Rogue Spy

by Joanna Bourne

  “Some lives, certainly.”

  “She survived riot and war unscathed”—his voice showed regret for riot and war—“only to fall into my hands. Ironic, is it not?”

  “So ironical it strains belief.”

  Across the street, men unloaded bales of newsprint from a wagon. A boy carried a pair of brown jugs out of a tavern, across the street, and into one of the shops. And at the corner, a man emerged from Fetter Lane. He was blessed with bristling stubby hair, large ears, and an odd, forward-jutting posture that would mark him in a crowd. Not prepossessing. He looked up and down Fleet Street, hesitated, and ambled off to lean at the doorway of a shop.

  One of Smith’s minions, awaiting events.

  Waiting for her, as she’d been waiting for him. It was one of many precautions and expectations strewn about the street today.

  Smith murmured, “Poor young Camille Besançon. So many narrow escapes. It’s as if a kindly providence has been taking care of her all these years. I will regret her death.” He tapped the book he held against the edge of the table, then shoved it into the pile he’d taken it from. There was something very final about that small shush of book on book and the sudden cessation of sound. “I would regret yours, if it comes to that. Were you able to copy the key to the code?”

  I wrote the code. “The Leylands didn’t hide it very well. They trust me.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Safe. Well hidden.”

  A slight nod. “I congratulate you on your caution.”

  Do not attempt to flatter a Baldoni. She smiled. “Thank you. I’ve brought you a taste.”

  She tucked her own book down neatly into a row with others—A book about rocks. Really—and steadied herself with one hand on the book table. What she wanted was inside the halfboot she wore, between shoe leather and stocking. No one in the bookshop was paying them the least attention.

  She’d been carrying the piece of rolled paper there for a while. It had become limp. And damp. And convincing. “This is half of one page written in the Mandarin Code. It’s the first page of a five-page key.”

  Using two fingers, she dropped it into Mr. Smith’s hand.

  Not one person in a thousand would have caught the flash of rage that snapped through him and was suppressed. Mr. Smith was skilled in his role of reasonable man.

  He unrolled her scrap of paper. The hasty writing and raggedly torn edge were corroborating detail. The scrawl of letters across the page looked genuine. Given a few hours, an expert codebreaker might hazard a guess as to whether this was code or nonsense. No one could know whether it was the Mandarin Code. Mr. Smith of the Police Secrète should have retained skepticism.

  Instead, he looked pleased. She really didn’t like that.

  She wrapped her arms around her under her cloak, where her pistol made a comfortable weight against her belly. In a simpler world she’d have been considering which of several inconspicuous alleys would be the best place to shoot Mr. Smith.

  In a simpler world, she wouldn’t have thrown snuff and red pepper into Devoir’s face.

  Across the street, Smith’s minion had taken to shifting from one foot to the other. Perhaps he was a minion rethinking his strategy.

  Two minutes ticked by. Mr. Smith studied the paper she’d bestowed upon him. Then he folded it into an inner pocket of his coat. “You’ve done well.” His thin lips created an affable smile. He leaned across the table of books, closer, to keep their conversation private, and his breath on her face was like a fly crawling on her lips and in her nostrils. “You will bring me the rest of this key.”

  “After I talk to your unlikely Camille.” He wanted her to retreat a little, so she didn’t. She stayed exactly as she was. “Bring her to me tomorrow, at the rope walk in—”

  “I will name the time and place,” he said.

  Even a very foolish woman does not walk into an ambush. “You’ve sent me a trumpery pearl ring anyone could buy in a jewelry shop. I need considerably more evidence of your Camille Besançon before I fetch the Mandarin Code from where I’ve hidden it.”

  “Do not try my patience.”

  “Then don’t assume I’m an idiot. This fabulous Camille you threaten me with, who survived so miraculously and comes forth so conveniently. Do you think the Leylands will accept her? I’ve had ten years to establish myself. I hold those old biddies like this.” She closed a fist under his nose. “This tight. They wouldn’t believe your impostor if she cried tears of diamond.”

