The Bonaparte Secret

by Gregg Loomis

  2 May 29, 1814. Though she and Napoleon had divorced so he might sire a son, they continued to exchange letters. He spent the last days before his exile at her home at Malmaison.

  3 The water-delivery system, for instance.

  4 The first such gathering of representatives of European states since the days of the Holy Roman Empire (see the author’s monograph, “The Holy Roman Empire: Neither Holy, nor Roman nor an Empire,” University of Paris Press, 2006). The Congress of Vienna had been convened to decide how to undo what most crowned heads of Eu rope viewed as the damage Napoleon had done to the old status quo, most particularly, the institution of royalty. They were in session when Bonaparte escaped from Elba, and placed the En glish Duke of Wellington in charge of an international force to try to put the genie back in the bottle. Hence the “Hundred Days” campaign leading up to Waterloo.

  5 Michel Ney (1769–1815). As noted earlier, Napoleon conferred the title “Marshal of France” on a number of his generals. It had mostly an honorary significance. Ney, however, was marshal in both the military and honorary sense. He and Napoleon might have had much to discuss. Ney had been among those demanding his former commander’s exile and had served the Bourbons before rejoining Napoleon upon his return from Elba. He was hotheaded and heroic, and many blame Ney’s rash actions for the loss at Waterloo.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta

  11:35 the same day

  Almost dragging Manfred by the arm, Gurt reached her front door and fumbled in her pocket for the keys. What the hell was happening? Although those two men had not expressly said they were from the Agency, how else would they have known her real name and her Agency reputation? The tactics, poorly executed as they had been, were typical Agency, too. Miles had said he would have someone keep an eye out, not try to abduct . . .

  Movement at the corner of her vision caused her to drop Manfred’s hand long enough to grasp the butt of the Glock as she turned, mindful of the ice on her doorstep.

  A wet and shivering Randy slowly made his way up the drive. Water sloshed from his shoes and she could see him shivering from where she stood. Steam from his body heat enveloped him as though he were some spirit materializing on the front lawn.

  He shook his head, chagrined. “Sorry, Mrs. Reilly, I don’t know what happened. One minute you and the little boy were in full view, the next I was floating in a fishpond. Some sort of tranquilizer delivered by . . .”

  “By a dart gun,” Gurt finished for him, ignoring his surprise as she finished opening the door.

  “Yeah, I guess that could have done it,” he admitted sheepishly. “But I don’t understand—”

  She interrupted him with a motion. “Come. Inside before you die of hypothermia. You can take a hot shower, take some of Lang’s clothes.”

  He crossed the threshold, visibly savoring the warmth. “Thanks. But first I need to call the office for reinforcement. Whoever knocked me out was obviously going after you. Are you all right?”

  “Quite,” she assured him. “I saw the men responsible. You can call whoever you wish after you have shed those wet, cold clothes.”

  His professional curiosity overcame his discomfort. “You saw whoever . . . ?” He glanced round. “Where . . . ?”

  “They give no longer a problem and will not be back soon. Now, the hot shower.”

  To the sound of water running upstairs, Gurt checked and rechecked the house’s alarm and security features before she called Lang’s BlackBerry. Perhaps he could explain what had happened. She got a cheery recording assuring her that if she left a name and number, he would call her back. Next, she called Lang’s office. Sara had not heard from him in two days. Unusual but not unheard of.

  If only she knew how to contact Miles. Lang had his number around here somewhere. But where? Relenting and letting Manfred turn on the television as he ate a hastily prepared peanut butter and jelly sandwich, she left him to enter the closet under the stairs Lang referred to as his office. A five-minute search of the file cabinet produced a list with Miles’s name and a Washington, D.C., phone number.

  She called it, leaving her name and BlackBerry number. Before she got back to where Manfred was teasing Grumps with the remainder of his sandwich, he called back.

