The Bonaparte Secret

by Gregg Loomis

  Lang thought of the private company he had already hired. Ex–Delta Force, ex–Marine Recon, ex-SEAL types already in discreet positions around his house. Bulletproof SUVs with armed drivers taking Manfred to pre-K, Gurt to the grocery store. He felt pretty damn secure. But for how long? The security people’s incentive was to do what they were hired to do: keep the Reilly family safe. The Agency’s motivation was to foil the Chinese plan to gain a foothold in the Caribbean and, possibly, end the threat to Lang as well.

  Lang decided to do what any rational man would do. “I’ll talk it over with Gurt and get back to you.”

  472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta

  21:26 the same day

  A smile played across Gurt’s face as she watched a waterlogged Lang pour a healthy two fingers of scotch whisky. “You have had a hard time with Manfred?”

  Lang contemplated and discarded a carafe of water before taking a gulp from the crystal tumbler. “What was your first clue, that I’m soaking wet?”

  “That helped in the thought process, yes.”

  Another swallow. “Bathing Manfred can be a problem when he gets excited. But having Grumps jump in the tub, too?”

  “Perhaps you should not let the dog in the bathroom.”

  Lang emptied the glass and was working on a refill. “If I shut him out, the damn dog howls and scratches the paint off the door, and Manfred is almost as bad. How do you separate them when Manfred goes to school in the morning?”

  Gurt took a sip from her wineglass. “By force of will.”

  Lang snorted. “More by bribe. I note you feed the dog just as you take Manfred out the door.”

  Gurt picked up the book in her lap and started to read. “What is it you say, by hook and cook?”

  “By hook or crook.”

  Gurt’s face wrinkled in puzzlement. “I can understand hooking and cooking to get something, but crook?”

  Unable to explain the idiom, Lang added a few drops of water to his glass this time. “I spoke to Miles at length this afternoon.”

  Gurt put her book back down, suddenly alert. “And?”

  He gave her a summary of the conversation.

  When he had finished, she got up, crossed the room to an ice maker under the bar, removed a chilling wine bottle and refilled her glass. “This would mean traveling to where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “To find what?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “How will you find out?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  Gurt returned to her seat, wineglass in hand and nodding. “You and Miles have a well-planned mission.”

  She might not get American idioms but she has sarcasm down cold. Lang slumped into his favorite chair. “Wouldn’t you say our problems with the Chinese began in Venice?”

  Not sure where this was going, Girt nodded uncertainly. “Yes.”

  “So, it might be a fair statement that whatever it was that this guy, duPaar, wants was in that church, Saint Mark’s, right? Or at least, the Chinese believed so?”

  She thought a moment. “If you assume the robbers in Venice were seeking the object duPaar wants and if you also assume that object was really in the church. Did you not tell me you and Francis had this conversation before we went to Haiti?”

  “Sort of. He had a theory, or had read a book, positing that Alexander’s, not Saint Mark’s, remains were interred in the basement of the church.”

  “You are telling me this man in Haiti wants someone’s bones?”

  “They’re called relics, like Saint So-and-so’s toe bone being preserved in the altar of a church. In medieval times, they not only had religious significance but were a boon to local commerce. Pilgrims would travel miles to pray before the elbow of good Saint Such-and-such. The town would prosper from what we would call tourist trade.”

  Gurt smiled. “I have seen everything from bones to a vial with a drop of Christ’s blood to a nail from the cross. In Rome, there is a church that displays the chains in which Peter was confined, the ones which miraculously fell away.”

  Lang considered another refill but put his glass down on the table beside the chair instead. “San Pietro in Vincoli. Same one that has Michelangelo’s Moses. But yeah, like that. Thing is, what would duPaar want with relics, Alexander’s or Saint Mark’s?”

  Gurt was looking at him over the top of her wineglass. “I suppose that is what Miles wants you to find out.”

  Lang got up and surveyed the bookshelves as though looking for a volume. “We made a deal when you and Manfred came to live here: we were finished with the Agency. Neither of us would go romping off on adventures without the other’s agreement.”

