Rogue Spy (2 page)

“Whyever am I holding this Von Herder book?” Aunt Violet's voice receded toward the parlor. “What was I looking for?”

“Middleton. It should be on the shelf behind you, next to the Asiatic Register. To the right. The other right, dear.”

They'd given her so much. She'd been able to give them so little.

Now she could protect them. She could make certain this blackmailer never, ever came near them. If Camille Besançon had somehow survived, she could give the Fluffy Aunts their niece. Their only blood relative. It would be a small repayment for the lies she'd told.

I'll never see them again. I can't even say goodbye.

She slipped the ring into her pocket. It was time to go. She turned in her chair and dropped the blackmail letter on the fire. It blackened and became ashes. No one would be surprised to see her burning it. Codemakers burn every scrap of paper they're not using.

The man who'd written that sly, lying letter could have bribed some villager or one of the servants to report to him. Even now, someone might be standing in the wood spying on them with field glasses. From this moment on, she'd assume someone was watching.

She'd always known that one day, without warning, it would be time to walk away. But she wasn't ready. She would never be ready.

She'd made her preparations. Two miles past the parish pump, under a great flat stone at the end of an old stone wall, money, warm clothing, and sturdy walking shoes waited, wrapped in oilcloth. She'd help herself to the muff pistol and kit from the drawer in the hall when she went by. Then she'd stroll down the front walk carrying nothing but her reticule, as if she went on some ordinary stroll to the village. She'd stand up and walk away. It was as simple and as hard as that.

In a minute of two she'd get up and do it. When she was quite certain she wasn't going to cry.

It didn't matter how determined and clever you were. When the sword of Damocles falls, there you sit, stupid as a chicken, with your skull cleaved neatly in half.

Many a man has woven his own noose from parchment. Put nothing in writing.

A BALDONI SAYING

Pax stood at the window of the Dancing Dog, holding a mug of ale, looking out at Braddy Square. He'd come back to London, to duty undone and promises broken. To men he'd betrayed. Back to where it began. Back to Meeks Street. There were no decisions to make. No work left undone. He was just putting off the inevitable. Strange to discover this late in the game that he was a coward.

Stop thinking.
He'd slogged the leagues across France, crossed the Channel, and made the long ride from Dover to London by not letting himself think.

He set his mug lightly to one of the windowpanes and didn't pretend an interest in drinking ale. Nobody in the tavern bothered him. He found himself watching a woman who stood in the open space of the square. At this distance she was just a brown cloak, making a line of dark sienna against the light behind. He couldn't see her face under the hood. Something in the sweep of cloak from shoulder to ground when she moved said she was young. She'd brought bread to scatter for the birds. A couple dozen pigeons and sparrows had formed an attentive circle.

He hadn't slept for a long time. Hadn't tried to. He'd
ridden . . . how many horses had he ridden to exhaustion? He'd pushed on through the night, not because what he had to do was important but because he'd rather spend the hours riding than lying down, staring at the ceiling in some French inn. He was almost sure he hadn't slept since he left Paris.

This last quarter mile, within sight of Meeks Street, was the hardest. He couldn't make himself go on. He'd washed up at the Dancing Dog, dropped his valise, and stuck.

The woman in her dark cloak had a quality of waiting, as if she were meeting somebody. Maybe that was what caught his eye. She stayed motionless while everyone else passed through the square on business that took them elsewhere.

The wide front window of the Dancing Dog was made of old, thick, wavery panes of glass that distorted the world. A man in a blue coat passed the tavern, west to east, carrying a parcel. His image thinned and stretched from pane to pane. It was like watching him through water.

They knew Thomas Paxton at the Dog. A decade ago, when he'd been doorkeeper and messenger boy at Number Seven, he'd raced in and out of here every day, fetching meat pasties and beer to the agents, rattling through at a run, returning empty jugs to the counter in back.

Ten years ago he'd kept an appointment with a traitor in that dim and shadowy back corner to the right. He'd handed over a sheaf of secrets and become a traitor himself. A milestone in his life.

