A torpedo and launching gear arrived the following week.

  ‘Where did you get it all from?’ asked Edward admiringly.

  ‘Chap called Zaharoff,’ his uncle replied. ‘He’d sell you a battleship if you had the cash.’

  ‘It looks wicked,’ Sam said, staring at the shining cigar-shaped tube.

  ‘They are wicked,’ Egg agreed. ‘But not that one. The warhead’s full of cork and water.’

  The launching gear consisted of two sliding chocks which held the torpedo, and two fixed chocks which secured it in position on the side of the vessel. The two fixed chocks were connected by a bar which carried the firing mechanism, and an electrical release system. On firing, the chocks carrying the torpedo slid out and dropped over the side of the boat so that the torpedo fell into the water.

  ‘What sets it off?’

  Egg’s hand moved along the firing bar. ‘This. It carries a special gyro-starting tripper which sets off the gyro by means of a special starting lever fitted to the weapon. As the torpedo enters the water the air lever which starts the motor is thrown by a tremendously complicated device known as a piece of wire, made fast at one end to the boat; the other end’s looped over the air lever.’

  ‘Does it really work?’

  ‘Let’s give it a try,’ said Egg.

  The weight of the torpedo reduced the speed by three knots but this didn’t matter because it still remained faster than most launches. The big problem was that steering was difficult and they found that no matter how hard they worked to keep the helm up the boat always had a tendency to turn to starboard. Trying the weight on the port side made no difference because then the boat turned to port.

  ‘We need a compensating weight on the other side,’ Sam said. ‘Could we carry two torpedoes?’

  ‘Too expensive,’ said Egg.

  There was no time to do more. Egg had booked them aboard the SS Fabricius, due in Naples by the end of the month.

  Thirteen

  Built round a beautiful bay, Naples demanded and received affection. Superstitious, religious, and vital, it bubbled with warmth, colour, noise and music. People lived with the constant jangling of church bells, the vibrant throb of mandolins from cafés and the prayers of priests, with the smell of horse dung and incense.

  Red, white and green Italian flags flapped everywhere and everybody was wearing rosettes. The brash new Italy had decided to chivvy tired old Turkey into giving up her North African possessions. Though Turkey’s dominion was supposed to run through the Middle East along the North African coast and into the Balkans, it was in fact Britain who controlled Egypt. France controlled Algeria and Tunis, and Spain had Morocco. To take her place in the community of colonial nations, Italy wanted Libya, and the streets were packed with young conscripts wearing large sun helmets and baggy trousers.

  Sam and Edward spent the first night at a small family hotel. The next day, they went round to see a family named della Strada, relations of Zoparella, who lived near the Vomero and to whom they had received an introduction via Orlandos. Edward dropped back into Italian life with ease, but Sam found it harder to adjust. It was the first time he had been away from home, he didn’t speak the language, and wasn’t sure that he liked the food. But he was too busy to worry for long. They found a workshop near the slip, in a small-boat basin called the East Aghieri Quay. It was arranged for the boat to be brought there, complete with crates of spare parts. The workshop was shared with a carpenter-boatbuilder called Bartolini. He was also related to the della Stradas and until Sam got the hang of things and could find his way about, the youngest della Strada, Alessandro, was hired to look after him. The boy was obsessed with America and keen to improve his English.

  ‘In America,’ he said, ‘everybody has a motor car. Also they eat meat every day of the week – with ice cream to follow. I have cousins in Florida.’

  There had been no letters from Rafaela, just a card from Switzerland. All it had said was ‘I am so happy. Kisses. Rafaela.’ Edward looked forward to seeing her eventually in Messina, but for the time being he was preoccupied with work.

  They set up a fitter’s bench and found rope, blocks, tackles and spares; tools, paint, varnish, files, batteries; even an oxy-acetylene welding outfit. Sam was in his element.

  It didn’t take long to discover that Major Boboli – now, it seemed, Brigadier General Boboli – was not in Italy. Letters addressed to him in Taranto were returned with an accompanying letter to explain that he was in Somaliland and could not be reached.

  ‘Well,’ Sam said, ‘that seems to be that. Where do we look now?’

