of the Central Communist Party for more than twenty minutes. His closest aide-de-camp, Captain Chamouton, emerged from a secret anteroom just as Bonaparte was hanging up. “It will be done precisely as you have ordered, sir,” he heard the next leader of France say, just before he replaced the receiver.
Thus, the rumors of the power behind the throne began.
At the stroke of ten, a small squad of helmeted dragoons made a grand entrance onto the parquet of the dance floor. The waltz sputtered to a stop. The captain read an edict aloud to much twittering and amusement. He stated that the “Emperor Wishes to Consult with the Captain of Barbary Pirates at his Earliest Convenience.”
The sultan of Oman, the guest of honor, dressed as a Barbary buccaneer, laughed, bowed to his partner. He sheathed his tin scimitar, doffed his jeweled turban, and the dragoons formed up around him. He was marched off the floor to the great delight of the ladies peeking from behind their peacock-feathered fans at the handsome Arabian pirate.
Waiting impatiently for the sultan’s arrival, sitting at his beloved emperor’s desk in his red library, Luca fingered a small golden snuff-box once used in a failed attempt to poison Napoleon in this very room. It was a reminder to be ever vigilant. These were dangerous times, and he was about to take dangerous measures. But he would survive, and he would lead his people to Glory. It started tonight. It started now.
“You wished to see me, Your Majesty?” the dashing sultan said, somewhat foolishly. The time for this nonsense was on the dance floor, not in Napoleon’s library. The sultan was plainly in his cups.
“Mind your manners and take off your hat, Captain,” Luca said to him with a thin smile. “You’re in my house. And sit down. You’re unsteady.”
“I think I’ll have a little touch of that brandy, if you don’t mind,” the Arab said to Chamouton. Luca nodded his assent and the captain poured. His hand was shaking. He was no longer a young man. He longed for his bed.
“A votre sante,” the sultan said, raising his snifter to Bonaparte. “To your very good health, my new friend.”
Luca replied, raising his cigar, “We all hang by the same thread, do we not?”
The sultan didn’t like the sound of that. He was still just sober enough to hear the subtle tone of threat in his host’s voice.
“There is a problem?” the Arab said.
“An opportunity,” Luca said, getting to his feet so that he would tower over the Arab.
“Always a frightening word in the mouths of diplomats, my dear friend,” the sultan said.
Luca smiled. “I was afraid you had been ‘over-Chateaued.’ But I see the grape has not dulled your senses. This opportunity is only frightening if you are weak. If you fail to see the merit of what I am about to propose.”
“Go on, go on,” the Arab said, after draining his glass and looking to Chamouton for a refill. “I’m not stupid. I assumed you had invited me to Paris for some reason other than to hang another bauble around my neck.”
“Tomorrow morning at precisely ten o’clock, the Legion d’Honneur ceremony will take place. Immediately following that event, you and I shall hold a joint press conference, Your Excellency. All the media will be present. You, Your Highness, are going to announce that you are inviting France to come to your nation’s aid in a time of great turmoil in your country—”
“Turmoil? There is no—”
“Let me finish. A turmoil caused by certain extremist factions in-filtrating north across the border from Yemen. Causing unrest and dissent amongst your people. Foreigners who would undermine you and bring your government down. Since your government consists of you, and you alone, you O mighty Sultan, are taking these unilateral measures to protect your sovereignty.”
“What measures?” the man said, aghast. Beneath his silk turban, his face was turning purple.
“The very wise and sensible measure of coming here to France and asking for my help. Protection. You have asked me to send French troops into the capital city of Muscat. And to the oilfields, naturally. We must ensure the continued flow of oil at all costs.”
“It’s insane! I won’t have any part of this!” He got up from his chair and stumbled back a few steps before Chamouton caught him in his arms.
“I am afraid you have no choice in the matter, Excellency. You have met my dear comrade, Madame Li?”
“Who?” the Arab said, gasping for breath. Chamouton now had his revolver pressed firmly to the back of his skull.
A small Oriental woman trailing yards of golden satin emerged from the shadows behind Napoleon’s desk.
“Bonsoir, messieurs,” the woman trilled.
“Better known to you as the Empress Josephine, Excellency.”
“Madame Li?” the sultan said. “Who—who is—”
Madame Li, still dressed in Josephine’s gala finery and jewels, quickly crossed the room and stood before the terrified Arab. It did not help the sultan’s state of mind when the woman whipped off the bejeweled wig and smiled up at him bareheaded. Madame Li was clearly a man, and the dragons tattooed on his bald pate caused fresh terror to shine in the sultan’s eyes.
“I am Madame Li,” Hu Xu said. He opened the tiny sequined evening bag he’d carried to the ball and withdrew a small scalpel. The Arab recoiled, but was held fast by Chamouton.
“You have two choices, Excellency,” Luca said. He was now sitting on the edge of his desk, enjoying his cigar and the unfolding drama. “One, take the opportunity I present you. Invite our troops and navy into Oman. Two —”
“What opportunity?” the Arab ruler screamed.
“The opportunity of continued health and happiness for you and your entire family.” Luca smiled. “Nothing will change for you. Nothing. You will still have your palaces, your fleet of Rolls-Royces, your jets, and your yachts.”
“But when I look out the palace windows in my capital of Muscat, I will see French uniforms.”
“Exactly.”
“And the oil?”
“We have a very thirsty customer to the east, O mighty Sultan. I will be richer than you in the not too distant future.”
“The Chinese.”
“Think what you will.”
“And if I simply expose this outrage?” The man was gathering control, all traces of inebriation vanished. “Go before the cameras and denounce you for what you are? A liar! A thief! A murdering—”
“I have considered that possibility. You are an old man. Your own life, I’m sure, means little to you,” Luca said, his voice dripping with cool irony. “But the lives of family? Friends?”
“What are you saying? Allah be blessed, if you harm them, I will—”
“You will what? What can you do, my dear Sultan? For the moment, listen. Then you can decide.”
“Tell this man to let me go. And tell this bizarre creature to put the knife away. I will listen.”
“Very well,” Bonaparte said, nodding at both Chamouton and Hu Xu, who stepped aside. “You have a national museum, my dear friend. Once a fortress of some historic importance. On the island of Masara. Is this correct?”
“Fort Mahoud,” the sultan said, a tremor marking his voice. “It was once Field Marshal Erwin Rommel’s headquarters.”
“Ah, that’s the place. Your entire family is there, now, Excellency. Wives. Children, grandchildren. Some members of your palace staff from Muscat. Since your departure from Oman, they have been under my protection. Do not worry. My men in Oman will protect your beloved family from the terrorists who would harm them.”
“But there are no terrorists in my country,” the sultan said, all the air going out of him. “My people are at peace with the world.”
Bonaparte smiled as if at a child. “No man is at peace with the world, Your Highness. Surely you have heard of the growing threat of the Christian right-wing militia outside the capital? The Yemeni forces coming up from the south? Yes, the Sultanate of Oman is in grave danger.”
“My God,” the sultan said, lowering his head. He’d been a fool. Vanity had dulled his instincts about this man. He had been blinded by the glittering prospect of the Legion d’Honneur, a prize he openly belittled but had long coveted.
