When the Eglise St. Louis was built, in 1676, state protocol forbade soldiers from using the same entrance as the king and his court when attending Mass. The unusual solution was a double church with a shared altar in the middle of the building, the soldiers entering from the courtyard on the north side and the king entering from the south side under the dome.
Without warning, Tom stepped out from behind a column. He grabbed her by the arm and marched her into the shadows in the far left corner of the courtyard.
“What the fuck is going on?” Tom hissed into her ear as they walked.
“Get off. You’re hurting me.” Jennifer struggled under his rough grasp. He pushed her away from him, Jennifer only just managing to remain on her feet as she tottered across the slippery stone slabs.
“I should have known.” Tom took a step toward her. “Archie was right, you’re all the same.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Her back was against a World War I tank, one of the permanent exhibits on show there.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know—”
“Know what?”
“What he’s doing here?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Who?”
“Clarke. The British police officer I told you about. There are four of them out there waiting to pick me up. You’ve sold me out.”
“What?” Jennifer’s eyes widened. “Tom, listen to me.” She stepped toward him, her voice low and serious. “I don’t know anything about this; you’ve got to believe me. It must be a mistake or something.”
Tom glared at her as she took another step forward.
“Look,” she continued. “You stay here. I’ll go and find Bob. I’ll try and find out what’s going on. I’m sure it’s just a mix-up. After what you’ve done for us, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Believe me.”
She took a final step and placed her hand on his arm. Tom nodded reluctantly.
“I’ll give you ten minutes. If you’re not back by then, you’ll never see or hear from me again. That’s a promise.”
“Ten minutes. Fine.”
Signs pointed the way to the tomb in five different languages. She followed them down a dark corridor, emerging onto a graveled area at the side of the church. Large metal barriers had been drawn across the path and again translated signs told her that the tomb was temporarily closed and apologized for any inconvenience. Seeing no one around, she vaulted over the barrier and walked round to the front of the church. Low, honey-colored steps led up to the entrance.
She paused at the top of the steps and looked out at the gardens around her. They were empty and in a few places the sprinklers were on, rainbows of water glittering in the midday sun as they arced twenty feet over the grass and bushes.
She could see the men that Tom had meant now, on the other side of the railings that encircled the gardens. Four of them in all, two in a car, one on a bench pretending to read a paper, the other pacing up and down. They were obviously watching the church entrance. One of them looked especially agitated, his suit jacket hanging listlessly off his thin, hunched shoulders. She turned to the entrance and stepped inside, the noise of the city vanishing as the glass vestibule door shut behind her.
She found herself instead swallowed by a deadened hush, the air still, the light muted and restrained, the marbled floor and stone walls frozen in respectful awe. Above her soared the dome, its interior an ecstatic communion of reds and oranges and blues. The painted figures represented the Apostles, her guidebook had told her.
There were four side chapels and here the light that filtered in was dyed by their stained glass windows, one green, the other blue, another yellow, the last one orange — small islands of color that glowed in each corner of the room like small fires. A solitary tomb dominated the middle of each chapel, with smaller monuments and memorials mounted on and against the walls. She whispered their names as she walked past.
“Foch, Vauban, Bertrand, Lyautey, Duroc.” Names she didn’t know but that sounded appropriately impressive and heroic. More than Browne certainly. Or Corbett for that matter. She frowned. Where was he? It wasn’t like him to be late.
A huge black marble and gold leaf altar stood at the far end of the room and behind it a glass wall glittered, separating what was now a tomb from what had been the soldier’s side of the double church. A low circular marble balustrade lay directly beneath the dome. As she approached it she could see that here the floor had been removed. In its place, rising from what had once been the crypt floor, was an enormous coffin, a spectacular scrolled mass of red stone resting on a green pedestal.
She leaned on the balustrade and looked down. The floor around the coffin had been inlaid with the names of Napoleon’s greatest victories with the whole encircled by a white marble colonnade. In the shadows cast by these columns she suddenly thought she saw a shape. Unrecognizable at first but, as her eyes adjusted to the light, unmistakeable.
The sole of a shoe. A man’s leg.
She jumped up and ran toward the altar at the rear of the church, flying down the steps behind it that led to the lower level. Max, her CIA contact from London, lay slumped on the floor in the narrow corridor that led from the stairs to the colonnade, his shirt stained red. She opened his eyelid, saw that he was dead, stepped over him, her heart racing.
And then she saw Corbett on the other side of the colonnade, stretched out on the floor, his head covered in blood, still and silent.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
With a small cry, Jennifer sprang toward Corbett and turned him over, pressing her fingers against his carotid artery, feeling for a pulse.
He was still alive. Thank God. He had a deep cut down the right side of his head, but he was still alive.
“Sir. Sir, can you hear me? It’s Browne.”
At the sound of Jennifer’s voice Corbett’s eyes fluttered open. He groaned and she bent her head down to listen, her ear hovering over his mouth.
“The coins. He took the coins.”
He was lying half in and half out of a small chamber that gave off the colonnade. The chamber was dominated by a towering marble statue of Napoleon dressed in all his imperial finery. On the floor in front of this, on a white marbled tombstone engraved with the name NAPOLEON II, was a small vase of flowers. Jennifer tipped some of the water from it onto her handkerchief and handed it to Corbett. He had dragged himself upright and was sitting against the door frame. He accepted the wet cloth gratefully, placing it against the wound to staunch the blood.
“What happened?” Jennifer asked gently, crouching down on the floor opposite him. He shook his head in confusion, his voice weak, his face ashen. Jennifer was suddenly struck by how old he looked.
“I don’t know. It all happened so fast. I thought I’d have a look around while I was waiting for you guys. He hit me from behind. I just got a glimpse of his face as I fell. It was Renwick.”
“Renwick? Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“I recognized him. No question.” He began to cough, his body convulsing as he fought to clear his lungs. Jennifer waited until he had settled.