  ‘God knows, Sam,’ Edward replied. ‘I thought this was going to be a doddle. Now Boboli’s disappeared into the wild blue yonder I don’t know what the hell we do. Have a good time on expenses and go home…’

  But the following morning a letter arrived from Rafaela. She was coming to Naples, and was very interested in seeing Edward’s boat.

  Dido was lowered in her cradle onto the quay, and moved round to the East Aghieri Quay. Work started immediately. Within a week they were ready to slip her.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with her,’ Sam said. ‘A few adjustments, that’s all. Things we’ll find out when we run her at speed.’

  The boat was sent down the slip and floated off its cradle. Edward found a launch to tow them to clear water. Around the bay lay the blue mountains, with Vesuvius towering in the distance and Capri and Ischia shadowy shapes out to sea. As they cast off the tow, the hired launch stood by in case of problems, Alessandro watching enviously from the deck.

  They made several runs, one with Mama della Strada’s son shouting with excitement, as they raced across the water. Towing the boat back to the boat-yard, they switched the paraffin tank and petrol tank lines. When they towed her out again, the difference was magical. The boat seemed to fly over the waves.

  ‘Sam,’ Edward yelled. ‘We can’t muck about with paraffin anymore. Not when you can get this speed from petrol.’

  ‘What about the navy?’

  ‘Stuff the navy. It’s run by a lot of old fogeys who think they’re Nelson. Times have changed.’

  Everything was ready when Rafaela’s telegram arrived. Edward met her at the station. She was accompanied by a smart young woman with short, fair hair. Rafaela gave Edward a hesitant kiss.

  ‘This is Adela Cremoni,’ she said. ‘She goes everywhere with me. She is Italian-Swiss and very, very efficient.’

  Feeling awkward, but putting a brave face on it, Edward took them by carozza to the East Aghieri Quay. Rafaela slipped her arm through his, while Adela Cremoni sat opposite, clutching a bag and a briefcase, bolt upright, her hat over her nose against the sunshine.

  ‘How did you find me?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Orlandos know everything,’ Rafaela smiled. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to. Tell me about your boats.’

  ‘We reached thirty knots yesterday,’ he said, with a huge grin. ‘But I want to hear about you.’

  ‘I’ve been quite busy, as you can imagine. After you left it was like living in purdah. But now I do as I wish. I’ve been all over Italy, and to Greece and Albania, setting up business deals. People seem to have got used to having a woman in charge. I’m thinking of going into shipping. And motor cars, and typewriters. Clothing and shoes, too. We have to expand.’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ said Edward. ‘Tell me, do you live alone these days?’

  She hesitated. ‘Not quite,’ she said.

  The carriage came to a halt and Sam rushed forward to help Rafaela down. His admiration was obvious. Rafaela was dressed in pale yellow with a wide hat and a sunshade of the same colour. The months since Edward had seen her had changed her. She had grown even more beautiful.

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ whispered Sam. ‘You must tell me your secret.’

  ‘You have to get shipwrecked,’ muttered Edward.

  ‘Now, show me this boat of yours,’ said Rafaela. ‘I want to try her.’

  ‘You will get oil on your dress,’ said Edward.

  ‘I can buy another.’

  Sam produced an oilskin, but Signorina Cremoni dived into the bag she was carrying and brought out a spotless lightweight white mackintosh and cap.

  Rafaela beamed at Edward. ‘You see,’ she said.

  With Sam driving the launch, they towed the Bourdillon into the bay, Alessandro handling the ropes, Signorina Cremoni sitting sulkily in the cabin.

  ‘She thought we were going on a ferry,’ Rafaela laughed. ‘I hope she’s not sick.’

  ‘Does she live with you?’

  ‘Just her and Zia Monica and the maids and gardeners. And Beppo, of course.’

  ‘Who’s this Beppo?’

  ‘There’s no need to be jealous. He drives me about in the carriage. But he says I am in too much of a hurry. I should buy a motor car. He’s probably right.’

  Stopping the engines, they anchored the launch and transferred to the Bourdillon. Signorina Cremoni looked alarmed. ‘Am I to be left alone?’ she bleated.

