The square in front of the Royal Palace of Berlin was bright as day, even though it was midnight.
A bonfire roared in the center of the cobblestones. The flames licked thirty feet into the air.
French soldiers were throwing crates onto the pyre.
CRASH.
A box of Staffordshire pottery shattered.
WHOOSH.
Bolts of fine English wool caught fire. They curled and blackened, smelling of burnt sheep.
"Burn it all!" Marshal Davout shouted from his horse. "Every ounce of English poison!"
I stood on the palace balcony, wrapped in a fur coat. The heat of the fire reached even up here, flushing my pale cheeks.
"It's a waste," I whispered.
"It's a statement," Napoleon said beside me. He looked pleased. "We are burning their profits."
Below us, the people of Berlin watched in silence. Merchants, shopkeepers, dock workers. They were weeping.
A man in a velvet coat fell to his knees as a crate of Indian tea was tossed into the flames.
"My livelihood!" he screamed. "That is five thousand Thalers! Please!"
A Grenadier pushed him back with a musket butt.
Then, a movement caught my eye.
A child. A boy in rags, maybe ten years old. He darted out from the crowd. He ran toward the fire.
He wasn't trying to put it out. He was trying to steal.
He grabbed a small bag of tea that had rolled away from the flames.
"Halt!" a soldier shouted. He raised his musket.
"Don't!" I yelled.
My voice was weak, but the soldier hesitated.
I leaned over the railing.
"Let him take it!" I ordered.
The soldier lowered his gun. The boy clutched the tea to his chest and vanished into the shadows.
"Why?" Napoleon asked, frowning. "That is contraband."
"Because he will drink it," I said. "And when he runs out, he will hate us for not letting him have more. Poison kills slowly, Napoleon. Let the addiction do the work."
I turned away from the fire.
"Come inside. The Queen is waiting."
The Throne Room of the Prussian Palace was cold. The marble floors echoed with the click of our boots.
Queen Louise of Prussia sat on a chair that wasn't a throne, but she made it look like one. She was beautiful, sharp-eyed, and currently, a prisoner in her own home.
Her husband, the King, had fled to Königsberg. She had stayed to face the "Ogre."
I rolled my wheelchair to the center of the room. Charles walked beside me, carrying a document case.
"Your Majesty," I said.
"Citizen Miller," she replied. Her voice was ice. "Or do you prefer 'Administrator'?"
"I prefer 'Auditor'," I said.
Charles placed a document on the table.
The Berlin Decree.
"What is this?" the Queen asked.
"A new law for the continent," I said. "Effective immediately, the British Isles are declared to be in a state of blockade."
She read the paper. Her eyes widened.
"No trade?" she asked. "No letters? No neutral ships?"
"If a ship touches a British port," I said, "it is enemy property. We seize the ship. We burn the cargo."
She looked up.
"You are turning Europe into a prison."
"A fortress," I corrected. "We are locking the gates to keep the wolves out."
"Wolves?" She laughed bitterly. "You mean cheap cotton? You mean sugar? Coffee? You are declaring war on breakfast, Citizen."
"I am declaring war on the gold that pays for the armies that kill my men," I said.
I tapped the table with my cane.
"Sign it, Your Majesty. Order your customs officers to enforce the decree."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I audit the Crown Jewels," I said.
She froze.
"The Hohenzollern collection," I said softly. "Diamonds. Rubies. Gold plate. Worth approximately 20 million Francs. Currently hidden in the basement of the Charlottenburg Palace."
Her face went white.
"How do you know?"
"I know everything," I lied. "Sign the decree, or I melt down your history to pay my soldiers."
She stared at me. She saw the dead look in my eyes. She realized I wasn't a soldier who could be charmed. I was an accountant who had already calculated the depreciation of her dynasty.
She picked up the quill.
She signed.
"You will starve us," she whispered.
"Only until London breaks," I said. "And London breaks fast."
I took the paper.
"Charles. Send it to the telegraph. Code 99. The Blockade is live."
We left the Queen sitting in the cold room.
In the hallway, a man was waiting.
Jean Chouan. The Ferryman.
He was leaning against a statue of Frederick the Great, cleaning his fingernails with a knife. He looked out of place in the palace—a bear in a jewelry store.
"Problem?" I asked.
"Big problem," Chouan grunted. He pointed a thumb at the door. "I just saw the bonfire. You're burning English goods."
"It's the law now," I said.
"That's bad for business, Miller," Chouan growled. "You hired me to smuggle for you. Now you want me to stop everyone else?"
"I want a monopoly," I said. "The State is the only smuggler allowed."
Chouan stepped forward. He towered over my wheelchair.
"My captains are angry. They make a living running British wool into Hamburg. If you shut down the ports, they starve."
"Then they work for me," I said. "Or they don't work at all."
"They are free men," Chouan said. "They don't like orders."
