Главная страница | Книги о приключениях | Gabriel′s Horn

Gabriel's Horn
Alex Archer


The stranger could be insane. Or he just might be our salvation.Archaeologist Annja Creed is more than curious when a decrepit, ancient-looking man visits her, claiming the end of the world is near. The stranger spins wild tales and speaks as if he actually knew King Arthur. But, strangest of all, he insists that Annja is the only one who can stop the horrible event that is about to happen.When Annja's mentor and friend Roux goes missing, she quickly realizes there may be something to the stranger's stories. Making her way through the dark and violent underbelly of Istanbul, Annja must find her missing friend and the Holy Grail before the relic gets into the wrong hands. She may not fully believe the fate of the world is on the line, but she doesn't really want to die finding out.









The sensation of being watched was uncomfortable


Annja had experienced such things before. Women generally did. Usually it was better to just ignore things like that, but Annja was aware that she no longer lived in a usually world.

A figure stood at the window, and he was staring at her. Gaunt and dressed in rags, the old man looked more like a scarecrow than a human being. A ragged beard clung to his pointed chin. His hat had flaps that covered his ears and gave his face a pinched look. His eyes were beady and sharp, mired in pits of wrinkles and prominent bone.

He lifted a hand covered in a glove with the fingers cut off. His dirty forefinger pointed directly at Annja, and even from across the room, she read his lips.

“Annja Creed.”

A chill ghosted through her. How did the man know her name?

“Annja Creed,” the old man said. “The world is going to end. Soon.”





Gabriel’s Horn


Rogue Angel







Alex Archer







www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)








Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Epilogue




1


Prague, Czech Republic

“He’s going to catch fire when the motorcycle hits the back of the overturned car?” Annja Creed asked in disbelief.

“Yeah. But the real trick is when he catches fire.” Barney Yellowtail calmly surveyed the wrecked cars in the middle of the narrow street between a line of four-story buildings that had seen far better days.

“When?” Annja asked, still trying to grasp the whole idea.

“When is important,” Barney continued. He was in his late forties, twenty years older than Annja, and had been a stuntman for almost thirty years. “If Roy catches on fire too late, we’ve hosed the gag.”

Gags, Annja had learned, were what stunt people called the death-defying feats they did almost on a daily basis.

“And if you hose the gag,” Annja said, “you have to do it over and risk Roy’s life again.”

Barney grinned. He claimed to be full-blood Choctaw Indian from Oklahoma and looked it. His face was dark and seamed, creased by a couple of scars under his left eye and under his right jawline. He wore rimless glasses that darkened in the bright sunlight, and a straw cowboy hat. His jeans and chambray work shirt were carefully pressed. His boots were hand-tooled brown-and-white leather that Annja thought were to die for.

Annja was five feet ten inches tall with chestnut hair and amber-green eyes. She had an athlete’s build with smooth, rounded muscle. She wore khaki pants, hiking boots, a lightweight white cotton tank under a robin’s-egg-blue blouse, wraparound blue sunglasses and an Australian Colly hat that she’d developed a fondness for to block the sun.

“That’s not the worst part,” Barney assured her.

“That’s not the worst part?” Annja echoed.

“Naw,” Barney replied, smiling wide enough to show a row of perfect teeth. “The worst part is that the director will be mad.”

“Oh.”

Barney looked at her as if sensing that she wasn’t completely convinced. “Mad directors mean slow checks. They also mean slow work. If you can’t hit your marks on a gag, especially on a film that Spielberg’s underwriting, your phone isn’t going to ring very often.”

Annja wondered if you had to be certifiable to be a stuntman.

“C’mon, Annja,” Barney said. “I’ve read about you in the magazines, seen you on Letterman and kept up with what you’re doing on Chasing History’s Monsters. You know life isn’t worth living without a little risk.”

Annja knew her life hadn’t exactly been risk free. Actually, especially lately, it seemed to go the other way. As a working archaeologist, she’d traveled to a number of dangerous places, and those places were starting to multiply dramatically as she became more recognized.

She thought about her job at Chasing History’s Monsters. Most days she wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse. The syndicated show had high enough ratings that the producers could send Annja a number of places that she couldn’t have afforded on her own.

The drawback was that the stories she was asked to cover—historical madmen, psychopaths, serial killers and even legendary monsters—were usually less than stellar. Fans of the show couldn’t get enough of her, but some of the people in her field of archaeology had grown somewhat leery.

None of that, though, had come without risk.

“Okay,” Annja admitted. “I’ll give you that. But I’ve never set myself on fire.”

“Roy’s not going to set himself on fire,” Barney said. “I’m going to do that for him.”

“Oh.”

“It’s just that timing is critical.” Barney stepped to one side as his cell phone rang. “Excuse me.”

Annja nodded and surveyed the street. The film crew had barricaded three city blocks in Prague’s Old Town. A few streets over, the Vltava River coursed slowly by and carried the river traffic to various destinations.

Prague was a new experience for Annja, and she was thoroughly enjoying it. Getting the job on the movie had been as unexpected as it was welcome. She’d done a bit of work with props before, but never on a motion picture of this magnitude.

Kill Me Deadly was a new spy romp that was part James Bond and part Jason Bourne. The hero even carried the same J.B. initials—Jet Bard.

Annja hadn’t quite understood the plot because a lot of the details were still under wraps. She was of the impression some of them were still being worked out, which was causing extra stress on the set.

Three cars occupied the middle of the street. Two of them were overturned. All of them were black from where they’d been burned. The stuntman was supposed to hit the upright car, catch on fire and turn into a human comet streaking across the sky.

When Annja had heard about the stunt and had received an invitation from Barney to attend, she’d thought about gracefully declining. Then she’d found she couldn’t stay away.

Now her stomach knotted in anticipation. She’d gotten to know the young daredevil who was about to become a human fireball. He was a nice guy and she didn’t like the idea that something bad might happen to him.

