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short for Cassiopeia.
Your late wife’s middle name.”
    “That is absurd,” said the older man. “What are you
implying? I resent the veiled accusation!”
    Darlan popped a porthole latch and gazed out ruefully.
“I’ve spent more than half my life on the oceans, sailed the seven seas five
times. There isn’t a port on the planet I haven’t berthed in. And after all my
service, to be betrayed in my own quarters.”
    He sighed with genuine world-weary regret.
    Lafayette protested. “Surely you don’t suspect me of
collaborating with the English?”
    “You have been pushing me to align with them since
Germany declared war.”
    Lafayette was cool and collected and spoke
impassively, with no hint of emotion or partisanship. “We are in a vulnerable
position. The Royal Navy could sink us and not bat an eyelid.”
    “I wonder sometimes where your loyalties lie, Vice
Admiral. You never speak of France. Do you care about her fate?”
    “Of course, I do,” said Lafayette. “I want to see her
retain full sovereignty and territorial integrity, both metropolitan and
colonial.”
    “Words, words, words.”
    “I love my country,” said Lafayette.
    “A patriot!” Darlan scoffed.
    A whale breached within a few hundred meters of the
bow, spouting moist air from its blowhole. Darlan watched it dive with interest
and stared out over the gunwale as if thinking something over. Lafayette
shifted skittishly behind him.
    Darlan turned to Lafayette and ran his eyes over his
old friend’s face. He reached into his pocket and took something out.
    “Admiral. I — ”
    There was a sharp report. Lafayette’s body crumpled to
the ground, a surprised expression on his face as he clutched his chest and
moaned. Darlan leaned over him with a blank, remorseless expression and blasted
the gun again, finishing him off.
    A door opened behind Darlan and two stout, stern
marines entered with Lieutenant Bruno.
    Darlan wiped the blood spots off his face and Bruno
tried to keep his eyes forward as the seamen carried Lafayette’s dead body out.
    Darlan called after them. “I don’t want a burial at
sea. Put him in the furnace. It’s more humane that way. Lieutenant Bruno, you
are in charge now.”
    Bruno snapped a brisk salute. “Thank you, Admiral, and
may I just say what a tremendous opportun --”
    Darlan cut him off. “One more leak in this ship and
you will join your predecessor in the boiler room!”
    He stomped off, leaving Bruno alone in the galley with
his promotion.
    The French sailor suddenly felt parched.
     
    The NID commons room was organized around a raggedy
pool table and wallpapered with cheesecake pinups and it had a very low ceiling
that had been stained urine-yellow by a million Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes.
    A storm boomed outside. Hard, sideways rain slashed
the prefab walls of the barracks.
    Gloved workers stowed strips of gold sovereigns into a
deep, suction-sealed device while Fleming, in a flying suit, listened to a
brief by Godfrey and fifty-six year old Air Marshall Chief Lawrence Hill.
    Godfrey was wearing his full uniform with gold pleat
and cap. He was standing before a corkboard where maps, photos and documents,
all under the heading “Operation Armada,” were tacked.
    Hill was a squarish man with an erect military
carriage and red, ruddy cheeks either side of a magnificently waxed mustache
that was six inches long. He won The Order of Merit when he fought against the
Bolsheviks in revolutionary Russia and he led the 12th Army against Sinn Fein
in the Irish Civil War of 1922-23. His leg had been blasted off at the knee in
Belfast and as a result he used a cane and walked with a strange, loping gait.
Hill was pure British bulldog.
    He had the floor. “Two million pounds in gold along
with deeds to land in Cornwall and an honorary dukedom. All outlined in this
contract.” He indicated to a sheaf of papers which two techs carefully placed
in an envelope and sealed, twice, with the formal wax seal of King