He snuffed out that thought the way he'd pinch off flame to save the candle for another day.

The battered valise at his feet held two changes of clothing, money, and a spare knife. His gun was packed on top, loaded. Carruthers had handed it back when he rode out of Paris, probably hoping he'd use it to suicide. That might be the simplest solution for everybody.

Damned if he'd make it that easy for them.

In the false bottom of the bag he carried a dozen letters, correspondence from Paris to the Meeks Street headquarters. They'd made their resident traitor the courier on this trip. The ways of the British Service were mysterious indeed.

Maybe Carruthers knew this particular burden was the best
way to get him to London alive, and as fast as a horse could travel. That might be what she had planned. The British Intelligence Service worked five or six levels of subtlety deep.

He was carrying a copy of his confession with the other messages. That last week in Paris he'd written out a lengthy account of his life, with particular attention to the ways he'd betrayed the British Service. He was also delivering a final report on the whole matter from Carruthers, Head of Section for France, to Galba, Head of the British Service.

He could have opened that. He could have lifted the seal and replaced it undetectably when he was eight. Twice, he'd taken that report out from the other letters and thought about reading it.

Snare after snare. Temptation after temptation. Maybe Carruthers advised a swift and final end for the man who called himself Thomas Paxton. What did a man do when he opened that letter and found his death warrant?

He'd never know. Both times, he'd put the report back with the other letters and repacked the bag. He hadn't taken the bait, if it was bait. He didn't have much honor left—just a patched-up, threadbare rag of it—but he would have used the gun on himself before he lost the last of it.

He ran the back of his fingers across the window glass, feeling the ripple in it, feeling the cold. Trapped inside the glass, pinpoint bubbles glinted silver.

Galba wouldn't be content with killing him. Galba would want to pry the top off his soul and drag every one of his slimy secrets out into the sunlight.

Mugs clicked behind him. A chair scraped on the floor. The barman cleared tables. Two plump women walked past the Dancing Dog, side by side, one neat in dark green, the other in dark blue. They leaned together, their heads close, their handbaskets bumping, steps matched, a picture of old friendship and a lifetime of confidences shared. He'd have sketched them in quick slashes of watercolor, then stacked up ink in a blunt, dark splotch on the pavement at their feet to give them a single shadow.

On a bench in the square, a man unfolded a cloth across his lap and took out bread and cheese, enjoying an early lunch.
The woman he'd been watching tossed another wide circle of crumbs and her cloak flowed like water falling. Sparrows hopped and scuttled madly left or right around her feet. He'd do that lone, self-contained figure in chalks, the sweet curve of her cloak laid in burnt sienna over indigo. He'd thumb in one soft smudge of pale amber under her hood, where the plane of her cheek showed. He would have liked to see her face.

There. That was her last handful of bread. He watched her dust her fingers and motion to the boy lounging on the step at the mercer's. Sam, floor sweeper, delivery boy, holder of horses, one of the fixtures in the neighborhood, ran over to conduct business. He took coin, accepted a letter, and headed down Meeks Street.

She wasn't here to feed sparrows, then. The calculations that always churned in the bottom of his mind broke the surface. Why would a woman send a note from the middle of Braddy Square instead of from her own front door? Why not drop it in the post? Why was she wearing her hood up on a fine day like today?

Life was full of mysteries he'd never solve. Maybe that was a love letter she was sending. Maybe she'd spend the afternoon naked in the arms of her man.

Enjoy yourself, pretty lady.
His own afternoon would be less pleasant. Time to get on with it.

His mug of ale was still full when he slid it onto the nearest table. He set a coin beside it and picked his bag up, taking it left-handed so he'd have his knife hand free. Nobody looked up to see him leave. It was a point of pride to him that nobody noticed.

He checked to make sure he wasn't followed out of the Dog. It was habit. Just habit. He had all the habits of a spy.

*   *   *

Cami trailed her messenger lad to the top of Meeks Street and stood watching him strut down the pavement. He was brisk as any boy who knew eyes were on him.