  “Some of the ‘adventures’ came looking for us. We certainly did not ask to be shot at in Venice or have our house broken into.” She pointed to a shuttered window. “Neither of us wish the need to have our home guarded by a security service or use our special devices forever. Soon or late, we will want to live like normal people.”

  He turned away from the books, nodding agreement. “That’s why I didn’t turn down Miles’s request flat.”

  “Flat?”

  “On the spot. Immediately.”

  He could visualize Gurt filing this Americanism away wherever she kept such things. “Speak with Francis, then with Miles again. Let us talk after you have some idea what you may be searching for and where it might be.”

  Good idea.

  Manuel’s Tavern

  602 North Highlands Avenue, Atlanta

  19:02 the next evening

  For over fifty years, Manuel’s Tavern has been the gathering place for Emory University students and faculty, the local Democratic Party elite and those who would like to be either. Jimmy Carter, his hand firmly in that of the business’s founder, Manuel Maloof, smiles down from the wall behind the bar that runs along one wall. Bill Clinton’s autograph is scrawled across a photograph from the waist up. As a local wag speculated, perhaps a full-body shot had been discarded when closer scrutiny revealed the former president’s fly was unzipped.

  Across from the bar, wooden booths bear the carved initials of students and fraternities as well as graffiti in Latin and Greek as well as English and other modern languages. The house specializes in political debate, funky atmosphere, generous pitchers of beer, and cuisine that is arguably the worst in any licensed food establishment in the city if not the Southeast.

  When Lang and Francis had begun their friendship, it was also one of the few places where a black man in a clerical collar could share a meal with a white man in solemn lawyer garb without drawing stares of curiosity. Among the motley clientele of Manuel’s, the pair hardly drew a glance.

  They entered through the back door from the parking lot.

  Spurning the tables that occupied the “new” expansion to the bar that had been added nearly thirty years ago, Lang and Francis seated themselves at one of the booths that had been part of the original operation.

  Francis turned to look back the way they had come. “I’ve got to say, riding in that SUV beats cramping into your Porsche.”

  Lang picked up the menu, something he could have recited in his sleep. “I’ll bet you loved Max, the armed driver, too.”

  Francis watched the beefy bodyguard survey the room before taking a seat at the bar. “It seems impolite not to let him join us.”

  Lang lifted his eyes from the menu to look at his security escort. Just under six feet, with close-cropped hair beginning to streak with silver, the man moved with a catlike precision that would have revealed his special military background had his résumé not already done so. He constantly scanned his surroundings without being obvious about it. “His job isn’t an exercise in manners. He can’t keep an eye on the whole room sitting with us.”

  “You really are concerned about you and your family’s safety. You’ve had problems like this before and you didn’t hire a security service.”

  Lang put the menu down. “I didn’t have a family, either.
I’m not worried about taking care of myself, but when Gurt’s busy tending to Manfred, she can’t be looking over her shoulder.”

  “So, how long does this go on?”

  Larry, their usual waiter, appeared, a foaming pitcher of beer in each hand. He set one on the table. “I’ll be back with your glasses. The usual, folks?”

  “Unless you have something truly fit to eat for a change,” Lang muttered.

  Unperturbed, Larry smiled. “Manuel’s: an Atlanta tradition you can rely on.”

  “Like warm beer, lousy food and indifferent service.”

  Larry turned away with a cheery “But our prices are quite reasonable.”

  Both men watched him go, as did Max at the bar.

  Francis repeated his question. “How long are you keeping these security guys around?”

  “As long as it takes. That’s part of the reason we’re here tonight.”

  “And I thought you were yearning for ecclesiastical enlightenment.”

  “Maybe some other time. Right now, I need information.”

  Francis reached behind himself, producing a book. “You wanted to borrow Chugg’s book, the one about Alexander’s tomb.”

  Lang took it. “Yeah, that’s the one. Thanks.”

