The Napoleon Affair

by Ernest Dempsey

  "What's going on?" she asked and slid into the empty seat next to Sean.

  Tommy pushed his phone toward her and it stopped flush with the edge of the table.

  She picked it up and looked at the image while sipping the hot coffee.

  "Just got this message a few minutes ago from Alex. Seems he and Tara might have found something down on Saint Helena. We're not sure what it is, though," Tommy said.

  "Three names," she said absently. "Dumas?" She looked up from the phone with the question reflected in her eyes. "The writer?"

  "We thought so at first," Sean said. "Now, I'm not so sure."

  "No? Why not? He's definitely French."

  "True," Tommy agreed, "but the other two names are ones I don't recognize. We're not sure what they have to do with any of this."

  "Ah," Adriana said with a nod. She returned her focus to the screen and studied it while Sean let his eyes wander again.

  He looked back to the street once more. The young couple were gone. On the other side of the road, another café, similar to this one except with pink umbrellas, looked to be just as busy as this place. He noted people drinking wine and beer and laughing. Occasionally, the smell of seafood wafted across the street, bypassing the vehicle exhaust and hitting Sean's senses. He didn't care for seafood, save for the occasional salmon or tuna sushi. That was about all he could handle. For whatever reason, he'd never acquired the taste for cooked fish, and he couldn't make himself eat shellfish.

  Sometimes, people asked him if it was a religious thing. He always said that it wasn't, that instead it was simply a decision not to eat things on the lowest rung of the food chain.

  Truth was, those creatures disgusted him, and he didn't fully trust what eating them would do to his body. He was like a four-year-old unwilling to eat when it came to sea fare.

  His thoughts snapped away from the topic of food and locked in on a person he'd seen every single time he looked across the road.

  The first time it didn't seem unusual. Sean had noted the man sitting there alone at a table. He was reading a newspaper while the majority of the patrons around him were busy on their phones or tablets. A few appeared to be working busily on their computers.

  The man wasn't old, not by a long shot. He had a thick black beard with traces of gray in it, so he could have been anywhere from mid-thirties to mid-sixties as far as Sean could tell. He was too far away to get a clear picture from the few details he could muster. The man was also wearing sunglasses, which was not unusual given the bright sunshine pouring down on the city.

  None of that would have been suspicious in the least except for a couple of factors: The first was that the café where the man was sitting appeared to be a place for a younger crowd. It was trendy, or at least looked that way, and might even be considered a kind of cyber-café. Sean made that assumption after seeing rows of laptops inside the building along the left-hand wall, all atop a counter that stretched into the back of the building.

  If the man was in his sixties, he was the only one there of that age, though Sean figured him to probably be in his late forties. His skin was tight and tanned, and even though the guy was sitting down, Sean could see he was in good physical shape.

  He wore a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of khaki cargo shorts. Sean had to admit he liked the man's style. Unfortunately, Sean was going to have to interrogate him.

  To the casual observer, the man across the street was simply enjoying a cup of coffee while he read the daily news. Sean, however, knew better.

  He'd spotted the man looking at them at least three times now, and each successive time the guy slowly averted his gaze, as if trying to look like he hadn't been caught.

  It was a subtle move and one that would have fooled an ordinary person. It didn't fool Sean. He recognized the tactic, even applauded it internally.

  "Sean?" Tommy interrupted his thoughts. "You okay?"

  "Yeah," Sean said. "Just keeping an eye on a new friend over there."

  Tommy followed his gaze but didn't spot who his friend was talking about.

  Bodmer and Adriana also directed their eyes across the street.

  "Man in the black button-up with the khaki shorts," Sean said. "Sunglasses. Thick black hair."

  "Looks like something you'd wear," Tommy joked.

  No one laughed, and he immediately felt a tad idiotic for the ill-placed comment.

  "He's been watching us since we got here," Sean added.

  "So?" Bodmer questioned. "There are lots of other people there, as well. And they've been there longer."

  "My point," Sean said with a nod. "He got there at the same time we arrived at this place."

  "How could you know that?"

  Sean's head twisted to face the man. "How could you not?" He arched both eyebrows and went back to the problem. "I observed him sitting down at the exact same time we were sat at this table. He's at a table for four. Why? There are precisely three other two-seat tables on the patio. Two are in the sun, and one is in the shade, which means he could have had his choice of table when he arrived. There are six servers running the outside, though one of them is also waiting tables inside, along with one more who is strictly working the interior guests. That means they have enough staff and enough tables to put that man at one of the two-seaters, but they put him in one with four. Why?"

  Bodmer stumbled for the answer to Sean's overly thorough analysis of the situation. "Well…maybe he likes the view better at that table."

  "Or he could be one of those types that just likes more room," Tommy offered, but he knew better. Sean was onto something. Offering one more carrot for his friend to snatch would help drive home his point to the skeptical commander.

  "True," Sean said, "but two of the other tables offer similar views, which rules that idea out. Plus, what would someone be hoping to get a better view of? The cars driving by? I don't think so. And then there's the issue of the newspaper."

