by Gregg Loomis
He turned from the window as duPaar and his bodyguard entered.
The president for life plopped down behind the desk. “You have something for me?”
“Mr. President . . . ,” Diem began. “I fear I have bad news, a temporary delay.”
DuPaar leaned across the desk, scowling. “Explain.”
“The container we believe holds the remains of Alexander is in the hands of the Americans.”
The following pause was so long, Diem thought the man had not heard. “We tracked them to a church in Paris when—”
“You do not have them and have no certain prospect of obtaining them.” DuPaar spoke so softly the secretary had to lean forward to hear. “I ask for the relics of Alexander. You bring me excuses instead.”
“I’m sure—”
The president for life’s voice escalated from a whisper to a near scream, spittle flying from his mouth. “Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I will accept failure as fulfilling our bargain? Just what do you think?”
“I would think, Mr. President,” Diem began in his most reasonable voice, “that the word of the People’s Republic—”
DuPaar was back to a near whisper again. “Idiot! Do you not understand? Alexander was the world’s greatest warrior. The country who possesses his remains cannot be defeated in battle. It is a fact Ptolemy knew and Perdiccas found out to his dismay when half his army drowned in the Nile.” He sneered. “The People’s Republic does not keep its word!”
He paused as if catching his breath.
“I am sure we, the People’s Republic, will be able—”
DuPaar leaned across the desk. “The People’s Republic will do nothing! Nothing other than getting out of Haiti!”
“But, Mr. President—”
“Out!” DuPaar was pointing to the door. “Out of this place, out of Haiti. You will leave here immediately. All Chinese troops will be off Haitian soil in ten days or I will go before the UN, appeal to the United States to free us of this invasion . . .”
Diem had served in the diplomatic corps of his country for over fifteen years, but he had never seen a display like this. “Invasion? But you invited—”
“I invited a peaceful trade mission! Now I learn you have occupied the north coast of my country with military! I will invite the United States to send troops!”
Diem had never dealt with a man quite so crazy before. Admittedly, the North Korean dictator had been nuts, but not as bad as this. With as much dignity as he could muster, he marched toward the door the bodyguard was holding open.
If he was deaf, how had he known to do that?
The White House
Five days later
The president looked up from his desk as Chief of Staff Jack Roberts entered the Oval Office. “You said you had news for me?”
Without waiting to be asked, Roberts slouched into a chair. “Yeah, I do, boss. Two days ago the techies maneuvered one of our Misty-2 satellites into a new orbit.”
The president picked up a pen and was rolling it between his hands. “That’s the one that can see through clouds and is supposed to look like space junk?”
“Yep.”
“OK, so it’s in a new orbit. I assume it can now see the Caribbean. Don’t make me pry the info out of you, Jack.”
Roberts grinned. “No need. The spy in the sky has confirmed the Chinese are leaving Haiti. Their withdrawal should be complete within the week.”
The president leaned back in his chair and grinned right back, showing teeth famous worldwide. “Perfect! That should be shortly after I meet with the president of the People’s Republic. Set up a major news conference immediately afterward. I want all the networks’ big guns there when I announce this administration discovered the secret presence of Chinese military in Haiti and, through diplomacy alone, had them peacefully withdrawn. That should boost our polls before the midterm elections.”
The chief of staff stood. “Not to mention taking off the front page the fact your economic programs haven’t succeeded yet. And you did it without lifting your little finger.”
“No need to tell that part.” The president’s chair snapped upright and he put down the pen with which he had been toying. “I’d rather be lucky than good any day. Oh yeah, there’s one more thing.”
“And that would be?”
“Those people the FBI was protecting, the former Agency people. Did the Bureau ever find them?”
“I don’t think so, no. You want me to call off the dogs?”
The president nodded. “It would seem now we don’t care what they know or might say.”
Roberts cocked his head. “Should we tell them we no longer want to detain them?”
The president frowned, bringing his eyebrows together. “Detain is an ugly word. I would not want anyone to think this administration is in the business of ‘detaining’ innocent citizens. Simply tell the people over at the Hoover Building we have no further interest in them.”
From the New York Times
TOMB OF ALEXANDER FOUND?
