The Emperor's Revenge

TWELVE

Lars Dijkstra punched the END button on his phone in frustration.

“Still no answer,” he said. He seethed as he watched the Spanish countryside pass beneath them on their way into the British territory of Gibraltar. Their Gulfstream was on its final approach.

Lars’s brother, Oskar, had his head buried in his laptop. “Satellite shows a storm front in the vicinity of the Narwhal. That’s probably why we’re not able to reach the captain.”

“But we haven’t heard from him in hours.” He poured himself a glass of akvavit.

“Relax. You worry too much.”

Lars downed half the glass. “Why do you think I’m drinking?” He fidgeted in his seat as he stared at the phone, willing it to ring. Oskar had always been the calm half of the duo heading up the Dijkstra shipping and manufacturing empire, the operational genius to Lars’s abilities as a dealmaker and strategic thinker.

“I don’t like this sudden change of plans. I want to know how long Captain Peters thinks it will take him to get from Malta to Algeciras, once he picks up the cargo.” The reason for their last-minute flight to Gibraltar was to make preparations for the Narwhal’s arrival at Algeciras, the large Spanish container port across Gibraltar Bay from the British territory.

“According to the ship’s specifications and engine rating, he should be able to make the trip from Malta in three and a half days.”

“Three and a half days?”

Oskar shrugged. “Time wasn’t a factor when we thought the Narwhal would be returning to Rotterdam.”

“We should have picked a faster ship,” Lars muttered.

“Well, it’s too late now,” Oskar said. “We’re committed.”

“You’re sure we can’t ship the column by air?”

“The container is loaded and ready at the docks. If we take the column out to put it on an airplane, we risk exposure where we can’t control the situation. Better to get the cargo to Algeciras, where we can examine it in our own facility.”

“And our man in Malta is fully briefed?”

Oskar nodded. “He knows the Narwhal is coming. The container is scheduled to be loaded the night before the auction.”

“Does he know what the container holds?”

“No. Nobody but you and I know the significance of what’s in it.”

“Once we have time to study the column and discover the meaning of its inscriptions, we will be that much closer to finding the treasure. Then we will own Maxim Antonovich.” He swallowed the rest of the akvavit and poured another. “What about the diary? Do we have any idea who’s bidding against us for it?”

“There’s no way to know,” Oskar replied, “but the price will be exorbitant.”

The column inside the shipping container was only half of the puzzle they were trying to solve. The other half was called Napoleon’s Diary—actually, a Greek copy of Homer’s Odyssey that Napoleon had kept with him until his death on St. Helena. Napoleon had made margin notes in the book and it was those notes that held the secret they were after. The diary was one of the star attractions of the auction because it had been considered a myth until the contents of the collection were revealed. Some speculated that a British guard or one of the doctors had stolen it as a souvenir when Napoleon died.

There was no doubt about its authenticity. Independent experts confirmed that the margin notes were in Napoleon’s handwriting.

The auction was being held at the Maltese Oceanic Museum, which was acting as the representative for the anonymous collector offering the biggest trove of Napoleonic artifacts that had ever come up for sale. The auction would commence in four days, and, on the night before, a gala showing was to take place where potential bidders could inspect the items up close. It was expected to attract some of the wealthiest people in the world who wanted this one chance to see the pieces before they disappeared into the hands of other private collectors.

The Jaffa Column, as it was known, had been stored outside the warehouse where all the other artifacts were being held. The stone relic dated to Roman times, with edicts chiseled in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, and had vanished during Napoleon’s invasion of Syria. Many speculated that it had been destroyed in the war and considered it lost until it suddenly reappeared in the collection. Made of white granite and weighing over thirty tons, it had been deemed too hard to sell because of its size, so it had been donated to the museum. Lars and Oskar had hired a team to pick up the column, in a nondescript container, under the pretense of transporting it to the museum. Instead, they detoured the container to the dock. Since the column wasn’t going to be studied by the museum staff until after the auction, it wouldn’t be missed until that time. By then, it would already be loaded onto the Narwhal and headed for Algeciras.

Because of its notoriety, Napoleon’s Diary was much more closely guarded, so buying it was their only recourse. Once they finished in Algeciras, Lars and Oskar would attend the gala in Malta to make sure the diary was what they expected and then a representative would do the bidding for them the next day. They had no intention of letting anyone else buy the diary.

“We have to win that auction,” Lars said. “What do you think the top bid will be?”

Oskar paused to think. “The auction house put a range of five hundred thousand to a million euros, but I think we have to be prepared to go over two million to get it.”

Lars took another swallow of his akvavit and leaned his head back. “We’re sinking a lot of money into this venture. And you should be more worried about our necks than you seem to be.”

“I have seven men on our security force waiting for us when we arrive.”

“Good. Because if certain people found out what we’re looking for, they’d kill us in an instant.”

“The reward is worth the risk,” Oskar said, though there was a hint of doubt in his voice.

“I hope you’re right,” Lars said, and finished his drink.

The pilot announced over the intercom that they were ten minutes from landing.

Come on, David!” the coach yelled. “You can kick the ball better than that.”

David Kincaid, whose father had recently been transferred with his family to Gibraltar, knew he wasn’t making a good impression on his new teammates. David liked to blame his lack of focus on the distraction of having the secondary school football field abutting not only the bustling Gibraltar marina but also the runway for the territory’s international airport. But he knew putting his poor play on the blast of the jet engines and sounding of yacht horns was merely an excuse.

He moved to the back of the line to wait his turn for the next shot at the goal, determined to prove his worth and make striker on the team. He focused on the sky and imagined himself kicking the winning score.

Almost immediately, his concentration was broken by yet another plane coming in for a landing. All of his teammates were so used to the din that they paid it no attention. This was a small jet, one of those private planes that celebrities and rich people used. But there was something different about it.

One of its wings was glowing red. It grew brighter by the second, like an electric burner on a stove heating up.

To no one in particular, David said, “Hey, does that—” He stopped speaking when he saw what happened next.

The plane was a quarter mile from the end of the runway when its right wing burst into flames. Fire streamed from fuel gushing out of the tank. The plane yawed to its right, no longer aimed at the runway, and began to tumble out of control.

It was headed straight for them.

“Run!” David yelled, and pointed at the onrushing plane.

Curses and screams were drowned out as the jet’s twin engines were boosted to full throttle in a vain attempt by the pilot to regain altitude.

In a panic, David dashed toward the marina, running out onto the short dock and jumping into the water, as the plane passed overhead and exploded in a fireball, raining flaming debris all over the field where they had just been practicing. Fragments of white-hot metal fell into the water around David.

He surfaced to see blazing wreckage strewn across the football pitch. Certainly no one aboard could have survived such a horrific crash.

David swirled around in the water to see if any of his teammates had gotten the same idea. But he must have been the only one to seek refuge in the harbor. He couldn’t spot anyone else.

The only movement he could see was the smooth motion of an unusual-looking yacht cruising out of the harbor.

The name on its side read Achilles.