“Okay,” Barney said as he stepped back to rejoin her. His gaze remained on the street while he adjusted his headset. “I’m going to need you to stay quiet for a moment, Annja.”

“Sure.” Annja gazed down the street anxiously.

Camera operators lined the street from various points of view. All of them remained out of each other’s line of sight. The crews had worked on the setup for hours. Before that, they’d measured and mapped the distances on a model of the street and the cars.

According to the computer programs Barney and the other stunt people had run, everything would go fine. To Annja, it was a lot like exploring a dig site she’d read about. Even though she knew the background and the general layout, there were far too many surprises involved to guarantee everything was safe. Some of the early Egyptian-tomb explorers had quickly discovered that.

“On your go,” Barney said softly. He held up an electronic control box in both hands. “I’m with you.” He flicked a switch.

Immediately a half-dozen fires flamed to life within the pile of wrecked cars. They burned cheerily and black smoke twisted on the breeze.

“We’ve got fire in the hole, Roy,” Barney declared.

The throb of the motorcycle’s engine rumbled into Annja’s ears. She watched with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Roy Fein was one of the top stuntmen in the game. Barney had said that a number of times over the past few days. She didn’t know if he’d been trying to reassure her or himself.

“Steady,” Barney said. “Okay, you’re on track. Now increase your speed to seventy-eight miles per hour.”

The exact speed had been a big concern, Annja knew. Too much and the impact angle would be wrong and the motorcycle might flip end over end. Too little and Roy would fall short of the air bag that waited at the other end of the jump.

The motorcycle roared into view. Roy Fein, dressed in dark blue racing leathers and a matching helmet, had raced around the corner. A car followed only inches behind him.

“You’re on,” Barney said. “Hit the Volkswagen and I’m going to light you up.”

At that moment, the pursuit car slowed and slewed sideways. Actors inside the vehicle leaned out the windows and fired weapons.

“I got you, kid. I got you.” Barney’s voice was soft and reassuring. “Get that fire-suppression unit ready.”

The motorcycle rider popped a slight wheelie just before he hit the Volkswagen. Effortlessly, the motorcycle climbed the specially altered vehicle.

“Now,” Barney said. His finger flipped one of the switches on the electronics box.

Immediately, the motorcycle and rider were enveloped in flames. But something was wrong. Instead of arcing gracefully across the distance, the motorcycle went awry.

“Kick loose, kid!” Barney yelled. “Lose the bike!” He dropped the electronics box and ran toward the street.

Roy pushed free of the motorcycle and spread-eagled in the air like Superman. But he wasn’t flying—he was falling. Flames twisted and whipped around his body. He threw his arms out and tried to adjust his fall as gravity took over and brought him back toward the pavement.

Annja ran after Barney, though she didn’t know what she was going to do. There was no way she could help Roy. But she couldn’t just stand there, either.

The motorcycle spun crazily, nowhere near the trajectory it was supposed to maintain to get near the air bag designed to break Roy’s fall. Then it blew up.

The force slammed Annja to the ground. She tucked into a roll and came to her feet instinctively. Slightly disoriented, she glanced up to see where the flaming pieces of the motorcycle were coming down. She saw Barney was on his side. His face was twisted in agony as he reached toward a bloody gash soaking his shirt.

Annja went toward him. She yelled for help, but couldn’t hear her own voice. She tried again. Her ears felt numb, then she realized she was deaf.

She dropped beside Barney and surveyed the wound. An irregular furrow ran along his ribs. She tried to tell him that he was going to be all right but knew that he couldn’t hear her, either. She yanked his shirt from his pants and rolled the tails up to his wound, then leaned on the folds to put pressure on the wound in his side.

One of the other stunt coordinators joined Annja and dropped to his knees. His mouth was moving. She knew he was shouting something. He was young, tall and gangly, and he was in shock.

Annja grabbed one of his hands and directed him to take hold of the makeshift pressure bandage she’d created. For a moment he froze. With authority, Annja caught his face in her palms. She met his eyes with hers and struggled to remember his name.

“Tony,” she said. “It’s Tony, right?” She couldn’t hear herself.

“I can’t hear you,” he said.

Annja read his lips. “It’s okay,” she told him. “Your hearing will come back.” She hoped that was true.

Sirens, muted and faraway sounding, reached her and gave her hope that her hearing hadn’t been permanently destroyed.

Tony nodded, but he didn’t look any less scared.

“He’s hurt,” Annja told Tony. “Hold the pressure on the wound. Like this.” She guided his hands.

“Okay,” he said. “I got it.”

“I’m going to look for a first-aid kit,” Annja shouted.

Tony nodded and held on to the rolled-up shirt.

Annja got up. Her legs were shaky. She felt her phone vibrate in her pants pocket. Still on the move, she took the phone out and glanced at the number. She’d been expecting a call from Garin Braden, but the call was from New York. It was from Doug Morrell, her producer on Chasing History’s Monsters.

She switched the phone off and returned it to her pocket. With her hearing compromised, the last thing she needed was a phone call.

Burning debris from the motorcycle littered the immediate vicinity. Annja looked for Roy Fein’s body, knowing that he might not have survived the fall and the flames. Fire-suppression teams worked the air bag’s surface. White flame-retardant foam coated the bag and made it slippery.

Some of Annja’s tension drained away when she realized Roy had made it to the air bag. Then she saw him moving. The distinctive motorcycle leathers bore scorch marks and charring, but he was standing on his own two feet.

All along the street, the set teams hustled to the site. Even with all the wreckage they’d seen and helped produce for the movies, the shooting teams weren’t prepared for the damage they saw now.

Without warning, another detonation occurred and the three stunt cars erupted in flames.

The force of the explosion blew Annja from her feet and rolled her away. A wave of heat washed over her back. Stunned, she lay still for a moment and checked the sidewalk around her for shadows of falling debris.

