Chapter 6
Turin
If it hadn’t previously been obvious to Terrye Jo, it became quite clear what it was about a few nights later.
It had been a cold, blustery day, rather like late fall in West Virginia. The kind of day that Ms. Maddox, when she was in a particularly cruel mood—which happened a lot—would make the girls in her P.E. class run outside, to be blown around by the wind or be forced to stand and do exercises and wait for the rain to pelt down on them. It was a part of West Virginia she didn’t miss. Ms. Maddox had joined up with Harry Lefferts, Terrye Jo had heard, and instead of operating a radio tower for a duke was off having adventures in Italy or somewhere. But P.E. class was miles and years away, lost forever.
The rain and sleet never quite came. By evening the wind had mostly driven the clouds away to leave it cold and clear, just about perfect weather for radio transmission. She had gone up to the operations room to check on things—and found Louis de Vendôme lounging there, with a few of his attendants standing by, looking bored.
“Mademoiselle Tillman,” he said, standing and sweeping his impressive hat from his head as he bowed. “I have been waiting for you.” For some time went unsaid.
“I’ve just come from dinner. If you needed me, Henri or Sylvie could have sent word.” The brother and sister, a clerk and seamstress in the duke’s staff at the Castello who had shown some aptitude, were on duty this evening. She’d come up to check on them—the weather was too good, so someone should be up here practicing.
“I bid them return to their duties. I beg your indulgence if I have overstepped.”
“Their duty is here, my lord. So, yes. Overstepped. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” She wanted to move past him into the room, but he didn’t seem inclined toward getting out of the way.
This could become ugly. Terrye Jo knew she could take care of herself, though with four or five of the Frenchmen it wasn’t a sure thing, even if they underestimated her—which they were likely to do. But still.
“As I say,” the nobleman said smoothly, “I beg your indulgence. I am expecting the imminent arrival of His Royal Highness.”
“Monsieur Gaston wants to inspect the premises?”
“That…and he wishes to make use of them. And you.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“Your professional services,” Louis said, his perfect courtier’s smile twitching downward for a moment, then returning to its place. “He has arranged to communicate at this day and hour.”
Terrye Jo thought about it for at least long enough for the smile to start to disappear again, then she said, “All right. Fine. I assume he has a prepared call sign and frequency?”
“He has…whatever he needs. He will clarify all when he arrives.”
It was clear that Louis de Vendôme had no idea what she meant. It was a fair guess that he didn’t truly understand how radio communication worked at all, but that was just as well.
“I’d better fire up the set,” she said, and this time he stepped aside to admit her to the room.
It was cold as usual, but everything was in order and put away except for two freshly sharpened Number 2 pencils, a block of paper and the small penknife that substituted for a pencil sharpener. On the pad, in what looked like Henri’s hand, were the words pardonnez-moi, as if they’d be blamed for abandoning their posts. They were not accustomed to saying no to princes.
The set was an impressive-looking thing, with more decoration than any radio deserved to have, but that was the seventeenth century for you; inside it was really very simple. They’d installed a very sensitive dial with gradations that adjusted a tuning capacitor for the receiver. It was the responsibility of the on-duty operator to carefully note any transmissions and the dial position showing their frequency. The transmitter had a similar adjustment mechanism: the dial and a sliding bar controlled a spark-gap rig based on an old instruction book from the 1920s published by the National Bureau of Standards. They’d found it in Terrye Jo’s dad’s attic, where it had survived water damage and the Ring of Fire. The whole thing was powered by a bank of six Leyden-jar capacitors under the table, set in a wooden frame with a trough below, big enough to hold the contents of a jar if it should ever break. There were two knife switches on the front of the rig to engage or disengage them, and a sturdily built telegraph key mounted on a heavy wooden block, connected to the box by an insulated wire.
It would have been more impressive to have everything open. The transmitter, when powered, created a blue corona around the spark gap that was too bright to look at when the gain was all the way up—but maybe it was better to keep everything in a carved box to maintain the illusion, Wizard of Oz-like. It was for job security if nothing else. It was best that most folks, especially princes, didn’t realize just how simple it all was…in the right hands.
She put on a pair of earphones and plugged them into a jack on the front of the box. There was a little volume control on the earphone cord. She turned it up and slowly moved the dial to a known position to see if she could pick up the transmitter from Bern, just as a baseline.
Thus when Gaston d’Orleans arrived she didn’t notice. She knew that Louis was standing a few paces behind her at the door, as if he didn’t want to get any closer to the wizardry. Gaston, on the other hand, seemed to have no fear—and a childlike curiosity.
She reached for one of the pencils without looking, and instead of the familiar wooden shaft, she touched a smooth, warm hand. She jerked her hand back and stood up, pulling the earphones off her head.
“What remarkable instruments,” Gaston said, holding a Number 2 in his hand. “Tisond…Tisonger…”
“Ticonderoga,” Terrye Jo said, giving the “I” the proper long sound. “It’s an Indian name. Native North American.” She looked from Gaston to the small shelf that held two boxes of authentic up-timer pencils. When transcribing a telegraph message, a good old Number 2 was much more useful than a quill and ink.
“Ty-son-de…”
“Ticonderoga. There’s no cedilla under the c, Highness. I think there’s a small company in Magdeburg that has started to make pencils, but they’re not as good as the genuine article.” She thought about it for a moment and added, “if you’d like one I’d be happy to make you a present of it.”
“I graciously accept.” He gave his most charming smile, glancing at his loyal follower Louis. “But let me not disturb you. I assume circumstances are fortuitous for us to send a message this evening?”
“I’ll need some information.”
