The Emperor's Revenge

TWENTY-ONE

Juan ducked his head as he stepped out of the helicopter and then turned to help Gretchen exit. The slit of her black, floor-length gown fell to one side, revealing a toned leg, the one that hadn’t been injured. During the past day and a half, her wound had healed enough for her to walk with a barely noticeable limp, but Julia Huxley had insisted she loan Gretchen flat shoes instead of the four-inch heels that would have been more appropriate for such an elegant dress.

When they were out of the chopper’s rotor wash, Juan straightened his tuxedo and waved at Gomez, who took off and headed back to the Oregon, which was stationed twenty miles off the coast in international waters. Normally, her decrepit condition was an asset when coming into a port because Third World bureaucrats were often lazy or easily bribed, but Juan didn’t want to risk a ship inspection by Malta’s by-the-book harbormaster.

With Erion Kula and his family safely evacuated to Corfu and the waiting arms of Interpol, the Oregon had made good time to Malta. After analyzing Kula’s information, they concluded that he really was Whyvern and had been framed by ShadowFoe. Their only lead, however, was the hacker’s intense interest in acquiring Napoleon’s Diary and the treasure it would supposedly reveal. The link to the European electrical grid was still a mystery.

After a check at airport customs, Juan and Gretchen got into a BMW driven by Mike Trono, who had arrived earlier in the morning with MacD by boat to smuggle in the needed gear. The guys had spent the day casing the layout of the auction house and warehouse.

“Well, don’t you two look spiffy,” Trono said. “It’s amazing what Kevin can whip up in the Magic Shop.”

“Julia loaned me the gown,” Gretchen said, omitting that Kevin Nixon had to adjust it to her more athletic frame. Juan always had his tux on hand for occasions like this.

Juan chuckled. “When she heard we were going to a fancy party, she nearly shot you up with a sedative so she could come in your place.” He could see glimpses of the harbor as it sparkled in the setting sun. “Where’s MacD?”

“Securing alternate transportation in case we need it,” Trono said. “He didn’t think he’d have a problem.”

“Good. Hopefully, the police will never know we’re here, but better safe than sorry. Earpieces?”

Trono handed a small box over his shoulder. Juan opened it and gave one of the miniature transceivers to Gretchen, who fitted it deep in her ear canal. Juan inserted his own and said, “Does everyone read me?”

“Ah can hear you just fine,” MacD replied in Juan’s ear. “I’m done borrowing mah ride for the next couple of days. It’s not stealing if Ah plan to give it back, right?”

“They won’t miss it?”

“Ah left a nice note,” MacD joked.

The tiny transmitters had a range of only a couple of miles, so the Oregon wasn’t able to listen in, but the four of them would be able to communicate with one another while they were in the city.

“You want me to wait outside the party?” Trono asked.

Juan nodded. “Within a couple of blocks of the museum. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to leave. MacD, stay out of sight unless we need you.”

“Roger that,” MacD said.

“And the auction tomorrow?” Trono asked.

“We can assume whoever overbids on the diary is the one ShadowFoe is connected to or might even be ShadowFoe herself,” Gretchen said. “We’ll follow them afterward to see where they go.”

“We’ll be there to drive up the bidding,” Juan added. “Tonight, I want to get a sense of who else will be attending the auction. Should be an easy in-and-out recon mission.” Through various contacts, the CIA had made him and Gretchen last-minute additions to the guest list under the pseudonyms they’d used during their final mission in Russia: Gabriel and Naomi Jackson.

Trono drove them to the entrance of the museum, where a red carpet flanked by two stone lions led inside. A corner of the museum’s façade looked as if it had been knocked out with a sledgehammer — the result of an attack the day before involving a crane and some gunfire, according to the news — but the museum had insisted on going forward with the gala and auction anyway since the main hall didn’t suffer any damage. Despite the attackers supposedly being caught, the security had been noticeably beefed up, with heavily armed teams of guards at every corner of the outdoor plaza.

As Juan and Gretchen walked the carpet, he noticed a tightening of her lips as she climbed the museum’s front stairs.

“You okay?” he asked.

She smiled. “Never better. Let’s get some champagne.”

They each took a glass from the server at the entrance and strolled through the glitterati who had assembled for this unique occasion. Policemen guarded the front and rear of the hall, while numerous security staff in suits observed the guests. Juan thought he recognized a few billionaires and celebrities among the crowd, but he wasn’t really up on the latest pop culture. Murph and Eric would have been slobbering over some of the starlets in attendance.

The grand central atrium of the Maltese Oceanic Museum served as the venue for the gala. Endowed in the last few years by a Maltese shipping mogul, the museum housed one of the world’s finest collections of nautical artifacts and memorabilia. Marble columns supported a domed ceiling painted with famous sea battles. Juan recognized the British and French ships of the line at Trafalgar, the British and German dreadnoughts at Jutland, and the American and Japanese carriers at Midway as just a few of them.

Waiters in tuxedoes circulated around with trays of caviar and white truffles, and a chamber orchestra played classical music of Napoleon’s era at the far end of the room. The most important pieces from the auction were displayed in kiosks set up throughout the hall.

When they stopped at the first item, marked as Lot XXXI, Juan looked for a moment at the stone tablet covered with ancient Egyptian art. He couldn’t quite figure out what was odd about the scene depicting a tall green man seeming to levitate prone bodies while white-robed priests watched from the background. It wasn’t until he moved sideways and saw the metal edge of the image that he realized what he was looking at.

“A hologram,” a voice from behind them said. They turned to see the museum director, Arturo Talavera. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

Juan and Gretchen introduced themselves as owners of a New York — based hedge fund, billionaires looking for ways to spend their newfound wealth.