  Rafaela laughed. ‘Don’t worry. The little boy will look after you,’ she said.

  The roar of the engine starting made Rafaela jump, but as the boat made its first run she shrieked with delight. As they shut down and the boat wallowed, the stern lifting under its own wash, Rafaela said, ‘Now it’s my turn.’

  ‘Throttle by your right hand,’ Edward said. ‘Forward to increase speed. Try it. Slowly.’

  She advanced the throttle, her eyes gleaming.

  ‘How much more?’

  ‘Push it all the way.’

  The Bourdillon surged forward. Spray lashed their faces, and Rafaela’s hair came loose. ‘She’s wonderful,’ Rafaela cried, breathlessly. ‘You’ll sell hundreds.’

  That evening, they dined at Rafaela’s hotel and she listened carefully while he outlined his plans for the boat.

  ‘Why didn’t you come back?’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘I was busy.’

  ‘Too busy to come back?’

  ‘Rafaela, ours isn’t a great firm like Orlandos. I don’t have a lot of money behind me. My uncle gave me the chance, and I’m determined to make it work.’

  ‘You forgot me.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  ‘I needed you.’

  Edward was saved by the telephone. It was a man he’d met from Lake Maggiore. ‘I’d like to buy one of your Bourdillons. But I’ve had the devil’s own job tracking you down.’ He insisted on talking about prices, guarantees and delivery dates and Edward was conscious that his replies could be heard all over the dining room. When he returned to the table, Rafaela was fuming, her eyes bright with anger.

  ‘There were things I wanted to tell you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry about the telephone call. But it is the first nibble.’

  ‘Oh, Edward. This is impossible. I think you should leave now.’

  ‘Can I see you tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow I shall be in Venice. I have business there.’

  ‘Rafaela…’ Edward reached out to take her hand, but she pulled away.

  ‘Good night, Edward.’

  He wanted to overturn the table and take her in his arms. But instead, he stood up, pushed back his chair and walked out of the dining room without looking back.

  Edward took the Bourdillon to Genoa, Civitavecchia, Brindisi and Rimini. There was plenty of interest, but no offers. The man on Lake Maggiore withdrew at the last moment. Feeling very low, Edward returned to Naples.

  There was no one in the office. Edward sat down at his empty desk, and felt overwhelmingly tired. Then, suddenly, the door burst open, and in rushed Sam.

  ‘Spaghetti alla vongole,’ he said in his atrocious accent. ‘Out of this world. I never thought I’d think it, but this stuff beats English food any day.’ He fished in a drawer and produced a letter. ‘We’ve had a nibble,’ he said, casually.

  It was from a lawyer’s office and asked for a demonstration.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Edward leapt for the telephone.

  The lawyer, who introduced himself as Avvocato Ferignani, confirmed he had a client.

  ‘May I ask his name?’ Edward was half-hoping he might be a naval man.

  ‘Signor Marco Matschek. Can you show him the boat tomorrow? He is in Naples only for a limited period.’

  Thank God he had returned when he had, Edward thought.

  ‘Tomorrow will be fine,’ he agreed. ‘Who’s he buying for? Do you know? Himself?’

  ‘I am not aware that anyone else is involved.’

  Slamming the telephone down, Edward said, ‘We’d better give her a trial run this afternoon.’

  ‘You can if you want,’ Sam replied. ‘But there’s no need. She’s running as smoothly as a sewing machine.’

  They did a trial run, nevertheless. As Sam had said, there was nothing they could fault.

  At first light the next day, they were both standing by the boat. They didn’t have long to wait. Signor Matschek arrived minutes after them. He was tall with a long blue-jowled face. He was dressed in a black raincoat, wore a grey felt hat and carried a black leather briefcase.

  They offered him coffee, even brandy. ‘No thank you.’ His voice was clipped and nasal. ‘I’ve come to see a boat, not for a drink.’ He examined the Bourdillon thoroughly, asking questions which were to the point and knowledgeable. They discussed prices, fuel consumption, technical and financial details, and he insisted on studying the engines, then listened, his head on one side, as they started up.

  ‘Bourdillon Mark II, petrol,’ Edward said nervously.

