It took two breaths before she could speak. “Is he inside? Napoleon? The presentation from Egypt?”

“This is a private meeting. See the secretary at—”

“I am policière. I have a message for the chief of your guard. I will enter immediately.” And damn it that she looked untidy and unimportant when she must impress this unimaginative dolt. She fumbled for her lettre d’autorité with its seals and impressive signatures that would get her through any door in Paris.

“My orders are to—” He swung the gun down in front of her, blocking her from the door. Frowned past her to Hawker who was ready to mark the wallpaper with one of his arrows. “What are you doing! This palace belongs to the people of France. It is a treasure of the nation. Give that to me!”

Hawker, bland as a sheep, innocent as a child, held out the charcoal. When the guard reached for it, Hawker grabbed him by the ears, slammed the man’s head down, and cracked it against his knee, The guard fell noiselessly.

Hawker stepped over him and pushed the double door open. She did not need identification papers.

He said, “You get Napoleon out. I’ll find the Englishman.”

A year ago, when she had walked through this room, the walls were painted with hunting scenes. Gods and cherubs looked down from a high, domed ceiling.

The Green Salon was transformed. White gauze, in thin layers, hung from the ceiling and tented out over four huge wood obelisks at the corners of the room. More white gauze curtained the walls, floor to ceiling, hiding the windows, making everything dim and stuffy. Placards, painted with Egyptian gods, had been set up every few feet between huge, upright mummy cases. Everything smelled strongly of linseed oil.

Napoleon stood with his back to her, but he was unmistakable. He was bareheaded, in a dark blue coat, his arms crossed. He was no taller than the men around him. Shorter, in fact. But the compact energy of him could be felt all the way across the room. He turned to talk to the man next to him. Pale skin and a hooked nose. Slashed, dark eyebrows. In this crowded salon he stood out like an eagle in the midst of chickens.

The man at the front, speaking, was Julien Latour, chief of antiquities at the Louvre. She had heard Latour lecture once. Beside him was a thick beef of a man, middle-aged and florid, with a thick, loose lower lip, the very model of an English hunting squire. That was most likely the Englishman they sought. A glance to the side showed Hawker, sliding forward through the crowd, intent upon him.

Between Latour and the Englishman, on a table covered with more of this wispy gauze, lit by torches, was La Dame du Nil, the Lady of the Nile, the carved, painted figure of a woman, a foot tall. It stood on a decorated box, arms outstretched like a bird about to take flight.

La dame. Brought to la tour. Latour.

This was the moment. This was the assassination she must stop.

Thirty or forty men, a dozen women, and a few children jammed together into the room, breathing on one another, leaving only a respectful space around Napoleon. Two guards, bored as cows, had their backs against the drapery that lined the walls. Vezier, the garde sergeant, a man she knew, had put himself to the right of Napoleon.

He was alert. He saw her and came to attention.

She started toward him. In a moment someone in this room would try to kill Napoleon. By pistol shot most likely. She must do nothing, nothing to precipitate that.

She elbowed forward through the pack, rammed her shoulder into someone’s back, tromped hard on the toes of men who would not move out of her way. Through the slit in the side of her skirt, she found the pouch that held her pistol and put her hand on it.

The room was stifling. The torches in their stands on the presentation table burned with tiny, upright flames. Women fanned themselves with informative pamphlets. The flicker and flitter would be a cover and a distraction for someone pointing a gun. She could not look everywhere at once.

At the front, the Englishman kept his hands possessively on the painted box and the statue. Latour droned, “In Fifteenth Dynasty funerary rites, Isis represents the feminine aspect of rejuvenation . . .”

Latour had been boring when she’d listened to him before.

She reached Vezier. She blessed, blessed a thousand times, the habit and training that taught her to know the best men who did useful work at every level. Not only the captain of the Imperial Guard, but the most responsible sergeants. Vezier was one of the men she’d warned yesterday. He knew everything she knew. She could say to him, “It’s here. It’s now. Get him out,” and waste no time in explanation.

