by Steve Berry
“Reality is clear, though,” she said. “Everything that Egyptian sorcerer predicted came to pass. Josephine did become empress and Napoleon divorced her because she could not produce an heir.”
“I thought it was because she was unfaithful.”
“That she was, but so was he. Marie Louise, the eighteen-year-old archduchess of Austria, eventually captured his imagination, so he married her. She gave him the son he wanted.”
“The way of royalty, at the time,” he mused.
“I think Napoleon would have taken offense at being compared to royalty.”
Now he chuckled. “Then he was quite the fool. He was nothing but royalty.”
“Just as predicted, it was after his second marriage, in 1809, that Napoleon’s luck changed. The failed Russian campaign in 1812, where his retreating army was decimated. The 1813 coalition brought England, Prussia, Russia, and Austria against him. His defeats in Spain and at Leipzig, then the German collapse and the loss of Holland. Paris fell in 1814, and he abdicated. They sent him to Elba, but he escaped and tried to retake Paris from Louis XVIII. But his Waterloo finally came on June 18, 1815, and it was over. Off to St. Helena to die.”
“You truly hate the man, don’t you?”
“What galls me is we’ll never know the man. He spent the five years of his exile on St. Helena burnishing his image, writing an autobiography that ended up being more fiction than fact, tailoring history to his advantage. In truth, he was a husband who dearly loved his wife, but quickly divorced her when she failed to produce an heir. A general who professed great love for his soldiers, yet sacrificed them by the hundreds of thousands. Supposedly fearless, he repeatedly abandoned his men when expedient. A leader who wanted nothing more than to strengthen France, yet kept the nation constantly embroiled in war. I think it’s obvious why I detest him.”
He thought a little aggravation might be good. “Did you know that Napoleon and Josephine dined here? I’m told this room remains much the same as it was in the early 19th century.”
She smiled. “I was aware of that. Interesting, though, that you know such information.”
“Did Napoleon really have that sorcerer killed in Egypt?”
“He ordered one of his savants, Monge, to do it.”
“Do you adhere to the theory that Napoleon was poisoned?” He knew that, supposedly, arsenic had been slowly administered in his food and drink, enough to eventually kill him. Modern tests run of strands of hair that survived confirmed high levels of arsenic.
She laughed. “The British had no reason to kill him. In fact, it was quite the opposite. They wanted him alive.”
Their entrées arrived. His was a pan-fried red mullet in oil and tomatoes, hers a young chicken in wine sauce, sprinkled with cheese. They both enjoyed a glass of merlot.
“Do you know the story of when they exhumed Napoleon in 1840, to return him to France?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“It’s illustrative of why the British would never have poisoned him.”
Malone threaded his way through the deserted gallery. No lights burned, and the illumination provided by sunlight was diffused by plastic sheets that protected the windows. The air was warm and laced with the pall of fresh paint. Many of the display cases and exhibits were draped in crusty drop cloths. Ladders dotted the walls. More scaffolding rose at the far end. A section of the hardwood flooring had been removed, and messy repairs were being made to the stone subsurface.
He noticed no cameras, no sensors. He passed uniforms, armor, swords, daggers, harnesses, pistols, and rifles, all displayed in silk-lined cases. A steady and intentional procession of technology, each generation learning how to kill the next faster. Nothing at all suggested the horror of war. Instead, only its glory seemed emphasized.
He stepped around another gash in the floor and kept walking down the long gallery, his rubber soles not making a sound.
Behind him he heard the metal doors being tested.
Ashby stood on the second-floor landing and watched as Mr. Guildhall pressed on the doors that led into the Napoleon galleries.
Something blocked them.
“I thought they were open,” Caroline whispered.
That was exactly what Larocque had reported. Anything of value had been removed weeks ago. All that remained were minor historical artifacts, left inside since outside storage was limited. The contractor performing the remodeling had agreed to work around the exhibits, required to purchase liability insurance to guarantee their safety.
Yet something blocked the doors.
He did not want to attract the attention of the woman below, or employees one floor above in the relief map museum. “Force them,” he said. “But quietly.”
The French frigate La Belle Poule arrived at St. Helena in October 1840 with a contingent led by Prince de Joinville, the third son of King Louis Philippe. The British governor, Middlemore, sent his son to greet the ship and Royal Naval shore batteries fired a twenty-one-gun salute in their honor. On October 15, twenty five years to the day since Napoleon first arrived on St. Helena, the task of exhuming the emperor’s body began. The French wanted the process managed by their sailors, but the British insisted that the job be done by their people. Local workmen and British soldiers toiled through the night in a pouring rain. Nineteen years had passed since Napoleon’s coffin had been lowered into the earth, sealed with bricks and cement, and reversing that process proved challenging. Freeing the stones one by one, puncturing layers of masonry reinforced with metal bands, forcing off the four lids to finally confront the sight of the dead emperor had taken effort.
A number of people who’d lived with Napoleon on St. Helena had returned to witness the exhumation. General Gourgaud. General Bertrand. Pierron, the pastry cook. Archambault, the groom. Noverraz, the third valet. Marchand, and Saint-Denis, who’d never left the emperor’s side.