A dark mass centered over her as if she lay under a solar eclipse. She pushed her right hand against the street and rolled to her left. She barely made out the twisted wreckage of a burning car falling toward her.




2


The clangor of the mass of flaming metal striking the street jarred Annja and filled her head with noise. She lay still and stared at the debris that had barely missed her.

In that same moment, she spotted movement on top of one of the nearby buildings.

Three men stood atop the building. One held a box that looked similar to the one Barney had used. He pointed at Annja and spoke to his companions.

Another man drew a pistol from under his jacket and pointed it in Annja’s direction. She rolled to her feet and ran toward the building because it offered quick cover.

The third man slapped the second man’s arm down and the bullet fired into the rooftop. The sharp crack of the report barely registered in Annja’s hearing. She lost sight of the men as she ran into the alley.

When she spotted the skeletal fire escape tracking back and forth across the side of the building, she ran for it, leaped to catch hold of the lower rung and swung herself up like a gymnast. She raced through the ladders and landings as she pushed herself to reach the top.

The panorama of the red-tiled roofs that filled the city spread in all directions. The silvery shine of the river snaked through the heart of Prague.

Forcing herself to remain calm, Annja turned slowly. Thoughts of the pistol the man had been only too willing to use were foremost in her mind. She’d only been in Prague for a few days. She didn’t know anyone there who wanted to kill her.

The keening wail of the sirens drew closer.

From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the three men running across the next building. Annja launched herself in pursuit. She drove her legs hard and reached the building’s edge in a dozen strides. By that time she was up to speed.

A narrow gulf nearly three stories deep loomed before her. She never slackened her effort. Her left foot landed on the building’s edge and she propelled herself over the intervening distance.

Almost immediately she knew she hadn’t jumped high enough. She had the distance covered easily, but she dropped too quickly. Desperate, she threw her arms out and slammed against the other building with enough force to knock the wind from her lungs.

Her fingers curled as she slid down, then caught the lip of the roof. She pushed her hiking boots against the stone wall and found purchase. When she climbed up, she started to run again.

The men she pursued remained a building ahead of her. Concentrating, she found her rhythm. She leaped the next alley, landed and didn’t miss a stride. The distance between her and the three men was shrinking.

Ahead of her, the three men turned and looked back. The man with the pistol stopped suddenly and whirled around with the weapon before him. A green tattoo of a curved sword covered the hollow of his throat.

A quick step to the side put Annja out of range of the first bullet. The second chopped into the roof where she’d been. By that time she had taken cover behind a chimney. She felt the vibrations of bullets squarely striking it.

Were the men going to continue to flee? Or were they going to come back to finish the job? Especially since she’d cut herself off from possible help.

You really need to stop and think some of these things through before you do them, she chided herself. The problem with that was there generally wasn’t much time for thinking when something like this happened.

And information—any information—was better than no information. She wanted to know who the men were and why they’d tried to kill her.

She was sure they’d been there to kill her, not anyone connected with the movie.

Squatting down, her breath still coming smoothly in spite of her exertion, Annja reached for her sword. She felt it with her hand and drew it forth from the otherwhere.

The sword was a part of her life she was still struggling to understand. She set herself, arms bent at the elbow, balancing the sword straight up in front of her.

Her hearing was still muffled so Annja watched for moving shadows to either side of her. It was late enough in the afternoon that the shadows would be long, but they wouldn’t be bent toward her since the men were south of her position. She also paid attention to the vibrations throbbing through the rooftop.

Three more rounds slammed into the chimney. Stone chips sprayed the rooftop. After a moment, Annja glanced around the chimney and saw the men fleeing. She sped after them with the sword in her hand.

After leaping to the next building, she made it to the fire escape before they could reach the ground. The man with the pistol leaned out from the second-floor landing and fired several shots.

Annja dodged back just in time for the shots to miss her. The bullets ripped along the low brick wall in front of her and tore through the air. She reversed her grip on the sword, stepped along the wall four paces and leaned out again.

The man stood farther down the stairs, almost to the ground.

As the man turned toward her and froze in his position, Annja whipped the sword at him. The keen blade caught the man high in the chest and knocked him over the railing. He dropped in a loose heap to the ground and writhed in pain.

He wasn’t dead. She hadn’t intended to kill him. Although she had killed while saving her life or the lives of others, the idea of doing that didn’t sit well with her.

Annja started to climb down, but the other two men pulled out pistols. She ducked back again. Great, she thought. Everyone has a gun but me.

Bullets smacked against the building. She felt the vibrations more than she heard the harsh cracks of the gunshots.

She concentrated for just a moment, felt for the sword and pulled it through otherwhere again. On the ground, the man screamed in agony. The blade appeared in her hands blood free. Annja still didn’t know how the sword did what it did, but she’d come to trust it and use it when necessary.

She shifted and moved to a new position. Then she looked over the roof’s edge again. Below, the two healthy men had the third man between them in a fireman’s carry. They ran toward the street. One of the men talked on a phone.

Annja started down the fire escape with the sword in her hand. She took the steps two and three at a time, boots thudding against the steps, almost spilling over the landings in her haste. At the second-floor landing she let her momentum get the best of her and vaulted over the side. She flipped and landed on her feet, her sword swept back and ready.

A dark sedan screeched to a stop near the three fleeing men. The rear door swung open. The two men carrying the third stared in awe at Annja. They passed their wounded comrade inside and climbed in after him.

Annja ran after them, thinking that she might be able to keep pace. She willed the sword away and reached for her phone. For a moment she kept up with the retreating vehicle and strained to make out the license plate.

The rear window sank down smoothly. The wicked mouth of a submachine pistol jutted out just as Annja closed in on an outdoor café packed with diners.

Annja couldn’t risk innocent bystanders. The people at the café would never see the threat in time, much less be able to take evasive action. Frustrated, she stopped, then dived for cover as the submachine gun chattered to life. Bullets passed over her head and shattered the windows of the clothing store behind her.

