"Thanks. We may be a while."
"Damn!" the man at the rear of the line said. "I'm going upstairs."
He turned and walked back toward the ballroom, immediately followed by the other four. Napoleon led Wellington into the bathroom, and waited silently as the door shut behind them.
A grin spread across Wellington's narrow face. "How'd I do?"
"Damned fine. You even had me fooled." Napoleon glanced quickly around the bathroom, looking for any hint of a contact.
"Now what? The note said bathroom. Well, we're here."
Napoleon spotted a high window at the far end of the bathroom. If he had his directions straight, it overlooked the garden behind the palace.
"You're tallest. Get over to that window and see what you can see. I'll guard the door."
Wellington nodded; Napoleon turned back to the door, grabbed hold of the doorknob with both hands, and braced himself for any incoming traffic.
"What am I supposed to be looking for?" Wellington asked, his voice muffled.
"How the hell should I know? Anything odd."
"Anything odd. Huhn. That means everything around-Hello! What's this?"
"What's what?" The doorknob jerked and Napoleon threw his weight backward, holding onto the door. "Hurry, Wellington. We're getting company."
"Someone's out in the bushes, I can't see who-They've got a flashlight. Damn! It's code. Napoleon, Two long flashes, followed by one short."
"Hey! Op'n up in there!" a furious voice bellowed on the other side of the door.
"Go away!" Napoleon yelled back. "My friend's sick in here! You want the flu or something?"
He glanced over his shoulder as the door jerked again. "Two long, one short?" he whispered to Wellington. "That's Attila! He's telling us everything's set up outside. He'll cover us when we leave."
"There's more."
"Dammit!" the voice on the other side of the door roared." 'M drunk on m'ass an' you--"
"Then use the bushes outside!" Napoleon looked back at Wellington. "What is it?"
"Three short, two long."
"O God! Our shy contact wants to transfer the papers now." The door jerked again. "The light switch, Wellington! Blink the lights off and on twice."
Wellington hurried to the light switch while the drunk outside kept pulling at the door, cursing at the top of his lungs. The lights in the bathroom flickered twice.
"Good job. Let's get out of here."
"My God, Napoleon ... how our reputations will suffer!"
Napoleon grinned and let loose of the doorknob: the door flew open--the angry drunk yelled an obscenity and fell flat on his back.
"Come on, Wellington. Some fresh air ought to do you good." Napoleon stepped over the drunk, Wellington right behind. "If we can get by the riff-raff."
Once again. Mane's hand in his own. Napoleon drifted in and out of the crowd on the ballroom floor. She had come out from behind the potted palm, her eyes troubled, but the smile she wore would have disarmed anyone. Napoleon glanced sidelong at Wellington, who had contrived to still look a bit unwell, and shrugged slightly. If the exchange of papers was to take place soon, it would be before the ball began. The orchestra had not come to its box yet, and the guests were still eating, drinking, and talking.
Several people stopped him and Mane, but Napoleon kept his exchanges with them brief and to the point. No sense in falling out of character now. To act like he was enjoying himself (which he was not) would do harm to future appearances. Wellington nudged his side and Napoleon looked to his right. The
Arabs again. Only this time there was a blond-headed man with them, clad in the same white robes. Napoleon recognised him: T.E. Shaw (a/k/a Ross), best known as Lawrence of Arabia.
He thought Lawrence and his companions eyed him. with more than usual curiosity, but he had had little to do with the modern sort of Arab.
Egyptians he understood, to a certain extent-at least those he had known during the Egyptian campaign in 1798. But that was decades before the Middle East crises that rocked the world in the mid-1960s and after. He looked away from the Arabs, for some reason uneasy.
"Where the hell's our contact?" he whispered to Wellington. "We've been walking around in circles for ten minutes now."
"Why don't we head over there?" Wellington suggested, pointing with his chin to an extremely crowded section of the ballroom.
Napoleon sighed. "I don't know how much more of this I can take. If I have to tell one more person why I'm at a party, I'll strangle them." Suddenly it hit him. "I get you. The more crowded it is, the better chance of a transfer."
Wellington grinned. "You would have never made a spy. You're too damned direct."
"Huhn. Now you, on the other hand, seem to have missed your calling."
As they approached the thick crowd, Napoleon could catch a glimpse of what it was that had drawn the guests to this corner of the room. Richelieu's cat had gotten away from its master and was darting in and out from under the chairs along the wall as the Cardinal followed, trying to coax it out again.
Richelieu was enamoured of eats and always had several near him, but that made no difference now. Just whenever he got within grabbing distance, the cat dashed off again.
Napoleon grimaced. He still was not all that fond of cats, but had outgrown his Corsican superstitions long ago, and had been known to pick up strays himself. But this cat-gray, surly, and mightily pleased with itself looked like the devil incarnate.
Reaching the end of its patience with sitting under chairs, the cat made a mad dash toward the crowd. Laughing and calling out advice, the guests backed off, giving the Cardinal more space. A big fellow dressed in court clothes bumped into Napoleon, nearly knocking him off his feet.
"Oh, so sorry. How clumsy of me." Hard, capable hands reached out to offer assistance. "Are you all right?"
"I seem to be," Napoleon murmured. The guests were laughing again, even louder than before, jostling one another to get a better view.
"Here ... you dropped this," the big man said, and shoved two thick folded pieces of paper into Napoleon's hands. Dark Arab eyes glittered in a swarthy, hook-nosed face. "Good luck," the man whispered, then turned and shoved his way through the crowd.
Napoleon stood frozen for a moment, his hand trembling on the papers. No one was paying him the slightest attention. 0 God! This is it! He folded the papers once again, careless of what that might do to the contents, and shoved them under his vest. Drawing a deep breath, be looked around.
Mane was watching him, a small frown on her face, but Wellington was caught up by the cat chase and was laughing with the others. Napoleon reached for Mane's hand, nodded back toward the entry hall, and poked Wellington in the side.
"I thought you weren't feeling well," he said pointedly. "Don't you think you'd better go home and get some rest?"
"Uh...yes," Wellington answered, flushing slightly. "Jolly good idea."
"I think the evening's done for all of us. - Napoleon cocked an eye up at the Iron Duke. "If you know what I mean."
Wellington's eyes took on a wary expression. Do you-?"
"Yes."
"I see. Let's go."
Leading Marie by the hand. Napoleon followed Wellington across the ballroom, the transferred papers crinkling against his shirt with every movement. So for, so good. No one spared them much more than a curious glance. A clean getaway proved to be in the offing. Until his eyes met those of a toga-clad man who stood, backed by several burly fellows, next to the doorway leading to the entry hall. Ice was in those eyes-ice and an intelligent animal cunning.
Napoleon's heart lurched.
Tigellinus!
And the woman on his arm, clad in a gown that exposed more than it covered: she was equally dangerous. If he knew anything at all about Romans (and he did know a considerable amount). Napoleon recognized her for none other than Claudius' third wife, Valeria Messalina.