The Napoleon Affair

by Ernest Dempsey

  Thuram was slumped over, his face pressed against the surface next to the keyboard. A clean bullet hole leaked blood from his forehead.

  A surge of bile tried to rise in Alex's throat. Tara felt the same sudden reflex, but they both pushed it back down like Sean had taught them. It was easier said than done, but he'd warned them that this day would come if they got out into the field again.

  It wasn't the first time they'd been close to death. They'd taken out bad guys in Japan once. This, however, was someone on their side, an innocent victim guilty of nothing but helping the two of them on their search for…what? They didn't know what Tommy and Sean were looking for, but one thing was now abundantly clear: whatever it was had to be extremely valuable, so valuable that someone was willing to kill to get it.

  "How many are there?" Tara asked, diverting her attention to the problem. They could mourn or process Thuram’s death later. Right now, they had to get out alive. Assessing the situation, Sean had told them, was the best way to refocus.

  "Only one, I think. Best to assume two."

  "Right."

  Another thing Sean had taught them: Always assume that there are twice as many threats, especially if there is only one visible. Most assassins preferred to work alone, Sean had told them. That didn't mean it was overzealous to suspect there were more on any given hit.

  "You saw their position, yeah?" Tara asked.

  "Yep."

  "You think we can circle around and flank them?"

  "Probably," Alex said. “Unless they change their position."

  "Which is likely. We need to find out." She looked over at the dead caretaker and a pang of regret washed over her, tightening her stomach once again. Tara swallowed hard and belly-crawled over to the window that the bullets had come through. She paused for a second and then reached up close to the keyboard, careful not to touch it or the dead man's face. She felt around for a moment and then pressed her fingers down, dragging a sheet of paper from the desk. Within seconds, she held the sheet. It was an invoice for landscaping at the property.

  "When I raise this, be ready to go out there and flank them. Okay? I'll keep them busy while you circle around."

  Alex didn't like the idea of leaving his wife there alone, but her plan was solid. It's what Sean would've done if he and Tommy were in the same situation.

  He gave a nod and moved to the door, turning the knob quietly so that he could make a quicker exit.

  He turned and looked over his shoulder at Tara. She gave a single nod and then raised the paper up into full view of the window.

  More holes punctured the glass, cracking spiderwebs throughout the frame. Shards fell from the window and clattered on the desk next to the dead man's head. Three bullets tore through the paper in Tara's hand, and she shuddered with immediate fear as she let the sheet go.

  She yanked her hand back down and waited for a moment. Then she looked to the door and saw it was open. Alex was already outside and stalking his prey.

  Tara summoned every bit of courage she could muster. Her heart pounded in her chest and her breathing quickened. What was it Sean always said? Slow your breathing first by taking methodical, deep breaths and count to ten. That, he claimed, always did the trick. Sometimes, it took a few seconds. Other times, it could take minutes. But it always worked.

  Tara focused on something calming. She envisioned being at her and Alex's home, working on cosplay costumes or props in the garage, playing video games, or watching baseball. All of those happy images ran through her mind as she steadied her breathing and shook off the fear. She knew what to do.

  Keeping out of the line of fire, she shifted to a crouching position and raised her weapon. If the shooter was more than twenty feet away, she most likely wouldn't hit a potential target, but she could at least scare them into taking cover. Her job wasn't to hit anyone, but to buy Alex time.

  She kept the pistol out of view until the last moment, then raised it just high enough that the muzzle would clear the glass. She knew it was going to be loud, but in the small cottage, the report was like an explosion. The hard floors and walls only made the sound worse, but she didn't stop. Tara fired her weapon once, twice, three times, and once more for luck, then she brought the smoking pistol back down from the window and waited for a reply from the other shooter.

  Alex stalked through the tall grass like a lion on the hunt. He crouched and used the natural surroundings as cover. He snaked his way to a small tree standing in the meadow that overlooked the ocean and stopped for a moment, looking out at the position where the shooter had been just seconds before.

