The Pharaoh's Secret (26 page)

Somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea

Paul and Gamay’s departure from Benghazi was delayed almost twenty-four hours when the airport was closed due to the growing violence. The pilots were as eager to leave as the Trouts. The plane was already fueled and was cleared for takeoff within the hour. It was now over the Mediterranean, cruising at thirty-seven thousand feet.

The Challenger 650 had a large cabin, as far as corporate jets went, a feature that made it look stubby on the ground but was a boon to taller people like Paul once they got on board.

“I’ll take this over that broken-down old DC-3,” he announced.

“I don’t know,” Gamay replied. “That old plane had a kind of rustic charm.”

“
Rusting
charm, is more like it,” he corrected.

Sitting across from each other in cream-colored leather seats, Gamay and Paul enjoyed a thick, brindle-patterned carpet at their feet soft enough to warrant the removal of shoes.

They opened their laptop computers, placing them on the tray tables and logging on to the encrypted NUMA website.

“I’ll work on the history of Villeneuve,” Paul said, “see if I can find any repository of his effects or any clue as to what he might have done with the papers D’Campion sent him.”

She nodded. “And I’ll work on the correspondence between the two men that Kurt had uploaded to the NUMA site. Hopefully, my college French will come rushing back. And, if not, I’ll use the translation program.”

The quiet of the cabin and the three-hour flight gave them time to do a great deal of work. Halfway through, Gamay had her legs folded up under her on the seat, her hair pulled back and the look of someone cramming for final exams.

Paul looked up from his laptop. “For a man who lived such an interesting life and played such a pivotal role in history, there isn’t much on Admiral Villeneuve.”

“What have you found?”

“He came from a family of aristocrats,” Paul said. “By all logic, he should have met the guillotine with Marie Antoinette and the others. But, apparently, he supported the Revolution early on and was allowed to keep his position in the French Navy.”

“Perhaps he was a charmer,” she suggested.

“Must have been. After the disaster at Aboukir Bay, he was captured by the British, returned to France and accused of cowardice. And yet, of all people, Napoleon defended him. He called Villeneuve a lucky man. Instead of a court-martial, Villeneuve was promoted to vice admiral.”

Gamay sat back. “A surprising change of fortune.”

“Especially considering he’d all but single-handedly stranded Napoleon in Egypt, which made his defeat inevitable.”

“I wonder if his luck has something to do with this ‘weapon,’” Gamay said. “You know, Aboukir Bay borders the town of Rosetta. I’ve found in D’Campion’s letters several references to artifacts they took from there. Some of them seem to have trilingual inscriptions, like the Rosetta stone itself. One of D’Campion’s first attempts at translation mentions the powers of Osiris to take life and give it back again. What if Villeneuve was promising this weapon to Napoleon from the time of his first release?”

Paul considered that. “Always promising. Getting himself promoted to vice admiral and then leading the fleet into another disaster before coming back to Napoleon once more and claiming he’d made a
breakthrough
at last?”

“It’s the boy who cried wolf,” Gamay suggested.

“By then, I’m guessing, Napoleon didn’t want to hear it anymore.”

Gamay nodded. “But Villeneuve couldn’t stop himself. His letters talk of destiny and desperation. A chance to rewrite his own personal history. But by the last letter in D’Campion’s file, Villeneuve is talking more fearfully: he thinks that Napoleon no longer believes the claims.”

“When did he send that?”

“The nineteenth of Germinal, XIV,” she said. “According to the computer, that is . . . April ninth, 1806.”

“Less than two weeks before he was killed.”

“Napoleon was known for rash action,” Paul added. “And absolute disdain for anyone or anything that tried to rein him in. When the invasion of England was called off, he decided to march east and invade Russia instead, just to have someone to conquer. Of course, that was nothing less than a disaster. But Villeneuve
holding this weapon over his head seems like the kind of thing Napoleon would put up with for only so long.”

She checked her watch. “We’re landing soon. Any idea where we should start?”

Paul sighed. “There’s no library of Villeneuve’s papers, no museum or monument to his memory. About the only things I’ve found are a few newspaper clippings from twenty years ago referencing a woman named Camila Duchene. She tried to sell some papers and artwork she claimed to have discovered in her family home, works allegedly belonging to Villeneuve and some other noble.”

“What happened to them?” Gamay asked.

