Joanna Bourne - The Black Hawk

Carruthers said, “I’ll send the fiacre for you at dusk. You will grace England with your presence for a while.”

He put out a hand. “Wait.” And he told her he was a Caché.

JUSTINE FOLLOWED LEBLANC INTO THE CROWD, keeping an eye out for any dark, slim man decorated with ashes. She saw no one of interest, neither Hawker nor his friend with the so-obvious hair. The fire in the Pavillon de Marsan had dusted everyone with bits of black. If Hawker had stupidly remained to hide among the crowd, he would blend in.

“He was seen,” Leblanc pointed, “headed that way. We go to the main building.”

Two guards followed them, armed. “Yes, monsieur.”

It was dim inside, after the bright sun of the courtyard, even with the long windows that reached to the ceiling. They passed no one. All the world was in the courtyard, cheering the arrival of the pumping engine. The galleries of the Louvre led one into another, endless canyons of paintings, studded with statues. It was as good an escape as most, and Hawker would not linger to admire the artwork. He was gone from here. Long gone.

Leblanc muttered to himself, “I saw him at the presentation. Just before the fire. I’ll know him when I see him again.”

With luck, Leblanc would not see him again.

While Hawker had killed his Englishman, two men from the Department of Antiquities came out to the stairs and looked. Leblanc had questioned them closely. They wore flamboyant cravats and chattered and were as shocked and pleased as if they had done the deed themselves. They were, unfortunately, observant and exact witnesses. They were also artists. Leblanc would soon have pencil sketches of Hawker and Paxton.

Leblanc said, “He set the fire and escaped from the room.”

She shook her head. “I do not think so. He was trapped with the rest of us.”

“You are wrong. It is the work of a great operative to see these things, Justine. You would do well to take your lessons from me.” Leblanc limped mightily from some small injury acquired in the panic of the fire. She hoped it hurt. “The English fight among themselves. One spy has disposed of his accomplice and fled. That is the cause of this murder.”

“Or it is Jacobins,” she said. “In any case, they are not here.”

It was eerie to be in the great vaulted halls, alone. She could have stolen the artwork of centuries at this moment and walked out with it under her cloak. She did not mention this. The guards, following, were unlikely to recognize the theoretical nature of this observation. Leblanc would probably steal something, if it were once suggested to him that he could.

Leblanc said, “You. Search that way. You. Down there.” And the guards went to obey. She hoped they would not shoot someone entirely innocent. She also hoped they would not shoot Hawker.

In a gallery at the end of this corridor was a small picture by Vouet that had hung in her bedroom when she was a child and the Mademoiselle de Cabrillac, an aristocrat. The Republic confiscated it when the chateau was sacked. She was not certain whether she would steal it back or not. How strange to almost be given the chance.

Leblanc stalked along, wincing, keeping a half step in front of her so he should look like he was leading. He managed to look both sullen and dangerous, like a spoiled five-year-old playing with munitions. “The First Consul did not listen. I told him it was English spies. I will give him English spies.”

He won’t thank you for it.

They came to a dead end where a large marble snake strangled several naked men.

“Not here,” Leblanc hissed. “Go back. He will escape the other way.”

In the distance, an old couple followed by their servant left the hall of sculptures. A museum watchman passed, looking at them curiously.

“I will salvage something from this debacle,” Leblanc said. “If only more dead spies.”

She saw him then, dark on the white stairs, illuminated pitilessly by the skylight above. He had nowhere to hide in all this grandeur. Slight, black-haired, all ardent grace as he took the steps two at a time. Hawker.

“There. There he is.” Leblanc shouted, “Shoot.”

Leblanc tore a pistol from his jacket pocket. She stepped in front of him, blocking his aim, and took out her own gun. Raised it. Strange how it seemed so absolutely silent.

“Kill him,” Leblanc said.

She held the gun in both hands before her. Shifted, as if by accident, into Leblanc’s path. He couldn’t get a clear shot.

Her finger found the trigger. She lowered the barrel to her target with the deliberate care of a marksman. She aimed well to the left of him. Her finger tightened. Softly.

Hawker half-turned. In a single snap, their eyes met.

