The Black Hawk

by Joanna Bourne

  “Right. That makes me feel much better, that does. Both of us starving. Just marvelous.”

  His jacket fell open around him, pulled by the weight of the knives he carried in the secret pockets inside. He slouched beside her. The gray waistcoat fitted his body as close as skin, showing a man of lean muscle. A tomcat of a man. A sleek, imperturbable hunter. The strength of him, the danger, the coiled spring of unlikely possibilities that was Adrian Hawker—all contained within that elegance.

  Honey cakes. He was the very ideal and pattern of forbidden honey cakes, this one.

  “You wonder why I did not say good-bye, ’Awker.” She pulled her skirts loose and rolled to kneel beside him. Now they were face-to-face, as he had demanded. “This is why. I would have wanted to do this. I would have let myself have one last . . .” Her hands went to one side of his face and to the other. She cradled him and drew herself down to him and kissed his mouth. “Taste.”

  The effort to touch him lightly—to feel his lips open and not consume him—left her shaking.

  He went still, not kissing back. When she opened her eyes, he was looking up at her. “You don’t want this.”

  “Not again. Not anymore. This is saying good-bye.”

  He eased away. Left her lips. His hands on her shoulders were warm iron covered by velvet, and he held her till there was space between them. “If that’s good-bye, it’s just as well we didn’t start saying it.”

  “That is what I thought.” From her belly, trembling rose in waves. Her skin prickled.

  “Don’t do that to me again,” he said.

  “I will not. It is not fair.”

  “It’s likely to get you tupped on a pile of rugs.” He ran his hand over the silk beneath them. Over the rug. “It’s soft enough. And I could make you like it. Don’t think I couldn’t.”

  “I am sorry. I—”

  “You’re trusting a lot to a man of my background and proclivities. You don’t want to find out how we do things in Whitechapel, Chouette.” But in the middle of speaking, his voice changed. “It’s a chessboard.”

  “Upon the rug? No. It is only squares. They make such rugs in . . . What?”

  He shook her shoulders, where he held her. “I figured it out. I know.”

  “You have figured what out?”

  “La dame, le fou, la tour.” He pushed up to his feet. “Chess. They’re all chess pieces.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Listen to me. It’s chess. La tour—it’s not Tours, the town. It’s ‘the tower.’ It’s the chess piece. The castle. It’s chess pieces.”

  “Le fou. What you English call the bishop on the chessboard. La dame. What you call the queen. They are chess pieces. And the most famous chess club in the world is the Café de la Régence.”

  “In the Palais Royal. We could throw a stone from this shop and hit it.” He blazed satisfaction. “It makes sense. Chess. Damn, but I’m good.”

  “You are more than adequate.” He was her Hawker, and he was brilliant. “We will meet there tonight. You may walk in the door and play chess, but I must coerce the owner into giving me some plausible role. That is a café for men only.”

  He was already pacing back and forth across the rugs. Thinking. Plotting. Muttering to himself. Had she not seen this a hundred times? She had never wanted him more.

  She said, “I must leave. This will require preparation.” And because there was no one else to tell him this, “You have been clever. You are very, very clever.”

  Thirty

  THE CAFÉ DE LA RÉGENCE WAS FULL OF CHESS PLAYERS and spies. Hawker had put himself with his back to the wall, near the door, where he could keep an eye on both.

  It was well past midnight. Outside, under the huge lamps in the arches of the arcade, the nightly promenade of the Palais Royale had slowed to a trickle. Patrons of the opera strolled past, headed home. Even this late, a few English tourists wandered about, absorbing Paris sophistication, helping pickpockets earn a living. A trio of Napoleon’s garde rattled by in dress uniform, come from the gambling dens upstairs. The women who sauntered by in twos and threes were harlots.

  In the café, a dozen men were still playing. Another thirty-odd watched or sat at tables, the way he did, reading the paper and drinking.

  Pax was two tables away, twenty moves into a game. He’d dressed like a university student—untidy, with a loose, open collar. His hair was its natural color, loose down his neck, spilling along cheekbones when he leaned to the board. You’d swear he wasn’t thinking about anything but chess.

