Gregg Loomis - The Bonaparte Secret

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.