by Iain Gale
‘Sorry, monsignor.’
The use of the title was interesting. In particular now as Keane had not been blind to the way in which the two men acted with each other, nor to the newcomer’s use of the word ‘general’ to address Macpherson. So he was ‘General Macpherson’. That explained a good deal.
They did not have to wait long for the other man to arrive. Elliott’s ‘brother’ Rochambeau was physically the opposite of Elliott. As short as the other was tall and with a full physique which spoke of good living as much as it did of hard fighting. He was the sort of man who, if encountered on a dark night, might persuade you to cross quickly over to the other side of the road. He looked at Keane and squinted. ‘Who’s this?’ He took a closer look at Keane’s uniform. ‘He’s Irish? French Irish?’
Elliott nodded. ‘Yes, Irish. But not for the French. Not for Bonaparte. This is Captain Williams, fresh from Spain. He’s come to help us.’
Rochambeau continued to squint at Keane. ‘Is he dependable?’
Elliott replied, as if the two of them were weighing up a piece of livestock. ‘Completely. The general can vouch for him. He is one of Wellington’s top men. A spy.’
Keane winced at the word and smiled engagingly at Rochambeau, who continued to stare at him while he spoke to Elliott. ‘If you say so. I wouldn’t trust any spy.’ He fixed Keane in his gaze. ‘What do you know of us?’
‘Merely what I have been told by Mr Macpherson, the general here. Not much.’
‘We aim to kill Bonaparte. A bomb. Before he begins on his new campaign, his latest madness. He is still in Dresden with the Grande Armée. The timing couldn’t be better. He will be surrounded by generals, and no one will suspect that one of them will be bearing more than papers in his portmanteau.’
‘You intend to kill Bonaparte with a bomb at his headquarters?’
‘His field headquarters. Yes. Precisely. This coming Saturday. The general here tells us that you can help us. Can you?’
Keane looked quizzically at Macpherson. This had not been what he had been told his mission involved and he wondered what on earth his response should be. Macpherson merely nodded.
Keane looked back at Rochambeau. ‘I’ll do everything I possibly can to help. I have no great experience with bombs, and although I have a man with me who has special talents, I can’t say I see either being of use to you. He’s adept at both robbery and code-breaking. We’ll do what we can.’
Rochambeau seemed satisfied. ‘Good, we need anyone we can get who has experience of operating behind enemy lines. Your disguise is good too. The Légion Irlandaise is destined to be part of his force, we hear. When can you leave?’
Again Keane looked at Macpherson, who nodded. ‘Captain Williams and Lieutenant O’Connell will be ready to depart with you just as soon as you are prepared to go.’
‘Very good. We shall call for you tomorrow afternoon, captain. We ride to Dresden. Until then, goodbye, captain. Good day, general.’
The two men left the room and Macpherson’s daughter showed them from the house.
Keane turned to Macpherson. ‘Sir, could you possibly tell me what on earth that conversation was about? Dresden? I’m not supposed to go to Dresden. Am I?’
Macpherson shook his head and looked deadly serious. ‘No, not at all, Keane. I’m afraid that you have just been used in a game. And I must say that you played your part very well.’
Keane’s blood was boiling, his worst fears confirmed. ‘What? Used how? What do you mean?’
‘The bomb plot will fail. It must in fact fail before it begins. This morning you will travel to see Fouché at the appointed time. As your opening move as a new paid man on his team, you will tell him about the bomb plot. You will give him the addresses of Elliott and Rochambeau.’
‘And they will be arrested.’
‘Precisely.’
‘But surely that will be to condemn them to death.’
Macpherson nodded. ‘Yes, it will. But there is no alternative. You have done an excellent job of showing Fouché that you deserve a place in his confidence. Now we have to persuade him that, apart from being intrepid and resourceful, you are also loyal to your new master and ruthlessly disloyal to others. If it takes the death of two of my agents to do so, then that, I’m afraid, is what it takes. This time their luck has run out. We can’t afford to give it another thought.’
