Текст книги "Spartan Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

CHAPTER 41

. . . Three!”

Crouched down, Sam threw open the door.

Except for moonlight filtering through the ceiling, the conservatory was dark and, separated as it was from the lab area, not raining. Water from the corridor gushed out and began spreading across the floor.

Sam and Remi waited, watching. Silence. Nothing moved.

Remi whispered, “Where are they—”

A flash-bang thunked into the wall beside the door and landed at their feet. Sam kicked it away with his heel and slammed the door shut. From the other side came a bang; white light flashed through the cracks.

Sam opened the door an inch and was this time greeted by the sound of pounding footsteps and the sight of flashlights jostling their way toward them across the conservatory.

“Mind if I borrow that?” Sam asked and took Remi’s MP5. “When I start shooting, you head right. Take out a window and go for the patio.”

“And you?”

“I’m going to bring down the house. Go!”

Sam pushed the door open, angled both MP5s at the ceiling, and opened fire. Hunched over, Remi charged toward the patio, the barrel of her Glock flashing orange and bucking in her hand.

Knowing the glass itself was probably reinforced, Sam aimed for the support joints near the peak. With a reverberating, elongated cracking sound, the joints gave way. The first plate of glass collapsed inward and tumbled downward, followed by another, then another, crashing through the palm trees and cleaving trellis walls as they went. Voices started shouting in Russian, but almost immediately changed to screams as the first pane struck the floor. Shards of glass shot across the conservatory like shrapnel, ripping through foliage and peppering the walls.

Sam, already moving, saw all this out of the corner of his eye. Remi’s shots had struck true, shattering one of the wall panes. She was already crouched on the patio, waving for him to hurry. He felt a pluck at his sleeve, then a trio of stings on his face. He put his head down and his arms up, kept running, and leaped through Remi’s opening.

“You’re bleeding,” Remi said.

“Maybe I’ll end up with a dueling scar. Come on!”

He handed her back one MP5, then turned and ran for the hedges. Arms held before him like a wedge, he bulldozed through the tangle of branches into open air, then reached back in and pulled Remi through. On the other side of the hedge they could hear the shattering of glass every few seconds as the remainder of the conservatory roof continued to collapse. Voices, some in English and some in Russian, called to one another. Similarly, from the main house and what Sam and Remi guessed was the party area, came a cacophony of voices from Bondaruk’s guests.

Sam and Remi crouched down in the grass to catch their breath and get their bearings. To their right, fifty yards away, was the estate’s cliff-side wall; behind them lay the west wing, the main part of the mansion, and the east wings; directly ahead, a hundred feet away, stood a line of closely set pine trees fronted by barberry bushes.

Sam checked his watch: four A.M. A few hours before dawn.

“Let’s steal one of the cars,” Remi said, taking off her shoes, snapping off their high heels, then settling them back on her feet. “We drive like hell for Sevastopol and find someplace with lots of people. Bondaruk wouldn’t dare do anything in public.”

“Don’t count on it. Besides, that’s too obvious. By now they’ve got the perimeter locked down. Don’t forget: The only way he’ll know it’s us is from the camera footage or by putting our pictures in front of the guy back in the lab. Right now all he knows is all hell is breaking loose. Better we maintain that mystery.”

“How?”

“Retrace our steps. The last place they’ll check is the way we came in.”

“Back through the tunnel? And then what, swim for the boat?”

Sam shrugged. “I hadn’t gotten to that part yet. Still, I think it’s our best chance.”

Remi gave it five seconds of thought, then said, “Smuggler’s tunnel it is—unless we spot a helicopter or a tank somewhere along the way.”

“You find me a tank, Remi Fargo, and I’ll never drive over the speed limit again.”

“Promises, promises.”

Of all the unknowns about Bondaruk’s estate, two were of the greatest concern to Sam and Remi: One, did Bondaruk have guard dogs? Two, how many gunmen did he have, either on the property or in reserve, ready to come when called? Though they didn’t know the answer to either of these questions, they decided to assume the worst and get out while confusion still reigned and before their host had a chance to muster whatever hounds—human or canine—he had at his disposal.

