Spartan Gold - Clive Cussler

“Congratulations.”

Remi raised her coffee cup. “To the groom to be.”

The three of them toasted Langdon, whose face turned a deep shade of red. He nodded his thanks and murmured, “Madam, if there’s nothing else . . .”

“Go on, Langdon, before you have a stroke.”

Langdon disappeared.

“Unfortunately, this means I’ll be losing him,” Yvette said. “He’ll be a kept man now. A gigolo, if you will.”

“Not a bad job if you can get it,” Sam said.

Remi lightly punched him on the biceps. “Mind your manners, Fargo.”

“I’m just saying, there are worse jobs out there.”

“Enough.”

They chatted and drank coffee until Langdon returned thirty minutes later. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo, Mrs. Wondrash is calling for you.”

They excused themselves and followed Langdon down to the study. Yvette’s MacBook Air sat open on a mahogany desk overlooking the garden. Langdon had already arranged a pair of club chairs before the laptop. Once they were seated, he left and closed the door behind him.

The laptop’s screen displayed Selma’s workroom back in La Jolla. “Selma, are you there?” Sam called.

Pete Jeffcoat’s tanned face appeared before the camera. He smiled at them. “Hi, Sam. Hi, Remi.”

“How’re you, Pete?”

“Fantastic, couldn’t be better.” Pete’s sunny attitude knew no bounds. He could not only turn lemons into lemonade, but he could turn them into a grove of lemon trees.

“And Wendy?”

“She’s good. Getting a little stir-crazy, being all cooped up here. The bodyguard guys are great, but a little strict.”

“It’s for the best,” Sam said. “Hopefully it’ll be over soon.”

“Sure, no worries, we’re cool. Hey, here’s the head honcho. . . .”

Pete disappeared from view and was replaced by Selma, who settled onto a stool in front of the camera, casually dunking a tea bag into a steaming cup. “Morning, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo.”

“Morning, Selma.”

“You want the good news or the bad news first?”

“Both at the same time,” Sam replied. “Like peeling off a Band-Aid.”

“Whatever you say . . . The printout you faxed did the trick. Very good image; high resolution. I used it to decipher the next lines of code. Here’s the bad news: The riddle has us stumped. Maybe you’ll have more luck with it.” Selma grabbed her clipboard from the table and recited:

“Anguished House Fellows in amber trapped;

Tassilo and Pepere Gibbous Baia keep safe the place of Hajj;

The Genius of Ionia, his stride a battle of rivals;

A trio of Quoins, their fourth lost, shall point the way to Frigisinga.

“That’s it,” Selma said. “I’ve e-mailed it to your iPhones with the standard Blowfish encryption. We’ll keep working on it, but it seems clear this one’s a bit tougher than the last.”

“I’d say so,” Remi replied, already deep in thought.

Sam said, “Selma, the word in the last line—coins . . .”

“It’s spelled Q-U-O-I-N-S.”

“You’re sure that’s it?”

“We’re sure. I triple-checked it myself, then had Pete and Wendy do the same. Why?”

“ ‘Quoin’ is an architectural term. It has a couple meanings: It’s a keystone of an arch or exterior cornerstone.”

“But to what?” Remi said.

“That’s the million-dollar question. We have to assume it’s answered in the rest of the riddle.”

“Unless it refers to any of its other meanings,” Selma said. “ ‘Quoin’ also relates to printing and naval warfare. The first is a device used to hold handset type in place. The second is a type of block used to raise and lower the barrel of a cannon.”

“A block?” Remi said. “As in a wedge?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“So it has something to do with cornerstones and wedges.”

“If we take the meanings literally,” Sam replied. “But if they’re metaphorical they could mean anything—a wedge can either support or separate objects. Same with a cornerstone.”

“We need the rest of the context,” Remi agreed. “We’ll get to work, Selma, thanks.”

“Two more things before you go: I’m also deciphering Laurent’s diary as we go along, and I think we’ve got the answer to a couple of our mini mysteries. First, I’ve found out why he and Napoleon bothered with a code and riddle instead of just a map with a big X on it.

“According to Laurent, Napoleon fell into a depression soon after he reached Saint Helena. He’d escaped exile on Elba only to get defeated four months later at Waterloo. He confided to Laurent that he thought his fate was sealed. He was sure he’d die in exile on Saint Helena.”

“He was right,” Sam said.

