The Pharaoh's Secret

  Etienne glanced at Renata. “Discretion came into play again,” he said, repeating her word. “They turned toward the only ships that were unengaged, and the last few trunks of Egyptian art ended up in Villeneuve’s hands, escaping destruction when he sailed for Malta and arrived there two weeks after the battle.”

  “And those trunks were put on board the Sophie Celine several months later,” Kurt said.

  “So it’s believed,” Etienne said. “Though the record is somewhat unclear. At any rate, this is what our violent little friends were demanding to see when they appeared: anything Emile had gathered in Egypt, especially in Abydos, the City of the Dead.”

  “City of the Dead,” Kurt repeated, staring into the fire and then turning to Joe. The exact words Joe had used to describe Lampedusa. Certainly it was an island of the dead. Or the nearly dead. “These artifacts didn’t have anything to do with a mist capable of killing thousands at one time, did they?”

  Etienne looked stunned. “As a matter of fact, they refer to something called the Black Mist.”

  Kurt suspected as much.

  “But that’s not all,” Etienne said. “Emile’s translation also speaks of something else. Something he called the Angel’s Breath, which is admittedly a Westernization. The more correct term, the Egyptian term, would be the Mist of Life: a mist so fine it was believed to have come from the realm beyond this one—the afterlife—where the god Osiris used it to restore to the living whomever he wished. Taken literally, this Angel’s Breath was capable of bringing the dead back to life.”

  38

  “Capable of bringing the dead back to life?” Kurt repeated the words. He knew immediately what they were dealing with. It had to be the cure to this Black Mist, the very thing that kept the attacker on Lampedusa alive and conscious when everyone else was overcome by the paralytic cloud.

  “It’s the antidote,” he said.

  “Antidote?” Etienne said. “Antidote to what? Certainly not to dying.”

  “To a certain kind of death,” Kurt said.

  “I don’t understand,” Etienne said.

  Kurt explained the events of Lampedusa, how the citizens of that island were in comas and drifting toward death. And how they’d encountered someone who seemed immune to whatever had poisoned the air.

  “So they want this antidote?” Nicole asked.

  “No,” Kurt said. “They already have it. They just don’t want anyone else to find it because it’ll render their weapon useless. Which is exactly what we have to do.”

  Kurt glanced around at the damage to the estate. “Unless you two are far braver than I am—and better poker players too—I’m guessing the artifacts aren’t here.”

  “Nothing from that ship is left here,” Etienne said. “We gave most of what was recovered to the museum. Those men took the rest. They also took Emile’s diary and anything they could find relating to Egypt, including all his drawings and notes.”

  “And from the look of it, the Sophie C. has been picked clean,” Joe added.

  “Quite right,” Etienne said. “But, then, I told them as much. That ship was searched from stem to stern when it was first discovered. Anything of value had already been pulled off of it.”

  “What if all of the artifacts weren’t on the ship?” Kurt asked. “You said the record wasn’t clear. What did you mean by that?”

  He explained. “The loading manifest suggested that the Sophie C. was loaded over capacity.”

  “Why?”

  “I would have thought that was obvious,” Etienne replied. “As soon as Villeneuve arrived back here, news of the disaster at Aboukir spread like wildfire. Any French person with valuables to protect—and good sense enough to protect them—was intent on getting out and getting back to France. Or at least sending their plunder on the way. I’m sure you can imagine the rush. Much of Malta’s wealth had been transferred into French hands during the brief occupation. Ships were loaded to the gills, every conceivable compartment filled. Items were left on the dockside or transferred at the last minute to any other vessel that might have room on board and a chance of escape.” Etienne continued. “In all the chaos, it’s possible the artifacts were loaded on the Sophie C. and not recorded. It’s also possible they were never put to sea at all. Or they may have been sent on another vessel. The harbormaster’s log recorded two other ships departing for France that day. One foundering in the same storm as the Sophie C., the other captured by the British.”

