Crusaders in Hell

BY INVITATION ONLY Nancy Asire

Light spilled down the stairs leading to Louis XIV's palace. Napoleon helped Marie from the big Mercedes and tried to erase (he frown he knew he had worn during the entire ride across Decentral Park. Narrow face touched by just a hint of a smile, Wellington stepped back from the driver's side of the car so the valet could' park it.

Napoleon straightened his uniform, tugged at the collar and mightily wished himself elsewhere.

Damn Wellington anyway. Probably enjoying himself. Here we are, going to this damnable party or whatever it is Louis throws in his place, playing spy and courier for Caesar, and he's enjoying it.

A quick glance at Marie: she looked beautiful tonight, yet her eyes told him she knew this outing was more than it seemed. Napoleon cursed under his breath-her presence would make it easier to explain why he had come to a party, but he disliked exposing her to possible danger.

Before the valet drove off, Wellington took a quick look into the outside rear-view mirror, set his cocked hat at a different angle, and adjusted his cravat. Napoleon sighed.

"That's the fifth time you've looked at yourself since we left, Wellington. I don't think anything's out of place."

Wellington snorted. "You're upset because you had to dress up, that's all."

"Damned right I'm upset about it. I hate dressing up, I hate parties, and--"

He shrugged. "Oh, well. It can't last forever."

"One hopes." Wellington motioned to the stairs. "Shall we?"

Napoleon offered Marie his arm and walked up the steps beside Wellington. A simple in and out. You'll have a string on you all the way. Mouse says. All very smooth. Huhn.

Damned Romans! It'd better be.

The entry hall was a sea of brilliant uniforms, gowns, and jewels. As the valet took his and Wellington's hats and Mane's shawl. Napoleon glanced around, seeking familiar faces. He had little to do with those who frequented Louis' parties, even less with those who turned up at a God-forsaken ball.

Dilettantes, all of them! All he asked was to be let alone on his side of the park. He bothered no one and expected the same in return. But the game had changed.

To say nothing of the rules.

Louis' chamberlain glided across the marble floor, some trick since he was wearing three-inch high heels. His elaborate wig was redolent with perfume.

Napoleon frowned and Wellington sneezed.

"Shall I announce you now, majeste?"

Napoleon nodded briefly, put on a smile for Marie's sake, and shot a glance in Wellington's direction. In and out, Wellington. No loitering.

The chamberlain stepped up to the doorway leading to the huge ballroom and rapped his staff three times on the floor. "His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor Napoleon. The Countess Mane Walewska. His Grace, the Duke of Wellington."

Heads turned as those already present stared in their direction. Napoleon tried to remember the last party he had been to and gave up. It had been years, at least. If nothing else, his being here would be the topic of conversation for days to come. He shrugged, sighed quietly, and walked into the even brighter room beyond.

"I must say," Wellington murmured at Napoleon's elbow, "you do look smashing tonight. It's the new uniform, don't you think? Aren't you glad I talked you into wearing it?"

"I'll get you for this, Wellington."

"Now, now."

A tall, ruddy-faced man dressed in a Prussian uniform approached them.

Napoleon sought the fellow's name, but could not conjure up much more than Fritz. "Kaiser." The man bowed formally. "It's been a long time since you've been seen at a grand ball."

Napoleon forced a smile, "That's true. You've not met Marie, have you?"

"Your servant," the Prussian said, bowing and clicking his heels. He gestured to the end of the cavernous room. "Wine, champagne, and hors d'oeuvres are down there. Try some of the caviar.

It's quite good."

"Thanks." Napoleon nodded slightly, took Marie's hand, and started the interminable drift toward the refreshments.

Wellington caught up not more than halfway down the room. "Interesting," he said in a hushed voice. "To your left."

Napoleon glanced in that direction. Several Arabs stood clustered against the wall, their white robes brilliant in the lamplight. Arabs at the Sun King's ball? Interesting, indeed.

"Drift, Wellington, drift. See if you can pick up anything. You're far better at this inconsequential chitchat than I am."

Wellington lifted one eyebrow. "If I didn't know better, I'd consider myself insulted."

Napoleon glowered.

"I'm going. Save some hors d'oeuvres for me."

And Wellington walked off across the mirror-like marble floor, nodding to various people he passed. Napoleon shifted his shoulders in his new uniform jacket and ignored the urge to scratch.