“It started him pondering his legacy,” Selma continued. “He had one son, Napoleon Francis Joseph Charles—Napoleon II—by his second wife, Marie Louise. When Napoleon lost at Waterloo he abdicated the throne to junior, who ruled for about two weeks before the allies stormed Paris and dethroned him.

“Napoleon was heartbroken—and furious. He felt if his son had shown ‘true Bonaparte character,’ it wouldn’t have happened. Never mind that the boy was four years old.”

Sam said, “It couldn’t have been easy for him to live up to his father’s reputation.”

“Impossible, I’d say. Anyway, Napoleon ordered Laurent to create a ‘puzzle map’ that would—and I’m quoting here—‘confound our enemies, prove the new emperor’s mettle, and point the way to the prize that would help return the Bonaparte name to greatness.’

“Unfortunately,” Selma continued, “after the allies overthrew him, Napoleon II was bundled off to Austria, given the honorary title of Duke of Reichstadt, and kept a virtual prisoner there until he died of tuberculosis in 1832. As far as I can tell he never even tried to regain power—or even follow the map. Laurent isn’t clear why, though.

“As for the second mini mystery—why Napoleon and Laurent chose wine bottles as their puzzle clues—according to Laurent’s writings Napoleon himself ordered the Lacanau grape line destroyed—the seeds, the vineyard, everything—but it didn’t have anything to do with his love of the stuff. His theory was the bottles would become instant collector’s items—the wine Napoleon Bonaparte didn’t want anyone else to have. If any of the bottles were unearthed from their hiding places they’d find their way into museums or private collections, where they’d remain safe until a Bonaparte descendant who knew their secret came along.”

“So the father wasn’t entirely confident in his son’s ‘mettle,’ as he called it,” Remi said. “He was hedging his bets.”

“Seems so. When Napoleon abdicated for the second and final time, the First Napoleonic Law of Succession was in effect. It named Napoleon II as the legitimate heir to the throne; failing that, succession went to Napoleon’s older brother, Joseph, and his male descendants, then to his younger brother, Louis, and his male line.”

“None of whom bothered to follow the trail,” Remi said.

“If they even knew about it,” Selma replied. “We’re still working on that part. Either way, it seems clear all the trouble Napoleon and Laurent went to was wasted. Until now, no one’s even been aware of their grand plan.”

“And now it’s just us and Bondaruk,” Sam said.

Remi said, “It’s all very sad. In the end Napoleon was just desperate, pathetic, and paranoid, waiting for someone to restore the family name. And to think at the height of his power this was a man who held a good chunk of Europe under his thumb.”

Sam said, “ ‘A tyrant is most tyrant to himself.’ ”

“Pardon?”

“It’s a quote from George Herbert. A Welsh poet. I don’t think he was talking about Napoleon, but it certainly fits. Selma, this ‘prize’ Laurent talked about . . . there was nothing else in the diary about it?”

“Nothing so far.”

“The safe bet would be on money,” Remi said. “Or something he could convert into money—a war chest the son could use to raise an army.”

Sam nodded. “Enough for a new Bonaparte emperor to reconquer France and maybe Europe.”

They signed off with Selma and headed back to the patio. They were halfway up the steps when Sam’s phone chimed. He checked the screen. It was Rube Haywood. Sam put it on speaker.

“I think I found the skeleton in Bondaruk’s closet,” Rube said.

“We’re all ears.”

“The guy I sent to talk to Bondaruk’s old Iranian handler—”

“Aref Ghasemi,” Remi said.

“Right. At first Ghasemi was a little cagey, but he finally opened up. He pretty much confirmed he handled Bondaruk all through the border war with the Russians. The details are sketchy on this part, but somewhere along the way Bondaruk got the idea that he’s a direct descendant of some ancient Persian king, a guy named—”

“Xerxes I,” Sam finished.

“Yeah, that’s it, how’d you know?”

Without going into too much detail Sam described the private Achaemenid Dynasty museum they’d found in the bowels of Bondaruk’s estate.

“Well, there’s your confirmation,” Rube said.

“What was Ghasemi’s take on this?” Sam asked. “Does he think Bondaruk could be from the Xerxes line?”

“He thought it was possible, but the thing you have to understand about Ghasemi is he’s a slippery fish. The Brits don’t buy anything he says without triple- or quadruple-checking it.”

“That seems like an odd story to make up,” Remi said.

“I thought so, too,” Rube replied. “Either way, Bondaruk’s spent millions researching this, so unless he’s certifiably insane he may have found proof to support his claim—at least in his own mind.”