Keane began to protest. ‘But I thought that I was supposed to raise a royalist rebellion here in Paris. To help to bring down Bonaparte’s regime from the inside. You yourself said so. How on earth can such a plan work if I show myself to be a traitor to the royalist cause. Which royalist will ever trust me again?’
Macpherson looked at him and smiled. ‘Who said anything about any rising being an exclusively royalist insurrection? When we rid ourselves of Bonaparte, it will be by means of an alliance between all of his enemies, royalists, republicans, all sorts. They will work together. By sacrificing two royalists, we work for the greater good. Trust me, the royalists are used to such sacrifices and the republicans will see it as you proving yourself for them. It is the only way, Keane. Believe me.’
Keane did not know quite what or who to trust. He was genuinely shocked by the man’s candour and apparent brutality. He wondered in passing if he might be destined for the same fate. If Macpherson’s intriguing was so complex that he might himself be being used in some counter-counter plot. But at present there was nothing to do apart from go along with Macpherson’s plan.
*
The bells of Notre Dame were striking twelve noon when Keane found himself in Fouché’s office at the house in the rue du Bac. The ex-chief of police greeted him with a friendly smile.
‘Captain, I am pleased to see you here as agreed.’ He looked back down at the table. ‘Now, to business. Monsieur Choiseul tells me that you already have information for me.’
Choiseul had ushered Keane into the room but had left on Fouché’s bidding, leaving the two of them apparently alone.
‘Yes, sir. I have information of an extremely sensitive nature regarding the well-being of the emperor himself.’
Fouché raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? What kind of information?’
‘Information regarding an attempt upon his life.’
Fouché’s face became immediately animated and alert. ‘An attempt on the emperor’s life? Where and by whom? Tell me.’
‘There is a royalist plot, sir. They plan to kill the emperor with a bomb. In Dresden, in three days’ time. It is to be hidden inside the portmanteau of one of the generals.’
Fouché rang the little bell that sat on his desk and instantly the door opened and Choiseul entered, accompanied by two armed guards.
‘Quickly, Choiseul, get a pen and paper. Now, captain, we need details. Every detail. When will this happen and who are the conspirators?’
‘As I said, at Dresden. On Saturday. I do not know the identity of the general who will be carrying the bomb. But I can give you the names of his conspirators here in Paris.’
‘That will be enough. We have means of getting any information we need.’
‘Their names are Elliott and Rochambeau and I have their addresses here.’ Feeling the very worst sort of traitor, Keane handed Fouché a piece of paper on which he had written, as directed by Macpherson, the names and addresses of the two men.
Fouché read it and handed it to Choiseul. ‘Go and take both men and anyone else who you happen to find in their houses. If they resist, you have my express permission to kill them. But do your best to bring them in alive. Put them in the cellars. Then we shall see what they can tell us.’
For a moment Keane panicked. ‘Sir, may I be allowed to leave before they are brought here? Should they see me here, it would all be up for me.’
Fouché smiled. ‘Why of course, captain. That would not do at all. But first, would you be so kind as to tell me how you man
aged to get this information for us? Who was it entrusted you with it?’
‘I did it myself, sir. I have my sources and the word was that something of the sort was afoot. I’m naturally inquisitive, sir. I just like to know other people’s business. So in the last few days I began to make enquiries. A question here, a question there. You know how it is. It’s not difficult when you wear the green and speak in an Irish accent as I do. There are many people on both sides who would take you as their friend. I simply made it known in certain circles, in certain cafés, that I was a royalist sympathizer and the next thing you know these two men were on me, asking me to help them.’
‘And you agreed, of course.’
‘Of course, sir, knowing that I might be able to impart to you some information which would save the life of the emperor.’
