Alicia Myles 2 - Crusader's Gold (12 page)

“Every time, I’m thinking.”

“So if we could get a look at the official document that relates to the Congress of Vienna then we would see what various lands, arts and others works were returned to their owners.”

“Yes, the Horses were mentioned briefly.”

“On the Internet.” Crouch said. “What about the original document?”

“You’re thinking it may have been altered for the Web?”

Crouch raised a brow. “Haven’t most official and governmental things? An omission here and there keeps the world oblivious.”

“The original . . .” Caitlyn deliberated. “Ah, it’s in the Louvre.”

“Excellent. Is it on show?”

“To a degree. They won’t just let you take it down and have a flick through.”

Crouch smiled for the first time. “We’ll see about that, won’t we? My own assets may not be on the outside, Miss Nash, but they’re just as large as our French friend’s.”

This time, Caitlyn choked on her wine.

The next morning their first act was to visit the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. Crouch led Caitlyn to the Place du Carrousel and the two stood in the early chill, staring up at the grand monument.

“Still feeling ropey?” Crouch asked, giving her space.

Caitlyn groaned. “The next time I decide to swig an entire bottle of red wine please just kill me first.”

“I’ll do better than that,” Crouch said. “I’ll render you unconscious. That way you get to see tomorrow.”

“Sounds fantastic.”

Crouch made a move toward the arch. “Built between 1806 and 1808. A high central arch flanked by two smaller ones.” He motioned. “See all the bas-reliefs?”

Caitlyn made an agreeable sound, taking in the raised sculptures across the front of the arch. She moved aside as an older man knelt beside her to take pictures. Crouch waited until he wandered off.

“The quadriga on top is what we’re really interested in. It is a direct copy of the Horses of St. Mark but even so, while the French had them, the originals were still brought up for special occasions.”

Caitlyn seemed to fathom his meaning despite her stupor. “So the originals were usually hidden away?” Her face broke into a grin. “Shit, that’s perfect. The masses get to marvel at a copy whilst Napoleon and his cronies ogle the original.”

“You got it. And that poses the question—what else did they ogle?”

Caitlyn nodded, saying nothing.

Crouch continued. “It’s likely that, like most of these triumphal arches, there are rooms inside or perhaps an underground chamber. Who knows what goes on beneath our feet?”

“Tunnels?” Caitlyn questioned. “Secret passages and byways?”

“Perhaps. Every old city, especially those with an underground train system, has them.”

“All right.” Caitlyn looked around. “Now we just need to prove it.”

“It always comes back to the Horses,” Crouch said. “Until now. It says here that they were looted and then paraded in front of Parisians along with a vast war booty in much the same way that Roman Emperors commemorated their victories.”

Caitlyn took several deep gulps of water. “Which leads us to the 1815 Congress of Vienna.”

“And to the Louvre,” Crouch said. “Which I believe is over there.”

*

The most visited museum in the world welcomed the new arrivals as it did almost everyone else, first through the large glass and metal pyramid and then a descent into a spacious lobby whereupon they would be required to re-ascend into the main buildings. Though the hour was still early the area was jam-packed. The ambiance was pleasant, excitement helping to stimulate tired tourists in their quest for ancient wonders. Crouch paid whilst Caitlyn used the old-fashioned method to locate the document that related to the 1815 Congress of Vienna.

“Here,” she waved the guide book at him when he returned. “Richelieu Wing. There’s some kind of temporary exhibition hall where it’s being housed for now.”

“Good. We have thirty minutes to get there.”

“We do? Why?”

“I’m sure you remember me mentioning my assets?”

Caitlyn colored a little. “It was a rather memorable moment.”

“A curator will be meeting us there and, hopefully, allowing us a few minutes access to the document.”

“Is that long enough? How big is it?”

“Oh, it’s big but the curator knows his stuff. He should be able to help.”

Caitlyn allowed Crouch to lead the way, trying to imagine how wonderful it must be to at least know someone who knew someone who could make things happen. Of course, Crouch had been in authority for decades and had traveled the world dozens of times. If a person was clever he never missed an opportunity to make a valuable contact. Crouch, to his team’s unceasing gratefulness, appeared to have taken that advice wholly to heart.

