makes revolution so popular.” He gave me a nod. “It’s an honor to meet a hero of the Pyramids.”
I do have a weakness for flattery, and it seemed futile to pretend I was Greenwell. “Hardly a hero, Councillor,” I said. You have to decline compliments if you hope to get any more. “When the Mamelukes charged, I was safely inside an infantry square.” It was a subtle way of confirming that, yes, I’d been an aide to Napoleon in Egypt. I’d put Bonaparte’s pendant around my neck, in hopes it might prove as potent as a crucifix in a situation like this.
“You’re too modest. You’ve had many adventures since, on assignment for Talleyrand and Jefferson in North America, Bonaparte in the Mediterranean and”—he picked up a folder to peer at it—“Jean-Jacques Dessalines, the black revolutionary who defeated Rochambeau in Saint-Domingue. You’ve also fought with the British general Sir Sidney Smith, against Pasha Yussef Karamanli in Tripoli, and”—here he squinted at his folder again—“done both with former police inspector Leon Martel in Martinique.” He put down the document. “I envy your worldliness, while remaining baffled by your causes.”
“My cause is my family.” I was wary. “It’s actually quite the trouble bouncing from one belligerent to another. Labors of Hercules, and all that.”
“Your wanderings are suspicious.”
“I always come back to Paris.”
“Under an assumed name.” He tapped his file. “Most peculiar, no? The young general you rode with in the Egyptian campaign rises to emperor, and you hide in his capital like a thief?”
“I didn’t want to bother him.”
“Your obscurity aroused our curiosity, especially since Britain has employed half the scoundrels of Europe to spy on France. You fought at Acre with the spymaster Sir Sidney Smith. And every man in Paris seeks advantage from his personal acquaintance with Bonaparte—every man except the famed Ethan Gage.”
“I’m just avoiding responsibility. Being important is tiring.”
“I don’t believe you.” Réal’s gaze bored like an auger. Smart policemen make you feel guilty no matter how innocent you are, and of course I was a would-be Nathan Hale or Benedict Arnold. Yet except for my wife recently sweeping a deck clear of roguish French with a grapeshot-loaded swivel gun, I couldn’t think of anything in particular to confess to. I was a spy, yes, but not a very good one.
“And how is our old comrade Martel?” he went on.
“His name reminds me that the other half of Europe’s scoundrels are working for France.” I was stalling; I’m so honest by nature that I’m a poor liar, making it a habit only because of the bad company I keep. “Is Leon missing?” As I said this I pictured him cutting our rudder cables and dooming our ship on a reef. I’d later found his corpse on a beach, and when inspecting his body found a tattoo marking him as a henchman of Napoleon.
“‘Disappeared on a peculiar mission, according to the governor of Martinique,’” Réal read.
“If I remember correctly,” I tried, “Martel had left French government service and had his own background in crime. Pimp, slaver, thief, and rogue. If he was on a mission for the governor, it must have been of the most disreputable kind.” Which was working with me, but no need to call that out.
“Perhaps.” The councillor stood and moved to his window, looking at a courtyard crisscrossed by gendarmes on urgent, silent missions. Under Napoleon, seriousness meant advancement. By rumor, Fouché was about to be appointed police minister again, and other police chiefs like Savary, Dubois, and Réal were competing over who could catch the most traitors to win favor.
“Martel’s mission was quite important,” the policeman went on, “and we were informed he’d united with you after Dessaline’s victory in Haiti. Two adventurers, pursuing ancient Aztec knowledge for France! And then Martel and an entire bomb vessel vanish, as well as the notorious Ethan Gage. So mysterious and tragic. Until you’re smuggled back into France, arriving from England with your wife and son, and accompanied by a comely governess with royalist background. Perhaps, Monsieur Gage, you’ve become a spy for the British side.” He said it sadly, as if greatly disappointed.
“Then why would I bring my family? It would be lunatic risk.” I wondered where Astiza, Harry, and Catherine Marceau waited in prison.
“Bonaparte tells me you’re clever without sense.” He turned back and sat down behind his desk, as if weary with disapproval. Then Réal gave a Gallic shrug. “So I suppose we’ll start with the comtesse.”
It took me a moment to realize what he’d