The Eight

by Katherine Neville

  She heard a grating sound outside the cell door, the sound of a rusty bolt being pulled back. The door opened, and when her eyes adjusted she saw two figures outlined against the dim light. One was her jailer; the other was dressed in breeches, silk hose, faille pumps, and a loose-fitting coat with foulard, a low-brimmed hat partly concealing his face. The jailer stepped inside the cell, and Mireille rose to her feet.

  “Mademoiselle,” said the jailer, “a portrait painter has been sent by the court to prepare a sketch of you for the records. He said you’ve given permission—”

  “Yes, yes!” Mireille said quickly. “Show him in!” Now was her chance, she thought in excitement. If only she might convince this man to risk his life by carrying her message from the prison. She waited until the guard departed, then raced to the painter’s side. He set down his box of paints and the dim oil lamp, which put out a smoky fume.

  “Monsieur!” cried Mireille. “Give me a sheet of paper and something to write with. There’s a message I must get to the outside—to someone I trust—before I die. Her name, like mine, is Corday.…”

  “Don’t you recognize me, Mireille?” said the painter in a soft voice. Mireille stared as he began to remove his jacket, then his hat. The red locks tumbled down over the bosom of Charlotte Corday! “Come, don’t waste time. There’s much to be said and done. And we must exchange garments at once.”

  “But I don’t understand—what are you doing?” Mireille asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “I’ve been to David’s,” said Charlotte, grasping Mireille’s arm. “He’s in league with that devil Robespierre. I overheard them. Have they been here?”

  “Here?” Mireille cried in complete confusion.

  “They know you killed Marat, and more. There’s a woman behind this—they call her the Woman from India. She’s the White Queen, and she’s gone to London.…”

  “London!” said Mireille. That was what Marat meant when he’d said she was too late. It was not Catherine the Great at all, but a woman in London, where Mireille had sent the pieces! The Woman from India …

  “Make haste,” Charlotte was saying. “You must undress and put on these painter’s garments I stole from David’s.”

  “Are you mad?” said Mireille. “You can carry this news along with mine to the abbess. But there’s no time for tricks—they’ll never work. And I’ve much to reveal before I must—”

  “Please make haste,” Charlotte replied gravely. “I’ve much to tell you and little time. Here, look at this drawing and see if it reminds you of anything.” She handed Mireille the folded map Robespierre had drawn, then sat on the pallet to remove her shoes and stockings.

  Mireille studied the drawing carefully. “It seems to be a map,” she said, looking up as something slowly focused in her mind. “Now I remember … there was a cloth we exhumed with the pieces. A cloth of midnight blue, which covered the Montglane Service! The design—it was like this map!”

  “Exactly,” said Charlotte. “There’s a tale that goes with it. Do as I say, and quickly.”

  “If you mean to exchange places with me, you cannot,” cried Mireille. “In two hours they take me to the tumbril. You’ll never escape if they find you here in my place.”

  “Listen carefully,” Charlotte replied gravely, yanking hard to loosen the knot of her foulard. “The abbess sent me here to protect you at all costs. We knew who you were long before I risked my life coming to Montglane. If not for you, the Abbess would never have removed the service from the abbey. It was not your cousin Valentine she chose when she sent you two to Paris. She knew you’d never go without her, but it was you she wanted—you who could bring success.…”

  Charlotte was unfastening Mireille’s gown. Suddenly Mireille reached out and seized her arm. “What do you mean, she chose me?” she whispered. “Why do you say she removed the pieces because of me?”

  “Don’t be blind,” said Charlotte ferociously. She grasped Mireille’s hand and held it beneath the lantern’s light. “The mark is on your hand! Your birthday is the fourth of April! You are the one who was foretold—the one who’ll reunite the Montglane Service!”

  “My God!” Mireille cried, tearing her hand away. “Do you realize what you are saying? Valentine died because of this! For a foolish prophecy you risk your life.…”

  “No, my dear,” Charlotte said quietly. “I give my life.”