Sam said, “Remi, remember what Kholkov told us in Marseille? About Bondaruk’s goal?”

Remi closed her eyes, recalling the conversation, and Kholkov’s words: “ ‘. . . the items involve a family legacy. He’s simply trying to finish what was begun a long time ago. . . . ’ ”

“This Xerxes angle could be the key,” Sam replied. “But what are the ‘items’? Something Xerxes lost long ago?”

“Another project for Selma and the gang.”

Rube said, “Whether his claim is true is irrelevant. He believes it, and it’s driving everything he does. What he’s after is a different story. Figure that out and you could be halfway home.”

“So we’re back to square one,” Sam said. “What in the world do Xerxes and the Achaemenid Dynasty have to do with Napoleon’s Lost Cellar?”

Sam awoke to the trilling of his iPhone. He rolled over. The red numerals of the LED display said 3:12 A.M. Sam grabbed the phone and checked the caller ID: BLOCKED.

He answered. “Hello?”

“I thought it was time we talked directly,” a voice said. “Without intermediaries.”

Still waking up, it took Sam a moment to place the voice. “You woke me up, Bondaruk. That’s just bad manners. I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me how you got my number?”

“Money is the great equalizer, Mr. Fargo.”

“Money is just money. It’s what you do with it that counts.”

“Spoken like a true do-gooder.”

Remi rolled over and sat up beside Sam. In answer to her questioning expression he mouthed, Bondaruk.

“What do you want?” Sam said.

“I’m curious: You were among the guests at my party, weren’t you?”

“We were standing right behind you during your lecture in the Sword Room. We got the distinct impression you like to hear yourself talk.”

“You’re brave, both of you, I’ll give you that much. You invaded my home, Mr. Fargo. If you were anyone else you’d—”

“Already be dead. Skip the threats and make your point. I’d like to get back to sleep.”

“I’m giving you one last chance. We work together. When it’s over, you get the bottles, I get what I’m after, and we part company. No harm done.”

“Speaking of what you’re after . . . It wouldn’t have anything to do with your private Persian funland below the laboratories, would it?”

Bondaruk didn’t answer.

“I thought so,” Sam said. “Bondaruk, don’t you think you’re taking your Xerxes infatuation a little too far? It’s not healthy.”

“You’re making a mistake, Mr. Fargo.”

“It seems to us that you’ve been making all the mistakes. By the way, we know your people have been casing our house in San Diego. If any of them so much as touch a newspaper in the driveway half the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department will fall on them like an avalanche.”

“So noted. This is the last time I’ll ask nicely.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

Sam hung up.

Remi said, “‘Private Persian funland’? Very imaginative.”

“I have my moments.”

CHAPTER 44

Armed with the next lines of the riddle and Yvette’s broadband Internet connection, Sam and Remi locked themselves in the study and went to work. Yvette, ever the gracious host, ordered Langdon to supply them with snacks and beverages, pens and paper, a second laptop, dry-erase markers, and a four-by-six-foot dry-erase board. On this they wrote the riddle in huge block letters:

Anguished House Fellows in amber trapped;

Tassilo and Pepere Gibbous Baia keep safe the place of Hajj;

The Genius of Ionia, his stride a battle of rivals;

A trio of Quoins, their fourth lost, shall point the way to Frigisinga.

They began by compiling a list of synonyms for each word that easily lent itself multiple meanings. They counted sixteen: “anguished,” “House,” “Fellows,” “trapped,” “Gibbous,” “keep,” “safe,” “place,” “Hajj,” “Genius,” “stride,” “battle,” “rivals,” “trio,” “point,” “way.”

From these they generated a list of dozens of words. Those they wrote on the board’s opposite side in a spiderweb-like chart, branch leading to thread leading to question marks.

Next they turned their attention to words they felt had clear links to history—“amber,” “Tassilo,” “Baia,” “Hajj,” “Genius,” “Ionia,” “Quoins”—which they also placed on the board, in their own separate columns and lists. Once done they divided up the words and began scouring the Internet for historical references, which they plugged into briefs of each word.

Five of the words—“amber,” “Tassilo,” “Baia,” “Hajj,” “Ionia”—had links to well-known places, peoples, or things. Amber was a fossil resin used for jewelry; Tassilo was the given name of a long line of Bavarian kings; Hajj was the name of the yearly Islamic pilgrimage to the holy site of Mecca; Baia, which meant “mine,” was the name of a commune in Romania on the Moldova River; and Ionia was a Greek island in the North Aegean Sea.