by Tom Wilde
As if you didn’t know, I thought to myself. I summoned a smile and said, “Yes, thank you. Who were all those young ladies?”
Vanya smiled and stroked his long white beard. “Ah, they are my daughters, the true Children of Cronos,” he announced.
I glanced after the departing crowd. “Really?”
Rhea, finished herding her flock of girls, returned to her accustomed place beside Vanya and said, “They are our foundlings, Mr. Blake. They are orphans from all over the world. Vanya has taken them in, and we raise and care for them together.”
“Surely, Mr. Blake,” Vanya added, “you have seen the plight of the children in the places you have traveled to?”
I had. It was the worst part of my job, really. Wherever I went, from Africa to the Middle East, from India to Central and South America and throughout Asia and the Pacific Rim, I’d seen the wretched refuse of humanity, suffering from abject poverty and cruelty. And everywhere I went, there were the children. I’d use whatever time and resources I could spare during my missions to help out where I could, but it was always like putting a Band-Aid on a gaping, bleeding wound. In the end, I always got to go back home to the States, where I’d try to drown the memories of the sights, sounds, and smells in alcohol.
Caitlin pulled me out of my dark reminiscence by saying, “That seems very commendable.”
Vanya’s smile took a deprecating downward turn. “Children are the future,” he said simply.
I had a sudden thought that chilled me. “So, what about those guards I saw last night? Are they also considered your children?”
“Of course,” Vanya replied reasonably. “They have been raised here on Cronos and have chosen to devote their lives to our cause.”
I could only hope my face didn’t betray the emotions that churned up inside me. I’d also seen children in war-torn countries lugging around automatic weapons and grenade launchers that were almost bigger than they were, desperate to fight and prove themselves as men, and utterly devoted to whatever cause the adults in their world created for them. Vanya didn’t just have a private army; he had his own cadre of religious worshipers, no doubt ready to both kill and die for him.
Vanya snapped me out of my waking nightmare by saying, “So tell me, Mr. Blake: Are you still resolved to join me in my quest?”
“I am. But I also have my price.”
Vanya looked pleased, though not surprised. “Of course. You have but to name it.”
“Two things,” I said. “First, the Egyptian scrolls. Caitlin and I almost died down in the catacombs, and since I found them, by rights they’re mine.”
Rhea’s placid smile remained fixed and frozen, but Vanya’s face started to darken like a coming storm. “That’s … an expensive proposition,” he answered slowly. “Those scrolls could be extremely valuable.”
“What do you care as long as I help you dig up Alexander?”
Vanya appeared on the verge of releasing some pent-up anger, but then Rhea laid a hand on his shoulder. He snapped his head up, and the two of them exchanged some deep, silent communication. Vanya visibly relaxed, then turned back to me and said in an agreeable tone, “Very well, Mr. Blake; the scrolls are yours. But only after you’ve completed your work here.”
And just like that, I knew Caitlin and I were as good as dead. Vanya would now agree to anything I asked for, knowing he’d never have to pay me off. I had one last gambit to try. “Second thing,” I said, “is that you send my wife home.”
Vanya started to speak, denial clearly written on his face, but Caitlin beat him to it. Her eyes flashed with real heat as she said, “Jonathan Blake! How dare you? I told you last night, we’re in this together. I’m not leaving you, and that’s final.”
Rhea looked faintly amused over Caitlin’s outburst, while Vanya simply traded a look with me that men have shared ever since time immemorial. “Well, there you have it, Mr. Blake,” he said. “What are mere mortals to do?”
I didn’t think for an instant that Vanya was about to let any of us leave his fortress paradise, but it would have been out of character not to try.
Vanya rubbed his hands together. “Then it’s settled, and we have work for you, Mr. Blake. Rhea will take you to meet with our resident researcher. As for you, Mrs. Blake, may I take this opportunity to show you my island? I’m certain we can find some diversions for you while your husband toils for our cause.”
