They were slowly piecing together a puzzle that had not been meant to be deciphered in such a backward manner.

“Saint-Denis was loyal,” she said. “We know he faithfully kept those four hundred books. Of course, there was no way to ever deliver them. He lived in France after Napoleon’s death, and the son stayed a prisoner of the Austrians until he died in 1832.”

“Saint-Denis died in 1856,” he said, recalling what he’d read. “Thirty-five years he stored those books. Then he bequeathed them to the city of Sens.”

She threw him a sly smile. “This stuff charges you, doesn’t it?”

“You charge me.”

She pointed at the book he held. “Before I gladly perform my mistress responsibilities, read what’s at the first marker. I think it might enhance your enjoyment.”

He parted the book. Flakes of dried leather from the brittle binding fluttered to the floor.

Abbé Buonavita, the elder of the two priests on St. Helena, had been for some months crippled to the point where he was really not able to leave his room. One day Napoleon sent for him and explained that it would be better and more prudent for him to return to Europe than to remain at St. Helena, whose climate must be injurious to his health, while that of Italy would probably prolong his days. The Emperor had a letter written to the imperial family requesting payment to the priest of a pension of three thousand francs. When the abbé thanked the Emperor for his goodness he expressed his regret at not ending his days with him to whom he had meant to devote his life. Before he left the island, Buonavita made a last visit to the Emperor, who gave him various instructions and letters to be transmitted to the Emperor’s family and the pope.

“Napoleon was already sick when Buonavita left St. Helena,” Caroline said. “And he died a few months later. I’ve seen the letters Napoleon wanted delivered to his family. They’re in a museum on Corsica. The Brits read everything that came to and from St. Helena. Those letters were deemed harmless, so they allowed the abbé to take them.”

“What’s so special about them now?”

“Would you like to see?”

“You have them?”

“Photos. No sense going all the way to Corsica and not taking pictures. I snapped a few shots when I was there last year researching.”

He studied her piquant nose and chin. Her raised eyebrows. The swell of her breasts. He wanted her.

But first things first.

“You brought me gold bars,” she said. “Now I have something for you.” She lifted a photo of a one-page letter, written in French, and asked, “Notice anything?”

He studied the jagged script.

“Remember,” she said. “Napoleon’s handwriting was atrocious. Saint-Denis rewrote everything. That was known to everyone on St. Helena. But this letter is far from neat. I compared the writing with some we know Saint-Denis penned.”

He caught the mischievous glow in her eyes.

“This one was written by Napoleon himself.”

“Is that significant?

“Without question. He wrote these words without Saint-Denis’ intervention. That makes them even more important, though I didn’t realize how important until earlier.”

He continued to gaze at the photo. “What does it say? My French is not nearly as good as yours.”

“Just a personal note. Speaks of his love and devotion and how much he misses his son. Not a thing to arouse the suspicion of any nosy Brit.”

He allowed himself a grin, then a chuckle. “Why don’t you explain yourself, so we can move on to other business.”

She relieved him of the photo and laid it on the table. She grabbed a ruler and positioned the straightedge beneath one line of the text.

“You see?” she asked. “It’s clearer with the ruler underneath.”

And he saw. A few of the letters were raised from the others. Subtle, but there.

“It’s a code Napoleon used,” she said. “The Brits on St. Helena never noticed. But when I found that account of how Napoleon sent the letters through the abbé, ones he wrote himself, I started looking at these more closely. Only this one has the raised lettering.”

“What do the letters spell?”

“Psaume trente et un.”

That he could translate. “Psalm thirty-one.” Though he did not understand the significance.

“It’s a specific reference,” she said. “I have it here.” She lifted an open Bible from the table. “Turn your ear to me, come quickly to my rescue; be my rock of refuge, a strong fortress to save me. Since you are my rock and my fortress, for the sake of your name lead and guide me. Free me from the trap that is set for me.” She glanced up from the book. “That fits Napoleon’s exile perfectly. Listen to this part. My life is consumed by anguish and my years by groaning; my strength fails because of my affliction, and my bones grow weak. Because of all my enemies, I am in utter contempt of my neighbors; I am a dread to my friends-those who see me on the street flee from me. I am forgotten by them as though I were dead.”

“The lament of a man defeated,” he said.

“By the time he wrote the letter he knew the end was near.”

His gaze immediately locked on the copy of Napoleon’s will, lying on the table. “So he left the books to Saint-Denis and told him to hold them until the son was sixteen. Then he mentioned the one book specifically and sent out a coded letter feeling sorry for himself.”

“That book about the Merovingians,” she said, “could be the key.”

He agreed. “We must find it.”

She stepped close, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “Time for you to take care of your mistress.”

He started to speak, but she silenced him with a finger to his lips.

“After, I’ll tell you where the book is located.”

TWENTY-SIX

PARIS

SAM COULDN’T BELIEVE THAT TWO MEN WERE ACTUALLY FOLLOWING Jimmy Foddrell. Malone had been right in the bistro to attack the pedantic moron. He wondered if his superiors at the Secret Service viewed him in the same bewildered way. He’d never been that extreme, or that paranoid, though he had defied authority and advocated similar beliefs. Something about him and rules just didn’t mix.

He and Malone kept pace through the warren of tight streets filled with heads burrowed into heavy coats and sweaters. Restaurateurs braved the cold, hawking their menus, trying to attract diners. He savored the noises, smells, and movements, fighting their hypnotic effect.

“Who do you think those two guys are?” he finally asked.

“That’s the problem with fieldwork, Sam. You never know. It’s all about improvising.”

“Could there be more of them around?”

“Unfortunately, there’s no way to know in all this chaos.”

He recalled movies and TV shows where the hero always seemed to sense danger, no matter how crowded or how far away. But in the hubbub assaulting them from every angle, he realized there’d be no way to perceive anything as a threat until it was upon them.

Foddrell kept walking.

Ahead the pedestrian-only way ended at a busy thoroughfare identified as Boulevard St. Germain-a turmoil of taxis, cars, and buses. Foddrell stopped until a nearby signal thickened traffic to a standstill, then he rushed across the four lanes, thick with a clot of people.

The two men followed.

“Come on,” Malone said.

They raced forward, reaching the curb as traffic signals to their right cycled back to green. Not stopping, he and Malone darted across the boulevard, finding the other side just as motors accelerated past them in high, eager tones.

“You cut it close,” Sam said.

“We can’t lose them.”

The sidewalk’s inner edge was now lined by a waist-high stone wall that supported a wrought-iron fence. People hustled in both directions, their faces bright with energy.