The Black Hawk sl-4

by Joanna Bourne

  There was enough light to see Pax’s lips twitch. “All right, then. How do I live through this?”

  “That’s a topic of fruitful speculation. My advice is, run like a rabbit. Go to Germany. Maybe Norway. Settle down to a blameless life as a Latin tutor. Collect bugs. You’d enjoy that. I doubt we’ll bother to track you down in the frozen north.”

  “And the French?”

  “They don’t have to know, if your Caché mate keeps his mouth shut. I’ll convince Justine to stay quiet.”

  That got a short laugh out of him. “Maybe you could at that. Let’s say I don’t want to teach Latin in the frozen north.”

  “You can go to Carruthers and throw yourself on the thin and sticky gruel of her mercy. Or you can go to London, to Galba. At least he’ll listen to you before he slits your throat.” Nothing else to say. “I have money. And a couple watches. I spent the day picking pockets.”

  “You’re a man of parts, Hawk.”

  “My morality is complicated. Get out of Paris. The Americans tell me New York and Boston are cities of culture and opportunity. They’re probably lying through their teeth, but you could go take a look.”

  “I might do that. I have to think about this.”

  Too much damn thinking, that was Pax’s problem. “I can give you till dawn. Then I have to go to Carruthers.”

  Thirty-two

  HAWKER STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF THE CAFÉ DE la Régence, waiting for Owl.

  The café was silent around him. The owners had grumbled their way off into the night. It was just him and Owl. She was off in the storeroom, doing something or other.

  It was dark outside. This late, they snuffed the big lamps in the arches of the arcade. The shops of the Palais Royale closed up tight. The shopkeepers went home. He could just barely hear the rumble of voices and music from the gaming rooms upstairs. A café down at the far end of the colonnade was offering Gypsy music.

  A few fools were still coming and going. Englishmen and Germans, mostly, determined to lick up the last dregs of foreign sin. Easy work for pickpockets, that lot. A couple whores hadn’t given up yet. They’d be the ones too old or too shabby to get into the gaming rooms, out looking for men dimwitted enough to touch them. Every once in a while, a gendarme walked by, keeping the peace.

  Four hours till dawn.

  Carruthers was going to ask him where Pax was headed. He could say he didn’t know. Lots of routes out of Paris when you knew the city as well as Pax did.

  Owl came up behind him, making the right amount of noise. Enough to say she was there, not enough to break his concentration.

  She said, “You did not know he was a Caché?”

  “No.” The French had done a thorough, convincing job. “Your friend told you?”

  “Not so exactly. My colleague pretends to know Pax not at all. He has made a poor choice.” Owl was reflected a little in the glass of the window, like a serious, disapproving ghost. “He lies to me, ’Awker, despite the years we have worked together.”

  “Does he?”

  “He twists like a worm on the hook to avoid betraying a fellow Caché. I am supposed to be blind to the drama enacted under my nose and stupid as well. I have sent my friend away and told him to keep his mouth shut. I will deal with him later. For many reasons, he will keep silent.”

  “That’s good.”

  She was watching him, first in the surface of the window, then she turned to study him frankly. “You will give Paxton up to your superiors?”

  “In the morning.”

  “You have no choice, I suppose.”

  “None.” When Carruthers set him to tracking down Pax, he didn’t know what he’d do.

  He was mirrored in the glass, next to Owl. It looked like he was standing out there in the night, staring in.

  “Listen to me.” Owl unpinned the top of her apron, first one side, and then the other, and untied the band at the waist, businesslike and calm. “Listen, ’Awker.”

  “I am.”

  “You are not, but I will let that pass.” She discarded the apron impatiently onto a table and pushed in front of him, between him and the window. She put her hand flat on his chest, and he had to look at her. “I will say nothing of this to my superiors.”

  He wanted to shake his head to clear it. He wasn’t thinking well. “Why?”

  “It is no honor to France to pursue one of the Cachés, after so many years.” She shrugged angrily. “We did not behave well toward them.”

