The Napoleon Affair

by Ernest Dempsey

  "Yes, sir. I am aware. I spoke to our connections in the department. They said the men had nothing with them."

  They’d found nothing? Surely, if they were on the right track they would have discovered something of interest. Then again, it was entirely possible they were not on the right track.

  Berger pondered the issue for what felt like several minutes. In actuality, it was only twenty seconds. What were these two men up to? They were supposed to be good, but they went and got themselves arrested? Perhaps Berger had overestimated his opponent. It was always better to do so since underestimating someone could have grave consequences. It was part of his training to always assume one's enemy was highly skilled. In this case, that should have meant his opponents could evade the police.

  Maybe they were just sloppy.

  "What are they doing to get out of French custody?" he asked finally.

  "They have made only two contacts since they were arrested," the woman answered. She knew what his next question would be and so addressed it. "The first was made to a building in Atlanta. We are unable to isolate the identity of that call's recipient."

  "Unable?" That was strange. The knights, though nowhere near the might of their ancient predecessors, still had formidable technology on their side, and they'd accumulated a significant amount of money over the course of the last few decades as the previous grand masters, and now Berger, had continued to rebuild what had been lost so long ago.

  "It's much like the results I get when I test out tracking calls to and from secret government agencies such as the CIA or NSA, but even those organizations are trackable and I can get some kind of identification. This one was completely locked down. I don't know who is there."

  "That is strange." The man considered what he knew about Wyatt. There was a portion of the man's life that seemed unusually secretive, hidden from files that would normally be no problem for his people to access. He had a stable of hackers at his command and had used those cyber soldiers extensively to collect information on most of the important people in the world. Dignitaries, politicians, even kings were not immune to what his hackers could do. The venture of delving into peoples' secrets had been a lucrative one. Those with the most to lose always paid the most.

  "The other call," the woman on the line went on, "was to their headquarters, also in Atlanta."

  That part made sense, at least in some regard. The captives were likely trying to reach out to friends to see if they could muster the resources for bail or legal help. It was always a hairy situation when visitors in a foreign land were arrested. The amount of red tape that had to be navigated in those situations could be extensive and take far longer than it would for an ordinary citizen.

  "Who is there that could help them?" Berger asked.

  "That's just it, sir. Right now, most of their agents are out in the field working on dig sites or helping deliver artifacts. They run a small operation with only a handful of people who work there. From what I understand, they have a team on site that does much of their research and analysis in a laboratory within the confines of their headquarters."

  Berger considered the problem. It was possible that Wyatt and Schultz called IAA to seek help in getting out of their sticky situation with the Parisian police, but that didn't add up in his mind. The two would need to call the embassy; someone connected who could help them navigate the legal complexities of being detained in a foreign country.

  He doubted there was anyone on their payroll who could do that. It's not like they kept an ambassador on retainer.

  So, why did they call the IAA building in Atlanta? If it wasn't to help them get out of jail, what possible reason could Wyatt and Schultz have, unless….

  "Find out who is working there," Berger ordered. "I want to know whom they contacted and, if my hunch is correct, where those people are going next."

  "You think they are going to Paris to get Wyatt out?"

  "I doubt it. They wouldn't have the proper channels to navigate. It's possible that our captives might have found something after all."

  "What?" she asked, more out of curiosity than doubt.

  "I'm not sure," he said. "But it could lead us to what we're looking for. Find them and see what they're up to."

  20

  ST. HELENA

  Tara and Alex stepped off the floatplane and onto the dock leading to shore. Each carried a rucksack with some clothes and a few other supplies for what was supposed to be just a two- or three-day excursion. Both gear bags contained a full-size pistol—the standard issue .40-caliber Springfield XD that Sean and Tommy preferred. Carrying weapons wasn't a requirement when on assignment for the IAA as much as it was a guideline.

  The young couple was also armed with subcompact 9 mm sidearms that were hidden from view in holsters that fit inside their pants at the waist.

  The holsters kept the weapons concealed but required pants that had a little more room for comfort.

  Normally, the two wouldn't be armed in such a way on a trip such as this, but Tommy had suggested they be prepared and warned them they might encounter trouble.

  The warning hadn't scared the couple. In fact, they found themselves growing restless in the lab. Most of their days and nights were spent there toiling over their computers or microscopes or some of the other equipment they used to analyze artifacts that were continuously flowing into the lab.

  Thanks to their work, their laboratory had developed quite the reputation. Other treasure hunters, archaeologists, and historians were all too eager to use the skills and technology the IAA had to offer, and that had resulted in very little time off for Tara and Alex.

