he thought, startled to see a familiar English face. He turned toward the wall, nearly certain he hadn’t been noticed, as all manner of ideas ran through his tired brain. One idea connected with another until he forgot his fear and his surroundings. He knew that man.
Sir Clive Mortimer played a small role in the workings of the Admiralty. What was it? Something about first secretary over victualling and procurement, where his task was to review the ledgers and logs sent over from the Navy Board and give them his official stamp of approval.
By the time the papers reached Sir Clive’s desk, the kegs of beef and pork, eggs nestled in salt, cheese, and hardtack were long on their way, voyaging the world. Never mind all that; bureaucracy, that mistress of the unimaginative, still required an official stamp before the papers were filed God knows where. Sir Clive’s servant, a foxy-faced fellow name of Hébert, always seemed to be hanging about. And here Hébert, decidedly uncomfortable, sat with Claude Pascal. Sir Clive had casually mentioned once to Angus that Patrice Hébert came from an old Huguenot family long in England. Maybe not so long, eh?
Ogilvie watched them, thinking of Sir Clive’s easy access to all the offices in the Admiralty. If memory served him, Clive’s office was on the same floor as the Lords of the Admiralty. Imagine what an inquisitive fellow could learn, just hanging about.
Why would you do this, Sir Clive? Ogilvie asked himself, as he felt cold reason settle over him. Too many debts? One too many expensive horses? A greedy mistress? It’s time your career ended at Admiralty House. How low of you to make a servant do your work, because he must be retired, too.
He nursed his flagon of rum and watched as a scrap of paper changed hands and ended in a pouch around Hébert’s neck. Ogilvie made note of that repository, knowing the pouch had to go before the steel cord could do its best work.
He left the taberna ahead of the two spies, content to wait in the shadows outside where the air was better. He didn’t have to wait long. The conspirators left the taberna, chatted quietly, heads together, then walked away in opposite directions. Ogilvie followed Hébert, keeping well back, until he started up one of the many labyrinthian streets that twisted and wound up from the harbor.
When Hébert paused in front of a door and took out a key, Ogilvie sidled up behind him. “Paddy Hébert, fancy seeing you in Cádiz. Did Sir Clive send you on holiday?”
Hébert whirled around, his eyes wide. He clutched the pouch around his neck and managed a weak smile. “Captain Ogilvie, is it?” An even weaker laugh followed the smile. “Why, yes, I have many friends in Cádiz.”
“And my mother is a donkey,” Ogilvie said.
Giving Hébert no time to react, Angus slit the pouch from the spy’s neck, shoving it down his own shirt front. He banged Hébert’s head against the door and clamped his hand over the terrified man’s mouth.
“Here you are, trading secrets to a nasty man from a nasty man,” he hissed. “Shame on you, and more shame on Sir Clive. Have you anything to say to me that would prevent me from ending your life this minute? I’ll wait.” He lifted his hand from Hébert’s mouth, but not far.
“He said if I didn’t help, he would kill my whole family,” Hébert managed to gasp.
“My stars and garters, that’s the wrong answer!” Ogilvie said cheerfully. “I know you’re an orphan.”
By then Ogilvie had his hand around the wire silencer he carried in his waistcoat. Moving faster now, he yanked on the servant’s hair until he reached the precise angle to slip the wire around his neck and tighten it. Two jerks, then a third for good measure and Patrice Hébert collapsed at his feet.
Oops. Too much zeal this time. The wire had cut nearly through the unfortunate man’s neck. Blood pounded out, then pulsated more slowly as the life drained away. Ogilvie wiped his useful wire on the dead man’s jacket then slipped it back into his waistcoat, ready for a new adventure.
What adventure? He thought he could convince Captain Rose and the Admiralty, through Prime Minister William Pitt, to let Sir Clive continue his free roaming, but to watch him closely and see who else might be a traitor in high places. It shouldn’t be too hard to insert an honest man – for the sake of argument, call