“Laughed off as fakes,” Paul said. “Villeneuve wasn’t known to be an artist. But, interestingly enough, her ancestors owned the boardinghouse where Villeneuve had been living in the weeks before his death.”

Before anything else was said, the pitch of the engines changed and the aircraft began to descend. The pilot’s voice came over the speakers. “We’re approaching Rennes. We’ll be landing in approximately fifteen minutes.”

“That gives us fifteen minutes to find any trace of Madame Duchene,” Paul suggested.

“My thoughts exactly.”

Paul and Gamay were on the ground and in a rental car shortly after the sun came up. Using a database of county records, Gamay found an address for Camila Duchene and acted as navigator while Paul drove streets that seemed half as wide and twice as crooked as necessary.

Following the lane as it bent, twisted and turned back on itself was bad enough; doing so in a car he had to be shoehorned into, while zipping in and out of patches of fog, made it that much more difficult. When a truck passed them going the other way, Paul edged to the shoulder and took out a few badly placed shrubs.

Gamay shot him the
look
.

“Just doing a little landscaping,” he said.

Finally, they arrived near the center of town. Paul parked in the first lot he could find. “Let’s walk the rest of the way,” he said.

Gamay opened the door. “Good idea. It’ll be safer for everyone. Including the plant life.”

With address in hand, they walked up a wet cobblestone lane toward what looked like a small castle. Two curved towers of stone, connected by a stone wall, blocked the path. An archway in the center of the wall allowed them through.

“Portes mordelaises,”
Gamay said, reading the sign on the wall.

They passed under the arch, feeling as if they were entering a medieval city, and, in a way, they were. They’d now reached the oldest section of Rennes and the
Portes mordelaises
was one of the few remaining sections of the ramparts that had once walled in the city.

They continued up the narrow lane until they arrived at the address. It was a little early, but as Paul knocked on the door he smelled fresh bread baking. At least someone was awake in the house.

“I just realized how hungry I am,” Paul said. “Haven’t eaten a thing in twelve hours.”

The door opened and a white-haired woman of perhaps ninety stood there. She was smartly dressed, with a shawl around her shoulders. She pursed her lips, studying the two Americans.

“Bonjour,”
she said.
“Puis-je vous aider?”

Gamay replied,
“Bonjour, êtes-vous Madame Duchene?”

“Oui,”
she said.
“Pourquoi?”

Gamay had rehearsed a speech in French regarding Admiral Villeneuve’s letters. She gave it slowly.

Madame Duchene cocked her head to the side, listening. “Your
French is quite good,” she said in English, “for an American. You are Americans, aren’t you?”

“We are,” Gamay said, well aware that American travelers in Europe often had a bad reputation.

Instead of sending them away, Madame Duchene smiled and waved them in. “Come, come,” she said. “I was about to make some crepes.”

Gamay glanced at Paul, who was smiling broadly. “I swear, you were born under a lucky star.”

The aroma in Madame Duchene’s kitchen was heavenly. In addition to the bread that she’d already baked, the smell of fresh apricots, blueberries and vanilla danced about the room.

“Please, sit down,” Madame Duchene said. “I don’t get many visitors, so this is a pleasure.”

They sat at a small table in the kitchen as the older woman went back to the counter. She began cracking eggs, pouring flour and whipping up the batter from scratch. She spoke as she worked, looking back at Paul and Gamay occasionally.

“My first husband was American,” she said. “A soldier. I was fifteen when I met him. He came with the Army to toss out the Germans . . . Blueberries?”

“Madame Duchene,” Gamay interrupted. “I know it may seem strange, but we’re in a great hurry—”

“Blueberries sound wonderful,” Paul said, interrupting.

The
look
came his way once more. Twice as stern this time. Paul seemed unaffected. “No need to be hasty,” he whispered as Madame Duchene went back to work. “We have to eat at some point. And somewhere. Might as well be here.”

Gamay rolled her eyes.

“Blueberries are good for you,” Madame Duchene added without turning around. “They’ll help you live a long life.”

“Not if your wife kills you first,” Gamay muttered under her breath.

Paul grinned at the joke. “Tell me more about your husband,” he asked of their host.

“Oh, he was tall and handsome. Like you,” she said, turning around and looking at Paul. “Had a voice like Gary Cooper. Not quite as deep as yours, though.”