Glass shards rattled down all around her. She kept her hands and arms wrapped around her head to protect her face. The deadly rain had stopped, and she made sure she wasn’t bleeding from anything serious. When she looked up, the dark sedan was gone.

She punched the car’s license plate number into her phone’s memory and hoped the police would arrive soon.




3


Annja watched the Prague police detective and tried to read his lips. The man’s mouth hardly moved, and the bushy mustache further disguised what he was saying.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re going to have to speak up.” Her own words barely penetrated the thick cotton in her ears. “I can’t hear very well since the explosions.”

The detective, whose name was Skromach, calmly started over. He looked like a patient man. Slight of stature, he exuded an air of competence. His salt-and-pepper hair needed the attention of a barber, but his suit was impeccable.

“You ran after the men, Miss Creed?” Skromach asked.

“Yes.” Annja sat on the steps of a nearby building. An ambulance attendant treated a thin cut below her left eye and another along her jawline. Neither was bad enough to scar, but they would show for a while. She hoped Garin wasn’t planning on taking her anywhere too elegant because she would look like a ragamuffin.

Skromach held his pen poised over his notepad. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“I didn’t want the men who did this to get away.”

The detective nodded. “You think they did this?”

Annja nodded at the burning pyre of cars the local fire department was dealing with. Water streamed from hoses. Gray steam clouds mixed with the black smoke.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said.

Skromach shrugged. “Perhaps it was an overzealous special-effects person.”

“No,” Annja said, feeling the need to defend Barney and his crew. “That blast was deliberately set.”

“For the movie, yes?”

“No.” Annja shook her head. The ambulance attendant, a no-nonsense woman, grabbed her chin and held her steady. “The special-effects crew is good. They wouldn’t make that kind of mistake.”

Skromach flipped back through his notes. Annja had seen him questioning movie people while she’d talked to Barney and Roy. Both of them were banged up but they were going to be fine.

“I see here that you’re not a special-effects person,” the police detective said.

“No,” Annja said, realizing her hearing was beginning to clear.

Skromach nodded. “You’re here as an archaeologist attached to the film?”

“Yes. But I’m only loosely attached. I’m taking care of the props.”

“I see. Tell me about the props.”

“They’re Egyptian. Statues of Bast and Anubis.”

“Were they pharaohs?”

“No. Gods. A god and goddess, to be exact. Bast is an ancient goddess worshiped since the Second Dynasty. About five thousand years, give or take. Anubis was the god of the underworld. Usually he’s shown having the head of a jackal.”

That seemed to catch Skromach’s interest. “These statues are valuable?”

“Only to a collector. They aren’t actually thousands of years old, but they are a few hundred.”

“A few hundred years seems like a valuable thing. I collect stamps myself, and some of those are worth an incredible amount of money after only a short time.”

“That’s generally because they’re issued with flaws. This—” Annja tried to find the words she wanted but failed “—wouldn’t be like that.”

“I see.” Skromach didn’t sound convinced.

“Someone hosed the gag,” Annja said.

Skromach blinked. “Hosed the gag?”

“Sorry. The explosions were no accident,” Annja said confidently.

“You’re no authority,” the detective replied.

Annja sighed. The conversation seemed determined to go in circles. “Check with Barney Yellowtail. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

“I expect that he would. Especially in light of the fact that he was responsible for the gag, as you put it.”

Don’t get angry, Annja told herself. He’s just trying to do his job.

“If these statues are not so much valuable, why, then, are you shepherding them?” he asked.

“I’m shepherding all of the Egyptian artifacts in this movie,” Annja replied. “Those two props are the more important ones. The director wants everything realistic.”

Skromach scratched his long nose. “You were hired for your expertise?” he asked.

“Yes.”

The detective smiled. “Perhaps also because of your own notoriety. You have a certain…reputation.”

“I suppose.”

“Come, come, Miss Creed. Chasing History’s Monsters is very popular, they tell me. My wife is a fan.” Skromach looked utterly disarming.

Annja knew to be on her guard. It’s the quiet ones that always get you, she cautioned herself.

Skromach looked at his notes again. “Why did you chase the men?”

“Like I said, I didn’t want them to get away.”

“Such a thing is dangerous.”

“Today has been dangerous,” Annja countered.

“You could have been shot.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You said there were three of them?”

“Yes.”

“Men you had seen before?”

“I didn’t say that,” Annja told him. Finally finished with her chore, the ambulance attendant stepped away.

“Had you seen them before?” Skromach asked.

“No.”

“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps, when you’re able—say in a few minutes or so—you could come down to the police station and look at some photographs.”

Inwardly, Annja groaned. She wasn’t looking forward to her date with Garin and didn’t want to be stressed before she joined him.

“I’ve got plans for this evening,” Annja replied.

Skromach checked his watch. “We’re still hours from evening, Miss Creed. And I’d rather you came down voluntarily than me going to the trouble of making my invitation official.”

“Why me?”

Skromach smiled. “Because you were the only one who chased those men.”

“I gave you the license plate of the car they were in.”

“Unfortunately, that car was stolen this morning. The owner is very distressed.”

“Does the owner have any tattoos?” Annja asked.

Brows knitted, Skromach studied her. “Why do you ask?”

“One of the men had a sword tattooed on his neck.” Annja touched her own neck in the place where the man’s tattoo had been.

“Ah.” Skromach wrote in his notebook. “You didn’t mention this before.”

“I just remembered,” Annja said. “What about the car’s owner?”

Skromach thought for a moment, then flipped back through his notebook. “I see no tattoos, sword or otherwise, mentioned.” He looked up at her. “Perhaps I’ll go see him. Just in case. In the meantime, I’d like to offer you a ride down to the police station.”

Skromach was very good with surprises. He waited until he had Annja seated beside him in the back of the police car before he sprung his.

“So tell me, Miss Creed,” he said. “What did you do with the sword?”

