The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers.
The room smelled of stale sweat and hot wax.
I sat behind a mahogany desk that was too big for me. My uniform was freshly pressed, the gold epaulets shining in the candlelight. But underneath the heavy wool, my body was wrapped in layers of flannel to hide the shivering.
"More rouge," I ordered.
Charles stood beside me, holding a small makeup tin. He dipped a sponge into the red paste and dabbed it onto my cheeks.
"You look like a porcelain doll," Charles muttered.
"I look alive," I corrected. "That's all that matters."
I checked my reflection in the hand mirror. The rouge hid the grey pallor of my skin. The high collar hid the bandages on my neck. If I didn't move too much, and if the light stayed dim, I looked like the Administrator of France.
Not a dying man.
"He's here," the Lancer announced from the door.
"Send him in."
Monsieur Perregaux entered.
He was a Swiss banker. Thin, meticulous, dressed in black velvet. He looked like an undertaker who enjoyed his work.
He didn't bow. He didn't smile. He walked straight to the chair opposite the desk and sat down without being invited.
He placed a leather portfolio on the desk.
"Administrator," Perregaux said. His voice was dry, like rustling paper. "I was surprised to receive your summons. The rumors in Paris say you are... indisposed."
He looked at me closely. Searching for signs of weakness.
I forced myself to sit upright. I clasped my hands on the desk to stop them from shaking.
"Rumors are a commodity, Monsieur Perregaux," I said. "Smart men sell them. Fools buy them."
Perregaux smirked.
"Perhaps. But numbers do not lie."
He opened the portfolio. He pulled out a document stamped with the seal of the Bank of France.
"French 5% Rentes are trading at 32," Perregaux said. "The yield curve has inverted. The market has priced in a default."
He slid the document across the desk.
"This is a notice of acceleration. The Syndicate is calling in the loans. All of them. Eighty million Francs. Payable immediately."
I didn't look at the paper. I looked at him.
"You know we don't have eighty million Francs in liquidity," I said.
"We know," Perregaux said. "That is why we have prepared a foreclosure agreement."
He pulled out a second document.
"We will accept the Louisiana Territory as collateral. We have a buyer in America ready to pay cash. It will cover the debt, and you will avoid a formal bankruptcy."
He leaned back, looking satisfied.
"It is a generous offer, Administrator. Given your... condition."
He glanced at the cane leaning against my chair.
I picked up the foreclosure notice. I read it.
It was a good deal. For them. They would strip France of its most valuable colony for pennies on the dollar, and resell it to Jefferson or the British.
"No," I said.
I dropped the paper into the candle flame.
It curled, blackened, and burst into fire.
Perregaux's eyes widened. "You cannot burn a debt! That is a legal instrument!"
"I just did," I said.
I watched the ash flutter onto the desk.
"You are mistaken about the situation, Monsieur. You think I am a distressed borrower begging for a lifeline. I am not."
I leaned forward. The movement sent a spike of pain through my chest, but I kept my face neutral.
"I am the Central Bank. I am the State. And you are standing in a room with a man who has nothing left to lose."
"Threats?" Perregaux scoffed. "We control the credit markets. If we cut you off, your armies starve. Your government collapses."
"True," I said. "If I fall, the Empire falls."
I smiled. It was a cold, sharp smile.
"But if the Empire falls, Monsieur Perregaux... what happens to the Franc?"
Perregaux paused.
"It becomes worthless," he admitted.
"Exactly," I said. "And what happens to the billions of Francs in private debt your Syndicate holds? The mortgages? The commercial loans? The shipping bonds?"
I pulled a sheet of paper from my own drawer.
"This is a draft decree," I said. "It authorizes the printing of 500 million Francs in new Assignats. To be distributed directly to the peasantry as 'relief aid.'"
Perregaux turned pale.
"Hyperinflation," he whispered.
"Total currency debasement," I agreed. "If you foreclose on me, I will flood the market with so much paper that a wheelbarrow of Francs won't buy a loaf of bread. Your Syndicate's assets will be wiped out. You will be kings of a pile of ash."
Perregaux stared at me. He saw the madness in my eyes. The desperation.
"You wouldn't dare," he stammered. "It would destroy the economy for a generation."
"I am dying, Monsieur," I said softly. "I don't have a generation. I have weeks. Do you think I care about the price of bread in 1800?"
I coughed. A wet, hacking sound. I pressed a handkerchief to my lips. When I pulled it away, it was spotted with red.
I showed him the blood.
"That is my timeline," I said. "Now. Do you want to do business? Or do you want to burn?"
Perregaux swallowed hard. He was sweating now.
"What do you want?"
"A buyback," I said.
I pointed to Charles.
"My associate has the details."
Charles stepped out of the shadows. He placed a heavy ledger on the desk.
"The Syndicate has cash reserves of 120 million," Charles said. His voice was flat, robotic. "Parked in Geneva and Amsterdam to avoid the crash."
Perregaux looked at the boy. "How do you know that?"
"We read your mail," Charles said. "The Black Chamber intercepts all ciphered correspondence crossing the border."
Charles opened the ledger.
"You are shorting your own client's stock," Charles read. "Transaction #409. You sold 10,000 shares of the French East India Company two days before the dividend was cancelled."
