The Black Hawk

Nil, a statue, stiff and Egyptian. The paper read, “The director of antiquities of the Louvre, Monsieur Julien Latour, prepares to greet La Dame du Nil in her historic journey to Paris as she is restored to French hands. Napoleon will receive the English delegation at eight o’clock in a private ceremony . . . expressions of amity and friendship between nations . . .”

Latour. La tour.

“Mon Dieu.” She grabbed the paper. Back powder spilled across the table. “Look. No. Be silent. None of that matters. Look here.” She thrust it under Hawker’s eyes. “La tour. Latour. La Dame du Nil. That is la dame. The Englishman. He is the fool. Le fou. The madman. This is the assassination. Here. Now. God help us. What time is it?”

Paxton dragged a watch out. Clicked it open. “Seven.”

“We are too late.” Too late. They would never get there in time.

“Not yet.” It took Hawker one instant to take in the whole of the article. Less than an instant to know what to do. “There’s no ceremony in the history of the world that’s started on time.” He passed the paper to his friend. “Get to headquarters. Tell her I need men. I’ll go stop it. If it’s too late, we make sure that Englishman is dead before he gets questioned.”

It would be their foremost concern—that there was no Englishman. That there was no cause for war. But she must save Napoleon. She threw her cloak about her. Set her hand upon the barrel of her gun.

Hawker followed her out the door. He said, over his shoulder, to Pax, “Go. I’ll leave a trail inside the Louvre.”

Thirty-six

THE LOUVRE WAS HALF ART MUSEUM, HALF CHAOS. In one gallery, scaffolding and ladders, paint buckets and sheets over the statues. In the next, the bourgeois inspected art.

Nobody knew anything about Napoleon’s visit or Egyptian antiquities or La Dame du Nil or a ceremony. Museum caretakers, guides, guards, passing artists carrying easels—none of them knew a thing. All stupid as mice.

In the courtyard between the buildings of the Louvre a dozen families strolled under the wide, serene sky. She stood with Hawker, both of them out of breath, surrounded by the peaceful and ordinary. Disaster was about to strike France. It would happen here, somewhere within a few hundred yards of her, and she could not find it.

“It hasn’t happened yet.” Hawker searched door to door, window to window, with cold, impatient eyes.

She’d sent one of the guides running to the post of the Imperial Guard, another to the offices of the Police Secrète in the Tuileries, to Fouché. But they would not be in time. She knew it in her bones.

One minute too late, or a century too late, it was all the same.

Think. She must think. “He is not in the public galleries. Not here, in the main buildings. If Napoleon had come to the open, public rooms, all these people would be trying to get a glimpse of him. They would be full of chatter, pointing, hurrying, watching.”

“Big place.” Hawker studied one flank of the buildings, dismissed it, moved on to the next.

“The Louvre is immense. A city in itself.” If she planned such a ceremony, where would she hold it? Where?

On both sides of the courtyard, carved gray stone and tall window stretched to the Tuileries Palace. The Louvre was filled with the offices of government, workshops, lecture halls, apartments. “This is an endless labyrinth with a thousand obscure corners.”

“They’re not holding this donnybrook in some dark corner. What’s substantial?” He made one of his complex gestures. “What’s fancy?”

“He will not be far from the Tuileries. He will review the troops at ten.”

“Where?”

“In the courtyard of the Tuileries Palace.” She pointed south. “I think . . . I think he will not go to the Louvre, with its long delay of meeting so many people. He will stay in the palace itself. On the ground floor there are a dozen salons and reception rooms, all of them famous. The king of France lived there once.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “We have to guess. You take the left side, I’ll head down—”

“No. Look. There is a guard. Standing there, doing nothing. That is the only door with a guard. That’s it. That door.”

She ran. Hawker stayed an instant to mark another arrow in charcoal on the paving stones.

A hundred yards away, where the Pavillon de Marsan connected to the Louvre, the door was open. The guard eyed her suspiciously. “Entrance for the public is at the front. Go back the way you came. Turn, and go through the big door on the left. Walk around.”

Hawker came up beside her and slashed a huge, black arrow in charcoal on the stone wall.

“Here now. You can’t do that. It’s against the law to deface public buildings. There’s a fine for—”

Overlooked, she slipped through the door. Sometimes, it was an advantage to be dressed like no one in particular. To be so obviously of no importance.

The Pavillon de Marsan, here in the Tuileries Palace. It would be here. Yes.

Ancient halls covered with gilt and mirrors. A dozen years ago the sister of the king of France had lived in the apartments here. Where else was so secure, private, and close to Napoleon’s quarters? She could even name the room. Any such ceremony would be held in the Green Salon. That was worthy of a presentation to Napoleon.

Not far.

Hawker caught up to her in the long corridor. She did not ask him how he had dealt with the guard.

One soldier guarded the door of the Green Salon, stiff and proud, gun on his shoulder, very serious, but so young he scarcely merited his mustache. Did the First Consul of France deserve only one infant to guard him?

It took two breaths before she could speak. “Is he inside? Napoleon? The presentation from Egypt?”

“This is a private meeting. See the secretary at—”

“I am policière. I have a message for the chief of your guard. I will enter immediately.” And damn it that she looked untidy and unimportant when she must impress this unimaginative dolt. She fumbled for her lettre d’autorité with its seals and impressive signatures that would get her through any door in Paris.

“My orders are to—” He swung the gun down in front of her, blocking her from the door. Frowned past her to Hawker who was ready to mark the wallpaper with one of his arrows. “What are you doing! This palace belongs to the people of France. It is a treasure of the nation. Give that to me!”

Hawker, bland as a sheep, innocent as a child, held out the charcoal. When the guard reached for it, Hawker grabbed him by the ears, slammed the man’s head down, and cracked it against his knee, The guard fell noiselessly.

Hawker stepped over him and pushed the double door open. She did not need identification papers.

He said, “You get Napoleon out. I’ll find the Englishman.”

A year ago, when she had walked through this room, the walls were painted with hunting scenes. Gods and cherubs looked down from a high, domed ceiling.

The Green Salon was transformed. White gauze, in thin layers, hung from the ceiling and tented out over four huge wood obelisks at the corners of the room. More white gauze curtained the walls, floor to ceiling, hiding the windows, making everything dim and stuffy. Placards, painted with Egyptian gods, had been set up every few feet between huge, upright mummy cases. Everything smelled strongly of linseed oil.

Napoleon stood with his back to her, but he was unmistakable. He was bareheaded, in a dark blue coat, his arms crossed. He was no taller than the men around him. Shorter, in fact. But the compact energy of him could be felt all the way across the room. He turned to talk to the man next to him. Pale skin and a hooked nose. Slashed, dark eyebrows. In this crowded salon he stood out like an eagle in the midst of chickens.

The man at the front, speaking, was Julien Latour, chief of antiquities at the Louvre. She had heard Latour lecture once. Beside him was a thick beef of a man, middle-aged and florid, with a thick, loose lower lip, the very model of an English hunting squire. That was most likely the Englishman they sought. A glance to the side showed