The Black Hawk sl-4

by Joanna Bourne

  The black man said nothing.

  “We must show him,” Chetri said. Then, “This is the time. This is what she spoke of.”

  Thompson did not hesitate or show uncertainty. He simply thought for a while before he spoke. “You are right.”

  Abruptly he left. He strode toward the counter and around the end of it, to the door that led to the back. In his plain black suit, he walked as if he wore robes that spread out around him.

  Chetri lowered his voice. “She was enraged when she walked into the shop yesterday. Furious. As soon as we were alone in the shop, she went to the shelves in the back room . . .”

  Noiselessly, Thompson returned. He carried a plain wood case and laid it upon the table. “He is wondering why you babble secrets to him, Mr. Chetri.” He gave the other man no chance to reply. “We are not fools. We would not speak like this to anyone else.”

  “We follow Mademoiselle’s orders.”

  “Three years ago she told me—told Chetri as well—that if anything happened to her, we were to go to Number Seven in Meeks Street and seek out the dark-haired, dark-skinned son of a bitch who ran the place.”

  “You forgive us,” Chetri said. “We only repeat what she said.”

  “When she said, ‘dark-skinned,’ she looked at me and laughed and said, ‘Perhaps not so dark.’ She said, ‘He is called Black Hawk, but he moves like a cat.’ ”

  Chetri spoke up. “I went—we both went—to spy upon the house in Meeks Street. To look at you. We had heard of you, of course, Sir Adrian.”

  With a small click, Thompson turned the box. It was yew wood, without carving or inlay, thinner than a gun case, but with the same utilitarian design. “I was to give you this, if anything happened. She said I was to trust you.”

  Thompson’s face had become grave, closed, and immovable as obsidian. He released the simple hook that clasped the lid. “That day, she opened this box. This is why she armed herself and went into the rain, to whatever fate awaited her there.”

  The box was empty. The gray velvet lining showed three identical imprints where three knives had rested, parallel, point left. He didn’t have to pull his own knife to know it would fit right into place.

  That was one mystery solved. Knives were sticking into Frenchmen across London. This is where they came from.

  Somewhere, somehow, Justine had got hold of three of his knives.

  Twenty-six

  SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  1802

  La Pomme d’Or, Paris

  HAWKER HUNG IN THE NIGHT, BALANCING AGAINST the side of the building, just touching the windowsill. He heard Owl inside her room, being busy, making the little rustles a woman makes, getting ready for bed. When he was sure there was nobody with her, he scratched at the shutters.

  She came to let him in, wearing a peignoir the color of peaches over her night shift.

  For five years they’d been lovers, and he never got tired of the sight of her. Her hair was loose down her shoulders in honey-dark rivers. Her feet were pink and bare on the floorboards. She looked cross.

  He crouched on the window ledge. “I keep expecting to find you in some pretty apartment on the Rue St. Denis.” He knew every fingerhold on the shutter and the open casement. A good thing. He was clumsy tonight. “But it’s the same pokey old attic.”

  “It is a very safe attic, mon vieux. There is nowhere in Paris so well-guarded as an expensive brothel.”

  “Yet here I am, getting in without let or hindrance.”

  “You, of course, are the exception to many rules. It is a pity you will break your neck one of these days, showing off. It will be mourned by all the women of Europe. A more sensible man would simply—”

  “Walk in the front door. I know. That takes all the fun out of it.” Even if he wanted to tell the world he was in Paris, he wasn’t dressed to stroll into a place like the Pomme d’Or. They’d looked at him twice even in the livery stable where he’d left his horse.

  He stumbled when his feet found the floor. His legs were giving way now that they knew he was at the end of the road. “Am I welcome?”

  “If you were not welcome, I would not have opened the window. Or perhaps I would have opened the window and then pushed you to a sudden death on the stones of the courtyard. In either case, you would receive the hint.” He could smell the clean bright smell of her. Lavender. “You may give that extremely dusty coat to me, if you please. You have been rolling in the dust. Fighting?”

