by Gregg Loomis
They had almost reached the open door when Patrick blindly smacked his head on someone’s tomb, eliciting a grunt of pain. Had the accident happened a split second earlier, the chances were the sound would have gone unnoticed, but it came at that precise moment when the men surrounding Louis and Marie Antoinette suddenly went quiet.
Both lights caught Patrick and Lang at the door.
Both men made a dive for the opening as one. In the confined space, two muzzle flashes were instantaneous, with the sound of gunshots close enough for the ears to feel as well as hear. Lang’s cheek stung from a marble splinter.
Both he and Patrick rolled through the doorway as bullets thumped into the door itself. Reaching up, Lang reached back to snatch the key from the lock. For an instant, it would not come loose, a delay that brought another volley whining over his head. With a frantic twist, he freed the heavy key and kicked the door shut.
On his back, Lang reached up again, this time to insert the key on the outside. With surprising ease, it turned as the bolt went into place and several more bullets hit but failed to penetrate the thick wood.
Lang took a deep breath and gave thanks to medieval man. First for being so much shorter than his contemporary cousins that a keyhole was only a modern arm’s length from the floor, and second, that his builders chose the stoutest of oak for doors, even if they were so low he had had to stoop to get through.
Standing, Lang turned to the steps. In front of him, Patrick was frozen. There were two men at the top with weapons extended.
Boulevard Carnot, Departement of Seine-Saint-Denis
Moments earlier
Gardien de la paix Jules Carrier had drawn the short straw careerwise. Only two years out of the police academy, he could expect to be placed on the eight-hour shift from 2300 hours until 0700, the hours least popular with those with more seniority. He would not have expected to be partnered with a stagiaire—intern, one-year graduate—as a partner, though. Almost always, the younger officers were paired with more experienced partners. But then, nothing went normally for those unfortunate enough to be assigned to Saint Denis, one of the three Paris suburbs that came under the jurisdiction of the Paris Prefecture of Police.
Saint Denis was the black hole of police work, both figuratively and literally. Populated largely by immigrants from France’s former North African colonies, the district was heavily Muslim. Some of its residents practiced the extreme customs of their religion, such as female genital mutilation, intersectarian murder, honor killing and tribal feuds. Then there were the commercial enterprises such as meth labs, heroin dealing and fencing stolen goods. Lesser problems involved slaughtering of goats on public streets, dumping refuse on the sidewalks and setting fire to establishments that sold alcohol. There were almost-annual riots involving the burning of automobiles, smashing the few windows not secure behind steel curtains and automatic weapon fire at anyone unlucky enough to be in uniform when the trouble started. Jules was certain law-abiding, peaceful Muslims existed too, sometimes they just seemed outnumbered in and around Saint Denis.
Only a fool of a police officer would volunteer for duty here, and only a short-lived fool would wander far from the well-lighted main streets unless he had a substantial and well-armed force with him. Even the army was hesitant to venture into the narrow streets and alleys. The general, if unspoken, opinion around the Paris prefecture was that it was far wiser to make only a gesture of police presence around the perimeter of the worst areas than to risk the lives of good officers in a vain attempt to establish order in a place that was more war zone than neighborhood.
That was why Jules and his partner Lavon had chosen a relatively peaceful spot across from the Hotel Sovereign to sit in their diminutive Peugeot 307 and drink coffee, hoping to pass the shift without someone throwing a brick or worse through the car’s windshield. They paid no attention to the car’s radio when the first report of gunfire crackled through the airwaves. Why should they? Hardly a night passed without some son of Islam taking a shot at another. Narcotics deal gone bad, perceived or actual insult, home invasion. You name it, the provocations for murder and mayhem by and against the locals were endless.
A second report followed the first.
Jules was getting uneasy. What if they received orders to investigate? Walking the streets of this district in a police uniform was tantamount to pinning a target on your back.
Even relatively inexperienced, Lavon knew that much. “Perhaps we should find an automobile accident in a far location or take our break now?”
Good idea.
“We can get fresh coffee over there at the hotel,” Jules suggested, reaching for the door handle. “Tell the prefecture we will be on break.”
It was as if the radio operator could hear. Her voice called their unit number.
“. . . at the basilica, multiple gun shots coming from the basilica. Proceed at once.”
Too late.
Jules slowly picked up the microphone, toying with the idea of claiming the message was breaking up. Probably no use. A dozen other units would have heard it.
“Backup?” he asked hopefully.
The radio assured him it was on the way.
But the church was only a kilometer or so south of their position, minutes away. The last thing Jules wanted was to be the first to arrive at a darkened church where some zealous Muslim fundamentalist was shooting up the place of the infidel.
“Check the weapons,” he instructed Lavon.
That should afford a minute or two’s delay.
The weapons consisted of each man’s SIG Sauer SIG Pro 2022, which had within the past year replaced the standard Beretta, a Taser and a Browning twelve-gauge pump shotgun with a choice of rubber bullets or number-two buckshot. Lavon confirmed the firearms were loaded and the Taser charged.
By this time, radio chatter confirmed at least two other cars really were on the way. Waiting at the scene for their arrival before entering the basilica would not only be prudent, it would be standard procedure.
