Page 4 of To Love A Spy
Valencia doubted it was meant as a reassuring smile.
“But if ye know what’s good fer ye,” continued O’Hanlon, “Ye’ll keep a sweet tongue when talking te me, lassie.” The blade pressed harder against her flesh. “It’s dangerous to make me angry.”
That makes two of us, thought Valencia.
The steep path led down to where a dingy was pulled up on the sliver of sand. “Lazy buggers,” growled Seagull, slanting a critical eye at the ketch. Spitting into the sea, he fisted the oars. “Looks like Gremlin, Blackie and Cheshire are still sleeping it off.”
So, there were five men in all.
Valencia surveyed the deserted deck. It looked to loaded with a full cargo, for an overflow of barrels were stacked in the stern. No doubt the smugglers had decided to take shelter and ride outthe coming bad weather, rather than risk crossing the Channel in the teeth of a gale.
“Stow the complaining and row, Seagull.” O’Hanlon gave a warning waggle of his knife and smirked. “Don’t I always finds us comfort in a storm?”
The Marquess of Lynsley shook the drops of water from his oilskin cloak and entered the Secretary of State for War’s private office.
“Forgive me for being late, Bathurst,” he murmured, handing it to a young adjutant who discreetly removed both himself and the still-dripping garment from the room. “I came as quickly as I could.”
The Secretary of State looked up from a sheaf of military dispatches. “Thank you, Lynsley. My apologies for the filthy conditions, and for calling you back to London on such short notice, but the matter is most urgent.”
“So I gathered from your note.” After nodding a quick greeting to the other gentlemen at the long table, Lynsley took a seat and opened his document case. The presence of Admiral Cornwallis, commander of the Channel Fleet, and Major Fenimore, General Burrand’s top strategist, confirmed that the situation must be grave indeed. “Perhaps you would be so good as to elaborate. The facts were, by necessity, rather sparse.”
“Actually, I will let Colonel Whitney explain the problem.” The Secretary gestured to the officer seated to his left. “He arrived from Portugal last night, with a personal request from Wellington that we give this top priority.”
Lynsley didn’t recognize the face, but his uniform identified him as a senior member of the Duke’s staff.
“Thank you, milord. As you all undoubtedly know, Wellington has appointedmeto oversee our intelligence-gathering network throughout the Peninsula, and it wasmymen who discovered the details . . .” Whitney made a show of rising as he spoke, and smoothing a hand over the row of medals decorating his chest.
Pompous ass, thought Lynsley as he squared his papers into order. But as usual, he hid his irritation behind a mask of perfunctory politeness. “How good to hear that you are doing your job,” he replied dryly. “Please go on.”
Whitney hesitated for a fraction before continuing in a slightly less condescending tone. “Er, yes, well, I hardly need explain to you that the recent events in Russia were a grievous blow to Napoleon’s aura of invincibility. Word is, his army has suffered huge losses and is in full retreat from Moscow. If our forces strike hard and fast, while morale is low and his chain of command is stretched thin, we may have a chance to end this interminable war . . .”
As the colonel droned on, Lynsley surreptitiously studied his own intelligence reports. His official title—Minister to the Secretary of State for War—was a deliberately vague cover for his true responsibilities. Charged with countering foreign espionage and intrigue, he was head of a secret cadre of warriors that dealt with the most dangerous and diabolical threats to England’s sovereignty.
As a rule, he usually avoided committee meetings such as this one—the fewer people aware of his real work, the better. But in this case, the latest dispatches from his own informants corroborated what the colonel was saying. The situation was indeed unique. There was finally a chink in the Emperor’s armor.
The last page turned with a faint crackle.Or was there?
Whitney finished with a flourish. “To sum it up in a nutshell, gentlemen, Boney’s forced retreat sends a signal to our faltering Allies that the French are at last vulnerable. However, werecently learned that one of his most dangerous agents—a fellow named Rochambeau—has made a diabolical discovery. One that may cause our advantage to go up in flames.”
The other men around the table straightened in their chairs.
Lynsley looked up as well. His most recent report from the Peninsula had made mention of a disquieting incident in the city of Cordoba. So far, the information had not been confirmed. But if Rochambeau was involved, that was bad news indeed.
“Kindly dispel with the theatrics, colonel,” he said. “And report the facts.”
Whitney gave an aggrieved sniff, clearly enjoying the captive audience. However, on meeting the marquess’s stony stare, he swallowed any retort and continued. “For some time, our army intelligence network in southern Spain had been hearing rumors concerning an elderly Arab scholar who specialized in the study of ancient science. It was said that he had unearthed some long lost treatise on the art of explosives.” He drew a deep breath. “One that apparently detailed discoveries made by the Turks, using innovations developed in China. Which, as you all undoubtedly know, was where gunpowder was first created?—”
“Cut to the chase, man,” growled Admiral Cornwallis. “None of us need a lecture in military history.”
“In this case, background information is important,” replied Whitney through gritted teeth. “For it explains why Wellesley dispatched me to Whitehall with such urgency. But as you wish me to get to the point—it is this! After experimenting with the information he discovered, the scientist succeeded in creating a . . . a diabolical secret weapon. Not only is the explosive power far beyond anything we currently possess, but we have also been told that the resulting flames cannot be extinguished by water alone. My understanding is that it’s like the ancient Greek Fire, but with a modern twist.” The colonel’s voice rose a notch. “If true, just imagine what it would do to our Royal Navy. Such asubstance could turn the tide of war in Napoleon’s favor and allow the French to invade our shores.”
Cornwallis paled.
Fenimore looked more skeptical. “A diabolical secret weapon? Surely you are exaggerating.”
“I am not,” said Whitney stiffly. “Furthermore, we know that the formula, and a small sample of the stuff are on their way to Paris as we speak, carried by Rochambeau.”
“Why can’t we get a copy of the bloody formula, too?” demanded the Admiral. “Fight fire with fire is what I say.”