“Beautiful piece,” Gretchen said. “But why are we looking at a hologram instead of the real item?”

“It was a condition of the sale,” Talavera replied. “Besides, it really is the safest way to display the items. Most of them are fragile and we want to minimize any unnecessary transportation and handling for prospective buyers such as yourselves. As you can see, the high-definition, 3-D display is almost indistinguishable from the original.”

“It took me a second to understand what I was looking at,” Juan said. “It’s a shame, though, that we can’t see the real thing in person.”

“You will be able to see them tomorrow at the auction, of course. And all of the holographic records are to be destroyed once the auction is complete, so this will be your only possibility to see most of the items at all. But this technology gives us a chance for us to show you some of the details that we wouldn’t otherwise be able to show you. For example…” He walked toward the center of the atrium, coaxing them to follow.

They came to a stop in front of a display case marked Lot XVI. Two guests were already standing in front of it — a short, powerfully built man in his forties and a thin, attractive blonde half his age, a difference in years not uncommon in the party’s couples. Talavera introduced them as Sergey Golov and Ivana Semova.

“I present Napoleon’s Diary,” Talavera said proudly. “The handwriting inside has been authenticated to be the emperor’s. It is thought to have been stolen by one of the soldiers or servants upon the Little Corporal’s death in 1821. Its existence had been legendary until it surfaced in this exquisite collection.”

Juan and Gretchen leaned in and saw that the copy of The Odyssey was in excellent condition. The book was written in Greek, with French notations in a tight scrawl along the margins, and some of the printed text underlined or circled. After a moment, an animation flipped the page.

“You see,” Talavera continued, “we couldn’t have shown multiple pages of the book to our guests without risk of damage.”

Juan frowned at the diary. “Mr. Talavera, it seems odd that Napoleon wouldn’t have a French version of the story. Did he know Greek?”

“Not that we know of. That’s one of the great mysteries of its existence. Some believe Napoleon was attempting to learn the language. Perhaps if you purchase the piece, you will be able to have someone study his notes.”

“Have all the pages been scanned?” Gretchen asked. By this time, Golov and his companion had turned to join the discussion and watched Talavera intently for his answer.

Talavera shook his head. “Only a select few — again, to handle the document as little as possible. It will be up to the owner of this magnificent piece to decide how to display and catalog it.”

Someone caught Talavera’s eye. “If you’ll excuse me, I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.” He glided away to welcome more guests.

“Are you collectors?” Juan asked the couple standing next to them, who had yet to say a word.

“My employer is,” Golov said in accented English. “He particularly enjoys artifacts from the Napoleonic Wars. Do you intend to bid on the diary?” His smile was jovial, but his eyes shone with a barely contained intensity. He didn’t carry himself with the ease of the wealthy but rather with a bearing that hinted at a military background. The blonde, however, watched them with amusement. And, a bit of disdain.

“I see a lot of items I’d like to buy,” Juan said. “My wife and I are big history buffs. I understand there are a couple of old cannons for sale that I have my eye on.”

“Oh, honey,” Gretchen said, looping her arm through Juan’s, “you know we couldn’t even get those things into the elevator, let alone up to our penthouse.”

“No, I was thinking of the Hamptons estate, dear.”

Golov leaned over and muttered to Semova in Russian. She snickered in response.

He had assumed Juan wouldn’t be able to understand, but Juan made it out perfectly, and Gretchen would have as well.

Perhaps we should call them Tsar and Tsarina since they have winter and summer palaces.

Gretchen playfully swiped at Golov’s arm. “Now, that’s not fair. What did he tell you?”

Semova gave them a Cheshire Cat grin. “He said that every house in America is armed like that. Is that true?”

“Not ours,” Gretchen said. “I won’t allow loaded guns in the home. Nonworking antiques only.”

Juan nodded at the diary. “How about your boss? Is he bidding on it?”

“No,” Golov said. “Old books are not of interest to him.”

“And what is?”

“Perhaps we should simply acknowledge that neither of us is going to reveal our intentions, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson. We both know that the art of bidding requires secrecy, wouldn’t you agree?”

Juan raised his glass. “We do indeed.”

“Shall we take a spin around the room, dear?” Gretchen cooed. She led Juan away by his elbow. As they moved out of earshot, she commented, “They’re an odd couple.”

“Not the friendliest, either. Something about them seemed off.”

“You got that, too, then. But I can’t put my finger on why.”

“Let’s hope we’re not as obvious.”

“We kept up a fake marriage for three weeks. I think we can handle one more night.”

As they wandered around and chatted with other guests, Juan subtly kept an eye on Golov and Semova. After thirty minutes, Semova was teetering on her heels even though she’d only consumed one glass of bubbly. They were standing near Talavera when all of a sudden he wobbled, then stumbled and fell onto his back. Amid the surprised gasps from around the room, Golov, Semova, and several others bent down to aid the stricken museum director.

Golov yelled, “Someone call an ambulance!” Security guards swarmed over to them and began tending to Talavera.

“Did you see that?” Gretchen said.

Juan nodded. “Semova’s good. I barely saw her slip something from his pocket.”

“It was some kind of card. And she can’t be tipsy. I’ve been counting her drinks.”

“Talavera looks like he’s been ‘roofied.’ They must have slipped it into his drink earlier tonight and have been hovering around him waiting for him to collapse.”

Golov and Semova backed away and walked straight for the exit, Semova showing no signs of impairment at all now.

“Let’s see where they’re going with that card,” Juan said. “Mike, meet us outside in thirty seconds.”

“On my way,” Trono replied.

Juan waited until the Russians were out the door, then took Gretchen’s hand and started the pursuit.