The Richelieu Wing stretched before them, lined to either side by old masterworks, a perfect white vault above, allowing a huge amount of inspirational light to shine down upon the ambling worshippers.

As they strolled arm in arm to help deter onlookers Crouch spoke softly. “As things stand, I don’t like introducing outsiders. We don’t know where Riley has bribes and hooks in place. But with this I had no choice. Without this curator’s help we’re all hammers striking at a nail made of rubber. Getting nowhere fast.”

Caitlyn squeezed his hand. “Riley’s sent you all off kilter, huh? I’ve never seen you like this.”

Crouch gave a half chortle. “Caitlyn, despite the hand-holding, we’ve known each other for about five minutes. You don’t know me and I don’t know you. Not really. It’s a credit to you that I already regard you as an indispensable member of our team.”

“Well, thank you. My time at MI5 was vital. In one way I’m sorry it was cut short, but in another . . .” she indicated their position. “I never would have come this far.”

Crouch asked a question that had worried him since he first heard about Caitlyn Nash and her burnout. “Did MI5 fail you?”

Caitlyn instinctively pulled away, but then came back to show her reaction had been unintentional. “No. They were entirely professional. I guess you could say it was my father who failed me.”

Crouch did not want to pry any further. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault, nor mine. To save myself from what happened I would have to turn back time.”

Crouch gave her hand a lighthearted squeeze. “Oh, the wrongs I could right . . .”

Caitlyn pointed toward a floor sign, showing the way to the temporary exhibition. “We’re here.”

Crouch stopped before a
fourteenth century French painting, pretending to have an interest but in reality scanning their peripherals. The Richelieu Wing in his experience had always been the quietest, probably because it didn’t contain any of the more famous works of art popular in the Denon Wing, but it still maintained a high frequency of foot traffic. After a minute with no warning sensors triggering in his brain he moved along.

A narrow offshoot to the Richelieu Wing appeared ahead. On one side stood a row of all-glass display cabinets, stretching from floor to ceiling, with knee-height pedestals inside upon which sat many documents and manuscripts. Black signage ran along a supposed centerline. Crouch quickly moved to the one that read ‘Congress of Venice 1815’.

Caitlyn almost touched the glass in her urgency, but Crouch pulled her away. “We’re ten minutes early.”

Caitlyn whistled. “I can’t believe we’re about to read passages from one of the most important international conferences in European history. It’s . . . a little sublime.”

The official document before them, under glass, was yellowed but perfectly legible. The title page read: Acte du Congrès de Vienne, Du 9 Juin, 1815. It was signed, though Crouch could not make out the name, and attested as the ‘official edition’.
Of course
, he thought.
Otherwise why would it be displayed in the Louvre?

A man approached noisily, dressed in a blue suit and sporting a bright red tie. His hair, professionally styled, swept up over the top of his head into a fin-like shape. He was much younger than Crouch had expected.

“Are you Amaury?”

“I am. We should be quick.” Amaury’s eyes darted left and right as if expecting a surprise attack at any moment.

Crouch nodded. “My thoughts too. You seem nervous?”

“It is not often one of the museum’s directors wakes you in the middle of the night, rips a man out of his bed and orders him to allow a person he doesn’t know a private, uninterrupted viewing.”

“It isn’t? I would have thought it happened more often than most people would imagine.”

Amaury almost smiled. “I can’t speak for that.”

“Of course. Carry on.”

The curator produced a small key, inserted it into an inconspicuous silver lock, and slid a portion of the glass aside. The gap was enough to allow only Crouch access. Caitlyn hovered at his shoulder.

“Please,” Amaury insisted, holding an object out. “Use these and have care. No fingers. Flex the pages as little as possible. Do not touch them with items of your clothing.”

Crouch knew the guidelines well. His love of archaeological history had sent him down every avenue in the past, and that included how to handle ancient manuscripts or parchment. The trouble was, the ink was no longer firmly attached to the pages. Forcing anything was out of the question. Amaury was holding out a pair of book snakes, lead weights inside fabric tubes used for holding a book open, essential for handling the document.