"You may hate dressing up," Marie said, her blue eyes twinkling in the lamplight, "but I agree with Wellington. You look wonderful."

"Damn fool thing itches like hell," Napoleon growled, scanning the refreshment table and its various culinary delights.

"Maybe if you washed it again--"

"Again? I washed it six times. Any more and it'll fade." He reached out for a cracker loaded down with some sort of cheese. "Have one, Marie. We may not get to eat for a while."

Something flickered behind her eyes, again telling him she was aware this was not a normal social call. Napoleon frowned and glanced off across the ballroom. Wellington had accepted the news that Augustus and Caesar wanted "observational" help from across the Park in return for continued retirement.

After all, he had said, one has to know which side one's bread is buttered on.

And Marie?

As of now, she knew nothing, or at least that was Napoleon's fervent hope.

With any kind of luck, a commodity usually lacking in Hell, the evening would pass without him having to tell her more than he thought she should know.

He chewed on his lower lip, remembered to keep his expression bland, and looked at the crowd. He was Caesar's friend, not Wellington, not Marie. He it was who should have come to this ball unaccompanied, keeping those he was fond of uninvolved. Yet here the three of them were, waiting for a contact from someone in this room--anyone--and the transfer of certain highly dangerous papers.

Who was their contact?

Where was Attila?

Round One was drawing to a close.

Wellington glanced over his shoulder as he moved in and out of the crowd, exchanging greetings and idle words; Marie and Napoleon still stood by the refreshment table. Napoleon truly looked Napoleonic tonight-bottle-green uniform coat with gold epaulettes, white pants, black boots.

But the frown on the emperor's face told everything.

Napoleon was, to put it lightly, pissed off. When Napoleon had said he had accepted Augustus' and Caesar's protection for them both in exchange for future favors, Wellington had thought it an excellent move. He could sense the shifting in the balance of power that seethed in and around New Hell. Allies, in such situations, were invaluable--especially powerful allies.

Wellington stopped at the edge of a group of people and listened, all the while looking suitably bored. There was a way to these things: information was best gathered if one seemed disinterested by everything one heard.

And then a name. One of the names Napoleon had whispered to him before the party.

Che.

"--heard he's taken the Trip again."

"Oh?" A portly gentleman, straight out of Louis' century and wearing enough lace to start a shop, looked at the woman who had spoken. "I heard differently. He's back with the Dissidents again."

"That may be true, but he had to come through Reassignments to get there."

"Ah, mais non!' An aesthetic face above cardinal's red smiled slightly. "Not necessarily. One can escape before that"

Wellington stared. The man who had just spoken had been hidden by the others in the group, his churchly robes out of place amidst this secular splendor.

Riche-lieu! The Cardinal stroked the surly-looking gray cat he held in his arms, murmured something to it, then looked up.

"Surely he had help," said the man in lace.

"Perhaps." Richelieu smiled enigmatically. "Perhaps not."

Wellington moved on, keenly aware his time of anonymous eavesdropping was over. Che. Now that was news of a sort. Taken the Trip. Wellington shuddered, trying not to remember his own experience with the Undertaker. But the lace-clad man had said Che was back with the Dissidents. As tightly guarded as the Undertaker's level was, Wellington found it hard to believe Che had not had help.

"Ah, Wellington!"

The Iron Duke froze and glanced in the direction of the voice. Who did he know who would be at Louis' party? The guests were mostly French and, bygones be bygones, after Waterloo, Wellington had hardly been popular with the French.

A man dressed in bourgeois finery came to Wellington's side, his pear-shaped face flushed with excitement. Louis-Phillipe. The Citizen King.

"I haven't seen you in years," Louis-Phillipe said.

"Where are you living now? Still the penthouse uptown?"

"No, actually. I've moved. The opposite side of the park." Wellington motioned vaguely in that direction. "Do you know the news?" Wellington lifted an eyebrow; Louis-Phillipe was a gossip and a treasure store of who was doing what to whom. "What news?"

"J. Edgar Hoover's been moved out of the Undertaker's. Got caught smuggling drugs in the cadavers or something like that." "Oh." Wellington lost interest. "Bully for him. Can't say that I ever had anything to do with the man."

"And this is even juicier." The Citizen King glanced around and, satisfied there was no one within earshot, murmured, "You heard Che took the Trip?"

