“Where are we going?”
“At least threetrabouleslead to the quay. Our prey will slip through one and vanish before Picard reaches the river.”
“Traboules?” Tennant said, hurrying to keep pace, wincing when his boot twisted on an uneven cobble.
Duclos smiled. “Hidden passageways connecting streets. Shortcuts known to every Lyonnaise in a hurry. Lyon is like a honeycomb riddled with them.”
As they exited the plaza, Duclos and his officers broke into a run.Local knowledge, Tennant thought, scrambling after them.Trust it every time.
At the river, Duclos turned right. He pointed to an oak door that looked like an entrance to a house. “We will remain here. My officers will cover the other two exits. The wait won’t be long.”
Duclos was right. Tennant pulled back as the heavy door swung open. Jacques Morin emerged and turned right, straight into the grasp of the French sergeant. Romilly turned left and spotted Tennant. The man spun and darted back into the dim, curving tunnel.
Tennant entered the maw of his nightmares. The dark stone corridor swallowed him, and invisible bands tightened around his chest. He reached for his revolver and followed the sounds of pounding boot leather. When the tunnel turned left, Tennant stopped. He was about to round the corner when Romilly darted out of the darkness. He lunged at Tennant, his knife slashing the inspector’s upper left arm. Romilly struck again. This time, Tennant parried the thrust and felt the searing pain of a defensive wound slice across his right hand. But he kept his grip on his revolver, and when Romilly came at him a third time, Tennant fired.
The shot cracked like a hammer against granite, but Tennant hadn’t missed at that close range. Edgar Romilly staggered and collapsed on his back, a crimson stain spreading across his white shirtfront.
Tennant fell against the tunnel wall. His gun slipped, clattering across the stone floor. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped his hand, securing the makeshift bandage as tightly as he could manage. Then he watched the red patch bloom.
Two days later, Tennant was back in Paris, walking along the right bank of the Seine, his right hand bandaged and his arm in a sling. He headed for a meeting set up by Jules Picard.
Was the pursuit worth it? Tennant hadn’t intended to become Romilly’s executioner; others with powerful friends were beyond his reach, never to be held to account. Tennant would leave for England the following morning to resume his life. But what would that mean?
Tennant stopped at the entrance to the Invalides Bridge and leaned against the balustrade, propping himself on his left forearm. On that late Sunday afternoon, Paris was a study in December gray: the sky, the leafless willows, and the pewter surface of the Seine looked like a pencil sketch. Even the golden dome over Napoleon’s tomb had lost its luster.
Julia… They’d met just over a year ago.Is that all it is?He looked from the bridge into the dark Seine. The memory rushed back: the cold shock of the canal water, reaching for her, and how close Julia came to drowning. After empty nights in Paris, he understood more deeply what her loss would have meant to him. He’d walked the boulevards as a stranger, passing café tables, watching couples lean in, laugh, and smile at a lingering caress.
But what had he done in London all those months ago? Tennant remembered that, too. He’d left without saying goodbye, dashing off a short note in Kent before sailing for France. Julia’s first letter was decidedly cool. The last was warmer. More cheerful.Friendly, damn it. Well, what did I expect?But the silencehad stretched well beyond a month. Tennant pushed away from the balustrade and turned his back on the river.Christ,he thought. Paris was the worst place in the world to be alone and longing for someone. There was nothing to do but return to London and pick up the threads.
Dropping things and picking them up again—or not—had come easy to him before he met Julia. Part of it was temperament; some of it was circumstance. Unlike Julia, Tennant hadn’t grown up in a loving family. And a broken engagement had walled him off for a while. Later, after he’d changed careers, he’d lost touch with army friends. Two he’d left behind in Crimean graves. His colleagues at Scotland Yard regarded him with suspicion. He was a “toff,” not one of the lads. And to make matters worse, he was the commissioner’s godson. The old boy network damned him in their eyes. In fairness, he’d made little effort to change their opinion.
Tennant pulled out his pocket watch. He crossed the bridge and waited near the left bank entrance. What did a General Staff officer in the French Army want with him? The usually communicative Jules Picard had shrugged in a way that might have meant anything from “I haven’t a clue” to “Don’t ask.”
After a ten-minute wait, a scarlet-tasseled peacock—his midnight blue uniform crisscrossed in gold brocade—strode toward him, brilliant in the city’s monochrome twilight. He spotted Tennant, shifted a hinged leather case to his left hand, and extended his right.
“Ah,” Colonel Chabert said, withdrawing it when Tennant raised his bandaged fist. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting. You return to London immediately. It is true?”
“I take the train to Calais tomorrow morning.”
“If you will be so good, it is the wish of the General Staff that you deliver this case to Sir Richard Mayne at Scotland Yard.” He passed it to Tennant. “Here is the key.”
Tennant pocketed it. “May I know the contents?”
“Intelligence gathered about the Irish Republican Brotherhood.”
“The Fenians?” Tennant said. “What is the French government’s interest in Irish independence?”
“We recovered the bulk of our rifles from the Lyon warehouse, but a thousand are missing. An informant tells us that Romilly sold them to a ‘man in square-toed boots.’ An Irishman.”
“The guns are heading for Ireland?”
“England. We believe they are steaming toward Southampton. We want our rifles back. In return, the case in your hand includes lists of names; prominent among them is Patrick McGrath. He moves between Ireland, England, and France like a phantom.”
“And McGrath is …”
“The agent who bought the guns. The documents in the case provide information about American funding for the Irish Republican Brotherhood and the Fenian plans to—”
“Overthrow British authority in Ireland?” Tennant shook his head. “It’s been tried, and it’s failed many times.”
