The Black Hawk

. 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