Wellington put on his most bored expression. "Old. news, I'm afraid."

"Ah, but did you hear that he's back with the Dissidents again? And that somebody tweeked the Master Computer to send him there?"

Tweeked the Computer? Wellington rubbed the end of his nose to hide his expression. "No," he drawled, "can't say that I'd heard that."

"You are out of touch then. Everyone's been talking about it."

"Oh, well. We don't get much news on my side of the Park. Bather refreshing."

"And what about Tigellinus? Surely you know he's up for appointment to a cabinet-level position? That Tiberius is backing him?"

Wellington's heart lurched. Louis-Phillipe was proving himself a gold mine again. Tigellinus. The second of Napoleon's names.' The second, and possibly the most deadly.

"Now that is interesting," Wellington commented in a slightly bored voice. "Do you think hell get it?" Louis-Phillipe shrugged. "I just hear things. Wellington. I don't decide them."

A servant threaded his way through the growing crowd, carrying a silver tray on which lay a number of hors d'oeuvres. Wellington nodded toward the servant.

"Something to eat, Louis?"

"Ah, why not." The King gestured grandly. "Over here, fellow."

The servant turned, came to their sides, and bowed. Wellington looked over the assortment of hors d'ouvres, while Louis-Phillipe snatched up the two largish crackers heaped with cheese and some kind of cold meat.

"If I may suggest. Your Grace," the servant said, "do try that pizza roll closest to you. It's excellent."

Wellington glanced quickly to the servant's face, then down again. Your Grace, is it? And where do I know you from, man? He took the pizza roll; the servant smiled slightly, bowed, and walked off into the crowd. Louis-Phillipe brushed the crumbs from his lips. "What have you got there?"

"Pizza roll." Wellington popped it into his mouth and bit down. And nearly choked.

"Wellington? Are you all right?"

A piece of paper in a pizza roll? Surely not-- Wellington shoved the strip of paper between his cheek and gum with his tongue and swallowed the rest.

"I'm fine. He straightened. "Well, Louis, I must be off. I'm sure we'll bump into each other again tonight. There are others here I d like to talk to, I'm sure."

"Keep your ears open, Wellington. You might hear something even I haven't."

Wellington nodded, tongued the piece of paper gently, and walked back toward the refreshment table where he had left Napoleon and Marie.

Napoleon stood behind a particularly bushy potted palm, Marie at his side; it was the perfect place to escape from others. He peered out from behind the fronds: Wellington was headed their way,' and from the expression on the Iron Duke's face, something with a capital "S" had happened.

Napoleon's shoulders tensed, but he waited until Wellington drew near.

"Sssst! Over here!"

Wellington paused, glanced around as if utterly bored, then slipped in behind the palm.

Napoleon stared at him, trying to judge just how much he could say in front of Marie.

"Find out anything interesting?" he asked, watching Marie from the comer of one eye. Her face was puzzled, nothing more. His heart ached with longing-longing to open himself to her, to tell her everything he knew and suspected.

"Uh ... interesting? You might say so." Wellington glanced at Marie and his ears turned red.

"Your pardon, my Lady," he said, and reached into his mouth to take out a small piece of paper.

Napoleon drew a quick breath. "What the hell's that? And where'd you get it?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea what it is, and I got it out of a pizza roll."

"Well unfold it, for God's sake," Napoleon said, leaning forward to see. "That can't be what we're looking for."

Wellington unfolded the soggy piece of paper. There, written in pencil (thank God) was the word BATHRUM."

"Bathroom?" Wellington guessed, his forehead furrowed.

Napoleon rubbed his chin. "That's what it looks like. Now what does that have to do with--" A sudden lurch of his heart. Whoever had written the note could not spell in English. And that could only mean... "Wellington. There's a bathroom on this floor, isn't there?"

"Through that other room, behind the refreshment table."

"Napoleon--"

He winced. He had heard that tone in Marie's voice before.

"Marie," he said, taking her hands in his own. He met her eyes, saw the questions there, and swallowed. "Trust me, Marie. You don't want to know. Believe me, you don't."

"I think I do," she said calmly. "I've known you too many years not to read you right, and if I'm not mistaken, you and Wellington are up to your ears in something dangerous."

"Well..."