  “Gurt?” Miles’s voice lacked the normal breezy self-assurance. “I’ve been trying to contact Lang. I’ve gotten no answer.”

  “I also,” Gurt said. “But that is not the only difficulty. Not an hour ago, two men tried to snatch Manfred and me.”

  She paused, waiting for an explanation.

  When none was forthcoming, she said, “The two were from the Agency, I am certain. What is happening, Miles?” she added pointedly.

  “Er, I’m not sure. The reason I was trying to get hold of Lang was to tell him I was ordered to drop protective surveillance of him, your house and family. No explanation.”

  “Miles . . . ,” she began with more than a trace of accusation.

  “No, no, I swear! That’s all I know, really.”

  “But why?”

  “I told you. I don’t know. Would I lie to you and Lang?”

  As long as you have been employed by those people, in a heartbeat.

  “It is possible the reason has been concealed from you?”

  A snort. “Of course. No one is told more than they need to know. Surely you remember that.”

  “It is also possible there has been some change in the policy that made protective surveillance desirable.”

  “True,” Miles admitted, “but it would have to have been a change from outside. I get the internal memos.”

  Gurt thought for a moment. “Outside? You mean . . . ?”

  “Anyone from the State Department, the White House, Defense. The possibilities are endless. It’s not the who that bothers me, it’s the why. As in why would this anonymous policy maker suddenly want to take you somewhere?”

  “They said there were some very nasty people.”

  “So, what’s different? There always are. No, my guess is they want to make sure you stay quiet about what you know, don’t go to the press.”

  “About what?”

  Another snort from Miles. “I’d guess this Chinese-in-Haiti matter. For whatever reason, some branch of government wants a lid kept on it.”

  Gurt was truly puzzled. “But why?”

  “Above my pay grade. If I knew that, I’d be heading up some government department, meeting with the prez on a daily basis. For the moment, I’d suggest you keep your head down.”

  “What about Lang?”

  “Lang will have to look out for himself. He has a pretty good record of doing just that. I hear from him, I’ll let you know.”

  “But, Miles . . .”

  He had ended the call.

  Cairo International Airport

  21:49

  Lang had been unable to figure out what, if any, pattern there was to the bus’s stops. It seemed that a man waiting on the road’s shoulder merited stopping to let him aboard, as did a lone camel who preferred macadam to sand, or a herd of goats crossing the pavement. At last, the livestock delays diminished as darkness grew. At various points, a rider would stand, remove his luggage from the overhead bin and make his way forward to speak to the driver, who would then bring the bus to a wheezing halt to allow the passenger to disembark into the darkness. At each stop, whether or not someone was getting on or off, the door opened, admitting a hot cloud of swirling sand particles stirred up by the bus itself.

  Lang had been relieved to hear the roar of a jet overhead, a noise that got louder with each takeoff or landing. When he could see signs in multiple languages bearing a pictograph of an airplane, indicating the road to the airport, he stood and retrieved his bag preparatory to getting off. By the time he reached the driver, two other men were also exiting the bus, both in blue short-sleeve shirts, dark pants and wearing identity tags around their necks. There was not enough light to read the cards, but Lang would have bet they ind
icated employment by one of the airlines.

  Lang followed them as they dismounted and walked toward what looked like some sort of transportation shelter, a roof but no sides, like the bus stops in some American cities.

  “Does a bus to the airport stop here?” Lang asked, hopeful one or both spoke English.

  “Yes,” they said almost in unison before the smaller of the two continued. “The bus circles both terminals, the one we call the new airport, where Western European and American airlines are, and the old airport, where Eastern European, Arab and African airline gates are. We are going to the new airport.”

  Lang sat beside them on a wooden bench, waiting until the bus chugged to a stop. All three boarded. In minutes, he was following the two into the terminal.

  Due to the late hour, the chaotic mob Lang associated with Egyptian transportation hubs was absent. There were, however, the police with automatic weapons common to air terminals everywhere outside the U.S. A quick glance revealed two of these officers were showing an unusual degree of diligence in inspecting the papers of every person passing through the single security checkpoint while two more watched.