“Don’t worry. I will be careful.”

“Hmm. I reserve the right to worry.”

Crouch handled the document, conscious of Amaury’s every tiny intake when he suspected Crouch may have the snakes one or two millimeters off. The curator listened to Caitlyn’s contrived spiel regarding the so-called Horses of St. Mark and thankfully knew immediately what they were looking for.

“I understand. It is a passage that clearly indicated the return of the Horses to Venice and yet also alludes to the unknown. I’m surprised you have heard of it. The passage is totally anonymous.”

Crouch stopped himself from laughing aloud. “You mean you don’t get many visitors asking about the Congress of Vienna these days?”

Amaury shrugged. “Most are not so rude. With this treaty they redrew Europe’s political map, enforced Napoleon’s abdication and restored lands to many that France had plundered. Though not always their treasures,” he admitted at the end.

Crouch waited for the curator to step forward, take over the snakes and find the passage. He had no idea what he was looking for, but Amaury’s words gave him a shard of hope. Minutes passed. Crouch eyed their surroundings, in particular their only way out, and motioned that Caitlyn do the same. Their newest recruit wasn’t a soldier and didn’t possess a soldier’s instinct, but she was always willing to learn as best she could. Another minute ticked by. The sound filtering from the Richelieu Wing grew steadily louder as the day wore on. As Amaury flicked past the pages Crouch saw much white parchment covered in spider-web writing, some adorned by thick red, waxen seals.

Amaury grunted. “It is here. This is your passage.”

Crouch thanked him and waited for him to move aside before bending toward the page. Written on surprisingly white paper in tiny lettering were several passages. Crouch took his time to read them all.

“All right.” He smiled. “I have the official part where the Congress ceded the Horses back to Vienna. All good and proper. It makes no mention . . .” he tailed off.

“Makes no mention?” Amaury enquired.

“Wait.” Crouch was surprised to find that, amongst all the bureaucratic, legal language there sat a small, inconspicuous passage that almost went unnoticed. The only reason he didn’t skim it over was that it was written in a different style to everything that came before.

“Is this the passage you referred to?” he asked Amaury, pointing but careful to stay away from the page.

“Yes, that is the one.”

Crouch turned to Caitlyn, unable to hide the smile. “I think we’ve found a bloody fine clue.”

Crouch read the passage aloud:

“From an Ancient Wonder’s home to the Domus,

“From the Golden palace to the Emperor’s Circus,

“The First riding above all,

“The Second supporting the wall.

“From the Floating City to the New Rome,

“Undivided as Lysippos intended,

“The Tarentum—the strength, the bolster,

“The Quadriga—the show, the vision.

“Then sundered materially as never in spirit,

“One always the show,

“The other below,

“By the Pillars of Hercules he endures,

“A part of the soil,

“Hiding among New Arches envisioned,

“To the victor the spoils.”

Caitlyn peeked over his shoulder as he recited the passage. Amaury shifted from foot to foot, still clearly nervous. Both of them looked at Crouch at the same time.

“Well?” Caitlyn asked. “Do you know what it means?”

“I haven’t a bloody clue,” Crouch said. “But let me copy it down. I take it you have no objection to me taking a picture?” He glanced toward the curator.

“It is the Louvre,” the Frenchman said in assent. “It is what is expected.”

Crouch snapped several photos and then thanked the curator. After the man locked up and walked away Crouch allowed himself to break into a wide grin.

“This is why we do this,” he said. “For breakthroughs like this. For the discovery of lifetimes. For the thrill of the chase. This is what it means to be a treasure hunter.”

Caitlyn threw her arms around his neck before she could stop herself, exuberant as ever. Crouch immediately coughed and grunted and regained most of his English reserve.

“Um, okay. Well, let’s go then. Figure this out tonight and then round up the gang.”

“You make them sound like the Scoobies.”

“Are you kidding? I’d kill for the Scoobies at a time like this.”

Caitlyn nodded. “Wouldn’t we all.”

“Now how the hell do we get out of this place?”

“We go against the flow, Michael. Isn’t that what we always do?”