"Napoleon." She leaned forward and her voice fell to a whisper. "You asked me to trust you. Can't you trust me?"

"Dieu! Don't, Marie, don't make me tell you. If you know, you'll be in danger, too."

"And when haven't I asked to share your danger?"

He squeezed her hands and tried to smile. "Never. I know that. But--"

She stood there, waiting for his answer, and his throat tightened. Whose plant was she? Who had arranged for them to meet after so long? Augustus? The Administration? The Dissidents? He shuddered slightly. Did it go even beyond that: was she a plant within a plant? Or was she a plant at all?"

"All right, Marie," he said quietly, dropping her hands. "Things are changing in Hell. I'm sure you've noticed. To put it simply, to ensure our own protection, Wellington and I have agreed to work for--certain Romans on this side of the Park." Her eyes flickered with sudden understanding and he plunged on. "It's not supposed to be dangerous, but--" He shrugged. "You know Hell. Things are seldom what they seem."

"Now it begins to make more sense. I didn't think there was any power save duty that could make you come to an event like this ball." She drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. "What can I do to help?"

Napoleon held her eyes, all his doubts and fears poised on the edge of reason.

The moment came and passed, and his decision was made.

"Right now, Marie, I want you to stay here, out of sight and quiet. Wellington and I are going to the bathroom. If anyone asks for us, try to keep them occupied for a while."

"How long will you be in there?"

Napoleon glanced at Wellington and shrugged. "God only knows. It shouldn't be all that long."

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Be careful, Marie."

"Me? You and Wellington are the ones to take care."

"Oh, come now. my Lady," Wellington said lightly, "how much trouble can one get into in a bathroom?"

Normal coloring was returning to Marie's too-pale face. She smiled, reached for Napoleon's hand and held it briefly. "Knowing the two of you, quite a bit."

The only problem with Louis' guest bathroom was that the men's room contained just two stalls.

A line had already formed outside the door; five men stood leaning against the wall, looks of patient suffering on their faces.

Napoleon tugged at Wellington's sleeve and came to a dead stop across the room from the one.

"We're in trouble now. It'll take some time to get everyone in and out."

Wellington shrugged. "Not much we can do about it."

"Huhn." Napoleon glanced up at his companion. "How sick do you think you can look?"

"What?"

"Sick, Wellington. How sick can you--?"

"Oh. Fairly sick, I should think. I'll have to work up to it."

"Hurry, then."

Wellington turned away and walked to the corner of the room. Napoleon resisted the urge to watch and instead stared at the five men who by now had begun to shift uncomfortably on their feet

"Napoleon."

It was Wellington's voice, sounding thin and strained. Napoleon turned as Wellington walked unsteadily toward him, and smiled slightly. The Iron Duke's face was now a pasty white, the dark eyes looking even darker against the pale skin.

"God, Wellington, you look awful!" Napoleon said as he took Wellington's arm.

"Is it something you ate?"

"Pizza roll," Wellington moaned. "Damned thing!"

Napoleon glanced at the five men who were now watching, their own discomfort momentarily forgotten. "Could you give us some help? My friend's eaten something that's made him sick."

"Uh ... there's already two follows--"

"I know." Napoleon led Wellington toward the door. "See if you can hurry things up, will you? I doubt Louis would like his carpet messed up."

"There is another bathroom upstairs," a second man said. "Why don't you--"

"Why don't you!" Napoleon snapped. "Can't you see Wellington's sicker than a dog?"

The first man rapped loudly on the door. "Hurry up in there! We've got someone out here who's sick!" One toilet flushed, followed immediately by the other.

Wellington moaned dramatically as two bewigged men walked out of the bathroom, both looking extremely put out. Those waiting in line whistled and clapped as they walked by, one calling out a lewd proposition.

"Come on, Wellington. You'll feel better in a while." Napoleon gestured to one of the men who pulled the door open. "Take it slow, Wellington. You'll make it." And over his shoulder:

"Thanks. We may be a while."

"Damn!" the man at the rear of the line said. "I'm going upstairs."

He turned and walked back toward the ballroom, immediately followed by the other four. Napoleon led Wellington into the bathroom, and waited silently as the door shut behind them.

A grin spread across Wellington's narrow face. "How'd I do?"

"Damned fine. You even had me fooled." Napoleon glanced quickly around the bathroom, looking for any hint of a contact.

