Operation Isis. E. Hoffmann Price

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      Garvin set out afoot. It was less than two kilometers to the city hall and the two rivers.

      Bayonne remained an enchanted city, even though Flora’s siren voice was not with him to make it so. Perhaps after a couple of years of WASP he would feel like retiring, until Azadeh loathed Bayonne or elsewhere. And she might love that which had been prized ever since the first Roman legion made its palisaded camp not far from the spring of St. Leon and Parc des Sports. Presently, crossing Pont de Mayou, he paused to salute the statue of Cardinal Lavigerie on the redoubt. Once on the right bank of the Adour, he made it downstream to the docks until he came to the Semiramis, berthed and perhaps waiting for him to pay up the demurrage she had been accumulating.

      He was greeted at the gangplank by the man on watch. “Monsieur, a long and hefty young fellow who paid for transportation to Savannah is aboard. He says he is your son. If this is a fraud, we’ll put him ashore.” Garvin then knew that his blundering methods paid off better than had Merlin’s wisdom. He fished one of those multicolored, hectare-size Banque de France notes of impressive denomination from his wallet and folded the man’s fingers about it. “Tell the skipper right away that I apologize for disturbing him at this gruesome hour. Tell him that if he shoves off as soon as reasonably possible, it would be as profitable to him as to me.

      “While you are disturbing monsieur the skipper, let me talk to that young man immediately. If he is not who he claims to be, I’ll boot him over the side myself.

      “If anyone, such as a hysterical woman or the police, comes with inquiries, please assure them that neither Monsieur d’Artois nor his son is aboard. His mother does not know that he is taking this cruise with me. Before we go down the river, she may realize that he is not at home where he should be. Such might make her emotional, irresponsible.”

      “Monsieur d’Artois, remain tranquil.”

      “I am, but she often is not.”

      “That is understood. I, too, am married.”

      “And something else: Chevigny et Cie, on rue Pont Neuf, I ordered three cases of cognac and four of Istavan Palugyay Tokaija.”

      “The king of wines and the wine of kings! It is in your stateroom. To prevent accidental breakage, we did not put it in the hold.”

      Garvin went to his stateroom. Hungarian wines varied, but Tokaija ruled a kingdom all its own. Among the rarities that had blessed Garvin’s shopping was at least one that Lani, the undercover Imperatrix of North America, might never have tasted.