The "Cabinet Noir" was located three floors below the Tuileries.
It wasn't a dungeon. It was a library of secrets.
The air was hot and smelled of melting wax and vinegar. Dozens of clerks sat at long tables, working in silence. Their job was simple: Intercept the mail. Open it without breaking the seal. Copy it. Reseal it. Send it on its way.
But in the back of the room, there was a new desk.
Charles sat there.
He wasn't opening letters. He was reading a long strip of paper tape.
The Semaphore Log.
Every signal sent across France—military, commercial, diplomatic—was recorded here. My private feed.
"We have a problem," Charles said without looking up.
I rolled my wheelchair to his side. The stone floor was rough on my spine.
"A market fluctuation?" I asked.
"No," Charles said. "A pattern deviation."
He pointed to a sequence of numbers on the tape.
Code 77 - 12 - 90 - 4.
"This message was sent from Strasbourg to Paris an hour ago," Charles said. "It was marked as 'Supply Requisition for the Army of the Rhine'."
"So?"
"So, the encryption is wrong," Charles said. "Look. Code 77 means 'Boots'. But in the military cipher, 'Boots' is followed by a quantity. This is followed by Code 12."
"Code 12 is 'Midnight'," I said.
"Exactly," Charles said. "Why would a General order 'Midnight Boots'?"
He pulled out a second sheet of paper. A grid of letters. A Vigenère cipher.
"It's a substitution," Charles said. His eyes were scanning the numbers like a machine. "If you shift the values by 3... 'Boots' becomes 'Gates'. 'Midnight' stays 'Midnight'."
He wrote the translation on a slate.
OPEN THE GATES AT MIDNIGHT.
My blood ran cold.
"Who sent it?" I asked.
"General Pichegru," Charles said. "Commander of the Army of the Rhine."
"And the recipient?"
"It wasn't addressed to the Ministry of War," Charles said. "It was addressed to a private residence in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. The residence of the Austrian Ambassador."
I stared at the slate.
It wasn't a supply order. It was treason.
Pichegru wasn't asking for boots. He was telling the Austrians he would open the city gates of Strasbourg. He was selling the frontier.
"Rothschild," I whispered. "He couldn't beat us with money, so he bought a General."
"We have to arrest him," Fouché said, stepping out of the shadows. "I can have Pichegru in chains within the hour."
"No," I said.
I looked at the map on the wall. Pichegru was popular. A hero of the early wars. If I arrested him publicly without absolute proof, the Army would mutiny. It would look like a purge. Like the Terror.
"If we arrest him, we panic the market," I said. "The Franc crashes again. Rothschild wins."
"So we let him open the gates?" Fouché asked.
"No," I said. "We audit him."
I looked at Charles.
"Is Pichegru in Paris?"
"He arrived yesterday," Charles said. "He is attending the Masked Ball at the Austrian Embassy tonight."
I smiled. A cold, Godfather smile.
"Perfect. He's going to the party to celebrate his betrayal. Let's go wish him a good evening."
The Austrian Embassy was a palace of light.
Crystal chandeliers. Silk gowns. The smell of expensive champagne and hypocrisy.
The elite of Europe were dancing a waltz. They wore masks—venetian dominoes, bird beaks, golden suns.
I didn't wear a mask.
I rolled into the ballroom. My wheelchair was my mask. The frail invalid. The harmless cripple.
The music faltered for a second as I entered, then resumed. The guests parted like the Red Sea. They feared the chair more than they feared a sword.
Napoleon walked behind me. He wore a simple black domino mask, but everyone recognized the way he walked. Like a predator stalking a herd.
"There," Napoleon whispered.
He nodded toward the punch bowl.
General Pichegru stood there. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, wearing the dress uniform of the Republic. He held a crystal cup. He was laughing with the Austrian Ambassador, Count Cobenzl.
They looked like old friends.
"Stay here," I told Napoleon. "If I signal, kill everyone in the room."
"With pleasure," Napoleon murmured.
I rolled forward.
Pichegru saw me coming. His smile didn't waver. He was arrogant. He thought his secret was safe in the air, hidden in a code I couldn't break.
"Administrator Miller," Pichegru boomed. "A surprise! I didn't think you enjoyed dancing."
"I don't," I said, stopping my chair in front of him. "I enjoy arithmetic."
The Ambassador bowed stiffly. "Citizen Administrator. Champagne?"
"No," I said. "I am on a diet. I am cutting out... foreign impurities."
I looked Pichegru in the eye.
"General," I said. "We received your requisition order from Strasbourg. The one for the boots."
Pichegru nodded smoothly. "Ah, yes. My men are barefoot in the snow. I hope the Ministry approved it."
"We did," I said. "But there was a clerical error. The quantity was confusing."
I leaned forward.
"You ordered 'Midnight' boots. Code 12."
Pichegru's smile froze. It didn't disappear, but it turned brittle. Like cracked glass.
"A slip of the pen," Pichegru said. "I meant 1,200."
"I don't think so," I said.
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out a piece of paper. Not the telegraph log. A bank receipt. Fouché's forgery, but Pichegru didn't know that.