Caitlin smiled. “Thank you. I’d like that.” Turning to me, she laid her hand on mine. “Well, so now this is where I say: Have a nice day, dear?”
Rhea held out a hand, indicating I should follow her. Caitlin shot a small, poisonous look toward her, then smiled toward our host as Vanya said to her, “Come sit by me, Mrs. Blake.” I gave Caitlin’s hand a squeeze, then followed Rhea back toward the central building. When we passed by the large garden fountain, I took a look into the water, slightly surprised I didn’t see any piranha, or a least a venomous lionfish or two. Once back in the ground-floor lobby, the cool, air-conditioned atmosphere was refreshing compared with the sultry air outside. Rhea led me to the elevators, and once inside the steel-lined box she hit the button for the bottom floor. The descent seemed to take longer than it should have, and when the doors opened I saw we were now in a fluorescent-lit concrete bunker that looked like it could have survived a hit from a nuclear weapon.
The only thing missing was a sign advising all who enter to abandon hope.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As Rhea led me around the corner of the elevator alcove and down a hall to the left, I saw that the below-ground complex was built like a grid, with hallways branching off to our right. Every intersection had a mirrored hemisphere in the ceiling that allowed a glimpse around the corners and doubtless also had cameras concealed within. All the doors were made of heavy metal and looked airtight, like the hatches on a submarine, and were marked with letters and numbers. The prefix for each was “L1,” which made me wonder if there were levels yet below us. Every door I saw had a biometric locking mechanism installed.
Rhea and I had to walk single file in the narrow confines to pass an oncoming couple, an older Caucasian male and a short, rounded Asian woman, both dressed in what looked like hospital surgical garb. They smiled and nodded to Rhea, though somewhat nervously, while paying no attention me. We then took a right turn, and unless my sense of direction failed me, we were walking beneath the central courtyard and heading toward the Roman-style baths that were dug into the hillside above us. Rhea stopped in front of a door marked L1–4, pressed her finger to the lock, and then opened the hatch, calling as she did, “Peter! I’ve brought company!”
My first impression of the room beyond was that I’d been led to a library repository. Stacks upon stacks of books were everywhere, along with piles of paper. Buried under the mounds I could make out shapes of small square tables and some chairs. Every wall was covered with large-scale maps and displays. From near the center of the room a man stood up, like a gopher popping out of its hole.
He was tall and slender, with a large forehead crowned with dark hair that fell in careless waves above an angular, bony face. He had blue eyes behind the lenses of a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and he was dressed in a denim shirt and pants, along with a tooled leather belt. I placed his age at somewhere in his mid-forties. As he navigated the stacked–book obstacle course he smiled and held out a hand. “Hi. Pete Weir. Welcome to the bunkhouse.”
His long-fingered hand gave a firm grip. “Blake. Jon Blake,” I replied.
“Ah, fellow American, I see,” Weir said.
“Mr. Blake is our newest recruit,” Rhea explained. “He’s the one who found the Egyptian scrolls.”
“Really?” Weir said with admiration. “Excellent. You know, that’s the first piece of real evidence we’ve found on this scavenger hunt.”
Rhea made a small bow. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Please bring Mr. Blake up to speed on all the developments.”
“Sure thing, Rhea honey,
” Weir replied. He had an American Southwestern accent that went with the belt and cowboy boots I could now see. As Rhea left, he watched with unabashed appreciation, then asked me, “So where do you hail from?”
“Well, before I got spirited away to Never-Never Land, I worked for the Argo Foundation.”
“Argo? Nick Riley’s outfit? Is that old pirate still aboveground? I haven’t seen him since he took fifty bucks off me playing poker at a conference.”
I nodded, not surprised. Nick Riley has friends all over the world. “So it’s Dr. Weir?” I inquired. “And Nick only took fifty bucks off you? You must be good. He usually gets me for half my paycheck. But yeah, I just saw him earlier this week.” And half a lifetime ago, I thought to myself. I took a look around the room. “So what do we have here? Other than a fire hazard?”
