The Bonaparte Secret (23 page)

January 2, 1803

Leclerc is dead of the Siamese fever!
²

There was no means by which we could have known of the tragedy until the news arrived via a fast packet from the Indies to Cherbourg and then by horse courier to Paris
.

It was not until December 28 the frigate Swiftsure arrived at the Hyères Islands carrying Pauline, her and Leclerc’s four-year-old son, Dermide, and the lead coffin encased in cedar bearing the general’s body.
³
Pauline, distraught and clad in the dreariest of widow’s garb, appeared here three days later.

With sobs, she fell into the arms of her brother, the First Consul. He greeted her affectionately but within seconds escorted her into the house’s library, closing the door behind them. The last words I heard before the doors were pulled to were not those of consolation, but query as to the location of a certain box with which Leclerc had been entrusted. I could not but wonder if this was the selfsame box that my employer had taken from Egypt.

1
When Napoleon first lived in the house in 1797, the street was rue Chanterine. After his victory in Italy, the departement de la Seine, Paris’s municipal governing body, changed the name.

2
Yellow fever. It killed more French military than did the rebels. The slaves had an immunity derived from their origins in Africa.

3
As was the contemporary custom, a separate lead box contained an urn with his heart and brain.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Law offices of Langford Reilly

Two days later

Sara made a less than subtle effort not to stare at Lang’s face. If possible, it looked worse than it had when he and Gurt boarded the private charter from Santo Domingo to Atlanta. His nose, broken, was a peak of white bandage between the two black valleys under his all-but-swollen-shut eyes. The bruising had turned a grotesque green and yellow. Lang was grateful she could not see the angry red sores on his chest that just today had ceased suppurating and begun to scab over.

He hoped waterboarding was the most gentle of the enhanced interrogation techniques Dow experienced at the hands of the Dominican security people.

He sat behind his desk gingerly. His legs and groin ached from muscles still protesting his time on horseback. Sinking gratefully into the embracing confines of his Relax the Back desk chair, he looked sourly at the stack of pink call-back slips. There had to be some way to respond using the computer. His nose, packed with gauze, gave his voice a tone too close to a cartoon character’s to be taken seriously by anyone above the age of ten.

The phone on his desk buzzed.

“Yeah?”

“The Reverend Bishop Groom on two. You in?”

Lang sighed. Even that had a nasal sound. “I’ll take it.”

He picked up the receiver. “Good morning, Reverend. What might I do for you today?”

“Mr. Reilly? Is this Mr. Reilly?”

It sure as hell isn’t Donald Duck, no matter how it sounds.

“I, er, had an accident, broke my nose. It affects my voice.”

“You should be more careful,” the reverend reproached. “I’ll pray for your speedy recovery.”

“Any intervention of friends in high places greatly appreciated.”

There was a pause. Among his client’s multitude of failings was a lack of a sense of humor.

“I called two days ago, hadn’t heard back . . .” There was a note of rebuke.

Lang thumbed the call-back slips. “Yeah, I see you did. I’ve been out of the office. What’s up?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. I mean, have we heard anything?”

Lang drew a momentary blank before he realized to what Groom referred. “The feds? No, not a peep.”

“I was hoping perhaps you were negotiating with them, maybe a suspended sentence or something.”

Fat chance. Lang couldn’t remember the last time he had even heard of a suspended sentence in a federal case. Unlike the states, the U.S. government had endless resources to build prisons as needed. Overcrowding was not a problem. There was no need to make bargains in which the perpetrator did no time. Reduced sentences in exchange for guilty pleas saving the time and expense of a trial, yes. No time at all, unlikely. But there was no reason to screw up the reverend’s day with this factoid just yet.

“Initiating negotiations is frequently viewed as having a weak defense.”

“Perhaps, but I need to know what to expect, have time to get my affairs in order.”

Read: before the government seized all assets it could find for restitution to the man’s victims, get as much cash as possible offshore in banks whose depositors received secrecy rather than interest.