Backup or not, Jules still had a bad feeling as he turned on the siren and pulled away from the curb.
Basilique Saint Denis
Even in the watery light filtering through the church’s windows, Lang could see the two men at the top of the stairs were Asian. He could also see there was no cover. Unless he and Patrick could sink through the stone floor, they were at the others’ mercy. As one, Lang and Patrick dropped their pistols and raised their hands.
Lang fully expected to be shot where he stood.
The eyes of the taller of the two Asians flicked to the box in Lang’s hand. He pointed and said something in what Lang guessed was a Chinese dialect.
His companion, gun trained on Lang’s forehead, took a step closer. “The box,” he said in understandable if accented English. “He wants the box.”
Lang knew Patrick was thinking the same thing: if Lang could use the box to lure either man close enough . . .
Lang held it up. “Come and get it.”
Even in the poor light it was obvious the English speaker’s smile did not reach his eyes. “If I have to take it from your corpse, I will do so. Now, reach up the stairs as far as you can and place the box there.”
Shit, a professional.
Lang hesitated.
The non–English speaker’s finger was tightening on the trigger.
“OK, OK!”
Just as Lang leaned forward to comply with the demand, there was a series of loud thumps on the door behind him. The men in the crypt had heard voices and guessed what had happened.
“First, do as I have said. Then you will unlock that door.”
Lang felt Patrick’s elbow gently jab him in the ribs. The similarity of training between the Agency and the French organization had been a topic of discussion between the two friends in times past. Lang could only hope there was a concurrence in this situation.
Stretching forward, he placed the box on the next-to-top step before slowly straightening up.
>
“And now the door.”
Lang turned to fumble with the key. He didn’t know if Patrick could see in the poor light, but he winked anyway.
The door swung open quickly, probably because one or more of the men inside was pushing on it. In unison, Patrick and Lang stepped back as though to make room.
As the last two men, guns in hand, came through the opening, Lang and Patrick stepped behind them, grabbing each with one arm locked around the neck, the other holding his opponent’s gun arm. Shielded by their captives’ bodies from the weapons of the others, both Patrick and Lang slammed the hands with the guns against the steps’ iron railing.
The pistols clattered to the stone floor.
The first two men through the doorway turned, trying to maneuver into a position to get a clear shot without hitting their comrades. The stairwell was too narrow. The man Lang held was struggling, and Lang knew he could not hold him indefinitely. At some point he and Patrick would have to recover either their own guns or those that had been dropped by the men they held.
And there was no way to do that without exposing themselves to the fire from the men at the top of the stairs.
Patrick cursed as his man broke partially free, giving the men at the top of the stairs a target. Before they could react, Patrick made a dive for the small space at the bottom of the stairwell just as the sound of a pair of shots smashed against Lang’s eardrums.
Patrick grunted in surprise. “Merde!”
With Patrick exposed, Lang released his man, raising his own hands in hopes there would be no more shooting. In the cramped confines of the staircase, even a ricochet could be deadly.
Lang sensed uncertainty in the two men at the top of the steps. The English speaker bent over, reaching for the box.
Then the lights went on.
For the instant it took for eyes to adjust, Lang and the Chinese froze in blindness. Lang shoved the man he had let loose forward, at the same time stooping to reach for the spot where he thought he had seen someone’s weapon on the bottom step seconds before.
By the time he came up with it, the two at the top of the stairs were gone and the other four were scampering up the steps.
Shouts echoed from the arches overhead, magnified by the natural acoustics built into medieval churches. The four men who had been in the crypt were at various levels on the stairs. The two at the top fired toward the front of the basilica before turning as though to make a run for it.
The one in the lead jerked and fell as a burst of automatic-weapon fire reverberated throughout the cavernous church. The remaining man at the top dropped his pistol and flung his arms into the air. Behind him, the remaining two made a quick decision and raised their arms, too.
Pushing by Lang, Patrick climbed the stairs, his right arm grasping his left shoulder. It was only when he came out of the shadows of the stairwell that Lang noticed the left shoulder of his friend’s suit was darkened with something wet. A splatter of crimson on the marble floor told him Patrick had been hit.
Following Patrick, Lang emerged into the floor of the cathedral. Between him and the portal through which he had entered were six police. Two held short, stubby automatic weapons, another was pointing a shotgun. The remaining three were in a two-handed shooting stance, pistols aimed in Lang’s direction. At least two of them were too nervous for Lang’s comfort. All were shouting commands in French.
No interpretation needed. He dropped the pistol and raised his hands.
“My inside pocket,” Patrick said, gritting his teeth against obvious pain. “Get out my wallet.”
“You’re hit.”
“Yes, yes. And we are both likely to get shot if you do not show them my identification.”
Lang removed the ID wallet from his friend’s inside coat pocket. It was slippery with blood. Moving slowly with the wallet held up for inspection, Lang handed it to the officer who looked as though he might be in his early twenties, the oldest of the group. The other five edged closer, dividing attention between what their elder was holding and their prisoners.
“DGSE?” the cop asked, confused as to what a member of France’s counterespionage agency would be doing in the Basilica of Saint Denis in the early-morning hours.