Hunched over, they sprinted in bursts to the end of the hedges, paused to make sure the way was clear, then dashed across an open patch of lawn to the line of barberry bushes. Sam took off his tuxedo jacket and gave it to Remi, then dropped to his belly and wriggled through the thorny branches and onto the narrow strip of grass before the pine grove. Remi joined him a few moments later and started to take off his jacket.

“Keep it,” he said. “Temperature’s dropping.”

She smiled. “Always the gentleman—Sam, your arms.”

He looked down. The barberry thorns had shredded his shirt-sleeves; the white material was streaked and dotted with blood. “Looks worse than it is, but this shirt is going to get us caught.”

They crawled a few feet into the pine trees. Sam dug into the earth, grabbed a handful of dirt, and began rubbing it over his shirtfront, sleeves, and face. Remi did his back, then her own arms and face. Sam couldn’t help but smile. “Looks like we’ve been to the cocktail party from hell.”

“Not far off. Look . . . there.”

A hundred yards east across the lawn they saw a trio of flashlights appear around the corner of the house and begin moving along the wall toward them.

“Hear any dogs?” Sam asked.

“No.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way. Come on.”

They moved deeper into the trees, ducking under and sidestepping low-hanging branches until they came across a narrow, north-south game trail. They took it, heading north toward the stables. The pine grove was untouched old-growth, a hundred or more years old, which was both a curse and a blessing: While the intertwined boughs frequently forced them to crawl and crab-walk, it also provided perfect cover. Several times as they stopped to catch their breath they watched as guards moved along the other side of the tree line not thirty feet away, but so dense was the foliage that their flashlight beams penetrated only a few feet.

“Eventually they’ll send someone in,” Sam whispered, “but with luck we’ll be long gone before that.”

“How far to the stables?”

“On a straight line, a quarter mile, but this grove zigzags, so it’s probably double that. Ready?”

“Whenever you are.”

For the next twenty minutes they picked their way along the game trail, pausing every dozen paces to look and listen. Frequently they saw flashlights or shadowed figures moving around the estate grounds, sometimes hundreds of yards away, sometimes so close that Sam and Remi had to lie flat, not daring to breathe or move as the guards scanned the trees before moving on.

Finally the grove began to thin around them and soon the game trail opened into a clearing of grass across which they could see the south wall of the stables. Sam wriggled ahead, did a quick reconnaissance, then returned to Remi. “The party lawn is off to our right. The guests are gone but all the cars are still in the parking lot.”

“Bondaruk’s probably got them inside, lined up for interrogation,” Remi muttered.

“Wouldn’t be surprised. I didn’t see any posted guards—except for one, and as bad luck would have it he’s standing at the corner of the stables right beside the entrance.”

“Any chance of taking him out?”

“Not unless I can levitate. His head’s on a swivel. I wouldn’t get halfway across the clearing before he heard me. I do, however, have an idea.” He explained.

“How far?” she asked.

“Sixty, seventy yards.”

“Over the stable roof, no less. It’s a long shot, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

They spent a few minutes rummaging around the trees until they had a pile of a half dozen golfball-sized stones. Sam picked up the first one, crab-walked to the edge of the clearing, waited for the guard to look away, then popped up and hurled the stone. It sailed in a high arc over the stable roof. Sam popped back down and scurried back.

Silence.

“Miss,” Remi whispered.

Sam grabbed another stone and repeated the process. Another miss. Then a third, and then a fourth. He picked up the fifth stone, shook it in his hand like a pair of dice, then held it before Remi’s lips. “For luck.” She rolled her eyes, but dutifully blew on the stone.

He crawled out, waited for his moment, then hurled the stone.

Two seconds passed.

From the parking lot came the sound of breaking glass, followed by the rhythmic honking of a car alarm.

“You sank someone’s battleship,” Remi said.

