The Black Hawk sl-4

by Joanna Bourne

  “War. Within a week,” Owl agreed.

  Armies in the field. Thousands of men dead.

  “Casus belli. Doyle called it that.” Always had a way to wrap things up in some dead language, Doyle did. The cause of war. Casus belli.

  That was why he was ordered to bring this letter to the French Secret Police. After ten years of fighting, rational men on both sides were sick of it.

  “I will copy this.” She folded the letter. “Several times. There are people I must inform. Give me your glass. You are finished with it.”

  “What? Oh. Yes.” He put it in her hands. He should stand up and walk around to keep himself awake. Ask what the French knew about the plot, if anything. Put his shirt on. Leave. Find a bed at headquarters. Carruthers would want to talk to him. When he yawned and started to get up, Owl shoved him back to the bed.

  “You will wait and not go wandering off into the night. You will probably fall into the Seine and drown.”

  He yawned again. Bone-cracking yawn. “I’m not fit to stay here. I should—”

  “You should sit and be quiet. I must read this again.” She studied him impatiently. “No. Lie down. You need not go anywhere, and I may have questions for you again. This is all you have? This one letter?”

  “One letter. A couple mouthfuls of words spilled out in a Palais Royale restaurant or gaming den in front of a damned idiot who barely spoke French.”

  “It is not much to work with.”

  “It’s so close to nothing it amounts to the same thing. The gods must love war. They’re making it hard to stop this one.”

  He let her bully him into lying down. Let himself fall across the blanket. Let her swing his legs up on the bed. His muscles had turned to jelly and it didn’t seem worthwhile trying to get up. He closed his eyes.

  Not a soft bed. Justine didn’t sleep in a soft bed. But the linen was worn silky by the turning of her body, night after night. The pillow smelled of her.

  Paper crackled. Owl sat at the table, reading. Checking the words again and again.

  She said, “I do not think it possible your Monsieur Millian made a mistake in the word Anglais. He will have heard it often.”

  “He probably got that part right.”

  “It may be code. ‘The Englishman arranges everything’ may speak of the arrival of some émigré or the storage of spikes and guns in a warehouse in Dijon. There are hordes of disgruntled royalists. This may be yet another band, with no living, breathing Englishman involved at all.”

  “Hope so.”

  He heard her uncork a bottle. Then the scratch of pen on paper. “August.”

  “Today’s the tenth.” He didn’t have to tell her that.

  “If it is to be in August, we have no more than twenty-one days.” Her pen continued. “I will be canny in choosing where to place this information. There are men in my service who would like the war to resume, just as there are Englishmen who wish that.”

  “Yes.”

  She came to him, rising from her chair, crossing the room. Silk slithered like water spilled along his bare arm when she pulled the blanket across him. Like being licked. He was so tired. Too tired to say anything.

  SHE copied Monsieur Millian’s letter six times, in a fair approximation of his handwriting, in the exact lines and spacing he used, in case this turned out to be a cypher that depended on the placement of words. These would go to the three men most senior in her service, immediately. She must also take a copy to Leblanc, who would be useless but must be included. She would send one copy to Soulier, the Police Secrète’s chief in London. She would keep one copy herself.

  Napoleon must not die.

  This filled her mind as she wrote the first copy and the second—the utmost seriousness of this task. Napoleon was all that held France together. He was the great man of this age. He renounced the worst excesses of the Republic but kept the great gains. Because Napoleon held France, all men could vote. The Jew, the Black, the poorest peasant in the field—every one of them was French and free. He even invited the émigrés back to France, without penalty, if they would only renounce the special privileges of noble blood.

  The Republic had been purchased with rivers of blood. Only Napoleon could preserve it.

  She would protect him and the Republic.

  She tried not to think of Hawker while she wrote. It is a discipline to set aside pain and do one’s work. It makes one strong.

  After an hour, she finished and set the last pages aside to dry.