The body of Napoleon was wrapped in fragments of white satin that had fallen from the coffin’s lid. His black riding boots had split open to reveal pasty white toes. The legs remained covered in white britches, the hat still resting beside him where it had been placed years before. The silver dish containing his heart lay between the thighs. His hands—white, hard, and perfect—showed long nails. Three teeth were visible where the lip had drawn back, the face gray from the stubble of a beard, the eyelids firmly closed. The body was in remarkable condition, as if he were sleeping rather than decomposing.
All of the objects that had been included to keep him company were still there, crowded around his satin bed. A collection of French and Italian coins minted with his impassive face, a silver sauceboat, a plate, knives, forks, and spoons engraved with the imperial arms, a silver flask containing water from the Vale of Geranium, a cloak, a sword, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of water.
Everyone removed their hats and a French priest sprinkled holy water, reciting the words from Psalm 130. “Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord.”
The British doctor wanted to examine the body in the name of science, but General Gourgaud, heavyset, red faced with a gray beard, objected. “You shall not. Our emperor has suffered enough indignities.”
Everyone there knew that London and Paris had agreed to this exhumation as a way to reconcile differences between the two nations. After all, as the French ambassador to England had made clear, “I do not know any honorable motive for refusal, as England cannot tell the world that she wishes to keep a corpse prisoner.”
The British governor, Middlemore, stepped forward. “We have the right to examine the body.”
“For what reason?” Marchand asked. “What purpose? The British were there when the coffin was sealed, the body subjected to autopsy by your doctors, though the emperor specifically left instructions for that not to occur.”
Marchand himself had been there that day, and it was clear from his bitterness that he hadn’t forgotten the violation.
Middlemore lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Very well. W
ould you object to an outer inspection? After all, the body is, would you not say, in remarkable condition for being entombed for so long. That demands some investigation.”
Gourgaud relented, and the others agreed.
So the doctor felt the legs, the belly, the hands, an eyelid, then the chest.
“Napoleon was then sealed in his four coffins of wood and metal, the key to the sarcophagus turned, and everything made ready to return him to Paris,” Eliza said.
“What was the doctor really after?” Thorvaldsen asked.
“Something the British had tried, in vain, to learn while Napoleon was their prisoner. The location of the lost cache.”
“They thought it was in the grave?”
“They didn’t know. A lot of odd items were placed in that coffin. Someone thought maybe the answer lay there. It’s believed that was one of the reasons why the Brits agreed to the exhumation—to have another look.”
“And did they find anything?”
She sipped her wine. “Nothing.”
She watched as her words took root.
“They didn’t look in the right place, did they?” he asked.
She was starting to like this Dane. “Not even close.”
“And you, Madame Larocque, have you discovered the right place?”
“That, Herre Thorvaldsen, is a question that may well be answered before this day is completed.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Malone found the Napoleonic exhibits and examined relics of both the emperor’s triumph and his fall. He saw the bullet that wounded the general at Ratisbon, his telescope, maps, pistols, a walking stick, dressing gown, even his death mask. One display depicted the room on St. Helena where Napoleon died, complete with folding cot and canopy.
A scraping sound echoed through the hall.
The metal doors a hundred feet behind him were being forced.
He’d settled one of the construction pallets against the doors, knowing that he would soon have company. He’d watched as Ashby had left the church and calmly walked into the Invalides. While Ashby and his entourage stopped to admire the Court of Honor, he’d hurried inside. He was assuming that Ashby was privy to the same sort of inside information Stephanie had provided him. He’d called her last night, after leaving Thorvaldsen, and formulated a plan that accommodated her needs while not compromising his friend.
A juggling act. But not impossible.
The pallet guarding the metal doors scraped louder across the floor.
He turned and spied light seeping into the dim hall.
Three shadows broke the illumination.
Before him, resting inside a partially opened glass case were some silver cutlery, a cup used by Napoleon at Waterloo, a tea box from St. Helena, and two books. A small placard informed the public that the books were from Napoleon’s personal library on St. Helena, part of the 1,600 he’d maintained. One was Memoirs and Correspondence of Joséphine read, the placard informed, by Napoleon in 1821, shortly before he died. He’d supposedly questioned its veracity, upset by its content. The other was a small, leather-bound volume, opened to pages near its center that another placard identified as The Merovingian Kingdoms 450–751 A.D., from the same personal library, though this book had the distinction of being specially identified in the emperor’s last will and testament.
A click of urgent heels on hard floor echoed through the hall.
Ashby loved the chase.
He was always amused by books and movies that depicted treasure hunters as swashbucklers. In reality, most of the time was spent poring through old writings, whether they be books, wills, correspondence, personal notes, private diaries, or public records. Bits and pieces, here and there. Never some singular piece of proof that solved the puzzle in one quick swoop. Clues were generally either barely existent or undecipherable, and there were far more disappointments than successes.
This chase was a perfect example.
