by Gregg Loomis
Lang fully expected to be shot where he stood.
The eyes of the taller of the two Asians flicked to the box in Lang’s hand. He pointed and said something in what Lang guessed was a Chinese dialect.
His companion, gun trained on Lang’s forehead, took a step closer. “The box,” he said in understandable if accented English. “He wants the box.”
Lang knew Patrick was thinking the same thing: if Lang could use the box to lure either man close enough…
Lang held it up. “Come and get it.”
Even in the poor light it was obvious the English speaker’s smile did not reach his eyes. “If I have to take it from your corpse, I will do so. Now, reach up the stairs as far as you can and place the box there.”
Shit, a professional.
Lang hesitated.
The non-English speaker’s finger was tightening on the trigger.
“OK, OK!”
Just as Lang leaned forward to comply with the demand, there was a series of loud thumps on the door behind him. The men in the crypt had heard voices and guessed what had happened.
“First, do as I have said. Then you will unlock that door.”
Lang felt Patrick’s elbow gently jab him in the ribs. The similarity of training between the Agency and the French organization had been a topic of discussion between the two friends in times past. Lang could only hope there was a concurrence in this situation.
Stretching forward, he placed the box on the next-to-top step before slowly straightening up.
“And now the door.”
Lang turned to fumble with the key. He didn’t know if Patrick could see in the poor light, but he winked anyway.
The door swung open quickly, probably because one or more of the men inside was pushing on it. In unison, Patrick and Lang stepped back as though to make room.
As the last two men, guns in hand, came through the opening, Lang and Patrick stepped behind them, grabbing each with one arm locked around the neck, the other holding his opponent’s gun arm. Shielded by their captives’ bodies from the weapons of the others, both Patrick and Lang slammed the hands with the guns against the steps’ iron railing.
The pistols clattered to the stone floor.
The first two men through the doorway turned, trying to maneuver into a position to get a clear shot without hitting their comrades. The stairwell was too narrow. The man Lang held was struggling, and Lang knew he could not hold him indefinitely. At some point he and Patrick would have to recover either their own guns or those that had been dropped by the men they held.
And there was no way to do that without exposing themselves to the fire from the men at the top of the stairs.
Patrick cursed as his man broke partially free, giving the men at the top of the stairs a target. Before they could react, Patrick made a dive for the small space at the bottom of the stairwell just as the sound of a pair of shots smashed against Lang’s eardrums.
Patrick grunted in surprise. “ Merde! ”
With Patrick exposed, Lang released his man, raising his own hands in hopes there would be no more shooting. In the cramped confines of the staircase, even a ricochet could be deadly.
Lang sensed uncertainty in the two men at the top of the steps. The English speaker bent over, reaching for the box.
Then the lights went on.
For the instant it took for eyes to adjust, Lang and the Chinese froze in blindness. Lang shoved the man he had let loose forward, at the same time stooping to reach for the spot where he thought he had seen someone’s weapon on the bottom step seconds before.
By the time he came up with it, the two at the top of the stairs were gone and the other four were scampering up the steps.
Shouts echoed from the arches overhead, magnified by the natural acoustics built into medieval churches. The four men who had been in the crypt were at various levels on the stairs. The two at the top fired toward the front of the basilica before turning as though to make a run for it.
The one in the lead jerked and fell as a burst of automatic-weapon fire reverberated throughout the cavernous church. The remaining man at the top dropped his pistol and flung his arms into the air. Behind him, the remaining two made a quick decision and raised their arms, too.
Pushing by Lang, Patrick climbed the stairs, his right arm grasping his left shoulder. It was only when he came out of the shadows of the stairwell that Lang noticed the left shoulder of his friend’s suit was darkened with something wet. A splatter of crimson on the marble floor told him Patrick had been hit.
Following Patrick, Lang emerged into the floor of the cathedral. Between him and the portal through which he had entered were six police. Two held short, stubby automatic weapons, another was pointing a shotgun. The remaining three were in a two-handed shooting stance, pistols aimed in Lang’s direction. At least two of them were too nervous for Lang’s comfort. All were shouting commands in French.
No interpretation needed. He dropped the pistol and raised his hands.
“My inside pocket,” Patrick said, gritting his teeth against obvious pain. “Get out my wallet.”
“You’re hit.”
“Yes, yes. And we are both likely to get shot if you do not show them my identification.”
Lang removed the ID wallet from his friend’s inside coat pocket. It was slippery with blood. Moving slowly with the wallet held up for inspection, Lang handed it to the officer who looked as though he might be in his early twenties, the oldest of the group. The other five edged closer, dividing attention between what their elder was holding and their prisoners.
“DGSE?” the cop asked, confused as to what a member of France’s counterespionage agency would be doing in the Basilica of Saint Denis in the early-morning hours.
A brief exchange in French followed. From Patrick’s increasing irritation and the few words Lang understood, Lang gathered the policeman was asking questions and Patrick was invoking state security.
He hoped someone here understood English. “In case you haven’t noticed, this man has been shot. Can we get him to a hospital before he bleeds to death?”
