The Black Hawk

Thirty

THE CAFÉ DE LA RÉGENCE WAS FULL OF CHESS PLAYERS and spies. Hawker had put himself with his back to the wall, near the door, where he could keep an eye on both.

It was well past midnight. Outside, under the huge lamps in the arches of the arcade, the nightly promenade of the Palais Royale had slowed to a trickle. Patrons of the opera strolled past, headed home. Even this late, a few English tourists wandered about, absorbing Paris sophistication, helping pickpockets earn a living. A trio of Napoleon’s garde rattled by in dress uniform, come from the gambling dens upstairs. The women who sauntered by in twos and threes were harlots.

In the café, a dozen men were still playing. Another thirty-odd watched or sat at tables, the way he did, reading the paper and drinking.

Pax was two tables away, twenty moves into a game. He’d dressed like a university student—untidy, with a loose, open collar. His hair was its natural color, loose down his neck, spilling along cheekbones when he leaned to the board. You’d swear he wasn’t thinking about anything but chess.

Owl walked the room, carrying a tray and wiping down tables, representing the French side of the spying fraternity.

For Hawker, it was the end of a long evening of wandering from table to table, brushing shoulders, listening. Nobody mentioned killing Bonaparte. They talked about chess. Spying was more of a challenge than stealing, overall, but there were times it’d bore a corpse.

Owl came up behind him. “I have brought more brandy, even though you have not finished what you have.” She leaned over him to set a tiny glass on the table. She was entirely plausible as a Parisian serving maid—deft, impudent, graceful.

“Did you have trouble,” he looked her over, “slipping in here?”

“None. When an agent of the Police Secrète indicates she wishes to become a serving maid, the owner of a café does not ask questions. They think I am here to listen for sedition. They are all afraid of the Police Secrète, here in Paris, which is wise of them.”

“My own service can’t throw men in prison, just on our say-so. One of those disadvantages I labor under.” He took a sip of brandy. He drank aquavit in the German states, grappa in Italy, brandy in Paris. In London, mostly gin. None of it had much effect on him.

“You will be pleased to know you present the most realistic appearance of a young man of fashion. One is convinced you have plucked the very pomegranate of life and sucked it dry and tossed the husk away.”

“That presents a picture.”

“Mais, oui. To be a serving maid is to observe life at its most raw. I have been entirely disillusioned of all my ideals. Do you see that young man in the corner in the most excellently cut jacket? He has been here all evening. He orders one vin ordinaire and is faithful to it as if they were married in church. All this time he has been slipping sugar cubes into his pocket.”

“It’s a sad and dishonest world.”

“When I say this, few people contradict me. I have decided he is a poor artist, starving in a garret in the Latin Quarter.”

“Practicing a little larceny on the side . . .”

“You, of all people, should not condemn that.”

He shook his head. “Owl . . . Owl . . . I have dabbled in depraved and iniquitous business, but I have never been an artist. Any luck tonight?”

“For me it has been an evening of no fish whatsoever. And you?”

“Empty nets.”

“We will meet tomorrow and plan new strategies. What happens in the great world?”

He’d folded the newspaper, La Gazette, and propped it up on the water carafe in front of him, so he could read while he watched the room. “The First Consul attended the opera tonight. A lyric tragedy, it says. Now that sounds like fun.”

“The arts are the soul of the nation,” Owl said primly. “Of course the First Consul will attend the opera. It is the French way.”

“I’d invade Poland, myself, if it was a choice between that and opera.”

“It is as well you do not rule France. I spoke to the captain of his Household Guard myself. They will be alert going to and from the opera. But . . .” Owl shook her head, as if arguing with herself. “I do not wish the First Consul to cower in the Tuileries to keep himself safe, but he is hard to protect.”

A professional would finish him off within the week. Thank God this lot seemed to be amateurs. He smoothed the newspaper flat on the table. “Here’s his schedule for tomorrow, just in case somebody murderous has trouble locating him. First thing, some English collectors are presenting France with an Egyptian relic—one of the ones the French dug up when they were conquering Egypt. This requires Napoleon’s presence. That’s eight in the morning. He’s reviewing troops at ten. Lunch with a couple generals. Meeting the ambassador of Portugal at three. Music again tomorrow night in some private house. Hell of a life, if you ask me.”

Across the room, outlined by the big front window, Pax slid a piece across the board. Le fou. The bishop. The bishop made short work of a black pawn. Pax’s opponent selected the queen’s pawn and slid it forward. Right. That was going to be a bloodbath, that was.

Pax held his own in the finest chess club of Europe, even if he did wear damn boring waistcoats.

Owl breathed down over his shoulder. This close, her body was a clamor in the air, tugging at his attention. “Shouldn’t you be wiping tables or paying some attention to that nice old fellow—that one—who’s been waving at you awhile? Or something?”

“I am tired of serving drinks. It palls quickly. And it is entirely unrealistic that I would pay attention to an old man while there is a handsome young one to flirt with.”

Owl, at work, was bright as the edge of a diamond, hot as fire sparks. Tonight heat glowed out of her, from wanting him. He glowed right back, wanting her. They were both trying to ignore that.