  Mireille stared at her in horror. How could she accept so great an offer? She thought of her child again, left in the desert.…

  “No!” she cried. “There cannot be another sacrifice on behalf of those dreaded pieces. Not after the terror they’ve already wrought!”

  “Do you wish us both to die, then?” said Charlotte, continuing to loosen Mireille’s garments, suppressing the tears as she kept her eyes averted.

  Mireille put her hand beneath Charlotte’s chin, pulling her face up until they looked deeply into each other’s eyes. After a long moment, Charlotte spoke in trembling voice.

  “We must defeat them,” she said. “You’re the only one who can do it. Don’t you see, even now? Mireille—you are the Black Queen!”

  Two hours had passed when Charlotte heard the grating of the bolt that signified the guards had arrived to take her to the tumbril. She was kneeling in darkness beside the pallet, praying.

  Mireille had taken the oil lamp and the few sketches she’d done of Charlotte—sketches she might have to produce to get out of the prison. After their tearful parting, Charlotte had withdrawn into her own thoughts and memories. She felt a sense of completion, of finality. Somewhere inside she’d formed a small pool of calm tranquillity that even the guillotine’s sharp blade would not cut away. She was about to become one with God.

  The door behind her had opened and closed—all was darkness—but she heard someone breathing within the cell. What was it? Why did they not take her? She waited in silence.

  There was the sound of scraping flint, a whiff of naphtha as a lantern flickered to light across the room.

  “Permit me to introduce myself,” said a soft voice. Something about it sent chills through her. Then she remembered—and froze, keeping her back turned. “My name is Maximilien Robespierre.”

  Charlotte was trembling as she kept her face turned away. She saw the lantern light move across the walls toward her, heard the chair pulled out so near the place she knelt—and another sound she couldn’t identify. Was there someone else in the room? She feared to turn and look.

  “You needn’t introduce yourself,” Robespierre was saying calmly. “I was at the trial this afternoon and the arraignment earlier. Those papers the prosecutor tore from your bodice—they were not yours.”

  Then she heard soft footsteps moving stealthily across the room toward them. They were not alone. She jumped, nearly screaming aloud, as she felt the soft hand on her shoulder.

  “Mireille, please forgive what I’ve done!” cried the unmistakable voice of the painter David. “I had to bring him here—I had no choice. My dearest child …”

  David pulled her about, burying his face in her neck. Over his shoulder, she saw the long oval face, the powdered wig, the glittering sea-green eyes, of Maximilien Robespierre. His insidious smile quickly melted into an expression of surprise, then fury, as he gingerly lifted the lantern with his fingers, holding it aloft for better light.

  “You fool!” he screamed in a high-pitched voice. Wrenching the terrified David from where he knelt weeping upon Charlotte’s shoulder, he flung out his hand to point at her. “I told you we’d be too late! But no—you had to wait for the trial! You actually thought she’d be acquitted! Now she’s escaped us, and all because of you!”

  He threw the lantern back on the table, spilling some of the oil, as he grabbed Charlotte and yanked her to her feet. Knocking David to one side, Robespierre drew back his arm in fury and slashed his hand across her face.

  “Where is she?!” he screamed. “What have you done with her? You’ll die in her place, no matter what she�
�s told you—I swear it—unless you confess!”

  Charlotte let the blood drip from her lip as she proudly drew herself up to look Robespierre in the eye. Then she smiled.

  “That is what I intend,” she said calmly.

  LONDON

  JULY 30, 1793

  It was near midnight when Talleyrand returned from the theater. Tossing his cape on a chair in the entrance hall, he headed for the small study off the foyer to pour himself a sherry. Courtiade stepped quickly into the hall.

  “Monseigneur,” he said in a hushed voice, “a visitor awaits. I’ve put her in the study until your return. It seemed most critical. She says she brings news of Mademoiselle Mireille.”

  “Thank God—at last,” said Talleyrand, rushing into the study.