Fouché said nothing for a moment, and then, ‘Yes, I see, captain. But put yourself in my position. You will see that from my point of view you might be lying. If as you say is true, and I know it to be so, there are Irish on both sides, then why should you not be on the other?’
‘Then why would I have given you the names of two men whom I have now condemned to certain death? These men are royalists. They deserve to die. Why would I condemn my own type if I were one of them?’
Fouché considered the matter. ‘I would like to believe you, Captain Williams, and so I shall. You may go before they arrive. Indeed you must go. You have done well, captain. Now, get out of here before the two unfortunates arrive.’
*
Within two hours, two companies of the city’s National Guard, miraculously raised by Fouché using all the influence he still exerted in official channels, had surrounded the houses of Elliott and Rochambeau and the two men and their households were taken off without incident in covered wagons to the cellars of the rue du Bac.
The first that Keane heard of it was from Macpherson. He had returned home and was sitting in the library trying to puzzle out Macpherson’s own motives when the old man entered. He looked sombre as he spoke.
‘It is done. They’ve been taken.’
‘That’s it then. I can’t say I’m pleased.’
‘This is a long game, Keane. There’s no room for sentiment. We’re in it to win.’
And with that the matter was closed. Keane tried not to imagine the fate of the families and servants of the two men, but was nevertheless overwhelmed by a sense of guilt and complicity in an affair in which he took no pride.
And before long further arrests were made and publicised to Fouché’s credit. And the remaining conspirators went to ground. Macpherson himself though remained untouched. It was said that another, nameless royalist agent, a double agent in the pay of Fouché, had come into Paris with an old grudge against one of the two men and betrayed him. That at least was the story being circulated by Macpherson.
Keane varied the times at which he visited Fouché and the days of the week. He did not take Archer with him, leaving him instead to use his own considerable initiative and explore the streets of Paris, listening, carefully and methodically and analysing what he heard.
In the evening he would report back with all the intelligence he had gathered from the heart of Napoleon’s capital. Most of it was commonplace stuff. There were the usual lists of what regiments were stationed in what towns and how much bread was left in which storehouses. But over the next few days the gossip took a different turn.
A group of men and women had been arrested in the Place du Carrousel protesting about grain prices. It had not been reported in the press. Another similar group of angry, hungry Parisians had been taken in Les Halles, where they had overturned merchants’ carts in protest at rising food prices. Either this was genuine popular expression or, as seemed more likely to Keane, someone was orchestrating these gatherings. And he had a fairly shrewd idea of who it might be.
He quizzed Archer on it. ‘You’re sure that no names were mentioned? Merely the fact that arrests had been made?’
‘Yes, sir, but the curious thing is that some of the arrested people were seen the following morning going about their business as if nothing had happened.’
‘What do you read into that?’
‘That the arrests were bogus. Why would you arrest an insurrectionist only to release them by the next morning?’
‘Yes, I agree. It’s clearly a sham. I’ve a hunch this is Fouché’s doing. But why on earth should he be behind it?’
*
It was as he entered the second week working as an agent for Fouché that Keane began to be aware, in the course of an apparently trivial and everyday conversation, that his master might not be quite what he seemed.
Keane had gone to Fouché’s house at 83 rue du Bac late in the afternoon and entered by the secret way through a next-door café which led into a disused church. The previous evening Keane had attended another of Fouché’s soirées at the Palais-Royal. It had been an enjoyable evening, although Keane’s attempts to find the little acrobat had proved fruitless and he hoped that their liaison had not put her in any danger.
As he entered Fouché’s office, the chief of police looked up from his desk. ‘Good morning, Captain Williams. I trust that you enjoyed last night’s soirée.’
‘Very much, sir. It is good to be back in Paris after so long and to see how much the emperor has done for his capital and his people.’
Fouché gazed at him for a moment and once again Keane wondered if their game was up.