  She held the quill, watching a drop of ink gather at the tip. My lover is an Englishman. This cannot continue.

  Her bed was so full of Hawker. His body disconcerted her, always, with its fierce energies concentrated inside his skin. He lay on his back, half naked, his head turned toward her, his arm across his chest upon the sheet. She did not think he had broken any ribs, but he was holding pain inside him as he slept.

  He lay, sunk fathoms deep in exhaustion. All the deadly knowledge of his blood and bone was quiescent. He was like a well-honed sword someone had carefully set down. Sometimes she forgot how beautiful he was when they had been apart for a long time.

  The gathering of ink at the end of her pen would drop in an instant and make a mess of this clean sheet of paper. It would be stupid to let that happen, would it not? She touched quill to the lip of the ink bottle.

  His country and mine will fight again. It is inevitable.

  France, every day, showed the world that men could be free. The kings of Europe could not permit this. They were resolved to destroy the Republic. If an Englishman schemed to kill Napoleon, it was part of a larger plot to topple everyone into war.

  We will be enemies when war comes.

  Hawker made not the least noise or movement when he slept. It was as if he had trained himself to concealment, always and everywhere. He was the least trusting man she knew, but he trusted her. He should not. It pierced her like a knife that he would sleep so deeply in her bed. It was the last time he would do so.

  It is over. We are no longer heedless children to take these wild risks.

  She was the one who must end it. She was the practical one.

  Now that the moment had come, she found she could not say the words to him. She slid a new sheet of paper forward, choosing a kind that was cheap and common everywhere. By habit, she wrote in an elegant hand that was not her own, and she did not address him by name. Such reasonable precaution was second nature. Letters can be a source of endless inconvenience.

  My friend,

  Our time together is finished. We have known from the beginning that this day would arrive when we would set aside what has been between us. Let us part now, while there are still no regrets or consequences.

  I will send you any news I have of this new matter. You know how to leave messages for me.

  C

  C for chouette. “Little owl.” He sometimes called her that.

  She rose. She folded Hawker’s clothing and left it on a chair. She brushed her hair in front of the mirror. She had thought when women spoke of their heart breaking it was merely a way of speaking. It was not. Very distinctly, in her chest, she felt the crack inside her.

  She would sleep alone from now on. There was no one else she wanted.

  She folded the several copies of Mr. Millian’s letter together to take with her and laid the original in the center of the table for Hawker to find.

  Her words to Hawker were quite dry. She set the letter on top of his clothing and left him.

  Twenty-seven

  JUSTINE STOOD BEFORE THE DESK IN LEBLANC’S office in the Tuileries and gazed past him, out the window, down into the courtyard below, and ached tiredness. Her heart also ached, but that was something she did not think about.

  She acknowledged weariness somewhere in the recesses of her mind and set the knowledge aside since there was nothing she could do about it. She had crisscrossed Paris, delivering warnings to important, impatient men who did not like being awakened before dawn
. Between those trying interviews, she had drunk four cups of very strong coffee. Or perhaps five. In any case, a great deal. Tiny bright lights jittered and blurred at the corners of her vision.

  Leblanc was the last man to whom she must give the Millian letter, and by far the most unpleasant. She might need his men and resources, however. One deals with unpleasant men in any hierarchy. It was the way of the world.

  Leblanc’s office was on the second floor of the Tuileries Palace with the rest of the Police Secrète. She had quite a good view of the Louvre.

  “. . . which you claim is private correspondence,” he sneered at his copy of Millian’s letter, “between a diplomat in Paris and the British Foreign Office in London. Sent in the diplomatic pouch, doubtless.”

  “That is most likely.”

  “A letter transported with all elaborate precaution, in inviolate secrecy. Yet you obtained it easily.”

  “Not easily. It did not drop into my lap like cherry blossoms.”

  “Then how did it come into your hands?”

  Leblanc would keep her standing here an hour, to no purpose whatsoever. He would ask stupid questions he knew she would not answer, merely to show he had the power to do so.

