Conspiracy

by Iain Gale

  ‘You’re a very lucky man, captain. Perhaps too lucky. You should take care.’

  Fouché rose from the table, followed by Talleyrand and escorted by Harrison. Together with the two thugs, ‘skull-face’ and ‘bull-neck’, they left through the same door by which they had entered.

  Madame d’Ecrambier shook her head and stroked Keane’s shoulder. ‘I thought you said that you had never played.’

  ‘You should never believe everything that you hear, especially from an Irishman at a gambling table. Now, madame, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business with the caisse.’

  As he was exchanging his ingots for francs, Archer came up.

  ‘You’ll never guess, sir. I won.’

  ‘Oh, really. How much?’

  ‘Three thousand, sir.’

  Keane turned to him. ‘Three thousand? How on earth?’

  ‘I just took your advice, and every time I won I just said “suivi” and put everything back on.’

  Keane laughed. ‘You’re clearly a great deal madder than you look, Archer. Well done.’

  *

  With some difficulty Keane managed to decline the entreaties of Madame d’Ecrambier to join her for breakfast and, laden with their winnings, he and Archer finally left the Palais-Royal at close to two in the morning. They had gone no more than two blocks along the street, however, when he became conscious that they were being followed.

  It appeared that his hunch about Fouché’s reaction to his win at the tables had been correct. For there was soon no doubt in his mind that the heavy footfall which was following them belonged to Fouché’s two thugs, who had now been joined by a third. Undoubtedly their orders were to catch up with the Irishmen and attempt to take his money back. Simple enough of course, and he doubted if the heavies would realize how little a value their employer placed on their lives.

  If Keane and Archer were killed by the assassins, then Fouché would know they were not worthy of a place in his household and the money would again be his. If, on the other hand Keane and Archer should win and dispose of the three men, he could be confident that on that count they were worthy of taking on as his own. Either way, he would win. Either way, men were about to die.

  *

  Keane spoke to Archer without turning his head. ‘Don’t look. Three men, across the street. Rear. Two hundred yards.’

  They carried on in the direction of Macpherson’s house and Keane saw that up ahead of them a small close led off to the right. He shot a glance at Archer and mouthed, ‘Down here.’ As soon as they were level with the opening Keane turned down it sharply, followed hard by Archer. The passageway was narrow and led through to a square beyond. Houses lay on either side, four and five storeys high with lines of washing strung out across the void. The two men whom Keane recognized as skull-face and bull-neck ran along the close and halfway down took another right turn. Keane turned and drew his sword and at the same time pulled a pistol from inside his coat. It was pre-loaded. He saw that Archer had done the same. ‘That’s it. One each with one shot, then the third.’ They could hear the men in the alleyway now and saw a shadow pass across the end of the turning. The man walked past and then doubled back and walked towards them. They could see him now and beyond him the shadows cast by the others. He shouted to them, and Archer, who had been holding his pistol out with his arm extended, pulled the trigger. The matchlock exploded and the ball found its target. The man doubled up, but neither Keane nor Archer could say where he had been hit. Archer cursed. ‘Damn. Sorry, sir. Too quick.’

  He was right, for the shot had warned the other two men and now the alleyway ahead of them stood empty. All was silent save for the groaning of the wounded man, who lay squirming on his side in the dirt of the lane.

  Keane spoke. ‘Reload. Take the chance while they work out what to do.’

  Archer obeyed and Keane wondered what was going through the remaining two killers’ minds.

  ‘They won’t charge us now. But they need to get the job done. They know we’re stuck here. They might send for reinforcements.’

  ‘What should we do, sir?’

  ‘Only two things we can do, Archer. We can sit it out here and see what happens. Or we can take the fight to them. Personally I’ve never been one for waiting. Shall we?’