  Francis looked around as though making sure no one was listening. What they would be discussing was esoteric, perhaps even too far-out even for the patrons of Manuel’s. “It’s only a theory, you know, that the Venetian merchants who thought they were stealing Saint Mark’s relics actually wound up with those of Alexander, and a pretty wild one at that.”

  Lang was thumbing the pages. “So far, a theory is all I have. I can’t imagine why the Chinese would want the relics of a Christian saint.”

  “Or of a pagan general, albeit perhaps the greatest ever.”

  “You told me, according to our friend Chugg here, the ancients believed Alexander’s body was some sort of talisman, one that guaranteed victory in battle. That was one of the justifications Ptolemy gave for hijacking it. That could be why a nutcase like duPaar wants it.”

  Francis freshened his and Lang’s glasses before holding up the near-empty pitcher. “The ancients also believed in oracles, augury and a panoply of rather ill-behaved gods and goddesses. Do you suppose duPaar also does?”

  “Decided, gentlemen?” Larry had pen and pad in hand.

  “The salmon,” Francis said with all the enthusiasm of a man approaching the gallows. “And try not to overcook it this time.”

  Lang handed his menu to the waiter. “The cheeseburger. Tell the chef I’d like it somewhere between cremated and steak tartare.”

  Larry shrugged. “Chef? At these prices you think we can afford a chef? I just throw stuff on the stove and leave it there until I have to make room for something else.”

  Both men watched his departure.

  “I wish I thought he was kidding,” Francis said ruefully.

  Lang became serious. “You were right about Alexander’s remains, relics, whatever, being just a theory, but I have to start somewhere. This book is as good a place as any.”

  “You think that book is going to help you find Alexander’s tomb? Its location is one of history’s great mysteries. People have been looking for it since the fourth century AD and no one has even come close. Unless, of course, those Venetian merchants who thought they were stealing Saint Mark actually had Alexander.”

  “Maybe, but no one’s life depended on finding Alexander before, either.”

  “But you don’t even know if Alexander’s tomb, or his remains, if they still exist, have anything to do with the incident in Venice.”

  Or the Chinese involvement in Haiti, Lang thought. “You’re right, but I have to start somewhere. If Venice is the reason my house was burglarized, then whatever was in Saint Mark’s tomb had something to do with it. Since those guys made off with Saint Mark’s relics, or whatever, I’m not going to find out what it was by going back to Italy. If you have another idea, now is the time to share it.”

  Francis held up his hands as though to demonstrate they were empty. “No ideas here. If you plan to work Chugg’s theory, where will you start?”

  “Well, I think we can assume Chugg was wrong about Alexander in Venice. The Chinese are still trying to find Alexander’s relics. Or at least trying to prevent me from interfering. If they’d succeeded or quit, I wouldn’t need the security detail.”

  Francis smiled. “You’re making assumptions based on negatives.”

  “Sometimes that’s all there is to base them on.”

  “And you accuse religion of being illogical.”

  Lang had no intent of renewing that debate at the moment. “The foundation is flying a pair of immunologists to Sudan next week. I figure the Gulfstream can make a stop in Alexandria. That seems a logical place to begin, since the only thing we know for sure is that Alexander was, in fact, entombed there.”

  “So you figure if you find the relics first, you can put them beyond the Chinese’s reach and that will be the end of the matter, they will simply go away? Spes sibi quisque.”

  Lang took a long sip from his glass. “Virgil would agree I am relying on myself. It’s for sure no one else’s family is at risk.”

  “And Gurt?”

  “Under the circumstances, we can hardly leave Manfred with the neighbors.”

  “Then why not send Gurt, and you take care of your son?”

  Lang stared across the table in disbelief. “I hope you are kidding! Gurt would no more leave that child while we are all in danger than . . .”

  The simile failed him.

  472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta

  04:12 the next morning

  For an instant Lang thought he was dreaming. Then he realized the sound of shattering glass followed by the squeal of tires and a pair of gunshots were not part of a vanishing dream, but what had awakened him. His hand closed around the 9 mm Browning HP automatic in the bedside table as his feet hit the floor. Gurt was already pulling a sweatshirt over her head as Manfred’s frightened voice came down the hall.

