The Dreeson Incident(37)

Delerue shook his head. "As for Rohan, pah! He is a weakling and Richelieu's lackey. I have written a new pamphlet explaining it all. I will be sending the manuscript to Mauger by the next packet so he can arrange to have it printed."



Abraham Levasseur focused his eyes on Tourneau. "There is no possible treaty between the Swede and France that we could describe as satisfactory. Not so much because the Swede is the Great Satan—that is what the dévots, Père Joseph's Catholic fanatics in France, are calling him. So we must not. But—"



Delerue intervened again. "But because peace in France, any peace on any terms, means that Richelieu will get a second chance to entrench his rule. Even if Stearns prevails on Gustav Adolf to offer France more lenient terms, we will be opposed."





"What we need," Ducos announced a few hours later, "is a coordinated operation. Europe-wide. One that will backlash on Richelieu, since everyone will blame him for it."



"That's going to take money."



"In that matter, at least, Guillaume has shown himself to be effective. Our treasury is refilling rapidly."



"Other than persuading wealthy men to contribute, by whatever means, what can he do though? In Frankfurt, that is?"



"I will tell him what to do."



Enough time had passed since Ducos first read Locquifier's letters that he had managed to interpret them to his own satisfaction. "Guillaume has demonstrated his unswerving loyalty by adhering faithfully to the orders I gave him before we left. He should be rewarded for this, not condemned. I shall appoint him as my coordinator for all actions within the United States of Europe."



"Guillaume?" Tourneau emitted a disbelieving hiss, half under his breath.



Ducos heard it. "Unquestioning obedience, especially when it goes contrary to a man's own instincts, is a rare quality. It should be rewarded."



Tourneau glanced at Delerue, but saw that Antoine was not inclined to dispute the point with Michel.



So, he nodded. What else could he do?



"Antoine."



"Yes, Michel?"



"You must write to Guillaume. You must explain to him that while his decision concerning the Dreeson woman and the Stone boys was correct, we must conduct another assassination. Several assassinations, probably."



Delerue scratched notes on the back of Locquifier's second letter.



Ducos kept talking. "But they must be major actions, of true political significance, designed in such a way that Richelieu will be blamed for them. Assassinations that will destroy any prospect for peace. A wave of assassinations, flooding across the map of Europe. No. Wait. Stop. Scratch that out. One massive assassination.



"Assure him that he and the other men in Frankfurt will play a major role in regard to the portion of our great plan that will unfold in the United States of Europe. They will have the honor of planning and carrying out the deaths of Michael Stearns and Rebecca Abrabanel."



He paused a moment. "And of Gustavus Adolphus and Princess Kristina." He paused again. "And of Wilhelm Wettin. All on the same day, for maximum effect. In Magdeburg, the so-called 'imperial capital.' In front of one of the spectacular, if as yet unfinished, new buildings. There is no reason for us to carry out picayune little actions against people who are, in the great picture, insignificant. As for the Stones . . . Yes, in Rome, they did us a great disservice. But their time will come. After we have achieved our greater goals."



Tourneau cleared his throat. "That's very . . . ambitious, Michel."



Fortunately, Ducos interpreted the comment as a compliment. And, unfortunately, Antoine was still not inclined to dispute the matter. Not for the first time in the history of their organization, Michel Ducos' force of personality would drive a decision that was perhaps not wise on its own merits.





Delerue sent his letter containing Ducos' instructions out on the next packet boat to the Netherlands. It would take some time, even with the most favorable weather. To Laurent Mauger in Haarlem, then to Isaac de Ron at the inn Zum Weissen Schwan the next time Mauger had cause to travel to Frankfurt, for they had given de Ron the strictest orders not to trust the postal system. De Ron would turn them over to Locquifier.



De Ron was a reliable man. Laurent Mauger was also reliable, he supposed. But, at the very least, not over-curious. That in itself was a virtue.





Haarlem, Netherlands


Laurent Mauger surveyed his warehouse with pride.



Excusable pride, he thought. He had built a business that supported his entire family. Supported it well. Not to mention, employed most of it.



His sons were learning the business. Barendt and Jan Willem, the only survivors of the nine children born to his late wife. Barendt was twenty-two already. Time flew. He'd need to start looking for a wife pretty soon. Jan Willem at eighteen could afford to wait a few more years before worrying about such weighty matters.