The car got under way. Annja fumbled for the seat belt to cover her reaction. Her heart beat fast and her hands suddenly felt clammy. She tried to relax. No one could find the sword. Only she could call it forth, she reminded herself. When she had the seat belt fastened, she asked, “What sword?”

“Policemen working this case canvassed the street where you chased the men,” the detective replied. “Witnesses said you threw a sword at one of the men and pierced him.”

Annja held up her hands. “No sword.”

Skromach scratched his jaw with a thumbnail. “They seemed most adamant, these witnesses. And there was a lot of blood at the scene.”

“One of the men fell.”

“The one with the sword tattoo?” Skromach touched his neck.

“I think so,” Annja said.

“I see.”

“Maybe the fall hurt the man and caused an injury.”

“The witnesses said the man had to be carried off.”

Annja waited. She wasn’t very good at lying, but lying was better than trying to explain a supernatural sword.

“If you or your men can find a sword up there, then I must have had one,” she replied. “Things got confusing very quickly.”

“They usually do.” Skromach shrugged. “We also had reports citing the number of men from two to eleven. Although how all those men fit into one car is beyond me. Eyewitnesses, as every policeman knows, are unreliable at best.” He leaned back against the seat. “Besides, even if you did have a sword, you would only be guilty of self-defense.”

“Yes.”

“If those men were the ones who hosed the gag, as I believe you said.”

“That’s right,” Annja replied. “That’s what I said.”

“Hopefully, we can find them.”

Annja hoped so, too. Because if they didn’t, she had the distinct impression the men might come looking for her again.




4


“Annja, you’ve got to listen to me. You’re in Prague. That’s almost Romania. They’ve got vampires in Romania. Therefore there are vampires in Prague.”

Seated at the small metal desk she’d been shown to in the police station, Annja stared glumly at the page of photographs of known criminals operating in Prague. Actually she’d looked at so many pictures of criminals now that she believed Skromach had borrowed books from other countries.

After a while they all started to look the same. There were some who were old and some who were younger, but they all had earmarks of desperation or deviance. She wondered if her best friend, Bart McGilley, the NYPD detective, ever noticed how similar the criminals he chased looked.

She glanced at her watch. It was after five. Dinner was at eight.

Now I’m going to have to rush, she thought as she listened to Doug Morrell continue his tirade about vampires. She hadn’t wanted to rush. This was a date. More than that, it was a date with Garin Braden, a man she knew she couldn’t trust.

And how did you dress for something like that? It was a question that had been plaguing her for weeks. Ever since he’d told her that it was time for her to pay off on her promise to have dinner with him after he’d helped her out of a dangerous situation in India ages ago.

“I must have been brain-dead when I made that deal,” she said to herself. At the time it hadn’t seemed like a big deal. Now it felt as if she’d made a deal with the devil.

That was one thing she was certain of—Garin Braden didn’t walk on the side of angels.

But what kind of conversation did she expect to have with someone who was seemingly immortal? It was intimidating and that was a feeling she rarely experienced.

“Doug,” Annja interrupted. Her head throbbed from studying photographs and trying to deal with Skromach’s suspicions about the sword.

The police detective had checked in a few times, usually to bring her something to drink and once to see if she wanted anything to eat. Despite the fact that he’d consigned her to this room and these photographs, he wasn’t a bad guy.

Doug hadn’t been thrown off his game. “Don’t you see that this is important?”

Be patient, Annja reminded herself. She took a breath. Then she spoke slowly.

“There…are…no…vampires…in…Prague.”

“There have to be.”

“Doug,” Annja sighed, “vampires don’t exist.”

“They hide,” Doug said. “No one’s as good at hiding as a vampire.”

“Really?” Annja leaned back in the straight-backed chair and tried to get comfortable. She couldn’t.

“I’m telling you there’s a story about vampires in Prague,” Doug whined.

“I’d rather do the one on King Wenceslas that I suggested.”

Paper turned at Doug’s end of the connection. “This is that sleeping-king thing, right?”

Annja felt encouraged that Doug had read her proposal. “The king in the mountain. Yes.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Doug said. “Sleeping king. King of the mountain. Same diff. Supposed to be called forth from the earth in times of great danger to the world. Did I leave anything out?”

“The legend of King Wenceslas coming back to fight evil is an important part of why I want to do the story. It’s been woven into the King Arthur myth.”

“He comes back from the dead?” Doug sounded excited.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

Annja took a breath. “I did. I sent research notes.”

“You know I don’t look at that stuff. This is television. All you need is a good beat line to make anything fly. I like the idea of him coming back from the dead,” Doug said. “Kind of spooky, actually.”

Annja looked around the small office and spotted a picture of Skromach with a woman about his age and three kids, two girls and a boy.

“Didn’t they write a song about this guy?” Doug asked. “I seem to recall you saying something about a song.”

“A Christmas carol.” Annja focused. The story about King Wenceslas would be a good one.

“Yeah. ‘Good King Wenceslas,’ right?”

“Yes.” Annja was even further amazed when Doug tried to remember the chorus.

He kept singing “Good King Wenceslas” until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Stop. That’s not how it goes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.” Annja looked at the mug shots. Those were preferable to dealing with Doug when he went obsessive-compulsive with her.

“Guy was supposed to be Santa Claus, wasn’t he?” Doug asked.

“Not exactly. That’s a connection a lot of people make.”

“I have to admit, I like it.”

Annja felt hopeful. “You do?”

“Yeah. So this King Wenceslas comes back from the dead? Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” Annja said immediately. She had the worst feeling that she knew exactly where Doug was headed. “He’s not supposed to be dead. Just sleeping.”

“Hibernating,” Doug said. “Kind of like a vampire.”

“No.”

“Comes back from the dead. Wants to wreak havoc on whatever villain is sucking the life out of the world. Kind of sounds vampirish to me.”

“No,” Annja repeated.

“I like it,” Doug said. “I want this story.”