  It worked as she’d hoped. A little crude boasting, a little vulgarity . . . and he was contemptuous of her.

  His voice became both smug and threatening. “It’s not the gullible Leylands who will believe her. It’s the British Service. And Military Intelligence.”

  “I am not afraid of—”

  “Once exposed, you will not escape England. I doubt you’ll ever see trial. They’re hasty men at Military Intelligence and the price of spying is . . .” He sketched a smooth line with his thumb, mimicking the slitting of throats, demonstrating the ruthlessness of the British intelligence establishment, in case she had somehow overlooked it.

  “It’s a pretty display of threat,” she said. “But the sting in the tail of your wasp is a convincing Camille Besançon. I doubt you have one.”

  Smith lifted his head suddenly, poised as a hound when a bird flutters in the bush. “You ask for proof? Wait. Wait one minute. I will give it to you.” He’d been counting the minutes, watching for something on the street. Now he saw it. “You wish to see Camille? Turn and look at her.”

  It was impossible to travel at speed on Fleet Street, but the carriage that approached was skillfully maneuvered between wagons and horses and made good time. A young woman, one hand on the lowered glass, leaned out the window. She had a fine-boned, pretty face and long, black hair elaborately arranged. Her bonnet was decked with ribbons and cherries. Her pouting, discontented mouth was red as those cherries.

  That was the Leyland family face. The Leyland hair. The Leyland cast of features. A true match for the painting in the parlor of the Leylands’ cottage. If that were an impostor, she was an extraordinarily well-chosen one.

  The driver on the box had pulled a hat low over his face, letting her see only his mouth and nose and the shape of his jaw. Two men rode inside the coach with the woman. There was an impression of their size and dark coloring, but no glimpse of their faces.

  The coach rolled past and turned at the corner at Fetter Lane. Smith said, “Camille Besançon.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” But certainty fell like cold lead into her stomach. The woman in the carriage was the Fluffy Aunts’ niece. Their blood kin. That woman must, somehow, be rescued and restored to them. She felt traps close around her. From some obligations there is no escape.

  Smith spoke softly, persuasively. “When she is dealt with, you will return to the comfort of your accustomed life. Why should you not? Who else will challenge you after so many years? On one hand, imprisonment, questioning, and almost certain death. On the other, your placid village and the life you have earned for yourself. The life you deserve.” Smith let that sink in for a moment. “One code. I will never approach you again.”

  She let time pass, as if she were thinking the matter over. “I need to talk to her.”

  “That’s understood. You will have your chance to trade girlish confidences with the amiable Camille. When you are satisfied, we’ll make the exchange. The woman for the code. But I choose the time and place.”

  “You give me no choice.” She put on a sullen expression, held it for several seconds, then let her shoulders slump. “Where?”

  “Semple Street, outside Number Fifty-six. Eleven o’clock in the morning, three days from now.”

  Three days. That left almost no time to prepare. “I need—”

  “Your needs do not interest me. You will come to Semple Street, as ordered. You will bring the key to the Mandarin Code. You do not want to face the consequences for disobedience.”
/>
  She made a muscle in her cheek twitch. She’d practiced. “You’ll have your code.”

  “Do not disappoint me, Miss Leyland,” he said quietly.

  She gave a sharp nod. She didn’t touch him as she walked around and past, her hand under her cloak, on her gun. The shop door jangled as she pushed it open and stalked out into Fleet Street, away from him.

  Little glances behind told her that Smith had stayed where he was, studying the selection of books in Franklin’s Bookshop. But his henchman abandoned his lackadaisical perusal of the passing scene and followed her.

  Nine

  The man who plays with fire will be burned.

  A BALDONI SAYING

  Pax pushed breath past the strangling knot in his throat. Breathe in. Breathe out. Air clawed its way into his clenched chest. Don’t cough. Control the need. Fire tore at his mouth and lips. Raked his throat all the way down to his heart. But especially, fire burned his eyes.

  The blur of a woman held the bucket while he sluiced water again and again over his face. He sucked it into his mouth and nose. Spat down onto the street.

