The Napoleon Affair Page 10

  "Do you have any idea where they are flying next?"

  Michael drew an audible breath through his nostrils. "Paris. They believe that there may be something to find at the tomb of Joséphine Bonaparte."

  That was interesting information.

  During his investigations, Berger had considered the possibility that Napoléon might have hidden the relic with his former wife. She died several years before him, and while they had divorced in typical fashion—messy—the great general had always held a place for Joséphine in his heart.

  Berger couldn't imagine feeling something like that for another person. Perhaps it was his upbringing with the order. His entire life, he'd been surrounded by men and taught that chastity was important, though not required. They were not priests. There were no oaths requiring them to live in celibacy.

  He'd been with women on occasion. None had ever impressed him the way it seemed Joséphine had done to Napoléon. Then again, maybe the great general, one of the most powerful men to ever live, was weak in that department. Everyone had their weakness, a chink in their armor. Berger had worked hard to make sure any weaknesses he possessed were minimized. Napoléon, it seemed, had made no effort.

  After the split with Joséphine, he was never the same. From the outside, it looked as though she'd moved on, completely cutting off emotionally and physically.

  "Rose," Berger said, almost a whisper.

  "I'm sorry, sir?" Michael's voice only twitched slightly amid his confusion.

  "Rose," the grand master repeated. "Napoléon called her Rose. That was her middle name, I believe." He knew he was correct. While the general used the name as a term of endearment, her middle name had, in fact, been Rose.

  Still, why would Napoléon choose to hide the relic with his ex-wife?

  In the final days leading up to the Battle of Waterloo, the general had been erratic, bordering on aloof in his behavior and actions. His mind had been all over the place. Some of his contemporaries had suggested that ever since his exile at Elba, he'd been different.

  Berger knew why. The order had moved on him. They'd seen the man's sudden rise to power, the stratospheric level of his command, and known exactly how it had happened.

  He'd taken something that didn't belong to him, something that had been placed within the confines of a Teutonic stronghold in the middle of the Mediterranean. The grand master of the time had sent out his best agents to retrieve the relic and bring it back to where it belonged. While they understood the relic's importance as a holy item, something to be kept sacred, it was Berger who understood its true power.

  The knights tracked Napoléon, ever watchful of the man's every waking moment as they sought a way to exploit a weakness and retrieve what was rightfully theirs. The general was no easy mark, though, and was under constant and careful watch by his own guards, men who were highly trained warriors in their own right. Even so, the knights managed to infiltrate the abode of Napoléon—but found nothing. The relic was nowhere to be seen. If the man had it, he'd secreted it away in some hidden vault or safe, which he told no one about.

  The knights who searched Napoléon's home considered killing the general while he slept, but they knew if they did that, they might never uncover the relic's location and it could be lost to history.

  So they let the man live—for a time.

  The assassins retired to the shadows and watched, but they didn't leave that fateful night without also reminding Napoléon of his transgression. They left a piece of cloth with their crest sewn into it, the mark of the Teutonic Knights. It was a simple design—a black cross on a white backdrop—but they knew that the general would get the message. He knew what he'd done, and the mere fact that the knights could infiltrate his own bedchamber meant that they held his life in the balance.

  Somehow, though, Napoléon had managed to get the relic out of France, to where, no one knew. For hundreds of years, grand masters had sought to discover its location, but it was next to impossible. With no leads, no rumors, legends, or myths to go on, no clues anywhere, the relic had been lost forever.

  Until Cardinal Jarllson discovered the letter.

  If only Berger could have retrieved it.

  Unfortunately, he'd had to make a quick escape. He'd gone to the Vatican himself to handle the situation, leaving specific instructions for Michael and the other knights on what to do if he didn't make it back.

  He'd scaled the walls bordering the narrow alley with the strength and agility of a man fifteen years his junior. While his joints and muscles didn't work the way they had in his youth, Berger still found that his training and rigorous daily routines kept him in prime shape.