"Now what? The note said bathroom. Well, we're here."

Napoleon spotted a high window at the far end of the bathroom. If he had his directions straight, it overlooked the garden behind the palace.

"You're tallest. Get over to that window and see what you can see. I'll guard the door."

Wellington nodded; Napoleon turned back to the door, grabbed hold of the doorknob with both hands, and braced himself for any incoming traffic.

"What am I supposed to be looking for?" Wellington asked, his voice muffled.

"How the hell should I know? Anything odd."

"Anything odd. Huhn. That means everything around-Hello! What's this?"

"What's what?" The doorknob jerked and Napoleon threw his weight backward, holding onto the door. "Hurry, Wellington. We're getting company."

"Someone's out in the bushes, I can't see who-They've got a flashlight. Damn! It's code. Napoleon, Two long flashes, followed by one short."

"Hey! Op'n up in there!" a furious voice bellowed on the other side of the door.

"Go away!" Napoleon yelled back. "My friend's sick in here! You want the flu or something?"

He glanced over his shoulder as the door jerked again. "Two long, one short?" he whispered to Wellington. "That's Attila! He's telling us everything's set up outside. He'll cover us when we leave."

"There's more."

"Dammit!" the voice on the other side of the door roared." 'M drunk on m'ass an' you--"

"Then use the bushes outside!" Napoleon looked back at Wellington. "What is it?"

"Three short, two long."

"O God! Our shy contact wants to transfer the papers now." The door jerked again. "The light switch, Wellington! Blink the lights off and on twice."

Wellington hurried to the light switch while the drunk outside kept pulling at the door, cursing at the top of his lungs. The lights in the bathroom flickered twice.

"Good job. Let's get out of here."

"My God, Napoleon ... how our reputations will suffer!"

Napoleon grinned and let loose of the doorknob: the door flew open--the angry drunk yelled an obscenity and fell flat on his back.

"Come on, Wellington. Some fresh air ought to do you good." Napoleon stepped over the drunk, Wellington right behind. "If we can get by the riff-raff."

Once again. Mane's hand in his own. Napoleon drifted in and out of the crowd on the ballroom floor. She had come out from behind the potted palm, her eyes troubled, but the smile she wore would have disarmed anyone. Napoleon glanced sidelong at Wellington, who had contrived to still look a bit unwell, and shrugged slightly. If the exchange of papers was to take place soon, it would be before the ball began. The orchestra had not come to its box yet, and the guests were still eating, drinking, and talking.

Several people stopped him and Mane, but Napoleon kept his exchanges with them brief and to the point. No sense in falling out of character now. To act like he was enjoying himself (which he was not) would do harm to future appearances. Wellington nudged his side and Napoleon looked to his right. The

Arabs again. Only this time there was a blond-headed man with them, clad in the same white robes. Napoleon recognised him: T.E. Shaw (a/k/a Ross), best known as Lawrence of Arabia.

He thought Lawrence and his companions eyed him. with more than usual curiosity, but he had had little to do with the modern sort of Arab.

Egyptians he understood, to a certain extent-at least those he had known during the Egyptian campaign in 1798. But that was decades before the Middle East crises that rocked the world in the mid-1960s and after. He looked away from the Arabs, for some reason uneasy.

"Where the hell's our contact?" he whispered to Wellington. "We've been walking around in circles for ten minutes now."

"Why don't we head over there?" Wellington suggested, pointing with his chin to an extremely crowded section of the ballroom.

Napoleon sighed. "I don't know how much more of this I can take. If I have to tell one more person why I'm at a party, I'll strangle them." Suddenly it hit him. "I get you. The more crowded it is, the better chance of a transfer."

Wellington grinned. "You would have never made a spy. You're too damned direct."

"Huhn. Now you, on the other hand, seem to have missed your calling."

As they approached the thick crowd, Napoleon could catch a glimpse of what it was that had drawn the guests to this corner of the room. Richelieu's cat had gotten away from its master and was darting in and out from under the chairs along the wall as the Cardinal followed, trying to coax it out again.

Richelieu was enamoured of eats and always had several near him, but that made no difference now. Just whenever he got within grabbing distance, the cat dashed off again.