  If Pax didn’t have the French after him, that was better odds. Doyle would say—

  Doyle had trained both of them. Him and Pax. He’d have to tell Doyle . . .

  “We French speak always of love, but friendship is harder. Incomparably harder. Take your coat off and come help me.”

  She wanted help with chairs. The tables, each with a chessboard built into the top, stood in an orderly line. Long padded benches went down one side. Chairs on the other.

  “Over there.” She pointed.

  Fine. He moved chairs. They were rush seats and slat, light to handle. Chess players didn’t need a lot of creature comforts. He took them two at a time to the front.

  “Now the tables.” She’d already picked one up.

  They fitted tables against the wall. When that was done, she put her hand on his arm and stopped him. “I did not know about Paxton.”

  “I believe you.”

  “It was . . .” Her eyes were intense on him, searching his face. “You know it was inevitable that we should plant one or two Cachés in your midst. Le bon Dieu alone knows how many agents you have inserted into the Police Secrète.”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “I will not. I will say this also, mon ami.” She looked upon the crowded furniture. “I do not know every agent we French keep in England, but I do not think Pax is ours. I think he is loyal to you English.”

  “Probably.”

  “Will you have to kill him anyway?”

  “Most likely.”

  She said quietly, “You, yourself?”

  “Not with these.” He lifted his hands. “I’m just going to give him to the men who will kill him. I’ll do it about five hours from now.”

  Light and fast, she touched his left hand and his right where he held them out. “I see. I see most clearly. It is damnable. Let us finish this.”

  Finish. Why were they moving tables? Seemed like they were going to shift one of the benches now.

  She said, “He has money? Paxton.”

  “A good bit. All of mine, plus everything I took this morning. And a couple of watches and the ring.”

  “That will make good bribes. I try always to bribe with jewelry. It makes men secretive. Take the other end of this. It is heavy, is it not? This is very sturdy furniture in this café.”

  Owl pointed to where she wanted it relocated. Fine. Just fine.

  She said, “The hour before dawn is a good time to steal horses. One might be twenty miles away from Paris by noon. Now. You back up. Yes. That is right.”

  They walked the bench a ways. Set it down next to the other one.

  “He will be disguised by now. He is a very good agent if he has your respect, as I think he does. Push this closer.” She straightened and wiped the palms of her hands on her skirt. “That is good.” The benches, side by side, close together, pleased her. “I will get my cloak. It is in the storage room.”

  When she came back, she brought the lantern and her cloak. She began removing bits and pieces from her cloak and setting them out on the table. A pouch of coins. A knife. Her little pistol. A box for bullets and powder.

  “He is a good agent, your Paxton?”

  He cleared his throat. “Very good. The best. Good as I am.”

  She shook the cloak, testing to see whether anything fell out, and tossed it across the two benches.

  “He has money and knowledge of the countryside and five hours’ head start. ’Awker, you and I have run from armies of Austrians with far less than that.”
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br />   The light stood on the table between the two of them. The dark was all around. Quiet. Intimate.

  She said, “Tomorrow, you will go to your headquarters and betray an old friendship. Then you will argue for his life. You will bargain and find allies and you will keep him alive. I have faith in you.”

  She stood before him and picked at the knot in his cravat. He was wearing just a turn around the neck and a square knot in front. Simple. The kind of neckcloth a chess fanatic might wear.

  She tugged it loose, pulled the length away, and dropped it.

  He saw what he should have seen a while back. “You’ve made a bed.”

  “For us.”

  Thirty-three

  THE BLACK EMPTINESS WAS NOT GONE FROM HAWKER’S eyes, not entirely, but it had receded. He no longer despaired.

  If he were not so focused upon the horrible duty he must do, he would see that Pax’s situation was not hopeless. Pax had many friends in the British Service, Hawker not the least of them. Hawker would make the most formidable and wily of allies. There were ways and ways of fighting the masters of the great spy organizations for the life of an agent.

