the steps’ iron railing.
The pistols clattered to the stone floor.
The first two men through the doorway turned, trying to maneuver into a position to get a clear shot without hitting their comrades. The stairwell was too narrow. The man Lang held was struggling, and Lang knew he could not hold him indefinitely. At some point he and Patrick would have to recover either their own guns or those that had been dropped by the men they held.
And there was no way to do that without exposing themselves to the fire from the men at the top of the stairs.
Patrick cursed as his man broke partially free, giving the men at the top of the stairs a target. Before they could react, Patrick made a dive for the small space at the bottom of the stairwell just as the sound of a pair of shots smashed against Lang’s eardrums.
Patrick grunted in surprise. “ Merde! ”
With Patrick exposed, Lang released his man, raising his own hands in hopes there would be no more shooting. In the cramped confines of the staircase, even a ricochet could be deadly.
Lang sensed uncertainty in the two men at the top of the steps. The English speaker bent over, reaching for the box.
Then the lights went on.
For the instant it took for eyes to adjust, Lang and the Chinese froze in blindness. Lang shoved the man he had let loose forward, at the same time stooping to reach for the spot where he thought he had seen someone’s weapon on the bottom step seconds before.
By the time he came up with it, the two at the top of the stairs were gone and the other four were scampering up the steps.
Shouts echoed from the arches overhead, magnified by the natural acoustics built into medieval churches. The four men who had been in the crypt were at various levels on the stairs. The two at the top fired toward the front of the basilica before turning as though to make a run for it.
The one in the lead jerked and fell as a burst of automatic-weapon fire reverberated throughout the cavernous church. The remaining man at the top dropped his pistol and flung his arms into the air. Behind him, the remaining two made a quick decision and raised their arms, too.
Pushing by Lang, Patrick climbed the stairs, his right arm grasping his left shoulder. It was only when he came out of the shadows of the stairwell that Lang noticed the left shoulder of his friend’s suit was darkened with something wet. A splatter of crimson on the marble floor told him Patrick had been hit.
Following Patrick, Lang emerged into the floor of the cathedral. Between him and the portal through which he had entered were six police. Two held short, stubby automatic weapons, another was pointing a shotgun. The remaining three were in a two-handed shooting stance, pistols aimed in Lang’s direction. At least two of them were too nervous for Lang’s comfort. All were shouting commands in French.
No interpretation needed. He dropped the pistol and raised his hands.
“My inside pocket,” Patrick said, gritting his teeth against obvious pain. “Get out my wallet.”
“You’re hit.”
“Yes, yes. And we are both likely to get shot if you do not show them my identification.”
Lang removed the ID wallet from his friend’s inside coat pocket. It was slippery with blood. Moving slowly with the wallet held up for inspection, Lang handed it to the officer who looked as though he might be in his early twenties, the oldest of the group. The other five edged closer, dividing attention between what their elder was holding and their prisoners.
“DGSE?” the cop asked, confused as to what a member of France’s counterespionage agency would be doing in the Basilica of Saint Denis in the early-morning hours.
A brief exchange in French followed. From Patrick’s increasing irritation and the few words Lang understood, Lang gathered the policeman was asking questions and Patrick was invoking state security.
He hoped someone here understood English. “In case you haven’t noticed, this man has been shot. Can we get him to a hospital before he bleeds to death?”
Patrick, his face blanched, was holding on to the stair’s railing for support. He rattled off what sounded like commands before translating. “I told them to find the two missing Chinese.” He looked around. “And where is the box? What happened to the box?”
Lang scooped it up from the floor, holding it aloft like a trophy. Patrick did not see. He had collapsed on the floor.
Hopital Cognacq-Jay
15 rue Eugene Millon, Paris
Two and a half hours later
Lang and Nanette shared a tiny room only a few feet from the hospital’s surgery. Fearing the worst despite Lang’s assurances, she had left her son in the custody of a neighbor. As in any such institution, the air was heavy with the odor of antiseptic. An occasional murmur of an intercom system was the only break in the silence.
Lang furtively glanced at his watch.
“It is a long time for such what you call a small wound,” Nanette observed tartly.
“Look, Nanette, I’m sorry. Patrick insisted…”
The conversation stopped with the entry of a woman in hospital scrubs.
Nanette stood on shaky legs, her question unspoken.
Lang could not understand the woman’s French, but her smile and Nanette’s obvious relief told him all he needed to know.
“She says Patrick is fine.” Nanette beamed as the doctor left. “He is a little… what do you say? Woozy. He is a little woozy from the anesthetic from removing the bullet, but he is asking for both of us.”
Following a nurse, Lang and Nanette walked down a short hall, stopping at the last room on the left. Compared to U.S. hospitals, the room was small, barely space for the two beds mandated by France’s national health care. One was empty. Above the other, a monitor beeped in the muted tones of a regular heartbeat. Patrick, his left shoulder swaddled in gleaming white, was sitting up, a broad grin across his face.
Before he could speak a word, Nanette was embracing him gingerly. “Does it hurt?”
Patrick gave what would have been a typical Gallic shrug had he been able to employ both shoulders. “Not so much. They say they will release me tomorrow.”
Nanette’s expression said, not if she had anything to do with it, but Patrick’s attention was on the box in Lang’s hands. “You have opened it?”
Lang shook his head. “I thought I’d reserve that honor for you.”
With his right hand, Patrick pointed to the bandages. “You may have to wait a few days. Why do you not do it for me?”
Lang reached to the side of the bed, unfolding a tray across it, and placed the box on it so that Patrick could see the contents once it was open.
Patrick lifted a corner with his right hand. “It weighs little. How do you plan to open it-with your magic bump key?”
Lang withdrew his key ring. “Afraid not. The hole is too small.” He passed several keys, stopping at a small version of a Swiss Army knife. Opening the blade, he worked it under the lid like a diminutive crow bar. There was a squeal of protesting wood as Lang pried upward. Then a popping sound as the lock mechanism broke. Patrick’s eyes grew large as they met Lang’s when the latter lifted the top from the box.
The smile on Patrick’s face morphed into open lips of astonishment. With his good hand, he turned the box over, dumping its contents onto the collapsible tray.
Lang had to lean forward to see. At first he was unsure of what he saw. Two lumps of what might have been brass, tarnished green, what looked like a neatly folded stack of clothing and a small gold cross on a chain.
Patrick held up the metallic objects. “A French general’s epaulets!”
He shoved them aside to spread the clothing out on the tray. “And a French general’s uniform, size petite!”
Next, Patrick grasped up the cross. “The gift from his mother.”
“Are you saying that uniform, cross and those epaulets were Napoleon’s?” Nanette spoke for the first time since the box had been opened.