Yet they may actually be on to something this time.
Hard to say for sure until they examined The Merovingian Kingdoms 450–751 A.D., which should be waiting for them a few meters ahead.
Eliza Larocque had advised him that today would be a perfect opportunity to sneak into this part of the museum. No construction crews should be on the job. Likewise, the Invalides staff would be anxious to be done with the day and go home for Christmas. Tomorrow was one of the few days the museum was closed.
Mr. Guildhall led the way through the cluttered gallery.
The tepid air smelled of paint and turpentine, further evidence of the obvious ongoing renovations.
He needed to leave Paris as soon as this errand was completed. The Americans would be waiting in London, anxious for a report. Which he would finally provide. No reason to delay any longer. Tomorrow would prove a most interesting day—a Christmas he’d certainly remember.
Mr. Guildhall stopped and Ashby caught sight of what his minion had already seen.
In the glass case where the assorted Napoleonic relics and books should be waiting, he saw one volume. But the second book was gone. Only a small card, angled on the wooden easel, remained.
A moment of silence seemed like an hour.
He quelled his dismay, stepped close, and read what was written on the card.
Lord Ashby, if you’re a good boy,
we’ll give you the book.
“What does that mean?” Caroline asked.
“I assume it’s Eliza Larocque’s way of keeping me in line.”
He smiled at the fervor of hope in his lie.
“It says we’ll.”
“She must mean the club.”
“She gave you all the other information she had. She provided the intel on this place.” The words were more question than statement.
“She’s cautious. Perhaps she doesn’t want us to have it all. Not just yet, anyway.”
“You shouldn’t have called her.”
He caught the next question in her eyes and said, “We go back to England.”
They retreated from the gallery and his mind clicked through the possibilities. Caroline knew nothing of his secret collaboration with Washington, which was why he’d blamed the missing book on Larocque and the Paris Club.
But the truth frightened him even more.
The Americans knew his business.
Malone watched from the far end of the hall as Ashby and company fled the gallery. He grinned at Ashby’s dilemma, noticing how he’d deceived Caroline Dodd. He then departed through a rear stairway and escaped the Invalides out its north façade. He flagged a taxi, crossed the Seine, and found Le Grand Véfour.
He entered the restaurant and glanced around at a pleasant room, entirely French, with resplendent walls sheathed in gilt-edged mirrors. He scanned the clothed tables and caught sight of Thorvaldsen sitting with a handsome-looking woman, dressed in a gray business suit, her back to him.
He casually displayed the book and smiled.
Thorvaldsen now knew that the balance of power had shifted. He was in total control, and neither Ashby nor Eliza Larocque realized it.
Not yet anyway.
So he placed one knee over the other, leaned back in his chair, and returned his attention to his hostess, confident that soon all his debts would be paid.
THIRTY-NINE
12:15 PM
Sam followed Meagan Morrison and Stephanie Nelle as they each paid admission to the Eiffel Tower. The lines at the other two entrances, with elevators to the first and second platforms, were massive, at least a two-hour wait. But the one here at the south pylon was much shorter, since the only way to the first platform was to climb 347 steps.
“We don’t have time to wait in line,” Stephanie Nelle had said.
Sam had spent the night at a Left Bank hotel in one room, Meagan Morrison in another, two Secret Service agents guarding their doors. Stephanie had listened to the information Meagan had to offer, then she’d made a few phone calls. After apparently confirming at least some of what she’d hea
rd, she’d insisted on protective custody.
“Do field agents wear the same clothes all the time?” he asked Stephanie as they climbed the stairs. He was going on three days with his current ensemble.
“Few tuxedos or designer digs,” she said. “You make do, and get the job done.”
They passed a riser marked 134. Four immense, lattice-girder piers, the space within them larger than a football field, supported the tower’s first platform—189 feet high, as a sign at the bottom of the stairs had informed. The pylons tapered upward to a second platform, at 379 feet, then continued rising to the top level observation deck, at 905 feet. The tallest structure in Paris—a gangly network of exposed puddle iron, riveted together, painted a brownish gray, the image of which had evolved into one of the most recognizable in the world.
Meagan was handling the climb with easy effort, but his own calves ached. She’d said little last evening, after they were taken to the hotel. But he’d made the right choice going with her from the museum. Now he was working with the head of the Magellan Billet.
Ten more minutes of climbing and they tackled the final flight.
The first-floor platform was busy with visitors swarming through a souvenir shop, post office, exhibit hall, snack bar, and restaurant. Elevators on the far side led down to ground level. Another 330 or so steps right-angled upward to the second level. The first-level platform wound around an open center that offered a view down to the plaza.
Stephanie rested against the iron railing. He and Meagan joined her. Together they stared across at a glass wall and doors, above which lettering identified LA SALLE GUSTAV EIFFEL.
“The Paris Club meets in that room tomorrow,” Meagan told Stephanie in a whisper.
“And how do you really know that?”
They’d had this same conversation yesterday. Obviously Stephanie was practicing the old adage, “Ask the same question enough and see if you get the same answer.”