  Joe looked over. “If the Brits found the artifacts, they’d be in a museum with the Rosetta stone and the Elgin Marbles.”

  “And if they remained dockside,” Kurt said, “or hidden in Malta, they’d have resurfaced long ago. I think we can rule out those two possibilities. Which means the most likely prospect is they went as cargo on the doomed ships. But as you said, the Sophie C. has been picked clean.”

  “We could look for the other ship,” Renata suggested.

  Etienne shook his head. “I’ve searched,” he said. “For years.”

  “Finding a wreck is easy enough,” Joe explained. “Finding the wreck is more difficult. The bottom of the Mediterranean is littered with them. People have been sailing this oversize lake for seven thousand years. In the month before Kurt and I found the trireme, we cataloged forty wrecks and twenty additional sites that were labeled possible.”

  “We don’t have that kind of time,” Renata noted.

  Kurt wasn’t really listening, his eyes were drawn back to the painting. Something was off, something they’d overlooked. “The Battle of Aboukir Bay was fought in 1799,” he said.

  “Correct,” Etienne said.

  “Seventeen ninety-nine . . .” he said. Suddenly, it dawned on him. He turned. “You said Emile’s translation referred to this Mist of Life, but the Rosetta stone and a basic understanding of Egyptian hieroglyphics didn’t happen for at least another fifteen years.”

  Etienne paused. He seemed taken aback by the thought. “What are you suggesting? That Emile falsified his translation?”

  “For our sake, let’s hope not,” Kurt said. “But if the artifacts went down on the Sophie C. years before the Rosetta stone was translated, how would anyone know what was written on them?”

  Etienne looked as if he was about to speak but swallowed his words. “It’s . . . it’s not possible,” he said finally. “Except . . . I know it was done.”

  39

  The door to D’Campion’s study was already broken down when Etienne led the group inside. He ignored the damaged frame and the mess left over from the ransacking and went straight to a credenza that lay on its side.

  “In here,” he said. “Something suddenly makes great sense to me. Something I’ve wondered about for years.”

  Kurt and Joe helped him lift the heavy credenza upright and stood back as D’Campion began rifling through its contents.

  “They left this alone, for the most part,” he said, pulling out carefully preserved papers, glancing at them briefly and then moving them aside and continuing the search. “All they wanted were the artifacts and Emile’s diary and notes from his time in Egypt. The rest they did not want. And why not?” he added, now animated. “They could not read French. Silly fools.”

  Kurt and Joe looked at each other. Neither of them could read French, but they kept that to themselves.

  Etienne continued looking through the drawer and then pulled out a binder. Inside was a stack of old papers.

  “This is it,” he said.

  He cleared a space on the desk as Kurt righted a floor lamp and turned it on. The entire group pressed together, leaning over the desk, looking at a handwritten letter. Of all people, the letter had been penned by the disgraced Admiral Villeneuve.

  “‘My esteemed friend Emile,’” Etienne said, translating for the group. “‘It was with great pleasure that I received your latest correspondence. After the disgra
ce at Trafalgar and my time in the care of the British, I never dreamed to have another chance at reclaiming my honor.’”

  “Trafalgar?” Renata asked.

  Kurt explained. “In addition to being at Aboukir Bay, Villeneuve was in charge of the French fleet during the Battle of Trafalgar, where Nelson defeated the combined French and Spanish armadas, effectively showing the world that England would never be taken and ending any hope Napoleon had of invading.”

  Renata looked suitably impressed. “If I was Villeneuve, I might have stopped picking fights with the British in general and with Nelson in particular.”

  Joe laughed. “He must have hated Nelson by that time.”

  “Actually, he attended Nelson’s funeral while being held captive in England,” Etienne said.

  “Probably just to make sure he was dead,” Renata suggested.

