Gregg Loomis - The Bonaparte Secret

Lang furtively glanced at his watch.

“It is a long time for such what you call a small wound,” Nanette observed tartly.

“Look, Nanette, I’m sorry. Patrick insisted…”

The conversation stopped with the entry of a woman in hospital scrubs.

Nanette stood on shaky legs, her question unspoken.

Lang could not understand the woman’s French, but her smile and Nanette’s obvious relief told him all he needed to know.

“She says Patrick is fine.” Nanette beamed as the doctor left. “He is a little… what do you say? Woozy. He is a little woozy from the anesthetic from removing the bullet, but he is asking for both of us.”

Following a nurse, Lang and Nanette walked down a short hall, stopping at the last room on the left. Compared to U.S. hospitals, the room was small, barely space for the two beds mandated by France’s national health care. One was empty. Above the other, a monitor beeped in the muted tones of a regular heartbeat. Patrick, his left shoulder swaddled in gleaming white, was sitting up, a broad grin across his face.

Before he could speak a word, Nanette was embracing him gingerly. “Does it hurt?”

Patrick gave what would have been a typical Gallic shrug had he been able to employ both shoulders. “Not so much. They say they will release me tomorrow.”

Nanette’s expression said, not if she had anything to do with it, but Patrick’s attention was on the box in Lang’s hands. “You have opened it?”

Lang shook his head. “I thought I’d reserve that honor for you.”

With his right hand, Patrick pointed to the bandages. “You may have to wait a few days. Why do you not do it for me?”

Lang reached to the side of the bed, unfolding a tray across it, and placed the box on it so that Patrick could see the contents once it was open.

Patrick lifted a corner with his right hand. “It weighs little. How do you plan to open it-with your magic bump key?”

Lang withdrew his key ring. “Afraid not. The hole is too small.” He passed several keys, stopping at a small version of a Swiss Army knife. Opening the blade, he worked it under the lid like a diminutive crow bar. There was a squeal of protesting wood as Lang pried upward. Then a popping sound as the lock mechanism broke. Patrick’s eyes grew large as they met Lang’s when the latter lifted the top from the box.

The smile on Patrick’s face morphed into open lips of astonishment. With his good hand, he turned the box over, dumping its contents onto the collapsible tray.

Lang had to lean forward to see. At first he was unsure of what he saw. Two lumps of what might have been brass, tarnished green, what looked like a neatly folded stack of clothing and a small gold cross on a chain.

Patrick held up the metallic objects. “A French general’s epaulets!”

He shoved them aside to spread the clothing out on the tray. “And a French general’s uniform, size petite!”

Next, Patrick grasped up the cross. “The gift from his mother.”

“Are you saying that uniform, cross and those epaulets were Napoleon’s?” Nanette spoke for the first time since the box had been opened.

“Of course they were,” Patrick smiled. “This would be the uniform and insignia he wore before becoming marshal of France, perhaps at the time he turned cannon on royalists who were besieging the National Convention.”

“Then those are priceless, er, artifacts. They should go to the museum at Les Invalides,” she suggested.

“Not quite yet,” Lang said, drawing the attention of the other two. “Such a donation would surely make the press, and the last thing we-or I-want is to tip the Chinese to the fact that box does not contain Alexander’s relics. I’d much rather let them think what duPaar wants is beyond their reach.”

Patrick puffed his cheeks, expelling his breath in a gust. “But these items are valuable, too valuable for us to keep ourselves.”

“No need,” Lang said. “When the president for life of Haiti sees he won’t be getting what he wants, I’d guess the Chinese will be leaving the country. Once they’re out, you can put the whole story on the front page for all I care.”

“But what stops the Chinese from making another, er, deal, from coming back if they ever find Alexander?” Patrick wanted to know.

“Hopefully, good intelligence and the United States Navy.”

Presidential palace

Petionville, Port-au-Prince, Haiti

Five days later

Tonight Undersecretary Chin Diem was in no mood to enjoy the view of the city below. Failure seemed a small enough price to pay to assure he would never see the madman du-Paar or this pestilence-ridden tropical hell again. But would that be worth the price of failure at home?

He turned from the window as duPaar and his bodyguard entered.

The president for life plopped down behind the desk. “You have something for me?”

“Mr. President…,” Diem began. “I fear I have bad news, a temporary delay.”

DuPaar leaned across the desk, scowling. “Explain.”

“The container we believe holds the remains of Alexander is in the hands of the Americans.”

The following pause was so long, Diem thought the man had not heard. “We tracked them to a church in Paris when-”

“You do not have them and have no certain prospect of obtaining them.” DuPaar spoke so softly the secretary had to lean forward to hear. “I ask for the relics of Alexander. You bring me excuses instead.”

“I’m sure-”

The president for life’s voice escalated from a whisper to a near scream, spittle flying from his mouth. “Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I will accept failure as fulfilling our bargain? Just what do you think?”

“I would think, Mr. President,” Diem began in his most reasonable voice, “that the word of the People’s Republic-”

DuPaar was back to a near whisper again. “Idiot! Do you not understand? Alexander was the world’s greatest warrior. The country who possesses his remains cannot be defeated in battle. It is a fact Ptolemy knew and Perdiccas found out to his dismay when half his army drowned in the Nile.” He sneered. “The People’s Republic does not keep its word!”

He paused as if catching his breath.

“I am sure we, the People’s Republic, will be able-”

DuPaar leaned across the desk. “The People’s Republic will do nothing! Nothing other than getting out of Haiti!”

“But, Mr. President-”

“ Out!” DuPaar was pointing to the door. “Out of this place, out of Haiti. You will leave here immediately. All Chinese troops will be off Haitian soil in ten days or I will go before the UN, appeal to the United States to free us of this invasion…”

Diem had served in the diplomatic corps of his country for over fifteen years, but he had never seen a display like this. “Invasion? But you invited-”

“I invited a peaceful trade mission! Now I learn you have occupied the north coast of my country with military! I will invite the United States to send troops!”

Diem had never dealt with a man quite so crazy before. Admittedly, the North Korean dictator had been nuts, but not as bad as this. With as much dignity as he could muster, he marched toward the door the bodyguard was holding open.

If he was deaf, how had he known to do that?

The White House

Five days later

The president looked up from his desk as Chief of Staff Jack Roberts entered the Oval Office. “You said you had news for me?”

Without waiting to be asked, Roberts slouched into a chair. “Yeah, I do, boss. Two days ago the techies maneuvered one of our Misty-2 satellites into a new orbit.”

The president picked up a pen and was rolling it between his hands. “That’s the one that can see through clouds and is supposed to look like space junk?”