Rogue Spy

Twenty-two

The coach was sturdily built, a little shabby, and entirely anonymous. It could have rolled down any street in London without attracting a second glance. Soon, it would.

They’d hidden it in the yard behind the cabinetmaker’s shop, between high stacks of wood, in the narrow space used for deliveries. The simple modifications needed had taken three days because the cabinetmaker, Moreau, could not be set to work at night. His neighbors would find it unusual to hear hammer and saw past the setting of the sun.

“Almost done.” The man called the Merchant spoke encouragingly. “There are only—Jacques, how many?—only a half dozen still to go.”

He listened, with every appearance of sympathy, to the boy’s complaint that no more kegs would fit.

“They must,” he said. “We have measured very carefully. Come, you can do this. I expect no less of you.”

He’d placed himself where he could watch the small kegs being carefully fitted under the seats. The boy was nimble enough to reach into every corner. He would accomplish this task.

It was not necessary to threaten. The boy was well aware that his parents and young sister and the servants of the household were already locked in the cellars.

“You see. And now just three more. Shift everything to the right, only an inch. You are almost there.”

Soho was a busy, noisy quarter of the city, with many men making deliveries to many workshops. The business here would be done before men passing by took interest in the ordinary task of unloading a wagon on the street.

Jacques and Hugues carried kegs of gunpowder in through the shop, out to the yard, and handed them one by one to the boy to put in place under the seats.

The Moreaus’ son was a brave boy, steady with his hands. He barely cried while he worked. In many ways, a child this age was the most satisfactory of all assistants.

“That is the last of it. See, it all fits neatly. I told you it would. Go with Jacques now. You have served France well, and no harm will come to you, I promise.”

The last delicate manipulations, he performed himself, checking every inch of the long fuse line that snaked back and forth, attached to the underside of the seat.

Jacques returned and stood outside the coach, waiting. “Do you want them dead?”

“None of them have seen my face, except the young boy. It’s better they live for a time.” Because it would do no harm to explain, he added, “Dead men begin to smell.”

Jacques nodded, understanding the principle.

He gave the connection of fuse to keg his intense concentration, then double-checked his work. Most mistakes are made in the small, easily skimped tasks.

“You are wondering why I leave matters unfinished? The Moreaus will continue to serve us. I have arranged for a letter to be posted in three days, accusing them of complicity in this outrage . . . of exactly what they have done, in fact. The authorities will find them in that cellar and discover the evidence we shall leave behind. They will doubtless hang at least some of them. They will be martyrs to the Revolution.”

He closed the cushioned seat top down and secured it in place with a padlock. Two inches of fuse emerged through a drilled hole, ready to light.

“A good reason to keep them alive,” Jacques said.

“Let us hope they die bravely when the time comes. You may leave them some water. We are not needlessly cruel. And reassure them that they will be safe.” The Merchant climbed from the coach and set the door closed behind him. “There is no more deeply satisfying work, no higher cause, than the Revolution.” He patted the side of the coach as if it were a great horse. “I feel honored sometimes.”

“We are very lucky,” Jacques said.