  Gripping his sword and pistol he smiled at Archer and then together they ran the length of the alleyway, vaulting over the dying man. They turned into the main lane, one in each direction, and as they did so a shot rang out. The pistol ball smacked into the wall about an inch above Archer’s head. He turned in the direction of the shot and, seeing the flash of a figure, fired. There was a shout as the bullet tore into the man’s upper arm. Archer stood his ground and waited. Keane meanwhile could not see hide nor hair of his man and the assassin chose not to reveal his position. Keane sensed this man must be the leader, skull-face from the gambling house. He advanced along the lane, and finding a barrel in his path ducked down behind it and listened.

  He could hear heavy breathing, coming from, he estimated, perhaps thirty yards away to his left. On his side of the lane. Probably behind an outhouse he had noted on their way down the lane. He wondered how to lure the man out. Something thrown against the side of the building might do it. Or some other diversion. A sudden shot would be enough. He thought of Archer. Yes, a cry from Archer’s side of the lane might goad the man into action, and then as he moved a stone thrown against the building would confuse him and Keane would have his moment. He was about to turn to Archer when from behind him came precisely the cry he had been about to encourage. It seemed that Archer had anticipated him. As he had thought, there was movement up ahead. Keane looked down and, seeing a loose cobble, picked it up and hurled it towards the wall of the outbuilding where it smashed into the bricks with a terrific crash. There was another cry from his rear.

  Keane spun round and saw Archer pinned against the wall of the lane by bull-neck, the blade of a stiletto dagger held close against his throat.

  The shout had been a cry not of diversion but for help. There was a noise from behind Keane and turning he saw the third killer, skull-face, standing in the lane, his pistol pointed directly at Keane’s head. The man spoke. ‘We’ve got your friend. Give us the cash.’

  ‘You must be friends of Monsieur Fouché. I’m sure he’s most anxious to be reacquainted with his money.’

  ‘No clever stuff, or he gets it. In the neck. Hold him, Jacques. Give us the money or you both get it.’

  ‘I’m sure that we’ll both “get it” anyway. Besides, I no longer have the money. It’s in a safe place.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Really? Come and search me then.’

  The man hesitated. ‘Not likely. Where is it? Tell me, or he gets it.’

  ‘All right. I’ll take you to it. But you must take the knife away from his throat.’

  The leader nodded to bull-neck. ‘Do it.’

  Jacques pulled away the knife, but kept Archer’s arm in a tight lock. Keane smiled. ‘Thank you. And if you wouldn’t mind lowering your pistol, it’s not good for my memory. I’m likely to forget where I put the money.’

  Skull-face lowered the pistol, but kept it pointed at Keane. ‘Hurry up. We haven’t got all night.’

  ‘I presume your master told you to hurry back like good little thugs.’

  ‘Don’t be funny. We just want the money.’

  ‘I know, or he “gets it”. Got it, Archer?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I think so.’

  ‘Good. Follow me, gentlemen.’

  With Keane leading the way, they moved carefully down the alley and back to the main street, where they turned left and began to walk back towards the palais. All the way Keane was forming a plan in his mind. At any moment the leader of the thugs would realize that he had missed a trick and that if his companion held a knife again to Archer’s throat
, Keane would have to allow him to search his clothes and then he would find the money. His best option, he thought, would be to take them back to the gambling house and hope that it was still busy. That being the case the men would have to hide their pistol and it would not be hard to overcome them. That at least was what he hoped. But what if the palais was not as busy and there was not a chance to tackle the two men? Archer’s captor would snap his arm and the leader would shoot Keane before dispatching Archer. He weighed up the other options. There were none.

  They were getting closer to the palais with every step. The streets were empty, save for a few drunks trying to find their way home, and no one gave a second glance to four men walking together. Indeed Archer and his companion might have been just two more drunks, supporting each other as they stumbled along, and skull-face had covered his pistol with a fold of his cloak and held it, as Keane was only too aware, pointed at his prisoner’s back. The palais buildings were within sight now. The leader growled in Keane’s ear, ‘How much further?’

