The Napoleon Affair Read online

  The Napoleon Affair

  A Sean Wyatt Adventure

  Ernest Dempsey

  138 Publishing

  Contents

  JOIN THE ADVENTURE

  Prologue

  1. INLET BEACH, FLORIDA - PRESENT DAY

  2. ROSEMARY BEACH, FLORIDA

  3. ROSEMARY BEACH

  4. MALBORK, POLAND

  5. ROSEMARY BEACH

  6. THE VATICAN

  7. THE VATICAN

  8. MALBORK

  9. THE VATICAN

  10. THE VATICAN

  11. MALBORK

  12. PARIS

  13. PARIS

  14. PARIS

  15. PARIS

  16. PARIS

  17. PARIS

  18. PARIS

  19. MALBORK

  20. ST. HELENA

  21. PARIS

  22. ST. HELENA

  23. PARIS

  24. MALBORK

  25. Villers-Cotterêts

  26. Villers-Cotterêts

  27. Villers-Cotterêts

  28. Villers-Cotterêts

  29. PARIS

  30. Villers-Cotterêts

  31. Père Lachaise Cemetery - PARIS

  32. Père Lachaise

  33. Père Lachaise

  34. Père Lachaise

  35. Père Lachaise

  36. PARIS

  37. PARIS

  38. PARIS

  39. NOTRE DAME CATHEDRAL - PARIS

  40. NOTRE DAME

  41. NOTRE DAME

  42. Tegernsee, Bavaria

  43. MALTA

  THANK YOU

  OTHER BOOKS BY ERNEST DEMPSEY

  FACT VS. FICTION

  Bonus Materials

  Acknowledgments

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  Prologue

  VALLETTA, MALTA 1798

  "You cannot go in there!" the old priest commanded. "This is a holy place, not a place of war and death."

  "Get him out of here," the General said. He marched through the hall, taking long strides with every step, though long was subjective for the diminutive leader.

  Two of his soldiers grabbed the priest under the arms and dragged him backward. The man yelped and shouted. He'd been speaking French before, but the curses and warnings emitted now were in Latin. As he was pulled farther from the general, the priest's angry protests faded to muted whimpers.

  The Co-Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist was crawling with soldiers rushing between cells, rooms, and offices, carelessly tossing furniture, papers, and other ordinary day-to-day items onto the floor. They moved like locusts swarming through a harvest and consuming everything in their path; never satisfied, their hunger never filled.

  The general stopped at an intersection in the corridor and looked back at his men. This was hardly the way he desired to search the house of God; then again, he wasn't a very religious person. He'd been baptized as a child into the Catholic faith, but the church's dogmatic views and guidelines had never truly taken root with him. He did, however, appreciate the measure of control religion could hold over people. In that regard, he almost admired the church, occasionally wishing that he, too, could exercise such sway over not only the nation of France but the entire world.

  He respected most religions and believed that all belief systems should be honored. The general was not only a tolerant man, but wise beyond the understanding of many of his contemporaries. He believed that people should be permitted to worship as they chose; to embrace the cultures they'd established long ago. And he also understood the strategic advantage of honoring those who dwelled in the lands he conquered. It was no ruse, no falsehood that he told his soldiers to respect Christians, Muslims, Jews, and any others of different beliefs. He truly embraced that approach. He also embraced the benefits that came with such teachings, such as the ability to control the masses. And Napoléon was all about control.

  Alas, he was only a man, alone in the world as a beacon of light and hope shining toward a brighter future for all—an ideal he believed to his very core. Wars, disease, pestilence, and death had all ravaged Europe, and little mercy had been meted out to his beloved France. All the while, those at the top of society had suffered little, sending out their soldiers to do their dirty work, fight their wars, claim them new lands and titles, all of which would be taxed to the breaking point—of course.

  To the populace, Napoléon had represented change, something new for the people of France. He'd offered them hope in the unusual form of a squat general with a knack for military strategy and tactics.

  Leading the people through a series of fantastic victories, he'd set his sights on foreign territories to further expand his…interests. Napoléon had the ambition of a lion—his thirst for power unrivaled—and only a few of his trusted advisers, his only real friends in this world, knew of his ultimate goal.

  To achieve it, though, he would need something of note, a catalyst that would enable him to lay a legitimate claim to new realms, an artifact of unprecedented power and esteem. It would also have to be a holy relic, something that gave him authority—both of earth and of heaven.

  He'd known about the island nation of Malta for a long time, but it was only recently that he’d learned of the treasure housed in this very place, this temple to the Almighty.

  Napoléon often questioned loyalty to a master that seemed so uncaring, so ambivalent toward his own creations. He certainly believed that there was a higher power at work in the universe; he just didn't believe that higher power cared about him as an individual, or about his nation.