The church bells finished up the count of eleven. Her flock of birds flew away to do bird errands now that she had no more bread for them. Probably their lives were full of whatever
troubles birds fell heir to and all that cheery chirping and hopping about was a deception. She was something of an expert in deception.

When she paid the boy tuppence to deliver the letter, she'd pressed a shilling into his hand on top of it. “If they ask who gave you the letter, describe someone else. If they ask where I went, point the other way.”

Her family—the Baldoni—used to say, “Prepare for many evil eventualities. Some of them will arrive.”

The air settled around her, still and heavy. The sky over London was white, opaque and dull as cheap crockery, full of bright sun. Her boy turned at Number Seven, tripped up the stair, and stood waiting for an answer to his knock. She waited also. She'd stay to see this letter delivered. There was too much at stake to take that for granted. Inside the shell of calm she'd closed around her was a chaos so loud she couldn't think. It was fortunate she'd made her plans beforehand and needed only to follow the path she'd laid out.

From the corner of her eye she saw the shift of light. A man walked toward her across Braddy Square. For a sharp instant, she was afraid.

But no. She wasn't in danger yet. She had an hour before she walked into the trap laid for her.

She turned away, not sharing her face with this man passing by, being careful. In the long, soft years since Paris, she hadn't forgotten the rules.

She collected only a glimpse of him as he walked past her and continued down Meeks Street . . . a tall, long-limbed man, dressed in dark traveling clothes, somewhat dusty. He wore well-scuffed riding boots, riding gloves, and a soft, broad-brimmed felt hat that shaded his face. He carried a valise and moved fast, with the clean grace of an athlete. Something about him made her think of a man trudging uphill with no end in sight. If she hadn't been supplied with a sufficiency of troubles of her own, she would have been curious.

Far down Meeks Street, her messenger boy delivered the letter, gave a cheeky salute to the house, and was down the stair before the door closed behind him.

That was done. Whatever happened to her in the Moravian
church on Fetter Lane, that message was safe. There should be no repercussions. She'd timed its delivery so the men of Meeks Street would decode it only after she'd completed her business with the blackmailer.

She crossed Braddy Square in the direction of a godly church where an ungodly meeting would take place. She looked back once. She wasn't really surprised to see the man with the valise climb the stairs of Number Seven Meeks Street.

Many buckets of quarrel are filled from the well of ignorance.

A BALDONI SAYING

Pax put one foot in front of the other for the last thousand steps, not letting himself slow down.

Meeks Street hadn't changed. Ugly prosperous houses lined both sides of the street, the doorknobs polished and the steps well scrubbed. Some houses were shut up tight, keeping the air out, but most had the window sashes up. Muslin curtains rippled, lipping in and out over the sills. The linden trees were turning yellow. Gray smoke from the kitchen fires slanted off the chimneys and spread out to disappear.

Number Thirty-one was still ruled by the sleek black tomcat that played sentry on the garden wall. Number Twenty-three had added five stone urns along the front, carrying five yew trees shaved and clipped within an inch of their lives. At Nineteen, a dog stuck a yapping muzzle through a gap in the iron gate.

All familiar. He didn't belong at Meeks Street anymore, but it felt like coming home.

Down the street, Sam had delivered that woman's message to Number Seven.

He glanced back over his shoulder. The woman in the dark
cloak was gone. She'd waited just long enough to see her letter delivered. Gone . . . and she left the air behind her shimmering with intention and planning.

I don't like this.

Young Sam swung away from Number Seven, errand completed, and headed back to the square, running his fingers along the iron palings, whistling, pleased with himself.

Why didn't she want to come to Number Seven?
He took the steps fast. For the first time in two weeks, he had a reason to be in a hurry.

He pounded the knocker and left his hand spread flat on the door, willing it to open. The door was painted Prussian green with a little black in the base. The knocker was brass, in the shape of a rose. Forty years ago they'd picked the rose knocker out of the ruins of the old headquarters after it burned. The plate to the right of the door read,
The Penumbral Walking Club
.

