The cliffs of Boulogne were white teeth biting into the grey sky.
Fog rolled in from the English Channel, thick and cold. It smelled of salt and imminent war.
I sat in my wheelchair on the edge of the bluff. My arm throbbed in its sling. My breath came in shallow rasps.
"Impressive, isn't it?" I asked.
Fouché stood beside me. He was wrapped in a black wool coat, his face pale. He looked down at the harbor below.
"It's terrifying," Fouché muttered.
Below us, the water was crowded with ships.
Hundreds of them. Frigates. Ships of the line. Flat-bottomed invasion barges. Their masts formed a forest of timber. Their sails snapped in the wind. The Tricolor flags waved defiantly at England.
It looked like the greatest armada in history. An invasion force ready to conquer London.
"It looks real," Fouché admitted.
"It is real," I said. "From a distance."
I raised my telescope.
I focused on the nearest ship, the Indomitable.
Through the lens, I could see the painted gun ports. The carved figurehead.
But then the wind shifted. A gust hit the ship from the side.
The Indomitable didn't roll with the waves. It wobbled.
Because it wasn't a ship.
It was a billboard.
A flat, painted wooden facade propped up on a barge. Behind the glorious front was nothing but scaffolding, canvas, and empty air.
"Five hundred ships," I whispered. "And not a single cannon among them."
"It's a house of cards," Fouché said nervously. "If the British sail close enough to fire a warning shot... the wood will splinter. The canvas will tear. They will see the lie."
"They won't get close," I said. "Fear keeps them at a distance. They see the silhouette, and their imagination fills in the guns."
I lowered the telescope.
"The Potemkin Armada," I smiled. "The greatest bluff ever told."
"And if the wind blows too hard?" Fouché asked. "If a storm hits?"
"Then the invasion sinks," I said. "And we build another one. Wood is cheap. Paint is cheap."
I looked out at the horizon. Somewhere out there, behind the fog, the Royal Navy was watching. Admiral Nelson (or his successor) was staring at this fleet, counting the masts, and sweating.
"They are paralyzed," I said. "As long as they think I'm about to cross the Channel, they have to keep their fleet here. They can't send ships to the Mediterranean. They can't intercept Charles."
"It's a diversion," Fouché said.
"It's theater," I corrected. "And every good play needs a critic."
I signaled the guard.
"Bring him."
Two grenadiers dragged a man onto the bluff.
He was soaking wet. His hands were bound. He wore a French fisherman's sweater, but his boots were British leather.
Lieutenant Ross. Spy for the Admiralty. caught near the docks last night.
He looked at me with defiant eyes.
"You can kill me," Ross spat. "But you can't hide a fleet this size."
"I don't want to hide it, Lieutenant," I said pleasantly. "I want you to review it."
I pointed to the harbor.
"Look at them. The new Leviathan class. Steam-assisted landing craft."
I handed him the telescope.
"See the smoke stacks?"
Ross looked. He saw the black pipes rising from the fake decks. Smoke billowed from them (fed by burning straw barrels below).
He lowered the glass. His face was white.
"Steam?" he whispered. "You have steam engines?"
"Leonardo da Vinci's design," I lied. "Refined by French engineering. We don't need the wind anymore, Lieutenant. We can cross on a calm day. We can be in Dover in four hours."
I leaned forward.
"Imagine it. Five hundred steam ships. Landing 100,000 veterans of the Grand Army on your beaches. No sails to shoot at. Just iron and fire."
Ross was trembling. It was the nightmare of every Englishman. Technology bridging the moat.
"Why show me this?" Ross asked. "Why not shoot me?"
"Because I'm a sportsman," I said. "And because I want you to deliver a message."
I nodded to the guards.
They cut his bonds.
"There is a rowboat at the base of the cliff," I said. "The tide is going out. If you row hard, you'll reach the blockade by sunset."
Ross stared at me. "You're letting me go?"
"I'm letting you warn them," I said. "Tell the Admiralty what you saw. Tell them the monsters are coming."
Ross didn't wait. He scrambled down the path, slipping in the mud. He ran like the devil was chasing him.
Fouché watched him go.
"He will tell them everything," Fouché said.