"I also found this," I lied. "A transfer of 50,000 Louis d'or from the Frankfurt Bank to your private account. Dated yesterday."
Pichegru went still.
The music swelled. A crescendo of violins. The dancers swirled around us, oblivious that a man was dying in the center of the room.
"That is a lie," Pichegru whispered.
"Is it?" I asked. "I can have the telegraph confirm it in five minutes. Speed of light, General."
I tapped my cane on the floor.
"You are selling the Rhine, Jean-Charles. You are opening the gates."
Pichegru looked around. He saw Napoleon by the door, hand on his sword hilt. He saw Fouché by the window.
He was trapped.
Or so I thought.
Pichegru smiled.
It wasn't a nervous smile. It was the smile of a man who held a Royal Flush.
"You are clever, Alex," Pichegru said softly. "You see the numbers. You see the codes."
He took a sip of champagne.
"But you have one blind spot."
"And what is that?"
"You think you are the only one who brought soldiers to the party."
Pichegru dropped his glass.
CRASH.
The crystal shattered on the marble floor.
It was a signal.
Instantly, twenty men in the crowd threw off their cloaks.
They weren't guests. They were Grenadiers. Pichegru's personal guard. Loyal to him, not the Republic.
They drew pistols and sabers.
Screams erupted. The orchestra stopped with a discordant screech. The dancers scrambled back, pressing against the walls in terror.
"The Audit is closed, Citizen Miller!" Pichegru shouted.
He drew his own saber. The steel rang out.
"Seize him!" Pichegru ordered his men. "Seize the traitor Miller! He is conspiring with the British!"
It was a coup. Right here. Right now.
He was flipping the board. He was going to kill me and claim I was the traitor. History is written by the survivor.
Napoleon drew his sword. He roared, lunging forward.
"To me! Guard the Administrator!"
But he was too far away. Pichegru was five feet from me. His saber was raised.
I couldn't move. My chair was heavy. My legs were useless.
I looked at the blade. It was shiny. Sharp.
"Checkmate," Pichegru sneered.
He swung.
CLANG.
The blow didn't land.
A cane blocked the saber.
My cane.
It wasn't wood. It was a steel rod sheathed in mahogany. I had raised it instinctively, a reflex from a life of war I hadn't actually lived.
The vibration jarred my arm up to the shoulder. My weak heart stuttered.
"Charles!" I shouted.
I didn't look at my son. I looked at the ceiling.
Charles wasn't looking at Pichegru. He was standing by the wall, staring up.
He was looking at the massive crystal chandelier hanging directly above Pichegru's head.
He held a pistol. A small, double-barreled pocket gun.
He wasn't aiming at the General. He was aiming at the rope.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't shake. He just did the math.
BANG.
The bullet severed the thick velvet rope holding the chandelier.
Gravity took over.
Two tons of crystal, brass, and candles fell from the ceiling.
It fell in silence, heavy and inevitable.
Pichegru looked up. His eyes widened.
He didn't have time to scream.
CRUNCH.
The chandelier smashed into the floor. It buried General Pichegru in a mountain of shattered glass and twisted metal.
Dust and smoke filled the room.
Silence.
The twenty traitorous soldiers froze. Their leader was gone. Crushed like a bug.
Napoleon stepped forward. His sword was leveled at them.
"Drop your weapons!" Napoleon bellowed. "Or you join him!"
The soldiers looked at the pile of glass. They looked at Napoleon's eyes.
Clatter. Clatter.
Pistols dropped to the floor.
I sat in my wheelchair, breathing hard. My arm throbbed. My heart was galloping.
I looked at the wreckage. A hand stuck out from the crystal pile. It twitched once, then stopped.
I turned to Charles.
The boy lowered his smoking pistol. He blew the smoke away from the barrel.
"What was the variable?" I wheezed.
"Velocity equals distance divided by time," Charles said calmly. "The rope was under tension. The structural integrity was compromised."
He holstered the gun.
"He shouldn't have stood under the heavy object. That was a tactical error."
I slumped back in my chair.
I looked at the Austrian Ambassador. Cobenzl was cowering behind a curtain, white as a sheet.
"Ambassador," I said. My voice was shaky, but loud enough.
Cobenzl peeked out.
"It seems the General had an... accident," I said.
I pointed my cane at the pile of glass.
"Tell Rothschild," I whispered. "Tell him his pawn is broken."
I spun my chair around.
"Let's go home," I told Napoleon. "I'm tired of parties."
We rolled out of the ballroom, leaving the glitter and the blood behind us.
But as we hit the cool night air, I realized something.
Rothschild had tried to kill me twice. Once with a knife, once with a General.
He was getting desperate.
And desperate men make mistakes.
"Charles," I said.
"Yes?"
"Send a telegraph to the Army of the Rhine. Tell them Pichegru has retired due to... health reasons. And tell them to prepare to march."
"March where?" Napoleon asked, wiping his blade.
I looked East. Toward the border. Toward the money.
"Frankfurt," I said. "If Rothschild won't let us use the bank... we're going to burn it down."