She slipped the tray to the table and picked up the glass he hadn’t finished. Her fichu was one of those pro forma garments that didn’t stop him enjoying a sweet view of her breasts. The way she was leaning over . . .

He said, “You’re going to have every man in the room looking this way.”

“Not everyone. Some are obsessed with chess, and some are very, very old. But the others—yes. They envy you, mon ami.”

She was watching the room. Owl didn’t do anything by accident. “You’re looking for men who have too much on their mind to stare at a woman’s tits.”

“Conspirators. That. Exactly. Men who do not watch the chess and do not watch me. So far, I have distracted everyone nicely. It is most discouraging.”

“Too much to hope it’d be easy.” In another hour, he’d go back to British Service headquarters. Maybe Carruthers had uncovered something. He wished he was going home with Owl, though. They could—

He pulled his mind away from the things he wasn’t going to do tonight.

The door opened. They had a late visitor to the Café de la Régence. This was a man with chestnut-brown hair, worn in a Brutus. Brown eyes, medium skin, about twenty-five. Estimating by the doorframe . . . five foot ten.

I know him.

The man took off his hat and held it in his hand, looking around. He wore solid tailoring. Not fashionable. His boots, better quality than his coat.

He saw Pax. Just a little catch in his attention. He barely hesitated. Not something a man would notice unless he was already looking for it.

I know him. Why? How do I know him?

The man changed direction so he’d walk by Pax’s table.

The eyebrows. The bones of the face.

I remember.

Four years ago. He’d been near Bristol, with Doyle. It was their job, when nothing else was on offer, to track down and expose Cachés. To tell family after family they had a cuckoo in the nest. Saying, “It’s not your grandson,” “It’s not your nephew,” “It’s not the daughter of your old friend.”

He remembered this one. They’d told an old man that the boy he’d been raising as his grandson was a Caché, a nameless French orphan trained to spy for France.

Dacre. That was the name. The boy had been Paul Dacre.

Sometimes the families cried and didn’t believe and kept the kids. Sometimes they booted them out. This time, the old man didn’t give the Caché time to pack his tooth powder.

He and Doyle found Dacre halfway down the front drive. They gave the same offer to all the Cachés—We’ll find you work and a place to live. You can settle in England honestly. We won’t toss you on the streets with nothing.

Paul Dacre ignored them and walked off.

Seems Paul had come home to France.

He closed in on Pax from behind, pretending to angle to see the board, but looking at Pax’s face.

A Caché walked in and headed straight for a Service agent. Not coincidence. And Pax didn’t see.

I don’t like this. He was already half out of his chair, hand on his knife, when Owl closed a hand down on his wrist.

She had a grip like iron. “He is mine. My friend. You are not to kill him.”

“Police Secrète.”

“That is no business of yours. Sit down. Nothing will happen here without my command. You will not endanger my operation.”

The moment rolled forward, fast. The Caché paused beside Pax. His right hand brushed his left in a nervous gesture. He glanced at the board. “It is the least of my worries whether you believe me or not. Your queen is in danger.” He strolled on.

Not a twitch from Pax. Not the blink of an eye.

What did I just see?

Owl fumed. “You knew I was bringing men here. He comes to report. I will not ask how you know him.”

“I saw him in England. He’s one of your Cachés.”

“So. I thought it was that. You are notorious for that work, you know. For sweeping them out of hiding, one after another. They all feared the Black ’Awk. You. The Faucon Noir.” She took away his newspaper and folded it under her arm. “At least this one was loyal to France, unlike most of them. I am disgusted with you, ’Awker. You cannot come to France and object to French spies. I do not go to Covent Garden and begin putting knives into your friends. We are not even at war. You must be logical.”

He was only half listening. The hand movement. The fingers.

Eight years ago. The height of the Terror. Robespierre was just dead on the guillotine and everyone holding their breath, expecting riots. He’d spent a long, dark night with Owl and Pax, pulling a baker’s dozen of Cachés out of the house where they kept them. Out of the Coach House.

Spies in training. Deadly. But they were also just a dozen scared kids, cornered, backed off to the wall of that attic.

They weren’t going to budge. In a minute or two, one of those kids would raise an alarm and people were going to get killed—him, being first and foremost among them.

Pax had said, “Is there anybody on the stairs?” There wasn’t. He’d turned back in time to see Pax wriggling his fingers and saying, “It is the least of my worries . . .”

The exact phrase. That was when the Cachés started listening.

Paul Dacre made the same curl of the fingers—the C of thumb and forefinger. Then the first and second finger lifted and closed to touch the thumb. The same signal. Exactly the same.

Pax met his eyes.

Pax had showed up one day at Meeks Street, son of a Service agent killed in Russia, only survivor of his family. Nobody knew him.

The Service traced hundreds of orphans up and down England, looking for Cachés. They never looked at Pax. Because he was one of them.

On the board, Pax set his finger on the king. He tipped it on its side.

Owl stood silent, holding the tray, watching everything.

He said, “Get your man out of here. Tell the owner it’s time to close up shop.”

He went over to destroy his friend.