  Owl walked the room, carrying a tray and wiping down tables, representing the French side of the spying fraternity.

  For Hawker, it was the end of a long evening of wandering from table to table, brushing shoulders, listening. Nobody mentioned killing Bonaparte. They talked about chess. Spying was more of a challenge than stealing, overall, but there were times it’d bore a corpse.

  Owl came up behind him. “I have brought more brandy, even though you have not finished what you have.” She leaned over him to set a tiny glass on the table. She was entirely plausible as a Parisian serving maid—deft, impudent, graceful.

  “Did you have trouble,” he looked her over, “slipping in here?”

  “None. When an agent of the Police Secrète indicates she wishes to become a serving maid, the owner of a café does not ask questions. They think I am here to listen for sedition. They are all afraid of the Police Secrète, here in Paris, which is wise of them.”

  “My own service can’t throw men in prison, just on our say-so. One of those disadvantages I labor under.” He took a sip of brandy. He drank aquavit in the German states, grappa in Italy, brandy in Paris. In London, mostly gin. None of it had much effect on him.

  “You will be pleased to know you present the most realistic appearance of a young man of fashion. One is convinced you have plucked the very pomegranate of life and sucked it dry and tossed the husk away.”

  “That presents a picture.”

  “Mais, oui. To be a serving maid is to observe life at its most raw. I have been entirely disillusioned of all my ideals. Do you see that young man in the corner in the most excellently cut jacket? He has been here all evening. He orders one vin ordi-naire and is faithful to it as if they were married in church. All this time he has been slipping sugar cubes into his pocket.”

  “It’s a sad and dishonest world.”

  “When I say this, few people contradict me. I have decided he is a poor artist, starving in a garret in the Latin Quarter.”

  “Practicing a little larceny on the side . . .”

  “You, of all people, should not condemn that.”

  “He shook his head. “Owl . . . Owl . . . I have dabbled in depraved and iniquitous business, but I have never been an artist. Any luck tonight?”

  “For me it has been an evening of no fish whatsoever. And you?”

  “Empty nets.”

  “We will meet tomorrow and plan new strategies. What happens in the great world?”

  He’d folded the newspaper, La Gazette, and propped it up on the water carafe in front of him, so he could read while he watched the room. “The First Consul attended the opera tonight. A lyric tragedy, it says. Now that sounds like fun.”

  “The arts are the soul of the nation,” Owl said primly. “Of course the First Consul will attend the opera. It is the French way.”

  “I’d invade Poland, myself, if it was a choice between that and opera.”

  “It is as well you do not rule France. I spoke to the captain of his Household Guard myself. They will be alert going to and from the opera. But . . .” Owl shook her head, as if arguing with herself. “I do not wish the First Consul to cower in the Tuileries to keep himself safe, but he is hard to protect.”

  A professional would finish him off within the week. Thank God this lot seemed to be amateurs. He smoothed the newspaper flat on the table. “Here’s his schedule for tomorrow, just in case somebody murderous has trouble locating him. First thin
g, some English collectors are presenting France with an Egyptian relic—one of the ones the French dug up when they were conquering Egypt. This requires Napoleon’s presence. That’s eight in the morning. He’s reviewing troops at ten. Lunch with a couple generals. Meeting the ambassador of Portugal at three. Music again tomorrow night in some private house. Hell of a life, if you ask me.”

  Across the room, outlined by the big front window, Pax slid a piece across the board. Le fou. The bishop. The bishop made short work of a black pawn. Pax’s opponent selected the queen’s pawn and slid it forward. Right. That was going to be a bloodbath, that was.

  Pax held his own in the finest chess club of Europe, even if he did wear damn boring waistcoats.

  Owl breathed down over his shoulder. This close, her body was a clamor in the air, tugging at his attention. “Shouldn’t you be wiping tables or paying some attention to that nice old fellow—that one—who’s been waving at you awhile? Or something?”