  He heard the loud pop of Tara's pistol and took that as a cue to hurry up. While her weapon fired four steady shots, he maneuvered around the tree and farther around to the left. He didn't want to take a direct route to the shooter. That would put him in the line of fire. By curving his approach, it would take longer, but he could get behind the sniper and take him out.

  Alex noticed the ferry approaching the docks but refocused immediately on the task at hand as he turned back toward the shooter's position. He was close now. The breeze over the meadow rustled the grass, giving some cover to his approach. Not that he needed it. Alex moved like a true predator, using the exact techniques Sean had taught him in their routines. He made certain never to step on a loose twig or leaf. The earth underfoot was soft, and the thick, unkempt grass helped cushion every minuscule noise he could have produced.

  That didn't keep him from hearing things. He listened carefully and heard the shooter; he was still in the same position. The person was rifling through a bag from the sound of it, and they weren't doing a good job of being quiet. It sounded almost like a panicked search. Then Alex heard the gun firing again, near-silent pops muffled by a suppressor on the end of the barrel.

  He ducked down and approached cautiously, using his hands to maintain balance but with the pistol extended toward the shooter's position. When he was fifteen feet away, Alex could make out the form of the gunman. The man was dressed in drab green pants and a matching shirt, much like the old military uniforms in the 1940s. The color blended well with the surrounding grass, making the shooter nearly invisible from a distance.

  Alex raised his weapon and pointed it at the killer's back. He didn't want to shoot the man, but if the sniper didn't surrender he would have no choice. Alex noted another figure in the grass to the right of the shooter. He furrowed his brow as he realized it was a young woman, probably in her mid to late twenties. Blood oozed from a wound in her chest, and she lay motionless with her eyes staring lifelessly into the sky.

  "Put the gun down!" Alex shouted at the shooter.

  The man startled and spun around. Alex was so taken aback by the sudden, almost instant reaction that he couldn't make himself squeeze the trigger before the other man did.

  Luckily, the killer was in motion and moving quickly, so when his silenced barrel popped, the bullets sailed over and around Alex.

  It only took a second for Alex to react and he dove into the grass to his right, behind a scraggly shrub.

  He rose to one knee and swept the scene with his pistol, trying to locate the sniper.

  "Give it up!" he shouted. "We have you surrounded!"

  He hated the way it sounded so stupid and insincere coming out of his mouth, but what else was he supposed to say? The truth was, Alex was overcome with fear. He couldn't see the sniper, but he had the sneaking suspicion that the sniper could, in fact, see him. Not the way he planned this little offensive.

  Alex felt a wave of panic push into his chest and he swallowed hard to force it back down. He lowered himself deeper into the grass behind the shrub and pressed his torso into the earth. Now he couldn't see much at all. The tall blades of grass might as well have been trees from his position.

  Still, he managed to catch a glimpse through a few gaps in the stalks and kept watching for any movement from the sniper. His patience was rewarded when the man suddenly popped up about fifty yards away. How in the world h
ad the guy been able to get so far so quickly and without being seen? No way he could belly-crawl that fast, could he?"

  Alex grunted in frustration as he jumped up from his position and chased after the gunman, who was now sixty yards away and sprinting toward the beach.

  When Alex came over the crest of a small rise, he could see where the shooter was going. Nearby on the shore, a boat waited, decked out with a center-console dashboard, wheelhouse, and two big outboard motors.

  Alex raised his weapon and fired three times, but missed badly. The sniper heard the shots and didn't even risk a look back as he increased his speed, making for the boat.

  To their left, the ferry approached the docks, and Alex noted his plane still sitting there moored to the pilings.

  The shooter was too far away to hit with his pistol, and Alex knew that the second the man reached the boat, he would easily escape.