He didn't have a key. Nobody got past the front door of Number Seven unless somebody let him in.

He pounded again. Where was Giles?

The lock disengaged. Giles, a sturdy, open-faced sixteen-year-old, opened the door, letter in hand. He said, “Pax.” Nothing but surprise and pleasure in his voice. “You're back. Hawker said you'd be here in a day or two. Grey's landed in Dover—”

“Give me that.” He took the letter from Giles, dropped it on the table, and brushed his fingers on his coat.

“It just came,” Giles said. “Sam brought it. It's addressed to Galba.”

The door on the other side of the ugly front parlor opened. Hawker, compact, dark haired, deadly as a snake, dressed like a gentleman, strolled in. “I didn't think you'd be fool enough to show up. There's still time to turn around and run.”

“No, there isn't. Hawk, look at this. Don't touch it.”

“I wasn't going to.” Hawker approached, feline and inquisitive. “Communication from the greater world.”

The folded paper was addressed to Anson Jones. That was Galba's real name, not the name he used when he was Head of Service.
Mr. Anson Jones, Number Seven, Meeks Street.

“What's wrong with it?” Hawker took his knife out, twitched the blade under the note, flipped it over.

“It's from a woman.”

“Not, in itself, a bad thing.”

In fifty words he told Hawk how the note had been sent. “And . . . I know the handwriting. This
e
with the sharp corner, tilted up. The bar on the
t
slanted down. I've seen that.”

“Where?”

“Not recently. It's . . .” He shook his head. “A long time ago. Somewhere.”

“Part of life's eventful journey.”

“It'll come to me.” He pulled his knife and helped himself to Hawker's. He steadied the note and slit the seal without touching the paper at all. “Don't breathe.” That was for Giles. Hawker had already stepped back.

Hawker murmured, “You do realize we're prying into the private correspondence of the Head of Service.”

“I know.” He laid the page flat, using the knife point to push the edges back. On the paper, line after line of numbers and letters. “And we have code.”

“Do we?” Hawker bent forward. “How dramatic.”

“A Service code.”

“A Leyland code.” Hawk's finger hovered over the inkblot that marked it as Leyland code. “I don't recognize the identifier.”

“One of the old ones. Before you came to the Service.” Code. Something about code . . . and that handwriting.

Then he remembered. He'd been thirteen or fourteen, sitting at a long table in the cold, bare schoolroom of the Coach House, painstakingly disassembling a code. The dark-haired girl beside him leaned over her slate, scribbling down the sharp little
e
and the slanted
t
, deciphering as fast as she could write. None of them could touch her when it came to code breaking.

Vérité. Vérité's handwriting.
Ten years ago, when he'd had a different name and Vérité had been his best friend. “I know who she is. I knew her when she was a child.” A particularly deadly child.

Hawk said, “A French spy, then. One of you Cachés.”

“One of us. Yes.” He flipped Hawk's knife to hold it by the blade and handed it back to him. “I have to find her. Giles, go wash your hands. Don't touch the letter again. Don't let anyone get close to it till I come back.”

Giles said, “Why not?”

Hawker answered for him. “Because Galba opens mail addressed to that name with his own hands. There could be poison in the paper. Or smallpox. I saw that done once. We may be playing host to a weapon of the assassin's trade. The woman who sent it is Police Secrète.”

“At one time, she was. I don't know what she is now.” He wondered what else to say and couldn't think of anything. “Tell Galba I'll be back.”

“Giles will tell him.” Hawk was already grabbing his hat from the hideous sideboard.

“Hawk, you can't help me with this. You know why.”

“Because you're Thomas Paxton, infamous French spy.” Hawker's dark face was inscrutable, his eyes cool and assessing. “I'd better keep an eye on you.”

“You're on the sick list. You have a bullet hole in you.”

“Not a large one. We'll argue about it as we walk. Lead the way.”

The hell of it was, he needed Hawk. He made the only decision possible. Somehow he'd make it right with Galba when they got back. “Then come on.”