Outside, the wind shifted and nosed into the hall with a sound like breathing. She narrowed her mind to this moment only and then to the next moment that came after it and did not think any more about dying or the failure of this mission. Madame said, “There is a mighty army of what could be. Do not exhaust yourself fighting it.”
Time passed. And passed.
Her eyes had become so accustomed to the darkness that she saw when the empty, dark space at the top of the stairs grew faintly light. She heard, not voices, but the softest shuffle of feet. A scrape against a wall. The Cachés were climbing into the hole in the wall. Escaping. Good. Good.
Minutes passed, heavy as if they were cast in lead.
Inside the parlor, a chair grated on the floor. The voices fell silent.
They’d heard something. She swallowed. Gathered herself to fight. Tensed her legs, her arms, her shoulders. Prepared to spring and shoot the instant the door opened.
Evil chances poured through her mind. Her death, Hawker’s death, and terrible revenge upon the Cachés. Madame disgraced. Séverine alone in a country at war.
My fault. Everything. My fault. Suddenly and completely, she understood what it meant to be the one in charge.
Don’t think of that. It’s almost time. Be steady. She laid her finger beside the trigger with immense care. The pistol was perfectly still in her hands. She listened for the scrape of the door. Soon, she would turn and fire. I am not afraid.
When she ran, they would follow her out into the street. Hawker and his friend could kill at least one man. She was sure of it. Maybe two. Hawker’s reputation said he could kill a man.
Blood pounded in her ears. She held her breath, listening.
In the parlor, the rhythm of speech began again.
So it was not discovery. Not disaster. Not yet. She removed her touch to the trigger. This was worse than fear, this reprieve. She was filled with nausea and cold, trembling. It was hard to keep her breath even and quiet. Words of a psalm repeated in her mind, stately, full of weight. I will fear no evil. I will fear no evil. She held on to those words. She, who had given up belief in God long ago.
Then Hawker was at the top of the stairs, casting a gray, stepped shadow, coming downward on its path, making no sound. He was beside her, unexpected because he moved so quickly, as if there were no distance across this hall.
He set his fingers on the barrel of her gun to say, “Put that down.” Made a motion to say, “We’ve finished here. Come,” and, “Good job. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
She lowered the gun, uncocked it, and tucked it away in the pouch under her shirt. The Cachés were on their way. It was done.
There was light outside.
Hawker turned the same instant she did. The window and the open space of the door lit up. Someone was in the courtyard, carrying a lantern, walking quickly toward the house, making little noises.
There was time, barely time, to throw herself across the hall to the far wall. To take one side of the front door as Hawker took the other.
The hall filled with light. A man stepped into the doorway.
Thirteen
SHE SAW THE MAN’S FACE AND KNEW HIM AND FELT a fierce exultation. She did not know when she drew her knife, but it was in her hand when she attacked.
The moment hung clear and motionless in the air. Time did not move.
Drieu had slung his jacket over his left arm across the valise he carried. In his right hand he held the lantern. His waistcoat was unbuttoned in the heat, his shirt blatant and white down the length of his chest.
She used both hands to hold the knife. She drove it into that white, into his belly, up under the breastbone and almost cried out with the triumph of it.
She had been taught to use the knife at the great marketplace at Les Halles, stabbing again and again into a great slab of hanging beef. She thought, His belly is softer than a side of beef.
A sickening intimacy joined her with Antoine Drieu. He shocked and shuddered against her body. It was as bad as copulation—hot and bestial. His damp clothes and his horrible hot breath smothered her face.
Hawker was beside her, at her shoulder, doing exactly what needed to be done. His hand closed over the man’s mouth, keeping the cry and gurgle inside. His thigh, his foot, cushioned the valise as it fell. Knocked the lantern onto the crumpled jacket, keeping it quiet.
She held the hilt of the knife. Blood seeped warm and sticky onto her hands.
They supported the body upright while it struggled and died. Till it became only an ugly, huge weight.
Antoine Drieu was dead. She had dreamed of this a hundred times. She had schemed this. Planned to go to Lyon, undetected, and somehow murder him.
She had killed a French agent. If they find out, I am dead.
Her skin tightened to goose bumps. Her stomach heaved. She was filled with terror and relief and lightness and a kind of horrible joy.
One less. One less, of the men who had me in the brothel.
It was a shock when Hawker elbowed her impatiently. He said, “Leave the knife in,” using no breath at all. No sound. “Bring everything.”
He took Drieu’s body against his shoulder. Bent halfway over, balancing the weight. Lifted it across his back. He was very strong, Hawker. She had not exactly realized that.
The lantern had fallen to its side, but the candle had not gone out. She found drops of blood splattered on the doorstep and smeared dirt across them. All would be brown and unrecognizable by daylight. There was surprisingly little blood anyway. It seemed one must leave the knife in the wound. Now she knew.
The lantern, coat, bag. She closed the door with exquisite silence. Followed Hawker and the ghastly load he carried. They both perfectly understood that the body must not be found in the courtyard. The Cachés must not be connected to this murder. She must not be. Even the British must not be connected.
Hawker stopped and turned with the body so she could plunder the corpse for a key. It was in the vest pocket. Her hands were weak and shaking. She could scarcely draw it forth and fit it in the lock. The huge gate swung out to let them through, making no noise about it. She slitted the door of the lantern to show only a small, secret, unobserved light upon the ground, picked up the valise, and stepped out into Rue de la Planche. She pushed the gate closed behind her with her shoulder.
The houses along the street were dark and silent. To the left, fifty feet away, candlelight slanted through a gap in the shutters of a second-floor window. Citoyen Pax stood in the street, square in that patch of light, showing himself in a manner that must be deliberate.
He beckoned. A small figure emerged from the alley that ran beside the Coach House wall, raced past him, across the road, and hid in the long range of shadow on the other side. One could barely see others already there, two or three of them in a line, still as rocks.
Hawker headed in the other direction. He was a dozen paces ahead, so she followed quickly. Where the road curved, just where they could still see the Coach House, he stopped to lean his burden against the wall. He scowled out from under a lolling head and arm.
Her heart beat, fast as a shrill little drum. She would not show Hawker her fear. She would not. “We will stay here a minute. I must wait till the Cachés are free.”
“Right. We’ll stand here gaping in the street for a bit.” He was annoyed. “Where are your friends?”
“My colleagues are not seen until they wish to be seen.” Hawker was glaring at her with many accusations, so she said, “I had to kill him. There was no choice whatsoever.”