Vezier acted at once, all soldier in this. Decision and deed were close as two sides of a coin. He gathered in the other two guards with a lift of the hand and took the step that brought him to Napoleon’s side. Tapped the First Consul’s arm to get his attention. Leaned to speak to him.

Napoleon blinked once. The line of his mouth hardened. He said ten words, then looked directly at her. Nodded. He turned to give orders to the men behind him.

She had become a woman whose word would stop this ceremony. Her warning would interrupt the ruler of France. She was proud of that and suddenly terrified, in case she was wrong. If she had made a mistake, she would be disgraced.

She did not think this was a mistake.

Now to get the First Consul away from the room, to safety. In the crowd around her, no one reached into a coat pocket. No woman opened her small bag and removed a pretty pistol. Puzzled looks began, but that was all.

Hawker slid like a shadow along the great swathes of curtains, brushing them to sway as he went by, his left hand down, poised to retrieve a knife from under his coat sleeve. He searched faces as if he were trying to locate some friend, misplaced. He’d recognize murder in a man’s eyes. He’d see the first twitch to a weapon. He’d smell intent like a cat smells fish.

He advanced toward the Englishman, coming from behind.

Latour, splendidly oblivious, went on, “. . . to an era of peace and cooperation between our nations, symbolized by this artifact, returned to French hands.”

There was a pause. Men began to clap lightly.

The Englishman reached out. She took a step closer. Began to draw her gun. But the Englishman only took up a torch from its holder. Part of the ceremony then.

Then he lowered the torch to the painted box, to the lid beneath the serene figure in white. Flames licked and spread across the patterned box like liquid till it was wrapped in writhing blue fire.

White flames shot upward, four feet high, in a whoosh and a sudden thin column. Sparks flew off in every direction.

Women screamed. The Englishman slipped away behind the curtain of draperies.

She leaped after him, past the fire, around the end of the table, pushing Latour, shocked and openmouthed, aside.

She was in time to see the door close behind the Englishman. Hear it lock.

There were two doors to this room. If this one was locked, the other would be as well.

The door was painted, gilded, ornate, harmless-looking. Solid wood. Locked tight. She grabbed the handle. It didn’t turn. Not with all her strength. She slammed herself against it.

“Get out of the way.” Hawker pushed her aside and knelt. Pulled his picklocks out, rattling them loose from the black velvet wrapping. Set his forehead to the door and began to work, his hands hard and steady as his picklocks.

They were screaming behind her in the room. Men tried to get past her to claw at the door. She braced herself, hands flat on the door panels, arched over Hawker. Protecting him and what he was doing with her body. She spread her legs wide and put her head down and held in place against fists that pounded at her and tried to batter her aside.

Brilliant light behind her. Stark white. The cloth was on fire everywhere. Heat like she’d been pushed, face-first, into a stove. Three breaths, and she was already choking.

Too hot to see. Her eyeballs hurt.

She was going to die.

Hawker’s head pressed under her belly. He was seeing nothing but his work. Not a move out of him but the dance of his hands.

In the room behind her the fire growled like an animal.

She heard the tiny click when the lock turned. Hawker jerked the handle, freed the door, and pushed. The door moved an inch. Stopped. There was a barrier outside the door. Heavy. Immovable.

“It’s blocked from outside.” Hawker was calm, even as he choked.

He turned. Light rippled grim and red on his face. He said, “Owl. I’m sorry.”

Then he set his back to the door. Braced his feet. “You and you. Here. Back to the door. Push.

Four men pushed now, using all their strength. She stepped away and covered her face with her skirt. Bowed her head against the heat.

The door didn’t budge. Not much longer for any of them. Across the room she heard screams and banging. The other door—yes—the other door was locked too, and no one to get it open.

Then Hawker and the desperate, heaving men beside him fell backwards. The door opened outward, abruptly, five inches. Yelling, they pushed again and the door screeched and shuddered an inch more. Then opened enough for the men to edge sideways and through.

She heard the rumble of something being dragged aside. The door flung wide.

The rush of panic and shoving carried her past Hawker and down the hall. Paxton and the first men out of the burning room struggled to shove a heavy bureau out of the way. The guard was limp on the ground next to the wall.