  Jarllson hadn't had the letter, though, and once more it seemed the knights would be thrown into an endless wild goose chase, grasping at ghosts and shadows at every turn.

  But fate, it seemed, was now smiling on them. These Americans were on to something, and if the order played things correctly, Berger and his knights would be led straight to their prize.

  "We have a man in position at Charles de Gaulle in Paris, Grand Master," Michael said. "What would you have him do?"

  He thought back on what he'd been told regarding the demise of Napoléon and the true cause behind the general's death. One of their own had followed him to Saint Helena, at the general’s second exile. The knight had tortured Napoléon for weeks, slipping poisons and toxins into the man's food and drink—although nothing that would kill him quickly.

  No one was the wiser. The doctors blamed it on stomach cancer, a common cause of death at the time due to poor diet. As Napoléon gradually slipped in and out of consciousness, and sanity, he began rambling about strange things. His friends believed he was losing his mind from the pain, but that was only part of it. He was also fighting the drugs he'd been given that would cause him to reveal the truth about the relic and its location.

  Unfortunately, the general succumbed to his ailment before he could be coerced into giving away the details. It was a nightmare scenario for the knights, one that resigned them to their new lives as mercenaries, businessmen, and assassins. If they were going to rebuild their empire, it would be the hard way, and through many lifetimes of toil and anguish.

  Berger's predecessors had stayed the course, knowing full well they would likely never hold the powerful relic Napoléon had stolen from them. It was just as well, Berger believed. They only thought the object to be something sacred, an item to be housed in a closet or museum so it could be revered. The truth, however, was that the relic possessed something greater, something more powerful than any of them ever understood.

  Berger considered this as he pondered Michael's question—what to do with the Americans when they arrived in Paris.

  "We know what they are after," the grand master said. "But do they?"

  There was a pause. "I'm not certain, sir. I don't believe so."

  "Ah, so these three are on what they think is just some treasure hunt."

  "That's possible."

  "Very well. Follow them to the tomb of Bonaparte's wife. Watch them closely. If they find the relic, kill them and bring it to me."

  "And if they don't?"

  Berger flashed a toothy grin as he stared at the birds eating just outside the window. "Take the letter and kill them anyway."

  12

  PARIS

  Sean stepped onto the tarmac and looked around, taking in the sights and sounds of Charles de Gaulle.

  It was loud as jets taxied to the runway a thousand yards away. Others were taking off and landing, one right after another.

  Sean was used to seeing busy airports. Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport was usually the busiest in the world.

  He watched planes stacked several layers high as they took off and landed in some sort of odd, perpetual motion. This airport was one Sean had visited several times in the past, most of those when he was on missions with Axis. There'd been a few for pleasure and another couple of visits with the IAA.

  For
tourists, the location of the airport was something of a nightmare. It was a long train or car ride back into the city, so anyone hoping to snap some quick pictures of the Eiffel Tower on a long layover would be pressed for time.

  Fortunately, he wasn't pressed for time, not that he knew of, although solving the mystery behind the murder of Cardinal Jarllson would be better done in less time than more. Obviously.

  "Yeah," Sean muttered to himself. "Best not to keep the Vatican waiting."

  "What's that?" Tommy asked, sidling up next to his friend.

  Sean tossed his head back and forth. "Nothing. Just thinking we need to solve this so we don't upset the Vatican."

  "Yeah," Tommy agreed and looked over his shoulder toward the Vatican’s jet.

  Bodmer was still on board, collecting his things.

  Adriana was already ahead of the two friends, stowing her rucksack and duffle bag into the trunk of a black luxury SUV waiting fifty feet away.

  "The other thing I don't need is them trying to block me every time I apply for a permit."

  "They would do that?" Sean turned his head and stared quizzically at his friend.

  "I don't know," Tommy admitted with a shrug. "But I don't want to find out."

