O bon dieu en ciel!
Napoleon tried to guide Marie out the door, giving Wellington a soft shove as he went, but escape was not to be. Not now.
"Ah, Bonaparte," Tigellinus drawled, stepping into Napoleon's path. "It's been a long, long time, hasn't it, since I saw you last? Retired, are you? Living the quiet life?"
"Trying to," Napoleon said, amazed that his voice was steady. The man was filth, was same ... was undeniably deadly.
"And attending a party. How curious. I thought you disliked them, especially the large, ornate ones."
"Wellington dragged me here," Napoleon said in a suitably miffed voice. "But he ate something that made him sick, and we're going home."
"One always has to avoid eating much at parties," Messalina said, a thin smile touching her lips.
She leaned up against Tigellinus and ran a lazy fingertip down the line of his jaw. "One can never be sure, can one, of what lurks in the food."
"Napoleon." Wellington's voice trembled. "If I don't get but of here soon. I'll soil the floor."
"Right." Napoleon turned to Tigellinus. "Sorry. We really must be going."
Trumpets blared; rose petals descended in a shower from the ceiling. The Sun King was making his entrance at last.
"Oh, Tigellini, amor mi," Messalina cooed. "Let's go see Louis. Pu-leeze!"
Nero's security officer turned away and Napoleon quickly led Marie around him, Wellington coming close behind.
"Valet!" Napoleon called once he had reached the entry hall. The fellow looked up from where he sat by the cloakroom. "Bring His Grace's hat, the Countess' wrap, and my hat. And send someone for the car. It's the black Mercedes."
The valet was a young fellow, his full white wig looking ridiculous above a pimply face. "You mean Papa Doc's car?" he asked, his eyes lighting up.
"That's the one. Make it fast. His Grace is sick."
The boy hurried to the front doors and hollered something out into the night.
Napoleon stood with Marie and Wellington at his side by the cloakroom as the valet returned and retrieved the two black cocked hats and Marie's shawl.
"I'm sorry Your Grace isn't feeling well," the youngster said to Wellington.
"My Grace will feel a lot better once I'm out in the open air."
Carrying his hat. Napoleon led the way to the front porch just as the big black Mercedes pulled up at the foot of the steps. Yearning to make a mad dash for it, he nodded to the valet, walked slowly down the stairs, and waited for Wellington to join him.
"Do you feel well enough to drive, or shall I?" he asked for the benefit of his listeners.
"I'll make it," Wellington said, as the other valet exited the car and stood holding the door open.
"You're too short to drive this thing properly anyway."
Napoleon lifted an eyebrow. "You're pushing it, Wellington. Really pushing it."
Wellington got in the car and tossed his hat into the rear seat as the valet held the door open for Marie and Napoleon. Once the door had slammed, Wellington started down the long drive from Louis' palace to the street which ran on the north side of Decentral Park.
Napoleon sighed and set his hat beside Wellington's; leaning his head back against the seat, he shut his eyes, letting some of the tension drain away.
"You got them, eh?" Wellington asked. "No problems?"
"No problems." Napoleon glanced across Marie at Wellington. The Iron Duke was frowning. "I know. No problems there. We still have to make the drop."
"Napoleon," Marie said. "What's going on? If you brought me along in spite of the danger, I think I'm entitled to know something."
He put an arm around her shoulders. "Believe me, amore, it would have been far more dangerous to leave you at home."
Wide with surprise, her eyes met his in the dim glow from the car's console.
"Trust me, Marie." His doubts concerning her clawed at him again, but he remembered his decision at the ball. "When we get home. I'll tell you."
Wellington turned onto the street, headed west. As he did so. Napoleon noticed a car fall in behind them, a car that had obviously been waiting all this while, its lights off, parked to one side of the street.
"Attila?" Wellington asked, his eyes flicking up to the rear-view mirror and down again.
"It's supposed to be." A chill crawled up Napoleon's spine, "Wellington. Did the Romans tell you how fast this car can go?"
"No, only that it had good acceleration." Wellington grinned mirthlessly. "I can't imagine Papa Doc having a car that wouldn't perform well in a quick getaway."
"Huhn. How about armor plating?"
"That too, I was told. Standard accessory for a petty dictator."
Napoleon shrugged. "Our guns?"
"They should still be in the glove compartment."
"Let's hope so." Napoleon released Marie and opened the glove compartment: two
.45s lay gleaming in the dim light.
"Merciful God, Napoleon," Marie whispered. "Are those necessary?"
"I hope not."
"Uh ... Napoleon." Wellington's voice sounded strained. "Check the rear-view mirror."
Napoleon looked and his breath caught in his throat. There were two cars behind them now, not just one. "O God." He glanced at Wellington. I've got a feeling Attila's not following us."
"Then let's see how fast this car is," Wellington growled, and stepped on the accelerator.
"Marie," Napoleon said. "I want you to keep down. Don't argue with me. Keep down."
She nodded and slid into a position where her knees turned sideways on the floor, placing her feet nearly under Napoleon's. He shifted position and glanced up into the rear-view mirror, then down at her again.
"Put your head down and hang on. I don't want you hurt."
As Papa Doc's car picked up speed, the cars following matched it. Wellington cursed.
"Where s Attila?
"You're asking me?" Napoleon watched the following cars over his shoulder.
"You know, Wellington, we could be in big trouble."
"Huhn."
The road was dimly lit by the sodium glare of too few street lamps. The Park stretched to their left in a tangle of undergrowth, small bushes, and twisted trees. The Cong ruled there, practicing a warfare of utter confusion, shooting at anything that moved, sometimes even each other.
Napoleon watched the Park streak by. Despite their speed, the two cars were gaining on them, and an escape route-if it came to that-was of utmost importance.
A bud burst of automatic gunfire sounded from behind. "O God!" Wellington hissed. "They're shooting at us!"
"Then stomp on it!" Napoleon opened the glove compartment and reached for the pistols. They would be of little use unless the other cars drew within range, but they were better than nothing.
"What else did the Romans tell you about this car?" he asked, checking the safeties.
"Not much." Wellington's voice was ice-calm. He drove wildly down the street now, swerving from side to side. More shots rang out There was a loud snap to the rear of the car; a bullet.
"Jesus! They're aiming for the gas tank! Here!" Napoleon shoved the loaded .45 across the seat to where it rested against Wellington's leg.
"Napoleon." Marie s voice was muffled. "Something's under the front seat."
He glanced down. "Something what?" Then drew a deep breath as Marie, slid a long, blackened gun under his feet. "Mon dieu! It's an Uzi!"
"Well, don't just sit there with your teeth in your mouth," Wellington said, swerving the car back and forth. "Use it!"
Napoleon picked up the Uzi and checked the safety. It had been years since he had fired one, but some things are never forgotten.
"Marie! Look for extra clips!" He rolled down the window and shifted around on the seat to get a good position.