The man was the devil, there was no doubt of it.
Cadoudal had taken it for granted that the fellow must be compensated apart from his expenditures—there would be a great deal of money involved, considering the new security provisions that had been made since 4 Nivose, as the rabble insisted on calling it—but what he’d just heard, in that most civilized room in a civilized house, chilled his skin and turned the undigested meal in his stomach.
Roughnecks had been known to commit unsavory acts for profit, but this—professional assassin—was something infamous.
The man’s quizzical expression remained in place.
“You’re shaken. Why? You’ve been present at mass slayings: set them in motion, in fact. What’s the difference between blowing a man to bits with cannon and stabbing him in a coach?”
“You’ve done that?”
“While it was in motion, and took my exit with the coachman unaware I was ever aboard. I asked a question.”
“Mine was a field of honor. Yours—monstrous thing!”
“I was in danger myself; more so than if I’d stood on a hill directing fire. I’m not unique to history. The very word ‘assassin’ extends back to the eleventh century. The caliphs of Cairo paid their killers with hashish; Hashishiyun, they were called.”
“But those men were fanatics.”
“I am not, which is why what I say makes so much sense. It’s a new century, General. We can’t go on doing things the same way we did in the past.”
“You make a good point, although I find it abhorrent.”
“More so than blowing apart thirty-five men, women, and children just to kill one man?”
“I didn’t authorize that.”
“You’ll pay for it just the same, unless you pay me.”
“Am I to take that as a threat?”
“It would be empty, don’t you think? They know where you are, and what you’ve been up to. It’s only a matter of time before someone lures you into a trap. Your friend the earl, for example.”
“Rexborough’s a buffoon, not a Judas.”
“He bores easily, or he’d have put up more of a fight when we sent him from the room. You’re committed to your cause, monsieur. He joined it only because the shooting’s so bad this time of year. It would amuse him just as much to turn you in, and testify during your trial about how he managed to infiltrate your ranks. He’ll probably receive a decoration from that deaf and blind old fool in Buckingham.
“Your other friends may be more reliable,” he went on. “On the other hand, they’re Englishmen, with no real stake in the business, apart from vague fears for their own government. Do you find any flaws in my theory?”
Cadoudal felt drained. No argument had ever been devised to withstand a man without morals. “No. But nor can I be persuaded that the—our mutual friend—would undertake a transaction of the sort you suggest.”
“And yet he did. He sought me out, through intermediaries, and is under no illusions as to its nature.”
“You met with him? Where?”
“In Ettelheim, where the shooting is far superior.”
That settled the matter. Apart from Cadoudal and select others—and of course Fouché’s spy network—the place of their “mutual friend’s” exile was not generally known. That this was a ruse designed to entrap the Royalist general was impossible, unless the ring had been forced from the man’s own finger, and beyond doubt communication of the incident would have reached him through his own network.
“When the upstart is dead,” said the other, “and the people of France demand Restoration and stability, the threat passes, and you go home a hero of the nation.”
“Not that I’m considering your proposition, but what is the current market rate for murder?”
“Five million Swiss francs.”
“Outrageous!”
“Two million, five hundred thousand upon agreement and the rest when I’m successful.”
“Bonaparte conquered Italy on forty thousand.”
The visitor’s eyes had a smoky quality that defied connection. “You appear to admire the man despite all.”
“As well admire a mad dog. Just for discussion, seven hundred fifty thousand—payable upon success. That’s if my benefactors agree. Naturally we would advance you enough to make your preparations, provided the amount is within reason.”
The man rose and bowed.
“Adieu. I did not come here to bargain.”
Cadoudal had bartered with sharp practitioners for cavalry mounts and provisions for his troops. Feigned indifference had no effect upon him.
“Before you leave, perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me how you arrived at that preposterous sum.”
“By being practical. Before this my targets have been petty public officials; one was a country constable, who made his rounds aboard a donkey. They were none who would be missed. This undertaking, as you call it, will make me notorious. I do not propose to be the next Charlotte Corday.”
Cadoudal did not address that. The bitch had slit the jugular of the radical Jacobin Marat in his bath, and had been executed forthwith; vulgar whisperers had named the Cutthroat Club in her honor. But she had been no Royalist, merely an adherent of one of the many factions that had divided the Revolution into feral packs forever in conflict. Nothing could be further from what the Royalists were about.
“You seem timid for an assassin.”
“Do I? Consider the situation. I will be forced underground. I’ll never work again, and since I’m unqualified for any other labor, if my terms are not met I must resort to blackmail.” He named all the members of the so-called Cutthroat Club.
The visitor’s voice never rose above the level of parlor conversation. But each name struck his listener with the force of a blow. He’d thought them a secret even from Fouché.
He tried to keep his own tone steady. “I submit that there is a reliable remedy for extortion.”
“My murder, you mean.”
“That seems to be the fee simple of this discussion.”
“It’s been tried. But in that event, why engage me at all? Apply that same remedy to Bonaparte, and save five million francs.”
He was down to his last argument. “What evidence can you provide that you are what you say you are, and have done what you say you have done?”
“Again, it was not I who sought this assignment. My accomplishments are better known east of the Rhine; celebrated, in fact. The Germans are fond of sensational literature, although I found the woodcuts less than flattering. Certain details made their way to Ettelheim, and some effort was spent in order to communicate with me. If it’s trophies you require—ears, fingers, scalps—I cannot accommodate you. I make it a practice not to take them. They’re difficult to explain at border crossings.”
Georges Cadoudal suppressed an urge to shudder, sighing instead. A good captain acknowledged defeat when it was plain. While he admitted to himself that he was no Bonaparte, he was at bottom a good captain.
“I must consult with my people.”
