“If they even knew about it,” Selma replied. “We’re still working on that part. Either way, it seems clear all the trouble Napoleon and Laurent went to was wasted. Until now, no one’s even been aware of their grand plan.”
“And now it’s just us and Bondaruk,” Sam said.
Remi said, “It’s all very sad. In the end Napoleon was just desperate, pathetic, and paranoid, waiting for someone to restore the family name. And to think at the height of his power this was a man who held a good chunk of Europe under his thumb.”
Sam said, “ ‘A tyrant is most tyrant to himself.’ ”
“Pardon?”
“It’s a quote from George Herbert. A Welsh poet. I don’t think he was talking about Napoleon, but it certainly fits. Selma, this ‘prize’ Laurent talked about . . . there was nothing else in the diary about it?”
“Nothing so far.”
“The safe bet would be on money,” Remi said. “Or something he could convert into money—a war chest the son could use to raise an army.”
Sam nodded. “Enough for a new Bonaparte emperor to reconquer France and maybe Europe.”
They signed off with Selma and headed back to the patio. They were halfway up the steps when Sam’s phone chimed. He checked the screen. It was Rube Haywood. Sam put it on speaker.
“I think I found the skeleton in Bondaruk’s closet,” Rube said.
“We’re all ears.”
“The guy I sent to talk to Bondaruk’s old Iranian handler—”
“Aref Ghasemi,” Remi said.
“Right. At first Ghasemi was a little cagey, but he finally opened up. He pretty much confirmed he handled Bondaruk all through the border war with the Russians. The details are sketchy on this part, but somewhere along the way Bondaruk got the idea that he’s a direct descendant of some ancient Persian king, a guy named—”
“Xerxes I,” Sam finished.
“Yeah, that’s it, how’d you know?”
Without going into too much detail Sam described the private Achaemenid Dynasty museum they’d found in the bowels of Bondaruk’s estate.
“Well, there’s your confirmation,” Rube said.
“What was Ghasemi’s take on this?” Sam asked. “Does he think Bondaruk could be from the Xerxes line?”
“He thought it was possible, but the thing you have to understand about Ghasemi is he’s a slippery fish. The Brits don’t buy anything he says without triple- or quadruple-checking it.”
“That seems like an odd story to make up,” Remi said.
“I thought so, too,” Rube replied. “Either way, Bondaruk’s spent millions researching this, so unless he’s certifiably insane he may have found proof to support his claim—at least in his own mind.”
Sam said, “Remi, remember what Kholkov told us in Marseille? About Bondaruk’s goal?”
Remi closed her eyes, recalling the conversation, and Kholkov’s words: “ ‘. . . the items involve a family legacy. He’s simply trying to finish what was begun a long time ago. . . . ’ ”
“This Xerxes angle could be the key,” Sam replied. “But what are the ‘items’? Something Xerxes lost long ago?”
“Another project for Selma and the gang.”
Rube said, “Whether his claim is true is irrelevant. He believes it, and it’s driving everything he does. What he’s after is a different story. Figure that out and you could be halfway home.”
“So we’re back to square one,” Sam said. “What in the world do Xerxes and the Achaemenid Dynasty have to do with Napoleon’s Lost Cellar?”
Sam awoke to the trilling of his iPhone. He rolled over. The red numerals of the LED display said 3:12 A.M. Sam grabbed the phone and checked the caller ID: BLOCKED.
He answered. “Hello?”
“I thought it was time we talked directly,” a voice said. “Without intermediaries.”
Still waking up, it took Sam a moment to place the voice. “You woke me up, Bondaruk. That’s just bad manners. I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me how you got my number?”
“Money is the great equalizer, Mr. Fargo.”
“Money is just money. It’s what you do with it that counts.”
“Spoken like a true do-gooder.”
Remi rolled over and sat up beside Sam. In answer to her questioning expression he mouthed,
“What do you want?” Sam said.
“I’m curious: You were among the guests at my party, weren’t you?”
“We were standing right behind you during your lecture in the Sword Room. We got the distinct impression you like to hear yourself talk.”
“You’re brave, both of you, I’ll give you that much. You invaded my home, Mr. Fargo. If you were anyone else you’d—”
“Already be dead. Skip the threats and make your point. I’d like to get back to sleep.”
“I’m giving you one last chance. We work together. When it’s over, you get the bottles, I get what I’m after, and we part company. No harm done.”
“Speaking of what you’re after . . . It wouldn’t have anything to do with your private Persian funland below the laboratories, would it?”
Bondaruk didn’t answer.
“I thought so,” Sam said. “Bondaruk, don’t you think you’re taking your Xerxes infatuation a little too far? It’s not healthy.”
“You’re making a mistake, Mr. Fargo.”
“It seems to us that you’ve been making all the mistakes. By the way, we know your people have been casing our house in San Diego. If any of them so much as touch a newspaper in the driveway half the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department will fall on them like an avalanche.”
“So noted. This is the last time I’ll ask nicely.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
Sam hung up.
Remi said, “‘Private Persian funland’? Very imaginative.”
“I have my moments.”
CHAPTER 44
Armed with the next lines of the riddle and Yvette’s broadband Internet connection, Sam and Remi locked themselves in the study and went to work. Yvette, ever the gracious host, ordered Langdon to supply them with snacks and beverages, pens and paper, a second laptop, dry-erase markers, and a four-by-six-foot dry-erase board. On this they wrote the riddle in huge block letters:
Anguished House Fellows in amber trapped;
Tassilo and Pepere Gibbous Baia keep safe the place of Hajj;
The Genius of Ionia, his stride a battle of rivals;
A trio of Quoins, their fourth lost, shall point the way to Frigisinga.
They began by compiling a list of synonyms for each word that easily lent itself multiple meanings. They counted sixteen: “anguished,” “House,” “Fellows,” “trapped,” “Gibbous,” “keep,” “safe,” “place,” “Hajj,” “Genius,”