Groom continued. “Why don’t you give the U.S. attorney a call just to see what’s on his mind?”

“It’s a
her.
” Lang knew what was probably on her mind: ten to twenty. But he said, “If that’s what you want.”

Minutes later, Lang was dialing a number he was surprised he remembered. It had been two or three years since he had called it. Tactical considerations had not been the only reason he had been hesitant to contact the assistant U.S. attorney assigned to the case.

“Ms. Warner’s office,” announced a disembodied voice.

“Er, is she in? Langford Reilly calling.”

The line went temporarily dead, leaving Lang with his thoughts. In one of Gurt’s several premarital absences from his life, he had briefly dated Alicia Warner. The relationship had never gotten serious and had peacefully wilted rather than died in the acrimony that frequently marks such endings.

“Well, Lang, long time no see,” Alicia’s voice chirped. “How’s married life treating you? I understand you’ve got a little boy.”

She could at least pretend not be so damn happy he was no longer eligible.

“Swell. And you?”

“Just fine, thanks. I must admit, though, nothing like the excitement you showed me. Haven’t been shot at or kidnapped lately.”

She referred to an abduction by a fanatical group of kibbutzniks who had taken her to Israel during what Lang thought of as the Sinai Affair.

“Well, yeah, I can see how that might make things a little dull.”

She tinkled a laugh. “Dull I’ll take.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable pause.

Lang wriggled in his desk chair, one of the few times in his life he wasn’t sure what to say. “Er, Alicia, I was calling about a case you have, the Reverend Bishop Groom . . .”

“Well, damn! And here I was hoping you were going to boost my ego by soliciting a sordid extramarital affair.”

The wit and sarcasm he recalled was melting his uneasiness like ice on a summer day. “Maybe after the case is over.”

“Maybe by the time the case is over I’ll be married to the king of Siam. Oh, wait a minute. Siam doesn’t have a king anymore. In fact, it isn’t even Siam.”

Lang felt compelled to play along. “The British have two unmarried princes.”

“I couldn’t take the scandals. Besides, I don’t care for Eurotrash.” There was a pause. “Now, what was it you were calling about?”

Lang laughed out loud. “The Reverend Bishop Groom.”

“Oh, yeah. A different species of trash. Hold on.”

There was the click of a keyboard, then, “Here he is: sixteen counts of tax evasion, same number of conspiracy to evade taxes, a dozen counts of mail fraud . . . Shall I go on?”

“No need. I have a copy of the indictment. You guys really like to pile it on.”

“Oh, c’mon! We didn’t charge him with adultery and fornication, something he’s guilty as hell of.”

“Only because they’re not federal crimes, and I can’t recall the last time a state chose to prosecute. The tender mercy of the United States attorney is well-known. I was calling to see if there might be a plea deal available.”

“Sure, he pleads and the judge deals him about twenty years.”

Lang inhaled deeply. “I’m serious, Alicia. The man is, after all, a preacher anxious to return to his flock.”

“More anxious to fleece his flock, I’d say. He’s done a pretty fair job of that, but I’ll see what we can do and get back to you.”

His previous discomfort forgotten, Lang was smiling as he hung up.

He began sorting the slips into three piles: return ASAP, return when convenient and the last stack on the edge of the desk, which a single sweep of the hand would send into the trash basket.

He had almost finished the task when his phone interrupted. “Lang, it’s someone called Miles. He said you’d know who he was.”

Lang got up, crossed the office and shut the door before he picked up. “Yes, thank you, Miles. I’m healing nicely.”

There was a two count before Mile’s relay replied, “Glad to hear it. How long will it take to get to a pay phone? I noticed there were several in the lobby of your building.”

Lang was not even sure Miles was correct. He hadn’t noticed. With cell phones more common than neckties these days, who used pay phones? Answer: people who suspected their calls, or those of people calling them, might be intercepted. The sheer randomness of selecting a pay phone made eavesdropping unlikely if not impossible.