  Alex doubled his efforts and pumped his legs. He felt the slope of the earth under him, which made running more difficult albeit faster. The gunman was on the dock now. Alex knew he wasn't going to reach the man. The other guy was too fast and was nearly at his destination. Then the sniper spun around a few feet from the vessel. He raised his weapon and took aim. Alex felt a wave of terror crash into him, and he did the only thing he could think of.

  He dove to his right and tried to disappear in the weeds. Bullets pounded into the ground where he'd been a moment before. They continued hitting the earth in small explosions as Alex crawled as fast as he could to get away from the hail of metal.

  Then the barrage stopped. He lay there for a moment, covering his head with his hands as if that would somehow keep him safe from a high-caliber bullet.

  He heard the sound of a boat motor revving to life and risked a peek over the top of the grass. Sure enough, the shooter was in the wheelhouse of the vessel and spinning the wheel as he turned away from the docks and back out to sea.

  Alex let out a sigh as he stood and watched the boat leave. The guy was going to get away, but at least he didn't get what he was looking for. He rushed back up the hillside toward the spot where he’d first encountered the shooter and found the young woman's body still lying there.

  He shouted toward the house and waved his hands round to signal to Tara that it was all clear. She joined him within a minute, trotting across the meadow with both gear bags slung over her shoulder. When she reached the body, she lowered the bags to the ground and looked closer at the woman.

  "Who is she?" Tara asked.

  "I don't know," Alex admitted. "I think one of your shots hit her."

  The statement didn't bother Tara. This woman had come there to kill them. If Tara hadn't shot her, she might still be a threat. Tara could deal with the mental stuff later.

  The two searched the woman's pockets and a small satchel next to her but found no identification. There were five hundred euros, some South African currency wrapped in a rubber band, and three spare magazines for a Glock 19, plus two sniper mags.

  "Who is she?" Tara asked the same question again.

  Alex shrugged. "We can figure that out later. For now, we need to go. The last thing we want is that ferry full of tourists thinking we killed her."

  "We did kill her."

  "Yeah, but they don't need to know that. And we certainly don't want them thinking we offed Dr. Thuram."

  Tara nodded. Good point.

  The two looked back at the cottage with a heavy sense of regret, then turned and started toward the airplane.

  23

  PARIS

  Tommy didn't get an answer from Tara or Alex, and he had tried calling both. He looked down at his phone and shrugged. "I guess they don't have a good signal where they are."

  "You mean out in the middle of the ocean on a tiny island that only has four thousand or so inhabitants? Yeah, that's crazy." Sean rolled his eyes.

  "Touché."

  "We did get their text messages from Cape Town, so we know they at least made it that far safely. Surely they're on the island now."

  "I guess, but that leaves us in a sit-and-wait mode."

  Sean's shoulders raised an inch and then dropped. He looked down at the almost empty plate in front of him. He pinched a crusty piece of bread between his finger and thumb and popped it into his mouth. The hard outer layer combined with soft middle and the buttery flavors in a divine dance on his palate. Sean reached for his café au lait and took a sip. It was still hot since the server had just come by and topped it off.

  "There are a few perks to sitting and waiting in this place," Sean quipped, motioning to the spread as he set the coffee back on the table. He turned to Bodmer, who had been on edge since they had sat down to eat. "Honestly, I don't know how any of you stay in shape over here in Europe. We have good food in the United States, but over here is next level. Especially the bread." He finished chewing the last morsel of a piece of cheese and then leaned back.

  "We move more here," Bodmer said simply. "Americans, from what I hear, are sedentary. We tend to be more active because of the layout of our cities. We walk more and drive less."

  "That's something I've always appreciated," Sean confessed. "How active so many Europeans are."

  He eased back in his seat, allowing himself to feel satisfied for a moment before realizing he was relaxing a little too much and then stiffening back up.

  The café was like thousands of others he'd seen in the big French city, as well as some of the smaller towns. There were red-and-white umbrellas over folding metal and wood chairs and tables strewn across a section of sidewalk that reached nearly to the street, all cordoned off by a black metal fence.

