Read Chapter 2: MAJOR HARCOURT’S QUESTIONS

The Provost prison stood near the heart of occupied New York like a bad tooth no one could pull.

It had been a debtor’s prison before the war. Under British control it became something darker: a place of questioning, confinement, and disappearance. Patriots feared it, loyalists avoided speaking of it, and merchants passed quickly when business forced them nearby.

Major Edmund Harcourt received Elias in a second-floor room that smelled of wax, wet wool, and old stone.

Harcourt was not what people expected of an intelligence officer. He had no theatrical scar, no cruel squint, no habit of slamming fists on tables. He was forty, perhaps forty-five, narrow-shouldered and carefully dressed. His voice was mild. He rarely raised it because men leaned closer when he spoke softly.

“Mr. Vale,” he said, indicating a chair. “I am told your warehouses continue to prosper.”

“Prosperity is a generous description.”

“Survival, then.”

“I have always considered survival a form of profit.”

Harcourt smiled. “That is why I like merchants. Soldiers think in victories. Merchants think in continuance.”

A tea service stood between them. Elias did not touch it.

Harcourt opened a folder.

“You reported in January that rebel agents were purchasing sailcloth and salt beef through Newark intermediaries.”

“Yes.”

“They were.”

“I am pleased to have been occasionally useful.”

“In February, you reported that Washington intended to reinforce Rhode Island with three thousand men.”

“I reported a rumor from a Connecticut factor.”

“A rumor that proved false.”

“Most rumors do.”

“In March, you reported that Continental privateers were preparing to strike British supply traffic near Sandy Hook.”

“They were preparing something.”

“They struck elsewhere.”

Elias shrugged. “Privateers are businessmen with cannon. They change plans when the price changes.”

Harcourt closed the folder.

“What interests me is not that you have been wrong. Useful men are wrong every day. What interests me is the pattern of your errors.”

Elias met his eyes.

“What pattern?”

“Each error protects something.”

Silence lengthened.

Harcourt poured tea for himself.

“The Rhode Island rumor delayed scrutiny of two flour shipments entering this city. The Sandy Hook report diverted a patrol on the same night one of your sloops arrived from New London. A supposed rebel purchase of sailcloth resulted in a search of a warehouse belonging to Mr. Abel Mercer, with whom you were then contesting a contract.”

“Are you accusing me of using His Majesty’s intelligence office to improve my business?”

“I have not yet decided whether to admire the possibility.”

Elias allowed himself one measured laugh.

“You credit me with too much control.”

“No. I credit you with understanding how institutions move. A small push at the right hour can redirect a great many boots.”

Harcourt took a sip.

“Tell me about your brother.”

The question arrived without warning.

“Nathaniel manages river accounts.”

“Does he?”

“He also shouts about taxes and drinks too much Madeira.”

“Patriotic habits.”

“Universal ones.”

Harcourt’s expression did not change.

“Your brother has been seen with men connected to rebel couriers.”

“Half the city has been seen with someone connected to rebel couriers. The other half informs on them.”

“And you?”

“I sell rope to both halves.”

Harcourt set down his cup.

“Your wit is useful only while I remain entertained.”

There was no threat in his voice. That made it a threat.

Elias folded his hands.

“What do you want?”

“The truth.”

“No government has ever purchased that from a merchant at market price.”

Harcourt’s mouth twitched.

“Very well. I want a report. There is a man called Gideon Rusk, a cooper by trade, sometimes seen near Corlear’s Hook. We believe he transmits messages north. Find out who pays him and where he sleeps.”

Elias knew Gideon Rusk.

Not well. Well enough.

Rusk had once delivered a sealed packet to a Vale sloop under a tar barrel. He belonged somewhere in the Continental chain that Elias knew only as Hart’s Road.

“Why me?” Elias asked.

“Because Rusk trusts merchants.”

“Most coopers do. We pay them.”

“And because I believe he trusts your family.”

Elias held Harcourt’s gaze.

“If I refuse?”

“You won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because Warehouse Two contains twelve casks of French brandy listed as lamp oil.”

For the first time, Elias felt true surprise.

Harcourt saw it and nodded.

“Ah. There you are.”

Elias said nothing.

“Do not misunderstand me. I do not care about the brandy. Smuggling is the marrow of this city. I care whether you think yourself invisible.”

“I have never thought that.”

“Good. Invisible men become careless.”

Harcourt slid a folded paper across the table.

“Three days.”

Elias took it.

At the door Harcourt said, “One more matter.”

Elias turned.

“The rebel report that contradicted yours in February came from a source the army considers reliable.”

“How reliable?”

“Reliable enough that your error interested me.”

Outside, rain had begun. Elias walked toward Broadway beneath a low sky, his hat pulled down, mind racing.

A reliable rebel source inside the city.

Someone whose information had reached British hands.

That could mean capture. Betrayal. Interception.

Or it could mean Harcourt possessed access to both streams.

Elias stopped beneath the awning of a shuttered print shop.

For two years, his deception had depended on distance between his audiences. He could tell the British one lie and the Continentals another because each believed the other side’s channels were opaque.

If Harcourt had begun seeing both, the game had changed.

And Gideon Rusk was now the piece placed between them.