  Normal procedure, or had the Alexandria security police alerted Cairo? He knew Cairo’s security was among the world’s toughest if not necessarily the most competent. Instead of random checks, every passenger’s background as shown by his passport was scrutinized, his carry-on searched as well as x-rayed.

  Either way, Lang had a problem. If he used the Roth passport, he would be risking instant detention. His own would lack the Egyptian entry visa, raising questions he certainly didn’t want to answer.

  His back to the rest of the terminal, he studied the TV screen of arrivals and departures. There was an Air France flight to Paris that departed in the morning and a Heathrow-bound British Airways plane half an hour later. He could buy a ticket now in his own name, but that would not only involve the missing visa, it would also give any Egyptian official scanning airline computers five- or six-hours’ notice of his intentions if the Alexandria police had discovered his identity.

  There was no line at any of the ticket counters, most of which bore “closed” signs.

  Handing his Roth passport to a brightly smiling young woman behind the British Airways sign and logo, he said, “I hope you have room on your flight to London in the morning.”

  He listened to the click of a keyboard before she looked up, smile still in place. “Tourist or first-class?”

  “First- class.”

  At roughly twenty cents to the Egyptian pound, the number representing the cost of the ticket was astronomical. Lang reached for his wallet and feigned surprise and embarrassment. “I seem to have left my credit cards in my other pants.”

  She gave a shake of the head, still impressed by the fact someone would pay that sum of money to ride in comparative luxury for four and a half hours. “No problem, Mr. Roth. I have the number from your passport. Here it is back. I will note that you will pick up the ticket two hours before departure tomorrow morning. Your seat will be reserved until then.”

  He thanked her and exited the terminal but not before stopping by the electronic billboard of hotels. At the cabstand, he directed the driver to deliver him to the nearby Novotel with an intermediate stop at a nearby pharmacy. He was familiar with the worldwide chain of inexpensive lodging, clean rooms and little else. At the desk, he gave his own passport to the sleepy desk clerk, who, as expected, simply swiped it through the copy machine without noticing the absence of a visa and returned it. Lang was betting if his papers were checked against immigration records at all, he would be long gone before the discrepancy was discovered.

  He gave the clerk a healthy tip and requested a wake-up call. Once in his room, he searched his wallet for the international calling card he always carried but had not used in over a year. Manfred answered on the first ring. “Hi Vati! Where are you?”

  Resisting the temptation to visit with his son, Lang said, “I need to speak to your mother. Right now.”

  He sensed the little boy’s disappointment from the silence before he heard him calling Gurt. Unfortunate, but the longer he was on the line, the better chance the call could be traced by anyone with the minimal equipment and know-how to tap a phone.

  “Lang?” There was anxiety in Gurt’s voice. “I could not get you on your BlackBerry.”

  “It’s on a South Pacific cruise at the moment with emphasis on south.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “No time to explain. You and Manfred OK?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “I’m a moving target at the moment, but yeah, I’m OK.”

  She told him about the men on the street and Miles’s thoughts. The whole thing fit uncomfortably snug with the cancelled credit card and the sudden unavailability of the driver Miles had provided. For whatever reason, the Agency was more interested in their silence than the help Miles had originally sought.

  A sea change indeed.

  “OK, here is what we’re going to do,” Lang said deliberately. “You and Manfred take a few days, go to the farm.”

  The “farm” was a shack on farmland in middle Georgia Lang had purchased in a foreign corporate name some years ago. Its remoteness plus neighbors who were highly suspicious of intruders had proved it to be an invaluable hideout before, and Lang had improved it since its last use.

  “We are having an ice storm here.”