  ‘Not long now. Be patient.’

  *

  In reply he felt the muzzle of the gun poke into his backbone.

  They were entering the palais now and, to his horror, Keane saw that the place was almost deserted. Walking towards the gambling house he thought fast.

  ‘The money’s in a box just inside the door. I have hidden the key, and I’ll need to bend down to get it. All right?’

  Skull-face, standing behind him, grunted. ‘Very well.’

  Reaching the door to the gambling house, Keane began to bend down as if looking for something on the ground. Behind him, the pistol still covered with his cloak, his captor looked on with interest, absorbed in the hunt. Keane judged his moment and, just as skull-face was craning his neck to see over Keane’s back, he turned and aimed a punch towards his groin. The man groaned and doubled up as Keane followed up with a left-handed chop to the back of his neck which sent him to the ground. Meanwhile, Archer had moved against bull-neck, whose attention had been taken by the attack on his partner. Breaking free from his grip, he tripped him with his right foot. The man fell backwards and landed sprawling on the cobbles. Archer wasted no time. Drawing his sword, he slashed at the man’s throat, opening a broad lane of bright red. Keane drew his own sword and plunged it into skull-face’s back, level with his heart. The man dropped flat to the cobbles and Keane withdrew the blade.

  ‘That was close. Too close, I think. Come on. We should get home before they’re missed.’

  They had reached the junction with rue du Bac, almost at Macpherson’s door, when Keane heard footsteps again, behind them. He turned to Archer. ‘That’s it. They’ve found them.’

  ‘Should we stand, sir?’

  ‘I don’t see what else we can do.’

  Together the two men turned and drew their swords. But it was not a group of assassins that greeted them, but Colonel Harrison, and he was alone.

  *

  Keane laughed. ‘Colonel Harrison, don’t tell me. Let me guess. This is another of Monsieur Fouché’s little surprises and in a moment we shall be surrounded by his friends.’

  The American smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m sure that I don’t know what you mean, Captain Williams. I am merely a messenger. Monsieur Fouché sent me. With a note for you, captain. I’m quite alone.’

  There was certainly no sign of anyone else on the street, save a prostitute supporting one of her clients as he stumbled home and an old man urinating in the gutter.

  Harrison handed a folded paper to Keane, who took it and opened it up to read.

  It was in a slim, spidery hand and bore Fouché’s signature. Keane scanned it:

  *

  My dear Captain Williams,

  After tonight’s fascinating sequence of events, it has occurred to me that perhaps you might be of some real use to the empire. Perhaps I might find a use for you that would prove to be to our mutual benefit. Do me the kindness to be at my office in the rue du Bac, Noon tomorrow.’

  *

  Keane folded the paper and tucked it inside his coat.

  ‘Fascinating, colonel. Quite intriguing.’

  ‘Monsieur Fouché is nothing if not intriguing, captain. I trust that he has offered you a position. Didn’t I tell you he’d find a use for you? You’ve landed on your feet there.’

  ‘You’re forgetting, colonel. I already hold a commission in the army of France. I am fully employed.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but with Fouché’s kind of work you can do this at the same time as other jobs. In fact the two often go hand in hand.’

  ‘You work for Fouché?’

  Harrison nodded. ‘Why not? It often seems to me that half of le tout Paris work for Fouché. You never know who’s bogus and who’s not. Take the gambling house for instance. How many of those people do you suppose were employed or paid by Fouché? I’ll tell you. Almost all of them.’

  ‘And the three thugs who tried to kill us this evening?’

  ‘I’m sure I have no idea to what you’re referring.’

  ‘I saw you with them in the gambling house. The skull-face and the bull neck.’

  ‘I’m sure that you’re mistaken. I know no one like that.’

  ‘Nor will you, colonel.’

  ‘They don’t sound like Fouché’s people. He is discerning. He likes to choose those who are invited into his network with the utmost care.’