  “Falling off a damned horse.”

  “I will be tactful and not point out how maladroit you are.” She took the cuff of his left sleeve and began to ease it downward. He didn’t wear a tight fashionable coat. It came right off. She made one of those disapproving French shrugs. “You are hurt. Why did you fall off a damned horse? And where?”

  “Careful. That’s sore. I fell off . . . somewhere.” He honestly didn’t remember. He’d been moving for ten days straight, eating in the saddle, sleeping rolled in a blanket in the bushes. “I think it was yesterday. I was going downhill.”

  “You have no affinity for horses. That is strange in an Englishman.”

  Two floors downstairs, somebody tinkled away at a piano. Skillful about it, for all he knew. They had one of the best pianists in France working in La Pomme d’Or. It went along with the best food and the best paintings on the wall. The best women.

  Justine wasn’t one of the women. The French Police Secrète hadn’t made her a whore, though they might have tried it. She was Owl, who confounded them all and went her own way. So far as he knew, the only man she slept with was him.

  He never told her he didn’t go to other women. For five years it had been only her. Nobody else. Nobody, not even when it was months that went by without seeing her. He wouldn’t have admitted that under torture.

  She slipped his coat down over his shoulders and down his arms. Unbuttoned his waistcoat. His senses filled up with swirls of the apricot color she wore and the sweep of her hair. Everything about her flowed like water.

  He’d have let her hurt his ribs, just for the pleasure of feeling her hands on him. But she didn’t hurt when she undressed him. She was neat and quick, getting his shirt untucked, pulling it off over his head.

  His shirt joined his coat and waistcoat on the floor. She ran her fingers lightly over his chest, up and down his ribs. “You look as if you have been laid upon the road to be trampled by an advancing army. You have many bruises, for one thing. They are very ugly.”

  “You, on the other hand, are luminous as daybreak. Exquisite as . . .”

  “Sit,” she said. “On the bed. And be silent. I do not wish you to collapse facedown on the floor and become even more inconvenient to me. You have burned yourself away to nothing at all.”

  Pain jabbed in his side when he sank down. Linen sheets on the bed and one light blanket. Everything was orderly, simple, well arranged. Everything said “Owl.”

  He sighed out a deep breath. “It was a long ride.”

  “So you fall from the horse because you are exhausted. I am all out of patience with you.” Her hands were light on his shoulders. “If you are determined to kill yourself, ask me to do it. I would earn great praise in certain quarters if I brought you down. Have you broken any bones? There is a surgeon downstairs in the parlor tonight, only half drunk. I can bring him to you.”

  “There are two hundred and six bones in the human body and not one of them is broken. Remarkable, isn’t it?” Who’d told him how many bones a man had? Doyle maybe. Or Pax. They carried that kind of useless information in their heads.

  Her breasts, small, perfect, and kissable, rose and fell, about six inches from his mouth. He wanted to start, right there, and taste his way across her body. He wanted to put his head down onto her breasts and fall asleep. “Feels like I’ve been beaten with rods. Very Turkish.”

  “One may expect you to explore such novelties. You are very stupid to fall off horses, but I do not suppose you will change.”

  “Fo
r you, my sweet—”

  “Oh, be silent. Your boots demonstrate all the reasons women should not entertain men in their rooms. I will remove them so you do not suffer doing it. I am a marvel of sensitivity every time I am with you. I astound myself sometimes.”

  He must have closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was at his feet, taking his boot in her hands. The sight of her, kneeling between his legs with her hair spread out over the edible, edible silk on her shoulders . . . He couldn’t have found words anywhere on earth, in any language.

  Inevitable, wasn’t it? He could barely move, but he managed to get roused up like a rabbit. He was almost too tired to talk, but he wasn’t too tired to spring up hard, pointing to Owl like a compass seeking north. What they had between them was natural as breathing. Always. Every time.

  He didn’t try to touch her, just looked. That was the joy of being a man. Looking was its own reward. Hunger welled up, and it felt warm and fine.