The alarm had an immediate and dramatic effect, starting with the guard at the stable door, who turned and sprinted toward the parking lot. Voices from other parts of the estate began shouting to one another.

Sam and Remi bolted for cover and sprinted for the wall, reaching it in under ten seconds. Bent at the waist now, they slid down its length to the corner. Ahead of them they saw five or six guards rush headlong across the party area and through the hedges.

“Go,” Sam rasped. They stepped out, around the corner, and through the door into the stables.

They weren’t two steps inside when a massive dark form rose up before them. Sam pushed Remi left then rolled right. The horse, a jet-black Arabian stallion standing at least sixteen hands high, reared up, its hooves clawing the air before Sam. It let out a deep-chested snort then slammed back to the ground, galloped down the alleyway, and disappeared into an open stall door.

Behind Sam the door opened. The guard saw Remi first and wheeled on her, his MP5 coming up. Before he could utter a word, Sam was there, driving a right cross into his temple. He stumbled sideways and fell to the ground. As Remi scooped up his gun, Sam closed the door and dropped the crossbar into place. Outside they could hear boots pounding on gravel.

“So much for a stealthy exit,” Sam muttered.

“At this point I’ll settle for any exit at all,” Remi replied.

They turned and sprinted for the tack room.

CHAPTER 42

They had just reached the entrance to the tack room when the pounding on the stable door began. Instinctively Sam and Remi spun, looking back. “How long, do you think?” she asked, then followed Sam into the closet. They knelt beside the trapdoor.

He said, “Thirty seconds before they start shooting, another thirty for them to smarten up and find something to slip into the jamb and pop up the latch. Two minutes, no more.”

“That plan you mentioned—”

“Sketch.”

“Whatever. Let’s hear it.”

He took ten seconds to explain. Remi said, “We could just make a run for it.”

“One big problem: If they’re faster than I give them credit for we’ll be caught on the cliff. They’ll pick us off like pigeons. My way we’ll at least have some cover and maybe even turn them back.”

“Good point. Okay.”

“I’ll handle the heavy stuff; you gather the supplies. If we do it right it should be enough to slow them down—maybe even turn them back.”

“Ever the optimist.”

Sam ducked back into the tack room, grabbed the desk chair, and carried it back into the closet. He closed the door and jammed the chair beneath the knob. Remi already had the trapdoor open and was climbing down. Sam followed and shut it behind him.

Guided by their flashlights, they set to work, Sam jogging back to the intersection, where he began manhandling ore carts away from their place along the wall and onto the tracks, while Remi ran down the tunnel toward the cliff entrance.

Distantly there came the chatter of automatic weapons fire.

“Good guess!” Remi called from the darkness.

“I was kind of hoping to be wrong—by three or four hours,” he replied, shoving a second cart into place. A minute later he had the third one seated on the tracks. Remi ran out of the darkness carrying a handful of oil lanterns. She hurled two or three into each cart, making sure they landed with enough force to start leaking oil into the bottoms of the carts.

The gunfire from above ceased. “They’re using their brains now,” Sam said.

Together they sprinted back down the tunnel, snatching lanterns as they went until they had a dozen more, then returned and tossed them into the ore carts.

“Kindling,” Remi said, and they took off again. They grabbed anything that would burn, from wooden toolboxes to boots and coveralls to coils of dry-rotted rope, then returned to the carts and divided the haul into three piles, which they dumped into the three carts.

“You feel that?” Remi asked.

Sam looked up and for the first time noticed a cool breeze blowing in from the cliff entrance. “That’s good luck for us.”

Using his Swiss Army knife he cut a trio of wicks from the coveralls, then knotted each one at the bottom and together they soaked the knotted ends in the oil at the bottom of the lead cart.

Remi asked, “Do we wait or—” From the direction of the tack room hatch there came the sound of pounding. “Forget I asked,” she finished.

Using his lighter Sam lit each of the three wicks as Remi held them. Once certain they were fully caught, she handed two to Sam, who tossed them into the first two carts. Remi tossed hers into the closest cart and they backed away.