  Commander Bodmer descended the stairs of the plane with his gear bag slung over his shoulder.

  Sean started toward the SUV, and Tommy followed. They put their gear in the back, Sean deciding to keep his laptop bag with him instead. The driver was standing by the open front door of the vehicle and stepped out to extend a hand to the men.

  "I'm Mattias," the man said. He had light brown hair, almost dirty blond, and was thin, probably 165 pounds and a hair under six feet tall. He wore a black suit and matching tie with a white button-up shirt underneath. His face was slender, like the rest of him, with a pointed chin and a short, squat nose that seemed out of place with the rest of the man's appearance. "I'm your liaison and driver."

  The outfit made Sean wonder if he was going to drive them to the prom or to the tomb of Joséphine Bonaparte.

  Tommy cut in front of Sean and shook the man's hand. "Mattias, good to see you again. I hope you've been well."

  Mattias took Tommy's hand and shook it. The grip wasn't strong but not soft, either, like a person who was trying not to be too firm or too weak.

  "A pleasure," Mattias said dryly. "What are you hoping to see at Joséphine's tomb? I heard that's where we are headed."

  "To be honest, I'm not sure. It could be anything. All I know is that's where we think we're supposed to go."

  "I don't suppose you'll tell me what you're searching for?" He turned as if he was about to get into the car.

  "I would if I knew," Tommy said. "But we're as much in the dark about it as you."

  Mattias seemed to accept the answer, twitched his nose, puckered his lips as if trying to work out an itch, and then nodded. "Well then, shall we?" He motioned to the car.

  "Sounds good."

  Tommy went around to the front passenger door and climbed in, leaving Sean and Adrianna in the second row while Bodmer crawled into the last row. The tall man looked scrunched, even though there was more than ample head and leg room in the vehicle.

  "So," Mattias said as he shifted the vehicle into gear and started driving toward an exit, "you're visiting Paris and the tomb of Napoléon's ex-wife, but you don't know what you're looking for or why you're here?"

  Tommy knew better than to divulge too much information, even with someone he knew and trusted. He'd worked with Mattias before on a few projects, though none were laced with danger and mystery like this. They were essentially part of a murder investigation. Not only that; they were part of an investigation that was centered directly in the Vatican. Something like that would require a great amount of care and discretion.

  "We found something we think is a clue," Tommy said. He wasn't lying. He wasn't telling the whole truth, either. None of the passengers wanted anyone else, not even Mattias, to know the real reason they were in Paris. "What it leads to is anyone's guess."

  "And so you and your friends have traveled all the way across the world to try to figure out what this is, and you don't have any idea what it could be or what it could lead to?" Mattias sounded skeptical yet uninterested at the same time. He was a fascinating study in that regard, how he was able to sound almost like he cared but remain a jerk all at once.

  "Yep," Sean cut in. "You wouldn't believe how many times we've done this sort of thing and come up empty-handed."

  "Sounds like an inefficient way to run things."

  "Well, you win some, you lose some," Tommy chirped.

  "Indeed."

  The conversation fell off as Mattias steered the SUV out onto the street and turned away from the airport, merging onto the road that led to Paris. Once they were on the main highway, the vehicle's occupants engaged in some general banter, most of which was centered around catching up with Mattias and what he'd been doing since the last time Tommy saw him.

  Mattias was a local historian specializing in French Revolutionary history and government affairs. He was a freelancer, which meant he was never tied down to an office or bosses that could dictate his schedule. He'd written several books, which helped fund his lifestyle, though from what Tommy knew of the man, he didn't have extremely expensive tastes. The SUV was a rental Mattias had picked up on Tommy's behalf. Mattias's car was more practical, and his apartment in the city was small: only two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. One of the bedrooms was used as his office, though the sofa pulled out into a bed in case he ever had guests. Tommy got the impression that wasn't often. The man was one of intense focus and study, always with his nose in a book trying to learn as much as he could. And once he'd done that, his nose moved to his computer, where he wrote on the subjects he'd learned about. It wasn't an extremely lucrative job, but he seemed content and had no designs on trying to do better for himself. Mattias was a man of simple needs. Tommy appreciated that about him.

