Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (7 page)

“By civilians, that includes even Mayan Indians, sir?”

“Yes, they are still Mexican citizens and thus our nation's friends.”

That was a stretch. Nonetheless, I was about to say “aye, aye,” when a thought intruded. “And just in case of the off chance the
Germans engage in action against the Mexican naval or army forces? Do I intervene on the side of the Mexican government?”

“Yes.”

“Understood, sir.” Another thought came to me. “Sir, what if the Germans use an American-flagged ship to provide weapons or supplies? Or mercenaries, for that matter?”

“You will inspect all American-flagged vessels in the area. It is your right and duty to compel them to stop and be boarded. If you find any evidence of filibustering or smuggling, seize the ship and bring it to Key West.”

Our eyes met for a moment. Perhaps sensing my
unspoken
concerns, the admiral added, “And don't worry, I'll put all these instructions in your written orders. Look, Wake, I can't sit here and conjure up ahead of time every possible scenario or combination of circumstances which might happen over there. You'll have to use your judgment if something we haven't discussed comes up.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Now, as for your operational needs once you get to Mexico. There's a collier putting in here in tomorrow and offloading to the depot. I'll extend her charter, keep some of her coal onboard, and send her to Cozumel Island. Top off your fuel bunkers when she arrives, so you're ready for anything. She'll wait there for ten days, in case any of our ships have need of her coal in the near future. Anything else you need?”

“Yes, sir. Could you please send
Bennington
's mail in the collier? The station boat told us on the way in the next squadron mail wasn't due for another couple days.”

“That will be taken care of,” Walker said, then added, “By the way, I've been informed your personal life has taken on a new . . . rather unique . . . dimension lately. I think we should talk about that, and what it might mean for you.”

“Not sure what you mean, Admiral,” I said, knowing precisely what he meant and not liking it.

U.S.S. Chicago

Key West Naval Station

Saturday afternoon

10 December 1892

“Well, Wake, I hear you have a new lady in your life. I suppose you're eager to hear from her. Getting the mail to you will help, won't it?”

It was said nonchalantly, but I knew better. John Grimes Walker never spoke without meaning. Not many in Washington were aware of my increasingly close relationship with the cousin of the Spanish ambassador to the United States. In the mounting tension between the two countries over Cuba, it wasn't something I, or she, advertised.

The admiral was a keen observer, and even keener interrogator, and I registered that he was watching my reaction closely. His spies were everywhere, both out in the fleet and back in the Washington bureaucracy. There was no use in denying the facts.

“Ah, well . . . yes, sir, I am eager to hear from her. It's been awhile. Maria writes often, but her mail seems to always be one port behind us.”

“Maria is her Christian name? And her family name?”

“Maria Ana Maura y Abad. Her husband died several years ago.”

“A Spanish lady, then. She lives in Washington?”

“Yes, on both points, sir. She's lived there for eight years. Her husband was in commerce and they lived in New York before Washington.”

“Hmm, well, that's certainly intriguing, isn't it? I imagine she has close connections to the embassy in Washington, and the government in Madrid as well. Society and kinship, and all that.”

I didn't like where this was going. Grimes never
imagined
anything—he knew she was part of the Spanish elite and immersed in Washington diplomatic circles.

“Yes, sir. She's a distant cousin of the new Spanish ambassador, Enrique Dupuy de Lomé; lives next door to the embassy; and gets invited to diplomatic events.”

“And I'd bet she hears some interesting things in those conversations,” he added with a deceptively whimsical chuckle. Anyone who didn't know him would think it an innocent comment. I knew better. Walker had crossed the line. Now I was angry.

“You actually want me to
use
Maria as an informant?” I asked with incredulous rage. Gripping the chair's armrest, I willed myself to remain calm.

He waved a hand, as if I had made a ridiculous allegation. “Oh, no, of course not, Wake. That would be more than a bit crass. But, of course, she might voluntarily pass some little tidbit along. As you well know, even seemingly inconsequential things can sometimes solve riddles.”

“She doesn't pass anything confidential or inconsequential along to me,” I explained, pointedly omitting the required “sir” for the second time. “I am
not
using her for information.”

I will admit I
had
used women for information on occasion,
sometimes with regrettable consequences—but none with whom I had a relationship. Admiral Grimes was one of the few who knew who, where, and when those professional occasions had occurred, but he caught my tone loud and clear now, and quickly went full astern.

“Yes, well, whatever. I'm sure you know I meant no offense. Just it's a shame you're such a long way from Washington and not scheduled to return anytime soon. In fact, you're headed to the Med in a month, so you probably won't see her for quite a while, will you?”

Walker's artificial concern angered me even further, so it was with a modicum of satisfaction I countered with, “No, sir. It turns out I probably will see her. Her last letter said she was heading from Washington down to Cuba to visit relatives. From there, in early January Maria's catching the steamer back to Spain. She should be there when
Bennington
arrives at the European Squadron in late January.”