Nothing happened.

“Come on . . . ,” Remi muttered.

“I was afraid of that. Oil might be too sludgy.”

Down the tunnel there came the sound of splintering wood, followed by a door banging open.

Sam stared at the carts, his jaw pulsing with anger. “Damn it!”

With a whoosh, one of the carts burst into flames and oily black smoke began gushing from the top. The second and third cart ignited and within seconds a thick cloud of smoke roiled near the ceiling. Pushed by the breeze, it began surging through the intersection and into the side tunnels.

Sam and Remi, coughing, eyes watering from the peripheral exposure, backed away from the carts. “If that doesn’t slow them down nothing will,” Sam said.

“Can we finally leave this party?” Remi asked.

“After you.”

They sprinted down the tunnel and skidded to a stop at the entrance. Outside, the fog had lifted and the erosion bridge was dimly lit by moonlight. Waves lapped and hissed at the cliff face. Despite the breeze, the smoke cloud was moving down the tunnel toward them and with it came the faint sounds of coughing and retching.

“When we reach the water, we’ll let the tide take us. It should be running north to south along the coast. Balaclava’s only about three miles down the coast. We’ll go ashore there.”

“Right.”

“Still have the printout?”

Remi patted her dress at the waistline. “Safe and sound.”

Sam eased up to the edge and peered down. A bullet smashed into the rock beside his head. He jerked back and they dropped flat.

Remi gasped. “What—”

“There’s a patrol boat down there,” Sam muttered. “They’re sitting right below the spikes.”

“We’re trapped.”

“Like hell we are. Come on.”

He pulled Remi to her feet and they began sprinting back down the tunnel. “Care to fill me in?” Remi said.

“No time. You’ll get it. Just stay on the tracks.”

With each step the smoke thickened until even their flashlight beams did them no good. Hand in hand, they kept running, heads down and eyes slitted against the fumes.

“Almost there,” Sam called and stretched his free hand before him.

The retching and coughing were louder now, seemingly all around them. A voice shouted something in Russian, followed by a rasped reply in English: “Back . . . go back . . . !”

Sam tripped and fell, taking Remi down with him. They got back to their feet and kept going. His groping hand bumped into something hot and he jerked it back. He dropped to his knees and pulled Remi down beside him. Somewhere close by, multiple boots crunched on gravel. A flashlight beam cut through the smoke, then disappeared.

“What’s going on?” Remi whispered.

In response, Sam gave the ore cart a quick rap with his knuckles. “Take off the coat.” She did so. Sam shoved his hands into the sleeves from the outside in, then twisted the body of the jacket into a ball. “Oven mitts,” he explained.

Now Remi caught on: “Depth charge?”

“You got it.”

“Clever boy.”

“Once I get it rolling, you push me from behind.”

“Okay.”

Hunched over, Sam moved around to the other side of the cart, planted his feet wide, then placed his gloved hands against the steel side and shoved. The cart didn’t budge. He tried again. Nothing. He heard a metallic click-click, then Remi’s whispered voice: “Wheel brake was on. Try again.”

Sam took a deep breath, set his jaw, and shoved. With a steel-on-steel shriek, the cart lurched forward. The crack of a gunshot echoed down the tunnel, but Sam ignored it and kept going. He passed Remi and she fell in behind him, hands pressed against his lower back. The cart quickly picked up speed. Pushed by the breeze, the flames and smoke streamed backward over their heads like a comet’s tail.

Suddenly the smoke thinned out. The tunnel entrance loomed before them, not twenty feet away. “Braking,” Sam shouted and leaned backward, digging his heels into the gravel ballast. Remi, her hands tight around his belt, did the same. Their combined weight began to slow the cart. The opening rushed toward them. Ten feet . . . five feet . . . Sam made a quick mental calculation, decided the momentum was right, then let go. They stumbled backward together, landed in a heap, and looked up just in time to see the flaming cart tip ever so gently over the lip of the entrance.

There were three seconds of silence, then a thunderous crash.

