Next, he checked in with the Trouts. They explained the trouble they’d faced in France.
“Gamay even started tearing apart Villeneuve’s paintings,” Paul said, “because she thought he might’ve hidden the secret inside one of them. Two of the works held nothing. But then someone who called himself Scorpion got the third painting away from us.”
“I appreciate your effort,” Kurt said, “but I have to ask, what made you think that D’Campion’s translation would be hidden in a painting?”
“There was something in Villeneuve’s letters to D’Campion that made it sound like he was leaving a clue for his old friend.”
“In his letters?”
“In his final letter,” Gamay explained. “Villeneuve wrote of his fear of what Napoleon would do if he actually had the Black Mist in his possession. ‘Perhaps it’s best that the truth never come out. That it remain with you in your small boat paddling to the shelter of the Guillaume Tell.’ When Paul and I looked at the paintings Villeneuve had allegedly done, one of them depicted a small boat, crewed by several men who were rowing with gusto. We thought the translation might be hidden inside.”
“But the men who attacked us got the painting from us before we could check it thoroughly,” Paul added.
“I didn’t feel anything hidden in there before they grabbed it,” Gamay said. “It was just a silly idea.”
Kurt heard her, but he wasn’t really listening. He was lost in thought. “What did the letter say, again?”
Gamay repeated the quote. “‘Perhaps it’s best that the truth never come out. That it remain with you in your small boat paddling to the shelter of the Guillaume Tell.’”
“‘Remain with you,’” Kurt repeated, “‘in your small boat.’” Suddenly, it made sense. “Gamay you’re a genius,” he said.
“A genius? About what?” she asked.
“Everything,” Kurt said. “Get yourselves to Malta. Meet up with the D’Campions. Ask Etienne to show you the painting his ancestor did depicting the Battle of Aboukir Bay. You’ll know why when you see it.”
67
The Trouts met with the D’Campions at their estate. Nicole led them into the main parlor.
“Excuse the mess,” she said. “We’re still cleaning up.”
Etienne met them beside the now-darkened hearth. “I welcome you,” he said. “Any friends of Kurt Austin and Joe Zavala are friends of ours. And while I understand that he sent you, I’m not sure I understand why.”
“He wanted you to show us a painting,” Gamay said. “One, apparently, he admired very much.”
“The one Emile painted,” Etienne replied.
“Aboukir Bay,” Gamay said.
Etienne stepped aside. Behind him, above the hearth, was the painting.
“Do you mind if we take it down?” Paul asked.
A look of concern came over Etienne’s face. “Why would you do that?”
“Because we have reason to believe Emile hid the translation behind it with the intention of sending it to Villeneuve. It was the one thing no French overlord would take. And that made it safe to possess.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Etienne said.
“Only one way to find out.”
With deliberate care, the painting was taken down. A razor blade was used to separate the liner behind the canvas. Gamay slid her hand carefully up and under the backing and with the tips of her fingers touched a folded piece of paper. She pulled out stiff yellowed parchment. It was placed on the glass of the dining room table and opened with extraordinary care.
The hieroglyphics were obvious. The translation was written beneath them. Black Mist. Angel’s Breath. Mist of Life. A date was scribbled in the corner.
“Frimaire XIV,” Etienne said. “December 1805.” He looked up. “All this time…” he said. “It was right here all this time.”
“It may have taken a few hundred years,” Gamay said, “but Emile’s contribution to the knowledge of antiquity will be recorded now. The date of the painting and the correspondence with Villeneuve will prove he was the first to translate Egyptian hieroglyphics. And this particular find will go down in history as unique. He will be remembered as the most important of Napoleon’s savants.”
68
For twenty-four hours, Alberto Piola could hardly tear himself away from the television. Images of police and regular military units swarming over the Osiris hydroelectric plant in Cairo were constant. Video from a news chopper outside of the plant showed a whirlpool of water swirling where it was being sucked into the outflow pipe and funneled back into the aquifers. Hundreds of soldiers could be seen on the ground. Jeeps, tanks and trucks filled the parking lot.
Rumors connecting Osiris with both the disaster in Lampedusa and the droughts across North Africa were flying. Upon hearing that Shakir and Hassan were dead, Piola felt a spurt of hope that his connection to Osiris might have died with them. But, deep inside, he knew better. So he made plans to escape.
He opened his wall safe and pulled out a 9mm pistol and two stacks of bills, twenty thousand euros’ worth. From his secretary’s desk, he took a set of car keys that went to the nondescript Fiat she drove. No one would be looking for him in that.
He left the office and moved down the hall, trying to remain calm. He was halfway to the stairs when members of the Carabinieri appeared. He turned around and walked in the other direction.
“Signore Piola,” one of the policemen shouted. “Stop where you are. We have a warrant for your arrest.”
Piola turned and opened fire.
The shots scattered the police and sent the civilians in the hall running for cover. Amid the chaos, Piola ran with abandon. He burst into an anteroom and shoved several people out of the way as he ran for the double doors. He clubbed a man in the face who wouldn’t move fast enough and fired a shot back at the police when they entered behind him.
He reached the far door, pushed it open and charged into the main conference room. “Move,” he shouted at everyone. “Get out of my way!”
As he rushed forward with the gun held high, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, all except a man with close-cropped red hair and a Vandyke beard. This man moved toward him from the side, cross-checking him like a hockey player at center ice.
Piola hit the wall, bounced off and tumbled to the ground. The euros went everywhere like confetti, but he held on to the gun. He came up swinging it, ready to fire. He never got the chance, as it was knocked from his hand by the same man who’d tackled him.
Piola recognized the face of his attacker: James Sandecker, the American Vice President. An instant later, Sandecker’s right fist connected with his jaw, sending him back to the floor.
The blow stunned him long enough for the police to rush in and subdue him. He was carried out in cuffs, complaining loudly. The last thing he saw, before he left the room, was James Sandecker massaging his knuckles and smiling.
With Piola gone, Sandecker took a seat at the end of the conference table. Shock seemed to grip everyone else in the room, but a satisfied grin had settled firmly on Sandecker’s face.
The Vice President’s aide, Terry Carruthers, brought a bucket of ice for his hand.
“Unless you’ve got champagne in there, don’t bother.”
Carruthers put the bucket down. “Afraid not, sir.”
Sandecker shrugged. “Too bad.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a fresh cigar and lit it with the old Zippo lighter.