the German collapse and the loss of Holland. Paris fell in 1814, and he abdicated. They sent him to Elba, but he escaped and tried to retake Paris from Louis XVIII. But his Waterloo finally came on June 18, 1815, and it was over. Off to St. Helena to die."
"You truly hate the man, don't you?"
"What galls me is we'll never know the man. He spent the five years of his exile on St. Helena burnishing his image, writing an autobiography that ended up being more fiction than fact, tailoring history to his advantage. In truth, he was a husband who dearly loved his wife, but quickly divorced her when she failed to produce an heir. A general who professed great love for his soldiers, yet sacrificed them by the hundreds of thousands. Supposedly fearless, he repeatedly abandoned his men when expedient. A leader who wanted nothing more than to strengthen France, yet kept the nation constantly embroiled in war. I think it's obvious why I detest him."
He thought a little aggravation might be good. "Did you know that Napoleon and Josephine dined here? I'm told this room remains much the same as it was in the early 19th century."
She smiled. "I was aware of that. Interesting, though, that you know such information."
"Did Napoleon really have that sorcerer killed in Egypt?"
"He ordered one of his savants, Monge, to do it."
"Do you adhere to the theory that Napoleon was poisoned?" He knew that, supposedly, arsenic had been slowly administered in his food and drink, enough to eventually kill him. Modern tests run of strands of hair that survived confirmed high levels of arsenic.
She laughed. "The British had no reason to kill him. In fact, it was quite the opposite. They wanted him alive."
Their entrees arrived. His was a pan-fried red mullet in oil and tomatoes, hers a young chicken in wine sauce, sprinkled with cheese. They both enjoyed a glass of merlot.
"Do you know the story of when they exhumed Napoleon in 1840, to return him to France?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"It's illustrative of why the British would never have poisoned him."
MALONE THREADED HIS WAY THROUGH THE DESERTED GALLERY. No lights burned, and the illumination provided by sunlight was diffused by plastic sheets that protected the windows. The air was warm and laced with the pall of fresh paint. Many of the display cases and exhibits were draped in crusty drop cloths. Ladders dotted the walls. More scaffolding rose at the far end. A section of the hardwood flooring had been removed, and messy repairs were being made to the stone subsurface.
He noticed no cameras, no sensors. He passed uniforms, armor, swords, daggers, harnesses, pistols, and rifles, all displayed in silk-lined cases. A steady and intentional procession of technology, each generation learning how to kill the next faster. Nothing at all suggested the horror of war. Instead, only its glory seemed emphasized.
He stepped around another gash in the floor and kept walking down the long gallery, his rubber soles not making a sound.
Behind him he heard the metal doors being tested.
ASHBY STOOD ON THE SECOND-FLOOR LANDING AND WATCHED as Mr. Guildhall pressed on the doors that led into the Napoleon galleries.
Something blocked them.
"I thought they were open," Caroline whispered.
That was exactly what Larocque had reported. Anything of value had been removed weeks ago. All that remained were minor historical artifacts, left inside since outside storage was limited. The contractor performing the remodeling had agreed to work around the exhibits, required to purchase liability insurance to guarantee their safety.
Yet something blocked the doors.
He did not want to attract the attention of the woman below, or employees one floor above in the relief map museum. "Force them," he said. "But quietly."
THE FRENCH FRIGATE LA BELLE POULE ARRIVED AT ST. HELENA IN October 1840 with a contingent led by Prince de Joinville, the third son of King Louis Philippe. The British governor, Middlemore, sent his son to greet the ship and Royal Naval shore batteries fired a twenty-one-gun salute in their honor. On October 15, twenty five years to the day since Napoleon first arrived on St. Helena, the task of exhuming the emperor's body began. The French wanted the process managed by their sailors, but the British insisted that the job be done by their people. Local workmen and British soldiers toiled through the night in a pouring rain. Nineteen years had passed since Napoleon's coffin had been lowered into the earth, sealed with bricks and cement, and reversing that process proved