Sam and Remi crawled on hands and knees to the entrance and looked over the edge. Already half engulfed in flames, the patrol boat was listing heavily to port as water bubbled up through a crater in the afterdeck. After a few seconds a pair of heads bobbed to the surface; one began swimming away, but the other remained motionless. The boat dipped stern first below the surface and slid from view.

“I think that’s called a bull’s-eye,” Remi said, then dropped to her belly and let out an exhausted sigh. Sam did the same. Above their heads black smoke spewed from the tunnel and began drifting away through the bridge.

“Well,” Sam said, “I’d say we’ve thoroughly worn out our welcome. Shall we call it a night?”

“Yes, please.”

CHAPTER 43

MONACO

Yvette Fournier-Desmarais’s hazel eyes stared over the rim of her poised coffee cup as she listened intently to Sam recount their adventure on Elba. He’d left out any mention of Umberto’s near betrayal of them to Kholkov.

“After that,” Sam finished, “we drove to Nisporto, then made our way back to the mainland.”

“Amazing,” Yvette said. “You two certainly know how to live up to your reputations.”

It was early morning and the three of them sat on the patio of Yvette’s villa overlooking Point de la Veille. The sun sparkled off the flat calm waters of the Mediterranean.

After watching Bondaruk’s patrol boat sink into the depths below the erosion bridge Sam and Remi had climbed down the spike ladder and slipped into the water. They found a pair of orange kapok life jackets that had escaped the boat’s demise, latched on to them, and let the current carry them south along the coast. As the sun rose over the horizon they drifted along, watching plumes of black smoke gather over Bondaruk’s estate and listening as the sirens of the fire engines grew louder. Several times to the north they saw more Bondaruk patrol boats, but the crews focused their attention on the cliffs beneath the estate.

An hour after they went into the water they found themselves off the beaches north of Balaclava and they paddled ashore and made their way into town, and two hours after their phone call to Selma they were sitting in the back of a limousine and on their way to Kerch, a hundred miles up the coast on the Sea of Azov. Waiting there was a courier who upon Selma’s orders had gathered their passports, credit cards, and luggage from their hotel in Yevpatoria. An hour after that they were aboard a private charter headed for Istanbul.

Knowing they were in a holding pattern until Selma could decipher the printout they’d stolen from Bondaruk’s lab, and knowing they needed a safe place to regroup, they’d called Yvette, who’d happily and immediately dispatched Langdon, her ex-SAS bodyguard, aboard her Gulfstream to collect them.

“Well, in all fairness I have to tell you: Umberto confessed everything,” Yvette now said. “He was quite ashamed of himself.”

“He redeemed himself,” Remi said. “In spades.”

“I agree. I told him that if the Fargos forgave, so did I.”

Sam asked, “I’m curious: What happened to Carmine Bianco?”

“Who?”

“The Corsican mobster-slash-Elban cop.”

“Ah, him . . . I believe he’s now the guest of the Italian government. Something about attempted murder.”

Sam and Remi laughed.

“So,” Yvette said, “Laurent’s diary is proving helpful?”

“And a challenge,” Remi replied. “The code he used is complex and layered, but if anyone can puzzle it out, it’s Selma.” As soon as they’d arrived at the villa they faxed the printout to Selma.

Langdon appeared with a fresh carafe of coffee and refilled everyone’s cups. Sam asked, “So, Langdon, what’s the answer?”

“Pardon me, sir?”

“Did she have the good sense to say yes?”

Langdon cleared his throat and pursed his lips.

Yvette said, “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Langdon . . .” To Sam and Remi: “He’s so reserved, so proper. Langdon, you’re allowed to share good news, you know. Go on, tell them.”

Langdon allowed his mouth to form the barest of smiles and said, “Yes, sir, she agreed to marry me.”

“Congratulations.”

Remi raised her coffee cup. “To the groom to be.”

The three of them toasted Langdon, whose face turned a deep shade of red. He nodded his thanks and murmured, “Madam, if there’s nothing else . . .”