  “I am tired of serving drinks. It palls quickly. And it is entirely unrealistic that I would pay attention to an old man while there is a handsome young one to flirt with.”

  Owl, at work, was bright as the edge of a diamond, hot as fire sparks. Tonight heat glowed out of her, from wanting him. He glowed right back, wanting her. They were both trying to ignore that.

  She slipped the tray to the table and picked up the glass he hadn’t finished. Her fichu was one of those pro forma garments that didn’t stop him enjoying a sweet view of her breasts. The way she was leaning over . . .

  He said, “You’re going to have every man in the room looking this way.”

  “Not everyone. Some are obsessed with chess, and some are very, very old. But the others—yes. They envy you, mon ami.”

  She was watching the room. Owl didn’t do anything by accident. “You’re looking for men who have too much on their mind to stare at a woman’s tits.”

  “Conspirators. That. Exactly. Men who do not watch the chess and do not watch me. So far, I have distracted everyone nicely. It is most discouraging.”

  “Too much to hope it’d be easy.” In another hour, he’d go back to British Service headquarters. Maybe Carruthers had uncovered something. He wished he was going home with Owl, though. They could—

  He pulled his mind away from the things he wasn’t going to do tonight.

  The door opened. They had a late visitor to the Café de la Régence. This was a man with chestnut-brown hair, worn in a Brutus. Brown eyes, medium skin, about twenty-five. Estimating by the doorframe . . . five foot ten.

  I know him.

  The man took off his hat and held it in his hand, looking around. He wore solid tailoring. Not fashionable. His boots, better quality than his coat.

  He saw Pax. Just a little catch in his attention. He barely hesitated. Not something a man would notice unless he was already looking for it.

  I know him. Why? How do I know him?

  The man changed direction so he’d walk by Pax’s table.

  The eyebrows. The bones of the face.

  I remember.

  Four years ago. He’d been near Bristol, with Doyle. It was their job, when nothing else was on offer, to track down and expose Cachés. To tell family after family they had a cuckoo in the nest. Saying, “It’s not your grandson,” “It’s not your nephew,” “It’s not the daughter of your old friend.”

  He remembered this one. They’d told an old man that the boy he’d been raising as his grandson was a Caché, a nameless French orphan trained to spy for France.

  Dacre. That was the name. The boy had been Paul Dacre.

  Sometimes the families cried and didn’t believe and kept the kids. Sometimes they booted them out. This time, the old man didn’t give the Caché time to pack his tooth powder.

  He and Doyle found Dacre halfway down the front drive. They gave the same offer to all the Cachés—We’ll find you work and a place to live. You can settle in England honestly. We won’t toss you on the streets with nothing.

  Paul Dacre ignored them and walked off.

  Seems Paul had come home to France.

  He closed in on Pax from behind, pretending to angle to see the board, but looking at Pax’s face.

  A Caché walked in and headed straight for a Service agent. Not coincidence. And Pax didn’t see.

  I don’t like this. He was already half out of his chair, hand on his knife, when Owl closed a hand down on his wrist.

  She had a grip like iron. “He is mine. My friend. You are not to kill him.”

  “Police Secrète.”

  “That is no business of yours. Sit down. Nothing will happen here without my command. You will not endanger my operation.”

  The moment rolled forward, fast. The Caché paused beside Pax. His right hand brushed his left in a nervous gesture. He glanced at the board. “It is the least of my worries whether you believe me or not. Your queen is in danger.” He strolled on.

  Not a twitch from Pax. Not the blink of an eye.

  What did I just see?

  Owl fumed. “You knew I was bringing men here. He comes to report. I will not ask how you know him.”

  “I saw him in England. He’s one of your Cachés.”

  “So. I thought it was that. You are notorious for that work, you know. For sweeping them out of hiding, one after another. They all feared the Black ’Awk. You. The Faucon Noir.” She took away his newspaper and folded it under her arm. “At least this one was loyal to France, unlike most of them. I am disgusted with you, ’Awker. You cannot come to France and object to French spies. I do not go to Covent Garden and begin putting knives into your friends. We are not even at war. You must be logical.”