  People walked by in a mishmash of colors and styles. Some looked to be tourists, carrying cameras around their necks and day packs on their backs. Others were in business suits, probably taking a little time off for lunch. Then there were the casual citizens who roamed around as though they didn't have a care or responsibility in the world. Maybe it was their day off or they worked a later shift.

  The smells of fresh-baked bread and baking cheeses wafted out of open doors and filled the nostrils of all who passed, luring them in.

  The moment of peace ended abruptly.

  Sean's phone suddenly buzzed on the table, causing his plate and fork to rattle. A second later, Tommy's phone started dancing, as well. The two picked up their devices and looked at the screens. Their eyes met for a moment.

  "Text from Alex," Sean said. He could see from the home screen preview that it was an image.

  Tommy nodded and tapped on his screen.

  Sean did the same.

  Bodmer leaned forward, looking intently at the two devices as the men examined the messages they'd just received. "What is it?" the commander asked impatiently.

  "It's a parchment," Tommy answered first while the words hung on Sean's lips.

  "Parchment?" Bodmer didn't seem satisfied with the answer.

  "Yes. And there are three names on it, as well as a symbol of the rose like we saw before."

  Tommy lifted his phone so the commander could see it.

  Bodmer stared at the image for several seconds. He cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes in an effort to focus.

  "The only name I recognize on that list is Dumas," Bodmer admitted and then leaned back in his chair again.

  "Dumas," Sean said reverently.

  Bodmer raised one eyebrow and looked at the man questioningly. "What? What about Dumas?"

  "Great author," Sean said. "Wrote The Count of Monte Cristo. One of my favorite stories of all time."

  "One of the original treasure hunter stories."

  Sean snorted a laugh. "And a jailbreak story."

  "All rolled into one."

  "Shouldn't it be filed under education in the library?"

  The two shared a laugh at the reference.

  Bodmer didn't seem to get the inside joke, and so he crossed his arms, waiting for the two to be done with their fun.

  "Sorry," Sean added quickly. "
One of our favorite stories. Anyway, Alexandre Dumas wrote The Count of Monte Cristo. It's an adventure story filled with revenge, intrigue, murder, betrayal, treasure, and eventually justice. Really good book."

  "I have heard of it," Bodmer confessed, which caused Sean to feel a little stupid. "So, what does this author have to do with the mystery surrounding Napoléon and the murder of Cardinal Jarllson?"

  Sean turned to his friend, who merely offered a blank stare in response.

  "You don't know?" Bodmer sounded irritated.

  "To be fair, Commander, we don't have a whole lot of information to go on."

  "And we just got the message," Tommy added. "Can we at least have a few minutes with it before we wave our magic wands and make the answers magically appear?"

  The commander wasn't entirely sure what the lingo meant, but he had a feeling it was dripping with sarcasm.

  Sean went back to staring at his screen and the three names on it. His eyes stayed locked on the one at the top, though, reading it over and over again in his mind. Dumas. What did Alexandre Dumas have to do with all of this? Was there a hidden treasure under an island off the coast of France, like in the story? Is that where the relic could be found?

  He still didn't know what relic they were looking for. That fact had been niggling at him for the last few days.

  He doubted the theory about a buried treasure underwater. That was fantasy, nothing more. And besides, it couldn't simply be some location related to the Dumas tale. There were two other names on that list. What did they have to do with it?

  Sean turned his head in frustration and slid his phone over to Bodmer so the man could have a look for himself. While the commander was investigating the image, Sean looked out over the busy city street. He noted a young couple—blonde woman and brunette man—walking along the sidewalk, holding hands.

  The sight made him think of his wife, and right on cue she appeared in the doorway of the café, holding a cup of coffee. She was drinking an espresso, which wasn't something the wait staff could refill as they made their rounds.