Joanna Bourne - Rogue Spy

And she told him about Camille Besançon.

“Cami.” He interrupted after only a dozen words. “There’s no chance that little girl survived.”

“I saw her. I think she’s genuine. And genuine or not, she’s going to die if I don’t get her away from the Merchant. The Besançons died so I could be placed with the Leylands. I won’t have another death on my conscience.”

He didn’t argue. Maybe that said everything she needed to know about the deaths that had placed him in the British Service.

“We rescue the woman,” she said.

“If it doesn’t get you killed and doesn’t let the Merchant escape.”

She shook her head. “The Leylands are as close to being Service as makes no difference. Get their niece out of the line of fire.”

“No promises.”

She hadn’t expected any. “Then there’s the aunts. The Merchant will go after them next.” Her mouth felt dry. She drank tea. “The Leylands must be protected.”

“Done. The Service will take care of them.”

“And finally, if I hand you the Merchant, if I play bait in your trap, will the Service give me a head start before they come after me? One week.”

“I’ll ask.”

Every one of those answers was the truth. He dealt honestly with her.

She closed her eyes. Opened them. “Semple Street, Number Fifty-six. Monday, eleven in the morning. I have to walk out and show myself before he’ll come.”

“That’s not much time. Do you—” He broke off.

He was looking at the door of Gunter’s.

She saw nothing there. Nothing happening. But Pax did. She quivered alert, every sense open, but saw nothing unusual. A big man in simple, respectable clothes had just walked in. Somebody’s coachman, large, square, reliable looking. The clerks behind the counter sprang to take his order, so he must work for some important family.

Pax, beside her, became invisible.

It had always been one of his skills, this trick of becoming part of the background. He acquired the stillness of an animal in the forest. But it was more than that. In some way, he simply wasn’t there. If she hadn’t seen it many times before, she would have been disconcerted.

Very quietly, he said, “Keep your hands on the table.”

She did. The shop continued its calm, well-ordered clockwork. The cheerful buzz of conversation didn’t waver. Waiters simpered and glided under their trays. The nearest people, two women eating tea cakes, talked about Scotland and the best soil for growing roses.

The coachman wanted a package prepared. Everything to be settled deep in shaved ice. This ice cream and that one and that. For a young girl on her sickbed, who had no appetite and was in pain. The man made payment in pound notes, peeled off a large roll.

The countermen conferred deferentially. “This will take a few minutes. Would you take a seat? Tea? Coffee?”

“No.” It wasn’t even arrogance. It was beyond that—an indifference that reduced this shop and the men who worked here to nothing at all. The coachman’s eyes skipped past fashionable women, past elegant men, and came to Cami. “I’ll find a seat.”

Pax murmured, “So. That’s who had you followed. I thought it might be.”

The man crossed the room and stopped at their table, in front of her. “You sent me a message.” He sat, without invitation.

This was someone senior in London’s hierarchy of criminals. Close up, he had the cold eyes of a banker.

“Please join us,” she said, feeling no temptation to sarcasm. “A cup of tea or coffee?”

“I can’t stay long.” He considered Pax. “Mr. Paxton. Always a pleasure.”

Pax didn’t answer and never took his eyes off the man.

“And you”—the man ran his eyes over her, weighed her up, measured, assessed—“claim to be a Baldoni. Explain to me why they’ve never heard of you.”

“Six men headed for Soho,” Hawker said, “armed with a copy of this.” He shoved aside an unlit lantern, three letters, and a pair of driving gloves to unroll the sketch on the hall table. “The Merchant, looking ordinary.”

“Many deadly men look ordinary.” Galba was already dressed for the street, meticulous in overcoat and hat. He frowned at the face that looked up at them from the table.

“I prefer it when killers show a little murder on their countenance,” Hawker said.

Doyle said, “It’s there. You see it in what’s missing.”

Galba put a glove on, finger by finger, stiff and emphatic about it. “I know this man.”

Doyle touched the corner of the paper. “You met him in France?”

“At Cambridge. Bring it in here.”

The downstairs study was empty, all the traffic of the early morning having run itself off to another part of the house or out to Soho. A dozen agents left a certain disorder behind.