ALEXANDRIA. One of history’s most enduring mysteries may be on the verge of solution by an Italian-led team of archaeologists. Dr. Antonio Rossi, curator of Rome’s Archaeological Museum, and Dr. Zahi Hawass, general secretary of Egypt’s Supreme Council of Antiquities, announced yesterday that a heretofore-unknown chamber had recently been discovered off what had been known as the Alabaster Tomb, a location earlier archaeologists had discarded as the site of the final resting place of Alexander the Great.
Modern electronic equipment led Dr. Rossi and his crew to reevaluate the site and they discovered part of the tomb had been sealed off, probably by scholars attached to the army of Napoleon Bonaparte.
“When he was forced out of Egypt,” Dr. Rossi speculated, “Napoleon intended to return. He did not want his enemies to get the credit for discovering what had been lost for two thousand years, so he tried to cover his tracks.”
Rossi explained that using careful archaeological methods of excavation, his team could still be weeks away from determining if this is really the place Alexander was buried.
“We will never know for certain if this is Alexander’s tomb,” Rossi said, “unless we actually find the body, in this case, a mummy.”
Alexander, known as “the Great,” was king of Macedonia, and died near the ancient city of Babylon in 323 BC.
472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta
Sunday evening, a month later
Lang Reilly had to step over a snoring Grumps to toss a log on the sputtering fire. “There! That ought to keep it going awhile longer.”
Father Francis, seated on the couch, looked up from the one of the sections of the Sunday edition of the New York Times Lang had given him. “So, Alexander’s mummy might still be in Alexandria after all these years?”
Lang retrieved his glass from the mantlepiece. “Who knows? The only thing certain is that it is not and probably never was in Venice or Paris. Or for that matter, Haiti.”
“You’re basing that on the president’s announcement that Chinese troops are leaving that fortress . . .”
“La Citadelle.”
“The Citadel. The Chinese are leaving, ergo duPaar didn’t get what he wanted—Alexander’s relics.”
Lang finished off the contents of his glass and crossed the room to the bar. “Elementary, my dear Watson.”
Francis held up his glass. “Watson is thirsty, too.”
Lang tinkled ice into the priest’s glass, followed by a generous measure of scotch.
Lang lifted his glass. “To my health, which I have seriously damaged, drinking to yours!”
Francis was about to reply when Manfred appeared in the doorway, solemn faced, to make an important announcement. “Mommy says dinner is ready.”
Lang stepped back to let Francis through the library/den’s entrance into the dining room. “I hope what we are about to receive is sufficient compensation for your missing the Women’s Guild Potluck Supper at the church tonight.”
“A lot more pot than luck. Bless them all, but I’ve had enough cold fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans and banana pudding to last me the next fifty years.”
“The tribulations of Job.”
Francis took his customary seat at the table. “Not Job but perhaps the culinary equivalent of the hermit’s cave of Saint Jerome.”
Gurt emerged from the kitchen, a ceramic Dutch oven held in gloved hands. “You will have ‘pot’ again. This time pot roast.”
Manfred followed Gurt. With Francis engaged in the newspaper article rather than in the games the priest and small boy normally played, he had “helped” his mother with dinner. Without his assistance, Lang guessed, the meal would have been on the table a half hour earlier.
Lang turned to Francis. “OK, padre, you’re on, but remember, no one wants cold pot roast.”
After a mercifully short blessing, everyone busied themselves with filling their plates. Grumps, ever the optimist, lurked nearby in hopes of spills.
“One thing I don’t understand,” Francis said between bites. “The box. I mean, Napoleon carries a box with epaulets from Egypt, sends it to Haiti and winds up hiding it in a secret compartment in a funeral effigy? Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”
Lang speared a potato with his fork. “Maybe not to us. Remember, Napoleon was what today we would call a superstitious man, had an astrologer available at all times to consult as to the most propitious times to invade, go into battle, et cetera. The contents of that box, the stuff he associated with his rise to power, was his talisman, his good-luck charm. Sort of like lending out your lucky rabbit’s foot.”
“Which is less than lucky for the rabbit.”
“Whatever. I’m guessing Napoleon thought the articles from his past, the gold cross, the epaulets from his first general’s uniform, would bring luck to Leclerc.”
“So why did he hide them in a church?” Francis wanted to know.
“I think he knew there would be a wave of reaction to anything having to do with the empire, at least among the victorious allies. Prince Metternich of Austria was leading the Congress of Vienna, composed of the allies, in that direction, dismantling Napoleon’s empire. He hid what he thought was valuable so his son might have it. Unfortunately for him, the plan somehow misfired.”
