The Austrian Embassy smelled of soap and copper.
Servants were on their hands and knees, scrubbing the marble floor. They were washing away the blood of General Pichegru.
I sat in my wheelchair by the open window, watching the sunrise over Paris. The air was cool, but my lungs burned. Every breath felt like inhaling powdered glass.
"The mess is cleaned up," Napoleon said, walking in. He stepped over a bucket of pink water without looking down. "But we have a bigger problem."
"The Army of the Rhine," I rasped.
"Leaderless," Napoleon nodded. "Pichegru is dead. The men are confused. And worst of all, they haven't been paid in three weeks."
He leaned against the window frame, staring East.
"I can take command. They will follow me. But I can't march on empty stomachs. We need gold, Alex. Not paper. Not credit. Gold."
I looked at the map on the table.
Frankfurt.
The banking capital of the German states. The fortress of the Rothschilds. It sat across the Rhine like a dragon guarding a pile of treasure.
"The gold is there," I said, pointing a trembling finger at the city. "In the vaults of the Judenagasse."
"Then we take it," Napoleon said. His hand went to his sword hilt. "We march. We breach the walls. We sack the city. The old way."
I shook my head.
"No," I said. "If you sack the city, the gold disappears. The bankers will bury it in cellars. They will smuggle it out in wine casks. You will burn the house down to find a coin, and find nothing but ash."
"So we ask politely?" Napoleon scoffed. "Please, Herr Rothschild, give us your fortune?"
"We don't ask," I said. "We make them beg to give it to us."
I spun my wheelchair around.
"Get Charles. And get the telegraph operator. We are going to send a message."
The Telegraph Room at the Louvre was quiet. The mechanical arms on the roof were still, waiting for the sun to rise fully.
Charles stood by the desk. He looked tired. Dark circles under his eyes. He had been decoding intercepts all night.
"Write this down," I ordered.
Charles dipped his quill.
"To General Bonaparte," I dictated. "Command of the Army of the Rhine is yours."
Napoleon puffed out his chest.
"Directive 1," I continued. "March on Frankfurt immediately."
Charles wrote quickly. Scritch-scratch.
"Directive 2," I said. "Upon arrival, liquidate the city."
Napoleon frowned. "Liquidate?"
"Burn it," I said. "If the City Fathers refuse to open the vaults... burn Frankfurt to the ground. Every bank. Every house. Every warehouse. Leave nothing but a smoking crater."
Charles stopped writing. He looked up. His face was pale.
"Father," he whispered. "That is... genocide. There are 40,000 civilians in Frankfurt."
"Write it," I said cold.
"But the economy," Charles argued. "Frankfurt is a trade hub. If we burn it, we destroy the credit market for a decade. It is inefficient."
"Write it!" I snapped.
Charles flinched. He looked at me with wide, fearful eyes. He wrote the words.
"Directive 3," I said. "Priority Target: The Rothschild Vaults. Seize all assets. Execute all resistance."
I sat back, coughing into my handkerchief.
"Send it," I said.
Charles stood up. He walked to the encryption book.
"No," I said.
Charles froze. "No?"
"Don't encrypt it," I said. "Send it in plain text. Open channel."
"But the spies," Napoleon said. "Rothschild's agents intercept the semaphore signals. They will read it."
I looked at them. The General and the King. They didn't understand.
"I want them to read it," I said.
I tapped my cane on the floor.
"I am not going to burn Frankfurt," I said softly. "But they don't know that. They know I am the man who dropped a chandelier on a General. They know I am the 'Demon' who walked through fire in a metal suit."
I smiled. It felt tight and brittle.
"Fear moves money faster than wagons, Napoleon. Send the message. And let the panic do the work."
Frankfurt. Six hours later.
The city was calm. Merchants argued over the price of wool. Bankers sipped coffee in the cafes of the Zeil.
Then, the rumor hit.
It didn't come from a newspaper. It came from a breathless spy running into the Rothschild bank. It came from a courier dropping a letter in the town square.
The French are coming. And they aren't coming to conquer. They are coming to erase us.
The panic started as a ripple.
A wealthy merchant ran to his bank to withdraw his deposit. He was shouting. "Liquidate! They are going to liquidate the city!"
People heard him. They saw the fear in his eyes.
The ripple became a wave.
Shopkeepers closed their shutters. Families began packing wagons.
Then, the wave hit the banks.
"Give me my money!" a woman screamed, pounding on the locked doors of the Bethmann Bank. "The Demon is coming!"
"The vaults are closed!" a clerk shouted from a second-story window. "Please, stay calm!"
Smash.
A cobblestone shattered the window.
The mob roared. It wasn't a political mob. It was a financial mob. The most dangerous kind.
They tore the doors off the hinges. They surged into the lobby. Men in silk suits clawed at each other. Dignity vanished. It was a zombie apocalypse of greed.
"My silver! Give me my silver!"
They trampled the clerks. They smashed the counters.
Across the street, at the Rothschild bank, the head clerk watched in horror.
"Close the shutters!" he screamed. "Bar the doors!"
"It's too late," a guard said. "Look."
