The Bonaparte Secret (39 page)

Lang was running a hand over the effigy of Louis. So far, all he had produced were dust motes that seemed to sparkle in the light of the flashes. “Remember, the whole time he was on Elba, his wife, the Archduchess Marie Louise of Austria, the woman he divorced Joséphine for in order to have an heir, refused to return his letters. He had not even seen his son, who was, by the time of his escape, what? Four or five?”

“So?”

“I’m guessing, but I’d say Napoleon knew he was soon going to be fighting the combined armies of Europe and maybe his chances weren’t so good. For sure he knew that after his escape from Elba, any future exile would be much harsher, no thousand men to accompany him. In fact, he may have guessed he would be killed.”

Patrick began to show a glimmer of interest. “Killed?”

“Hair taken from Napoleon’s corpse was tested, oh, maybe ten years ago. There were definite traces of arsenic, probably administered in gradual doses.”

“You can never trust the English.”

“Perhaps. But also perhaps Napoleon wanted to make sure his prized possession was delivered to the son he never saw again. What better way than to hide it from those who wanted to destroy every trace of the French emperor, trust it to a friend to deliver at the appropriate time. A friend who for whatever reason was unable to do so.”

“But a secret hiding place in a church?” Patrick was skeptical. “Why not just give this . . . this whatever to someone to deliver?”

“Perhaps that wasn’t possible at the time. Besides, Napoleon was a master of the dramatic. You will recall, he took the emperor’s crown into his own hands to place it on his head himself.”

“And you believe this treasured item to be the mummy of Alexander? Hardly a gift for a small boy, yes?”

“A small boy in whose favor the emperor of France abdicated after Waterloo.”

“But, my friend, Napoleon II never ruled.”

Lang was examining the stature of Marie Antoinette. “His father could never have known that would be the case before being banished to Saint Helena. What better gift to leave his heir than the remains, and hence a legitimate claim to the legacy of the greatest warrior that ever lived?”

Patrick shivered, whether from the increasing cold or boredom, Lang couldn’t tell. “All a very interesting history lesson. But this crypt is not a schoolroom. You have examined the statues and they have no secret, yes? Let us go before we die of pneumonia from the cold.”

It was a tempting suggestion. Lang stepped back to survey the carving in its entirety. “What were Napoleon’s exact words? Something about ‘on the heel of a return from anonymity’?”

“It is but a figure of speech, it . . .”

Lang was circling the memorial. “The heel. You can’t see Marie Antoinette’s heels; they’re under the folds of her dress. One of Louis’ heels is covered by his cape.”

Patrick’s bored expression, or what Lang could see in the reflection of his flashlight, seemed to change. “You do not think . . .”

Reaching across the effigies, Lang grasped the heel of the marble shoe. “I can feel a crack between it and the rest . . .”

He tried to twist it clockwise. The other direction produced a sharp click.

Patrick jumped back in surprise.
“Merde!”

At his feet, a tray had popped open from the base of the plinth.

Lamar County, Georgia
The early-morning hours of the previous evening

Gurt was having a problem keeping awake. On the interstate, the temptation would have been either to pull off for a few minutes’ snooze at a rest stop or visit one of the fast-food joints that lined the exits for a dose of caffeine. Either would have been a mistake. No doubt the FBI had wasted no time getting an all-points bulletin out for reports of any sightings of her, quite likely with the usual “Believed to be armed and dangerous” the Bureau routinely added for effect.

The thought of herself, Manfred and Grumps as some latter-day Dillinger Gang made her smile in spite of her weariness. Or more appropriate, Bonnie and Clyde. Weeks earlier, Gurt had become enraptured by a series on the History Channel dealing with the Depression-era gangsters: Pretty Boy Floyd, Baby Face Nelson, Ma Barker, Al Capone, as well as Dillinger and Bonnie and Clyde. They all seemed much more interesting than their law-enforcing nemeses. Melvin Purvis and Eliot Ness were simply colorless, boring men. What kind of an American mother named her son Melvin, anyway?

Those criminals had made the FBI what it was today, had forced reforms in law enforcement. But the 1930s Bureau was nothing like the sophisticated, highly technical machine with which Gurt had cooperated a couple of times while with the Agency.