  "Newspaper?" Bodmer asked. His voice sounded like a forlorn child.

  Adriana watched on with a slim smile on her face as her husband continued to conduct an investigation workshop.

  "The newspaper hasn't changed pages. He's been staring at that same page for the last thirty minutes."

  "How could you know that?"

  "I wouldn't be able to," Sean admitted, "if he had the front page facing us. Luckily, he had it folded over, as if he's been working his way through the rest of the paper. If that was the case, I would have seen a new page by now. Perhaps he's the slowest reader in the world, but I doubt it. Based on the other facts, I'd say we picked up a tail."

  Bodmer shifted uncomfortably. "What should we do? You think he's the killer?"

  "No," Sean said with only a hint of doubt. "I don't think he's the killer. He may work for the killer, but I won't find out until I talk with him."

  "Talk with him?"

  Sean gave a nod as he stared intently at the man. The guy across the street had his face hidden behind the paper now.

  Instead of answering, Sean stood up and walked out of the café and over to the crosswalk. He waited for a moment, and when the light changed took off at a trot to the other side of the street.

  The other three watched with rapt attention as the man with the newspaper glanced around the corner of it and realized one of the people he'd been watching was gone. He looked around frantically and, when he spotted Sean, got up from the table and disappeared inside the building.

  Sean reached the entrance to the other café a mere twenty seconds after their watcher went inside. After a few minutes of searching, though, Sean came back out to the sidewalk and threw up his hands.

  He looked down the street in both directions, as if expecting the guy might reappear half a block away, but that wish never came to fruition.

  Sean put his hands on his hips for a moment and then returned across the street. He plopped down in his chair with a frustrated sigh and fidgeted with his coffee cup.

  "Lost him?" To
mmy asked, already knowing the answer.

  "For now," Sean said. "We'll see him again."

  "How do you know that?" Bodmer asked.

  "Because once a dog is on a scent, they don't stop sniffing until they get what they're chasing. That guy is working for someone. I doubt he stumbled on our search by accident. I don't know who he works for," he said, sensing the next question from the commander, "but that will reveal itself eventually."

  Sean pulled his phone back across the table and looked at the names on the image Alex sent. "We have to figure out who these people are and why they would be on a piece of parchment in the house where Napoléon was exiled."

  "Heroes," Adriana blurted suddenly.

  The three men looked at her, confused.

  "The clue we discovered at the library, the one in the château. It spoke of heroes."

  "Heroes of the Empire," Sean added.

  "Right," Adriana said. "Heroes of the Empire. It also said, let their victory stand eternal. If these names were the names of, say, officers under Napoléon's command, it's possible that we need to look up those names and find where they are buried."

  "Eternal," Tommy said, his face suddenly brightening. "Eternal rest. That makes perfect sense. So, we just have to figure out who these guys were and where they are buried."

  "It sounds like you're going to do some grave robbing," Bodmer said with disgust.

  "Not if we can help it," Tommy countered. "I'd rather not have to go through the process of digging up all those permits, no pun intended."

  Bodmer didn't get the joke.

  Sean was already busily looking up the first name. "I'm checking on Dumas. You two check the other names. See what you can find. Adriana, take Masséna. Tommy, you look up Augereau." The other two nodded their assent and began working.

  The commander watched as the others searched the internet for any information they could gather about the three mysterious names on the parchment. The group sat in silence as the Americans pored over information on their devices. It was a strange sight, or it would have been to someone trying to do the same research thirty years ago. The world had changed in many ways, not all of them bad. With so much information available so quickly, quests such as this one could be conducted faster than ever before.

  Adriana was the first to speak up. "I found out who Masséna is," she announced. "And where he is buried."

  Sean looked up from what he was reading about Dumas.

  Tommy chimed in immediately after her. "Pierre Augereau was an officer under Napoléon's command. He's buried at the famous Père Lachaise Cemetery here in Paris."

  "Same for André Masséna," Adriana added. "He was an officer and is buried at Père Lachaise."

  Sean had been to Paris many times, but of all the places he'd visited, that cemetery was one on his list he'd never had the chance to see. His reasons for wanting to go there were personal. He'd been a big fan of the American rock band The Doors since he was in high school and first saw the Oliver Stone movie. After that, he was obsessed with them for months. That obsession eventually turned into a casual love affair, but he never stopped appreciating the poetry and music that the band produced, especially from the mind of their singer, Jim Morrison.

  Morrison's grave was also in Père Lachaise, and Sean wondered, even though he knew it was foolish, if he would have the chance to at least glimpse the legend's resting place.

  "What about yours?" Tommy asked, cutting into his friend's thoughts. "What did you find on Dumas?"

  Sean ticked his head to the side as if still working out the details. "Well, we weren't far off the mark. We're looking for Alexandre Dumas's father, Thomas-Alexandre Dumas. He was one of the highest-ranking officers of African descent ever in the French military. He died poor, which put his wife and children in a desperate situation. He was also a writer, though not to the level of fame his son, Alexandre, reached." Sean finished the sentence just above a whisper. He always felt a sense of reverence when reading about the history of someone who was no longer around. Even if it was a person who died long ago, Sean understood that the dash between the year of their birth and the year of their death contained a lifetime of memories from childhood all the way up through the final years of adulthood. That dash represented a life, full of trials and triumphs.