Gamay sighed. If another woman was going to flirt with her husband, she figured a ninety-year-old French lady who made crepes was about as safe as it got. Beyond that, Gamay herself was famished. And assuming Paul could be charming enough, they might get Camila Duchene’s story more easily and completely if they did it his way.

After breakfast, the story came out. “My grandfather had the letters,” Madame Duchene said. “He never really spoke of them . . . Something to do with the shame of having someone stabbed to death in your ancestral home . . . And Villeneuve was not famous in a way that anyone wanted to remember him.”

“But you tried to sell them, didn’t you?” Gamay asked.

“Years ago. Financial troubles. We were losing everything. After my husband died, things fell apart. There was a craze for historical things back then. Anything and everything from Napoleon’s era. If you had a butter knife he once used, you could get ten thousand francs for it.”

“And that reminded you of the letters?” Paul guessed.

“Oui,”
she said. “I thought if they could be sold at an auction, we could be saved. But it wasn’t to be. We were accused of being forgers and frauds and no one gave us the benefit of the doubt.”

“We have other letters that Villeneuve wrote to D’Campion,” Paul said. “If the writing matches, they would help prove that your letters were authentic.”

She smiled, the lines it revealed adding to the beauty of her eyes. “I’m afraid that won’t help much,” she said. “I gave them away.”

Gamay’s heart sank. “To whom?”

“To the library. Along with a stack of old books. And the paintings.”

Paul glanced at his watch. “Any chance this library would be open yet?”

Madame Duchene stood and looked at the wall clock. “Any moment now,” she said. “Please, wait and I’ll pack you a lunch.”

—

The library
which Camila Duchene referred them to, a four-story building, specialized in rare books and French history. It loomed up through the gray morning fog beside the canal that ran through central Rennes. Once a river, its bed had been walled in centuries ago to prevent flooding and allow for construction. Like many rivers in the old cities of Europe, there wasn’t much natural embankment left where it passed through the center of town.

Inside the library, Gamay and Paul found the staff reserved but helpful. Once they’d verified who the Trouts were, a proctor was assigned to help them. He took them to a section near the back of the building and led them to the items Madame Duchene had donated.

“The papers were given little credit,” he explained. “The paintings were not valued highly either. They seem to be amateurish re-creations of battle scenes. No one believes Villeneuve painted them because he wasn’t an artist and because they’re not signed.”

“Then why keep them?” Gamay asked.

“Because those are the conditions under which they were
donated,” the proctor said. “We are to keep them for a minimum of one hundred years or return them to Madame Duchene or her heirs. And since their provenance could not be completely discredited, it seemed wise to accept them rather than allow them to end up elsewhere.”

Paul said, “Nothing like finding out something you gave away at a yard sale is worth a fortune.”

“Yard sale?” the proctor repeated, projecting the type of academic disdain the French seemed to have perfected to its highest form.

“Where you get rid of all your junk,” Paul said. “People have them all the time in America.”

“I’m sure they do.”

Gamay tried not to laugh and kept busy leafing through the books. One was a reference work on Ptolemaic Greek, the particular kind of Greek found on many trilingual inscriptions in Egypt. Which seemed promising, since Villeneuve and D’Campion were supposedly working on translations. The other was a treatise on war written by a French author she’d never heard of. Fanning through the pages, she found no notes or loose papers stuffed inside.

“What about the letters?” Gamay asked. “The writings?”

The proctor pulled out another book. This one was thin and had a modern cover that resembled a photo album. Inside, between sheets of plastic, were two-hundred-year-old papers covered in faded swirling ink lines from a fountain pen or even a quill.

“There were five letters,” the proctor explained, “a total of seventeen pages. They’re all in here.”

Gamay pulled up a chair, took a seat and switched on a light. With a notepad at her side, she began to read through the letters. It was slow-going, since they were in French and written in the
style of the day, which seemed to avoid anything close to short and concise sentences.

As Gamay began her translation, Paul asked, “May I see the paintings?”

“Certainly,” the proctor said.

They moved farther down the aisle, where the proctor used a key to open a large cabinet door. Inside were a dozen framed paintings of different sizes. They were arranged in vertically slotted racks.

“Villeneuve did all of these?”

“Only three,” the proctor said. “And, I remind you, there’s no proof they were his.”

Paul understood the warning. Still, he wanted to see what Villeneuve
might
have done.