The mob was turning. Thousands of people. They weren't looking at the French army—which was still miles away. They were looking at their own vaults.
They were tearing the city apart from the inside.
Strasbourg. The French Border.
I sat in my tent. The rain hammered against the canvas. Drum-drum-drum.
It was cold. Damp. My joints ached.
Fouché walked in. He held a telegraph strip.
"It worked," Fouché said. "Frankfurt is in chaos. The banks have suspended all payments. The City Council has lost control of the streets."
"And the garrison?" Napoleon asked, sharpening his sword.
"The soldiers have deserted," Fouché said. "They haven't been paid. They are looting the warehouses alongside the civilians."
I nodded.
"Panic is a weapon of mass destruction," I whispered.
"We have a new message," Fouché said. "From the City Fathers of Frankfurt."
He handed me the strip.
REQUEST PARLEY. STOP. WILL OPEN GATES. STOP. PLEASE DO NOT BURN. STOP.
"They surrendered," Napoleon said, grinning. "Without a shot fired."
"Not yet," I said. "They are inviting us in to restore order. They want us to save them from themselves."
I coughed. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.
"Prepare the carriage," I ordered.
"You're going?" Charles asked. "You look terrible, Father. Let Napoleon handle the surrender."
"No," I said. "Napoleon is a hammer. This requires a scalpel."
I struggled to sit up. Fouché had to help me. I hated the weakness. I hated needing help.
"There is one problem," Fouché warned. "The Prussians."
"What about them?"
"A Prussian army is camped north of the city," Fouché said. " commanded by Count von Alvensleben. He has declared Frankfurt a neutral zone under the protection of King Frederick William."
I froze.
Prussia.
We were already at war with Austria and Britain. If we attacked a Prussian protectorate, we opened a new front. We couldn't fight three empires at once.
"Alvensleben," I mused. "An old school Junker. Proud. Stubborn."
"He has 20,000 men," Napoleon said. "I can beat him, but it will take a week. And by then, the gold will be gone."
"We don't have a week," I said.
I looked at the black ledger on my desk.
"We have to buy him."
"With what?" Charles asked. "We are broke."
"Not with gold," I said. "With leverage."
I grabbed the ledger.
"Get me to the river. I want to look this Prussian in the eye."
The banks of the Rhine were a sea of mud.
My carriage wheels sank deep into the sludge. The horses strained.
We stopped at the bridge.
On the other side stood the Prussian Army. Blue coats. Tall shakos. Perfect lines. Disciplined.
In the center of the bridge, a tent had been set up.
Count von Alvensleben waited there.
I rolled my wheelchair down the ramp. Napoleon walked beside me, his hand on his sword. Charles walked on the other side, carrying the ledger.
Rain soaked my hair. I felt small. Frail.
Alvensleben was a giant. He had a handlebar mustache and a monocle. He looked at me with pure contempt.
"So," Alvensleben boomed. "This is the 'Demon'. A cripple in a chair."
He laughed. His officers laughed.
"Go back to Paris, accountant," Alvensleben sneered. "Frankfurt is under Prussian protection. If one French soldier crosses this bridge, it is war."
"We are here to restore order," I said. My voice was weak, lost in the wind.
"Order?" Alvensleben spat. "You caused the panic! You are a terrorist, Miller."
He pointed a gloved finger at me.
"Turn around. Or my cannons will blow you into the river."
Napoleon stepped forward. "I will cut your tongue out, Prussian!"
"Stop," I said.
I rolled forward. Just a few feet.
"Count," I said. "I am not here to fight you. I am here to save you."
"Save me?" Alvensleben scoffed. "From what?"
"From bankruptcy," I said.
I signaled Charles.
He opened the ledger. He pulled out a stack of documents.
They were bonds. Beautiful, engraved paper.
Kingdom of Prussia - Sovereign Debt Issue 1795.
"What is that?" Alvensleben asked.
"Your King's debt," I said. "During the blockade, while Rothschild was crushing the Franc... I was busy in London."
I smiled.
"I bought these for pennies on the dollar, Count. French smugglers bought up 40% of Prussia's outstanding loans. We own you."
Alvensleben turned pale.
"That... that is impossible."
"Is it?" I asked. "Look at the seals."
He looked. They were real.
"If I dump these on the market tomorrow," I said, "the Prussian Thaler collapses. Your currency becomes worthless."
I looked at the soldiers standing behind him.
"Tell me, Count. Will your disciplined men still stand in line if their pay is worthless? Will they fight for a King who can't feed them?"
I tapped the bonds.
"Or will they mutiny? Will they turn those cannons on you?"
Alvensleben stared at the paper. He was sweating despite the cold rain.
The cannonball was financial. And it was aimed right at his head.
"This is blackmail," he whispered.
"This is an audit," I corrected.
I held out a pen.
"Stand down. Let us enter Frankfurt. We take the Rothschild gold. You get your debt forgiven. Prussia stays solvent."
I leaned forward.
"Do we have a deal? Or do I press the button?"
Alvensleben looked at the bridge. He looked at his men. He looked at the bonds.
He took the pen.