Napoleon grimaced. He still was not all that fond of cats, but had outgrown his Corsican superstitions long ago, and had been known to pick up strays himself. But this cat-gray, surly, and mightily pleased with itself looked like the devil incarnate.

Reaching the end of its patience with sitting under chairs, the cat made a mad dash toward the crowd. Laughing and calling out advice, the guests backed off, giving the Cardinal more space. A big fellow dressed in court clothes bumped into Napoleon, nearly knocking him off his feet.

"Oh, so sorry. How clumsy of me." Hard, capable hands reached out to offer assistance. "Are you all right?"

"I seem to be," Napoleon murmured. The guests were laughing again, even louder than before, jostling one another to get a better view.

"Here ... you dropped this," the big man said, and shoved two thick folded pieces of paper into Napoleon's hands. Dark Arab eyes glittered in a swarthy, hook-nosed face. "Good luck," the man whispered, then turned and shoved his way through the crowd.

Napoleon stood frozen for a moment, his hand trembling on the papers. No one was paying him the slightest attention. 0 God! This is it! He folded the papers once again, careless of what that might do to the contents, and shoved them under his vest. Drawing a deep breath, be looked around.

Mane was watching him, a small frown on her face, but Wellington was caught up by the cat chase and was laughing with the others. Napoleon reached for Mane's hand, nodded back toward the entry hall, and poked Wellington in the side.

"I thought you weren't feeling well," he said pointedly. "Don't you think you'd better go home and get some rest?"

"Uh...yes," Wellington answered, flushing slightly. "Jolly good idea."

"I think the evening's done for all of us. - Napoleon cocked an eye up at the Iron Duke. "If you know what I mean."

Wellington's eyes took on a wary expression. Do you-?"

"Yes."

"I see. Let's go."

Leading Marie by the hand. Napoleon followed Wellington across the ballroom, the transferred papers crinkling against his shirt with every movement. So for, so good. No one spared them much more than a curious glance. A clean getaway proved to be in the offing. Until his eyes met those of a toga-clad man who stood, backed by several burly fellows, next to the doorway leading to the entry hall. Ice was in those eyes-ice and an intelligent animal cunning.

Napoleon's heart lurched.

Tigellinus!

And the woman on his arm, clad in a gown that exposed more than it covered: she was equally dangerous. If he knew anything at all about Romans (and he did know a considerable amount). Napoleon recognized her for none other than Claudius' third wife, Valeria Messalina.

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.

Wellington swerved the car again, more shots rang out, and Napoleon lost his balance. He reached behind, caught himself on the dashboard, his hand pressed firmly on a large flat button beneath it.

"God, Napoleon!" Wellington yelled. "What did you do?"

"What did I do what?" Napoleon answered, shoving himself away from the dashboard.

"Look behind!"

Napoleon looked. The car following immediately to the rear was fishtailing back and. forth on the street as if floating on ice; It veered off to one side, straightened, then turned completely around.

"Oil! You hit the release for oil!" Wellington crowed.

The other car just managed to avoid running into the first, but in doing so skidded off the road and into the brush by the edge of the Park. A volley of shots came from the darkened undergrowth.

"The Cong!" Napoleon whispered. "Damn! The Cong have got them!"

"Bully for them!" Wellington replied. "The other fellow's got his car under control now."

"How dose are we to where we're to make the drop?"

"A few more turns of the road."

The car behind was gaining speed again. Napoleon flipped the safety off the Uzi, and gently leaned out the window.

"For God's sake. Napoleon, be careful!" Marie said.

"Huhn." He braced his knees against the seatback and the door, hoped it was locked tightly, and tried to get a good aim.

Wellington swerved violently as shots came from the pursuing-car. Thrown off balance again. Napoleon squeezed off a round into the night.

"Shit, Wellington! Let's not overdo it!"

Wellington cursed, "The devil with the drop spot! I'm headed for the armory!"

And possible Roman assistance. Napoleon remembered his own trip there, clad in the khaki uniform of a legionary. It was not much farther to the armory and, if Attila had not been seriously hurt, he should have gotten a message through that events had deteriorated beyond control.

Wellington turned the car sharply to the right, skidded on gravel, and sped down the armory parking lot. Napoleon leaned out the window again, the Uzi steady in his hands, as the pursuing car followed, its occupants shooting as they came.

"Merde!" Napoleon jerked back inside. "That was too damned close for comfort.

