General Sherman sipped his champagne and thought about the curious encounter. What had caused him to respond so quickly to the unusual request? Perhaps it was the officer’s command of English. But what could it all be about? Should he be armed when he unlocked the door? No, that was nonsense; after this day’s events, it appeared that he still had assassination on his brain. It was obvious that the Russian officer wanted to communicate something, had some message that could not go through normal channels without others being aware of what was happening. If that was the case, he knew just the man to ask about it.

The reception and the presentations, the bowing and saluting, went on far into the night. Only after the Americans had been introduced to King Leopold could they even think about leaving. Happily, the meeting with the King was brief.

“Mr. President Lincoln, it is my great pleasure to meet you at last.”

“It is mine as well, Your Majesty.”

“And your health — it is good?” The King’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

“Never better. It must be the salubrious air of your fine country. I feel as comfortable here as I would at home in my own parlor.”

The King nodded vaguely at this. Then his attention was drawn elsewhere and he turned away.

Once they had been dismissed, the President rounded up his party. It was after midnight and they were all tired. Not so, apparently, the Belgian cavalry officer commanding the troopers who accompanied their carriage back to the hotel. Spurred on by his shouted commands, they surrounded the carriage, sabers drawn and ready, warily on guard. The streets were empty, echoing the clattering hoofbeats of the mounted guards; a strangely reassuring sound.

As soon as he had left the others at the hotel, General Sherman went and pounded on Gustavus Fox’s door.

“Duty calls, Gus. You better wake up.”

The door opened immediately. Gus was in his shirtsleeves; lamps illuminated a table strewn with papers. “Sleep is only for the wicked,” he said. “Come in and tell me what brings you around at this hour.”

“An international mystery — and it appears to be right down your line of work.”

Gus listened to the description of the brief encounter in silence, nodding vigorously and enthusiastically when Sherman was done.

“You have given this officer the perfect response, General. Anything to do with the Russians is of vital interest to us right now — or at any time, for that matter. Ever since the Crimean War they have had no love for the British. They were invaded and fought very hard in their own defense. But it is not only Britain that they see as the enemy — it is almost every other country in Europe. In their own defense they have a superb spy network, and I must say that they make the most of it. I can now tell you that a few years ago they actually stole the plans for the most secret British rifled hundred-pound cannon. They actually had the American gunsmith Parrott make them a replica. Now we discover that an English-speaking officer on the Russian admiral’s staff wants to meet with you in private. Admirable!”

“What should I do about it?”

“Unlock your door at eight in the morning — then see what happens. With your permission I will join you in this dawn adventure.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way — since this is your kind of game and not mine.”

“I shall be there at seven, which is only a few hours from now. Get some sleep.”

“You as well. And when you come, why, see that you bring a large pot of coffee with you. This has been a long day — and I feel that it is going to be an even longer one tomorrow.”

The knock on the door aroused Sherman. He was awake at once; his years of campaigning in the field had prepared him for action at any hour. He pulled on his trousers and opened the door. Gus stepped aside and waved the hotel servant past him — who pushed a wheeled table laden with coffee, hot rolls, butter, and preserves.

“We shall wait in comfort,” Gus said.

“We shall indeed.” Sherman nodded and smiled when he noticed that there were three cups on the table. When the waiter had bowed himself out, they saw to it that the door remained unlocked. Then they sat by the window and sipped their coffee while Brussels slowly came to life outside.

It was just a few minutes past eight when the hall door opened and closed quickly. A tall man in a dark suit entered, locking the door behind him before he turned to face the room. He nodded at General Sherman, then turned to face Gus.

“I am Count Alexander Igoreivich Korzhenevski. And you would be…?”

“Gustavus Fox, Assistant Secretary of the Navy.”

“How wonderful — the very man I wanted to contact.” He saw Gus’s sudden frown and waved away his concern. “I assure you, I am alone in my knowledge of your existence and will never reveal that information to a soul. I have been associated with Russian naval intelligence for many years, and we have a certain friend in common. Commander Schulz.”

Gus smiled at this and took the Count’s hand. “A friend indeed.” He turned to the puzzled Sherman. “It was Commander Schulz who brought us the plans of the British breech-loading cannon that I told you about.” With a sudden thought he turned back to Korzhenevski. “You would not, by any chance, be associated with that affair?”

“Associated? My dear Mr. Fox — at the risk of appearing too forward, I must admit that I was the one who managed to purloin the plans in the first place. You must understand that in my youth I attended the Royal Naval College in Greenwich. Graduated from that admirable institution, having made many friends there down through the years, I am forced to admit that I am fairly well known throughout the British navy. So much so that old shipmates still refer to me as Count Iggy. Someone not too bright, but very rich and well known as an ever-flowing font of champagne.”

“Well, Count Iggy,” Sherman said. “I have only coffee to offer you now. Please do sit and have some. Then, perhaps, you will enlighten us as to the reason for this sub-rosa encounter.”

“I will be most delighted, General. Delighted!”

The Count took the chair farthest from the window and nodded his thanks when Fox passed him a cup of coffee. He sipped a bit before he spoke.

“My greatest indulgence these days is my little boat, the Aurora. I suppose you would call her more of a yacht than a boat. A steam launch, since I never could master all of those ropes and lines and sails and things that most sailors are so fond of. It is really quite jolly to fool about in. Makes traveling here and there and everywhere most easy as well. People admire her lines, but rarely query her presence.”

Sherman nodded. “That is most interesting, Count, but—”

“But why am I telling you this? You are wondering. I do have my reasons — first I must bore you with some of my family history. History tells us that the Korzhenevskis were glorious, but impoverished Polish nobility until my great-grandfather chose to join the navy of Peter the Great in 1709. He had served with great valor in the Swedish navy, but was more than happy to change sides when the Swedes were defeated by the Russians. He was still in the service when Peter expanded the Russian navy, and my reading of our family history reveals that his career was a most distinguished one. My great-grandfather, who was also very much a linguist, learned English and actually attended the British Royal Naval College in Greenwich. Very much the anglophile, he married into a family of the lesser nobility, who, impoverished as they were, considered him a great catch. Ever since then our family, in St. Petersburg, has been very English-orientated. I grew up speaking both languages and, like the eldest son of each generation, attended the Greenwich Naval College. So there you have it — you see before you an Englishman in all but name.”