Rogue Spy

Thirty-six

When Pax climbed the stairs at Meeks Street, Grey was waiting for him. Grey held the door open, not saying anything.

The Head of Section for England didn’t answer the door at Meeks Street. Pax followed him through the ugly front parlor, where none of the reds matched, into the white, calm hallway.

They went six paces in silence. “The Merchant got away,” Pax said. “We found the rooms he’d been using, but he was gone. We missed him by an hour.”

Grey said, “Hawker told us.”

“The Merchant has a woman and three or four men with him. Stillwater and Tenn are asking questions, house to house, up and down the street. We haven’t found where he stored the gunpowder. Probably a good ways from where he was living.”

Grey turned and blocked the hall. “You lied to me. From the beginning. Every day.”

There was no part of returning to Meeks Street that was easy. This meeting was harder than most. “For years.”

“You lied to men who trusted you. Any hour of the day or night you could have walked into my office and told the truth.”

“I have no excuse.”

Grey had been a major of infantry before he came to the Service. He didn’t smile much. He wasn’t smiling now. He looked like a man about to convene a court-martial.

Grey said, “I didn’t think you were a coward.”

“I did it to stay in the Service.” The Service was all I had.

The fist came out of nowhere. Pain hit like lightning—big, bright, white, and sudden. Black spilled down over everything.

When the world came back, he was on his arse, his back against the wall. His jaw stabbed agony. His head was solid pain from one side to the other. He leaned his head on the plaster and waited for the hall to stop tilting sideways.

Grey said, “Is there anything else you’re lying about?”

“Yes. At least, there’s things I’m not saying.”

“Damn you for that. But at least it’s honest.” Grey reached a hand down.

He took the hand and got pulled to his feet. The trick was keeping his head level. His brains would stay in the braincase if he kept his head level.

“If you ever lie to me again,” Grey said, “I will kick you into Northumberland. You’re holding on to a place in the Service by the skin of your teeth, Mr. Paxton. Don’t repeat your mistakes. And now we have kegs of gunpowder to deal with. Galba’s office. Now.”

Grey walked away and left him holding on to the wall.

That clears the air, doesn’t it? He’d been dreading the meeting with Grey. Turned out he didn’t have to say much of anything at all.

He’d take a brief rest against the wall here. Yes. That’s the ticket.

He didn’t open his eyes when boots came down the stairs. That was Doyle’s walk.

Doyle said, “Galba’s waiting for you.”

“Grey told me.” It hurt to talk. He fingered along his jawbone, but nothing seemed to be broken. Grey was an expert when it came to unarmed fighting. “I may be just a minute getting into motion.”

“Grey’s annoyed.”

“I have figured that out.”

“He’s kicking himself he didn’t notice one of his agents was in trouble.”

“We’re spies. We’re secretive.” The edges of his sight were no longer fading into black. Now he’d walk down the hall to Galba’s office. That was next on his list of challenges for this afternoon.

“A senior officer’s responsible for his junior officers.” They started walking the hall. Doyle was in no hurry. Just as well. “It’s the army way.”

“Another reason to stay out of the army.” He tasted blood, but when he swiped across his mouth none came off on his hand. No split lip. Grey had delivered a clean, precise blow, making his point with skill and economy. “I lost the Merchant.”

“You found him in the first place, with all of London to sieve through.”

“We won’t find him again. He’s in his final retreat, safe and secret. And the gunpowder’s somewhere safe. He may already have planted it. We have one more chance at him. Hawk gave you the details?”

“Semple Street, Number Fifty-six, eleven in the morning on Monday,” Doyle said. “I tortured it out of him.”

“I hope you used thumbscrews.” They passed the framed map of medieval Florence. He liked Florence. For a while he’d kept rooms over a bakery there. “I need five or six men, preferably men the Merchant won’t recognize.”

They’d come to Galba’s office. Doyle set his hand on the doorknob. “Pax, the planning for Monday is no longer your job.”

A lifetime of control kept his voice calm. “Whose job, then?”

“Mine. You won’t be there. You won’t be in England. Giles is packing a trunk for you.”

“You’re taking this operation away from me?”

“Galba’s decision.”

“Why?”

Doyle paused fractionally. He didn’t open the door. He seemed to come to a decision. “How accurate are your sketches of the Merchant?”

It came to this. Again. The unbreakable, unendurable connection with the monster. “Very.”

“Pax, is the man your father?”

“No.” And then, “Maybe.” It was as close as he could come to admitting it. “He claimed to be sometimes. He lied about so many things, he could have lied about that, too.”

“You look like him,” Doyle said.

And the mirror here at the end of the hall said the same thing. He’d watched his face become the monster’s face, year by year. “If it’s the truth, it’s a random accident. A dark joke of the gods. A technicality.”

“A significant technicality,” Doyle said, very quietly. “Galba’s not going to send one of his agents to perform heinous actions.”

“He’s not sending me. If I kill the Merchant, it’s because I’ve been planning it since I was ten years old. It’s taken me this long to get close to him with a gun in my hand.”

“Makes no difference. A man doesn’t kill his father.”

“He’s not my father.” He said it too loud. Galba and Grey would hear it inside the office. “I purged his blood from my veins. I repudiate him.”

“It’s not that easy,” Doyle said. “God knows, a lot of us wish it were.”

“Then I accept the blood guilt.” He forced himself to meet his own eyes in the mirror. Then Doyle’s eyes. “I’ll kill him and let the Furies do their worst.”

“Then you and Galba are going to disagree on some major decisions over the next couple of days.”

Doyle opened the door. Galba and Grey were inside. Galba, at his desk. Grey, standing by the window, studying one of the sketches of the Merchant.

Doyle said, “Did you know the Merchant’s real name is Peter Styles? He comes from Northumbria and he has a title.”

“He attended Cambridge,” Galba said calmly. “Come join us, Mr. Paxton. You will not be permitted to kill the man, whatever good cause you have to do so.”

“Lots of people want the Merchant dead,” Doyle said.

Not as much as I do. He followed Doyle into Galba’s office.