ASHBY STEPPED ONTO THE DESOLATE CAP CORSE SHORE, ITS dirty sand grass-strewn, its rocks invested with prickly maquis. On the eastern horizon, far across the water, he spied the lights of Elba. The crumbling Tour de Santa Maria sprang from the surf twenty meters away, the shadowy ruin torn and convulsed with the look of something utterly besieged. The winter night was a balmy 18° Celsius, typical for the Mediterranean, and the main reason why so many tourists flocked to the island this time of year.
“We are going to the convent?” the Corsican asked him.
He motioned and the tender motored away. He carried a radio and would contact the ship later. Archimedes rested at anchor, in a calm expanse, just offshore.
“Indeed we are. I checked a map. It’s not far.”
He and his cohort carefully eased their way across the granite, following a defined footpath among the maquis. He caught the distinctive scent of the aromatic scrub, a blend of rosemary, lavender, cistus, sage, juniper, mastic, and myrtle. Not as strong this time of year as it was in spring and summer when Corsica erupted in a blaze of pink and yellow blossoms, but nonetheless pleasant. He recalled that Napoleon, while first exiled on nearby Elba, had remarked that on certain days, with a westerly wind, he could smell his homeland. He imagined himself one of the many Moorish pirates who’d raided this coastline for centuries, using the maquis to mask their trail and shield a retreat. To defend against those raids, the Genoese had erected watchtowers. The Tour de Santa Maria was one of many—each round, nearly twenty meters high, with walls over a meter thick, a cistern in the lower part, living section in the middle, an observatory and fighting platform on top.
Quite an engineering achievement.
Something about history stirred him.
He liked following in its footsteps.
On a dark night in 1943 five men had managed something extraordinary, something that he had only in the past three weeks been able to comprehend. Unfortunately, the fool of small stature, with a devil-may-care personality, walking ahead of him, had interfered with success. This venture needed to end. Here. Tonight. Ventures far more critical lay ahead.
They abandoned the rocky shoreline and crossed a ridge into a forest of oak, chestnut, and olive trees. Silence had settled about them. Ahead rose the Chapelle Santa Maria. The convent had stood since the 11th century, a tall, gunpowder-gray rectangle of vitrified stone, with a plank roof and a belfry.
The Corsican stopped. “Where do we go? I’ve never been here.”
“Never visited this national preserve? Seems a must for any resident of this island.”
“I live in the south. We have our own natural wonders.”
He motioned left, through the trees. “I am told there’s a cemetery behind the convent.”
He now led the way, a nearly full moon illuminating the path. Not a light shone anywhere. The nearest village was miles away.
They rounded the ancient building and found an iron archway that opened into a graveyard. His research had revealed that the medieval lords of Cap Corse had been afforded a certain latitude by their Genoese masters. Positioned so far north, on a mountainous, inhospitable strip of land that cleaved the sea, those Corsican lords had profited from both the French and the Italians. Two local families once shared territorial control. The da Gentiles and da Mares. Some of the da Mares were buried here, behind the convent, in graves centuries old.
Three beams of light suddenly appeared from the blackness. Electric torches, switched on at their approach.
“Who’s there?” the Corsican called out.
One of the beams revealed a stiff face. Guildhall.
The Corsican faced Ashby. “What is this?”
Ashby motioned ahead. “I’ll show you.”
They walked toward the lights, threading a path through crumbling stone markers, maybe fifty or so overgrown with more fragrant maquis. As they came closer the lights revealed a rectangle dug into the earth, maybe a meter and a half deep. Two younger men stood with Guildhall, holding shovels. Ashby produced his own flashlight and shone its beam on a gravestone, which revealed the name MéNéVAL.
“He was a da Mare, from the 17th century. Those four German soldiers used his grave as their hiding place. They buried six crates here, just as the Moor’s Knot revealed from the book. Santa Maria Tower, convent, cemetery, marker, Ménéval.”
He adjusted the angle of the light and revealed the inside of the freshly excavated grave.
Empty.
“No crates. No Ménéval. Nothing. Can you explain that?”
The Corsican did not offer a reply.
Ashby had not expected one. With his light, he revealed the faces of the other two men, then said, “These gentlemen have worked for me a long time. As has their father. Once, so did their uncles. They are absolutely loyal. Sumner,” he called out.
From the darkness more forms appeared, and a new torch beam revealed two more men.
“Gustave,” the Corsican said, recognizing one of the faces as his co-conspirator. “What are you doing here?”
“This man, Sumner, brought me.”
“You sold me out, Gustave.”
The other man shrugged. “You would have done the same.”
The Corsican laughed. “That I would. But we have both been made rich.”
Ashby noticed they spoke Corsican, so he added, in their language, “I apologize for this inconvenience. But we needed privacy to conclude our business. And I needed to know if there was, indeed, anything to find.”
The Corsican motioned to the empty hole. “As you can see, Lord Ashby, there are no crates. No treasure. As you feared.”
“Which is entirely understandable, given you both recently found the crates and carted them away.”