The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

The tiny transmitters had a range of only a couple of miles, so the Oregon wasn’t able to listen in, but the four of them would be able to communicate with one another while they were in the city.

“You want me to wait outside the party?” Trono asked.

Juan nodded. “Within a couple of blocks of the museum. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to leave. MacD, stay out of sight unless we need you.”

“Roger that,” MacD said.

“And the auction tomorrow?” Trono asked.

“We can assume whoever overbids on the diary is the one ShadowFoe is connected to or might even be ShadowFoe herself,” Gretchen said. “We’ll follow them afterward to see where they go.”

“We’ll be there to drive up the bidding,” Juan added. “Tonight, I want to get a sense of who else will be attending the auction. Should be an easy in-and-out recon mission.” Through various contacts, the CIA had made him and Gretchen last-minute additions to the guest list under the pseudonyms they’d used during their final mission in Russia: Gabriel and Naomi Jackson.

Trono drove them to the entrance of the museum, where a red carpet flanked by two stone lions led inside. A corner of the museum’s façade looked as if it had been knocked out with a sledgehammer—the result of an attack the day before involving a crane and some gunfire, according to the news—but the museum had insisted on going forward with the gala and auction anyway since the main hall didn’t suffer any damage. Despite the attackers supposedly being caught, the security had been noticeably beefed up, with heavily armed teams of guards at every corner of the outdoor plaza.

As Juan and Gretchen walked the carpet, he noticed a tightening of her lips as she climbed the museum’s front stairs.

“You okay?” he asked.

She smiled. “Never better. Let’s get some champagne.”

They each took a glass from the server at the entrance and strolled through the glitterati who had assembled for this unique occasion. Policemen guarded the front and rear of the hall, while numerous security staff in suits observed the guests. Juan thought he recognized a few billionaires and celebrities among the crowd, but he wasn’t really up on the latest pop culture. Murph and Eric would have been slobbering over some of

the starlets in attendance.

The grand central atrium of the Maltese Oceanic Museum served as the venue for the gala. Endowed in the last few years by a Maltese shipping mogul, the museum housed one of the world’s finest collections of nautical artifacts and memorabilia. Marble columns supported a domed ceiling painted with famous sea battles. Juan recognized the British and French ships of the line at Trafalgar, the British and German dreadnoughts at Jutland, and the American and Japanese carriers at Midway as just a few of them.

Waiters in tuxedoes circulated around with trays of caviar and white truffles, and a chamber orchestra played classical music of Napoleon’s era at the far end of the room. The most important pieces from the auction were displayed in kiosks set up throughout the hall.

When they stopped at the first item, marked as Lot XXXI, Juan looked for a moment at the stone tablet covered with ancient Egyptian art. He couldn’t quite figure out what was odd about the scene depicting a tall green man seeming to levitate prone bodies while white-robed priests watched from the background. It wasn’t until he moved sideways and saw the metal edge of the image that he realized what he was looking at.

“A hologram,” a voice from behind them said. They turned to see the museum director, Arturo Talavera. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

Juan and Gretchen introduced themselves as owners of a New York–based hedge fund, billionaires looking for ways to spend their newfound wealth.

“Beautiful piece,” Gretchen said. “But why are we looking at a hologram instead of the real item?”

“It was a condition of the sale,” Talavera replied. “Besides, it really is the safest way to display the items. Most of them are fragile and we want to minimize any unnecessary transportation and handling for prospective buyers such as yourselves. As you can see, the high-definition, 3-D display is almost indistinguishable from the original.”

“It took me a second to understand what I was looking at,” Juan said. “It’s a shame, though, that we can’t see the real thing in person.”

“You will be able to see them tomorrow at the auction, of course. And all of the holographic records are to be destroyed once the auction is complete, so this will be your only possibility to see most of the items at all. But this technology gives us a chance for us to show you some of the details that we wouldn’t otherwise be able to show you. For example . . .” He walked toward the center of the atrium, coaxing them to follow.

They came to a stop in front of a display case marked Lot XVI. Two guests were already standing in front of it—a short, powerfully built man in his forties and a thin, attractive blonde half his age, a difference in years not uncommon in the party’s couples. Talavera introduced them as Sergey Golov and Ivana Semova.

“I present Napoleon’s Diary,” Talavera said proudly. “The handwriting inside has been authenticated to be the emperor’s. It is thought to have been stolen by one of the soldiers or servants upon the Little Corporal’s death in 1821. Its existence had been legendary until it surfaced in this exquisite collection.”

Juan and Gretchen leaned in and saw that the copy of The Odyssey was in excellent condition. The book was written in Greek, with French notations in a tight scrawl along the margins, and some of the printed text underlined or circled. After a moment, an animation flipped the page.

“You see,” Talavera continued, “we couldn’t have shown multiple pages of the book to our guests without risk of damage.”

Juan frowned at the diary. “Mr. Talavera, it seems odd that Napoleon wouldn’t have a French version of the story. Did he know Greek?”

“Not that we know of. That’s one of the great mysteries of its existence. Some believe Napoleon was attempting to learn the language. Perhaps if you purchase the piece, you will be able to have someone study his notes.”

“Have all the pages been scanned?” Gretchen asked. By this time, Golov and his companion had turned to join the discussion and watched Talavera intently for his answer.

Talavera shook his head. “Only a select few—again, to handle the document as little as possible. It will be up to the owner of this magnificent piece to decide how to display and catalog it.”