The Black Hawk

Thirty-nine

JUSTINE FOLLOWED LEBLANC INTO THE CROWD, keeping an eye out for any dark, slim man decorated with ashes. She saw no one of interest, neither Hawker nor his friend with the so-obvious hair. The fire in the Pavillon de Marsan had dusted everyone with bits of black. If Hawker had stupidly remained to hide among the crowd, he would blend in.

“He was seen,” Leblanc pointed, “headed that way. We go to the main building.”

Two guards followed them, armed. “Yes, monsieur.”

It was dim inside, after the bright sun of the courtyard, even with the long windows that reached to the ceiling. They passed no one. All the world was in the courtyard, cheering the arrival of the pumping engine. The galleries of the Louvre led one into another, endless canyons of paintings, studded with statues. It was as good an escape as most, and Hawker would not linger to admire the artwork. He was gone from here. Long gone.

Leblanc muttered to himself, “I saw him at the presentation. Just before the fire. I’ll know him when I see him again.”

With luck, Leblanc would not see him again.

While Hawker had killed his Englishman, two men from the Department of Antiquities came out to the stairs and looked. Leblanc had questioned them closely. They wore flamboyant cravats and chattered and were as shocked and pleased as if they had done the deed themselves. They were, unfortunately, observant and exact witnesses. They were also artists. Leblanc would soon have pencil sketches of Hawker and Paxton.

Leblanc said, “He set the fire and escaped from the room.”

She shook her head. “I do not think so. He was trapped with the rest of us.”

“You are wrong. It is the work of a great operative to see these things, Justine. You would do well to take your lessons from me.” Leblanc limped mightily from some small injury acquired in the panic of the fire. She hoped it hurt. “The English fight among themselves. One spy has disposed of his accomplice and fled. That is the cause of this murder.”

“Or it is Jacobins,” she said. “In any case, they are not here.”

It was eerie to be in the great vaulted halls, alone. She could have stolen the artwork of centuries at this moment and walked out with it under her cloak. She did not mention this. The guards, following, were unlikely to recognize the theoretical nature of this observation. Leblanc would probably steal something, if it were once suggested to him that he could.

Leblanc said, “You. Search that way. You. Down there.” And the guards went to obey. She hoped they would not shoot someone entirely innocent. She also hoped they would not shoot Hawker.

In a gallery at the end of this corridor was a small picture by Vouet that had hung in her bedroom when she was a child and the Mademoiselle de Cabrillac, an aristocrat. The Republic confiscated it when the chateau was sacked. She was not certain whether she would steal it back or not. How strange to almost be given the chance.

Leblanc stalked along, wincing, keeping a half step in front of her so he should look like he was leading. He managed to look both sullen and dangerous, like a spoiled five-year-old playing with munitions. “The First Consul did not listen. I told him it was English spies. I will give him English spies.”

He won’t thank you for it.

They came to a dead end where a large marble snake strangled several naked men.

“Not here,” Leblanc hissed. “Go back. He will escape the other way.”

In the distance, an old couple followed by their servant left the hall of sculptures. A museum watchman passed, looking at them curiously.

“I will salvage something from this debacle,” Leblanc said. “If only more dead spies.”

She saw him then, dark on the white stairs, illuminated pitilessly by the skylight above. He had nowhere to hide in all this grandeur. Slight, black-haired, all ardent grace as he took the steps two at a time. Hawker.

“There. There he is.” Leblanc shouted, “Shoot.”

Leblanc tore a pistol from his jacket pocket. She stepped in front of him, blocking his aim, and took out her own gun. Raised it. Strange how it seemed so absolutely silent.

“Kill him,” Leblanc said.

She held the gun in both hands before her. Shifted, as if by accident, into Leblanc’s path. He couldn’t get a clear shot.

Her finger found the trigger. She lowered the barrel to her target with the deliberate care of a marksman. She aimed well to the left of him. Her finger tightened. Softly.

Hawker half-turned. In a single snap, their eyes met.

“Out of my way.” Leblanc shoved her from behind. And she shot.

Hawker still held her eye. She saw the impact. Blood blossomed on his chest. The bullet hit him high, between heart and shoulder. Blood trickled down over the bright stripes of his waistcoat.

No! No. No. “You spoiled my aim,” she heard herself say to Leblanc.

Hawker stayed, standing still, the space of an intake of breath. Shocked with getting hit. Shocked that it was her bullet going into him. Then he turned and ran.

She spun clumsily and managed to knock into Leblanc. Her pistol, empty now, knocked his arm aside.

“Stupid bitch.”

She snapped, “He’s hit. He can’t go far. Get the garde. Search the apartments upstairs. He’ll be hiding in one of them.”

She ran up the steps.

Hawker had left a trail of blood. He’d turned down this hall. One of the curtains was pulled back unevenly and the window was open.

Even Hawker with his legendary skill could not . . .

But there was blood on the stone outside. Had he managed to climb down? She searched the ground below, but he was not there. The men and women walking the Rue de Rivoli gave no sign a man had passed, dripping blood. Somehow, he had ambled away, blending into the crowd.

Hawker was alone in Paris, desperate and wounded.

He thought she had tried to kill him.