“Really? Now that's an interesting development. Good for you. From what I've heard she is quite charming, intelligent, and beautiful—a formidable combination of qualities. Tell me something, is it serious between you two?”

I replied warily, “Possibly . . .”

Indeed, I had been thinking of a future with her, for my life before Maria had been desperately lonely, and my more recent relationships with women had been temporary respites, and ultimately devoid of true affection. Eleven years of being a widower had taken its toll on me, and the thought of merely existing all alone through my final years was depressing.

There were serious drawbacks to the idea of a marriage with this particular lady, however. We were both widowed, but that was our sole commonality. Maria, as accomplished and beautiful a woman as I had ever known, came from an ancient Spanish family. Jewish until the reconquest of Spain by Christian monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella in 1492, they converted to Christianity in order to avoid expulsion—or a worse fate. Four
hundred years later, Maria was a devout Roman Catholic who still revered her Jewish roots. Independently wealthy, impressively educated, and quite comfortable among high society, she was connected by bloodlines to the elite of a country many Americans thought of as a decadent enemy, either potential or actual.

On the other hand, I was an Episcopalian turned liberal Methodist, necessarily frugal with money, had never attended any college, was painfully uncomfortable in the presence of the upper social strata, an official persona non grata in Spanish-occupied Cuba, and was integrally involved in preparing our navy and nation for possible future naval action against her country.

Though both she and I fully understood and had discussed these daunting factors, we subordinated them to the improbable affection, genuine respect, and aching love that had grown between us. Still, it required the naiveté of youth to think love could overcome brutal reality and create a truly contented marriage, and I was long removed from my youth.

The admiral's face tightened. “Possibly? Yes, well, here's a word to the wise. Obviously, a union between you two would be culturally and politically . . . challenging, to put it mildly. My suggestion is you should marry into a proper American naval family, like I and so many officers have. It would stand your career in good stead, Wake. And let's face it, now that Admiral Porter has died and the senior leadership of the navy is changing, your career will need some help once I retire in a couple of years.”

The admiral regarded me for a moment, then said, “You haven't exactly been one of the good old boys, have you? You never went to the academy. You never won any laurels in glorious open battle. You have no rich family behind you. You never latched onto a rising politician. And after I'm gone, you won't have a mentor looking out for your welfare and career.”

He saw I was about to argue and wagged his stern face sagely.
“No, Wake, listen to me. Marriage to a foreigner, and a Spanish one at that, would play right into the common impression about you among the naval aristocracy—and yes, that is exactly what it is, even though we deny it to Congress—in Washington that you aren't really one of them.”

I said nothing, trying to keep my temper in check. I hated to admit it, but he was absolutely correct. I was one of only three nonacademy mid-level officers left in the service, and therefore many of my colleagues considered me as something less than an officer and a gentleman. That, combined with my dislike of inane small talk, hypocritical politicians, stupid bureaucrats, and faked courtesies prevalent at society affairs, meant I hadn't been “seen” in Washington much, even though I'd been officially stationed there from '81 to '89.

In addition, the clandestine nature of my intelligence work during those years precluded any recognition of what I had accomplished in that difficult field. In fact, quite a few senior officers thought that sort of work to be completely unbecoming of a gentleman, and something no decent officer would lower himself to do. Thus, most officers looked down upon me, some with pity, and some with contempt. Marrying Maria would confirm their opinion.

Even Rork had shown concern about her, warning me, “Peter, me boyo, the loneliness is gettin' the best o' you. Think clearly on this—with your head an' not your heart.”

Admiral Walker cleared his throat. “One more thing, and then I'll end this whole matter. As part of your espionage work, you have employed falsehoods to get unwitting people to give you sensitive information in the past. So consider this—how do you know you're not a target of the Spanish now? There's a real possibility she's trying, quietly and gently, to turn you into an unwitting informant, or even a double agent. You have a large store of knowledge about our operations and plans. Just think about it as a possibility, Wake. That's all I ask.”

“I've already considered the possibility, and she's not.”

His eyebrows flickered up as he sighed. “Very well, Commander Wake, I hope you're right. No more on that subject.

“Now, back to the matter at hand. Before you get under way, I want to hear what Rork learned from his new German cronies today, so send that old Irish rogue over to me in person. I haven't seen the big rascal for some time, and for some reason I can't really fathom, he cheers me up.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” I said with trepidation, imagining Rork briefing the admiral on his drinking assignment ashore—directly afterward, when my Irish friend would be still under the influence.
No good can come of that interview
, I thought as I exited the cabin.

Little did I know.

U.S.S. Bennington

Key West Naval Station

Late Saturday evening

10 December 1892

Rork's return to the ship, hours after the coaling had begun, was not greeted pleasantly by his begrimed peers, especially when the word spread he smelled like a brewery when saluting the quarterdeck and reporting to the officer of the watch. I happened to observe the scene from afar and could tell by their expressions that the petty officers were seething with anger. That Rork's subsequent arrival at my cabin would be the topic of much additional negative speculation, I was certain, for he was already thought of by some as the captain's toady.