Now, millions, if not billions, of dollars worth of hightech equipment was being used to track her down. It would have been intimidating had she not realized that as long as she kept away from public places, did not use her cell phone or credit cards, she would he untraceable, no matter how many high-resolution satellites circled overhead, how many helicopters searched the highways or how many listening devices probed the ether for any communication from her.

As long as he has a well-prepared hole, the rabbit always has the advantage over the hound. And this hole had been prepared to hide from enemies from her and Lang’s past, should they reappear. A simple wood-shake cabin of no more than fifteen hundred square feet housed a cache of at least a month’s food. A computer covertly routed through any number of others, a tract of land in middle-Georgia farm country owned by an untraceable offshore corporation. A series of well-hidden remote cameras set off by motion. Gurt had long tired of watching the parade of deer, beaver, fox and other creatures who regularly appeared on the realtime show, but she realized its potential value.

Better than any electronics was the man who operated a small farm on the adjacent property, Larry Henderson. As a former marijuana grower whom Lang had defended from federal prosecution a few years ago, Larry not only was highly suspicious of strangers, particularly trespassing strangers, he was intensely loyal to Lang and knew how to handle the variety of firearms he owned. Plus, he and his wife pretty much knew whenever a new face popped up on the local scene.

In Lamar County, he was better than Jake’s security service.

Dillinger notwithstanding, Gurt wasn’t going to be caught at Chicago’s Biograph Theater or its middle-Georgia equivalent.

At last, the truck’s headlights picked up the first of the series of
NO TRESPASSING
signs that delineated Larry’s property. The next driveway, nearly obscured by brush intentionally left uncut, would be the turn into the farm and the end of searching the sky and rearview mirror. Tomorrow, she would dispose of the truck and ask Larry to go into nearby Barnesville for any needed supplies.

For the moment, all she wanted was not to wake Manfred when she carried him inside and to get some sleep herself. Both the late hour and tension had drained her.

For the moment, she was safe.

Basilique Saint Denis

Lang shone his flashlight on the tray that had popped out of the plinth. “Spring release?”

Recovered from his initial shock, Patrick knelt for a closer look. “Hardly room for a mummy.”

Lang squatted, placing the light in his mouth while he used both hands to reach into the tray, and removed a wooden box. “If these are Alexander’s remains, I suspect it’s less than the full body.” He examined the metalwork. “The hinges are rusted shut.” He touched a keyhole. “And there’s no key. I don’t have anything with me that would open it. We may have to just force it . . .”

He cut the sentence short as both men froze. There was no mistaking the sound of footsteps above.

“Do you think the Chinese have already figured out what Bonaparte meant?”

Lang pushed the tray closed and was searching for the best hiding place. “At this hour, I doubt we’re hearing early arrivals for mass.”

Nearest the stairs, he spotted the congregation of tombs he had first seen, circled almost like a wagon train under attack. From the brief glance before cutting off his light, he fixed the position of the older part of the crypt, that closest to the staircase, in his mind.

He tucked the box under his left arm. With his right, he slipped the Browning from its holster at his back.

With Patrick’s hand on his shoulder, Lang groped his way toward the place he had chosen. The thin light filtering through the basilica’s windows from above spilled down the stairs, outlining vague shadows that had equal chances of being merely ethereal or hard, unforgiving marble. With the hand holding the Browning extended in front of him, Lang found something, a tomb, and pulled Patrick down beside him.

They had no time to ascertain just where they were before footsteps echoed from the stone stairs. One, two, three, four shapes drifted down the stairs to merge with the darkness like specters descending into Hades. There were muted whispers, and two lights swept the gloom. Lang ducked, expecting to be caught like one of those unfortunate World War II British bomber pi lots pinned to the sky by a German searchlight. One beam swept over the sepulcher, painting the adjacent dusty sarcophagus with a brilliance it had not had in over a millennium. Lang got a flash of a reclining woman, arms crossed over her breast, with an animal, a dog, at her feet, before the light passed by.

Next to him, Patrick was attempting to rise up enough to see. Lang tugged at his arms. Lips next to his friend’s ear, Lang whispered, “Wait.”