The proctor slid out the first of the three paintings, simply framed in hardwood, placed it on an easel and went back for the other two. All the frames looked old and worn.

“Original frames?” Paul asked.

“Of course,” the proctor said. “They’re probably worth more than the art.”

Paul switched on a light and studied the works. They were done in heavy oils, thick with brushstrokes, with badly matched colors.

The first painting was a three-quarter view of a wooden warship. The perspective wasn’t done with any kind of accuracy and the ship looked almost two-dimensional.

The second work depicted a street scene, a dusty alleyway at night, being filled with dark fog. Doors with odd discolorations were shut tight. Not a person in view. In the far upper right-hand corner, he saw three triangles out on what looked like a distant plain.

The third painting depicted several men in a longboat, pulling hard on their oars.

After studying the paintings for a minute, Paul understood what the proctor meant by
amateurish
. A shout from the front desk called the proctor away. “Coming, Matilda,” he replied. He turned to Paul. “I’ll be right back.”

Paul nodded. And as the proctor left, he returned to Gamay’s side. “Are you finding anything in the letters?”

“Not really,” she said. “I don’t think these even qualify as letters. They have dates but no signatures. They’re not addressed to anyone. And even at my level of French, it’s obvious that they’re rambling and circular in nature.”

“Like a journal?” Paul suggested.

“More like a madman working himself into a lather,” Gamay said. “Talking to himself, going over the same old grudges again and again.”

She pointed to the letter she’d been working on. “This one reads like an angry diatribe against Napoleon and his turning the Republic into a personal empire.”

She flipped backward through the book and pointed at another letter. “In this one, he’s calling Napoleon
un petit homme sur un grand cheval
—‘a tiny man on a large horse.’”

“That sounds like a good way to get yourself stabbed several times,” Paul noted.

“I’ll say,” she agreed, then flipped to another letter. “This one suggests that Napoleon is ‘destroying the character of France’ and that he’s ‘a fool.’ It says ‘I pledge him my services and he hardens his heart against me. Does he not know what I offer? The truth shall be revealed like the Wrath of God.’”

“‘Wrath of God’?” Paul repeated.

She nodded. “For doing bad things. Like tricking an old lady
into making you breakfast by playing on her affections for her dearly departed husband.”

“It was worth it,” Paul replied. “Best meal I’ve had in weeks. But that’s not what I’m thinking about. Come, look at this.”

He brought Gamay to the paintings. “Look.”

She studied them for a second. “What am I looking for?”

“The Wrath of God.”

“Unless that’s the name of this ship, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Paul pointed to the street scene. “Wrath,” he said, “Old Testament–style. That’s Egypt. You can see the Pyramids as tiny triangles in the far background. The doors are marked with red. It’s probably supposed to be blood. Lambs’ blood. And the alleyway is filling with what I was thinking must be dust. But it’s not dust. It’s the last plague sent to Egypt when Pharaoh wouldn’t let the Israelites go. A plague that would come and kill the firstborn of everyone in Egypt who failed to smear blood on their doorjambs.

He pointed to the bottom. “Look here. Frogs. That was the second plague, I think. And there. Locusts. Also a plague.”

Gamay’s eyes widened as she saw what Paul was getting at. She retrieved the book of letters and began reading aloud. “
‘La vérité sera révélée’
—‘the truth shall be revealed’—
‘à lui comme la colère de Dieu’
—‘to him like the Wrath of God.’”

“Could he have been painting what he was writing?” Paul asked. “Or vice versa?”

“Maybe,” she said, “but I have an idea.”

She went back for the book of letters and began reading through one of them. “The vessel holds the power, the ship is the key to freedom.”

She pointed at the painting of the warship and then flipped to another letter.

“This one was the most coherent,” she said. “And based on the dates, it’s the last one in the series. From the context, I assume it was written to D’Campion, though, again, it’s not signed or addressed.”

She ran her finger along the text and began reading. “‘What weapon could be this way? he asks. It is nothing but superstition, he insists. At least, this is what his agents tell me. And yet, he asks me to prove to him all that I know. Even if he wants what we can bring him, he no longer wants to pay for it. They say I’m in his debt. A debt that must be paid. I fear it’s unsafe for me to even try, but where else have I to go? And, in truth, I now fear what the Emperor would do with this weapon in his hand. Perhaps the entire world would not be enough for him. 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
.’”