  That's what the clue meant. The realization hit him. That dash was their triumph, their victory.

  "He's buried in a cemetery elsewhere. It's not far, and there is a translation near it. We could be there in less than an hour, I think."

  The others looked at each other for a moment and then back at Sean. They nodded.

  "Let's go," Tommy said eagerly.

  "Right," Sean said as he peered across the street where the mysterious man once sat. "The only question is, what's the plan?"

  24

  MALBORK

  Lucien Berger stopped in his garden to admire a particularly robust rose. The flower was in full bloom and its vibrant red color was at peak perfection. He bent down toward it and took a sniff of its delightful perfume.

  He allowed the scent to linger for a moment before he stood up straight again. Berger appreciated the simple things in this world, especially things from nature. He felt that his connection with God was heightened by the things that remained untainted by man. Plants like this rose were one such natural, simple thing. It grew almost in spite of man, with a will of its own. There was a kind of spirit to a plant, especially the rose. Perhaps, Berger thought, he wasn't the first one to consider that.

  His phone vibrated on the table at the end of the courtyard and he turned, irritated. He narrowed his eyes and stalked over to the table, looking down at the electronic abomination that had just interrupted his meditative time.

  He looked at the screen and pressed the answer button. "What's going on? It's been too long since your last check-in."

  There was a pause on the line, only broken by gasping breaths.

  "Hello?" Berger said, suddenly concerned.

  "Grand Master," a weary voice said. "We…we encountered a problem."

  Berger knew who it was. Only a few had this number, and Michael was one of them. His daughter was the other. Everyone else contacted him through other means.

  "What is the problem? Did you handle it?"

  "We…we went to Saint Helena, as you requested, sir. We tracked the…targets."

  "Yes? Spit it out."

  "We didn't anticipate that they would be so well armed and well trained."

  Berger didn't like where this was going. His asset sounded like he had been running from someone. He was outside; that much the man knew because there was the subtle hint of wind in the microphone and he could hear birds singing in the background. It sounded like seagulls, which meant the asset was at a port somewhere, most likely Cape Town.

  "It was an ambush, sir. There was nothing we could do." The man offered the explanation, doing the best he could to hide the hopefulness in his voice.

  It was not lost on Berger. "Ambush?"

  "The couple, sir. They led us to a building. We tracked them, like you told us to do. But then things got out of control."

  "Why do you sound like that? You sound weak and pathetic. You are a Teutonic Knight, are you not? Get yourself together, or I will flog you myself when you return. Where is Kallia? Perhaps I should have her do it for me and save the time."

  Another pause came through the line. This time, it wasn't accompanied by deep breathing. The young man had fallen silent.

  Berger fought off the suspicion. "Did you not hear me, boy? Where is my daughter?" He found his voice booming louder than intended.

  A swallow preempted the answer. "She…she's dead, Grand Master. We were in a gunfight on the island. They counterattacked. We…we had them pinned down. It was…it was a lucky shot, sir. Whoever was firing at us from the house, they…they were shooting randomly. Kallia and I ducked for cover, but one of the bullets hit her in the chest. She…she's gone, Grand Master."

  Berger sighed thr
ough his nose. He immediately took another deep breath and ran a hand through his thick hair, letting the fingers tug on the strands.

  It wasn't real. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. The asset was lying.

  "Listen to me," Berger sneered through gnashed teeth. "I want to know where my daughter is. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Grand Master. She is…still on the island."

  A renewed anger surged through the man and he slammed a fist down on the table. He struck it so hard that the glass top shuddered under the force, and a piece chipped off the end.

  "My daughter is dead?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And you left her there for the birds and beasts to consume?"

  There was no answer, not at first. The man choked on his words. "I…it was all I could do to get away with my own life, Grand Master. I barely escaped."

  Berger inclined his neck and scratched the stubble under his chin. His daughter was dead, and this moron had left her there on the island. The military man had, for a moment, been merely a father crippled by the sudden and unexpected news of his daughter's demise. The pain was still there, still burning in his chest, but the commanding knight, the Grand Master, returned and took over, pushing away grief until it could be handled at a later time.

  "You escaped?" Berger asked.

  "Yes."

  "I assume, then, that you recovered whatever the targets were looking for? Surely, that is why the firefight broke out and why my daughter's body is on an island in the middle of the ocean."

  There was another uncomfortable swallow on the other end, and Berger didn't need the idiot to speak to know the answer.

  "Things got out of hand, sir. We…we were compromised. I had to abort the mission, sir."

  Compromised? Berger knew what that meant. The man wouldn't dare suggest that Kallia was at fault or that he'd made a mistake. Instead, the young knight would try to offer a word that would lead the grand master down his own thought path, one that would make him think there was someone else to blame. Berger wasn't stupid. He knew the psychological strategy better than most.