He had a good idea what the Frenchman was thinking: four men, undoubtedly armed, with possibly a couple more keeping watch in the basilica above. Not good odds. If the undone lock on the church’s left door had not tipped the intruders off someone had been here before them, if they had entered by one of the two other portals, something else would. Lang tried to think. Had he unintentionally left some other sign of his and Patrick’s presence?

Too late to worry now.

Relying more on sound than sight, Lang guessed the newcomers had divided, two men with each light, as they edged deeper into the crypt. For the moment there was nothing to do but cower in the darkness amid the group of tombs.

Slowly, the lights passed them by, traveling farther into the necropolis. Then there was a cry, something in a language Lang could not understand. Daring to raise his head above the stone figures, he saw both lights illuminating the Bourbon monument. Four men surrounded the statuary, the reflected light revealing Asian faces animated in conversation.

Lang gave Patrick a gentle shove. Now was the time to get out of here.

Patrick understood. Lang could see his dim outline on hands and knees, ruining his impeccably tailored suit, as he made for the exit. Lang followed, the box in one hand, Browning in the other.

They had almost reached the open door when Patrick blindly smacked his head on someone’s tomb, eliciting a grunt of pain. Had the accident happened a split second earlier, the chances were the sound would have gone unnoticed, but it came at that precise moment when the men surrounding Louis and Marie Antoinette suddenly went quiet.

Both lights caught Patrick and Lang at the door.

Both men made a dive for the opening as one. In the confined space, two muzzle flashes were instantaneous, with the sound of gunshots close enough for the ears to feel as well as hear. Lang’s cheek stung from a marble splinter.

Both he and Patrick rolled through the doorway as bullets thumped into the door itself. Reaching up, Lang reached back to snatch the key from the lock. For an instant, it would not come loose, a delay that brought another volley whining over his head. With a frantic twist, he freed the heavy key and kicked the door shut.

On his back, Lang reached up again, this time to insert the key on the outside. With surprising ease, it turned as the bolt went into place and several more bullets hit but failed to penetrate the thick wood.

Lang took a deep breath and gave thanks to medieval man. First for being so much shorter than his contemporary cousins that a keyhole was only a modern arm’s length from the floor, and second, that his builders chose the stoutest of oak for doors, even if they were so low he had had to stoop to get through.

Standing, Lang turned to the steps. In front of him, Patrick was frozen. There were two men at the top with weapons extended.

Boulevard Carnot, Departement of Seine-Saint-Denis
Moments earlier

Gardien de la paix
Jules Carrier had drawn the short straw careerwise. Only two years out of the police academy, he could expect to be placed on the eight-hour shift from 2300 hours until 0700, the hours least popular with those with more seniority. He would not have expected to be partnered with a
stagiaire
—intern, one-year graduate—as a partner, though. Almost always, the younger officers were paired with more experienced partners. But then, nothing went normally for those unfortunate enough to be assigned to Saint Denis, one of the three Paris suburbs that came under the jurisdiction of the Paris Prefecture of Police.

Saint Denis was the black hole of police work, both figuratively and literally. Populated largely by immigrants from France’s former North African colonies, the district was heavily Muslim. Some of its residents practiced the extreme customs of their religion, such as female genital mutilation, intersectarian murder, honor killing and tribal feuds. Then there were the commercial enterprises such as meth labs, heroin dealing and fencing stolen goods. Lesser problems involved slaughtering of goats on public streets, dumping refuse on the sidewalks and setting fire to establishments that sold alcohol. There were almost-annual riots involving the burning of automobiles, smashing the few windows not secure behind steel curtains and automatic weapon fire at anyone unlucky enough to be in uniform when the trouble started. Jules was certain law-abiding, peaceful Muslims existed too, sometimes they just seemed outnumbered in and around Saint Denis.

Only a fool of a police officer would volunteer for duty here, and only a short-lived fool would wander far from the well-lighted main streets unless he had a substantial and well-armed force with him. Even the army was hesitant to venture into the narrow streets and alleys. The general, if unspoken, opinion around the Paris prefecture was that it was far wiser to make only a gesture of police presence around the perimeter of the worst areas than to risk the lives of good officers in a vain attempt to establish order in a place that was more war zone than neighborhood.