Greenwell, of Philadelphia.”
“No. You are Gage of Egypt and Marengo, Mortefontaine, and Saint-Domingue.”
“You’re entirely mistaken.” My heart was hammering, given the chop of the blade we’d just seen. “If you’d please stand aside, monsieur, we’re late.”
He shook his head. “The notorious American is too well known and remembered to remain unnoticed. We’ve been following you since your arrival in Paris and puzzled only over how little you’ve seemed to accomplish.”
This was unsettling and insulting to boot. “‘We’?”
“The police ministry. Do you know that your household has led us to three royalist cells?”
Catherine gasped, and I struggled to pretend calm. “I’m sure you’re confused.”
“And I’m sure that Police Councillor Pierre-François Comte Réal, administrator of northwest France, requires a meeting. You’d be wise to cooperate, since you’ll meet regardless
and he has ways of forcing conversation.” The other police surrounded us.
“He couldn’t send an invitation?”
“Your invitation is I.”
“This lady plays no part in this.”
“On the contrary.” He inspected her, his gaze lingering longer than it had to. She looked flattered and fearful.
I sighed, wishing I’d brought a weapon. “You’ll tell my wife what has happened?”
“Tell her yourself. Your wife and son, monsieur, are already in custody.”
Not again. “But wait—didn’t you say I’ve accomplished little?” I’m used to arguing incompetence. “Why would the councillor want me?”
“He has a present for you.” Pasques shrugged, as if this was as incomprehensible as my own sorry performance as a spy.
“A gift?”
“From Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“From the emperor?” While I echoed him with my own stupid questions, the comtesse looked at me with surprise and suspicion.
“Yes. From a man who gives nothing without expecting something in return.”
CHAPTER 8
I’ve described Police Minister Fouché as a thin-lipped lizard, and renegade inspector Leon Martel, safely dead, as a rodent. Councillor Réal I’d call a forbidding French father-in-law: handsome, distinguished, and naturally stern, with a long Gallic nose, searching gaze, and a mouth pinched with habitual disapproval, its corners rising just enough to betray weary amusement at the fables and lies of the prisoners he interrogated. It was this man who’d traced the horseshoes of the animal that pulled the huge bomb that almost killed Napoleon in 1800. He’d broken assassination conspirators Louis-Pierre Picot and Charles Le Bourgeois with torture so relentless that they begged for death. More recently, royalist conspirator Jean-Pierre Quérelle betrayed Georges Cadoudal after Réal let the man watch preparations for his own execution. Terrified of eternity, Quérelle confessed all.
I knew vaguely that Réal was considered a moderate, had gambled by throwing in with Napoleon for the coup of 18 Brumaire, and now oversaw the policing of the Channel coast facing Britain. He received me in the cavernous police headquarters off rue de Jerusalem, its hive of cubicles wormed into a decaying pile of a palace. Posts and beams had been inserted to keep the edifice standing, and mezzanines had been built on these to stuff in more policemen, the new floors reached by stairs as steep as ladders. The result was a gloomy maze. Réal’s own office was a stony corner suite overlooking a stone courtyard with stone walls beyond. He wore a severely black civilian suit without insignia, the color the perennial favorite of my police acquaintances. It makes them a dour lot.
High collar and cravat reinforced Réal’s formality, but five gaudy rings hinted at worldly pleasures. I tried to analyze him as annoyingly as he was analyzing me. Perhaps he was not the humorless puritan of reputation, but rather a man who enjoyed profiting from power. I pictured a rich house and family gatherings with laughing children and amber-colored spirits, Réal serenely presiding over bourgeois pleasures, not speaking of the day’s routine of firing squads, weasel informants, and tenacious torture.
Now Réal splayed his fingers on his massive maple desk, as if considering whether to spring. It was said he’d made a study of the interrogation techniques of the Ottomans and the Spanish Church and was a student of the criminal mind, particularly those with shifting causes and irregular employment.
I, in turn, have become something of an expert on ambitious policemen.
“Monsieur Gage, so gracious of you to visit.” The tone was ironic.
Guest I technically was, since the giant Pasques had explained that I wasn’t really under arrest so long as I visited the police inspector “voluntarily.” I was unclear as to the distinction. “I’m flattered by your invitation,” I lied, “though I’m not really Ethan Gage.”
“Amusing fiction. Impostors and aliases have become a fixture of our age. During upheaval, everyone can pretend to be something they’re not. It’s what