by Gabriel Hunt
“Trap number two,” Gabriel said. “I’m guessing all this treasure is rigged.”
Gabriel continued to shine the light around the room, walking forward cautiously, taking enormous care not to touch anything. Finally they neared the room’s far wall, where another inscription had been chiseled into the stone:
Lui seul qui montre ce qui n’est pas répertorié peut avancer.
Sammi moved to his side and peered at the words. “ ‘Only he who shows what is not in the inventory may advance.’ ”
“What is not in the inventory? What inventory?”
“It doesn’t say. Just ‘what is not inventoried’ or ‘what is not catalogued.’ ”
He swung his light down, illuminating a stone shelf built into the wall beneath the inscription. Sitting on the shelf was an open, empty chest the size of a small suitcase. “We have to figure out what it means.”
Sammi read the inscription aloud again, first in French and then in English. “I think it must have something to do with the Napoleonic Code.”
“How so?” Gabriel asked.
“You said there were three traps, correct? Well, the Napoleonic Code was divided into three books. The first has to do with People, the second was about Property, and the third . . . well, the third was about Acquiring Property—sort of boring stuff for lawyers.” Gabriel was reminded of the text of the Rosetta Stone, about taxes and putting statues in temples. Sometimes the greatest discoveries in history had to do with boring stuff. “The first trap,” Sammi went on, “with the anthem . . . knowing the anthem would have been one of the tests for citizenship. It would have been covered in Book One of the Code.”
Gabriel shined his light around. “And you think all this . . .”
“Property,” Sammi said. “Book Two.”
“So what does Book Two have to say about property?” Gabriel said. “Other than ‘Don’t take it or you’ll get stabbed with a spear.’ ”
“The Code defined what was designated as a French citizen’s personal property as opposed to what was owned by the state.” Sammi looked around at all the accumulated wealth, all untouchable. “Or by the emperor.”
Gabriel thought about that. “So this is his property. We’re not allowed to take it. We have to show something that is not on his list of property to get out of here.”
“But show it to whom?” Sammi said.
Gabriel bent to examine the chest and the shelf it sat on. The two seemed to be attached in some way—at least he wasn’t able to move the chest off. And when he pressed down gently on the shelf, it had some give, almost like the balance of a scale.
“I think we have to put it in here—it’s a receptacle. Like the hopper of a machine. You put something in, and—” He tested the chest’s lid; it moved on surprisingly smooth hinges. “You put it in, close the chest, and hope you don’t get a spear in your back for your troubles. The question is what goes in the chest. Just something that’s our property and not his?”
“Not just anything,” Sammi said. “Under the Code, ‘Property’ wouldn’t refer to ordinary consumables or goods of minor note. It would have to be something of real value.”
Gabriel looked around again. “Something like what’s on display here, only ours rather than his.”
“Right. But—” Sammi took in the display of jewels and gold bars and framed paintings. “How could we possibly have anything like this? Unless you’re carrying a painting on you that I don’t know about?”
“Nope.”
“Or a gold bar . . . ?”
“I’m sure Michael’s got some back home, in a safe deposit box somewhere. But that won’t do us any good down here.”
Sammi was digging through her rucksack, trying to find anything that might work. But no amount of pitons and carabiners would do.
Gabriel thought about it. His Bulova A-11 wristwatch was worth a decent amount; his Zippo lighter, too, since it dated back to World War II. But there was a second problem, beyond the question of whether they were valuable enough—whatever he put in the chest also had to be something the two-hundred-year-old mechanism, whatever it was, would somehow be able to recognize. And he didn’t think Napoleon’s engineer could possibly have forseen wristwatches and Zippo lighters.
“Hang on,” Gabriel said. “I have an idea.”
“What?” Sammi said.
“Just stay back. If I’m wrong, I don’t want you getting hit, too.” He positioned himself directly in front of the chest. Looking up, he saw the circular openings through which spears might shoot at any moment.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to show Mr. Bonaparte some property and see what happens.”
“Gabriel, please be careful—I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Neither do I.” Slowly he stepped forward. And taking his Colt out of its holster, he set it down on the bottom of the chest.
It was a gun—and there were guns on display here. What’s more, it was an antique; the provenance was a bit murky, but the man he’d gotten it from had sworn it had once belonged to either Wyatt Earp or Bat Masterson. Now, that would have been around 1870, not 1800 . . . but at least it was the right century. He gave the pistol a last lingering look. If this worked it might be the last time he’d see it—and if it didn’t work it might be the last time he’d see anything . . .