Weir gave an easy laugh. “Hey, this here is my office, son. And since it sounds like we’ll be bunking here together we can leave that ‘Doctor’ stuff to the guys that make us turn our heads and cough. But I’m forgetting my manners; let me find you a chair.”
As it turned out, finding the chair was easy. Digging it out of the paper shell it had accumulated was the tricky part. “You know,” I said as I sat down, “they have these new devices called computers. They’re like fancy file cabinets with a built-in TV. You’d kill a lot fewer trees if you used one.”
Weir sat down in a high-backed leather chair and swung his booted feet up on a nearby table next to a monitor and keyboard that were almost obscured by a pile of books. “Those technological tinker toys are fine in their place,” Weir said. “But I like to hold the results in my hand. Besides, I think I’m addicted to printer’s ink.”
“So how did you get caught up in the Alexander quest?” I asked. “You don’t seem to fit in with the rest of Vanya’s true believers.”
Weir raised his glasses to the top of his head. “I’m not,” he said simply. “I’m really just an academic mercenary. That, and I can’t resist a good challenge.” He made a lazy gesture toward a large full-color poster taped to the wall. It was a copy of one of Napoleon’s portraits, and it depicted the emperor of France in full military regalia astride a rearing white steed, one hand pointing toward the sky. “Our job is simple,” Weir said. “All we have to do is outfox one of the greatest geniuses the world ever produced.” Weir wagged a finger at Napoleon’s image. “Yes, I mean you, you sawed-off little bastard.”
Turning back to me, he said, “Of course, it’s a little difficult being cut off from the outside world here. Vanya’s terms are pretty strict about all the total secrecy stuff.”
“Well, at least you must feel pretty secure. This place reminds me of one of Saddam Hussein’s old bunkers.”
“Sounds like you’ve actually seen one.”
I had. But since no one was supposed to know about those forays, I said instead, “So how long have you been down here?”
“I joined up about six months back. Couldn’t tell a soul. But when Vanya showed me the Fouché document and said he had a line on one of the eagles that supposedly had a genuine treasure map inside, I just couldn’t resist. Still, as indentured servitudes go, it does have its side benefits.”
“Side benefits?”
“Oho! You mean you haven’t seen the recreational facilities? Son, you are in for a treat. It’s like an Arabian paradise around here. Complete with houris.”
Houris were the female virgins that were promised to the Islamic faithful in their particular version of paradise. Faithful men, anyway. “So you’re saying that there’re, shall we say, women of easy virtue on the payroll here?”
Weir rolled his eyes. “I’ll say. This here island is Vanya’s personal recreation park. Those of his flock that can afford to pay the honorarium get to fly out here and enjoy an earthly communion. Us working stiffs, too, of course.”
“Actually, I’m here with my wife.”
Weir’s face froze for an instant. “Okay,” he said slowly. “So, getting back to the subject, what do you need to know?”
I looked around the room. “Well, everything, I guess. From what I gather, the theory is that Napoleon actually discovered the tomb of Alexander the Great, and now all we have to do is figure out what he did with the body.”
“Right.” Weir nodded. “History tells us that after Napoleon’s first major defeat, he was exiled to the island of Elba, right next door to his home island of Corsica, then he escaped, took over the French government again, got his ass kicked by Wellington at Waterloo, and was later exiled to the island of Saint Helena, where he eventually died.”
I raised my hand. “Teacher? Should I be taking notes?” I asked pointedly.
Weir looked sheepish. “Sorry. I haven’t had a lot of conversation lately. I’m not allowed to discuss my work with anyone except Vanya and Rhea. Until now, anyway. I didn’t mean to come off all academic on you. Let’s try again—what do you need to know?”
“What’s the story on this Fouché document that I’ve been hearing about?”