  “I asked how you got this letter,” he said. “Who gave it to you?”

  She must be respectful. He was a senior officer. “I have exceptional sources.” Which I will not reveal to you. “The letter is authentic.”

  “I will have his name.”

  “My sources are also Madame’s sources. I do not think she wishes me to share them with you. I am not your agent, Monsieur.”

  “True. But one never knows what the future will hold, Mademoiselle Justine. You would do well to remember that.”

  Leblanc always attempted to steal resources, and Madame had been in Italy for months. Perhaps he thought Justine would be careless in Madame’s absence, or vulnerable, or easily cowed. She was not.

  She did not shrug in an openly disrespectful manner, which would be self-indulgence. She let her eyes drift past him, to the window, and paid no attention while he pointed out that anyone could copy a paper and say it came from some secret source.

  She merely nodded and said, “Very true.”

  In the early morning, a dozen people crossed the pavements of the courtyard below, going from Tuileries to Louvre, or out through the great door that opened onto the Rue de Rivoli. These were not the fashionable, come to see the paintings and statues of the Louvre. These were workers and artists who concerned themselves with the exhibits, or they were men reporting to their work in the Tuileries Palace, to one of the offices of government. A few might be Police Secrète.

  Some were servants—Napoleon’s servants—sent out to buy peaches or bonbons or take his boots to the bootmaker. He lived in the apartments of the Tuileries, on the floor below this, where royalty had once been housed.

  “You waste my time. This is some British stratagem.” Leblanc flicked the Millian letter that she had so carefully copied. “If the Secret Police have not heard one whisper of this, it is simply a lie. This is nothing. This is invention.”

  She was accustomed to working with the master spies of this age. Madame, in an instant, would have brought six clever minds to deciphering this letter. Vauban would have tromped past ranks of Imperial Guard and warned Napoleon, face-to-face, one soldier to another. Soulier would have set informers loose in the Palais Royale, ears open. But Madame was in Italy. Vauban—oh, so greatly mourned—had only last week confounded the odds to die peacefully in bed. Soulier was far away, at his post in England.

  Her mentors, who were the great master spies of the Police Secrète, were not in Paris. She was left to make reports to politic, expedient Leblanc, the man of jealousy and mean intrigues. It was inconvenient beyond words.

  She said, “The Englishman is dead. Strangely, I find myself convinced.”

  “Men die.” He tossed the letter onto a pile at the side of his desk. “It is the nature of things. The English bedevil us with their little Royalist plots and their secret, overheard conversations. They want to send us running in circles. You are young, Justine. Easily fooled. I am not a Madame Lucille in your Pomme d’Or to coddle you in such matters.”

  “And if the First Consul is in danger of death?”

  “The streets of Paris breed thirty such rumors a week. The Household Guard is alert. They cannot be made more so with constant alarms that come to nothing. I will not bother to mention this to the commander. Or, perhaps . . .” He smiled. It was the smile an eel would make, in some dark pit of the water. “It matters so much to you, Justine?”

  “I would not come to you if it did not matter.”

  He stood. Slowly, he walked toward her. She had the opportunity of backing away, but she did not. If she once retreated from such men, she would never stop. She straightened and faced him. She had faced worse than Leblanc.

  “I am susceptible to the arguments of a lovely woman.” He came too close. “Persuade me.”

  She did not mistake his meaning. “Be persuaded by the dead Englishman.”

  “We have spent many years working at cross purposes, you and I. It was never necessary. I bear you no enmity. You were caught in the old squabble I had with Lucille.” He had small, mean eyes, like raisins. They were oddly dark to be set in a long, pale face. “You are an ambitious woman, Justine. Under my guidance, you can rise to any height in the Police Secrète. You have a section of your own and a dozen agents working for you. I can give you more. I can give you the Pomme d’Or and the many agents who report there.”

  “It is not yours to give. It belongs to Madame.”