  “You are not entirely exhausted.” Dry words from Owl. She took on the second boot, being gentle. “Do you plan to use this particular yard of gallantry, perhaps?”

  He laughed. She could make him laugh. “I’m filthy. I don’t belong in any woman’s bed, least of all yours. But, damn, I want you.”

  “So I see. I am vastly flattered.” When she stood, silk like apricots, like peaches, flowed across his thighs. Cool yellow fire, infinitely tempting. “You are in several sorts of pain tonight, are you not? I will get you a brandy.”

  She kept brandy on the shelf with her books. Wasted on him, of course. He’d never told her he liked gin better. He could admit he’d killed an Austrian captain, who needed it, but he wouldn’t tell her he drank gin by choice. She’d think worse of him.

  “This particular brandy, they make near my old home from the lees of the grape harvest. It is very potent.” She gave one of her fugitive grins and went looking for a glass.

  Women move different from men. Their joints don’t fit as tight. They glide from place to place without any obvious assistance in the way of bones and muscle involved.

  Narrow and clever feet slipped in and out of the slit in the peignoir, not making a sound on the floorboards. Her toes were naked and pink as raspberries. One day soon, when he didn’t ache so much, he was going to kiss her toes. Take them into his mouth and suck on them, one by one. She’d twitch when he did that. He liked it when she twitched. “I kiss your hands and feet, gnädige Fräulein.”

  “That is very pretty. Your German accent has improved. Here. You will see this is the cut crystal you gave me in Vienna. I took a fancy to it and brought it back home with me.” She held the glass till he had it firmly in both hands. “Tell me why you have tormented yourself and several horses, racing to Paris. It is not merely to see me.”

  “Oh. The usual. Civilization is coming to an end. War is imminent. The sky is falling and we have to go tack it up again.”

  He’d gone to Service headquarters first, to the new house over on the Left Bank. He’d dropped a copy of the letter in Pax’s lap two hours ago. Carruthers was already calling in agents. Setting them to work.

  His job was to tell the French. That was his assignment from London.

  The Service knew he had a line into the French Secret Police. They didn’t know it was Owl. Nobody knew about him and Owl.

  Owl said, “And what is the usual?”

  “It’s not good. Give me a minute.” He sipped eau-de-vie, which was strong enough to lift his brain case. “But I’m carrying one piece of good news. Hand me my coat, could you?”

  The package was wrapped in his handkerchief and wedged into an inner pocket, beside his left-hand knife. He’d tried to protect it when he fell, but it looked a little flat. He slit the twine and handed it over.

  Owl let brown paper wrapping drop to the floor. Pulled the end of a thin blue ribbon and let it fall. Slipped the lid off. She stood, holding the little painted box with the tips of her fingers. The ride from London was worth it, just to see her face go unguarded like that.

  His small, unofficial commission. It wasn’t the first time he’d played courier. “Rock cakes, they’re called. In Sévie’s case, one of those appropriate names. She sends her love and that letter. I’ll tell her you enjoyed them, when she asks.”

  “You may do so, because I will.” She ran a finger over the little brown cakes, then picked the folded letter from the side. “Drink the brandy. You’re shaking.”

  She slid the lid back into place and set the box on the table, on top of the letter, so it was hidden. She wouldn’t read it at once. She’d save it for later, savoring the moment as long as possible. He knew her so well.

  “Just tired.” He drank again. “Last time you gave me brandy was outside Zurich.”

  “When you came to warn me, in a benevolent manner. You were exhausted that time as well.”

  “And on the run.”

  “We both were. It is remarkable how often we manage to annoy the same people.”

  “The Austrians are easily annoyed.”

  “C’est vrai. Now, tell me why you have come from England. What matter is so serious you barely trust yourself to speak of it?”

  “In my coat. I’ll show you.”

  Owl did not hand him his jacket. She ransacked the pockets herself. If she hadn’t been French, and blue-blooded and a spy, she would have been an ornament to any gang in London.

  He sat on the bed and let the brandy sear his mouth where he’d bit his lip, falling. It didn’t stop the shivering in his muscles. Didn’t clear his head.