“King Wenceslas wasn’t a vampire.”

“Maybe you just haven’t dug deeply enough. Maybe his whole vampire nature is there waiting for you to discover it.”

“It’s not.”

“I mean, can you imagine this?” Doug asked.

“No,” Annja said. “I can’t. Doug, Wenceslas was not a vampire.”

“He could be.”

“He is a saint.”

“Cool,” Doug exclaimed. “A vampire that’s been sainted. You know what’ll really sell this piece, though?”

Annja was afraid to ask.

“Picture this,” Doug went on. “We show Wenceslas as a warrior knight. A big sword or ax. Horned helmet like the Vikings wore.”

“The Vikings didn’t wear horned helmets,” Annja said. “That’s just a perception created by Hollywood. It’s wrong.” But she knew Doug wasn’t listening. He was lost in his own world.

“So we see this big knight with this gnarly weapon.” Excitement thrummed in Doug’s voice. “Big burly guy. Muscles out to here. And let’s make the armor red. With a hood. So the Santa Claus connection comes through.”

Annja didn’t even try to interrupt. She’d been through sessions like this with Doug before. It was already too late.

“A red hood,” Doug said. “Get it? Then the camera pans in and Wenceslas grins at us. Only instead of regular teeth…he’s got fangs!”

Annja hung up. There were times when talking to Doug, though she counted him as a friend, were exhausting. She could always claim a dead battery later. She laid the phone beside her notebook computer.

While she was looking at the mug shots, she was also searching the archaeological sites for information about the green-scimitar tattoo. She felt certain there was something significant about the design.

So far there weren’t any responses on the boards.



THE PHONE RANG a few minutes later. At first Annja was just going to let it go to voice mail. Then she noticed that the number was local to Prague. She scooped up the phone and answered.

“You’re not at your hotel,” a strong male voice accused.

The voice belonged to Garin Braden. Just like that, all the trepidation Annja had about the upcoming date slammed into her.

She took a deep breath in through her nose and let it out her mouth. This is a mistake, she told herself.

“I’m not,” she said in a calm voice. Still, she felt her pulse beating faster than normal. She didn’t like it. Garin was a dangerous man. If she’d had her preference, she’d have kept him as an enemy the way he’d been when they’d first met. He’d tried to kill her then.

“I thought this would be something special.” Garin didn’t sound disappointed; he sounded irritated. “I’ve gone to considerable lengths to make tonight happen.”

Unable to sit in the chair any longer, Annja got up and paced the room. She rubbed the back of her neck and tried to relax. Her shoulders felt knotted and sore.

“Things didn’t go exactly as planned at the movie set today,” Annja said.

“You’re only there as an adviser,” Garin said in a pleasant baritone. At least, if he didn’t sound as if he was ready to chew nails his voice would be pleasant, Annja thought.

“Leave the movie set and go to your hotel. I’ve got reservations,” Garin said.

Was that a command? It definitely sounded like a command. And Annja didn’t intend to be commanded. She had reservations herself, and they weren’t at a restaurant.




5


“This isn’t working out,” Annja said.

“Prague was your idea,” Garin countered, as if the location was the problem. “I would have preferred meeting in the Greek islands.”

Annja knew that. Garin had even offered to send his private jet—one of his private jets—to pick her up from Brooklyn. But she’d refused. If she had to meet Garin for dinner, she wanted to do it under her own power.

Doing that meant she could also leave whenever she wanted. You could really run out of places to go on an island if you wanted to get away from someone.

“If you’re trying to weasel out of our agreement,” Garin said, “then that’s fine. I’ve got other things to do.”

The man’s arrogance was monumental. In that instant Annja saw that she could break the date if she chose. She also realized that Garin sounded as if he had misgivings, as well.

That possibility irritated her. She knew she was good company, bright, articulate and attractive. She’d been told that by enough men to accept there must be some truth to it. So where was Garin getting off telling her he had other things to do?

“I’m at the police station,” Annja said.

Garin growled a curse. “What did you do now?”

“I,” Annja said, taking affront at once, “didn’t do anything. Some men attacked the movie set today. They planted explosives that nearly killed several people and sent five stunt crewmen and women to the hospital. Maybe you heard about that.”

“No.”

“It was in the news.” In fact, now that she thought about it, Annja wondered if she should have been upset that Garin hadn’t called immediately to check on her.

“I wasn’t watching the news.”

Annja wondered what Garin had been doing.

“Were you injured?” Garin asked.

“No. Otherwise I’d be at the hospital.”

“What are you doing at the police station?”

“Looking at photographs of potential bombers.”

“Ah. You’re giving a statement?”

“One of the local detectives invited me to come down and identify the men who planted the explosives.” Annja stopped pacing and placed a hip on the edge of the table. “He hasn’t been too amenable about letting me go. Of course, I haven’t told him that I was meeting you for dinner. I’m quite positive,” she said as sarcastically as possible, “that if I mentioned that he’d let me go immediately.”

“Don’t be crass.” Garin didn’t sound angry now, only grumpy.

“I tend to get that way when someone calls me and starts dumping blame on me.”

“You have a phone,” Garin argued. “You could have called me.”

“Why? Dinner’s still hours away. I can make it easily.”

“I want you attired properly for the night,” Garin said.

“I didn’t know there was a dress code.” Annja started to get angry all over again.

“This isn’t an evening at McDonald’s. I don’t know how your other men treat you—”

“Kindly,” Annja replied. “And with due consideration for the fact that I have a career and obligations. They even acknowledge that I know how to properly dress myself.”

“Trust me. I’ve moved more on my schedule than you did to make tonight happen.”

Annja was torn between being insulted and flattered. She also felt a little competitive. Being around Garin brought that out in her. She disliked the feeling, but she also knew it was impossible to circumvent given the company.

She also knew that what Garin said was probably true. He had several international business interests under several dummy corporations and holding companies. Managing an empire like his couldn’t be easy. Especially if much of it was criminal, as she suspected it was. And Garin wasn’t exactly the sort to have someone oversee it for him.