He swung the top of the chest shut and shot a glance up at the ceiling, poised to leap left or right at the first sign of motion.
But the motion, when it came, came from the wall beside the chest. With a loud grinding noise, two of the giant stone blocks slowly rotated as one until they sat perpendicular to their original position. The opening revealed a chamber on the other side.
“I don’t believe it,” Sammi said. “How could it possibly have known what you put in . . . ?”
“Maybe it didn’t. Maybe anything the same weight would have worked.”
She looked around at the speared skeletons on the ground. “Somehow I doubt it.”
“Well, then you might want to get over here, before this thing changes its mind.”
He stepped forward, cautiously watching the holes in the ceiling as he passed through the opening—but no spears came.
Sammi followed carefully in his footsteps, not deviating from his path by so much as an inch. As she reached the rotated wall, the top of the chest slowly and silently rose. She looked inside. “The gun’s still there,” she said. She reached in to get it.
“Don’t!” Gabriel shouted—but she lifted the Colt out of the chest without any ill effect.
She held the gun out to him. “What—do you think you are the only one permitted to take risks?” she said. “Besides, it wasn’t all that much of a risk. Napoleon was a tyrant, but he was not a thief. He might take another man’s country—but not his property.”
Gabriel took the Colt and returned it to his holster. “Thank you. I can tell you, I feel a lot safer with this old friend on my hip.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Sammi said. “Look.”
She directed her flashlight’s beam toward the ground. In the previous room there had been half a dozen human skeletons. Here, the entire floor was littered with them, many of them horribly contorted, their bony hands clutching at their skeletal throats. Here, circular holes did not just cover the ceiling, they lined the walls and floor as well. And at the far end of the chamber was a metal cage containing a stone tablet. The tablet was covered from top to bottom with minute carvings and inscriptions.
The Second Stone.
Chapter 22
The relic sat on the rotted remnants of a brown cloth. It was only a fraction the size of the Rosetta Stone but its surface was covered with a similar profusion of minuscule writing, rows of angular Greek characters alternating with stretches of hieroglyphics. It was just as Amun had described, and as Louis’s secretary had sketched in the document Gabriel had seen.
But just at the moment it wasn’t the main thing commanding their attention.
“What do you think killed them?” Sammi said, playing her light over the skeletons scattered across the ground.
“Not spears this time,” Gabriel said. “I’m guessing poison. Probably gas.” He leaned forward gingerly and bent to examine one of the holes in the wall nearest to them. There was a dark, solid residue around the edges. With a bit of effort he was able to scrape some of the residue off with his fingernail. He sniffed it and grimaced.
“Sulfur dioxide,” he said. “Not the strongest poison, but enough of it in a closed space will kill you.”
Sammi nodded. “There were stories that Napoleon used sulfur dioxide to put down slave rebellions in Haiti and Guadeloupe. Supposedly he had gas chambers built into the holds of slave ships.”
“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 b
ones 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.
“Why, we followed you, of course. You left a fine trail. Even left that rope attached for us. Most helpful.”
“But the first trap, the room with the echo—”
“Yes, that,” Arif said. “Quite an intricate contraption, I am sure. But nothing several pounds of dynamite couldn’t deal with, now that the Corsicans were no longer around to interfere.”
“They’re all . . . ?”
“Dead, yes, every one of them,” Arif said. “It is just us now, Gabriel. You and I and these gentlemen here. There is no one to protect the Stone now. But never fear. The Alliance will see that it returns to its rightful home.”
“Don’t give it to him, Gabriel!”
“If you prefer, Miss Ficatier, I’m sure Kemnebi here would be happy to take it from him.”
“No,” Gabriel said. There were five men, four with guns drawn, against the two of them, Sammi armed with a flashlight and Gabriel with his hands full. “You win,” he said. “Take it.”
“Gabriel!”
“I just want your word that Lucy will be released unharmed, as Amun promised.”
“My word?” Arif clucked and sadly shook his head. “You know what my word is worth, Gabriel.”
“And you know you can name your price,” Gabriel said. “Michael will pay it.”
“Now, that I will have to think about most seriously.” He stepped forward. “The Stone, please.”
Gabriel handed it to him. Arif bent under the weight and Gabriel leaped forward, swinging his arm up and around the smaller man’s throat—but Arif ducked and darted backward out of reach. Two of the other men stepped forward to flank him.