  Keane nodded. ‘Generals, society figures, the aristocracy? That’s quite a network.’

  ‘And I’m sure you have added to it, captain.’ He paused. ‘You seem to know a good deal about spies. How is that so, for a captain of infantry?’

  ‘I might ask the same of a colonel of light horse.’

  Harrison laughed. ‘We had our fair share of spies in the revolutionary war. British ones in particular. Are you familiar with the name John André?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Who isn’t?’

  ‘We hanged him. A double agent. What else can you do with a double agent. You can never know whose side they’re on. Better off dead.’

  Keane said nothing for a moment. How could this man know the truth of his own duplicity?

  ‘There are many Americans in Paris at present, are there not? No one asks any questions and we move around freely. Do you wonder that the chief of the secret police chooses to employ me?’

  ‘How can he trust you?’

  ‘I might ask the same of you, captain? For my part I can prove that my father was a patriot in our great war and died at the hands of the British. I still don’t know the full details, but I know I’m getting closer to them.’ He smiled a cruel smile. ‘I believe that there might be someone in this city. A girl, no, a woman, who might provide the information I crave. And as of today I have an idea where she might be found.’

  He recovered his composure. ‘That is what I get from using Monsieur Fouché’s network. What do you get, captain, and for that matter, what can you tell me about your reasons for hating the British?’

  Keane, puzzling about Harrison’s references to his father’s killer, smiled and almost said that he didn’t even know who his own father was, but stopped himself in time.

  ‘My father too was killed by the British, in 1798. He was impaled on a pike for speaking his mind and rioting in his own country. That is why I hate the British so much. My mother died then too. What else do you want to know?’

  The American nodded. ‘Then we seem to have something in common, captain. Let’s not forget it.’

  11

  It was nine o’clock the following morning before Keane managed to tell Macpherson about their exploits of the previous evening. He produced the letter.

  ‘It’s precisely what I had hoped would happen. Of course he’s bound to want his money back. But that’s a small price to pay, I think.’

  ‘A small price perhaps. Your presence in
Fouché’s network will be a great deal more important than that of Jadot. You’ve done well, Keane. I think now it is time to move on to stage two of the plan.’

  He called to his daughter. ‘Kirsty, run and fetch Elliott from his house and ask him to alert his brother that I have a guest they will wish to meet.’

  Keane said nothing, although he was tempted to do so. He had not been aware that he had been part of a stage one, let alone that there was a stage two. For a moment he had the distinct sensation that he was being used by Macpherson and it offended his sensibilities. This was not what Grant had led him to believe. Macpherson’s role was to have been that of an intermediary. A man on the ground rather than a spy. Yet here he was, using Keane as if he were a spymaster. Clearly something was wrong.

  Kirsty arrived back almost an hour later and with her she brought a man. He was tall and lean with a long, aquiline nose and a scar on his chin. As he entered, Macpherson rose from his chair. ‘Ah, Elliott, this is the man I was telling you about: Captain Williams.’

  Keane noted Macpherson’s use of his alias. The newcomer looked at him and nodded a greeting. ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, captain. Mr Macpherson speaks most highly of you.’

  He turned to Macpherson. ‘I have summoned my brother, general.’

  ‘Rochambeau is coming here?’

  ‘He is on his way.’

  ‘Good, then we will wait for him. I’m sorry, Captain Williams, allow me to introduce François Elliott. Mister Elliott had a Scottish Jacobite father and his mother was of the French noblesse. Both perished in the Terror. If I tell you that he and his parents were part of King Louis’s own personal household, then you will not need to ask me of his allegiances.’

  ‘You are a royalist, sir?’

  ‘I am indeed. A true royalist, loyal to the Bourbons and of a mind to depose the current ruler.’

  ‘Then I’m pleased to meet you, monsieur.’

  Macpherson interrupted. ‘In fact, captain, it’s monsignor. Sorry, I should have said.’