  Turning from his men he continued walking straight ahead and then turned right into the church's atrium. It was a glamorous lobby, but nothing he'd seen so far compared to the opulence of the grand sanctuary. Most of the halls—including the one in which he now stood—featured grandiose archways coated in gold filigree and separated by masterfully painted scenes from the Bible. The sanctuary was a larger version of the other corridors: much taller, wider, and grander in every conceivable way.

  For the briefest of moments, the battle-hardened general was taken aback by the splendor of the cathedral. Designed by the baroque master Mattia Preti, the interior was every bit as spectacular as the exterior was rudimentary and functional. Not that the Maltese limestone, out of which the building had been constructed, wasn't beautiful. It was, however, designed to look as much like a fortress as a place of worship. That, perhaps, was due to those who had engineered it.

  The Knights Hospitaller, also known as the Order of Malta, had been responsible for that holy task. They took it upon themselves to design and even fund the structure, with much of the money coming from their own coffers as well as from personal contributions from within their own ranks.

  While they'd made the outside look almost imposing, the interior was more exquisite than many palaces Napoléon had seen. The high, gilded archways above separated scenes depicting the life of Saint John the Baptist.

  There were nine chapels that branched out from the main sanctuary, each dedicated to various languages, peoples, and sects, but all equally as magnificent as the rest of the building, simply smaller.

  Napoléon marched through the center of the sanctuary, his boots irreverently clicking on the marble tiles underfoot as he made his way toward the front of the church where the presbytery was located.

  Two of his guards stood either side of a priest who was kneeling before the altar. Napoléon focused his attention on the man, doing his best to avoid the myriad distractions of glitter and shine all around him, however he did catch something of
note as he stalked toward the front. One of the columns was emblazoned with the letters RC. Another featured the letters NC in long, diagonal rows. Between the grouped letters was the easily recognized cross of the Order of the Knights of Malta, the Knights Hospitaller. They'd also been known by a few other names, the more apt of them being the Knights of Saint John or the Order of Saint John.

  The Siege of Valletta and subsequent takeover had seen resistance from the Maltese people, especially from the knights. They'd fought valiantly, honorably, and died in the same way. Napoléon knew that some had escaped, but eradicating an ancient sect of a fading chivalric order was not his primary goal here. Neither was taking over the island for any length of time. He would leave a small contingent, probably around three thousand soldiers, in the garrison on the island. That represented roughly 10 percent of his forces, enough to make it look like he was trying to establish a stronghold in the Mediterranean but not so many that it would hurt his advances in Egypt.

  His plan was to leave as soon as possible, making for Alexandria the moment he had the relic in his possession. The priest was the key to finding said relic.

  Napoléon walked the last fifty feet with his eyes focused directly on the man in the priestly vestments. He paid no attention to the marble tiles beneath his feet that marked the graves of 375 knights, all entombed within the confines of the church to be forever under the protection of God and of his servant Saint John the Baptist.

  Napoléon stopped with a click of the heels, standing at attention behind the priest kneeling between the two soldiers. One of the men in uniform was an officer, a lieutenant in Napoléon's personal guard. He was loyal to a fault, never questioning his general's orders but always willing to pose alternative outcomes for situations the general had, perhaps, not foreseen.

  "He won't move, sir," the lieutenant said. He was a tall man, easily two inches over six feet, and towered over his general.

  Napoléon didn't let that bother him. He'd learned to deal with it over the years. Most people, especially men in the army, were taller than him. It was one reason he'd had to work so hard to quickly climb the ranks.

  The lieutenant went on. "He just keeps praying, General. Saying the same prayer over and over again."

  "Leave us, Lieutenant," Napoléon said with a curt nod.

  His second didn't take the order as rude. It was how the general spoke to everyone, and all in his ranks knew not to take it personally or become afflicted by emotions over his often short and direct approach to conversation or issuing orders.

  "Yes, sir." The man nodded to the other soldier, and the two stepped away from the general, walking twenty feet before they spun around and faced the two men at the altar, just in case this priest was up to something nefarious, however unlikely that might have been.

  Napoléon stepped up to the right side of the kneeling man and lowered himself to the prayer step at the base of the altar. He was surprised at how firm the pad was—considering it had been created to ease the discomfort of kneeling when praying to the Most High.

  He folded his hands and bowed his head. His two men probably wondered what he was doing, wondered if he'd had a change of heart and suddenly become a devout, religious man.

  He said nothing, instead letting the priest finish his prayers.

  "You must leave this place," the priest said. "There is nothing for you here. God will punish you for such blasphemies."