  The sun beat down on them from high in the crystal-blue sky, warming their skin immediately. Gentle waves lapped against the dock's pilings and the pontoons on the bottom of the plane. The pilot stood there with his hands on his hips, wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses. He wore a white T-shirt that had more holes in it than the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail. His khaki cargo shorts were frayed along the bottom and went well with his worn brown boots. The man looked more like a homeless traveler than a pilot, but he'd expertly guided the float plane and the flight from Cape Town was easy enough to endure, even though the aircraft’s accommodations were minimal at best. The plane was old, essentially a flying tin cylinder, but it handled the flight with the graceful ease of an old war horse, which was to say it grunted its way through. It was a far cry from the luxury of the IAA jet Alex and Tara took from Atlanta to Cape Town.

  "I'll be here when you two get done," the pilot said in a sharp South African accent, motioning to the dock. "If you run into trouble, you can radio me on channel two."

  He held up a walkie-talkie, and Alex tapped the one on his belt. "Understood. Hopefully, this won't take long."

  Alex thought about Sean and Tommy for a moment as he Tara walked down the docks toward the island. Tommy didn't explain why they were being detained, and he didn't need to. He'd asked them to do something for him, and they were going to do it even if it meant flying halfway around the world at a moment's notice.

  Alex even wondered if Tommy and Sean were already out of jail. It wasn't a quick process to get to Cape Town even with the agency jet and by the time Alex and Tara arrived at the island, it was highly probable that their two superiors were already out and back on the street. At least that’s what Alex hoped.

  Now he and his wife were here on St. Helena and more than a little weary from the lack of sleep and the long journey. That didn't stop them from feeling excited about what they could find here on the island.

  Tommy had given them the information contained in the riddle he had discovered in Napoléon's library. Now they were on the island where the general had spent his final days. There was a grave on the property, the original burial place of Napoléon. That tomb was empty now, and had been since the mid-nineteenth century. Still, it was a tourist destination for those willing to endure the long boat ride out to the isolated rock in the ocean.

  The grave site wa
sn't their intended destination, however. The clue Tommy gave them specifically suggested that they should visit Longwood House, which is where Napoléon had lived during his final years.

  They walked up the ramp toward a man in a white button-up short-sleeve shirt and khaki pants with flip-flops. He looked like he'd fully embraced his island position as a concierge for tourists. Tara and Alex, however, knew that the man was waiting specifically for them.

  There were no boats there yet, but Tara and Alex did note one approaching from the northeast. It wouldn't arrive for another hour, but that still put their operation on a time frame, and as of yet, they had no idea how long this was going to take.

  "Hello," the man said in a welcoming voice. His accent was mild but still clear enough to give away that he was from the southern French coast. His face and arms were tanned from constantly being in the sun. Most of his head was balding, but the hair that remained was cut extremely close to the scalp.

  "Hello, Dr. Thuram," Tara said.

  "Welcome to Saint Helena. You must be Tara and Alex." He stated the obvious while shaking their hands.

  "Yes, sir. Thank you for arranging this on such short notice."

  The man replied as if it were no big deal. "What? I'm more than happy to assist the world-renowned IAA with anything. Your boss has quite the good reputation."

  They got the sense that maybe this man was hoping he would get his back scratched at some point in the future, but what that would look like they had no idea.

  "Well, still," Alex said, "we know it was extremely short notice, but we were hoping we could get a look around the grounds before the rest of the tourists get here."

  "Yes, of course. Right this way."

  The man knew why they were there; at least he thought he did. The couple didn't elaborate on the exact reason they were on the island. They'd come in under the guise that they were interested in looking through some of the documents Napoléon left behind and that were now in the collection of his final documents.

  That part was actually true. The two hoped to find something in the pages of Napoléon's last writings that could reveal the truth behind the riddle Tommy mentioned.

  Tara kept the entire clue in her mind, repeating it from time to time so she wouldn't lose it. The riddle was easy enough to memorize, but it was vague, as were most of the things of this nature that they ran across.

  Napoléon was a cunning leader, and if he'd left something of value behind for some future treasure hunter or historian to find, it wouldn't be easy.

  Dr. Thuram led the two up a flight of wooden stairs and along a boardwalk until they reached the path leading to the main house. He'd been working the grounds for the last fifteen years, living on the British island among its four thousand citizens as the person responsible for preserving the historical landmark.

  "So, what exactly are you looking for?" Thuram asked as they walked up the hill toward the house.

  A perfectly manicured lawn ran fifty yards up the slope, bordered on both sides by small trees, shrubs, and flowers. The house was nothing fancy, certainly not suitable for the man who'd once been one of the most powerful leaders in Europe. Still, it was his final prison and, as such, could have been considered by many to be better than the man deserved.

  "We're not sure," Tara admitted. "We believe it's a list of names that the general would have kept, perhaps of his officers."

  "Ah," Thuram said. "That could be tricky. There were many documents left after Napoléon died. Some of those did contain names, although a simple list isn't something I recall having seen."

  "Well, that's why we're here," Alex confessed.

  "Do you know the names you're looking for?"

  Alex's cheerful expression waned, and his face drew long. "No. That's the problem. We believe that the names we're trying to locate are probably men that served close to Napoléon, possibly some of his most trusted advisers and officers. According to what we know, there are three of them."