  Later, they would discuss strategies. Right now, he needed her.

  “It will not be a comfortable bed, mon vieux. But it will suffice.” A plain gilt brooch, suitable to a maidservant, held her fichu in place. She loosed it and laid it upon the table.

  “Why are we doing this?” He was slow upon the buttons of his waistcoat, not taking his eyes off her. “Remind me.”

  Because you are in such pain it tears at my heart—you who do not allow yourself to be hurt by the world. You, who are so armored by your sarcasm and your wit. Because you are my friend. I could turn aside from a mere lover, but not from you. “It is one last time.”

  “It’s always been one last time. Every time. We lead dangerous lives.”

  He was a man of deft and dexterous hands, yet he was awkward with the simple task of removing his waistcoat. The button of his collar also eluded him.

  “We will not play games, you and I. Let me.” She slipped the button of his collar free.

  “They can see in through the window, if anyone comes by.”

  “We are hidden well enough by the back of this bench. I will blow the lantern out in a moment. Then I will seduce you for a while.”

  “Unnecessary.” He laughed a little. “Why, Owl? Why’d you change your mind?”

  This was the Hawker she knew, asking such questions. Awake and alive behind his eyes. Tough, cynical, unsentimental. The lover who was hard stone and hungry fire.

  “We are friends.”

  “I don’t need to bounce the mattress with my friends. Neither do you.”

  She told him a little more. “I am afraid.”

  Hawker’s knives dropped to the table beside her gun, convenient in case there was need of them. He began to unstrap the sheaths. “Afraid of what?”

  “I am overwhelmed by a knowledge of mortality tonight. We dance upon the edge of the abyss, and tonight, I cannot stop myself from looking down.”

  “Damn. You’re being philosophical. That’s a mistake.”

  They were both thinking of the agent Paxton, in the dark, alone, running through the streets of Paris. If worse came to worst, all his strength and skill would not save him from death.

  She said, “I am a fool to lie with you. It is disaster upon disaster if we are caught. This morning, I was resolved to set you aside and be wise. It seems I am not that wise.”

  Hawker disentangled himself from the last knife harness. He pulled his shirt over his head. He wore a silver chain around his neck with a medal of Saint Christopher upon it. A gift from Séverine. She had received the twin to it.

  His bare chest made cogent arguments up and down her nerves. It always did. But tonight, when she looked upon him, she knew that even Hawker could die. This perfect machinery of his body, this warm muscle and bone that contained him, was not invulnerable.

  “I will not be prudent,” she whispered. “Death comes to us all. I will not go to meet it with small, cautious steps.”

  “You’re not going to die.” Hawker leaned over and blew out the lantern. “You stop thinking that. There is just a myriad of things it doesn’t do any good to let into your head. That’s the first of them.”

  “I cannot help it. I have seen your Paxton fall so quickly, so completely.” The darkness was not absolute. She could see his outline. See the shape of his features. In some ways, it was easier to talk when she could not see him clearly. “I feel disaster flapping over us like a great bird. If Napoleon dies at the hands of an Englishman, we will be at war in a week. You and I will meet on opposite sides of a battlefield one day. It is not impossible we will be forced to—”

  “Hey.” He took her hand and lifted it. Turned it. Kissed the palm. “Not tonight. Forget that for tonight.”

  Such thin skin lay at the cup of the hand. The little touch there, and she was struck with heat between her legs. She glowed there. Ached there.

  He kissed her palm again and closed her hand over it and held her hand in both of his. “Take that. Put it away and save it for later.”

  He was dim and colorless. Speaking to him was like speaking to the night itself.

  “I am too fond of you,” she said.

  “The complaint of women from one side of Europe to another. Come to bed, love.” She knew that in the dark he gave an Adrian smile. A Hawker smile. Challenge. Madness. A promise of earthly delights. An elegant depravity.