  Lang almost collided with the little boy, followed by Grumps, as he threw the bedroom door open and lunged into the hall.

  “Window downstairs broke,” Manfred announced.

  Lang squatted, his face at the same level as his son’s. “You go into Mommy and Daddy’s room, shut the door and stay there until we come back.”

  Manfred’s lips began to tremble. “But . . .”

  Lang lifted the child up and placed him across the threshold. In the tone that meant the order was not subject to negotiation, he repeated, “I said, stay there.”

  Gurt was beside him. “Lang, the child is terrified.”

  Lang was halfway down the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Then you stay with him.”

  Any answer was lost as he hit the floor of the foyer. Immediately, he smelled smoke. A quick glance around told him the fire was not inside the house. Not yet, anyway. He reached for the double dead-bolt locks on the front door, his hand stopping in midair. What better way to lure him out into the open, making a clear target, than the possibility of fire?

  During the second of indecision, a heavy knock came from outside. “Mr. Reilly? It’s Jake with Executive Security. Open up.”

  All the bodyguards looked pretty much alike, varying only in race and height. They all had that military bearing, so he wasn’t sure which one of them was Jake. The voice, though, was familiar. He unlocked and opened the door.

  The first thing he saw was a man silhouetted against dying flames. The front yard’s winter-dry grass was smouldering, cinder black.

  Jake opened the door wide enough to squeeze in and shut it. Lang noted the M16 automatic rifle grasped in one hand. “Somebody threw the equivalent of a Molotov cocktail from a passing car. Pretty primitive. But if it had exploded inside, I’d guess the whole house would have been a furnace in a second or two. But it hit a window, broke the glass and bounced onto the lawn.” He stopped, puzzled. “You got steel shu
tters inside the windows?”

  “Seemed like a reasonable precaution when we redid the house. Did you get a tag number?”

  “Nope, had his lights out. Cooked off a couple of rounds through the rear windshield, though, before I had to hold off for fear of sending ordnance through your neighbors’ windows. Might’ve been two of them. A pickup truck parked across the street took off right behind the one that tossed the firebomb.”

  More likely the truck was one of Miles’s men. Although Lang had seen no obvious watchers from the Agency, it would make sense that as Miles had promised, they would keep an eye on things.

  Lang pointed to the back of the house. “Come on in and I’ll brew a pot of coffee.”

  Jake shook his head. “No thanks. If I’m inside, I’m not doing much good keeping watch.”

  “There’s supposed to be a team of two. Where’s your partner?”

  “I’d guess he’s somewhere in the backyard, watching the rear of the premises.”

  Gurt, holding the hand of a pale and shaken Manfred, came down the stairs. Even Grumps seemed wary. “What . . . ?”

  Lang repeated what he had been told.

  Jake touched a finger to his forehead, an informal salute. “Guess I better get back to my post. You aren’t paying me to be a houseguest.”

  As Lang pulled the door open, he caught a glimpse of a dozen or so people in the street in varying stages of undress despite the chill of the winter night. Bathrobes, housecoats, pajamas under jackets. Although it was too dark to see their faces, he was sure they were gaping. He heard a siren rapidly approaching.

  The timely appearance of the Atlanta police could be depended upon when they were no longer needed.

  Lang turned toward the kitchen. “Guess I’ll brew that coffee anyway. I expect we’ll need it.”

  “Lang?” Gurt asked.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  “You don’t need a weapon to make coffee.”

  For the first time, he became aware he was still carrying the Browning. He stuck it in the drawer of an end table. “I guess not.”

  An hour later, the police had run out of questions and the pot out of coffee. Wearily, Lang was shutting the front door as the eighteenth-century Birely & Sons grandfather clock chimed six times. With Manfred asleep in her arms, Gurt had a foot on the front stairs when the phone rang.