  He cupped water and held it against his eyes. Everything else was just pain. He could live through pain. But his eyes . . .

  The jabbering, shuffling crowd let a voice through. “. . . no more sense than a gaggle of molting pigeons. Out of my damned bloody way. You there—yes, you—hop it!”

  Hawk wavered into his line of vision, back too soon to have done a job of murder. Even Hawk needed a few minutes.

  He’s lost the bastard. God damn it. He’s lost him. Pax steadied himself on the edge of the horse trough and pushed himself up to his feet. His voice came out in a croak. “Did you kill the son of a bitch?”

  “Couldn’t find him.”

  The monster had slithered away to his hole. He could be anywhere in London. “Go back. Try again.”

  “I can’t catch smoke. I never got a look at him.” Hawk waved somebody forward. “Give me those.” And there were white towels. “Take this.”

  A wet towel and a dry one. Breathing through the wet cloth helped. “Get back and track the woman. She’ll lead you to him, sooner or later. She’s pretty. Somebody’ll remember which way she went.”

  “Later. I’ll find her again. I saw her face.”

  “Follow her. Don’t hurt her.” Hawk’s planning to forget that part. “Won’t tell you anything . . . anyway. Police Secrète.”

  “And will remain silent under all but the more melodramatic tortures. So I kill the man and leave that pustulant excrescence of a woman alive. You made yourself clear. How bad is it?” Hawker’s hand, shadowed and huge, came toward him and lifted an eyelid. Exquisite, precise pain stabbed.

  “Damn it. Let be.”

  “Your eyes are swimming in blood. Can you even see?”

  “I see fine.”

  “You’re not lying well. That’s worrisome. I’ll get you to Luke. No—Maggie’s in town. I’ll get you to Maggie. She’ll know what to do. And these upstanding citizens have found us a hackney.” Hawker dropped coins into an outstretched hand. “My tips are making Fetter Lane rich today. Let’s get out of here before somebody puts a bullet in you.”

  He sopped water out of his hair with the dry towel. Tossed it aside. “Need my coat. Gun’s on the ground someplace.”

  “Not even stolen. I have collected your various belongings. We will now depart. This way.” Hawker got under his arm and steadied him.

  “I can walk.” He stumbled, saying it.

  “You can dance an Irish jig as far as I’m concerned. Never known such a bloody-minded, damn-your-eyes bugger. And will you cod-sucking idiots get out of my way!” Hawker shed his upper-class accent and let himself drop into deep Cockney when he wanted to make a point.

  Pale faces, the solid brown of a horse, bright dresses. When he blinked, the street was lines of color that shattered and broke. He’d paint this with mad, slapdash color. Lay down thick, writhing rivers of paint, like the man El Greco. He’d seen three El Greco canvases. Two in Paris. One in Venice. It needed searing color to capture this mad derangement of vision, this street. He’d paint it with—

  If I can paint again . . .

  Don’t think about that. Do the job. Everything else comes later. Tell Galba about the Merchant. Start the hunt.

  He had a single clear view of the square block of the hackney coach, till he blinked and blurred it. His sight was coming back.

  He needed enough sight to kill a man.

  The monster walked under the sun. The French called him Le Marchand, the Merchant, but he was every dram and inch of him a monster. Even the Police Secrète were glad when he died.

  I got roaring drunk the night they brought news the Merchant was dead. I was in Paris with Carruthers and Althea and the others in the house on the Right Bank. The kitchen filled up with agents and friends and we celebrated till dawn. I thought I was free.

  He’s alive. He’s been alive all this time.

  Rage set him shaking. Or maybe he shook with cold. And maybe I’m afraid. “I’m wet clean through. That woman kept slopping buckets over me.”

  “Workmanlike job of drowning you,” Hawk agreed. “Let’s get to Meeks Street before you catch pneumonia.”

  A half dozen paces to the coach. Colors jostled madly, detached from meaning. Faces floated against the gray-brown buildings. Shirts, dresses, and coats flowed and rippled white, umber, cinnabar, indigo. And, in the confusion, one streak of dull sienna brown stood still.