But Fouché went on. ‘Yes, it is remarkable. But do you realize how much of the success of his regime once depended upon me? You can see very clearly that was the reason why just this very year we created the Sûreté. But obviously I was wrong. When I was the emperor’s man I had to deal with everyday matters. I had no time to devote my thoughts to higher things.’
It was a strange comment and to Keane’s mind perhaps another hint that Fouché’s thoughts were still on sacred matters. Although it was also perhaps a deliberate hint that he wished to be considered as a thinker rather than as the former head of the world’s most notorious secret police organization.
‘Do you know what I received one morning, captain, from the emperor himself? You’re an intelligent man, captain. Look at this – look at it and tell me your immediate thoughts.’
Keane took the piece of paper and seeing the signature at the bottom almost dropped it. It was a letter from Bonaparte to Fouché, dated 1807. The top bore a simple address:
‘Palais Imperial de la Grande Armée, Wien’
Keane read the letter. It began civilly enough with a cordial greeting and some comments about how well Fouché had done in controlling an outbreak of insurgency in the Vendée. But very soon it became a string of criticisms. Not enough was being done about the problem of British spies in Cherbourg. Where were the promised police reinforcements in Toulouse? There was lack of intelligence along the Westphalian border. And then there were a number of localized matters in Paris. In particular Napoleon commented on street lighting. Keane read carefully: ‘I’ve learnt that the streets of Paris are no longer being lit. Fouché, this non-lighting of Paris is becoming a crime; it’s necessary to put an end to this abuse, because the public is beginning to complain. And it is absolutely vital to me to maintain public approval at all times.’
Keane looked at Fouché. ‘It seems very wide-ranging. Very concerned.’
‘Yes, you might say that. Let me acquaint you with the facts, tedious though they are. In my time the main streets were illuminated by 4,335 oil lanterns hung from posts. These could be lowered on a cord to be lit without a ladder. But I had a problem, captain, with the quantity and quality of the oil being supplied by private contractors. The lamps were incapable of burning all night, and often they did not burn at all. Also, if the lamps were placed far apart, so much of the street remained in darkness. So the emperor was right. The emperor had a point. And the emperor was alw
ays right.’
Keane went on, pushing his luck and, he knew, Fouché’s patience. ‘Actually, I did notice the lack of lighting when I was walking home the other night. I had to engage the services of a porte-falot to illuminate the way.’
Fouché grimaced. ‘Yes, it is still unresolved. Despite the existence of the Sûreté.’ He spat the word out. ‘Now, captain, you know that I am one of the emperor’s most loyal and faithful servants. But look at how he treated me. How he treats me still. How has he rewarded me for everything I have done? For all my devotion?’
Keane handed the paper back to Fouché and nodded. This was no passing conversation. This was a test. Keane was acutely aware that he needed to stay two steps ahead of Fouché. This was not to discover if he was good enough to work in Bonaparte’s war machine. This was a test of Keane’s own loyalty to the emperor. Fouché seemed to Keane to be sounding him out as a possible sympathizer against Napoleon.
It was just as Macpherson had predicted. Keane was being turned into a double agent. My God, he thought, this man moved fast. Keane presumed that was how he had managed to engineer his own dynamic rise.
‘Sir, I would not take against the emperor. After all he has done for his country.’
‘His country? He’s a Corsican, Williams. He’s no more of a Frenchman than you.’
‘But, sir, surely you don’t mean this. You’re merely out of sorts. Angry with the emperor for this slight. An old letter, a few ill-chosen words. I’m sure you’ll feel different, after a while.’
‘I know how I feel, captain, and I know that it has gone too far now for me to change my opinion. Do you understand what I mean?’
‘Yes, I think so. Am I to infer from this that even after all that you and Choiseul have said to me, in reality you do not believe in the emperor’s great project?’
‘Great project? Huge folly is a better description. I lost faith in the emperor’s “great projects” years ago. But trust me, captain, if I am at work here, it is because of my loyalty to France. And I think I see something of the same strain in you.’