Gabriel Hunt - Hunt Through Napoleon's Web

“So why don’t you go get it, if you know where it is?”

“We know generally where it is,” Amun said, “not precisely. And we also know that the location is protected, both mechanically and by a secret society sworn to keep the Second Stone ever from coming to light again.”

“What do you mean, ‘mechanically’?”

“When Napoleon finished his examination of the Second Stone, he ordered the aide he had summoned—an engineer of some repute—to take the Stone to Napoleon’s birthplace in Corsica and hide it there, in a cave near Ajaccio. Napoleon worked closely with this engineer to design the hiding place. We believe the vault in which the Second Stone was placed contains a number of traps—deadly ones, Mister Hunt, based on Napoleon’s own ideas. To prevent the Stone from being found or stolen, you understand.”

“And the secret society?”

“That was Louis’s doing. He organized the group to keep watch over the Stone’s location. This small group of Corsicans has passed the knowledge down, father to son, through ten generations. They still exist today.”

“And how do you know that? Another letter?”

“No, Mister Hunt,” Amun said. “Much simpler than that. We succeeded in capturing one of them. He told us much before he died.”

“But not the location of the cave.”

“Not its precise location, no. He would have, eventually. But he was too weak. His heart . . .” Amun made a gesture with one hand, a closed fist opening.

A second Rosetta Stone. Gabriel was having some trouble wrapping his brain around the idea. It would be a treasure, to be sure—a priceless one that men might die to possess. But why would they die to keep its mere existence a secret?

“What’s so special about this Second Stone? There’s got to be something more to it than its archeological significance.”

Amun smiled. He leaned forward across the table. “After seeing what was inscribed on the Second Stone, Napoleon Bonaparte conquered Europe. He was a strong soldier before—but after, for a time . . . ? He was unstoppable. He was a god.”

Gabriel put both hands on the arms of his chair, started to stand. Kemnebi stepped closer.

“What is it, Mister Hunt?” Amun said. “We are not done.”

“Oh, yes we are,” Gabriel said. “I’m not searching for some magic stone you think will give you the power to conquer the world.”

“Don’t be rash,” Amun said. “Your sister will die if you walk out of here now. And so will you.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Gabriel said. “How good a magic stone could it have been? Napoleon lost!”

“Sit down!” Amun snatched up Gabriel’s Colt and pulled back the hammer. “Or would you rather be shot with your own gun?”

Gabriel sat.

“First of all, Mister Hunt, I did not say it was a magic stone. I only said it was contemporaneous with the Rosetta Stone and contained an inscription of sufficient interest that Napoleon spent a week examining it.”

“Examining what?” Gabriel said, exasperated. “He couldn’t have read it—the Rosetta Stone itself wasn’t even translated for twenty more years!”

“Be that as it may. He inspected it, and somehow emerged changed. Transformed. By all accounts, it was the inscription on the Second Stone that gave him the power to achieve what he did. You may call it magic if you wish; I prefer to think of it as the will of the old gods, those who gave the pharaohs their power. Bonaparte gained power he should never have had. He gained . . . I am not sure what to call it. Charisma. The mantle of a great leader. Whatever along these lines he had before was multiplied a hundredfold. A thousandfold. He became the Napoleon of history books, the famed emperor of Europe. He was a changed man.”

“Who lost !”

“Yes, ultimately. He made some serious mistakes and was brought down—but he came closer to dominating the world than anyone since Alexander or Genghis Khan.”

“Did they have magic stones too?”

“Who knows? Perhaps. All we care about is what Bonaparte had.” Amun took another swallow of his tea. His hand was shaking now, very slightly, and Gabriel saw sweat dotting his brow. The man was not completely unflappable. “He had no right to it,” Amun said. “It was ours—it was Egypt’s. The stone and the power it conveyed. And you are going to help us get it back.”

Gabriel stood once more. Kemnebi leaned toward him, grinding the knuckles of one enormous hand against the palm of the other.

“I’m not leaving,” Gabriel said. “Just need the bathroom. Too much tea.”

Amun nodded at Kemnebi. “Show him where it is.”

The big man extended one long arm, pointing. He followed close behind as Gabriel walked between two tall piles of rugs. A wooden door stood open and through it Gabriel could see a small cubicle with a sink and commode.

He shut the door behind him, unbuckled his belt, and went through the motions of using the facility, trusting the sound to travel through the thin door. Meanwhile, he reached into his jacket pocket and dug out his cell phone. He saw a text message from Sammi on the screen:

THAT’S THE PRO

That was all there was. Just the three words, and the third possibly not even complete. That’s the problem . . . ? That’s the professional . . . ? What had she meant to type—and what had prevented her from finishing the message?

Pressing the phone’s tiny loudspeaker tightly against his ear to muffle its sound, Gabriel thumbed the icon to dial Sammi’s cell phone. It rang just once and then went to voice mail.

Damn .

After zipping his pants and washing his hands, Gabriel swung the door open.

Kemnebi and Amun were standing there, waiting for him. Before Gabriel could say a word, Kemnebi grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall. The big man patted him down until he felt the phone through Gabriel’s jacket. He groped inside and held it aloft like a prize.

“You should have known better,” Amun said. “We can’t allow you to be in contact with the outside world, Mister Hunt.”

Kemnebi dropped the phone on the floor and then stomped on it with his boot, smashing the thirty-thousand-dollar device to pieces.

“Oh, and you can forget about your female companion,” Amun added. “By now, I am afraid she is no longer among the living.”

Chapter 8

It was difficult for Sammi to tell how fast the van was going. From the smoothness of the drive, she suspected they were on an expressway.

She’d given up yelling and kicking when it became clear it was doing no good. Instead, she concentrated on the ropes around her wrists. When she had been her father’s assistant, she had used thicker cords that were easier to manipulate. These felt as narrow as shoelaces; they were tight and dug painfully into her skin.

The secret of slipping rope ties was to prepare for the escape prior to being bound. Houdini would stand in poses that expanded his muscles so that when he relaxed his pose after being tied he gained the millimeters of slack he needed. Another approach was to discreetly influence the person doing the binding into tying his knots a specific way—like using a magician’s “force” to compel the choice of a particular playing card. Or you could use your fingers and wrists to twist the knot as it was being secured—the so-called Kellar method, which Sammi’s father had taught her. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had the opportunity to do any of these things.

The van hit a bump and Sammi stifled a yelp. The floor was unpadded corrugated metal and any time they passed over an uneven spot in the pavement she slammed against it. With her arms trussed tightly behind her and her shoulders aching from the strain, getting banged around like this was no pleasure.