“Ah.” He reached into a sleeve and drew out a small rectangle of paper and handed it to her. “This is the…frequency? Yes. And the call sign.”
Terrye Jo nodded approvingly. Louis was leaning very slightly forward to see what was written, showing more curiosity than she would have credited him with. She set the card on the table in front of her and put the headphones back on. She slowly moved the dial to the frequency Gaston had indicated. There was some small amount of background noise, but it was in a relatively clear part of the radio spectrum—a good choice by whoever had picked it.
GJBF, she sent. GJBF, GJBF. She wasn’t sure what the JBF was for—something something France, she supposed—but the G was probably for Gaston. GJBF. CQ CQ. CQ was the signal for anyone listening to respond.
She looked up at Gaston, who was watching intently. There was no immediate response; the frequency was quiet. She looked down at the card, and checked the position of the master dial. It was set correctly. He’d told her nothing about who might be waiting for the message. She imagined some guy, dressed like the prince, waiting by a set somewhere far away.
GBJF GBJF GBJF, she sent again. CQ CQ CQ.
She waited another several seconds and was just about to tell Monsieur Gaston that there was no response—and then she heard something. It was faint and halting, as if being transmitted by someone with little skill on a telegraph key. It certainly wasn’t a “fist” she recognized. To a trained operator, the “fist” was the style and pattern of a sender—not quite as unique as a fingerprint, but like the sound of a human voice, they could be told apart.
GBJF, she heard. SPAR SPAR KN
It repeated once more, and she wrote it down on the pad and showed it to Gaston. SPAR was a call sign, one she didn’t recognize. But Gaston did.
“That is my servant in Paris,” he said, laying a finger on the pad. “SPAR. Well done, Mademoiselle. Are they ready to send?”
“They’re waiting for you, Highness,” she answered. “That’s what the KN means.”
“Ah. Bon. Ask them about the queen.”
“All right…anything specific?” He didn’t answer, so she shrugged. She sent GBJF SPAR COMMENT EST LA REINE? KN
There was another long pause, and then slowly, almost painfully, there was a response, beginning with SPAR GBJF. She copied it down, letter by letter, onto the pad.
LA REINE A UN POLICHINELLE DANS LE TIROIR, she wrote. The queen has…something in the something, but she wasn’t sure. She sent GBJF SPAR QSM—please send the last message again.
“Is there any—” Gaston said, and she held up her hand. She was fairly sure that princes weren’t used to having that happen, but she needed to hear what was being transmitted. The message was as before. When it had been fully transmitted again she lifted the pad and showed it to him.
Apparently whatever something was in the something, it meant something to Monsieur Gaston. His expression went pale, and then hardened into a tight-lipped anger.
“You’re sure that this message was sent, Mademoiselle Tillman. This exact message.”
“I had them repeat it. Your servant isn’t a very good telegrapher, but this is what he sent. I have no idea what it means.”
“A polichinelle is…a sort of puppet. A marionette. My servant says that the queen has a puppet in the drawer—it is a common expression. It means…that the queen is pregnant.”
Terrye Jo smiled. “A bun in the oven,” she said in English. “Un p’tit pain dans le four,” she translated. “I guess it doesn’t make any sense in French.”
“It is not an expression we use, Mademoiselle. But yes, the sense would be the same.” He held the pad tightly, and for just a moment she thought he might slam it down or throw it at something. But instead he placed it on the desk and slowly, carefully adjusted the lace of his cuffs.
She heard QSL in her headphones. Can you acknowledge receipt?
Without looking away from Gaston, she reached her hand to the telegraph key and sent, GBJF SN. ENTENDU. Understood.
“What was that, then?”
“I told them you’d gotten the message. What do you want me to send now?”
“Ask them…where is the queen now?”
Terrye Jo nodded, and turned again to face the radio set. GBJF SPAR OU EST LA REINE? KN, she sent.
SPAR GBJF RECLUSION HORS DE PARIS.
“She is away from Paris,” she said. “In…seclusion?”
“But where?”
GBJF SPAR OU? She sent, asking where.
SPAR GBJF UN GRAND SECRET SOUS LA ROBE ROUGE.
“I’m not sure what that means, Highness,” she said, showing him the pad again. “The secret is under…”
“Beneath the red robe,” Gaston said. “Richelieu. He has sent her somewhere in secret. He knows where she is, but my loyal servant does not. Very well. Send him…tell him that as he loves me, it is paramount that he locate her and report to me. At once.”
GBJF SPAR TROUVER LA REINE ET SIGNALER IMMEDIATEMENT, she sent, and then added IMMEDIATEMENT TOUT SUITE PAR ORDRE G. She figured that would be enough for them to get the at once part of his orders.
SPAR GBJF ENTENDU SN.
“They got the message.”
“Good. Excellent.” He turned on his heel and walked to the door, then turned, as if he’d forgotten something.
“Was there anything else?” she asked.
“No. Not tonight…ah.” He looked at Louis. “Attend me,” he said. “But by all means pay her.”
Without turning, she reached for the key and sent CL—closing down. In her earphones she heard SN.
Louis reached into an inside pocket of his cloak and took out a small pouch which rattled. He dropped it on to a chair without a word and swept out after his master. Terrye Jo had a moment’s urge to pick it up and throw it at his head. The abrupt end to the conversation and the way he’d left money for her—not by handing it over but by leaving it behind—felt vaguely insulting.
Gaston had worked hard at charming her, but she was very much like a Number 2 pencil: a tool. This was an unequal relationship, and he’d just shown her who was the prince and who was the servant.
SN, she thought. I understand.