  There in the firelight stood a slender form, wrapped closely in a black velvet cape. She was warming her hands by the fire. As Talleyrand entered, she shook back the heavy hood and let the cape slip from her naked shoulders. The white-blond hair tumbled down over her half-bare breasts. He could see her trembling flesh in the firelight, the profile tipped in golden light, the retroussé nose and tilted chin, the low-cut gown of dark velvet clinging to her lovely form. He could not breathe—he felt hard fingers of pain clutching at his heart as he froze in the doorway.

  “Valentine!” he whispered. Good God, how could it be? How could she return from the grave?

  She turned to him and smiled, her blue eyes sparkling, the flickering firelight shining through her hair. Swiftly, with a motion like flowing water, she moved to him as he stood frozen in the doorway and knelt before him, pressing her face against his hand. He placed his other hand on her hair, stroking it. He closed his eyes. His heart was breaking. How could it be?

  “Monsieur, I am in great danger,” she whispered in a low voice. But it was not the voice of Valentine. He opened his eyes to gaze into the upturned face—so beautiful, so like Valentine’s. But it was not she.

  His eyes ran down over her golden hair, her smooth skin, the shadow between her breasts, her bare arms … then a jolt of shock ran through him as he saw what she clasped in her hands—what she was holding up to him in the fire’s glow. It was a golden pawn, glittering with jewels—a pawn of the Montglane Service!

  “I throw myself upon your mercy, sire,” she whispered. “I need your aid. My name is Catherine Grand—and I come from India.…”

  THE BLACK QUEEN

  Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen

  Tod und Verzweiflung flammet um mich her!…

  Verstossen sei auf evig, verlassen sei auf evig,

  Zertrümmert zei’n auf evig alle bande der Natur.

  (The Revenge of Hell boils in my Heart,

  Death and Despair blaze all around me!…

  Cast off forever, abandoned forever,

  Broken forever are all bonds of Nature.)

  —The Queen of the Night

  The Magic Flute

  Emanuel Schikaneder and

  Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

  ALGIERS

  JUNE 1973

  So here was Minnie Renselaas—the fortune-teller.

  We were seated in her room of many-paned French windows, sheltered from the courtyard by a curtain of vines. Food came in from the kitchen, served on the low bronze table by a bevy of veiled women who disappeared as silently as they’d come. Lily, collapsed in a pile of cushions on the floor, was picking at a pomegranate. I was beside her, deep in a Moroccan leather chair, munching on a kiwi-persimmon tart. And across from me, reclining with her feet up on a green velvet divan, was Minnie Renselaas.

  Here she was at last—the fortune-teller who, six months ago, had dragged me into this dangerous game. A woman of many faces. To Nim she was a pal, wife of the late Dutch consul. She was supposed to protect me if I got into trouble. If one were to believe Therese, she was a popular woman about town. To Solarin she was a business contact. To Mordecai, his ally and old friend. But if one listened to El-Marad, she was also Mokhfi Mokhtar of the Casbah—the woman who had the pieces of the Montglane Service. She was many things to many people, but they all added up to one.

  “You’re the Black Queen,” I said.

  Minnie Renselaas smiled mysteriously. “Welcome to the Game,” she said.

  “So that’s what that Queen of Spades stuff meant!” cried Lily, sitting bolt upright in the cushions. “She’s a player, so she knows the moves!”

  “A major player,” I agreed, still studying Minnie. “She’s the fortune-teller your grandfather arranged to have me meet. And if I’m not mistaken, she knows more about this game than just the moves.”

  “You’re not mistaken,” said Minnie, still smiling like the Cheshire Cat. It was incredible how different she looked each time I saw her. Arrayed in shimmering silver against the dark green divan, her creamy skin unlined, she looked much younger than the last time I’d seen her—dancing at the bistro. And a far cry from either the tinselly fortune-teller with her rhinestone glasses, or the antique bird woman at the United Nations, swathed in black. She was like a chameleon. Who was she, really?