  Etienne went back to the letter, running his finger beneath the text and continuing the translation. “‘You often mentioned that I saved your life by taking you aboard my ship and escaping from the mouth of the Nile. I do not overstate the truth when I say that you’ve returned the favor. With this breakthrough, I can go to Napoleon once more. I’ve been warned by friends that he wishes me dead, but when I bring him this weapon of weapons—this Mist of Death—he will kiss me on both cheeks and reward me, as I shall you. It is of utmost importance that this secret remain ours alone, but I promise on my honor that you shall gain your due as savant and as a hero of both the Revolution and the Empire. I have in my possession the rendering and partial conversion you’ve made. Please finish up and send me what you have on the Angel’s Breath that we may be safe as our enemies fall. I hope to meet the Emperor on favorable terms in the spring. Debt for debt. Twenty-nine Thermidor, Year XIII. Pierre-Charles Villeneuve.’”

  “Conversion is another word for translation,” Renata noted.

  “When did this all take place?” Kurt asked.

  Renata took a stab at it, struggling to recall the strange arrangement of Napoleon’s Calendar of the Republic, which replaced the Gregorian calendar for a decade of his rule. “Twenty-nine Thermidor in year nine of the Republic was . . .”

  Etienne beat her to it. “August seventeenth,” he said. “The year was 1805.”

  “That’s a full decade before the groundbreaking work on the Rosetta stone,” Kurt said.

  “It’s incredible,” Joe added. “And by that I mean some people might presume it’s not credible.”

  “If we still had Emile’s diary, it could be proved,” Etienne said. “There were drawings of hieroglyphs inside, along with suggested translations. Even a short dictionary, of sorts. The time frame never dawned on me.”

  Kurt considered it a good possibility. History was constantly being written and rewritten. Once upon a time, it was gospel that Columbus had discovered the Americas. Now even schoolchildren were taught that the Vikings, and possibly others, had beat him to it.

  “So how come he never got credit for it?” Renata asked.

  “Sounds like Villeneuve was insisting it remain a state secret,” Kurt said. “If it was connected to finding some weapon, the last thing any of them would want was the truth leaking out.”

  “Especially considering that the British were in control of Egypt then and were already suspicious of Emile’s friendship with a French admiral,” Etienne added. “In fact . . .” He began leafing through other letters and bits of correspondence. “It’s here somewhere,” he said.

  “What’s here?”

  “This . . .” he said, pulling out another preserved sheet of paper. “This is a denial of travel presented to Emile by the British. In early 1805, he requested permission to return to Egypt and resume his studies. The territorial governor of Malta approved it, but it was rejected by the British Admiralty and he was denied passage to Egypt.”

  Kurt took a look at the letter, written on official letterhead. “‘We cannot guarantee your safety to the interior of Egypt at this time,’” he read. “Where was he asking to go?”

  “I don’t know,” Etienne said.

  Renata sighed. “Too bad. That might have helped.”

  “Did he ever try again?” Kurt asked.

  “No. Sadly, he never got the chance. Both he and Villeneuve died a short time later.”

  “Both of them?” Joe asked, suspiciously. “How?”

  “Emile of natural causes,” Etienne said. “It happened here on Malta. He passed away in his sleep. It’s believed he had a heart condition. Rear Admiral Villeneuve died in France a month later, though his death was not nearly as peaceful. He was stabbed in the chest seven times. It was ruled a suicide.”

  “Suicide? With seven chest wounds?” Renata said. “I’ve heard of suspicious reports before, but that’s ridiculous.”

  “Extremely hard to believe,” Etienne agreed. “Even back then it was mocked in the press. Especially in England.”

  “Wasn’t Villeneuve going to meet Napoleon in the spring?” Kurt asked.

  Etienne nodded. “Yes,” he said. “And most historians think Napoleon had something to do with the admiral’s death. Either because he distrusted Villeneuve or because he simply couldn’t forgive him for all his failures.”