  "Blasphemies?" Napoléon questioned. "I know not of what you speak, good Father. I am simply here to collect something, an item of some importance." He spoke heavily accented English to the priest, though he suspected the older man spoke fluent French. Most of the Maltese population was trilingual, able to speak French, English, and Maltese, though there were still others who knew Spanish and Portuguese, as well.

  "I know what you are here for. You're nothing more than a brigand, a common thief. You have no right to it. It is a holy relic. It belongs in the house of God."

  Napoléon looked around for a moment as if trying to find something. It was a mocking gesture, though the priest didn't really see it unless it was through his periphery. His eyes were still focused forward, on the floor just ahead of where he was kneeling.

  "This house?" Napoléon asked, pointing at the tiles at his feet. "Why not some other house of God? There are so many."

  "It was brought here by our founders, the knights ordained by God through His holy church. It belongs here, on Malta. Go on your way, General. Leave the ring here, I beg you, or it will lead to great disaster for you."

  "Very well," the General said. He grabbed the priest by the collar and hoisted him up off the floor.

  The priest was surprised at how strong this small man was. While his stature may have been unimpressive, there was a hidden strength beneath his military uniform.

  "Take me to the reliquary, or I will start killing. Your monks, your other priests, your servants, and if you don't take me to it after all of that, I will start killing citizens from the city."

  That got the priest’s attention. The old man turned to the general with shock in his eyes. "You can't do that. This is a house of worship."

  "And I will not kill in this…holy place," Napoléon sneered, his comment layered in cynicism.

  He'd often wondered about the splendor of the temples and churches of religion, why people felt it important to ordain their places of worship with such riches when the deity they worshipped offered no gratitude and certainly didn't need the money. He nearly chuckled to himself at that thought but refrained since doing so would have eradicated any sincerity of his threat. It wasn't that he didn't believe God should be honored; but with so much splendor and expense?

  Footsteps clicked on the tiles behind the two men, and the priest couldn't stop himself from turning around to see who was approaching, perhaps hoping it was his savior, come to remove this outlaw general. The priest knew what was going on. He knew that the general had illegally invaded Malta—a neutral country.

  The priest's eyes widened as his heart filled with hope. One of the knights approached, though he didn't seem to be in a hurry to save the older man. His sword was still at his side, a musket strapped over his shoulder. The priest knew there were any number of other weapons hidden on the man. The knights were well armed but never displayed their full personal arsenal until it was necessary.

  Why was this guardian of Malta not rushing to the priest's aid? Instead, he was stalking toward the two men with patient intensity.

  "Ah," the General said, seeing the man approach. "I'm glad you're here. Our friend, the priest, doesn't seem to want to tell me where the artifact is."

  "Of course he doesn't," the knight said. He spoke fluent French, the accent hinting at an ancestry stemming from Toulon, the very place where this entire campaign began. "He's sworn to protect it."

  "Oh, I see. So, death it is then, Father?" Napoléon had no intention of killing a priest. Even with his lackluster fervor for religion and his casual ideologies regarding it and other customs, he didn't want to tempt fate. Just in case.

  "If you must," the priest said. "I will gladly die to keep it out of your hands."

  "So dramatic," the knight said. His name was Jean-Antoine Courture. A Frenchman to his core, he was one of the many knights in the battle for Malta who had defected to the French side, the side of their homeland. "Come, General. I will show you to the reliquary."

  Napoléon's eyebrows lifted, and he smirked at the priest. "So, it would appear we do not need you to give us the ring. Still, I would like you to accompany us."

  The knight grabbed the priest by the shoulder and motioned toward a door off to the right.

  The priest shook his head. "But the reliquary, my son, it's that way." He pointed in a different direction.

  "No," the knight insisted. "Not the one for the parishioners and the patrons of your church. Did you think I was not aware of the true location of the hand of Saint John?"

  The priest swallowed hard, afraid his mistake might hav
e cost him everything. Then he nodded. "No, I supposed not."

  The knight led the way to the door and opened it, motioning the priest through first. He followed behind, allowing the general to take up the rear.

  The three men walked through a short corridor lined with iron sconces. Candles burned in their nests, dripping wax onto the black iron cups. The small flames flickered dimly, casting an eerie yellow glow through the passage. They proceeded down the hall until they reached another door. This one was heavy, made from oak and set in place with tough iron hinges and a matching looped latch. It was very different, stark almost, when compared to the ornately gilded door from the sanctuary.

  "Open it," the knight said.

  The priest briefly considered lying, telling him that he didn't have the key. Not only would the knight not believe him, telling a falsehood was against the priest's creed, the very fiber of his being. What was he if not honest?

  He reached in a pocket of his vestment and retrieved a small key ring. There were only four keys on it.

  Napoléon imagined that one was for some of the main doors to the building; another for his private cell; the third would likely be for other rooms—offices, perhaps. The fourth, he knew, belonged to this door.