“You’d be better served if you just told the police that you didn’t see the men who did this thing,” Garin said.

“They knew I chased them.”

“Well, that was certainly foolish.”

“I didn’t want them to get away with what they did.”

“So now you’re going to identify them for the police and be a witness at some time-consuming trial.” Garin’s distaste for such a prospect was clear.

“I don’t want them to get away with this,” Annja repeated.

“Then find them and kill them yourself. It’s much simpler and not as dangerous as you might think if done properly.”

Annja sighed. “Not exactly my choice of solutions.”

“I find it very comforting,” Garin said.

“Getting caught could be a problem.”

“Did I need to mention that you’d have to be clever about it? You needn’t claim your kills.”

Annja rubbed the back of her neck. The headache wasn’t going away. She wanted a hot bath and time to enjoy it. Stanley Younts, the writer she’d met while looking to solve a friend’s murder, had couriered a draft of his new book to her because he wanted her to fact-check the history in the text. He was paying her quite handsomely. She’d had hopes of spending some time with it that day.

“I can have an attorney there in twenty minutes,” Garin offered. “You’ll be out five minutes after that.”

“No,” Annja said.

Garin cursed again.

“I’ll handle this.” Annja stared at the thick books of photographs. “And I’ll be on time for dinner.”

“I’ll send a cab for you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. It’ll be there.” Garin hung up.

The quick dismissal stung Annja. She almost called him back. But she suspected she wouldn’t get past Garin’s personal assistant. Garin had an infuriating habit of becoming inaccessible.

Just get through tonight, she told herself. Then the debt’s paid.



IN THE END, Skromach wasn’t happy about releasing Annja before she could identify the guilty parties, but he didn’t have a choice. He politely and patiently confirmed her hotel’s information and told her he would be in touch.

A short cab ride later, Annja paid the driver and got out in front of her hotel. She’d chosen to stay in the Old Town where the surroundings were more Gothic than industrial. She loved the older sections of European cities. All she had to do was look at the buildings and she could imagine the wagons, carriages and horses clattering down the cobbled streets. History, hundreds of years of it, was ingrained in the architecture.

Her hotel boasted a collection of gargoyles that perched along the roof and looked ready to swoop down on her. She frowned a little when she realized they made her think of Garin. She didn’t know if it was because they looked like predators or simply devious.

“Are you all right, miss?” the cab driver asked in hesitant English. He held the door open and stood with his cap in his hand.

Jarred back to the present, Annja looked at him. “I am. Thank you.” She reached back into the cab for her backpack. She never went anywhere without it. Her notebook computer, GPS locater, extra batteries, cameras and other electronic equipment, as well as the change of clothes she habitually carried were inside.

She gathered the backpack by the straps and strode up the stone steps leading to the hotel.

“Ah, Miss Creed.”

Barely in the foyer, Annja turned and found one of the hotel’s assistant managers standing there. “Yes, Johan?”

The old man smiled. “You remember my name.” He clapped in delight, then smoothed his long silver mustache with his fingertips.

Annja suspected he was old enough to be her grandfather, but he was thin and elegant and moved like an athlete. His dark suit was immaculate and fit the antique furnishings of the refurbished hotel. Soft yellow light gleamed against the surface of the stone floors.

“You’ve gone out of your way to make my stay here pleasant,” Annja replied. “Of course I’d remember your name.”

“You flatter an old man.” Johan put a hand over his heart.

Annja smiled. During the past few days while she’d been a guest at the hotel, Johan and the other staff had taken good care of her. They’d seemed disappointed that she wasn’t more demanding. As it turned out, several of them were fans of Chasing History’s Monsters.

“There was a bit of a problem while you were gone,” Johan said. He looked a little nervous. “It was most confusing. I was told it was supposed to be a surprise, but I could hardly allow such a thing.”

That troubled Annja a little. “What thing?”

Johan crooked a finger at her and guided her off to the side of the foyer. “The man. I simply couldn’t allow him into your room without you being there.”

“A man tried to get into my room?” Annja thought at once of the men she’d chased. Maybe they had tracked her down.

Johan closed his eyes and shook his head. “Of course not. Had that been so, I would have called hotel security at once, and then the police. The hotel does not put up with such—” he fumbled for an American expression “—shenanigans.”

“Of course.”

“He claimed he was arranged for.”

“Arranged for by whom?”

Johan shook his head. “Why, that is part of the problem. He wouldn’t tell me.”

“What did he want?”

“To dress you.”

That threw Annja off stride. “To dress me?”

“That’s what he said. He said he was arranged for and sent here at his employer’s request. I have his card.”

“The employer’s?”

“No. The man who is here.” Like a magician, Johan’s hand exploded into motion and a card was produced as though he’d plucked it from thin air.

The card was heavily embossed and decorated in an understated manner with pale pink flowers that assured affluence. It had only one word—Gesauldi.

There wasn’t even an address or phone number. Nothing on the card suggested what the man did.

Johan studied her face. “I was hoping that you would know him, Miss Creed.”

“No.” Annja slipped the card into her pocket. “Did he leave?”

Johan shook his head. “I wouldn’t so casually turn away a man such as he.”

“He’s still here?”

“But of course. I put him into a room for the moment.”

“Then let’s go talk to him,” Annja said with a sigh.




6


Gesauldi answered the hotel door but didn’t look happy about it. He had the air of a man who didn’t answer doors, not even his own.

“Mr. Gesauldi,” Johan said. “I present to you Miss Annja Creed.”

Annja had automatically dropped into an L-stance and prepared to defend herself. Lately there hadn’t been many social calls in her life, and danger had dogged her heels. She didn’t think she was being paranoid. She thought more of it as recognizing potential threats.

