Gregg Loomis - The Bonaparte Secret

That should afford a minute or two’s delay.

The weapons consisted of each man’s SIG Sauer SIG Pro 2022, which had within the past year replaced the standard Beretta, a Taser and a Browning twelve-gauge pump shotgun with a choice of rubber bullets or number-two buckshot. Lavon confirmed the firearms were loaded and the Taser charged.

By this time, radio chatter confirmed at least two other cars really were on the way. Waiting at the scene for their arrival before entering the basilica would not only be prudent, it would be standard procedure.

Backup or not, Jules still had a bad feeling as he turned on the siren and pulled away from the curb.

Basilique Saint Denis

Even in the watery light filtering through the church’s windows, Lang could see the two men at the top of the stairs were Asian. He could also see there was no cover. Unless he and Patrick could sink through the stone floor, they were at the others’ mercy. As one, Lang and Patrick dropped their pistols and raised their hands.

Lang fully expected to be shot where he stood.

The eyes of the taller of the two Asians flicked to the box in Lang’s hand. He pointed and said something in what Lang guessed was a Chinese dialect.

His companion, gun trained on Lang’s forehead, took a step closer. “The box,” he said in understandable if accented English. “He wants the box.”

Lang knew Patrick was thinking the same thing: if Lang could use the box to lure either man close enough…

Lang held it up. “Come and get it.”

Even in the poor light it was obvious the English speaker’s smile did not reach his eyes. “If I have to take it from your corpse, I will do so. Now, reach up the stairs as far as you can and place the box there.”

Shit, a professional.

Lang hesitated.

The non-English speaker’s finger was tightening on the trigger.

“OK, OK!”

Just as Lang leaned forward to comply with the demand, there was a series of loud thumps on the door behind him. The men in the crypt had heard voices and guessed what had happened.

“First, do as I have said. Then you will unlock that door.”

Lang felt Patrick’s elbow gently jab him in the ribs. The similarity of training between the Agency and the French organization had been a topic of discussion between the two friends in times past. Lang could only hope there was a concurrence in this situation.

Stretching forward, he placed the box on the next-to-top step before slowly straightening up.

“And now the door.”

Lang turned to fumble with the key. He didn’t know if Patrick could see in the poor light, but he winked anyway.

The door swung open quickly, probably because one or more of the men inside was pushing on it. In unison, Patrick and Lang stepped back as though to make room.

As the last two men, guns in hand, came through the opening, Lang and Patrick stepped behind them, grabbing each with one arm locked around the neck, the other holding his opponent’s gun arm. Shielded by their captives’ bodies from the weapons of the others, both Patrick and Lang slammed the hands with the guns against the steps’ iron railing.

The pistols clattered to the stone floor.

The first two men through the doorway turned, trying to maneuver into a position to get a clear shot without hitting their comrades. The stairwell was too narrow. The man Lang held was struggling, and Lang knew he could not hold him indefinitely. At some point he and Patrick would have to recover either their own guns or those that had been dropped by the men they held.

And there was no way to do that without exposing themselves to the fire from the men at the top of the stairs.

Patrick cursed as his man broke partially free, giving the men at the top of the stairs a target. Before they could react, Patrick made a dive for the small space at the bottom of the stairwell just as the sound of a pair of shots smashed against Lang’s eardrums.

Patrick grunted in surprise. “ Merde! ”

With Patrick exposed, Lang released his man, raising his own hands in hopes there would be no more shooting. In the cramped confines of the staircase, even a ricochet could be deadly.

Lang sensed uncertainty in the two men at the top of the steps. The English speaker bent over, reaching for the box.

Then the lights went on.

For the instant it took for eyes to adjust, Lang and the Chinese froze in blindness. Lang shoved the man he had let loose forward, at the same time stooping to reach for the spot where he thought he had seen someone’s weapon on the bottom step seconds before.

By the time he came up with it, the two at the top of the stairs were gone and the other four were scampering up the steps.

Shouts echoed from the arches overhead, magnified by the natural acoustics built into medieval churches. The four men who had been in the crypt were at various levels on the stairs. The two at the top fired toward the front of the basilica before turning as though to make a run for it.

The one in the lead jerked and fell as a burst of automatic-weapon fire reverberated throughout the cavernous church. The remaining man at the top dropped his pistol and flung his arms into the air. Behind him, the remaining two made a quick decision and raised their arms, too.

Pushing by Lang, Patrick climbed the stairs, his right arm grasping his left shoulder. It was only when he came out of the shadows of the stairwell that Lang noticed the left shoulder of his friend’s suit was darkened with something wet. A splatter of crimson on the marble floor told him Patrick had been hit.

Following Patrick, Lang emerged into the floor of the cathedral. Between him and the portal through which he had entered were six police. Two held short, stubby automatic weapons, another was pointing a shotgun. The remaining three were in a two-handed shooting stance, pistols aimed in Lang’s direction. At least two of them were too nervous for Lang’s comfort. All were shouting commands in French.

No interpretation needed. He dropped the pistol and raised his hands.

“My inside pocket,” Patrick said, gritting his teeth against obvious pain. “Get out my wallet.”

“You’re hit.”

“Yes, yes. And we are both likely to get shot if you do not show them my identification.”

Lang removed the ID wallet from his friend’s inside coat pocket. It was slippery with blood. Moving slowly with the wallet held up for inspection, Lang handed it to the officer who looked as though he might be in his early twenties, the oldest of the group. The other five edged closer, dividing attention between what their elder was holding and their prisoners.

“DGSE?” the cop asked, confused as to what a member of France’s counterespionage agency would be doing in the Basilica of Saint Denis in the early-morning hours.

A brief exchange in French followed. From Patrick’s increasing irritation and the few words Lang understood, Lang gathered the policeman was asking questions and Patrick was invoking state security.

He hoped someone here understood English. “In case you haven’t noticed, this man has been shot. Can we get him to a hospital before he bleeds to death?”

Patrick, his face blanched, was holding on to the stair’s railing for support. He rattled off what sounded like commands before translating. “I told them to find the two missing Chinese.” He looked around. “And where is the box? What happened to the box?”

Lang scooped it up from the floor, holding it aloft like a trophy. Patrick did not see. He had collapsed on the floor.

Hopital Cognacq-Jay

15 rue Eugene Millon, Paris

Two and a half hours later

Lang and Nanette shared a tiny room only a few feet from the hospital’s surgery. Fearing the worst despite Lang’s assurances, she had left her son in the custody of a neighbor. As in any such institution, the air was heavy with the odor of antiseptic. An occasional murmur of an intercom system was the only break in the silence.