Knowing they were in a holding pattern until Selma could decipher the printout they’d stolen from Bondaruk’s lab, and knowing they needed a safe place to regroup, they’d called Yvette, who’d happily and immediately dispatched Langdon, her ex-SAS bodyguard, aboard her Gulfstream to collect them.
“Well, in all fairness I have to tell you: Umberto confessed everything,” Yvette now said. “He was quite ashamed of himself.”
“He redeemed himself,” Remi said. “In spades.”
“I agree. I told him that if the Fargos forgave, so did I.”
Sam asked, “I’m curious: What happened to Carmine Bianco?”
“Who?”
“The Corsican mobster-slash-Elban cop.”
“Ah, him . . . I believe he’s now the guest of the Italian government. Something about attempted murder.”
Sam and Remi laughed.
“So,” Yvette said, “Laurent’s diary is proving helpful?”
“And a challenge,” Remi replied. “The code he used is complex and layered, but if anyone can puzzle it out, it’s Selma.” As soon as they’d arrived at the villa they faxed the printout to Selma.
Langdon appeared with a fresh carafe of coffee and refilled everyone’s cups. Sam asked, “So, Langdon, what’s the answer?”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“Did she have the good sense to say yes?”
Langdon cleared his throat and pursed his lips.
Yvette said, “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Langdon . . .” To Sam and Remi: “He’s so reserved, so proper. Langdon, you’re allowed to share good news, you know. Go on, tell them.”
Langdon allowed his mouth to form the barest of smiles and said, “Yes, sir, she agreed to marry me.”
“Congratulations.”
Remi raised her coffee cup. “To the groom to be.”
The three of them toasted Langdon, whose face turned a deep shade of red. He nodded his thanks and murmured, “Madam, if there’s nothing else . . .”
“Go on, Langdon, before you have a stroke.”
Langdon disappeared.
“Unfortunately, this means I’ll be losing him,” Yvette said. “He’ll be a kept man now. A gigolo, if you will.”
“Not a bad job if you can get it,” Sam said.
Remi lightly punched him on the biceps. “Mind your manners, Fargo.”
“I’m just saying, there are worse jobs out there.”
“Enough.”
They chatted and drank coffee until Langdon returned thirty minutes later. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo, Mrs. Wondrash is calling for you.”
They excused themselves and followed Langdon down to the study. Yvette’s MacBook Air sat open on a mahogany desk overlooking the garden. Langdon had already arranged a pair of club chairs before the laptop. Once they were seated, he left and closed the door behind him.
The laptop’s screen displayed Selma’s workroom back in La Jolla. “Selma, are you there?” Sam called.
Pete Jeffcoat’s tanned face appeared before the camera. He smiled at them. “Hi, Sam. Hi, Remi.”
“How’re you, Pete?”
“Fantastic, couldn’t be better.” Pete’s sunny attitude knew no bounds. He could not only turn lemons into lemonade, but he could turn them into a grove of lemon trees.
“And Wendy?”
“She’s good. Getting a little stir-crazy, being all cooped up here. The bodyguard guys are great, but a little strict.”
“It’s for the best,” Sam said. “Hopefully it’ll be over soon.”
“Sure, no worries, we’re cool. Hey, here’s the head honcho. . . .”
Pete disappeared from view and was replaced by Selma, who settled onto a stool in front of the camera, casually dunking a tea bag into a steaming cup. “Morning, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo.”
“Morning, Selma.”
“You want the good news or the bad news first?”
“Both at the same time,” Sam replied. “Like peeling off a Band-Aid.”
“Whatever you say . . . The printout you faxed did the trick. Very good image; high resolution. I used it to decipher the next lines of code. Here’s the bad news: The riddle has us stumped. Maybe you’ll have more luck with it.” Selma grabbed her clipboard from the table and recited:
“Anguished House Fellows in amber trapped;
Tassilo and Pepere Gibbous Baia keep safe the place of Hajj;
The Genius of Ionia, his stride a battle of rivals;
A trio of Quoins, their fourth lost, shall point the way to Frigisinga.
“That’s it,” Selma said. “I’ve e-mailed it to your iPhones with the standard Blowfish encryption. We’ll keep working on it, but it seems clear this one’s a bit tougher than the last.”
“I’d say so,” Remi replied, already deep in thought.
Sam said, “Selma, the word in the last line—coins . . .”
“It’s spelled Q-U-O-I-N-S.”
“You’re sure that’s it?”
“We’re sure. I triple-checked it myself, then had Pete and Wendy do the same. Why?”
“ ‘Quoin’ is an architectural term. It has a couple meanings: It’s a keystone of an arch or exterior cornerstone.”
“But to what?” Remi said.
“That’s the million-dollar question. We have to assume it’s answered in the rest of the riddle.”
“Unless it refers to any of its other meanings,” Selma said. “ ‘Quoin’ also relates to printing and naval warfare. The first is a device used to hold handset type in place. The second is a type of block used to raise and lower the barrel of a cannon.”
“A block?” Remi said. “As in a wedge?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“So it has something to do with cornerstones and wedges.”
“If we take the meanings literally,” Sam replied. “But if they’re metaphorical they could mean anything—a wedge can either support or separate objects. Same with a cornerstone.”
“We need the rest of the context,” Remi agreed. “We’ll get to work, Selma, thanks.”
“Two more things before you go: I’m also deciphering Laurent’s diary as we go along, and I think we’ve got the answer to a couple of our mini mysteries. First, I’ve found out why he and Napoleon bothered with a code and riddle instead of just a map with a big X on it.
“According to Laurent, Napoleon fell into a depression soon after he reached Saint Helena. He’d escaped exile on Elba only to get defeated four months later at Waterloo. He confided to Laurent that he thought his fate was sealed. He was sure he’d die in exile on Saint Helena.”
“He was right,” Sam said.
“It started him pondering his legacy,” Selma continued. “He had one son, Napoleon Francis Joseph Charles—Napoleon II—by his second wife, Marie Louise. When Napoleon lost at Waterloo he abdicated the throne to junior, who ruled for about two weeks before the allies stormed Paris and dethroned him.
“Napoleon was heartbroken—and furious. He felt if his son had shown ‘true Bonaparte character,’ it wouldn’t have happened. Never mind that the boy was four years old.”
Sam said, “It couldn’t have been easy for him to live up to his father’s reputation.”
“Impossible, I’d say. Anyway, Napoleon ordered Laurent to create a ‘puzzle map’ that would—and I’m quoting here—‘confound our enemies, prove the new emperor’s mettle, and point the way to the prize that would help return the Bonaparte name to greatness.’
“Unfortunately,” Selma continued, “after the allies overthrew him, Napoleon II was bundled off to Austria, given the honorary title of Duke of Reichstadt, and kept a virtual prisoner there until he died of tuberculosis in 1832. As far as I can tell he never even tried to regain power—or even follow the map. Laurent isn’t clear why, though.