“Sailing times have been carefully calculated, allowance made for irregularities such as storm or accidents. Once both fleets are out of sight of land, their new orders will take them to this secret rendezvous in the Azores. There should be no suspicion that their courses have been changed, because they will be expected to be at sea and out of sight of land for this carefully calculated period. After arriving at the island of Graciosa they will have twenty-four hours to refuel — then set sail. Before I go into the final period — are there any questions?”
Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy, looked apprehensive. “So many ships at sea, there will surely be chance encounters with other ships.”
“There undoubtedly will be, sir,” Farragut said firmly. “But we are at war, we are about to be invaded, and our counter-measure to this planned invasion will be positive in our defense. British ships will be captured and made prizes. Ships of other nations will be boarded and will accompan
y our ships to Graciosa. There they will remain for three days after the fleet departs. Only then will they be permitted to leave. Even if one of them should go directly to Spain, where the nearest telegraph is located, it will still be too late. Our invasion will already have begun.”
Welles still wasn’t satisfied. “So many ships involved, so many changes of plans, refueling — much can go wrong…”
“If it does — it will not be through fault of planning. Every distance has been measured, every ton of coal accounted for. There may be minor mishaps, there always are with a maneuver this size, but that cannot be helped. But this will not alter or interfere with the overall plan.”
“Which is what?” The president asked quietly.
“I defer to General Sherman,” the admiral said and regained his seat.
Sherman stood beside the map of Ireland, pointed to it.
“This is where we will land.” He waited until the gasps and murmurs of excitement had died away before he continued. “This is where we will defeat the enemy forces. This is the island that we will occupy. This is where the theatre of war will be — and where the threatened invasion of our country will end. Britain dare not commit so many troops to foreign adventures when the enemy is at the gate, threatening the very heart of her Empire.
“And now I will tell you how we will do it.”
Allister Paisley was a curious man — and a very suspicious one as well. He was an opportunist, so that most of his petty crimes were committed on the spur of the moment. Something of value left unguarded, a door invitingly open. He was also very suspicious and thought every man his enemy. Which was probably right. After he had sent his report on the American activities to England, by way of Belgium, he still wanted additional information. He was paid for what he delivered, and the more he delivered the more money he had to spend. Not so much on alcohol these days, but on the far more satisfactory opium. He sat now in the grubby rented room in Alexandria, Virginia, heating the black globule on the pierced metal opening of his pipe. When it was bubbling nicely he inhaled deeply through the tall mouthpiece. And smiled. Something that few people living had seen him do. As a child he may have smiled: none alive would remember that. Now the sweet smoke burned away all cares. As long as he had the money he could smile; it was wonderful, wonderful.
Not so wonderful next morning in the damp chill of dawn. Rain was blowing in through the half-open window. He stepped in a pool of water when he got up and slammed it shut. All the smoke from his night’s pleasure was now dispersed. Through the sheets of rain he could just make out the buildings of Washington City just across the river. He shivered and pulled on his shirt, then drank some whisky to free him from the chill.
The rain stopped by noon and a watery sun occasionally appeared behind the clouds. At five in the afternoon Paisley had crossed the river into the capital and was now leaning against a wall on Pennsylvania Avenue, watching the clerks emerge from the War Department. He inhaled deeply on his cheap cheroot and looked for one particular face in the crowd. Yes, there he was. A gray man in gray clothing, scuttling along like a rodent. Allister stepped forward and fell in beside him, walked a few paces before the other man noticed him — and twitched, startled.
“Hello Georgy,” Paisley said.
“Mr. McLeod — I didn’t see you.” Few men, if any, knew Paisley’s real name.
“How’s the work going, Georgy?”
“You know, they keep us busy.” Giorgio Vessella, one generation away from Italy, was not a happy man. His parents, illiterate peasants from the Mezzogiorno, had been proud of him. An educated man with a position in the government. But he knew how little he earned, how insecure his position was. Only in wartime would they have even considered hiring a foreigner, as he would always be to the authorities’ Anglo-Saxon eyes; his tenure was always suspect. Now, and not for the first time, did he regret that he had ever set eyes on the Scotsman.
“Let’s go in here. Have a drink.”
“I told you, Mr. McLeod, I don’t drink. Just wine sometimes.”
“All guineas drink,” Paisley said with instant racial intolerance. “If you don’t want it I’ll drink it for you.”
It was a dismal little alehouse, the only kind Paisley frequented, and they sat at a table in the corner away from the few other clientele. Paisley drank a good measure of the raw spirit and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His other hand tapped a silver dollar lightly on the stained table. Giorgio tried not to see it, but his eyes kept straying back to it.
“They keep you busy?”
“Just like always.”
“I waited a couple of times. You never came out.”
“We’ve been working late for a number of weeks now. The Navy Department ran short of clerks to copy orders. They sent over a lot of ship movements and we have been copying for them.”
“I know about those,” Paisley yawned widely. “Ships to Mexico.”
“That’s it. A whole lot of them.”
“Old news. I only pay for new news. You got any of that?”
“No, sir. I just copy what they tell me to. The same old thing. It’s just Mr. Anderton and Mr. Foyle, they get to do the different stuff in the locked room.”