Weir kicked his booted feet off the table and swung his chair around, pointing to the wall opposite the Napoleon portrait. Hanging there was a copy of a painting depicting a man with wispy gray hair and a gentle-looking, almost effeminate face with wide-apart, dark eyes and a cryptic smile playing on a small mouth. “Fouché,” Weir said as one would speak a curse, “was one of the most wily, conniving snakes ever produced by the bloody French Revolution. He was also a survivor par excellence. He was physically too weak to be a sailor like his daddy intended, and instead got educated to be a priest, of all things. But by the time the French Revolution got under way, he got himself into power, always willing to play both sides against the middle. And talk about ruthless—he’s the guy who started off the White Terror and got ol’ Robespierre guillotined. The most amazing thing was how Napoleon kept him around. Bonaparte’s on record as saying one of his few regrets was that he didn’t have Fouché shot when he had that chance. Fouché fell out of favor a time or two, but always managed to weasel himself back into power. Makes me wonder if he didn’t have some kind of blackmail material squirreled away. But there’s no doubt about it, his secret police force was probably the best espionage outfit the world had seen up to that time.”
“So you think Fouché was the guy who came up with the idea to hide the map of Napoleon’s treasure inside the bronze eagle?”
“Probably. It sounds like his style. Although Napoleon himself gave us a clue about that.”
“What was that?”
Weir grinned. “Right before Bonaparte was sent off to his first exile, on the island of Elba, he gave a speech to his troops, the Old Guard, telling them: ‘I wish I could press every single one of you to my heart, but I will at least press your eagle.’ So you really did find the map to Napoleon’s hidden stash?”
“Oh, yeah. Down in the catacombs under the Val de Grâce church.”
“Perfect,” Weir said, as if extremely pleased with himself.
“How so?”
“It fits another piece of the puzzle. Here, I’ll show you.” Weir got up and made his way through the columns of books to the wall nearest the steel door. I followed him to a display on the wall. One side was a blown-up photograph of a handwritten letter in French, with a typewritten translation placed next to it. As I ran my eyes over the words, I flashed back to the letter that was hidden inside the eagle—at first glance they looked identical.
Weir placed his glasses back on his face and tapped the copy of the letter. “This here’s a copy of the Fouché document, written in code. And right here is the translation.”
I looked at the poster-sized typewritten blowup next to the French letter, and instantly did a double take when I read the first line. “The letter was addressed to the Duke of Wellington? What the hell would Napoleon’s minister of police be doing writing to the enemy?”
Weir laughed. “I told you Fouché was a double-dealer. Right up to the time of Waterloo, Fouché was sending secret letters not only to
Wellington and the British, but also to agents of the Bourbon royalists, just in case they should ever get back into power, which, of course, they did.”
“Damn. Looks like I should have paid more attention in school.” I turned back to the translation of the letter and read:
Your Grace,
I take upon myself the duty to warn Your Grace of certain plans and machinations of the followers and servants of Napoleon Bonaparte, former Emperor of France. It has come to my attention that specific orders, coming directly from Napoleon himself and conveyed in secret by his Agents, are even now in motion with the goal of liberating Napoleon from his period of exile on the Island of Saint Helena.
The means by which to accomplish this task are thus: An American ship is now at berth in a secret island harbor in the Mediterranean Sea. The Captain of this ship, who at this time shall be Nameless, is even now in preparation for the voyage. It was this same ship that spirited away Napoleon from his place of exile on the Island of Elba, and then eluded the British Navy when it was sent to retrieve the treasure of Alexander from the city that bears that conqueror’s name. It is by the means of this vessel that Napoleon will be rescued from the Island of Saint Helena, and then by the means afforded by the Egyptian treasure will he finance his return to France with the ultimate goal of regaining the Throne Itself.
This treasure, which includes items that are most wondrous from the Ancient World, remains in part on the secret island. The other half of the treasure has been entrusted to the care of he who shall be referred to for now as The Doctor. As a measure of faith and trust between us, I now inform Your Grace that the key to the location of the second treasure will be found inside the Golden Eagle of the First Regiment.
It is my most sincere hope that Your Grace and I will be able to come to an accord upon the terms of my future service to Your Grace, at which time I shall most expediently provide the information that must, for now, be withheld from this missive.