I heard the bullets go by my ear." He reached behind and pushed on the large button again.

Nothing happened. The, oil was obviously used up.

And just as Wellington took another quick turn down between a wide row of parked vehicles, a large truck rolled out of the night behind the Mercedes.

The car following slammed on its brakes, skidded and plowed head-on into the truck.

The explosion that followed shook the Mercedes. Napoleon ducked, pushed Wellington's head down, and thought briefly of Marie, squashed on the seat.

Easing on the brakes, Wellington brought the car to a halt.

The glare of flames lit up the parking lot and something exploded again, showering burning pieces of metal in all directions. One clunked off the roof of the Mercedes and rattled into the darkness.

"My God!" Wellington breathed, looking over his shoulder. "That truck -- it must have been filled with explosives."

Napoleon nodded, turned around in his seat, -and reached down for Marie.

"Are you all right?" he asked, snapping the safety on the Uzi and slipping it back under the seat.

"I think so." Her hair was mussed, her face drawn, but she tried to smile.

"O God, Marie." Napoleon hugged her tight.

"Napoleon." Wellington touched his shoulder. "We're getting company."

He lifted his head and looked: a jeep drove toward them around the burning truck and car, garishly limned against the hellish background. The occupants were faceless, but Napoleon thought he knew the stocky man sitting next to the driver.

"It's Attila. I'd recognize that set of shoulders anywhere."

He let go of Marie, smoothed her hair back from her eyes, and opened the door.

His knees were shaking but they steadied as he stood up. Wellington had gotten out of the other side of the car and stood with his hands behind his back, the .45 held ready just in case.

The jeep stopped with a squeal of brakes and Attila jumped out.

"By the Sky, Napoleon!" he grinned, striding forward. He slapped Napoleon's shoulder. "That was some chase!"

Napoleon felt relieved that he had left his gun in the car: the temptation might have been too strong.

"Where were you?" he grated.

"Some fool sneaked up on me in the dark," Attila said, rubbing the back of his head. "Nearly brained me, he did. Fortunately, I was carrying a field phone and was able to get the message out that things had gone wrong."

"You're a master of understatement," Wellington said, coming around the car to stand by Napoleon.

"Why, thank you. I try." Attila looked back at Napoleon. "Do you have them?"

Napoleon glanced at the driver of the jeep, a young Roman clad in fatigues.

"Who's he?"

"He's all right; The courier. The papers should be in Caesar's hands within the half hour."

"Huhn." Napoleon reached under his vest and withdrew the papers. By now, they were limp with sweat. Let Caesar worry about that. "Here. I hope I never see them again."

Attila grinned, trotted over to the jeep, and handed the papers to the young Roman. The man stuffed them down the front of his shirt, saluted Attila, and drove out of the parking lot in a shower of kicked-up gravel.

"Don't worry about him," Attila said, coming back to Napoleon's side. "He'll have support all the way to Augustus' villa."

"Damn sight more than we had," Napoleon growled. Attila managed to look highly offended.

"You mean the Cong didn't help?"

"The Cong?" Wellington asked. "What the hell has the Cong got to do with this?"

"More than you suspect," Attila said, his slanted eyes crinkling in a smile.

"And if you don't know-"

"We won't ask," Napoleon inserted. "God knows we won't ask."

Marie had gotten out of the car and now stood by Napoleon, brushing the dirt and wrinkles from her gown. Attila nodded to her, then turned to the Mercedes.

"I see they managed to wing you several times," he said, running a blunt fingertip down a scratch across the trunk. "I wonder what Papa Doc's going to say about this?"

"Let Caesar explain it." Napoleon walked to the car, opened the back door, and retrieved Marie's shawl, Wellington's hat, and his own. "You're driving this, then?"

"I'm sure as shit not going to walk," Attila grinned.

"A Hun on foot? Never."

"Huhn. Where's my car?"

"Over behind the trucks." Attila pointed off to his left. "I'm going. Still on duty, I'll see you people later."

Napoleon bit down on his lip to avoid saying anything else as the King of the Huns got into Papa Doc's car, threw it in gear, and drove out of the parking lot. "Well, I'm certainly glad that's over," Wellington said, as Napoleon and Marie started toward the car. "And it's so good to see you dressed up and getting out again."

Napoleon glared. "Three, Wellington. That's three!"