“Go on, Langdon, before you have a stroke.”

Langdon disappeared.

“Unfortunately, this means I’ll be losing him,” Yvette said. “He’ll be a kept man now. A gigolo, if you will.”

“Not a bad job if you can get it,” Sam said.

Remi lightly punched him on the biceps. “Mind your manners, Fargo.”

“I’m just saying, there are worse jobs out there.”

“Enough.”

They chatted and drank coffee until Langdon returned thirty minutes later. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo, Mrs. Wondrash is calling for you.”

They excused themselves and followed Langdon down to the study. Yvette’s MacBook Air sat open on a mahogany desk overlooking the garden. Langdon had already arranged a pair of club chairs before the laptop. Once they were seated, he left and closed the door behind him.

The laptop’s screen displayed Selma’s workroom back in La Jolla. “Selma, are you there?” Sam called.

Pete Jeffcoat’s tanned face appeared before the camera. He smiled at them. “Hi, Sam. Hi, Remi.”

“How’re you, Pete?”

“Fantastic, couldn’t be better.” Pete’s sunny attitude knew no bounds. He could not only turn lemons into lemonade, but he could turn them into a grove of lemon trees.

“And Wendy?”

“She’s good. Getting a little stir-crazy, being all cooped up here. The bodyguard guys are great, but a little strict.”

“It’s for the best,” Sam said. “Hopefully it’ll be over soon.”

“Sure, no worries, we’re cool. Hey, here’s the head honcho. . . .”

Pete disappeared from view and was replaced by Selma, who settled onto a stool in front of the camera, casually dunking a tea bag into a steaming cup. “Morning, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo.”

“Morning, Selma.”

“You want the good news or the bad news first?”

“Both at the same time,” Sam replied. “Like peeling off a Band-Aid.”

“Whatever you say . . . The printout you faxed did the trick. Very good image; high resolution. I used it to decipher the next lines of code. Here’s the bad news: The riddle has us stumped. Maybe you’ll have more luck with it.” Selma grabbed her clipboard from the table and recited:

“Anguished House Fellows in amber trapped;

Tassilo and Pepere Gibbous Baia keep safe the place of Hajj;

The Genius of Ionia, his stride a battle of rivals;

A trio of Quoins, their fourth lost, shall point the way to Frigisinga.

“That’s it,” Selma said. “I’ve e-mailed it to your iPhones with the standard Blowfish encryption. We’ll keep working on it, but it seems clear this one’s a bit tougher than the last.”

“I’d say so,” Remi replied, already deep in thought.

Sam said, “Selma, the word in the last line—coins . . .”

“It’s spelled Q-U-O-I-N-S.”

“You’re sure that’s it?”

“We’re sure. I triple-checked it myself, then had Pete and Wendy do the same. Why?”

“ ‘Quoin’ is an architectural term. It has a couple meanings: It’s a keystone of an arch or exterior cornerstone.”

“But to what?” Remi said.

“That’s the million-dollar question. We have to assume it’s answered in the rest of the riddle.”

“Unless it refers to any of its other meanings,” Selma said. “ ‘Quoin’ also relates to printing and naval warfare. The first is a device used to hold handset type in place. The second is a type of block used to raise and lower the barrel of a cannon.”

“A block?” Remi said. “As in a wedge?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“So it has something to do with cornerstones and wedges.”

“If we take the meanings literally,” Sam replied. “But if they’re metaphorical they could mean anything—a wedge can either support or separate objects. Same with a cornerstone.”

“We need the rest of the context,” Remi agreed. “We’ll get to work, Selma, thanks.”

“Two more things before you go: I’m also deciphering Laurent’s diary as we go along, and I think we’ve got the answer to a couple of our mini mysteries. First, I’ve found out why he and Napoleon bothered with a code and riddle instead of just a map with a big X on it.

“According to Laurent, Napoleon fell into a depression soon after he reached Saint Helena. He’d escaped exile on Elba only to get defeated four months later at Waterloo. He confided to Laurent that he thought his fate was sealed. He was sure he’d die in exile on Saint Helena.”