  “You are also having four-wheel drive on your Hummer. I’d risk the road before I’d depend on the weather to keep the Agency at bay. Next time they may send someone experienced enough to anticipate your tricks. And not to forget our Chinese friends. You can bet they still have us in mind. Oh yeah, don’t mention any of this to Miles.”

  “You think . . . ?”

  “I’m not thinking anything; I just don’t want to take the risk that you and Manfred get stuffed into some Agency hideaway until whoever is calling the shots thinks different. I’ll call you on the neighbor’s phone when I can. Oh yeah, don’t use your BlackBerry. There’s a good chance somebody can triangulate.”

  Lang hung up to a background of Manfred indignantly demanding to speak to him.

  He woke up minutes before the call, the growling of his stomach reminding him he had not eaten since . . . when? Breakfast on the plane yesterday? Putting aside the growing protest, he carefully disassembled the Browning. He put the metal barrel component in his shave kit and distributed springs and catches among his shirts. Clips went into the shoes in his bag. In Egypt, firearms were prohibited, whether in carry-on or checked baggage. Breaking up the recognizable components of the weapon should defeat the curious eyes of the x-ray machine trained on even checked baggage. Ammo he sealed in plastic bags that he hoped would frustrate any sniffing mechanisms, chemical, mechanical or canine, looking for explosive compounds. He could only hope he had no need of the gun before his departure.

  His next task required somewhat more care. Using a razor blade purchased at the pharmacy last night, he cut the page from the Roth passport bearing the Egyptian visa. Noting the page was the one with a picture of a Mississippi River boat on it, he razored the same from the real U.S. passport. Now the tricky part: using just a touch of the paper glue he had also bought at the pharmacy, he substituted pages. The alteration was not going to withstand careful inspection and it surely would be detected by electronic means upon reentry to the States, but that was not his problem at the moment.

  He stopped in the lobby long enough to help himself to luscious-looking figs, dried dates and nuts from the hotel’s small breakfast buffet. His stomach cried out for more substantial fare but he did not have the time.

  Back at the new airport, he joined the tourist-class line in front of the Air France counter. As he shuffled his bag along, he noted the British Airways desk thirty or so feet away. Two uniformed and armed security police were checking the passports of every male in the queue. Two men, conspicuous in their dark suits, watched. Lang thought he recognized Major S
aleem before turning his back. Given the opportunity, he would bet the gate from which the plane to London was to depart was equally well covered.

  Finally at the front of the line, Lang purchased what he was told was the last available seat on the Paris flight, paying with his American Express card. He hated leaving a record. The Chinese had proven adept at following him by credit-card receipts, but the alternative was more immediate: buying a ticket without prior reservations and paying cash almost guaranteed drawing the attention of either the security or drug-enforcement people.

  Almost as unpleasant was the thought of checking his suitcase. Modern transportation had made it possible to have breakfast in New York, lunch in Paris and baggage in Tehran. Plus, standing at airport carousels waiting to determine the winners and losers in the luggage lottery tied him to one place when circumstances might dictate faster movement. Checked bags, though, did not get the thorough inspection carry-ons did. If he wanted the Browning in Paris, he had little choice.

  He reluctantly watched his bag disappear on the conveyor belt. He’d get out of Egypt and worry about his problems later. The answer to some of them might well be in Paris.

  472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta

  The previous evening

  Gurt was also dealing with luggage, piling it into the maw of the Hummer in the garage. She had no idea how long she, Manfred and Grumps would be gone. The hour was late and the little boy was up past his bedtime. The novelty of a reprieve was beginning to wear off, leaving him cranky.

  “Vati wouldn’t talk with me,” he said irritably, referring to Lang’s brief phone call. “I want him to come home!”

  Me, too. But Gurt made soothing sounds. “He will be home soon enough. But while he is gone, we will drive to the farm.”

  The child brightened. “Can we go fishing?”

  There was a small pond on the property from which Manfred took great delight in catching bream with his own small fishing rod. He was less eager to eat them, however, resulting in most being thrown back.