They were silent for a few more minutes before Francis looked over at Lang, a tray of hot rolls in his hand. “We were so busy discussing Alexander and Napoleon, I forgot to ask. What’s in store for that charlatan, the Reverend Bishop Groom?”
Lang sighed deeply. “I thought forgiveness was part of your shtick, Francis.”
“I forgive all charlatans but I’m hoping the law won’t.”
Lang accepted the bread tray. “He’s pondering an offer to plead to two counts of tax evasion and one of mail fraud. I did a hell of a job getting the U.S. attorney to make the offer. The feds usually won’t bargain. He should be a free man in five or six years.”
“Enough time to repent.”
Gurt changed the subject. “Do you think your friend Rossi will find Alexander’s mummy?”
Lang shrugged. “For his sake, I hope so.”
“For your sakes, I hope not.”
Both Lang and Gurt stopped with forks halfway to mouths and stared at Francis.
“Why not?” she wanted to know.
“You’re joking! Surely there’s not a religious reason not to discover the greatest pagan of them all?” Lang added.
Francis put his silverware down and looked from one to the other. “Of all the people in the world who should know better, you two should. Alexander the Great’s mummy—if it exists—has brought nothing but trouble to those who searched for it. Alexander’s general, Perdiccas, lost an army trying to get it. Napoleon lost Egypt. You two could have lost your lives.”
Lang forgot his dinner for the moment. “Are you saying there’s a curse on it, like King Tut’s curse? Talk about pagan!”
Francis calmly returned his attention to his plate. “Pooh-pooh all you want. Within less than a month of opening Tutankhamen’s tomb in 1923, Lord Carnarvon, the expedition’s financial backer, was dead.”
Lang wiped his mouth and put down his napkin, fascinated Francis could believe in such hogwash. “The curse of the mummy? The twenty-six other people present, including Howard Carter, the man who found Tut’s tomb, survived. Surely you don’t believe in curses?”
Francis was unperturbed. “Of course not. I do believe some things are inherently evil, including grave robbing, even of pagan graves.”
Lang started to respond but caught a slight negative head shake from Gurt—No, don’t go there. Francis was by far the brightest person Lang had ever know. But sometimes there were issues that simply could not be discussed within the framework of their friendship. Faith could be neither explained nor rationalized. Intrinsic evil was not an arguable subject.
Gurt broke what could have become a heavy silence. “If Alexander’s mummy is found, then what?”
“The Egyptian, Hawass, will claim it for his country,” Lang said.
Francis smiled, reaching for another helping of pot roast. “Let us hope it stays there.”
Although Lang didn’t agree with his friend’s idea of evil per se, he hoped so, too.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Andrew Michael Chugg’s book, The Quest for the Tomb of Alexander the Great, provided both the idea of Alexander’s mummy being mistaken for Saint Mark’s and a great deal of historical background. Nicholas J. Saunders’s Alexander’s Tomb was also helpful.
Louis Etienne Saint Denis was a real person. Described variously as Napoleon’s “second manservant,” copyist and librarian, he was the son of one of the servants at Versailles and, unusual for the time, educated. He was with Napoleon on both Elba and Saint Helena. He returned to France, residing in Sens, and lived out what has been described as a “middle-class” life. He was never, as far as I know, Napoleon’s personal secretary, but somebody had to fill the role in the plotline, so why not Saint Denis?
My apologies to what may be an unfair characterization of Haiti, a country in which I have spent more than a little time. As of the writing of this book, Haiti is occupied by UN peacekeeping forces and the unfettered (and much-televised) violence is largely a thing of the past. The country, or at least the north coast, is one of the more spectacularly beautiful places in the Caribbean, and yes, the old fortress exists as described, along with the bone-jarring ride up to it. Interestingly enough, one of the major cruise lines has a regular stop at one of the islands just off Haiti’s north coast, hopefully a sign tourism will eventually return, although the line doesn’t tell its passengers they are in Haiti.
Special thanks to my friend and office landlord, Mike Maniaci. Without his patience, help and computer skills, I would have deleted or lost this story many times. Thanks also to Don D’Auria, my editor, who can spot a hole in my plots instantly. His thoughts are always an improvement to my books.
As always, thanks to Suzanne, my wife, for her ability to unearth little-known (to me, anyway) facts.
October, 2009
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