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GOOD NEWS,” CASIO told me effusively. “You can at last be a hero for your country.”

Associating with Spaniards had taught me that in their lexicon dead and hero were often indistinguishable.

“I am ready to serve the cause of liberty,” I lied.

“You’re lying, of course. Rosa has already reported to me that you are a worthless scoundrel. Under ordinary circumstances, I would cut out your liver and feed it to my dog, but . . .” he paused and grinned, “your ability to dupe others and survive is phenomenal. You’ve managed to avoid the colony’s hangmen as well as those in Cádiz and, so far, even those in Barcelona. Being a thief, a murderer, and a confidence man could be invaluable in this small war we wage against an overwhelming adversary. We will have abundant time to deal with your crimes after we’ve driven the French back over the Pyrénées.”

He told me that most of the battle plans Napoleon sends to his generals in command of armies in Spain come over the Pyrénées and through Barcelona.

“The emperor keeps his hands tight on the Spanish throat,” Casio said. “He allows his commanders little leeway, because they’ve suffered so many defeats at the hands of our regulars and guerrillas. We have information from a source at French headquarters inside the Ciutadella that a major campaign to sweep the resistance from our province will begin shortly. A general will carry Napoleon’s orders to his field commanders in Barcelona. He’ll attend a ball in his honor. The next morning he will assemble a group of high-ranking officers and give them their orders.

“The general, Habert, goes nowhere without his attaché case, which contains copies of the emperor’s commands. We need to obtain a copy of those orders. The simplest method would be to ambush him and his escort, but then the French would know we had their plans.”

“You want to copy them without him knowing,” I said.

“Exactly. We need to slip one out of his attaché case, quickly copy it, and return the original. Naturally, it would have to be copied by someone who is fluent in French.”

“Many people in Barcelona speak—”

“True, but we asked for someone from Cádiz because of the high risk that our own people would be recognized. Besides, while we have many people who can speak a little French, few can read it.”

I now realized why Colonel Ramírez had chosen “Carlos” for the mission. Carlos had had a talent for slipping plans out of an attaché case, copying, and putting them back. Because of his known French sympathies, they wouldn’t suspect him. If the plans included drawings of fortifications, Carlos could also duplicate them. Drawing was a talent I didn’t have, and I, too, didn’t read French as well as I spoke it. But these were not points to urge upon a man when my life was hanging by a thread and he held a dagger. To refuse the mission would be suicidal.

“How do I get my hands on the plan?”

“A noble woman who the French believe is sympathetic to their cause—will give a ball in the general’s honor. She is also, shall we say, a woman”—his smile at this point scintillated—”of charismatic charm and irresistible beauty. She will see to it that the plan is removed and replaced after you are through with it.”

I didn’t like anything about his scheme. Where the general went with his attaché case, troops of French dragoons would follow close behind. I also suspected that Casio had other plots up his sleeve, and my survival wasn’t part of the plan. My own suspicious nature and lack of confidence in the innate goodness of my fellow man led me to suspect friend and foe alike. Among other things, if the guerrillas really wanted the French not to know I’d copied the plans, they could dispel that possibility by killing me.

I felt a little like I did when the Mayan war chief ordered my heart served blood-rare as his main entrée.