"Why worry with keeping it clean?" Sean asked. "Or that clean, anyway. I understand the need to hide one's tracks," he clarified, "but why worry about the blood?"
"Perhaps that has something to do with the killer's training."
"Training?" June asked, taking a step forward.
"The killer left a calling card at the crime scene." He slid his phone across the table next to the letter. There was a picture on it of the crime scene with the dead man lying facedown on the floor in his priestly sleeping attire.
Commander Bodmer had been right. There was almost no blood, only a thin sliver on the back of the dead man's neck that indicated where the blade had slid into his skull. That wasn't what Bodmer had wanted Sean to see. The rest of the crew leaned in close, huddling around to get a better view.
On the man's back was a piece of cloth. It looked worn, like an old kitchen rag. On it was a white shield that featured a black cross.
"What is it?" Sean asked. "You thinking this was an inside job or something?"
Bodmer shook his head. "You don't know what that is?"
Sean shook his head.
Tommy remained eerily silent. "I believe I know what that is, but—" He stopped, cutting off the words that were sitting on the cusp of his lips, ready to leap out.
"But what?" Bodmer asked.
"That couldn't be. They're…they're a charity organization now. Last I checked, they're not a military group anymore."
Bodmer leaned back in his seat, clearly pleased at Tommy's recognition of the mark.
"So you know it."
Tommy rolled his shoulders, still uncertain if he should say it.
"Know what?" Sean pressed.
"That emblem," Tommy said, pointing to the shield that was emblazoned on the cloth atop the dead man's back. "It's one of the crests used by a group that is no longer around, at least not in the way they used to be. If I'm not mistaken, that's the military crest of the Order of Teutonic Knights."
"Very good. I had my doubts about coming here, but I see Klopp wasn't entirely incorrect. He told me you were the best at this sort of thing. Quite the exploits you two have had over the years. Even a trip or two to the Vatican." He arched one eyebrow.
"Yeah," Sean said. "The library is impressive."
"Indeed." There was a hint of disdain.
"So, I don't understand," June said. "If you know who left that rag there, why don't you just track them down yourself and arrest them?"
"We only know the symbol of the order—one of the symbols, actually. There are a few. As your…husband here said before, the Order of the Teutonic Knights was disbanded long ago."
Tommy nodded his agreement. "Yeah, I can't remember the exact dates, but they were dismantled in the early 1800s. Maybe 1803?"
"It was 1805."
"Oh, I was close," Tommy said excitedly.
"They were reinstated in 1834 as a charitable organization. As far as we know, they have not been involved in any military or clandestine training or operations for the last couple of hundred years. Following World War I, they were officially recognized as a spiritual organization within the Catholic Church, which did little except give them more authority in their charitable operations."
"It would seem that assumption wasn't entirely correct."
"Indeed. The letter"—Bodmer pointed at the envelope—"was thought to be nothing more than the ramblings of a dying man. They were his final words, and he was in an immense amount of pain. He was struggling to keep his mind right in his last days. Several of his friends thought he'd gone mad. That letter was kept in our archives for nearly two hundred years. Then, a few weeks ago, Cardinal Jarllson discovered it. We have the records of his visit to the vaults, making a copy of the original letter, and whom he shared it with."
"Who did he share it with?" Adriana pressed.
"Only Klopp. Jarllson sent him an email about it, knowing that Klopp also had a deep interest in history. He thought Klopp would like to see the letter, perhaps in hopes that Klopp could make sense of it all. Unfortunately, Jarllson was murdered the day after he sent the email. Klopp had this copy of the letter and requested that it be sent to you. He said he couldn't decipher it but knew of someone in the United States who could."
"I wonder how this Klopp heard of us," Sean quipped, casting a sidelong glance at Tommy.
They could tell their guest was intent on them opening the letter. He stared at it, begging silently for someone to open and read it.
"I guess the beach isn't happening," Tommy said, reaching over to pick up the letter. "This isn't an original, is it? Because it should really get better care than…well, this." He wagged the envelope.
"That old envelope is a ruse. Nothing more. As I said before, the real letter is safe. It's in the Vatican archives, deep within the vault. It is as secure there as it could be anywhere in the world. That envelope isn't more than a few years old; though it's certainly seen better days."
Tommy accepted the explanation and removed the letter, spreading it out on the table. He wanted to smack himself in the forehead for already forgetting what the commander had said about the vault.
It was written in French. The letters were swooping, dramatic cursive. The ink had faded, not just from being copied, but the original ink was clearly very old.
"My French is…a little rusty," Tommy said.
He passed the letter to Sean, who waved a hand. "I know enough to get by, but reading that…"
"Give it to me," Adriana said. Before Tommy could even nod or start to say yes, she snatched the paper and started scanning over it. She stopped in the middle of the page and looked up, meeting the eyes of Commander Bodmer. "This is a deathbed confession."
"Yes, that is correct," he said as if it were obvious. Maybe it should have been since he was talking about that before.