“That could take months. Since Four Nivose they’re scattered from here to America.”
Where did this fellow get his intelligence? At all events, time was essential. Cadoudal’s own liberty was a day-to-day thing; and what good was a counter-revolution without an able commander? Anarchy redux; the Terror restored.
“The first payment will take time to raise.”
The visitor’s smile was cold as the grave.
“I hardly thought you had it in your purse. I need time to prepare in any case.”
“What shape will it take, this—business?”
“I don’t know yet. Neither will you until it’s done. There was nothing wrong with the Christmas Eve affair except the number of men who were in on it. One man can keep a secret, even two. Admit three, and you might as well issue a broadside.”
“How can we be certain you won’t disappear once you have the two million and a half?”
“How can I be certain you won’t refuse to pay me the rest once the job is done? Don’t respond, General: I’ll supply the answer. A man who can kill the Strong Man of Europe can kill the commander of an army that no longer exists, without much more effort. On your end, a coterie of wealthy English nobles can kill a man such as I, friendless and alone, as easily as they can score at cricket. It’s death in any case, you see. Better one than many. Even the Republicans learned that in the end, or the guillotine would still be in place.”
A great cramp seized Cadoudal’s inwards like a fist in a mail glove. He leaned forward again, affecting to study the matter with his chins folded onto his chest, until the spasm passed. At that moment he could quite willingly have killed Rexborough’s cook; how bloodthirsty he’d become in half an hour.
The spasm passed. He straightened. “You’re indeed a student of history. Are you seriously not familiar with heroic literature?”
“The men who write fiction know nothing and make up the rest. It’s useless to my work.”
When, he wondered, would he ever become accustomed to connecting assassination with honest labor? They would never be comrades, these two; in that he took some solace. The architect was not the grimy layer of brick.
“You’d be surprised at how often they stumble upon something practical.” Cadoudal rummaged among the books on the table until he found the one he wanted: A copy of Alexander Pope’s translation of The Iliad, bound in supple leather, peeled from travel and thumb-worn from study. He sat back with it in his lap, not bothering to open it to the passage he had in mind; it was enough just to hold the volume. It was his own, a work of war revered by all who practiced the art. The stoop-shouldered scholar who had assembled Rexborough’s library was long on Shakespeare and Cervantes but short on Plutarch and Homer.
“According to the epics,” he said, “when Troy was under siege, the Greeks saw something they interpreted to be a sign from the gods: A viper, snatched up by an eagle, bit the bird, poisoning it and forcing them both to crash to the ground and die. The Trojan horse was the result: The appearance of defeat turned into victory.
“You see the analogy,” he said, when the fellow didn’t answer. “The intended victim becomes the victor.”
Still his visitor said nothing.
“You’re aware, perhaps, that Bonaparte has chosen the eagle for his personal device? Already he takes upon himself the conceit of royalty. He’ll crown himself king one day.”
“I’ve heard this. A warrior would hardly embrace a sparrow as his signature.” The visitor’s nostrils expanded and contracted; he was stifling a yawn.
“If Bonaparte is the eagle, the one who destroys him must be the viper. With your permission, I’ll call you Le Vipère, in person and in dispatches.”
“No dispatches. Nothing is to appear about me in writing. If it does, I’ll know where to look for the man responsible.”
“Shall I take that as a threat?”
“I expressed it poorly if you don’t.” The muscles at the corners of his mouth drew his lips into a straight line. That part of his face was the most mobile, although scarcely more than inert. “Let’s not take the omen too literally: Both parties died.”
“Are you superstitious?”
“No. But nor do I tempt fate.”
A most careful fellow, this. Georges Cadoudal began to approve of him, purely on a clinical basis and despite his lack of values—his loss, poor empty vessel that he was; but a worthy match for the unprincipled man who ruled France. Of course he would have to be eliminated once his services were no longer required. Such was expediency, and not the same thing as assassination for monetary gain. Leaders were sometimes led to unpleasant measures for the good of the nation.
“How shall we deliver the money?”
“You will send a courier—with an armed escort, of course—to deposit two million, five hundred thousand in gold in the Bank of Vienna under the name Colonel Franz Meuchel.” He spelled it. “He’s registered with the treasury department of the Austrian Army, so the amount will raise no suspicions. Once I’m informed that I may draw a note upon the account, I’ll put my plans in operation. Under no circumstances will you attempt to make contact with me unless I initiate that contact.”
“What’s your connection with this man Meuchel?”
“That isn’t your concern.”
“You must trust him.”
This brought no response. Cadoudal wondered if the treasury colonel was present in this room. It would explain a great deal, including the mystery of his true nationality. On the other hand, he suspected the man could not be explained away as easily as that.
“And the courier? Two and a half million can turn the head of the most honest of men.”
“Surely not the most honest. In any event he’s your responsibility, not mine. But if I may make a suggestion, I’d appoint someone who already has millions of his own.”
Did the fellow tilt his head toward the door through which Rexborough had exited?
The houseguest frowned. “If the fool doesn’t gamble it away.”
“Commission him a general in the Royalist Army and put him in command of the escort. That should satisfy his pride and inhibit his self-indulgence.”
“Just that?”
“Give him a sword if you like.”
“And instruct him to have his tailor make him a splendid uniform!” Cadoudal beamed for the first time since greeting the visitor. “That’s sound strategy. You are a military man.”
“I said I was. I haven’t lied.”
Cadoudal committed the details he’d been given to memory. He hadn’t written so much as a personal letter since coming to England. A man could commit suicide with paper and ink. “Will you make contact when the thing is done?”
“No. With any luck you’ll never hear from me again. You will know when the time has come to remit the remainder. All the world will know.”