So they’d been of little use.
She was truthful when she told Thorvaldsen that it was impossible to know who’d written them. All she knew was that the words made sense.
She slid open a drawer beneath the case. Inside lay translations of the original Coptic into French. Two days from now she’d share these words with the Paris Club. For now she shuffled through the typed pages, reacquainting herself with their wisdom, marveling at their simplicity.
War is a progressive force, naturally generating that which would not otherwise have taken place. Free thinking and innovation are but two of the many positive aspects that war creates. War is an active force for society, a stabilizing and dependable tool. The possibility of war forms the strongest foundation for any ruler’s authority, the extent of which grows in direct relationship to the ever-increasing threat war poses. Subjects will willingly obey so long as there is at least the promise of protection granted them from invaders. Lose the threat of war, or breach the promise of protection, and all authority ends. War can bind the social allegiance of a people like no other institution. Central authority simply would not exist without war and the extent of any ruler’s ability to govern depends on the ability to wage war. Collective aggression is a positive force that both controls dissent and binds social allegiance. War is the best method for channeling collective aggression. Lasting peace is not in the best interest of maintaining central authority, nor is constant, never-ending war. Best is the mere possibility of war, since the perceived threat provides a sense of external necessity, without which no central authority can exist. Lasting stability can come simply from the organization of any society for war.
Amazing that an ancient mind possessed such modern thoughts.
A feared external menace is essential for any central authority to persevere. Such a menace must be believable and of a sufficient magnitude to instill absolute fear, and must affect society as a whole. Without such fear, central authority could well collapse. A societal transition from war to peace will fail if a ruler does not fill the sociological and political void created by the lack of war. Substitutions for the channeling of collective aggression must be found, but these surrogates must be both realistic and compelling.
She laid the translation atop the case.
In Pozzo di Borgo’s time, the mid-19th century, there were no adequate substitutes, so war itself prevailed. First regional conflicts, then two world conflagrations. Today was different. Plenty of substitutes were available. In fact, too many. Had she chosen the right one?
Hard to say.
She returned to her chair.
There was something else she still must know.
After Thorvaldsen departed, she’d retrieved the oracle from her satchel. Now she reverently opened the book and prepared herself with a few deep breaths. From the list of questions she selected
She closed her eyes and concentrated.
Then she grasped a pen and slashed vertical lines in five rows, counting each set, determining the proper list of dots.
She quickly consulted the chart and saw that the answer to her question lay on page H. There the oracle proclaimed,
She shut her eyes.
She’d trusted Graham Ashby, allowed him into her confidence, knowing little about him except that he was of old money and an accomplished treasure hunter. She’d offered him a unique opportunity, and provided information that no one else in the world knew, clues passed down through her family starting with Pozzo di Borgo.
All of which might lead to Napoleon’s lost cache.
Di Borgo spent the last two decades of his life searching, but to no avail. His failure eventually drove him mad. But he’d left notes, all of which she’d given to Graham Ashby.
Foolish?
She recalled what the oracle had just predicted about Thorvaldsen.
Perhaps not.
THIRTY
PARIS
MALONE HEARD SHOTS. FIVE? SIX? THEN GLASS CRASHED ONTO something hard.
He passed through three rooms that displayed a thousand years of French history through elaborate art, colorful altarpieces, intricate metalwork, and tapestries. He turned right and approached another corridor. Twenty or so feet long. Hardwood floor. Coffered ceiling. Writing tools and brass instruments were displayed in two lighted cases built into the right side wall, a doorway opening between them into another lighted room. On the left wall he spied a stone archway and the balustrade where the woman had first shouted down her alarm.
A man appeared at the far end of the corridor.
Burly.
His attention was not on Malone but, when he turned and spotted someone carrying a sword and shield, he whirled his gun and fired.
Malone dove, keeping the shield pointed forward.
The bullet pinged off metal just as Malone released his grip on the shield and slammed into the hard floor. The shield clattered away. Malone rolled into the next room and quickly sprang to his feet.
Hard steps sounded his way. He was in a room that held several more bright cases and altarpieces.
No choice.
He couldn’t go back the way he came, so he fled into the next room ahead.
SAM WATCHED THE WOMAN CATCH THE GUN-HER HANDS small but quick-then immediately ease herself forward. The doorway she occupied opened perpendicularly to the entrance into the red room, where the shooters had taken a stand, which gave her cover. She set her feet, aimed, and fired two rounds.
More glass shattered. One more display destroyed.
He risked a look and spotted one of the men as he darted across to the other side. The woman caught his escape, too, and fired another shot, trying to hit the target as he scurried behind another glass case.
The scene swam before him in a daze of uncertainty.
Where was security?
And the police?
MALONE SUDDENLY REALIZED THAT HE’D MADE A DANGEROUS mistake. He recalled the museum brochure and knew that he was headed into the upper chapel, a small, compact space with only one way in and out.
He rushed inside the chapel and caught sight of its flamboyant Gothic style, highlighted by a central pillar rising to a rib vault that spread out like palm branches. Maybe twenty by thirty feet in size, devoid of all furnishings, nowhere to hide.
He still held the sword, but it was little use against a man with a gun.
Think.
SAM WONDERED WHAT THE WOMAN INTENDED. SHE’D OBVIOUSLY started the fight and now seemed intent on ending it.
Two more shots banged through the museum, but not from her gun, and not directed their way.
Keenly aware of bullets flying past, he carefully risked a glance and saw one of the attackers retreat behind an intact display case and fire his gun in another direction.