  By the time they arrived at their destination, the sun had already begun to sink below the horizon, the sky growing ever darker in the east. The trip didn't take as long as Sean thought it might, only about forty minutes to reach Rueil-Malmaison.

  It was a part of the city Sean had never seen, and from what he could tell, neither had Tommy.

  Adriana, however, remained oddly quiet when they reached the wealthy suburb of Paris.

  Sean wondered why for a brief moment but let it go. Perhaps she'd been through here on one of her quests for stolen art. Then again, it could have been anything. She was born in Madrid, educated in the UK, traveled the world, had United States citizenship, and had—as he'd recently learned—been trained by a secret order of ninjas, which still sounded ridiculous to think or say despite the fact he knew it was true.

  "This is a nice area," Tommy said as he stared wide-eyed out the window.

  Mattias guided the car through winding streets and straight corridors between lavish apartments and condos. There were immense châteaus and manors, all designed in that same palatial aesthetic that reflected a tony mix of Renaissance, neoclassical, and so-called French Empire styles.

  "I can't believe I haven't been here before," Tommy added.

  Mattias kept his eyes straight ahead. "Not much to find in the way of archaeology out here, my friend. So I suppose there was never really a reason for you to be here, non?"

  Even speaking English, the driver ended his sentence with his familiar way of saying no. It was an endearing tick.

  "Yeah, I guess that's true," Tommy said. "Except we're here now because of something related to history."

  Mattias made a short humming sound to affirm what his friend said. He steered the vehicle past another row of townhomes and then a roundabout before cutting to the right and passing another massive mansion. This one was surrounded by huge shrubs, and flowers dangled off balconies that were lit by exterior floodlights pointing toward the building.

  They kept going until they reached another co
llection of apartments, where Mattias turned left onto a side street. A parking area opened up on the right and he swept the vehicle in with a quick flick of his hands on the steering wheel. He expertly maneuvered the SUV between two compact cars, leaving plenty of room on both sides for all his occupants to get out without scratching one of the other vehicles. That was quite a feat considering most of the cars parked in the lot were dangerously close to each other.

  Mattias shifted the transmission into park and everyone started climbing out as he killed the ignition.

  The air was cool and humid, unsurprising for the late spring months in Paris.

  Mattias led the group to a black gate in the rear of one of the buildings. It was preempted by a square yard separated from the others by brick walls. Beyond the gate, a lush green grass grew on both sides of a narrow stone walkway. Pink, red, purple, and yellow flowers hung in flower boxes from windows on either side of the red door leading into the house. There was a patio made from concrete pavers that jutted out ten feet from the house. A couple of teak chairs sat diagonally across from one another with a matching coffee table in between.

  "This is a lovely little spot," Tommy commented.

  Sean and Adriana nodded.

  Bodmer remained quiet, as he'd done since they'd arrived in France.

  Sean noted the man's odd silence but said nothing to him about it. Maybe the commander just didn't have anything to say.

  Mattias opened the gate and led them to the back door of the townhome. He fished the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door, swung it open, and then held out the key to Tommy. "This one is yours. I have a duplicate. When your time here is done, feel free to leave it under the welcome mat. I'll come get it when I have a chance. Just be sure to lock the door."

  Tommy's eyes squinted as he smiled. "Will do."

  Mattias gave a curt nod and then stepped into the house. "This building is three hundred years old," he said, waving his left hand around in a swirl as if showing off the house, but also bored with the notion of doing so. "The original owner was one of the king's emissaries. Now, it belongs to a friend, a very wealthy, very never-home friend. Honestly, I don't know why he bought it other than as an investment or to tell women he has a place in one of the wealthier neighborhoods in Paris."