“Out of my way.” Leblanc shoved her from behind. And she shot.

Hawker still held her eye. She saw the impact. Blood blossomed on his chest. The bullet hit him high, between heart and shoulder. Blood trickled down over the bright stripes of his waistcoat.

No! No. No. “You spoiled my aim,” she heard herself say to Leblanc.

Hawker stayed, standing still, the space of an intake of breath. Shocked with getting hit. Shocked that it was her bullet going into him. Then he turned and ran.

She spun clumsily and managed to knock into Leblanc. Her pistol, empty now, knocked his arm aside.

“Stupid bitch.”

She snapped, “He’s hit. He can’t go far. Get the garde. Search the apartments upstairs. He’ll be hiding in one of them.”

She ran up the steps.

Hawker had left a trail of blood. He’d turned down this hall. One of the curtains was pulled back unevenly and the window was open.

Even Hawker with his legendary skill could not . . .

But there was blood on the stone outside. Had he managed to climb down? She searched the ground below, but he was not there. The men and women walking the Rue de Rivoli gave no sign a man had passed, dripping blood. Somehow, he had ambled away, blending into the crowd.

Hawker was alone in Paris, desperate and wounded.

He thought she had tried to kill him.

JUSTINE WAS DETERMINED TO ARISE AND COME TO breakfast. She was entirely weary of meeting men in bed when she was wearing no clothing.

She came downstairs, holding the rail. Séverine went before her, ready to throw her body down to cushion any fall. Surely no child wavering onto its feet for the first time was ever so closely watched.

The banyan robe she wore slithered under her feet when not persuaded otherwise. Silk brocade lipped about her bare legs, too heavy to cling. The crimson of it was a shout, a strident trumpet of a color. One could imagine confronting the emperor of China in such a garment. It was Hawker’s and smelled faintly of tobacco, sandalwood, and black powder.

At the bottom of the stairs, the carpet was chilly under the arch of her foot. Three doors were open into the hall and a light wind blew through. At the back of the house, men’s voices rumbled. She would head in that direction. If anyone was talking, it was probably Hawker.

Séverine said, “Catch your breath. Sit for a minute.” She gave other prudent advice.

“When I sit down, I will not want to stand up again. I am weak as pudding.” Ah, the beauty of great truths. They can be stated so concisely.

It was not so long a journey from the front of the house to the back. She set her right hand upon the wall from time to time and rested because there was no one to impress and she would need all her strength to deal with the men who awaited her at the end of the hall.

Séverine opened the door into a small, perfect dining room with Chinese wallpaper, graceful mahogany furniture, and quite a nice collection of English spies. A mound of untidy gray fur occupied a square of sunlight on the rug. This was the huge dog that visited her room several times a day, sniffed at her, and departed, grave and silent as a physician. The table held breakfast dishes and stacks of notes, folded newspapers, a teapot and cups, and a pair of black knives.

“. . . the witness statements. So far, we’ve talked to—” Doyle swung around in his chair.

Hawker, at the head of the table, looked up.

Silence. She took two . . . three . . . slow breaths and walked through the door to discuss various matters with the British Service.

Hawker was in shirtsleeves. He wore stark white linen of the finest quality, a cream waistcoat, and the impassive containment of a Byzantine icon. He was even thinner than he had been long ago.

He said to Séverine, “You had to bring her, didn’t you? I do not understand why nobody ever says ‘no’ to this woman.”

Séverine said, “She can faint as easily downstairs in company as upstairs alone. At worst she will topple over and bloody her nose. At best, one of you can catch her.” She went around the table to kiss Doyle on the cheek in a daughterly manner.

“And ain’t that a wonderful prospect for a man trying to enjoy his breakfast in peace.” Doyle had chosen to be scarred and unshaven today. It would suit his peculiar sense of humor to sit in this exquisite room in the rough, patched clothing of the barely respectable poor.

On the other side of the table, Paxton was a pale, ascetic scholar this morning, wearing shabby black. He had spectacularly proven his loyalty to England many years ago and paid full price for the right to sit among them. It was legend in the circles of spies, how greatly he had redeemed himself from suspicion.