent?” Isabella sat a bit straighter. Sister Marie was neither a very mature nor a very wise novitiate, but she certainly knew that only priests could hear confessions and that they generally did not situate themselves at convents to do so. So this “penitent” was clearly someone traveling incognito, a subtlety which had obviously eluded, and therefore baffled, the country-bred novitiate.