  Thuram thought for a moment as they approached the main door. The porch had a pyramidal roof held up by seafoam-green posts. A picket fence of the same color ran around the building. Another smaller section of fence encompassed a flagpole proudly displaying the French tricolor in the wind.

  The three walked up the steps, and Thuram opened the door for the two visitors. Alex allowed his wife to walk through first, and then he turned his head and looked out over the property. His eyes scanned the horizon first and then worked their way back quickly, pulling in every detail from the setting. It was something Sean had taught him to do when in the field: always be on alert, and always take account of your surroundings.

  Alex knew that Tara had done the same, but he wanted to give one last look before dipping into the house. The recon effort took less than three seconds, and satisfied there was no immediate threat, he followed the others in.

  Once they were in the building, the three were overwhelmed with the odors of history. The old curtains, upholstery, and wooden floors smelled like so many museums they'd visited. It reminded Alex of visiting his grandmother's house. Whenever he was in her closet, hiding as a child, he got that same distinct odor. It smelled like clothes that had been hanging around for too long without being worn or washed, possibly nibbled by moths.

  Dr. Thuram gave them a quick tour of the building's interior. He took them to the sitting room, where the walls were covered in white curtains hanging from the edge of the ceiling. It was a strange décor, but the American couple kept their comments to themselves as they listened to Thuram give details about the life of Napoléon on Saint Helena.

  The French caretaker led them to the general's bedroom and talked about the man's final moments on this earth as he was surrounded by supporters and friends, though many of those closest to him had already died long before.

  They were shown the small study where Napoléon did most of his writing. With almost nothing else to do on the island except watch the waves roll in, Napoléon did a considerable amount of writing and contemplation during his years of imprisonment.

  "The majority of the documents are in our vault," Thuram said, "though we have left a few out for visitors to see." He motioned to a glass display case next to the small wooden writing desk in the corner.

  "What are those documents?" Tara asked, pointing at the case.

  "Letters he wrote to some friends."

  She nodded in acknowledgment. That didn't sound like the list they were looking for.

  "If you'd like, we can make our way to the vault now. I believe the next boat will be arriving within the hour, and once that happens there won't be much peace and quiet—unless you want to remain locked in the vault."

  "No, that's fine," Alex said. "We can take a more casual look around later." He understood that Tommy and Sean didn't have the luxury of time. Finding out what the riddle meant needed to be done quickly, and the fewer distractions they ran into, the better.

  "Very well," Thuram said. "Right this way."

  The curator took the couple down a narrow corridor and out a side door. They made their way down a pathway to a side building that looked more like a large shed than a vault for priceless documents.

  Thuram stopped at the door and unlocked it with a key from his pocket and then pushed the door open and led the way inside. Once more, Alex took a look around before following the others in. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he kept getting the distinct feeling that someone was watching them. He'd not had that thought often, so the fact it was happening now either meant he was being paranoid or there might actually be a threat.

  He didn't dare blow it off. That, Sean had said in one of their numerous training sessions, was how people got killed. By ignoring one's gut instinct that warned that danger was near, people often ended up dead, Sean had told him, especially in his previous line of work.

  Alex heeded his instructor's warning and took to heart everything Sean taught them. He detected no movement in the courtyard or on the lawn to the left and right. The only
motion came from trees swaying in the constant breeze or from the rustling bushes.

  Satisfied there was no threat, Alex narrowed his eyes suspiciously and then stepped into the building.

  The inside of the compound's archives was nothing fancy. It was a simple cottage with one bedroom, a small bathroom, and a kitchenette, all of which had been converted into a vault, of sorts.

  It was difficult to believe that the only security measure Thuram employed was a deadbolt on the main door. There were no alarm systems in place, and from what Alex and Tara could tell, there were no cameras or sensors inside.

  Thuram read their curious looks and answered the unspoken questions. "We don't rely on much security here because we're so isolated. No one who lives here knows about these archives, save for the few workers I have on hand a couple of months of the year. Most of the time, it's just me here, and I don't worry too much about someone flying in from the mainland to ransack a bunch of random documents."

  The two accepted the answer and watched as Thuram pointed around the small room to the various cases, each containing parchments. "We also have a filing system over there." He pointed at a unique set of filing cabinets that appeared to be hooked up to a machine with a tube.

  "Is that…a dehumidifier?" Alex asked.

  "Yes," Thuram said with a passing wave of the hand. "We keep this entire building at a low humidity. I don't have to tell the two of you why."

  "No, we're aware," Tara agreed.

  "It is the one thing we've splurged on in regard to protecting the documents, as well as everything else here in this place. We must preserve these things as best we can for future generations to come and see. As you can imagine, keeping the humidity at an acceptable level is quite the trick. We have backups for the dehumidifiers as well as backup generators in case we lose power."

  It was then that Tara and Alex could feel just how dry the room really was.