“Je suis d’Inde,” replied Catherine Grand with a sweet smile. Germaine gasped, and Napoleon looked at Talleyrand with raised eyebrow. For this statement of double entendre, as she pronounced it, also meant “I am a complete nitwit.”
“Madame Grand is not quite the fool she’d have us believe,” said Talleyrand wryly, glancing at Germaine. “In fact, I find her one of the cleverest women in Europe!”
“A pretty woman may not always be smart,” Napoleon agreed, “but a smart woman is always pretty.”
“You embarrass me before Madame de Staël,” said Catherine Grand. “Everyone knows that she is the most brilliant woman in Europe. Why, she’s even written a book!”
“She writes books,” said Napoleon, taking Catherine’s arm, “but books will be written about you!”
David arrived at their group, greeting everyone warmly. But at Madame Grand he paused.
“Yes, the resemblance is remarkable, is it not?” said Talleyrand, guessing the painter’s thoughts. “It’s why I gave you the place beside Madame Grand at dinner. And tell me, whatever became of that painting you were doing of the Sabine women? I should like to purchase it, for memory’s sake—if it’s ever unveiled.”
“I finished it in prison,” David said with a nervous laugh. “It was shown at the Academy soon after. You know I was shut up for months just after the fall of the Robespierres.”
“I too was put in prison at Marseilles.” Napoleon laughed. “And for the same cause. Robespierre’s brother Augustin was a big supporter of mine … but what is this painting you speak of? If Madame Grand posed for it, I should be interested to see it myself.”
“Not she,” David replied with trembling voice, “but someone she closely resembles. A ward of mine who—died during the Terror. There were two of them.…”
“Valentine and Mireille,” interjected Madame de Staël. “Such lovely girls … they used to go about everywhere with us. The one died—but whatever became of the other, the one with red hair?”
“Dead, too, I believe,” said Talleyrand. “Or so Madame Grand has claimed. You were quite a close friend of hers, were you not, my dear?”
Catherine Grand had turned pale but smiled sweetly as she struggled to recover. David shot her a sudden glance and was about to speak when Napoleon interrupted.
“Mireille? Was she the one with red hair?”
“Quite so,” said Talleyrand. “They were both nuns at Montglane.”
“Montglane!” Napoleon whispered, staring at Talleyrand. Then he glanced back at David. “They were your wards, you say?”
“Until they met their death,” Talleyrand repeated, watching Madame Grand closely as she writhed beneath his gaze. Then he looked back at David as well. “It seems there’s something bothering you,” he said, taking the painter’s arm.
“There is something disturbing me,” said Napoleon, choosing his words carefully. “Gentlemen, I suggest we escort the ladies to the ballroom and retire to the study for a few moments. I should like to get to the bottom of this.”
“Why, General Bonaparte?” Talleyrand said. “Do you know something of the two women of whom we speak?”
“Indeed I do. At least one of them,” he replied with sincerity. “If she is the woman I believe she is, she nearly gave birth to her child at my home in Corsica!”
“She’s alive—and she’s had a child,” said Talleyrand after piecing together the stories of Napoleon and David. My child, he thought, pacing about his study as the other two men sat sipping a fine Madeira while seated on soft gold damask armchairs beside the glowing fire. “But where could she be now? She’s been to Corsica and the Maghreb—then back into France, where she conducted this crime you tell me of.” He looked at David, who sat trembling with the immensity of the tale he’d just told—the first time it had passed his lips.
“But Robespierre is dead now. There’s no one in France who knows of this but you,” he told David. “Where could she be? Why does she not return?”
“Perhaps we should confer with my mother,” suggested Napoleon. “As I told you, it was she who knew the abbess, who set this entire game in motion. I believe her name is Madame de Roque.”
“But—she was in Russia!” said Talleyrand, suddenly wheeling to face the others as he realized what that meant. “Catherine the Great died last winter—nearly a year ago! And what has become of the abbess, now that Paul is on the throne?”