A brief exchange in French followed. From Patrick’s increasing irritation and the few words Lang understood, Lang gathered the policeman was asking questions and Patrick was invoking state security.
He hoped someone here understood English. “In case you haven’t noticed, this man has been shot. Can we get him to a hospital before he bleeds to death?”
Patrick, his face blanched, was holding on to the stair’s railing for support. He rattled off what sounded like commands before translating. “I told them to find the two missing Chinese.” He looked around. “And where is the box? What happened to the box?”
Lang scooped it up from the floor, holding it aloft like a trophy. Patrick did not see. He had collapsed on the floor.
Hôpital Cognacq-Jay
15 rue Eugène Millon, Paris
Two and a half hours later
Lang and Nanette shared a tiny room only a few feet from the hospital’s surgery. Fearing the worst despite Lang’s assurances, she had left her son in the custody of a neighbor. As in any such institution, the air was heavy with the odor of antiseptic. An occasional murmur of an intercom system was the only break in the silence.
Lang furtively glanced at his watch.
“It is a long time for such what you call a small wound,” Nanette observed tartly.
“Look, Nanette, I’m sorry. Patrick insisted . . .”
The conversation stopped with the entry of a woman in hospital scrubs.
Nanette stood on shaky legs, her question unspoken.
Lang could not understand the woman’s French, but her smile and Nanette’s obvious relief told him all he needed to know.
“She says Patrick is fine.” Nanette beamed as the doctor left. “He is a little . . . what do you say? Woozy. He is a little woozy from the anesthetic from removing the bullet, but he is asking for both of us.”
Following a nurse, Lang and Nanette walked down a short hall, stopping at the last room on the left. Compared to U.S. hospitals, the room was small, barely space for the two beds mandated by France’s national health care. One was empty. Above the other, a monitor beeped in the muted tones of a regular heartbeat. Patrick, his left shoulder swaddled in gleaming white, was sitting up, a broad grin across his face.
Before he could speak a word, Nanette was embracing him gingerly. “Does it hurt?”
Patrick gave what would have been a typical Gallic shrug had he been able to employ both shoulders. “Not so much. They say they will release me tomorrow.”
Nanette’s expression said, not if she had anything to do with it, but Patrick’s attention was on the box in Lang’s hands. “You have opened it?”
Lang shook his head. “I thought I’d reserve that honor for you.”
With his right hand, Patrick pointed to the bandages. “You may have to wait a few days. Why do you not do it for me?”
Lang reached to the side of the bed, unfolding a tray across it, and placed the box on it so that Patrick could see the contents once it was open.
Patrick lifted a corner with his right hand. “It weighs little. How do you plan to open it—with your magic bump key?”
Lang withdrew his key ring. “Afraid not. The hole is too small.” He passed several keys, stopping at a small version of a Swiss Army knife. Opening the blade, he worked it under the lid like a diminutive crow bar. There was a squeal of protesting wood as Lang pried upward. Then a popping sound as the lock mechanism broke. Patrick’s eyes grew large as they met Lang’s when the latter lifted the top from the box.
The smile on Patrick’s face morphed into open lips of astonishment. With his good hand, he turned the box over, dumping its contents onto the collapsible tray.
Lang had to lean forward to see. At first he was unsure of what he saw. Two lumps of
what might have been brass, tarnished green, what looked like a neatly folded stack of clothing and a small gold cross on a chain.
Patrick held up the metallic objects. “A French general’s epaulets!”
He shoved them aside to spread the clothing out on the tray. “And a French general’s uniform, size petite!”
Next, Patrick grasped up the cross. “The gift from his mother.”
“Are you saying that uniform, cross and those epaulets were Napoleon’s?” Nanette spoke for the first time since the box had been opened.
“Of course they were,” Patrick smiled. “This would be the uniform and insignia he wore before becoming marshal of France, perhaps at the time he turned cannon on royalists who were besieging the National Convention.”
“Then those are priceless, er, artifacts. They should go to the museum at Les Invalides,” she suggested.
“Not quite yet,” Lang said, drawing the attention of the other two. “Such a donation would surely make the press, and the last thing we—or I—want is to tip the Chinese to the fact that box does not contain Alexander’s relics. I’d much rather let them think what duPaar wants is beyond their reach.”
Patrick puffed his cheeks, expelling his breath in a gust. “But these items are valuable, too valuable for us to keep ourselves.”
“No need,” Lang said. “When the president for life of Haiti sees he won’t be getting what he wants, I’d guess the Chinese will be leaving the country. Once they’re out, you can put the whole story on the front page for all I care.”
“But what stops the Chinese from making another, er, deal, from coming back if they ever find Alexander?” Patrick wanted to know.
“Hopefully, good intelligence and the United States Navy.”
Presidential palace
Pétionville, Port-au-Prince, Haiti
Five days later
Tonight Undersecretary Chin Diem was in no mood to enjoy the view of the city below. Failure seemed a small enough price to pay to assure he would never see the madman du-Paar or this pestilence-ridden tropical hell again. But would that be worth the price of failure at home?