“Same number?” Lang asked.

“Same number.”

“Gimme about five minutes.”

Three pay phones were, in fact, in the lobby, lined along a wall like books in a shelf. The first was clearly out of order. The second was splattered with some gooey substance, the origins of which Lang chose not to speculate upon, although he suspected it might have something to do with the homeless. Those beggars, addicts and mental cases populated the city’s downtown area, using the facilities of any building whose security was lax. The chamber of commerce’s pleas to the municipal government to solve the problem of aggressive panhandling went unheeded.

After all, the homeless voted, as did the bleeding hearts whose sympathies for their less-fortunate brethren did not include working downtown.

The third phone appeared to be intact and reasonably sanitary. Lang poured in the change required for a longdistance call to the Washington, D.C., area code.

“Lang?”

“Here, Miles. I’m guessing you called to make certain my good looks will not be permanently disfigured.”

“That and a minor matter of national security.”

A few feet away, the body language of a couple in front of an elevator bank said they were arguing. Rather than stare at a blank marble wall, Lang watched.

“I’m not in the national-security business anymore, remember? I did you a favor going to Haiti and got my face rearranged for my troubles.”

“No good deed goes unpunished. But wait till you hear what your pal Colonel Dow had to say.”

The man’s hands were on his hips, his head inclined forward. From his expression, Lang was glad he couldn’t hear what was being said.

“I don’t want to know, Miles. The only reason you’d tell me is to hook me in further. I’m retired and want to stay that way.”

During the pause before Miles’s answer, the woman reacted to whatever the man had said by stepping into the first elevator that opened, although it was in a different bank, going to a floor other than the ones served by the cars for which she had been waiting.

“Well, that’s your business, Lang, but as an old pal, I’ll give you some free advice.”

“No doubt worth every penny I pay for it.”

The man started to follow. He got one foot in past the door before he received a slap to the face that reverberated across the marble lobby. He jerked back as though attempting to avoid the strike of a venomous snake.

“OK, don’t take it. But were I you, I’d beef up whatever security you have around the house.”

A mechanical voice interrupted the conversation, demanding more money.

Lang shoved it in. “Whoa! What about security?”

“Dow pretty well spilled everything he knew after a little, ah, persuasion.”

“I’m disappointed he didn’t get the works, but what about security around the house?”

The man who had been slapped was frantically pushing the up button of the bank of elevators the woman had taken.

“OK, so he was probably in a little more hurt than you were when the Dominicans finished with him. Fact is, he’s under guard in a prison hospital. One of the things he mentioned was, his superiors think you know something you shouldn’t. You know how the Chinese handle that problem. The Guoanbu ain’t good people. They’re going to be on you like white on rice until somebody in the government pulls them off or—”

“I get the picture. And you have a plan to make someone call off the dogs.”

“Of course!” Miles was cheerful, the way he always was when he was getting his way.

Lang sighed. Dealing with the Agency was like waltzing with the tar baby: there was no way not to get stuck.

An elevator door opened. The man got on. Seconds later, another opened and the woman got off. Lang turned to stare at the wall. It was more restful.

“OK, Miles, tell me what you have in mind.”

“First, a little background. About a year ago, ECHELON picked up an exchange of messages between the People’s Republic and Haiti.”

Miles was referring to the system operated by the British, Americans, Australians, New Zealanders and Canadians that intercepted any message in the world sent via satellite. Landlines were becoming as obsolete as buggy whips. Consequently, ECHELON’s volume was so great that computers had to search communications for key words before the number of messages of possible interest could be reduced to numbers a finite staff of humans could listen to or read.

“Since any communication by the Chinese to a country of this hemisphere is of interest,” Miles continued, “we followed the conversation. China has no embassy or even trade attaché in Haiti and the two countries have no common code, so the messages were in the clear, something about establishing a trading partnership. As you remarked before going there, there’s damn little Haiti exports that China wants and even less the Chinese manufacture that Haiti could afford.