The vault of the Bank of France was designed to withstand a siege.
The walls were three feet of granite. The door was iron, imported from Sheffield before the war. The air was cool, dry, and silent.
It was supposed to be the safest place in the Empire.
Tonight, it was a tomb.
I sat in my wheelchair at the threshold of the inner sanctum. The heavy iron door was open. Inside, stacked floor to ceiling, were wooden crates stamped with the seal of the Spanish Crown.
500 million Francs in gold bullion. The loot of a kingdom.
"Is it safe to enter?" I asked.
Charles stood in the doorway. He held the brass lantern—the electroscope—in his hand.
"Define safe," Charles said.
He took a step forward. He held the lantern near the nearest stack of crates.
The gold leaf inside the glass didn't just flutter. It spasmed. It stood straight up, charged with static electricity.
Click-click-click-SCREAM.
The sound of the discharge was audible. A high-pitched whine.
"The neutron flux was intense," Charles said, reading the gauge. "The gold absorbed it. It's not just contaminated on the surface, Father. It's activated. The metal itself is emitting beta radiation."
I stared at the crates.
It was beautiful. It was wealth beyond imagination. Enough to buy grain for five years. Enough to rebuild the fleet.
And it was death.
"If we mint this into coins," I whispered, "we kill the population."
I imagined a peasant carrying a gold Louis in his pocket. The slow burn on his thigh. The tumor growing in his bone marrow a year later.
I imagined a banker counting coins, his fingers turning black and necrotic.
"We can't circulate it," I said. "It's poison."
"So we are broke," Charles said. He lowered the lantern. "We have 500 million in assets that we can never touch. It's a phantom fortune."
"No," I said. "It's a reserve."
I rolled my chair back from the door. The invisible heat of the radiation made my skin crawl.
"Money is faith, Charles. It doesn't matter if the gold is radioactive. It only matters if people believe it's there."
The sound of footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.
"Administrator!"
It was Monsieur Perregaux. The Swiss banker. The man I had forced to buy the bonds.
He was walking fast, flanked by two clerks carrying ledgers.
"I demand to see the collateral!" Perregaux shouted. His voice bounced off the stone walls. "The market is jittery, Administrator. There are rumors the Spanish gold was lost at sea. I need to verify the deposit before I release the next tranche of loans."
Charles stepped in front of the vault door. He hid the lantern behind his back.
"The vault is sealed," Charles said coldly. "Security protocols."
Perregaux stopped. He looked at me, then at the open door behind Charles. He could see the crates.
"Sealed?" Perregaux scoffed. "The door is open! Let me pass. I need to count the bars. Standard audit procedure."
He took a step forward.
If he went inside... if he stayed in there for an hour counting bars... he would vomit blood by morning. And he would know.
And then the Franc would go to zero.
"Stop," I said.
My voice was weak, but the echo carried it.
"You cannot enter, Monsieur Perregaux."
"Why? Are you hiding something? Is the gold fake? Is it lead painted yellow?"
"It is real," I said. "But it is... consecrated."
Perregaux blinked. "Consecrated?"
"It is the King's gold," I lied smoothly. "It has been placed in a special trust for the future of the dynasty. It is not to be disturbed. Not by air, not by light, and certainly not by Swiss bankers."
"That is absurd," Perregaux spat. "I am a creditor of this state. I have a right to inspect the assets!"
He moved to push past Charles.
Charles put a hand on his chest. It wasn't a gentle push. It was a warning.
"Touch me again, boy, and I will have you arrested," Perregaux snarled.
I had to act.
"Monsieur Perregaux!" I shouted.
He turned to me.
I held up a piece of paper. I had been writing on it while they argued.
"We will not release the gold," I said. "But we will issue this."
I handed him the paper.
He adjusted his spectacles. He read it.
CERTIFICATE OF DEPOSIT.
Backed by Gold Bar Serial #409-500.
Value: 10,000 Francs.
Redeemable upon the restoration of peace.
"What is this?" Perregaux asked. "Paper?"
"It is a Warehouse Receipt," I said. "A Gold Certificate. Each note is tied to a specific bar in that vault. You don't need to move the heavy metal, Monsieur. You trade the paper. It is lighter. Faster. More efficient."
Perregaux looked at the certificate. He looked at the vault.
He was a banker. He hated heavy lifting. He hated transport costs.
"Backed 1 to 1?" Perregaux asked.
"Allocated storage," I promised. "Your gold stays right there. Safe. Secure. Forever."
He hesitated.
"It is... highly irregular."
"It is modern," I said. "It is the Gold Standard. Without the weight."
Perregaux looked at the crates one last time. He did the math. No transport fees. No security risks. Just clean, tradable paper.