  ‘I see no point in building a fast boat and running it on slow fuel,’ said Matschek. ‘Shall we see her in action?’

  He took off his hat and handed it to Alessandro who solemnly carried it to the office. Then he took a cap from his briefcase. It had ear-flaps that tied under his chin. He buttoned his raincoat to the throat. ‘Shall we go?’ he said.

  They were towed into the bay by the launch with Sam at the wheel and Alessandro watching the stern.

  ‘Do you always have to tow her out to start her?’ Matschek asked.

  ‘It’s just a precaution. There’s a lot of flotsam near the quay.’

  ‘Perhaps you should hire a decent basin.’

  Perhaps they should. If they could only sell the bloody boat, Edward thought savagely, they bloody would.

  The launch stopped and dropped anchor, and Sam joined them on board and cast off the tow rope. The engines exploded to life with a satisfying thump and a roar. Opening the throttle, Edward raced the boat along what he judged to be a kilometre then slowed down.

  ‘That was fast?’ Matschek said. ‘What about longer distances?’

  ‘Where would you like to go?’ Edward asked sarcastically. ‘Posillipo?’

  Matschek’s expression didn’t change. ‘Perhaps Capri,’ he suggested.

  Edward swung the boat round and roared south. The boat behaved perfectly.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Matschek suggested, ‘we should stop for a drink. I am interested to see how well she restarts.’

  ‘The Emperor Tiberius,’ Matschek pointed out, as they sipped their wine on the quayside, ‘liked to throw his enemies off there.’ He gestured at the high cliffs.

  They watched the donkeys labouring up the slope to Anacapri, tottering on tiny feet with Thomas Cook’s tourists on their backs.

  When they returned to the boat they found it being studied by a large crowd. Matschek solemnly put his cap back on, tied the flaps and buttoned his raincoat. There was a titter from one or two of the onlookers, then a cheer as the Bourdillon restarted, first pop.

  Roaring back towards the mainland, they shut down alongside the launch. They towed the boat back and made fast. Matschek stepped ashore, still frozen-faced.

  ‘Well?’ Edward asked.

  Matschek removed his cap and replaced it with the grey felt hat which Alessandro brought from the office, carrying it carefully before him as though it were a platter with John the Baptist’s head.

  ‘Your boat,’ said Matschek, ‘is strong and powerful. But you are trying to sell it as a pleasure boat to playboys who will be terrified.’

  ‘But are you interested?’ Edward asked.

  ‘I will let you know. Buon giorno.’

  Turning on his heel, Matschek marched straight-backed through the boat-yard gates where he waved to a cab and vanished among the teeming streets of the city.

  Fourteen

  ‘Perhaps he was right,’ Edward said, staring through the window at the untidy East Aghieri Quay. There was an old tug which hadn’t moved for years, green slime hanging on her mooring ropes, a sagging lifeboat from a sunken ship which was half full of water, launches with peeling paint, pinnaces with drab unpolished brass funnels. ‘Perhaps we should find somewhere better.’

  ‘It wouldn’t make a better boat,’ said Sam.

  A week passed and they heard nothing. Edward was composing a letter to Uncle Egg, explaining their failure, when a young man wearing an ear-biting high collar appeared in the doorway. He removed his hat to show a parting top dead centre as if it had been cut with a knife.

  ‘Bassani, Andolfo,’ he said. ‘At your service, Signori. From Avvocato Ferignani. Will you please call on him as soon as possible?’

  Ferignani had Edward shown to his office immediately he arrived. He produced papers and what looked suspiciously like a bank draft.

  ‘You have sold your boat, Signor Bordillone,’ he beamed. ‘Signor Matscheck was most impressed.’

  After the initial euphoria had worn off, Sam and Edward were sad to see the Bourdillon go. They cradled the boat and saw her lifted by slings to the deck of a coaster heading for Brindisi and then up the Adriatic to Venice. Ferignani had made enquiries but couldn’t find out who wanted it.

  For the first time Edward began to grow suspicious. The British newspapers were full of the growing jealousy of the German Kaiser for the British fleet. ‘If the Germans have got the Bourdillon, there’s nothing to stop them copying it.’