"Yes," I said. "And by tomorrow, every British ship from Gibraltar to Jamaica will be racing to the Channel to stop an invasion that doesn't exist."
I laughed. A dry, hacking sound.
"We just bought Charles an empty ocean."
I tried to turn my wheelchair.
The wheel was stuck in a rut. Mud.
I pushed harder. Gritting my teeth.
"Damn it," I hissed.
I put my weight into it. My left arm strained against the wheel rim.
SNAP.
A sound like a dry twig breaking.
Then, a wave of nausea.
My arm went limp. It hung at a sickening angle below the elbow.
I didn't scream. The pain was distant, muffled by the layers of agony already in my body.
I stared at it.
"Bone density," I whispered. "Calcium depletion."
"Administrator!" Fouché shouted. He ran to me. "Help! Medic!"
"Don't touch it!" I snapped.
I used my good hand to lift the broken arm. It flopped like a dead fish.
"It broke," I said, fascinated. "I pushed a wheel, and my bone snapped."
I started to laugh.
It started as a chuckle, then turned into a hysterical giggle.
"It's a depreciating asset!" I cackled. "The chassis is failing! The structural integrity is zero!"
"He's in shock," Fouché yelled at the approaching guards. "Get Dr. Larrey!"
They lifted me out of the chair.
The movement jarred the break. The pain hit me then. Sharp. White-hot.
I bit my tongue to keep from screaming. I tasted blood.
"Get me... the laudanum," I gasped.
The medical tent was warm.
Dr. Larrey finished wrapping the splint. He looked older, tired.
"The bone is like chalk," Larrey said quietly. "It crumbled, Alex. There is no marrow left. The radiation... the stress... your body is cannibalizing itself."
He wiped his hands.
"You have weeks," Larrey said. "Maybe days. If you break a hip, you won't get up."
"I don't need to get up," I slurred. The laudanum was kicking in. The world was fuzzy. Warm. "I just need to sit... and wait."
Larrey sighed. He packed his bag.
"I will leave the bottle," he said, pointing to the opium tincture. "Take as much as you need. There is no point in rationing it now."
He left.
I was alone.
The candle flickered.
Shadows danced on the canvas walls.
I closed my eyes.
"Hello, Accountant."
I opened them.
Sitting in the chair opposite me was a man.
He was fat. He wore a powdered wig and a velvet coat covered in gold fleur-de-lis. He held a half-eaten chicken leg.
Louis XVI. The real one. The man whose body I had stolen.
"You look terrible," the ghost said, chewing noisily. "I was fat, yes. But at least I had bones."
"You're a hallucination," I murmured. "Opium dream."
"Does it matter?" Louis asked. "I'm the only one who knows the truth."
He pointed a greasy finger at me.
"You thought you were smarter than me. You thought you could audit history. Balance the books."
He laughed.
"Look at you. You're broken. You're dying in a tent made of lies, guarding a fleet made of paint."
"I saved the monarchy," I argued. My voice sounded thin. "I saved your family."
"Did you?" Louis asked. "Marie is dead. My son is a killer. And you... you are a monster."
He leaned forward. His face shifted. The fat melted away. The skin rotted. He became a corpse.
"You built an empire of fraud, Alex. A Ponzi scheme. And the bill is coming due."
"Lies are the only currency that doesn't inflate," I whispered. "I bought stability. I bought time."
"You bought death," the corpse said. "And now you're insolvent."
He stood up.
"The guillotine was quick," Louis said softly. "This? This is slow. You are paying interest on a debt you can never clear."
He blew out the candle.
Darkness.
"No!" I shouted. "I am the Administrator! I am the Wolf!"
I reached out with my good hand.
I grabbed the mirror on the table.
I stared into it.
I didn't see Louis. I saw a skull wrapped in grey skin. Eyes like black pits.
I saw the face of the Blue Drop addicts.
I was one of them. Hooked on power. Hooked on the game.
"I am the King," I whispered to the reflection.
The reflection didn't blink.
"The King is dead," it mouthed.
I smashed the mirror.
CRASH.
"Guard!" I screamed. "Get Fouché! Get the carriage!"
The sentry burst in.
"Sir?"
"We are going back to Paris," I wheezed. "To the Telegraph."
I clutched my broken arm.
"The play is over," I said. "Now we start the endgame."