Gregg Loomis - The Bonaparte Secret

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.

That was why Jules and his partner Lavon had chosen a relatively peaceful spot across from the Hotel Sovereign to sit in their diminutive Peugeot 307 and drink coffee, hoping to pass the shift without someone throwing a brick or worse through the car’s windshield. They paid no attention to the car’s radio when the first report of gunfire crackled through the airwaves. Why should they? Hardly a night passed without some son of Islam taking a shot at another. Narcotics deal gone bad, perceived or actual insult, home invasion. You name it, the provocations for murder and mayhem by and against the locals were endless.

A second report followed the first.

Jules was getting uneasy. What if they received orders to investigate? Walking the streets of this district in a police uniform was tantamount to pinning a target on your back.

Even relatively inexperienced, Lavon knew that much. “Perhaps we should find an automobile accident in a far location or take our break now?”

Good idea.

“We can get fresh coffee over there at the hotel,” Jules suggested, reaching for the door handle. “Tell the prefecture we will be on break.”

It was as if the radio operator could hear. Her voice called their unit number.

“… at the basilica, multiple gun shots coming from the basilica. Proceed at once.”

Too late.

Jules slowly picked up the microphone, toying with the idea of claiming the message was breaking up. Probably no use. A dozen other units would have heard it.

“Backup?” he asked hopefully.

The radio assured him it was on the way.

But the church was only a kilometer or so south of their position, minutes away. The last thing Jules wanted was to be the first to arrive at a darkened church where some zealous Muslim fundamentalist was shooting up the place of the infidel.

“Check the weapons,” he instructed Lavon.