The Paris Vendetta Page 0,2

flowed into an antechamber, three walls of which were cut granite.

The King's Chamber opened beyond, more walls of polished red stone, the mammoth blocks fitted so close only a hairbreadth remained between them. The chamber was a rectangle, about half as wide as long, hollowed from the pyramid's heart. Monge had told him that there may well be a relationship between the measurements of this chamber and some time-honored mathematical constants.

He did not doubt the observation.

Flat slabs of granite formed a ceiling ten meters above. Light seeped in from two shafts that pierced the pyramid from the north and the south. The room was empty save for a man and a rough, unfinished granite sarcophagus without a lid. Monge had mentioned how the tubular drill and saw marks from the ancient workmen could still be seen on it. And he was right. He'd also reported that its width was less than a centimeter greater than the width of the ascending corridor, which meant it had been placed here before the rest of the pyramid was built.

The man, facing the far wall, turned.

His shapeless body was draped in a loose surtout, his head wrapped in a wool turban, a length of calico across one shoulder. His Egyptian ancestry was evident, but remnants of other cultures remained in a flat forehead, high cheekbones, and broad nose.

Napoleon stared at the deeply lined face.

"Did you bring the oracle?" the man asked him.

He motioned to the leather satchel. "I have it."

Napoleon emerged from the pyramid. He'd been inside for nearly an hour and darkness had now swallowed the Giza plain. He'd told the Egyptian to wait inside before leaving.

He swiped more dust from his uniform and straightened the leather satchel across his shoulder. He found the ladder and fought to control his emotions, but the past hour had been horrific.

Monge waited on the ground, alone, holding the reins of Napoleon's horse.

"Was your visit satisfactory, mon General?"

He faced his savant. "Hear me, Gaspard. Never speak of this night again. Do you understand me? No one is to know I came here."

His friend seemed taken aback by his tone.

"I meant no offense-"

He held up a hand. "Never speak of it again. Do you understand me?"

The mathematician nodded, but he caught Monge's gaze as he glanced past him, upward, to the top of the ladder, at the Egyptian, waiting for Napoleon to leave.

"Shoot him," he whispered to Monge.

He caught the shock on his friend's face, so he pressed his mouth close to the academician's ear. "You love to tote that gun. You want to be a soldier. Then it is time. Soldiers obey their commander. I don't want him leaving this place. If you don't have the guts, then have it done. But know this. If that man is alive tomorrow, our glorious mission on behalf of the exalted Republic will suffer the tragic loss of a mathematician."

He saw the fear in Monge's eyes.

"You and I have done much together," Napoleon made clear. "We are indeed friends. Brothers of the so-called Republic. But you do not want to disobey me. Not ever."

He released his grip and mounted the horse.

"I am going home, Gaspard. To France. To my destiny. May you find yours, as well, here, in this godforsaken place."

Chapter One

Part One

ONE

COPENHAGEN

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 23, THE PRESENT

12:40 AM

THE BULLET TORE INTO COTTON MALONE'S LEFT SHOULDER.

He fought to ignore the pain and focused on the plaza. People rushed in all directions. Horns blared. Tires squealed. Marines guarding the nearby American embassy reacted to the chaos, but were too far away to help. Bodies were strewn about. How many? Eight? Ten? No. More. A young man and woman lay at contorted angles on a nearby patch of oily asphalt, the man's eyes frozen open, alight with shock-the woman, facedown, gushing blood. Malone had spotted two gunmen and immediately shot them both, but never saw the third, who'd clipped him with a single round and was now trying to flee, using panicked bystanders for cover.

Dammit, the wound hurt. Fear struck his face like a wave of fire. His legs went limp as he fought to raise his right arm. The Beretta seemed to weigh tons, not ounces.

Pain jarred his senses. He sucked deep breaths of sulfur-laced air and finally forced his finger to work the trigger, which only squeaked, and did not fire.

Strange.

More squeaks could be heard as he tried to fire again.

Then the world dissolved to black.

Malone awoke, cleared the dream from his mind-one that had recurred many times over the