Julian Stockwin - Invasion

"Of course. And I'll tell you something else." He chuckled. "In the end months of the last war I took her out myself on patrol and there's two English brigs alive today only because they sailed before I could see to 'em!"

Who was to say that one of them had not been Teazer, unwittingly hunted by an unseen assassin to within a moment of being blown to fragments? Renzi pulled himself together. "A—a fine achievement," he said faintly. "I had no idea."

"Why, thank you, sir. I didn't think to hear the same from an Englishman." Fulton seemed genuinely touched.

"Er, it would gratify me no end if I were able to view your fabled Nautilus."

"That will not be possible," Fulton retorted, with a hard look.

"I did not mean to offend, sir."

Fulton's features softened. "Well, if you must know I'm right now in negotiation with the French Ministry of Marine for a larger, more potent plunging boat and . . ." He tailed off and gazed out of the window.

"I do understand your position, sir," Renzi said.

"The world will hear about 'em soon enough." Fulton swung around in his chair and rose, extending his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, friend. And good luck with your prisoners," he added breezily, and left.

The situation had changed from grave to catastrophic. From future potential to present reality. Here was the truth of all the rumours: a submarine craft had been constructed, tested and fitted with weapons of irresistible destruction. Fulton had indeed the ear of Napoleon and was concluding a contract for a whole fleet of the submersibles. And very soon these would quickly break the stalemate and see the Channel cleared wide open for a grand concluding scene.

In an agony of helplessness Renzi sprang to his feet and began pacing the room. If there was going to be any time left for action he had to think of something now. But, for God's sake, what?

His frantic thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Laplace. "Ah—so Mr. Fulton has returned to his work. Did you find satisfaction, sir?"

Renzi composed himself. "Indeed so, monsieur. A most fascinating gentleman."

"Then I must bid you farewell, Mr. Smith. Bonne chance in your negotiations. I shall see you to the door."

Out in the street Renzi let the ceaseless flow of people and vehicles eddy past, trying to bring to bear a line of thought that would lead to a path of action, but there were too many conflicting elements.

The fortuitous meeting with Laplace would be seen as harmless enough in itself, for the academician had thoughtfully arranged his meeting with Fulton in privacy—no one would know and he was therefore unlikely to be under suspicion. Renzi still retained his freedom of movement and Fulton had shown himself not unfriendly, so it was reasonable to assume that he stood a chance if only he could think of something.

He paced slowly, forcing his mind to concentrate. The only way that Fulton was going to leave France was of his own volition. Therefore it was up to Renzi to create the elements that would lead to such a decision with arguments so persuasive that the inventor would see it overwhelmingly in his interest to abandon Napoleon to go with the British, no matter his political views. It seemed impossible and time was running out: who knew how much longer the talks about the prisoners would last?

Then, some hundreds of yards ahead, he saw Fulton walking down the street, carrying a large flat case, his head bowed in thought. Impulsively, Renzi followed—at the very least he could try to find out something more of the man.

Almost certainly Fulton was being trailed. Bonaparte had too much invested in him to do otherwise. However, Renzi had been seen publicly with the highly respected Laplace, who had obviously trusted him, so at the moment it was unlikely he was being tracked.

Deliberately Renzi stopped and gawped upwards at an imposing stonework façade, then wandered on, taking in the sights but alert for one thing. It wasn't long before he spotted what he was looking for: a man who found shop-windows very interesting, then hurried on, his quick, covert glances always in Fulton's direction.

Renzi eased his pace, letting Fulton pass out of sight ahead. As long as he had the tail in view he was being led after his quarry. They both disappeared to the right down the next street. Renzi lengthened his stride, moving faster without the appearance of haste. Round the corner Fulton was comfortably in sight again. He remembered this avenue led to the banks of the Seine—what was Fulton up to?

The American paused at the edge of the water. Then he made off up the river on the leafy quai that led to some of the grandest sights in Paris. With the red of the setting sun, the distant image of Notre Dame seemed to Renzi to lift ethereally above earthly dross.

As if in sudden resolution, Fulton stepped out faster. The evening promenaders drifting across the line-of-sight made it easy for Renzi to keep a discreet observation on his mark. It was puzzling, though: the further sights were grander but this was not a district noted for its residences. Then, suddenly, clutching his case close to him, Fulton hurried across the Pont au Change and on to the mid-river island that bore the great cathedral—and the blood-soaked Conciergerie prison.

He didn't stop and passed quickly across to the other bank. This was a mystery indeed. Fulton was now on the Left Bank and, in the gathering dusk, heading deep into the Latin Quarter of seedy, decaying tenements. Was he visiting a paramour?

Unlikely, given the kind of doxy to be found in this district. Or the rendezous place of some revolutionary band?

Finally it was down a short street and into a dead end where Fulton passed into a doorway. Renzi crossed the road but stayed by the corner, looking back diagonally across at the anonymous apartment building. If he was caught, there could be no pretence now of sightseeing—there could be only one reason for his movements.

Was this merely a visit, a delivery—a clandestine meeting? Nerves at full stretch, Renzi waited. There was no sign of the follower. He pressed back into the grimy brickwork as an infant squalled on a lower floor and cooking smells wafted out. At the top a light flickered into existence and steadied. A shadow passed in front of it, then another light sputtered on and Fulton passed unmistakably between them.

Yet another light appeared close to the first. Still no other figure. Fulton crossed back, and when all had been still for some time it became clear to Renzi that this was no secret rendezvous or other furtive assignation; Fulton's unsuspecting movements could have only one meaning. This was simply a man returning home after a hard day of work. The many lights meant he was probably working on his design ready for the next day's meetings.

This raised as many questions as it answered, but he now had the priceless secret of where Fulton could be found. His spirits rose. But there must be a reason for the man's living in such surroundings. Perhaps, as an artist, the Bohemian lifestyle of this arrondissement appealed? But why subject himself to the noise and stinks when he could no doubt demand a mansion?

Renzi shook his head at the conundrums and turned to go. From round the corner the follower stepped squarely into his path. In one terrifying instant Renzi had to make a decision to fight or run. Both courses would have the same outcome: his spying would be discovered. In a burst of desperate inspiration he plastered a foolish grin on his face and swaying towards the man, fell to his knees, pawed ineffectively at him, then keeled over and dry-retched into the filthy gutter.

The man stepped round him in disgust and Renzi crawled away, groaning, then staggered to his feet, trembling. It had been a narrow escape.