He grabbed a sterling-silver fork. Apparently his personal dislike of her did not extend to her food, or her jet, or the possibility of the money to be made.
“Might I tell you a story?” she asked. “About Egypt. When then-Général Napoleon Bonaparte invaded in 1798.”
He nodded as he savored the rich chocolate. “I doubt you would accept a no. So, by all means.”
Napoleon personally led the column of French soldiers on the second day of their march south. They were near El Beydah, only a few hours away from the next village. The day was hot and sunny, just like all of the others before it. Yesterday Arabs had viciously attacked his advance guard. Général Desaix had nearly been captured, but a captain was killed and another adjutant général taken prisoner. A ransom was demanded, but the Arabs disputed the booty and eventually shot the captive in the head. Egypt was proving a treacherous land—easy to conquer, difficult to hold—and resistance seemed to be growing.
Ahead, on the side of the dusty road, he spotted a woman with a bloody face. In one arm she cradled a baby, but her other arm was extended, as if in self defense, testing the air before her. What was she doing here, in the scorching desert?
He approached and, through an interpreter, learned that her husband had pierced both her eyes. He was mortified. Why? She dared not complain and simply pleaded for someone to care for her child, who seemed near death. Napoleon ordered that both her and the baby be given water and bread.
That done, a man suddenly appeared from beyond a nearby dune, enraged and full of hate.
Soldiers came alert.
The man ran forward and snatched the bread and water from the woman.
“Forbear,” he screamed. “She has forfeited her honor and tarnished mine. That infant is my disgrace. It is an offspring of her guilt.”
Napoleon dismounted and said, “You are mad, monsieur. Insane.”
“I am her husband and have the right to do as I please.”
Before Napoleon could respond, a dagger appeared from beneath the man’s cloak and he inflicted a mortal wound to his wife.
Confusion ensued as the man seized the baby, held it in the air, then dashed it to the ground.
A shot cracked and the man’s chest exploded, his body thudding to the dry earth. Captain Le Mireur, riding behind Napoleon, had ended the spectacle.
Every soldier seemed shocked by what they’d seen.
Napoleon himself was having trouble concealing his dismay. After a few tense moments he ordered the column ahead but before remounting his horse, he noticed that something had fallen from beneath the dead man’s cloak.
A roll of papyri held tight by a string.
He retrieved it from the sand.
Napoleon commandeered quarters for the night in the pleasure house of one of his most resolute opponents, an Egyptian who’d fled into the desert with his Mameluke army months ago, leaving all of his possessions to be enjoyed by the French. Stretched out on downy carpets strewn with velvet cushions, the général was still troubled by the appalling show of inhumanity he’d witnessed earlier on the desert road.
He’d been told later that the man had done wrong stabbing his wife, but if God had wanted her vouchsafed for infidelity, she should have already been received into someone’s house and kept on charity. Since that had not occurred, Arab law would not have punished the husband for his two murders.
“Then it is a good thing we did,” Napoleon declared.
The night was quiet and dull, so he decided to examine the papyri he’d found near the body. His savants had told him how the locals routinely pillaged sacred sites, stealing what they could to either sell or reuse. What a waste. He’d come to discover this country’s past, not destroy it.
He popped the string and unrolled the bundle discovering four sheets, written in what appeared to be Greek. He was fluent in Corsican, and could finally speak and read passable French, but beyond that foreign languages were a mystery.
So he ordered one of his translators to appear.
“It’s Coptic,” the man told him.
“Can you read it?”
“Of course, Général.”
“What a horrible thing,” Mastroianni said. “Killing that infant.”
She nodded. “That was the reality of the Egyptian campaign. A bloody, hard-fought conquest. But I assure you, what happened there is why you and I are having this conversation.”
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
FIVE
SAM COLLINS SAT IN THE PASSENGER SEAT AND WATCHED AS Malone sped out of Copenhagen, heading north on the Danish coast highway.
Cotton Malone was exactly what he’d expected. Tough, gutsy, decisive, accepting the situation thrown at him, doing what needed to be done. He even fit the physical description Sam had been given. Tall, burnished blond hair, a smile that betrayed little emotion. He knew about Malone’s twelve years of Justice Department experience, his Georgetown legal education, eidetic memory, and love of books. But now he’d seen firsthand the man’s courage under fire.
“Who are you?” Malone asked.
He realized he couldn’t be coy. He’d sensed Malone’s suspicions, and didn’t blame him. A stranger breaks into his shop in the middle of the night and armed men follow? “U.S. Secret Service. Or at least I was until a few days ago. I think I’m fired.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because nobody there would listen to me. I tried to tell them. But no one wanted to hear.”
“Why did Henrik?”
“How’d you—” He caught himself.
“Some folks take in stray animals. Henrik rescues people. Why’d you need his help?”
“Who said I did?”
“Don’t sweat it, okay? I was once one of those strays.”
“Actually, I’d say it was Henrik who needed help. He contacted me.”
Malone shifted the Mazda into fifth gear and sped down the blackened highway, a hundred yards or so away from a dark ?resund sea.