Patrick, his face blanched, was holding on to the stair’s railing for support. He rattled off what sounded like commands before translating. “I told them to find the two missing Chinese.” He looked around. “And where is the box? What happened to the box?”
Lang scooped it up from the floor, holding it aloft like a trophy. Patrick did not see. He had collapsed on the floor.
Hopital Cognacq-Jay
15 rue Eugene Millon, Paris
Two and a half hours later
Lang and Nanette shared a tiny room only a few feet from the hospital’s surgery. Fearing the worst despite Lang’s assurances, she had left her son in the custody of a neighbor. As in any such institution, the air was heavy with the odor of antiseptic. An occasional murmur of an intercom system was the only break in the silence.
Lang furtively glanced at his watch.
“It is a long time for such what you call a small wound,” Nanette observed tartly.
“Look, Nanette, I’m sorry. Patrick insisted…”
The conversation stopped with the entry of a woman in hospital scrubs.
Nanette stood on shaky legs, her question unspoken.
Lang could not understand the woman’s French, but her smile and Nanette’s obvious relief told him all he needed to know.
“She says Patrick is fine.” Nanette beamed as the doctor left. “He is a little… what do you say? Woozy. He is a little woozy from the anesthetic from removing the bullet, but he is asking for both of us.”
Following a nurse, Lang and Nanette walked down a short hall, stopping at the last room on the left. Compared to U.S. hospitals, the room was small, barely space for the two beds mandated by France’s national health care. One was empty. Above the other, a monitor beeped in the muted tones of a regular heartbeat. Patrick, his left shoulder swaddled in gleaming white, was sitting up, a broad grin across his face.
&
nbsp; Before he could speak a word, Nanette was embracing him gingerly. “Does it hurt?”
Patrick gave what would have been a typical Gallic shrug had he been able to employ both shoulders. “Not so much. They say they will release me tomorrow.”
Nanette’s expression said, not if she had anything to do with it, but Patrick’s attention was on the box in Lang’s hands. “You have opened it?”
Lang shook his head. “I thought I’d reserve that honor for you.”
With his right hand, Patrick pointed to the bandages. “You may have to wait a few days. Why do you not do it for me?”
Lang reached to the side of the bed, unfolding a tray across it, and placed the box on it so that Patrick could see the contents once it was open.
Patrick lifted a corner with his right hand. “It weighs little. How do you plan to open it-with your magic bump key?”
Lang withdrew his key ring. “Afraid not. The hole is too small.” He passed several keys, stopping at a small version of a Swiss Army knife. Opening the blade, he worked it under the lid like a diminutive crow bar. There was a squeal of protesting wood as Lang pried upward. Then a popping sound as the lock mechanism broke. Patrick’s eyes grew large as they met Lang’s when the latter lifted the top from the box.
The smile on Patrick’s face morphed into open lips of astonishment. With his good hand, he turned the box over, dumping its contents onto the collapsible tray.
Lang had to lean forward to see. At first he was unsure of what he saw. Two lumps of what might have been brass, tarnished green, what looked like a neatly folded stack of clothing and a small gold cross on a chain.
Patrick held up the metallic objects. “A French general’s epaulets!”
He shoved them aside to spread the clothing out on the tray. “And a French general’s uniform, size petite!”
Next, Patrick grasped up the cross. “The gift from his mother.”
“Are you saying that uniform, cross and those epaulets were Napoleon’s?” Nanette spoke for the first time since the box had been opened.
“Of course they were,” Patrick smiled. “This would be the uniform and insignia he wore before becoming marshal of France, perhaps at the time he turned cannon on royalists who were besieging the National Convention.”
“Then those are priceless, er, artifacts. They should go to the museum at Les Invalides,” she suggested.
“Not quite yet,” Lang said, drawing the attention of the other two. “Such a donation would surely make the press, and the last thing we-or I-want is to tip the Chinese to the fact that box does not contain Alexander’s relics. I’d much rather let them think what duPaar wants is beyond their reach.”
Patrick puffed his cheeks, expelling his breath in a gust. “But these items are valuable, too valuable for us to keep ourselves.”
“No need,” Lang said. “When the president for life of Haiti sees he won’t be getting what he wants, I’d guess the Chinese will be leaving the country. Once they’re out, you can put the whole story on the front page for all I care.”
“But what stops the Chinese from making another, er, deal, from coming back if they ever find Alexander?” Patrick wanted to know.
“Hopefully, good intelligence and the United States Navy.”
Presidential palace
Petionville, Port-au-Prince, Haiti
Five days later
Tonight Undersecretary Chin Diem was in no mood to enjoy the view of the city below. Failure seemed a small enough price to pay to assure he would never see the madman du-Paar or this pestilence-ridden tropical hell again. But would that be worth the price of failure at home?
He turned from the window as duPaar and his bodyguard entered.
The president for life plopped down behind the desk. “You have something for me?”
“Mr. President…,” Diem began. “I fear I have bad news, a temporary delay.”
DuPaar leaned across the desk, scowling. “Explain.”
“The container we believe holds the remains of Alexander is in the hands of the Americans.”