  “At last you’ve come,” she was saying in her low, cool voice that reminded me of flowing water. There was still that trace of an accent I couldn’t place. “I’ve waited so long. But now you can help me.…”

  My patience was fraying. “Help you?” I said. “Look, lady, I didn’t ask you to ‘choose’ me for this game. But I’ve called on you and you’ve answered me, just as your poem said. Now suppose you ‘shew me great and mighty things I knowest not.’ Because I’ve just about had it with mystery and intrigue. I’ve been shot at, chased by the secret police, seen two people killed. Lily’s wanted by Immigrations and about to be slapped in an Algerian jail—all because of this so-called game.”

  I was breathless from this outburst, my voice echoing from the high walls. Carioca had jumped into Minnie’s lap for protection, and Lily glared at him.

  “I’m glad to see you have spirit,” Minnie said coolly. As she stroked Carioca, the little traitor purred in her lap like an angora cat. “However, a more valuable trait in chess is patience, as your friend Lily can tell you. I’ve been patient for a very long time, waiting for you. I came to New York at great risk to my life, just to meet you. Aside from that trip, I haven’t left the Casbah in ten years, not since the Algerian revolution. In a sense, I’m a prisoner here. But you will set me free.”

  “A prisoner!” Lily and I both said at once.

  “You look pretty mobile to me,” I added. “Who’s holding you in bondage?”

  “Not ‘who’ but ‘what,’” she said, reaching over to pour some tea without disturbing Carioca. “Ten years ago something happened—something I couldn’t have foreseen—that altered a delicate balance of power. My husband died, and the revolution began.”

  “The Algerians threw the French out in 1963,” I explained to Lily. “It was a real bloodbath.” Then, turning to Minnie, I added, “With the embassies closed down, you must have been in a pickle, with no place to go but home to Holland. Surely your government could have gotten you out. Why are you still here? The revolution’s been over for ten years.”

  Minnie set her teacup down with a bang. She brushed Carioca aside and stood up. “I’m pinned, like a backward pawn,” she said, clenching her fists. “What happened in the summer of 1963 was only exacerbated by the death of my husband and the inconvenience of the revolution. Ten years ago, in Russia, workmen repairing the Winter Palace found the broken pieces of the board—of the Montglane Service!”

  Lily and I glanced at each other with excitement. Now we were getting somewhere.

  “Terrific,” I said. “But how do you happen to know this? It wasn’t exactly headline news. And what did it have to do with your being trapped?”

  “Listen and you’ll understand!” she cried, pacing up and down as Carioca jumped down to trot behind her trailing silver gown. He kept trying to pounce on the end of it as it moved before him. “If they’d captured the board, they had a thi
rd of the formula!” She yanked her skirts out of Carioca’s teeth and wheeled to face us.

  “You mean the Russians?” I said. “But if they’re on the other team, how come you’re buddy-buddy with Solarin?” But my mind was moving fast. A third of the formula, she’d said. That meant she knew how many parts there were!

  “Solarin?” said Minnie with a laugh. “How do you think I learned about it? Why do you think I chose him as a player? Why do you think my life’s in danger—that I must remain in Algeria—that I need the two of you so badly?”

  “Because the Russians have a third of the formula?” I said. “Surely they’re not the only players on the opposing team.”

  “No,” agreed Minnie. “But they’re the ones who discovered that I have the rest!”

  Lily and I were bursting with excitement after Minnie left the room in search of something she wanted to show us. Carioca was bouncing around like a rubber ball until I squashed him with my foot.

  Lily retrieved her pegboard chess set from my bag and was setting it up on the tooled-bronze table as we spoke. Who were our opponents? I wondered. How did the Russians know Minnie was a player, and what did she have that trapped her for ten years?

  “You remember what Mordecai told us,” said Lily. “He said he went to Russia and played chess with Solarin. That was about ten years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Right. You’re saying he recruited him as a player at that time.”

  “But which player?” Lily said, moving the pieces around the board.

  “The Knight!” I cried, suddenly remembering. “Solarin put that symbol on the note he left in my apartment!”