"Then they are criminals," I said.
I looked at Fouché, who was standing in the shadows.
"Fouché. Create a new division. The Douane."
"Customs?" Fouché asked.
"A Customs Army," I said. "20,000 men. Uniforms. Rifles. Their only job is to hunt British goods. Patrol the coast. Search the warehouses. Inspect every wagon."
I looked back at Chouan.
"Tell your captains," I said. "If I catch them running British goods... I won't fine them. I will shoot them."
Chouan's eyes narrowed.
"You're squeezing too hard, Administrator. The people want their goods. If you stop the trade, the trade goes underground. And underground... that's my world."
"Then rule it," I said. "Liquidate the competition, Jean. Be the King of Rats. But remember who feeds the rats."
Chouan stared at me for a long moment. Then he spat on the marble floor.
"You're becoming a tyrant, Miller."
"I'm becoming efficient," I said.
He turned and walked away.
I watched him go. I knew he wouldn't obey completely. He would skim. He would cheat. But as long as he cheated for me, I could tolerate it.
Then, the world tilted.
My vision blurred. A wave of dizziness hit me like a hammer.
"Hrk—"
I grabbed my chest. My heart fluttered wildly—a bird trapped in a cage, bashing against the bars.
"Father!" Charles shouted.
I tried to breathe, but my lungs felt wet. Fluid.
I slumped sideways in the chair. The floor rushed up to meet me.
Darkness.
I woke up in a bed.
The ceiling was high and painted with cherubs. The Prussian Royal Guest Quarters.
A man was leaning over me. He had blood on his apron.
Dominique Jean Larrey. The Surgeon of the Guard. The best doctor in Europe.
"You're awake," Larrey said. He didn't smile.
"What happened?" I croaked.
"Heart failure," Larrey said bluntly. "Combined with severe pulmonary edema. You are drowning in your own fluids, Citizen."
He pulled back the sheet.
My legs were swollen. Puffy. The skin looked stretched and shiny.
"Dropsy," I whispered.
"Your heart is too weak to pump the blood back up," Larrey explained. "The fluid is pooling in your extremities. Soon, it will pool in your lungs again. And then you die."
"How long?" I asked.
Larrey wiped his hands on a rag.
"If you retire? If you go to a spa in Italy and sleep for twelve hours a day? Maybe a year."
"And if I don't?"
"Six months," Larrey said. "Maybe less if you keep shouting at Queens."
I closed my eyes.
Six months.
It wasn't enough. The Continental System needed years to work. I had to starve Britain into submission, and they had fat reserves.
"I need a stimulant," I said.
"I can give you digitalis," Larrey said. "Foxglove. It will strengthen the heartbeat. But it is toxic. It builds up in the system. Eventually, it stops your heart completely."
"Give it to me," I said.
"It's suicide on an installment plan."
"I only need three months," I lied. "Just enough to bankrupt London."
Larrey shook his head. He poured a small vial of green liquid.
"Drink," he said. "But know this... you are trading time for energy. The crash will be fatal."
I drank it. It tasted like bitter grass.
Almost instantly, I felt my heart kick harder. Thump. Thump. The fog in my brain cleared.
I sat up.
"Get me Charles," I ordered. "And the map."
Larrey sighed and packed his bag.
"You are the worst patient I have ever had."
"I'm not a patient," I said, swinging my swollen legs out of bed. "I'm a CEO on a deadline."
Charles walked in. He looked worried. It was a rare expression for the Wolf Cub.
"You collapsed," he said.
"I'm fine," I said. "The software just needed a reboot."
"The telegraph is active," Charles said. "The Decree is live. Ships are being seized in Hamburg, Amsterdam, and Brest."
"Good."
"But there is a hole," Charles said.
He unrolled a map on the bed.
Most of Europe was colored Blue. The French System.
But on the western edge, there was a Red Spot.
"Portugal," Charles said.
"They refused the decree?"
"They are Britain's oldest ally," Charles said. "British ships are docking in Lisbon freely. They are unloading cotton and sugar. The goods are flowing across the border into Spain, and then into France."
I stared at the map.
It was a leak. A massive hole in the hull of my ship. If Portugal remained open, the Blockade was useless.
"We have to plug it," I said.
"We don't have a fleet," Charles reminded me.
"We don't need a fleet," I said. "We have legs."
I looked at the map. To get to Portugal, we had to go through Spain.
Spain was our ally. But Spain was weak. Corrupt. Ruled by a King who was an idiot and a Queen who was... busy.
"Get Napoleon," I said.
"He's celebrating the victory."
"Tell him the party is over," I said. "Tell him to pack his bags."
I traced a line from Berlin to Madrid to Lisbon.
"We are going South."
"To Portugal?"
"To the end of the world," I said. "We are going to close the last door in Europe. Even if we have to kick it off its hinges."