Gabriel Hunt - Hunt Through Napoleon's Web

“Charming,” Gabriel said. “I’m liking him more and more.”

He put down his rucksack and gestured for Sammi to take hers off as well. Then he placed the bags just inside the entrance, where they’d be in the way if the wall started to rotate closed.

Carefully, they picked their way across the room, avoiding stepping on any of the skeletons.

The cage at the far end would have been large enough to hold a large dog, with bars spaced close enough to one another to prevent the Stone from being taken out, even sideways. There was a door on the front of the cage with a metal pedestal beside it, and at the top of the pedestal was a basin. There was what looked like a drain in the center of the basin—but no sign of any source of liquid. Beside the drain were some old coins.

Looking back at the cage, Gabriel saw that there was no handle on the door and no lock—at least no conventional lock.

“The basin must contain the mechanism to open the door,” he said.

“Maybe you have to put something in it,” Sammi said, “like with the chest outside.”

“Not coins, apparently.” He picked out the three tarnished specimens from the bottom of the basin. They were Italian lire dating back seventy-five years. “At least not Italian ones.”

“I don’t suppose the gun would work again,” she said.

“Not likely,” Gabriel said. “And I don’t think we’d get a second chance. I assume putting the wrong thing in triggers the gas.”

He shined his light on the wall behind the cage. Once again there was an inscription:

Lui seul qui contracte un contrat français peut continuer .

“ ‘Only he who enters into a French legal contract may proceed,’ ” Sammi translated.

“Maybe you’d better tell me a bit more about Book Three,” Gabriel said.

She repeated the words of the inscription to herself. “Basically it goes into detail about how property can be acquired: succession, wills, loans, mortgages, even marriage—and all of these involve contracts.”

“And here we are, trying to acquire some property,” he said, gesturing toward the cage. “What does it say about entering into a contract?”

She closed her eyes. “I’m trying to remember. I took a course on the Code, but that was years ago.”

He bounced the coins in his palm. “Probably does involve money.”

“Not necessarily,” Sammi said. “There does not need to be consideration for a contract to exist under Napoleon’s code—a ‘meeting of the minds’ or ‘agreement of the wills’ is sufficient. If I agree to sell something and you agree to buy it, that’s a binding legal contract even if no money has changed hands.”

“But if you’re not here to agree,” Gabriel said. “Say, because you died two hundred years ago. If I wanted to enter into a contract with you then . . . ?”

“Yes, there might need to be consideration exchanged in that case. As a demonstration of good faith.”

“A demonstration of good faith,” Gabriel said. “Or else there’s no contract. So basically if we want to get the Stone out, we need to put up some money. And not lire, because a French legal contract calls for good French money.” He cast a glance back toward the other room. “There’s probably some back there. The problem is, we can’t take it without getting skewered.”

Sammi started unbuttoning her shirt.

“What are you doing?” Gabriel said.

She lifted the chain that hung between her breasts, the one she’d shown him over dinner in Nice. At first he’d thought the object on the end was a medallion—but she’d explained it was a single French franc.

A French franc from 1800.

“Of course,” Gabriel said, his eyes sparking. But then he hesitated. “But are you sure? You said your mother gave it to you—”

“You have a better idea?” Sammi said. “I didn’t think so.” She unclipped the circular setting the coin was mounted in from the chain and with some effort popped the coin out. She laid it in his palm and closed his fingers over it.

“One franc,” he said. “I wonder if it’s enough.”

“To buy a priceless artifact, no,” she said. “But to create a binding legal contract, yes.”

He nodded. It made sense—as much as any of this made sense.

He held the franc over the hole in the pedestal. Even with his flashlight aimed directly down, he could see nothing inside except blackness. “Maybe you should wait in the other room—”

“With the spears, you mean?” Sammi said. “I’m staying with you.”

“All right.” He dropped the coin into the hole. It clanked against the sides as it went down, and then landed on a metal surface. Machinery of some sort creaked into motion inside the pedestal, rattling the coin against what sounded like a metal pan. The sound reminded Gabriel of the mechanical coin boxes they had on New York City buses when he was a kid, the ones that sorted different types of coins from one another: halves from quarters, nickels from dimes. You’d put in a handful of change and the mechanism would decide if you’d put in the right amount. There was always someone who insisted on dropping in pennies, or Canadian money, which the mechanism wasn’t built to handle, and the line would back up out the door.

But no one got gassed for it.

Gabriel felt the muscles of his back and shoulders tense. From the expression on Sammi’s face, she was feeling the same. He looked over at the entryway. Maybe they both should leave while they could—

The sound stopped.

And a hissing began.

“Gabriel!” Sammi cried.

“No, wait,” Gabriel said, “that’s not gas, it sounds like . . . hydraulics.”

As they watched, the pedestal swung away from the cage, and then with a click the door of the cage swung open.

Gabriel released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He approached the cage and gently reached into it. He put one hand on either side of the Stone. Its surface was rough beneath his fingers. And the weight—it must have weighed over a hundred pounds. But he lifted it and brought it out, cradling it in his arms.

It was extraordinary. Nearly two thousand years old, and untouched by human hands since Napoleon’s time. A piece of history, literally.

“Well done, my friend.”

The resonant voice boomed throughout the chamber. Gabriel and Sammi spun to face it.

Reza Arif stood with several armed men behind him. Kemnebi was among them, and he had a 9mm Glock pointed at Gabriel’s head. The others held rifles.

Arif came forward. “How nice to see you again, Gabriel. And you, my dear. I do so regret that we didn’t meet under better circumstances.” He plucked the handkerchief from his breast pocket and unfolded it, laid it across his palms. “Now, Gabriel. You give me the Stone.”

Chapter 23

“As soon as Michael told me he’d contacted you, I knew it was a mistake,” Gabriel said.

Arif shrugged. “What can I say? Your family has always paid me well . . . but the Alliance of the Pharaohs pays better.”

“You bastard,” Sammi said. “You cowardly—”

Gabriel shook his head. “Sammi. Don’t.”

“Well, he is!”

Arif grinned at her. “You are right. I make no bones about it. I am not brave, like your friend here. If you like, you may call me a coward. But cowards live to toast the memories of brave men. As I shall toast yours, Gabriel. And yours, my dear Miss Ficatier.” He shook his head. “It would have been a true pleasure to have some more time alone with you. Imagine if it had been she in my cellar instead of you all those years ago, eh, Gabriel? We would not have spent the days and nights just drinking tea.”

“How did you get down here?” Gabriel said.