The following pause was so long, Diem thought the man had not heard. “We tracked them to a church in Paris when-”
“You do not have them and have no certain prospect of obtaining them.” DuPaar spoke so softly the secretary had to lean forward to hear. “I ask for the relics of Alexander. You bring me excuses instead.”
“I’m sure-”
The president for life’s voice escalated from a whisper to a near scream, spittle flying from his mouth. “Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I will accept failure as fulfilling our bargain? Just what do you think?”
“I would think, Mr. President,” Diem began in his most reasonable voice, “that the word of the People’s Republic-”
DuPaar was back to a near whisper again. “Idiot! Do you not understand? Alexander was the world’s greatest warrior. The country who possesses his remains cannot be defeated in battle. It is a fact Ptolemy knew and Perdiccas found out to his dismay when half his army drowned in the Nile.” He sneered. “The People’s Republic does not keep its word!”
He paused as if catching his breath.
“I am sure we, the People’s Republic, will be able-”
DuPaar leaned across the desk. “The People’s Republic will do nothing! Nothing other than getting out of Haiti!”
“But, Mr. President-”
“ Out!” DuPaar was pointing to the door. “Out of this place, out of Haiti. You will leave here immediately. All Chinese troops will be off Haitian soil in ten days or I will go before the UN, appeal to the United States to free us of this invasion…”
Diem had served in the diplomatic corps of his country for over fifteen years, but he had never seen a display like this. “Invasion? But you invited-”
“I invited a peaceful trade mission! Now I learn you have occupied the north coast of my country with military! I will invite the United States to send troops!”
Diem had never dealt with a man quite so crazy before. Admittedly, the North Korean dictator had been nuts, but not as bad as this. With as much dignity as he could muster, he marched toward the door the bodyguard was holding open.
If he was deaf, how had he known to do that?
The White House
Five days later
The president looked up from his desk as Chief of Staff Jack Roberts entered the Oval Office. “You said you had news for me?”
Without waiting to be asked, Roberts slouched into a chair. “Yeah, I do, boss. Two days ago the techies maneuvered one of our Misty-2 satellites into a new orbit.”
The president picked up a pen and was rolling it between his hands. “That’s the one that can see through clouds and is supposed to look like space junk?”
“Yep.”
“OK, so it’s in a new orbit. I assume it can now see the Caribbean. Don’t make me pry the info out of you, Jack.”
Roberts grinned. “No need. The spy in the sky has confirmed the Chinese are leaving Haiti. Their withdrawal should be complete within the week.”
The president leaned back in his chair and grinned right back, showing teeth famous worldwide. “Perfect! That should be shortly after I meet with the president of the People’s Republic. Set up a major news conference immediately afterward. I want all the networks’ big guns there when I announce this administration discovered the secret presence of Chinese military in Haiti and, through diplomacy alone, had them peacefully withdrawn. That should boost our polls before the midterm elections.”
The chief of staff stood. “Not to mention taking off the front page the fact your economic programs haven’t succeeded yet. And you did it without lifting your little finger.”
“No need to tell that part.” The president’s chair snapped upright and he put down the pen with which he had been toying. “I’d rather be lucky than good any day. Oh yeah, there’s one more thing.”
“And that would be?”
“Those people the FBI was protecting, the
former Agency people. Did the Bureau ever find them?”
“I don’t think so, no. You want me to call off the dogs?”
The president nodded. “It would seem now we don’t care what they know or might say.”
Roberts cocked his head. “Should we tell them we no longer want to detain them?”
The president frowned, bringing his eyebrows together. “ Detain is an ugly word. I would not want anyone to think this administration is in the business of ‘detaining’ innocent citizens. Simply tell the people over at the Hoover Building we have no further interest in them.”
From the New York Times TOMB OF ALEXANDER FOUND? ALEXANDRIA. One of history’s most enduring mysteries may be on the verge of solution by an Italian-led team of archaeologists. Dr. Antonio Rossi, curator of Rome’s Archaeological Museum, and Dr. Zahi Hawass, general secretary of Egypt’s Supreme Council of Antiquities, announced yesterday that a heretofore-unknown chamber had recently been discovered off what had been known as the Alabaster Tomb, a location earlier archaeologists had discarded as the site of the final resting place of Alexander the Great. Modern electronic equipment led Dr. Rossi and his crew to reevaluate the site and they discovered part of the tomb had been sealed off, probably by scholars attached to the army of Napoleon Bonaparte. “When he was forced out of Egypt,” Dr. Rossi speculated, “Napoleon intended to return. He did not want his enemies to get the credit for discovering what had been lost for two thousand years, so he tried to cover his tracks.” Rossi explained that using careful archaeological methods of excavation, his team could still be weeks away from determining if this is really the place Alexander was buried. “We will never know for certain if this is Alexander’s tomb,” Rossi said, “unless we actually find the body, in this case, a mummy.” Alexander, known as “the Great,” was king of Macedonia, and died near the ancient city of Babylon in 323 BC.
472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta
Sunday evening, a month later
Lang Reilly had to step over a snoring Grumps to toss a log on the sputtering fire. “There! That ought to keep it going awhile longer.”