  That exact and particular burnt sienna.

  Vérité. She’d made a mistake and they had her. You know better than this, girl. Never look back. Weren’t you paying attention when they taught us that?

  No reason for her to be here, except that she was worried about him. Damn Vérité.

  He lowered his head so she wouldn’t see his lips move. “She’s twenty feet away. To my left at ten o’clock.”

  He didn’t have to say, “Don’t turn and look at her.” He didn’t have to say who “she” was. Hawker knew.

  There was too much anticipation in Hawk’s voice when he said, “I’ll follow her. We get in the coach. I’ll spill out of the coach after we start.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “You can’t see.”

  “If I don’t keep up, leave me behind.” He pulled himself up, through the door, into the coach while Hawk gave instructions to the driver.

  Hawk climbed in behind him, already sloughing off his own coat and reversing it. “He’ll slow down past the corner.”

  “You take the lead. She knows me.”

  “That goes without saying. It takes somebody who knows you well to want to kill you.”

  “She wasn’t trying to kill me.” It wasn’t easy, dragging his coat on over the wet shirt.

  “Could have fooled me.” Hawk pulled off his hat and tossed it over. “Switch hats. You put this on.”

  “Let me tie the hair back.” He found a thin black ribbon in his pocket and hobbled his hair back in a club under the hat.

  “Next time, dye your damned hair. A babe in arms could spot you at a hundred yards with your hair hanging down.”

  It was too hard to explain the reasons he’d come to Meeks Street without disguises. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  The coach rolled to a stop and they swung out, fast, Hawk on one side, him on the other.

  * * *

  Cami joined the thin outer edge of the crowd, well back from the unfolding drama. Men pushed a way behind her or in front of her and stopped to satisfy curiosity or strode on impatiently, going about their business. Glimpse by glimpse, she watched Devoir deal with the damage she’d done him.

  A man—a colleague from the British Service, doubtless—jostled past her and elbowed through the onlookers, swearing at them in a ripe city voice. He was brown skinned, black haired, quick moving, and annoyed. That was another face worth adding to her memory.

  Devoir staggered to his feet, drip
ping wet, eyes slitted against the sunlight. He moved like one of the great predators, wounded but not clumsy, like a tiger who’d fallen a long way and landed on his feet, jarred and dizzy but ready to fight. She was immeasurably glad she didn’t have to face him at this moment when his inner nature was so close to the surface.

  She was one of the few dozen people on earth who knew this truth about his deadliness. His Service comrades would have seen it. Cachés who’d been in the Coach House with him knew. Maybe he had enemies who’d fought him and somehow survived. Nobody else.

  The two men talked, heads together, words emphatic. They were friends, then.

  In the glare of midday, Devoir stood in wet shirtsleeves and an unbuttoned vest. The linen of his shirt was almost transparent where it stuck down tight to his skin. Distinct, clearly defined muscles wrapped his arms and strapped long lines across his upper chest. He didn’t have the body of one of those hearty gentlemen who rode to the foxes or took fencing lessons and sat down to a comfortable dinner every night. She knew, in some detail, what the strength of such men looked like. Devoir was muscled like a workingman—a sailor, a soldier, a bricklayer, somebody shaped by unrelenting labor. The strength of him had been formed in days of work without respite and nights with too little sleep. He was, inside the drab, ordinary clothing, inside that tanned skin, a professional, a spy to the bone.

  Devoir dried his hair with a white towel, vigorously, and talked to his friend. A hackney coach drew up to the curb. The crowd parted. The two men got in and it drove away.

  Devoir would go back to whatever plans and schemes he pursued at Meeks Street. She’d go about her own business. They wouldn’t meet again. She would sink into memory. He’d call her to mind once in a while, when someone mentioned betrayal.

  She knew nothing of his long-ago past, but she knew this much—before he’d been taken to the Coach House, everything weak in him had already been burned away. He must have survived terrible things to become a metal, like silver, like steel, that you could hammer upon or put through the fire, and it emerged unchanged. The Tuteurs had never broken the strength at the center of him.