The man seemed to realize only after the fact what a risk he’d taken, detailing the situation to Martin that way. His chin came up, belligerent, daring his captor to take issue with what he’d said.
Martin looked down at his hand, turning it over and examining the palm where, just as Hardison said, skin was peeling off in flakes and translucent white curls. He was dying by inches, disintegrating one very thin layer at a time.
“We both know what this is? Suppose you tell me, monsieur.”
He knew what he would hear before the Makesmith Baron spoke.
“Poison. Mercuric cyanide, if I had to guess. I saw a chemical metallurgist die of it once, although in his case it took months. All from a single accidental drop on his skin. The symptoms were the same, however, and they’re quite distinctive. I’m . . . I’m sorry for you.”
He was sorry, Martin could tell. Naïve though the sentiment seemed, it made a difference. Martin hadn’t believed Dubois, hadn’t even quite believed himself. He believed Dexter Hardison, though, about both the poison and the sympathy.
It really is over.
“This was more than just a drop, I suspect,” he said softly, with a wry smile.
THE NEXT ATTEMPT to place the listening ear had gone more smoothly than the first, but Charlotte still heard nothing when she bent to the earpiece. It made the sound of the ocean, nothing more.
“Damn it!”
The craving to pilot the sub upward again, crack the surface and swing the hatch up, was almost too great to resist. The cabin seemed so small she could barely move inside it now. The atmosphere was thick and heavy with fear. Her fingertips tingled constantly, buzzing with tension from her taut shoulders and her ongoing struggle to keep from hyperventilating into unconsciousness. Her head was throbbing, stomach churning, and Charlotte thought if she ever escaped the submersible she would never, never allow herself to be put into such a tiny enclosure again. She would live on her front lawn, if need be, weather and elements be damned.
Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine herself on the Gossamer Wing. Soaring through open air, the whole world below like a picture from a storybook, a chill but bracing breeze on her face.
Soon, she promised herself. Dexter first.
She would make one more attempt. One more try at finding them, getting a read on the situation, anything she could learn to tell the agents speeding to Dexter’s rescue, to make it safer for him when they went in.
Really, she just wanted to reassure herself that he was alive.
Charlotte piloted the craft down the length of the ship and stopped midway before turning and cranking the handle to maneuver the extendable arm out once more.
Thinking about it less, and barely looking at the viewfinder, she had better luck. The ear pressed flat against the hull and sealed itself there on the first attempt, and a startled laugh bubbled up as Charlotte leaned down and twisted the earpiece toward her ear.
“If I’d known it was that easy I would have just tried doing it blind from the start,” she muttered to herself. Then she stopped breathing as she heard a voice from the earpiece.
“Even if I could remove it, there’s no antidote for . . .”
Dexter!
The connection was feeble, and Charlotte turned the volume higher once more, straining to catch as much as she could; she didn’t dare risk attempting another placement of the listening device.
“Was in a vault in his office. He claimed to have destroyed it.”
That was Coeur de Fer’s voice, she supposed. He spoke remarkably clear English.
“He was lying,” Dexter replied. “There’s no known antidote for mercuric cyanide. It kills some fast, some more slowly, depending on the victim and the dosage. But either way it’s death, and not a very nice one. Taking the arm off now wouldn’t do a thing to help.”
“I should have known. He never did have any honor.”
“Look, I know this ship isn’t really moving, there’s no engine vibration. We could just go ashore right now. If you went to a hospital they might be able to make you more comfortable,” Dexter suggested.
Coeur de Fer chuckled. “Good effort, my friend, but I think not. I do not care to spend my last few days—”
“Hours,” corrected Dexter.
“Or even my last few hours—in a jail cell as a murderer and a traitor.”
“Understandable. Are you going to kill me?”
Charlotte gasped to hear Dexter’s direct question. Don’t put ideas into his head, she thought.
“Probably not,” the dying spy conceded. “I don’t think I have the strength. You can tell my story after I’m gone, I think.”
“What version would you like me to tell?” Dexter inquired, his dry humor coming through even over the earpiece in the submersible. Charlotte smiled, touching a finger to the device. He wasn’t even attempting to trick his kidnapper, to plead or lie or wheedle his way out, she thought with a hint of pride. He was just . . . being Dexter.
“One that finally gives Simone Vernier the recognition she deserves, and that casts Dubois as the fiend of the piece.”
“From what I gather that wouldn’t be too difficult. I’d only have to tell the truth, then, wouldn’t I?”
She was astonished. A joke. There he was, being held captive on a derelict freighter in a remote by-water by a rogue agent who very likely planned to murder him, and Dexter was making jokes with the man. Amazing.
Martin didn’t seem to mind. “It was all just about money to him, you know? Dubois. He claimed to care about France, about pushing the British out. But that was never the true reason. He just wanted to make the war go on, so his contract would go on too and he would make more money. Always more. That’s why he wanted to kill Murcheson, to eliminate his competition for the steamrail project. He didn’t do it for any noble cause, not for France; he did it for himself. He made a traitor of me too, which saddens me. I would not have had my life end in this disloyalty.”
After a pause, Dexter spoke again. “Perhaps it doesn’t have to. I think we might be able to reach an agreement.”
Twenty-one
LE HAVRE, FRANCE
CHARLOTTE FINALLY LIFTED the hatch to the submersible to find a row of pistols pointed at her from the dock.
“Lady Hardison?” one of the men asked, clearly in shock.
The weapons wavered then lowered as she clambered from the sub to the dock with the help of the agent who had recognized her first.
“You need to get back, ma’am. If you take cover behind one of the shipping crates, that should—”
“Put your weapons away,” she demanded. “I don’t need to take cover. I think they’re about to come out.”
“Lady Hardison,” another of the agents said, “our priority is to take down Jacques Martin. We need to take that ship. We’ll do everything we can to avoid collateral harm, but you really must—”
“No, I mustn’t,” Charlotte insisted, alarmed. “I heard Dexter and Martin talking. Dexter is in no danger from him right now, but that could change if Coeur de Fer is threatened by a bunch of hotheaded idiots waving guns in his face.”
“I don’t think you’re aware of all the circumstances, my lady.”
“I don’t think you’re aware of the danger your career is in with this agency if my father learns that his son-in-law negotiated himself out of a hostage situation only to be killed by friendly fire.”