She continued reading, and when she reached the bottom of the page, her eyes shot wide in disbelief.
"This isn't real," Adriana said flatly. "It has to be a fake."
Bodmer shook his head ominously, as if he was keeping a great and foreboding secret from the rest of the group. "I assure you, it's real. Of course, your friends here can analyze it if they choose. I'm certain Thomas, or Tommy as you call him, has the equipment and the means to determine its legitimacy. We've already run those tests, of course, in the labs at the Vatican. But be my guest." He waved one hand dismissively as if he didn't care what they did with the thing.
"What?" Sean asked, looking at her intently. "What is it?"
"It's a letter," she said plainly, then paused for dramatic effect, "from Napoléon Bonaparte."
4
MALBORK, POLAND
Lucien Berger picked up the phone and pressed the green button on the screen. "Details."
It wasn't a question, it was an order, and the man on the other end of the call didn't flinch. Berger was direct and efficient. He didn't have time for pleasantries, and there was, in his opinion, no call for them.
His accent was native French. He'd been born in Toulon, a coastal town in the South of France. It was a city with a rich maritime and military history.
He'd moved to Germany long ago, though, and hadn't looked back. This was where he belonged—despite the location of his birthplace.
The other voice came quickly through the phone's earpiece. "Bodmer is meeting with them right now, sir." This new voice was decidedly German, hinting from somewhere in the north of the country.
Berger nodded. He knew that was going to happen. Things had been put into play now, and there was no going back. Not that he intended to stop.
"And?" Berger asked.
"It sounds like they're going to the Vatican with the Guard's commander."
Berger thumbed at his mustache and picked the goatee on his chin with the side of his index finger. "Good. This is exactly what I hoped you'd tell me."
"Sir?"
The man didn't have to clarify what he meant. It was evident in his voice that he thought Wyatt and the others coming
to Europe would be problematic. He was right—if the proper precautions were ignored. Sean Wyatt and his sidekick had a bad habit of getting into trouble no matter where they went. Their exploits were well known across the globe. Most of the time, they were working on historical projects, helping other archaeologists transport their finds to secure locations and, occasionally, working on dig sites themselves.
These two, however, were more than what they seemed on the outside. While Berger didn't think Schultz had any formal training in weapons or hand-to-hand combat, he knew that the man possessed a certain amount of skill when it came to a fight. If he hadn't, he would have been dead by now.
Wyatt, on the other hand, was trouble, plain and simple. He was highly skilled in the art of combat, was extremely proficient with firearms and other kinds of weapons, spoke a few languages, and had gone through rigorous paramilitary training before moving into service with Axis, which had led him to even more clandestine operations.
Once he was with Axis, most of his file seemed to evaporate. That agency had very few leaks, and little was known about it, other than its director answered only to the president of the United States. None of their exploits, none of their missions, and none of their agents, apart from Wyatt, were known to anyone.
Berger didn't need to penetrate their headquarters, though, since Wyatt no longer worked for them.
IAA, on the other hand, had been easier to hack. The databases, while well protected, were relatively easy to get into, though they contained nothing helpful, just some information about certain budgetary spending and inventory of their vault.
There was very little in the way of anything useful.
None of that mattered, though, when Berger executed the priest in the Vatican. He'd ended Jarllson's life with ease, inserting the dagger in the man’s neck and driving the tip into his brain. It was a clean kill, and the cardinal didn't suffer—even though Berger had wanted him to.
He wanted all of them to suffer, and they would, but he would have to bide his time and be patient, waiting for the final moment.
"Do not worry," Berger said to his man on the phone, "all is going according to plan."
"They're talking about visiting the Vatican, the crime scene specifically."
"Good. If Cardinal Klopp won't hand over the true letter, then perhaps these Americans can lead us to it."
There was an uncomfortable pause on the other end of the line, as if the other man wasn't sure he should say what he was thinking.
"What is it, Michael?" Berger asked. "You have something you want to say but aren't saying it."
How did he know? The other man on the phone was actively wondering that very thing. He was relatively new to the order and didn't yet understand that the organization's grand master had the keen ability to not only read body language, but to detect inconsistencies in conversations, sometimes even when they were extremely subtle.
"Yes, sir. I do. The Americans…they have a copy of the letter."
"Interesting." Berger didn't sound concerned, even though he probably should have been. If they had the letter, that meant they had a head start.
He'd killed Jarllson for it, only to later learn that the dead man had given it to Klopp. He'd tried a different tact and was cordial, borderline friendly with Klopp, and made an exceedingly generous offer. The cardinal, however, had turned him down. Apparently, he was one of the powerful men in the church who had morals. Berger detested those types, particularly because he knew so much of the truth behind the history of the Catholic Church and what they had done, whom they had wronged, and the atrocities they were responsible for.
He did his best not to get angry, but the little flame flickered in his gut, sparked from old embers that had been smoldering for most of his life—ever since he’d learned the truth.
"Stay close to them, Michael. We don't want to lose them."
"Sir, I won't be able to follow them. They're going to get on the Vatican's private jet and head back to Rome."