  She left her shoes behind on the floor, untied her garters as she walked and let her stockings drop, pulled her skirt up, and crawled beside him.

  “Lie down. I want to . . . Ah. That’s good.” His lips sucked three, four, five kisses at her throat. “Did I ever tell you your skin cools off when you sleep? You’re like silk. Cool when you touch it.”

  “You may compare me to silk all night long.”

  He threaded her hair back from her forehead, bit by bit, then kissed there too. He was in no hurry. Hawker was never in a hurry, not even when she buzzed and twitched with wanting him.

  She found the texture of his lips. “You are unbearable enticement and temptation.”

  “I try. In my modest way, I try.” He played with one strand of her hair, tugging it so slightly she could barely feel the tiny pulse. Waiting for her. He had the cunning of a mathematics text and the patience of a tree growing.

  Desire for him clenched inside her. Grabbed her breath. Streaked in lines of heat between her legs. Folded around her like lightning. Overcame her.

  She muttered, “We are stupid, stupid, stupid . . .” She rolled and straddled him. He pulled her dress aside so it would not be between them. She kissed his mouth altogether thoroughly.

  She heard him say, “I have to have you,” in a voice naked as clear glass.

  His need made him clumsy, so she pushed his hand aside and undid the buttons of his trousers herself, fumbling her way from button to button. It took her a while to get them all loose. He didn’t seem to mind.

  Thirty-four

  IN THE NIGHT, THE VAST GARDEN AT THE HEART OF the Palais Royale was empty. The shops under the arcades were closed. The last patrons of the opera had eaten their toast and paté at a restaurant and wandered home. On the upper floor, behind closed doors, men gambled and whored, but only a shadow of sound spilled into the night.

  The man who still thought of himself as Thomas Paxton stood alone in the middle of the garden, looking up. The moon rode over Paris. Over London too, and Bonn, and the cities of the New World. Lots of world out there. Dozens of places he could hide.

  He stretched his arm full length and measured the angle of moon above the horizon against the width of his hand, a rough sextant. Two and a half hours to moonset, which made this about three in morning. Hawker would be staying in the café till morning, giving him a good long head start.

  It was August, but the nights had been chilly lately. There was no warmth in moonlight.

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nbsp; He’d have been outside tonight anyway. The meteor showers in the constellation Perseus were at their peak. Only happened once a year.

  There. That was one. A streak of white on the sky. He held his breath to the end of it. It seemed worthwhile to tilt his head back and tell the sky, “The abyss of endless time swallows it all.” Marcus Aurelius said that.

  In the morning, he’d take Hawk with him when he went to Carruthers.

  He didn’t have a decision to make. If you were Service and you blotted your copybook, you reported to the Head of Section for judgment. He was Service. He’d made his choice a good long time ago.

  Thirty-five

  SHE WOKE. LIGHT CAME THROUGH THE WINDOWS OF the café. What woke her, though, was the scritch of broom on pavement and the clatter of pails. The sweepers were out, raking up the fallen leaves, making the Palais Royale fit for another day.

  Happiness rested in the small of her stomach, like coals in a hand warmer. I have been unwise again. With Hawker.

  It felt very good. When she woke up after having been with him, she felt clean. She felt as if he had touched every part of her and burned it clean with fire.

  Sometime in the night Hawker had raised himself to sitting and eased her head into his lap. She had slept so deeply she had not noticed. Or if she woke momentarily, it was with the knowledge she was safe and she let herself slip into sleep again.

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him. They had not undressed altogether last night, but Hawker was half naked. She had kissed his chest again and again, following the lines of his muscles.

  He slept sitting up, his head leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. His right arm was lax at his side. His left arm lay across her and held her.

  He had a face like those carved on ancient Greek coins, with straight nose and strong, full lips. His skin was dark with sun, brown even on his chest. In Milan he had passed himself off as a fisherman and worked on the boats, wearing few unnecessary clothes. His beard had grown diligently in the night, as it did. This was not the first time she had awakened beside him.