“And the pieces, whose location she alone must know?” added Napoleon.
“I know where some have gone,” said David, speaking for the first time since he’d concluded his horrible tale. Now he looked Talleyrand in the eye, and the latter grew uneasy. Had David guessed where Mireille was that last night she spent in Paris? Had Napoleon guessed whose magnificent horse she was riding when he and his sister encountered her at the barricades? If so, perhaps they’d guessed how she’d disposed of the gold-and-silver pieces of the Montglane Service before departing France.
He looked at David attentively, his face a mask of indifference as David continued.
“Robespierre told me before he died of the Game under way to get the pieces. There was a woman behind it—the White Queen, patroness of himself and Marat. It was she who killed those nuns who came to seek Mireille—she who captured their pieces. God knows how many she has now or whether Mireille knows of the danger to her from this quarter. But you should know, gentlemen. Though she resided in London during the Terror, he called her ‘the Woman from India.’”
THE STORM
Albions Angel stood beside the Stone of Night and saw
The terror like a comet, or more like the planet red
That once inclos’d the terrible wandering comets in its sphere …
The Spectre glowd his horrid length staining the Temple long
With beams of blood; & thus the Voice came forth and shook the Temple.
—America: A Prophecy
William Blake
So I have traveled throughout the land and was a pilgrim all my life, alone and a stranger feeling alien. Then Thou has made grow in me Thine art under the breath of the terrible storm in me.
—Paracelsus
I was frankly startled to learn that Solarin was the grandson of Minnie Renselaas. But I had no time to question his genealogy as we scrambled down the Fisherman’s Steps with Lily in the dark of the rising storm. Below us, the sea was hung with a mysterious reddish haze, and when I glanced uphill over my shoulder, I saw in the eerie glow of the moon the dark red fingers of the sirocco carrying tons of airborne sand, crawling down through the cracks between the mountains as if reaching out to grasp us in our flight.
We made it to the docks at the far end of the port where the private ships were moored. I could barely make out their dark forms bobbing in the sand and wind. Lily and I stumbled blindly on board our boat behind Solarin, going below at once to stash Carioca and the pieces and to escape the sand that was already burning our skin and lungs. I glimpsed Solarin unfastening the ship from its moorings as I closed the door of the little cabin and felt my way down the steps behind Lily.
The engine had started, putt-putting softly as the ship began to move. I felt around until I found a lamp-shaped object that smelled of kerosene. I lit it so we could see the interior of the small but richly appointed cabin. There was dark wood everywhere and thick carpeting, some leather swivel chairs, a double-deck bed against the wall, and a fishnet hammock filled with Mae Wests hanging in the corner. Across from the beds was a little galley with a sink and stove. But when I opened the cupboards, there was no food—just a well-stocked liquor cabinet. I uncorked a cognac, scrounged some spotty water glasses, and poured us each a stiff drink.
“I hope Solarin knows how to sail this thing,” Lily said, taking a healthy slug.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told her, realizing after my first dizzying sip of brandy how long it had been since I’d eaten anything. “Sailboats don’t have engines. Don’t you hear that noise?”
“Well
, if it’s just a motorboat,” said Lily, “then why’s it got all those masts sticking up in the middle? Just to make it look pretty?”
Now that she mentioned it, I thought I’d remembered seeing them, too. We couldn’t possibly be going to sea in a sailboat with a storm coming on. Even Solarin didn’t have that much self-confidence. Just to be safe, I thought I’d better have a look.
I climbed the narrow steps that led to the little cockpit surrounded by cushioned seats. We’d pulled out of the port by now and were slightly ahead of the sheet of red sand still moving down over Algiers. The wind was strong, the moon clear, and in its cold light I got my first good look at the ship of our intended salvation.
It was larger than I’d thought, with beautiful decks that looked like hand-rubbed teak. Polished brass rails ran around the perimeter, and the little cockpit where I stood was loaded with gleaming state-of-the-art hardware. Not one, but two large masts rose toward the darkening sky. Solarin, with one hand on the wheel, was pulling big bundles of folded canvas from a hole in the deck.