  He was only half listening. The hand movement. The fingers.

  Eight years ago. The height of the Terror. Robespierre was just dead on the guillotine and everyone holding their breath, expecting riots. He’d spent a long, dark night with Owl and Pax, pulling a baker’s dozen of Cachés out of the house where they kept them. Out of the Coach House.

  Spies in training. Deadly. But they were also just a dozen scared kids, cornered, backed off to the wall of that attic.

  They weren’t going to budge. In a minute or two, one of those kids would raise an alarm and people were going to get killed—him, being first and foremost among them.

  Pax had said, “Is there anybody on the stairs?” There wasn’t. He’d turned back in time to see Pax wriggling his fingers and saying, “It is the least of my worries . . .”

  The exact phrase. That was when the Cachés started listening.

  Paul Dacre made the same curl of the fingers—the C of thumb and forefinger. Then the first and second finger lifted and closed to touch the thumb. The same signal. Exactly the same.

  Pax met his eyes.

  Pax had showed up one day at Meeks Street, son of a Service agent killed in Russia, only survivor of his family. Nobody knew him.

  The Service traced hundreds of orphans up and down England, looking for Cachés. They never looked at Pax. Because he was one of them.

  On the board, Pax set his finger on the king. He tipped it on its side.

  Owl stood silent, holding the tray, watching everything.

  He said, “Get your man out of here. Tell the owner it’s time to close up shop.”

  He went over to destroy his friend.

  Thirty-one

  HAWKER CROSSED THE CAFÉ, KEEPING HIMSELF BETWEEN Pax and the front door. One thing he didn’t need was Pax escaping into Paris before they had a chance to sort this out.

  Pax sat like a man kicked in the belly—that first instant when you’re stunned, hot and cold, and you stop still because the next breath is going to let the pain loose.

  He came up to the table, picking the spot behind Pax and to his left. The weakest point. It was where you stood to defend a friend or watch an enemy.

  The bloke Pax was playing with had been annoyed when he was losing. Now he was annoyed Pax had given him the game. He was prepared to argue about it
, point by point.

  You can’t please some people. Waste of time trying. “You. Leave. They’re closing in a minute.”

  That didn’t cut off the comments. Seemed like conceding was an insult to both players and a lack of respect for the game. Some Spanish fellow had played for three days straight because he wouldn’t concede. Some Frenchman had played even longer. Some Russian . . . It could only go downhill from here.

  He shifted to a rougher accent, a street argot from the east of Paris. “You shut your trap and scuttle out of here. You’re annoying me.”

  There is no substitute for frank discourse. The old man stopped huffing about the honorable history of chess and took himself off.

  Pax raised both hands to the table and pressed them down, fingers spread, showing he wasn’t reaching for his knife. The world had twisted into a shape where Pax had to convince him of that.

  There wasn’t going to be a fight. He kept an eye on Pax’s shoulders, on muscles up and down the neck, on the tendons of his hand, but it was just training and habit. Pax wouldn’t go for him. And he wouldn’t give any warning if he did. “We have to talk. There’s a storeroom behind the counter.”

  “Quiet spot.” Pax said it as if they’d planned this, working together. “That’s good.”

  “After you.”

  He’d seen Pax backed to a wall, fighting like a maniac. Seen him staggering, with his eyes swelled shut, peering through blood, crawling out of that ditch in Cassano behind the battle lines. Seen him silly drunk. He’d never seen him with his eyes completely empty.

  The café was full of men collecting coats and hats, taking newspapers back to the counter to drop in the pile, making note of where the pieces lay on the board, finishing the last of their brandy in a couple swallows. Pax wove through like they were made of straw. The Caché who’d given him away was talking to Justine. Pax passed him without a glance.

  The room behind the counter was the usual cubbyhole—storeroom and kitchen, a little hearth, a table, some rough benches. The walls were lined with shelves holding cups, plates, glasses turned upside down, wine bottles lying sideways, and piles of napkins, ironed and stacked neat. A broom kept company with a bucket. The copper water cistern was behind the door.