Gregg Loomis - The Bonaparte Secret

“Yep.”

“OK, so it’s in a new orbit. I assume it can now see the Caribbean. Don’t make me pry the info out of you, Jack.”

Roberts grinned. “No need. The spy in the sky has confirmed the Chinese are leaving Haiti. Their withdrawal should be complete within the week.”

The president leaned back in his chair and grinned right back, showing teeth famous worldwide. “Perfect! That should be shortly after I meet with the president of the People’s Republic. Set up a major news conference immediately afterward. I want all the networks’ big guns there when I announce this administration discovered the secret presence of Chinese military in Haiti and, through diplomacy alone, had them peacefully withdrawn. That should boost our polls before the midterm elections.”

The chief of staff stood. “Not to mention taking off the front page the fact your economic programs haven’t succeeded yet. And you did it without lifting your little finger.”

“No need to tell that part.” The president’s chair snapped upright and he put down the pen with which he had been toying. “I’d rather be lucky than good any day. Oh yeah, there’s one more thing.”

“And that would be?”

“Those people the FBI was protecting, the former Agency people. Did the Bureau ever find them?”

“I don’t think so, no. You want me to call off the dogs?”

The president nodded. “It would seem now we don’t care what they know or might say.”

Roberts cocked his head. “Should we tell them we no longer want to detain them?”

The president frowned, bringing his eyebrows together. “ Detain is an ugly word. I would not want anyone to think this administration is in the business of ‘detaining’ innocent citizens. Simply tell the people over at the Hoover Building we have no further interest in them.”

From the New York Times TOMB OF ALEXANDER FOUND? ALEXANDRIA. One of history’s most enduring mysteries may be on the verge of solution by an Italian-led team of archaeologists. Dr. Antonio Rossi, curator of Rome’s Archaeological Museum, and Dr. Zahi Hawass, general secretary of Egypt’s Supreme Council of Antiquities, announced yesterday that a heretofore-unknown chamber had recently been discovered off what had been known as the Alabaster Tomb, a location earlier archaeologists had discarded as the site of the final resting place of Alexander the Great. Modern electronic equipment led Dr. Rossi and his crew to reevaluate the site and they discovered part of the tomb had been sealed off, probably by scholars attached to the army of Napoleon Bonaparte. “When he was forced out of Egypt,” Dr. Rossi speculated, “Napoleon intended to return. He did not want his enemies to get the credit for discovering what had been lost for two thousand years, so he tried to cover his tracks.” Rossi explained that using careful archaeological methods of excavation, his team could still be weeks away from determining if this is really the place Alexander was buried. “We will never know for certain if this is Alexander’s tomb,” Rossi said, “unless we actually find the body, in this case, a mummy.” Alexander, known as “the Great,” was king of Macedonia, and died near the ancient city of Babylon in 323 BC.

472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta

Sunday evening, a month later

Lang Reilly had to step over a snoring Grumps to toss a log on the sputtering fire. “There! That ought to keep it going awhile longer.”

Father Francis, seated on the couch, looked up from the one of the sections of the Sunday edition of the New York Times Lang had given him. “So, Alexander’s mummy might still be in Alexandria after all these years?”

Lang retrieved his glass from the mantlepiece. “Who knows? The only thing certain is that it is not and probably never was in Venice or Paris. Or for that matter, Haiti.”

“You’re basing that on the president’s announcement that Chinese troops are leaving that fortress…”

“La Citadelle.”

“The Citadel. The Chinese are leaving, ergo duPaar didn’t get what he wanted-Alexander’s relics.”

Lang finished off the contents of his glass and crossed the room to the bar. “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

Francis held up his glass. “Watson is thirsty, too.”

Lang tinkled ice into the priest’s glass, followed by a generous measure of scotch.

Lang lifted his glass. “To my health, which I have seriously damaged, drinking to yours!”

Francis was about to reply when Manfred appeared in the doorway, solemn faced, to make an important announcement. “Mommy says dinner is ready.”

Lang stepped back to let Francis through the library/den’s entrance into the dining room. “I hope what we are about to receive is sufficient compensation for your missing the Women’s Guild Potluck Supper at the church tonight.”

“A lot more pot than luck. Bless them all, but I’ve had enough cold fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans and banana pudding to last me the next fifty years.”

“The tribulations of Job.”

Francis took his customary seat at the table. “Not Job but perhaps the culinary equivalent of the hermit’s cave of Saint Jerome.”

Gurt emerged from the kitchen, a ceramic Dutch oven held in gloved hands. “You will have ‘pot’ again. This time pot roast.”

Manfred followed Gurt. With Francis engaged in the newspaper article rather than in the games the priest and small boy normally played, he had “helped” his mother with dinner. Without his assistance, Lang guessed, the meal would have been on the table a half hour earlier.

Lang turned to Francis. “OK, padre, you’re on, but remember, no one wants cold pot roast.”

After a mercifully short blessing, everyone busied themselves with filling their plates. Grumps, ever the optimist, lurked nearby in hopes of spills.

“One thing I don’t understand,” Francis said between bites. “The box. I mean, Napoleon carries a box with epaulets from Egypt, sends it to Haiti and winds up hiding it in a secret compartment in a funeral effigy? Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

Lang speared a potato with his fork. “Maybe not to us. Remember, Napoleon was what today we would call a superstitious man, had an astrologer available at all times to consult as to the most propitious times to invade, go into battle, et cetera. The contents of that box, the stuff he associated with his rise to power, was his talisman, his good-luck charm. Sort of like lending out your lucky rabbit’s foot.”

“Which is less than lucky for the rabbit.”

“Whatever. I’m guessing Napoleon thought the articles from his past, the gold cross, the epaulets from his first general’s uniform, would bring luck to Leclerc.”

“So why did he hide them in a church?” Francis wanted to know.

“I think he knew there would be a wave of reaction to anything having to do with the empire, at least among the victorious allies. Prince Metternich of Austria was leading the Congress of Vienna, composed of the allies, in that direction, dismantling Napoleon’s empire. He hid what he thought was valuable so his son might have it. Unfortunately for him, the plan somehow misfired.”

They were silent for a few more minutes before Francis looked over at Lang, a tray of hot rolls in his hand. “We were so busy discussing Alexander and Napoleon, I forgot to ask. What’s in store for that charlatan, the Reverend Bishop Groom?”

Lang sighed deeply. “I thought forgiveness was part of your shtick, Francis.”

“I forgive all charlatans but I’m hoping the law won’t.”

Lang accepted the bread tray. “He’s pondering an offer to plead to two counts of tax evasion and one of mail fraud. I did a hell of a job getting the U.S. attorney to make the offer. The feds usually won’t bargain. He should be a free man in five or six years.”