“A sailboat?” I said, watching him as he worked.
“A ketch,” he muttered, still pulling out cloth. “It was all I could steal on such short notice, but it’s a good ship—thirty-seven feet and yar.” Whatever that meant.
“Great. A stolen sailboat,” I said. “Neither Lily nor I knows a thing about sailing. I sure hope you do.”
“Of course,” he sniffed. “I grew up on the Black Sea.”
“So what? I live on Manhattan—an island with boats all around it. That doesn’t mean I know how to steer one in a storm.”
“We might be able to beat this storm if you’d stop complaining and help me get these sails up. I’ll tell you what to do—I can work them myself once they’re rigged. If we get off quickly, we could be past Minorca by the time this hits.”
So I set to work, following his instructions. The ropes, called sheets and halyards and made of scratchy hemp, cut my fingers when I pulled on them. The sails—yards of hand-stitched Egyptian cotton—had names like “jib” or “mizzen.” We lashed two to the forward mast and one to the “aft,” as Solarin called it. I hauled as hard as I could as he yelled instructions at me—and tied what I hoped were the right ropes to the metal cleats embedded in the deck. When all three were up, it was remarkable how pretty the ship looked and how fast it sprang forward.
“You’ve done well,” said Solarin as I joined him in the cockpit. “This is a fine ship.…” He paused and looked at me. “Why don’t you go below and get some rest? You look as if you need it. The game’s not over yet.”
It was true. I hadn’t slept since a catnap on the plane to Oran twelve hours ago, though it seemed like days. And except for that dip in the sea, I hadn’t bathed, either.
But before I gave in to fatigue and hunger, there were things I needed to know.
“You said we were headed for Marseilles,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be one of the first places Sharrif and his cohorts would think to look for us, once they realize we’re not in Algiers?”
“We’ll sail in close to La Camargue,” said Solarin, pushing me down onto a seat in the cockpit as we came about and the boom swept over our heads. “Kamel has a private plane waiting for us on a landing strip nearby. It won’t wait forever—it was hard for him to arrange—so it’s lucky we have good wind.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?” I said. “Why did you never mention that Minnie was your grandmother, or that you knew Kamel? How did you get into this game in the first place? We thought it was Mordecai who drafted you.”
“It was,” he told me, keeping his eyes on the ever-darkening sea. “Before I came to New York, I’d only met my grandmother once, when I was just a child. I couldn’t have been more than six at the time, but I’ll never forget …” He paused as if lost in reverie. I didn’t interrupt his thoughts but waited for him to resume.
“I never met my grandfather,” he said slowly. “He died before I was born. She married Renselaas later—and after he died, she married Kamel’s father. I only met Kamel when I came here to Algiers. It was Mordecai who came to Russia to bring me into the Game. I don’t know how Minnie met him, but he’s surely the most ruthless chess player since Alekhine, and far more charming. I learned a good deal of technique from him in the little time we had to play.”
“But he didn’t come to Russia to play chess with you,” I interjected.
“No indeed.” Solarin laughed. “He was after the board, and thought I could help them get it.”
“And did you?”
“No,” said Solarin, turning his green gaze on me with a look I couldn’t fathom. “I helped them get you. Wasn’t that enough?”
I had a few more questions, but his glance made me uncomfortable—I can’t say why. The wind was stronger now, carrying the hard, stinging sand in its wake. Suddenly I felt very weary. I started to stand up, but Solarin pushed me back down.
“Watch the boom,” he told me. “We’re coming about again.” Snapping the sail to the other side, he motioned for me to go below. “I’ll call if I need you,” he said.
When I came down the steep steps, Lily was sitting on the lower bunk feeding Carioca some dried biscuits soaked in water. Beside her on the bed was an open jar of peanut butter she’d somehow located with several bags of dried crackers and toast. It occurred to me Lily was suddenly looking rather trim, her sunburned nose turning to tan and her filthy microdress now clinging to svelte curves rather than gelatinous fat.