Obviously, Michael couldn't get on the plane with Wyatt and company. He flew in on his own, on a commercial jet. Now, he would have to find a way to get back quickly.
"I'll have a charter waiting for you at the airport. Did they say when they're leaving Atlanta?"
"Sounds like tonight, sir."
That made sense. The group would fly through the night, sleep on the plane, or at least try to, and then start fresh the next morning with their search of the Vatican.
"You're a tourist," the grand master said. "Get a tour of the Vatican, and follow closely behind them."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I won't be able to gain entry into restricted areas if I'm disguised as a tourist."
That was true. Berger had to commend his apprentice for bringing up that issue. What to do, then?
The answer was elegantly simple. "You're a priest, then. See our man Rafael in Rome. He will take care of your clothes and everything you need to look and feel the part. Once you're inside, you know what to do."
Michael did know. It was the same thing as always when it came to following someone and getting information. Stay close but not so close that the targets became suspicious. He'd done that dozens of times before, had gone through painful training to learn how, and was now an expert of stealth reconnaissance. Berger trusted his trainee's talents, so the reminder was superfluous.
"Yes, sir. I do."
"I'll send you your itinerary and where to go in the airport." He didn't have to tell the younger man not to be late. That was a given.
"Thank you, sir. I'll be in touch when I land in Rome."
"Good. We will speak then."
Berger ended the call and laid the phone on his desk. The fire crackled in the stone hearth ten feet away. He looked around the room at the papers strewn across the desk, the pictures, books, maps, and notes that were scattered haphazardly on the floor, on the chairs, and on the sofa.
The room was old, built several hundred years ago to serve as an underground tavern. It had become his headquarters when he was brought into the order by the previous grand master. Now Lucien Berger was in charge, and he swore to his leader on the man's deathbed that he would see to it that all of the man's plans came to fruition.
It was the least Berger could do.
Watching his mentor die was a difficult thing despite being trained to be immune to such emotions. There were still little flecks of Berger's prior life, his prior humanity, that, to this day, would still haunt him from time to time.
Whenever it did, he had to actively push it away.
Emotions caused rash decisions, mistakes, erratic behavior that almost always led to disaster. He'd been taught that during his training and had almost eliminated emotional responses from his psyche, but now and then there was a moment, however fleeting, that caused feelings to surge up from his chest and fill his mind.
In this instance, it was thinking of his master on his deathbed and the promise that Berger had made.
The old man had brought Berger in as a young boy, little more than a toddler. He was an orphan, out on the streets, trying to beg for enough money to buy one meal a day and maybe a bottle of clean water now and then. Back then, Berger was scrawny, feeble. He was the definition of pitiful.
His parents had died when he was very young and had left him nothing. Their house was repossessed, and he was sent to a boys' home since his mother and father had no other relatives in the area. Both sets of grandparents had passed, and as far as he knew, there were no aunts or uncles who could swoop in and provide for the young man.
Berger quickly learned that he didn't want to be at the boys' home. There were sick things that happened there, things that revolted him even to this day, though he forced himself to reframe those events as necessary to make him who he was. He would never have arrived at the order without going through those hardships, and he certainly wouldn't have ever gained ambition enough to climb to the top of the food chain.
Now, here he was, the grand master of the order, a
nd Lucien Berger had every intention of living up to the promise he'd made the dying man. He would restore them to their former glory and renew their place in the world as the true holy military power.
There were just a few things standing in his way. They would be handled soon. Everything was coming together according to plan.
5
ROSEMARY BEACH
"Napoléon Bonaparte?" Tommy asked. "As in the general?"
"You know of another Napoléon Bonaparte?" Adriana fired back, lifting an eyebrow as she did so.
"Gah, I always walk right into those."
"You really do," Sean agreed. "So, what does the letter say, honey?"
She grinned at the way he used the term of endearment. She liked it. That tenderness was in stark contrast to the side that was accustomed to killing, the side that even enjoyed the killing at times.
They'd been relatively lucky the last few months. Not much had happened since their big encounter out in the Pacific Northwest, giving their merry band some time to take a few trips to dig sites in Europe and Asia.
It was the first time in her life that Adriana got into a dig site with all the necessary tools to actually do archaeological work. She was given trowels, brushes, a tool belt, and several other things to do the painstaking job of removing hundreds of years of debris and dirt in hopes of finding a clue as to how an ancient civilization might have lived.
Doing manual labor was soothing. It was relaxing in a strange sort of way. It was a concrete task. You knew exactly what you had to do and how long to do it. The parameters were clear, and even though she didn't find anything on the first day, she felt a sense of accomplishment simply from the fact she'd moved a section of earth out of the way in search of a piece of history.
Adriana realized that doing that kind of work took her mind back to Spain where she used to work on her parents' plantation. They made wine from their vast vineyards in the rolling hills outside of Madrid, and as a child, Adriana often found herself helping the hired workers with their tasks.
The Napoleon Affair Page 4