In the study, Hawker laid the picture flat on the desk. Galba turned up the flame in the lamp, and they all looked at it.

Hawker said, “Cambridge?”

Galba narrowed his eyes, studying feature by feature. “This is Peter Styles.”

“Styles . . . Styles.” Doyle visibly shuffled through his memory. “The Honorable Peter Styles, who turned out to be somewhat less than honorable after all. That Foreign Office theft . . . it must be twenty-five years ago. He was the second—maybe third—son of one of the earls up north.”

“The Earl of Cardinham. I believe this Peter is now the heir. He took a First at Cambridge.”

“Before my time,” Doyle said. “Hawk, if you’re standing around idle . . .”

“I am never idle, Mr. Doyle. I am always preparing for the next stroke of brilliance.”

“Right. Do that while you put these in the dumbwaiter.” Doyle passed over coffee cups and hooked up a pair of ale tankards deftly in one hand, betraying some experience in that activity.

“I don’t know why everyone is determined to make me a waiter.” Hawker was not silent with the plates and cups. “So the Merchant is an Englishman.”

“This man is.” Galba picked up the sketch.

“I am casting my mind back a good ways now. Styles made a great noise at Cambridge.” Doyle rubbed the back of his neck. “I heard about it even in my day. He was leading around a band of noble radicals who were going to reform the world. A brilliant mind, but something wrong with him even then. Hawk, get that last cup on the windowsill, will you.”

“We would not wish to leave it behind, all forlorn without its fellows.”

“We would not wish someone to break it up and use the edges to attack,” Doyle said. “I don’t remember much more about Styles. He left behind nasty rumors and unpaid bills when he shook the dust of Cambridge off his boots. They say he crippled a man in a duel. They say he seduced his landlady’s daughter, age fourteen.”

“A charming fellow,” Hawker said.

“And a credit to the Foreign Office, which is where he went next. A year later he went through the offices and helped himself to every secret that wasn’t nailed down and a pile of money intended for bribes in the German states and took the packet from Dover.”

Hawker brushed his hands. “I have frequently asked myself why I don’t do the same. If you don’t have any more menial work for me, I will depart. I’m supposed to be following Pax.”

“Follow him,” Galba said. “Stay close. The Merchant knows his face.”

“And that she-wolf may cut his throat in a fit of pique. Maybe I can eliminate one or the other of those threats.”

“Don’t kill anybody,” Doyle said.

“You are tying my hands as an effective agent. You do know that.” The rest of Hawker’s commentary disappeared down the hall with him.

When Hawker was gone, Galba and Doyle stood in silence for few minutes.

Galba said, “Do you see it?”

“What?” Doyle said.

“Look closely.” Galba was doing just that. “Forget who it is. See it as if it were hanging on the wall in a country house.”

Doyle took the sketch. “I’d think it was good. I’d wonder who the artist was. I’d think the man looks familiar. I never saw Peter Styles, so I can’t—” Doyle stopped. Stared for another moment. Whispered, “Frogs and little dancing fishes. I don’t believe it.”

Galba said, “The resemblance is unmistakable.”

Some activities are unsuited to Gunter’s. Negotiating with criminals was one. Any reference to the Baldoni, root and branch, was another.

Cami said, “Let’s leave,” to the criminal who sat across from her. “I don’t want to talk about this here.”

“Now, why is that?” the man said softly.

She stood. “We can be overheard, and I’m cautious.”

“Happens I’m cautious myself. Why don’t we continue our discussion elsewhere?”

Pax dropped coins on the table and picked her cloak off the back of the chair and pulled it around her shoulders. He said, “She’s protected.”

“You’re not doing a notably good job of it, Mr. Paxton, if she’s face-to-face with me.”

“That’s her choice,” Pax said calmly. “It’s all her choice.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

She led two very dangerous men out of Gunter’s, greatly reducing the level of lethality within. Pax followed last, keeping an eye on things.

Sunlight struck bright after she’d been inside. There were more thugs on the street than she was comfortable with. She walked a dozen feet down the pavement to put some space between herself and the door of Gunter’s, observing which people noted the movement and which ignored it. Separating the sheep from the goats.