“You’d better eat,” she said. “This constant chopping is making me queasy—I couldn’t put down a bite.”
Here in the cabin, you could really feel the sloshing of the waves. I gobbled some crackers spread thick with peanut butter, washed them down with the dregs of my cognac, and crawled on the top bunk.
“I think we’d better get some sleep,” I told her. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us—and a longer day tomorrow.”
“It is tomorrow,” said Lily, standing up and checking her watch. She put out the lamp. I could hear the springs creaking in the bed below as she and Carioca tucked in for the night. It was the last sound I remembered before casting off into dreamland.
I can’t say when I heard the first crash. I was dreaming that I was on the bottom of the sea, crawling through the soft sand as waves moved all around me. In my dream, the pieces of the Montglane Service had come to life and were trying to climb out of my bag. No matter how hard I tried to shove them back again and move toward shore, my feet kept getting sucked down in the mire. I had to breathe. I was trying to get to the surface when a big wave came and shoved me under again.
I opened my eyes but at first couldn’t understand where I was. I was looking through a porthole completely underwater. Then the ship rolled to the other side, and I was thrown out of my bunk, smashing into the galley across the aisle. I picked myself up off the floor, soaking wet. The water was knee deep, sloshing around the cabin. The waves were lapping into Lily’s lower bunk, where Carioca sat perched on her still sleeping form, trying to keep his little paws dry. Something was terribly wrong.
“Wake up!” I screamed as the sound of pounding water and groaning beams drowned my words. I was trying to keep my bearings as I hauled her toward the hammock. Where were the pumps? Weren’t they supposed to be going with all this water?
“My God,” Lily groaned, trying to stand. “I’m going to be sick.”
“Not now!” I half dragged her toward the fishnet hammock. Holding her up with one arm, I swept the life vests out with the other. I tossed her into the swinging hammock, then snatched at Carioca and dropped him in the hammock just as Lily’s stomach started heaving. Grabbing a plastic bucket that was floating by, I shoved it in her face. She pitched her cookies, then looked up at me with rolling eyes.
“Where’s Solarin?” she asked over the sound of screeching wind and water.
“I don’t know,” I said, tossing her a life vest and pulling on another myself as I worked
my way through the deepening water. “Put that on—I’m going up to find out.”
The water was surging down the steps. The door above me was banging against the wall. I grabbed it as I got outside and squeezed it shut against the heavy wash. Then I looked around—and wished I hadn’t.
The ship, listing deeply to the right, was sliding backward on the diagonal down a big hollow of water. Water was washing over the deck and filling the cockpit. The boom was loose and swinging out over the side. And one of the front sails, wet and heavy, had ripped loose and was dragging partly in the water. Solarin, not six feet away, was lying half out of the cockpit, his arms dangling across the deck as the wave of water that surged across lifted him—and started to carry him away!
I grasped the steering wheel and made a leap for him, grabbing at his bare foot and trouser leg as the water tore at his lifeless body … but the water kept dragging him away. Suddenly my grip broke free. He was thrown across the narrow strip of deck and smashed against the rail, then lifted again as he started to wash overboard!
I threw myself face down across the sliding deck, using the traction of anything—my toes, my hands—grasping at metal cleats embedded in the deck as I tried to crawl across the slanted floor to where he lay. We were being sucked into the belly of a wave, while another wall of water the size of a four-story building was swelling on the other side of the gully.
I smashed into Solarin and grabbed him by the shirt, dragging him with all my might against the water and steep incline of the deck. God knows how I got him to the cockpit and shoved him headfirst over the side. I pulled his head out of the water, throwing him back against the seat, and slapped him hard several times. There was blood gushing from a wound on his head, running down over his ear. I was screaming over the sound of the wind and water as the boat fell faster and faster down the wall of the wave.
He opened his bleary eyes, then squeezed them shut against the spray.
“We’re spinning!” I screamed. “What should we do?”
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