  “All things change, chérie.” He came within the length of an easy, casual touch. “I might reconsider this letter of Monsieur Millian. Perhaps it is worth investigating for—”

  She caught his wrist, where he came to brush the skin of her neck, and held it, digging her nails in. “I am not one of the women of La Pomme d’Or, Monsieur.”

  “I did not think you were.”

  Since she was a child, she had studied the faces of many men, fearing them and hating them. She had catalogued Leblanc’s expressions carefully, because he was the enemy of Madame, and thus, her enemy. This was Leblanc, coldly, stiffly furious.

  He smiled. “You are more attractive than they are, in so many ways.” He turned away. “We will reach a better understanding someday soon. Go. Play with your intrigues of the Englishman and fools and the woman of Tours. Pursue this phantom. Go question this mysterious source of yours. Report to me what progress you make.”

  Leblanc was a man of cold rages and of long vengeance. She had offended him. If she had been one of his cadre, without Madame’s protection, she would have been very afraid.

  Twenty-eight

  JUSTINE HELD HER CUP AND CLOSED HER EYES, CONSIDERING and reconsidering each phrase of Monsieur Millian’s letter. She whispered, “‘La Dame est prête.’ The woman is ready.”

  The day was warm. She sat in the shade of the huge arches of the Palais Royale. The Café Foy made the most lovely coffee, but she did not drink it. She only held it and let her thoughts finger first one phrase and then another from that letter. “What woman and what is she ready to do?” There were no obvious answers. Certainly none inside her. “If she is ready, why must they wait until August?”

  “Because the fool hasn’t showed up yet.”

  Hawker.

  She jerked in surprise and opened her eyes. A drop, only, of her coffee spilled and fell upon the table.

  Hawker stood beside her, casually inspecting the café and all within it. He laid his cane down, slantwise. It was elegantly black with a silver head, in the shape of a skull, which grinned in her direction, pleased with Hawker’s little triumph.

  She would not be flustered. She had known Hawker would track her down and confront her. He had simply been very quick about it. The letter of Monsieur Millian mentioned the Palais Royale, where he had overheard the plotters. It was entirely predictable she wou
ld come here.

  She hated to be predictable. “Go away. We should not be seen together.”

  He did not leave. “And we never do anything we’re not supposed to.” As if fastidious, he inspected the chair, then lifted it and placed it just so. He settled himself, arranging his coat, lifting the fabric of his trousers to let it lie easily. A raised index finger signaled the waiter.

  Anyone passing saw friends, meeting by chance at the Café Foy.

  She said, “I suppose you are angry with me,” and did not look at him

  “Why the hell should I be angry? I wake up and you’ve left me a damn letter saying you’re tired of me. Fine. Just fine.” The civilized veneer of Monsieur Adrian Hawkhurst was sometimes very thin indeed.

  She said, “I did not say I was tired of you.”

  “The hell you didn’t.”

  “I said we will no longer be lovers.”

  “You didn’t say it. You wrote me a buggering letter.”

  She had seen Hawker truly angry only three times. He became incalculable and menacing when he was angry.

  He did not dismay her in the least. “It was a gracefully written letter and took me considerable time to compose. We have been foolish. Now we will cease to be foolish.”

  “Oh, right. We’re going to embrace good sense, you and me. We’re going to be prudent. Fuck that.”

  “There is no need to be crude.”

  Silence fell because the waiter was hurrying in Hawker’s direction to be attentive. This was the same waiter who had been leisurely in attending to her. Now, he chose to bestir himself.

  She waited. Hawker ordered coffee and a carafe of water, taking his time. Maddeningly, taking his time. He saw there were pastries. Fresh? They had been made today? The waiter was quite sure? Then he would have one of those. They discussed apple and plum, to settle at last on apple.

  The waiter went away. She fumed at Hawker for a time, but silently, and watched him from under her lashes. She drank coffee. Hawker ignored her. At last she said, “I am not tired of you.”