  “One passport,” she muttered, “in the name of Pierre Thibault, harmless citizen of Rouen. That is you. A handkerchief. One of your knives.”

  “I know what I’m carrying. Nothing interesting.” He brought nothing into this house she couldn’t see. Nothing the whole French Secret Police couldn’t print in the newspaper.

  “Do you know, you are almost stupid with not sleeping.” She turned the coat over. “Now I find another of your knives. I do not know any man who has such a fascination with knives. A candle stub and a tinderbox. We are prepared for all eventualities, are we not? Playing cards. A set of picklocks. And one book . . . which seems to be a very dull survey of mining sites in France, published in Lyon. I do not suppose this is a clever work of codes.”

  “It’s just a book about mines. What you want is in the front of that.”

  “Ah.” She came to stand beside him while she opened the letter. “This is in English.”

  “It was written by an Englishman. The British embassy is full of them.”

  “Do not be facile.” She read the letter quickly, from beginning to end, then looked over the second page more carefully. “There is much about buying a horse and complaints about his mistress. He finishes . . . he has overheard a plot and is it not curious? This Englishman, this John—”

  “Millian. The Honorable John Millian, attached to the embassy in Paris.”

  “He claims to have overheard a conversation while he is at dinner somewhere—”

  “The Palais Royale.”

  “He does not say which restaurant or café in the precincts of the Palais Royale, so it is useless. He does not say who spoke, so it becomes more useless. He records only part of what he has heard. He also spells it wrong. Why have you brought me this?”

  “Because three days after writing that letter and sending it off to London, Millian fell out a window and splattered his brains across the Rue de l’Aiguillerie.”

  “Ah. That is unfortunate.”

  “Particularly for John Millian. He took a dozen strands of hair down to the street with him, torn out by the roots, clenched in his fist.”

  “He was not alone when he fell.”

  “So we assume. The letter got sent to London, and it struck his friend in the Foreign Office as so interesting, he sat on his thumbs for a month before he brought the letter to us. To the Service.”

  “Who send you posthaste to deal with it, at last. We are always called in when
it is almost too late.”

  Three candles lit the room. She went to the closest and studied the effect of light shining through the paper. “There is no writing hidden. You will tell me there is no British code involved.”

  “None.”

  “I see no French code words. We are left with the dozen words your Monsieur Millian overheard.” She frowned as she read, “‘La Dame est prête.’ That does not tell us so much. Only that the woman is ready.”

  “If that’s even what he heard.”

  “We must trust it is, or we have nothing at all. Next, one says, ‘À Tours.’ That is the city of Tours, I think. And then, ‘L’Anglais arrange tout.’”

  “There’s an Englishman who’ll arrange everything.”

  “How nice for them,” she said. “Then we learn, ‘Le fou va aller à Paris.’ The fool is going to Paris. This means nothing.”

  “Except we’re about to get another fool in Paris, a commodity with which the city is plentifully supplied.”

  “None of this says anything useful. The conspirators in the Palais Royale might as well have remained silent. They end with, ‘Patiente. Napoléon va mourir en août. C’est certain.’”

  “He predicts Napoleon will die in August.”

  “But he will not. We will make sure of that. Your Monsieur Millian spells French vilely.”

  “The least of his faults. He also didn’t speak French very well. There’s no telling what he actually heard.”

  “‘The woman is ready.’ So a woman is involved. That is one solid bit of information. Tours is another, as is the Englishman who arranges everything. But the meat of this nut is that Napoleon will be attacked in August.”

  “Now you know what we know.”

  “It is already August.”

  “Yes.” He closed his eyes. He’d memorized every pen stroke of the letter.

  “So slight a messenger, this letter, to tell us of so great a disaster. You know what will happen if Napoleon is attacked by an Englishman.”

  “We’ll be at war again.” The treaty patched up between England and France had lasted for a year. It wouldn’t hold forever, but any day men weren’t shooting at each other was a good day for somebody.