  Kurt could see either motive being the cause. But his primary concern was the translation of the Egyptian glyphs. “If Villeneuve had the translations at that point, what would have happened to them after he died? Do you know what happened to his effects?”

  Etienne shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’m afraid there’s no Museum of Disgraced Admirals of the French Navy. And Villeneuve was basically penniless at the end. He was living in a boardinghouse in Rennes. Perhaps the landlord took whatever possessions he may have had left.”

  “Maybe Villeneuve gave Napoleon the translation and was then killed anyway,” Renata suggested.

  “Somehow, I doubt that,” Kurt said. “Villeneuve was nothing if not a survivor. At every turn, he showed himself to be shrewd and cautious.”

  “Except when he sailed out to fight Nelson at Trafalgar,” Joe pointed out.

  “Actually,” Kurt insisted, “even there his moves were calculated. As I recall, he’d received word that Napoleon was about to replace him and possibly have him arrested, jailed or even sent to the guillotine. Facing that reality, Villeneuve made the only play left to him: he went out to fight, knowing that if he gained the victory, he’d be a hero and become untouchable. And if he lost, he’d probably die or be captured by the British, in which case he’d be taken safely to England. Which he was.”

  “One last swing for the fences,” Joe said. “All or nothing.”

  “A brilliant gambit,” Renata said with a smile. “Too bad for him that the British ruined it by sending him back to France.”

  “Can’t win them all,” Kurt said. “But considering how he thought things through, how cunning Villeneuve was at each step along the way, I doubt he’d meet up with Napoleon and simply hand over his one and only bargaining chip. More likely, he’d give them a taste and keep the details stashed somewhere else, since that was the only thing keeping him safe.”

  “Then why did Napoleon kill him?” Renata asked.

  “Who knows?” Kurt said. “Maybe he didn’t believe what Villeneuve was telling him. Maybe he was tired of the admiral’s act. Villeneuve had burned him so many times already, maybe the Emperor had simply had enough.”

  Joe recapped. “So in his haste to get rid of Villeneuve, Napoleon killed him, never realizing—or believing—what Villeneuve was offering. The translation and all mention of the Mist of Death and the Mist of Life vanished from the world, until now. Until this group we’re dealing with rediscovered the secret.”

  “That’s my guess,” Kurt said.

  Renata asked the next logical question: “So if Villeneuve never gave Napoleon the translation, where did it end up?”

  “That’s what we
have to find out,” Kurt said. He turned to Etienne. “Any idea where we could start looking?”

  Etienne considered this for a moment and then said, “Rennes?”

  It sounded more like a question than a statement, but it was also the only place that came to Kurt’s mind for starting the search. He nodded.

  “We’re running out of time,” Kurt said. “We need to split up and go in different directions. South to Egypt in search of any clues suggesting what this Mist of Life is or what it could be made from and north to France in search of any trace Villeneuve might have left behind concerning Emile D’Campion’s hieroglyphic translation.”

  “We could go to France,” Etienne said.

  “Sorry,” Kurt replied. “I can’t put you two in any more danger. Renata, you’ll be better suited for that task.”

  Renata was looking at her phone, scanning a message that had just come in. “Not a chance,” she said, looking up. “I know you’re just trying to get me out of harm’s way. But, more important, I have new information: AISE and Interpol have traced the identities of the dead men who took the cyanide. They came from a disbanded regiment of the Egyptian Special Forces. A regiment that was loyal to the old guard and the Mubarak regime and suspected of many crimes.”

  “That makes Egypt sound like the main target,” Kurt noted.

  “And we have a lead,” Renata added. “We’ve tracked down the signal of a satellite phone these men used when they were in Malta. Calls were made from right here. And from the harbor after your fight at the fort. That phone is now in Cairo. My orders are to go after whoever’s carrying it.”

  Kurt guessed it was Hassan, the man he’d negotiated with. “All right, I’ll accompany you.”