Perregaux looked like he was going to vomit.
"That is... privileged information."
"It is fraud," Charles said. "Punishable by the guillotine."
Charles looked at me. I nodded.
"Here is the deal," I said. "You will use those cash reserves to buy French Sovereign Bonds. Open market. Tonight."
"But the price is falling!" Perregaux protested. "We would be buying a knife while it falls!"
"You will catch the knife," I said. "You will put in a buy order for 50 million Francs. The volume will trigger a short squeeze. Rothschild is leveraged to the hilt on his short position. If the price jumps 10 points, he gets a margin call."
"He will be ruined," Perregaux whispered.
"He or you," I said. "Choose."
Perregaux looked at the ledger. He looked at the decree for the hyperinflation. He looked at my bloody handkerchief.
He realized he was trapped. He was playing chess with a suicide bomber.
"I need a guarantee," Perregaux said weakly. "If I buy the bonds... the Louisiana foreclosure is cancelled?"
"Burned," I said, pointing to the ash on my desk.
Perregaux closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.
"Give me the pen."
He signed the purchase order. His hand shook.
"Send it by telegraph," I ordered Charles. "Priority One."
Charles took the paper and ran to the machine.
Click-click-click-click.
The sound filled the room. The sound of money moving at the speed of light.
Perregaux stood up. He looked drained.
"You are a monster, Administrator," he said.
"I am an accountant," I said. "I just balanced the books."
Perregaux left.
The door clicked shut.
I didn't move. I couldn't. The adrenaline was fading, and the crash was coming.
My chest tightened. The room started to spin.
"Father?"
Charles was at my side instantly.
"The order is sent," Charles said. "The Paris Bourse opens in ten minutes. When that order hits, the price will skyrocket."
"Good," I whispered.
I slumped forward. My forehead hit the cool wood of the desk.
"Water," I gasped.
Charles held the glass to my lips. I drank greedily, but half of it spilled down my chin.
"We beat them," Charles said. There was a rare note of pride in his voice. "We squeezed them."
"A dead cat bounce," I murmured. "It won't last. But it buys us... time."
I closed my eyes. I could feel the fluid building up in my lungs again. The drowning sensation.
Knock. Knock.
"Go away," Charles shouted. "No more meetings!"
"Urgent dispatch!" a voice called. "From the South. A courier from Madrid."
"Let him in," I wheezed.
The door opened.
A man stumbled in. He wasn't a soldier. He wore a long grey coat covered in dust. He carried a leather medical bag.
Dr. Desgenettes. The Chief Epidemiologist of the Army.
He looked terrified.
"Administrator," he gasped. "I rode straight through. Three horses died."
"What is it?" I asked. "Did Napoleon lose a battle?"
"Worse," Desgenettes said.
He walked to the desk. He didn't offer a report. He pulled a glass vial from his bag.
Inside, floating in alcohol, was a piece of tissue. Human tissue.
It was black. Necrotic. But not from gangrene.
It glowed. Faintly. A sickly, pale green luminescence.
"What is that?" Larrey asked, stepping forward.
"A biopsy," Desgenettes whispered. "From a soldier in the 4th Corps. He died yesterday. Fever. Vomiting blood. And this."
He held up the vial.
"It started in the water supply," Desgenettes said. "The wells around Madrid. The locals... they poisoned them."
"Poison?" I asked.
"Not poison," Desgenettes said. "Dust. Glowing green dust."
I froze.
The salt mine. Cagliostro's reactor.
"The Green Fire," I whispered.
"We thought it was buried," Charles said.
"Someone dug it up," Desgenettes said. "Or someone had a reserve supply."
He looked at me.
"It's not just the soldiers, Administrator. It's the civilians. The rats. It's in the ecosystem. We have a thousand cases of 'Black Fever.' It kills in 48 hours."
I stared at the glowing flesh.
Radiation sickness. Weaponized.
Rothschild didn't just fund the guerrillas. He had given them the ultimate dirty bomb. He had turned the Spanish water table into a nuclear wasteland.
"Quarantine," I said. "Immediate quarantine. No one leaves Spain. No one enters."
"Napoleon is there," Charles said. "With 100,000 men."
"If they march back to France," I said, "they bring the plague with them."
I looked at the map on the wall. The border. The Pyrenees.
"Seal the border," I ordered. "Shoot anyone who tries to cross. Even our own men."
"Father..." Charles looked horrified. "You are condemning the Grand Army to death."
"I am saving Europe," I said.
I looked at my own hand. The tremors. The sickness.
I laughed. A dry, bitter sound.
"We worried about the bond market," I whispered. "We worried about the interest rates."
I looked at the glowing vial.
"The audit is over, Charles. The liquidation has begun."
The telegraph clicked in the corner.
Price of 5% Rentes: 45. Rally confirmed. Syndicate insolvent.
We had saved the money.
But we had lost the world.
"Get the carriage," I said. "We are going to Paris."
"In your condition?" Larrey protested.
"I can die in a bed in Bayonne," I said, staring at the green glow. "Or I can die in a laboratory in Paris trying to cure this."
I grabbed my cane. I forced myself to stand. Pain ripped through me, but I used it. I used it as fuel.
"The Wolf isn't done yet," I snarled.
I limped toward the door.
"Let's go save the world. Again."