"Very well," Perregaux sniffed. "I will accept the certificates. But I want the serial numbers verified by your clerk."
He pointed to a young man standing in the shadows. Julian. A junior archivist at the Bank.
"Julian has already inventoried the shipment," I said. "He can provide the list."
Julian stepped forward. He looked pale. Sweat was beading on his forehead. He was holding his hands behind his back.
"Yes... yes, sir," Julian stammered.
"Excellent," Perregaux said. "Have the list on my desk by morning."
He turned and marched out, his assistants trailing him.
Silence returned to the corridor.
I looked at Julian.
"Show me your hands, son," I said softly.
Julian trembled. Slowly, he brought his hands out.
They were red. Blistered. The skin was peeling in wet sheets, like a severe sunburn.
He had helped unload the wagons. He had touched the crates.
"It burns," Julian whispered. "It feels like they are on fire inside."
He looked at the vault.
"It's cursed, isn't it? The gold. It's sick."
I didn't answer.
"I... I have to tell someone," Julian said. His voice rose in panic. "The porters... my friends... they are all sick. We need a doctor. We need to tell the papers!"
He started to back away. Toward the stairs. Toward the exit.
"Julian, wait," I said.
"No! You can't keep it here! It will kill us all!"
He turned and ran.
"Charles," I said.
I didn't have to give the order.
Charles was already moving.
He didn't run. He flowed. Like a shadow.
He caught up to Julian at the ventilation shaft access—a narrow iron balcony overlooking the deep air intake for the lower levels.
"Julian," Charles said.
The boy stopped. He turned.
"Let me go!" Julian pleaded. "I won't tell them about the radiation! I just want a doctor!"
"You are a variable," Charles said. His voice was devoid of emotion. "You are an uncontrolled variable."
"What?"
"If you speak, the Franc collapses," Charles said. "If the Franc collapses, the army starves. If the army starves, the Empire falls."
He took a step closer.
"The probability of chaos is 100% if you leave this building."
"I'm just a clerk!" Julian sobbed. "I'm eighteen!"
"I am twelve," Charles said.
He shoved him.
It was a simple, efficient motion. A push to the chest.
Julian stumbled back. His heel caught the edge of the railing.
He tipped over.
He didn't scream immediately. There was a moment of silence as he fell into the dark shaft.
Then, a dull thud from far below.
Then silence.
Charles looked over the railing. He checked the drop. Satisfied.
He walked back to me.
I sat in my chair. I felt cold. Colder than the gold.
"He was a boy, Charles," I whispered. "He was innocent."
"He was a leak," Charles said. He adjusted his cuffs. "I plugged it. It was an accident. He fell. The radiation made him dizzy."
I looked at my son.
His eyes were clear. His pulse was steady. He had just murdered a man to protect a lie, and he didn't feel a thing.
I had created a monster. I had taught him that numbers were the only truth, and now he was balancing the ledger with human lives.
"We are all criminals now," I said.
"We are solvent," Charles corrected.
He closed the heavy iron door of the vault.
CLANG.
He spun the wheel. The tumblers clicked.
The poison was locked away. The secret was safe.
"Let's go upstairs," Charles said. "We have a government to run."
We took the lift to the upper offices.
The sun was rising over Paris. The light filtered through the curtains, dusty and grey.
I rolled to my desk.
A telegraph message was waiting.
It was from the coast. From Jean Chouan.
I picked it up.
MESSAGE: I ACCEPT THE TERMS. THE BLUE DROP STOPS TODAY. BUT NOT FOR MONEY.
PRICE: IMMUNITY. AND A SEAT AT THE TABLE.
I stared at the paper.
The smuggler king wanted to be a minister. The murderer wanted a title.
I picked up my pen.
I signed the order.
Jean Chouan appointed Minister of Supply.
"Welcome to the government, citizen pirate," I whispered.
I looked at the closed door of the office.
Downstairs, a boy was dead in a shaft.
In the vault, the gold was glowing.
In the streets, the people were addicted to blue poison.
And I was the Administrator of it all.
"Are we winning?" Charles asked, pouring himself a glass of water.
I looked at the ink on my fingers.
"I don't know," I said. "But we aren't bankrupt yet."
I turned my chair to the window.
"Get me the map of Egypt," I said.
Charles paused. "Egypt?"
"Rothschild isn't just dumping drugs," I said. "He's looking for something. The Blue Drop is a distraction. The Green Fire was a test."
I remembered Cagliostro's raving in the salt mine. The talk of 'The Calculator.'
"If there is something buried in the sand," I said, "we have to find it first."
"Another weapon?" Charles asked.
"No," I said. "An audit."
I smiled grimly.
"It's time to audit the Pharaohs."