“He was right,” Sam said.

“It started him pondering his legacy,” Selma continued. “He had one son, Napoleon Francis Joseph Charles—Napoleon II—by his second wife, Marie Louise. When Napoleon lost at Waterloo he abdicated the throne to junior, who ruled for about two weeks before the allies stormed Paris and dethroned him.

“Napoleon was heartbroken—and furious. He felt if his son had shown ‘true Bonaparte character,’ it wouldn’t have happened. Never mind that the boy was four years old.”

Sam said, “It couldn’t have been easy for him to live up to his father’s reputation.”

“Impossible, I’d say. Anyway, Napoleon ordered Laurent to create a ‘puzzle map’ that would—and I’m quoting here—‘confound our enemies, prove the new emperor’s mettle, and point the way to the prize that would help return the Bonaparte name to greatness.’

“Unfortunately,” Selma continued, “after the allies overthrew him, Napoleon II was bundled off to Austria, given the honorary title of Duke of Reichstadt, and kept a virtual prisoner there until he died of tuberculosis in 1832. As far as I can tell he never even tried to regain power—or even follow the map. Laurent isn’t clear why, though.

“As for the second mini mystery—why Napoleon and Laurent chose wine bottles as their puzzle clues—according to Laurent’s writings Napoleon himself ordered the Lacanau grape line destroyed—the seeds, the vineyard, everything—but it didn’t have anything to do with his love of the stuff. His theory was the bottles would become instant collector’s items—the wine Napoleon Bonaparte didn’t want anyone else to have. If any of the bottles were unearthed from their hiding places they’d find their way into museums or private collections, where they’d remain safe until a Bonaparte descendant who knew their secret came along.”

“So the father wasn’t entirely confident in his son’s ‘mettle,’ as he called it,” Remi said. “He was hedging his bets.”

“Seems so. When Napoleon abdicated for the second and final time, the First Napoleonic Law of Succession was in effect. It named Napoleon II as the legitimate heir to the throne; failing that, succession went to Napoleon’s older brother, Joseph, and his male descendants, then to his younger brother, Louis, and his male line.”

“None of whom bothered to follow the trail,” Remi said.

“If they even knew about it,” Selma replied. “We’re still working on that part. Either way, it seems clear all the trouble Napoleon and Laurent went to was wasted. Until now, no one’s even been aware of their grand plan.”

“And now it’s just us and Bondaruk,” Sam said.

Remi said, “It’s all very sad. In the end Napoleon was just desperate, pathetic, and paranoid, waiting for someone to restore the family name. And to think at the height of his power this was a man who held a good chunk of Europe under his thumb.”

Sam said, “ ‘A tyrant is most tyrant to himself.’ ”

“Pardon?”

“It’s a quote from George Herbert. A Welsh poet. I don’t think he was talking about Napoleon, but it certainly fits. Selma, this ‘prize’ Laurent talked about . . . there was nothing else in the diary about it?”

“Nothing so far.”

“The safe bet would be on money,” Remi said. “Or something he could convert into money—a war chest the son could use to raise an army.”

Sam nodded. “Enough for a new Bonaparte emperor to reconquer France and maybe Europe.”

They signed off with Selma and headed back to the patio. They were halfway up the steps when Sam’s phone chimed. He checked the screen. It was Rube Haywood. Sam put it on speaker.

“I think I found the skeleton in Bondaruk’s closet,” Rube said.

“We’re all ears.”

“The guy I sent to talk to Bondaruk’s old Iranian handler—”

“Aref Ghasemi,” Remi said.

“Right. At first Ghasemi was a little cagey, but he finally opened up. He pretty much confirmed he handled Bondaruk all through the border war with the Russians. The details are sketchy on this part, but somewhere along the way Bondaruk got the idea that he’s a direct descendant of some ancient Persian king, a guy named—”

“Xerxes I,” Sam finished.