Gesauldi was slim and elegant, and roughly Annja’s height. His neat black hair was clipped short, and his cheeks looked freshly shaved. His suit fit him like a glove. He looked to be in his late twenties, but her immediate impression of him was that he was older.

“Miss Creed,” he cooed in a soft voice. “I’m enchanted to meet you.” He took her left hand in his.

Annja stopped herself from recoiling as he lifted her hand briefly to brush his lips against the back of her hand. Gently but firmly, she reclaimed her hand.

Gesauldi shifted his attention to Johan. “Could we perhaps have some tea? A nice Chinese green tea with mango or peach would be splendid. And some biscuits if that wouldn’t be too much trouble.” He glanced back at Annja. “After all, we want you in the proper mood for the fitting, or course.”

“What fitting?”

Gesauldi’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “Why, for your date tonight.”

Annja took a deep breath. “Did Garin Braden send you?”

Gesauldi lifted his hands and spread his elegant fingers. “Please. I don’t like to bandy names about. Especially when I’ve been asked to keep a confidence.”

Unable to believe what Garin had done, Annja was just about to tell the man politely that she wasn’t interested in being dressed by him. Then she saw the evening dresses on a free-standing clothes rack.

“Was there something you wished to say, Miss Creed?” Gesauldi asked.

Despite her irritation at Garin, Annja was mesmerized by the dresses. “Wow,” she said.

Gesauldi gestured grandly toward the rack. “These are some of Gesauldi’s very best. And, I might add, people do not usually get fitted by Gesauldi himself.”

“May I?” Annja asked.

“But of course. Your attention and your pleasures warm Gesauldi’s heart.” The man took her by the elbow and walked her over to the dresses.

Annja ran her fingers along the material. It was smooth and silky, and she could only imagine what it might feel like against her skin.

“Wow,” she said again.

“Of course you would feel that way. Gesauldi knew you would feel that way. Gesauldi’s creations always leave people feeling this way.”

“You’re a dressmaker?”

He scowled. “Dear woman, Gesauldi is an artist!”

Annja examined the dresses. “Of course you are.” She didn’t know whether to be flattered or angry. “Garin really didn’t think I could dress myself, did he?”

“Did you have a Gesauldi dress for tonight?”

“No.”

“Then you couldn’t have dressed yourself.”

For a moment Annja considered telling the man to take his dresses and go. But she couldn’t. She’d never worn anything that glamorous in her life.

She turned to Gesauldi. “Are you in the habit of delivering your dresses yourself, Mr. Gesauldi?”

He grinned at her, obviously pleased that she was so enraptured. “Only for very special clients or very beautiful women, Miss Creed.” He inclined his head in a respectful bow. “Tonight I am honored to do both.”

Johan leaned forward and whispered behind his hand to Annja. “Do you see, Miss Creed? I could hardly have thrown such a man from the hotel.”

“No,” Annja agreed. “You couldn’t have.”



LATER, soaking in a fragrant bath while Gesauldi arranged the dresses and his tools, Annja sipped green tea and thought about her date. She wondered what Garin was up to.

The attention was extremely flattering. Or quite unflattering, depending on how she chose to view Garin’s efforts. Either he wants to treat me like royalty or he wants to make sure I measured up to his standards. That was an unhappy thought. Annja sipped her tea and chose not to think like that.



THE PHONE RANG while Annja, feeling much refreshed and looking forward to Gesauldi’s fitting, was drying off from the bath. She’d soaked to just preprune stage. She wrapped a towel around herself and picked up her phone.

The phone number was European, but that was all she knew.

“Hello.”

“Don’t tell me it’s true.”

Annja recognized Roux’s voice at once. The old man had a raspy voice that was unmistakable.

“It’s not true,” Annja said, sensing from Roux’s tone that he wanted confirmation.

“Good.” Roux sounded minutely appeased.

“Now,” Annja said, “what’s not true?”

Roux took a deep breath and it made the phone connection sound cavernous.

“That you’re going out with Garin,” Roux snapped. “Tell me that’s not true.”

Despite having grown up in an orphanage in New Orleans, Annja suddenly got the idea of what it might have been like to have to deal with a displeased father. Not surprisingly, it felt a lot like dealing with an irate nun.

“Where did you hear something like that?” Annja asked.

Roux cursed. “So it is true.”

“Who I go out with is hardly any business of yours.” Annja put her phone on hands-free mode, tightened the towel around her and reached for another to wrap her hair.

“It is when it’s Garin,” Roux said.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Not against Garin. Are you going out with him?”

“We’re having dinner.”

Roux cursed again. “Do you find yourself so enamored of him that you can’t control your hormones?”

“I resent that,” Annja said.

“By all means, feel free.”

“I’m in perfect control of my hormones.”

Roux vented a derisive snort.

“I’m going to dinner with him to pay off a debt,” Annja said. “Garin helped me out while I was in India.”

“A debt?” Roux sounded as though he couldn’t believe it. “You don’t pay off a debt like that. At the very least not in the manner in which you’re doing it.”

“Dinner’s not exactly the worst thing that I could imagine having to do.”

Roux snorted again.

“And,” Annja went on, “as I recall, you don’t mind waving the debt card around when you want my help with something.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I helped you find the sword.”

“So what? I’m going to owe you forever now?”

“No,” Roux said. “Having the sword means you have a duty and an obligation to the powers behind that sword.”

“Whatever powers might be behind this sword, it’s definitely not you.”

Roux sighed in displeasure. “I help you with what you’re supposed to do. We’re on the same side.”

Although she didn’t say anything, Annja doubted that. Roux, like Garin, had his own agenda. Neither of them chose to entrust her with it. Roux was always exactly on the side of Roux.

“Harboring any leniency with Garin is a mistake,” Roux said.

“There’s no leniency,” Annja said. “There’s dinner.”

A knock sounded at the door. “Miss Creed,” Gesauldi called out. “Gesauldi doesn’t wish to hurry you, but time is of the essence.”

“I’ll be right there,” Annja replied.

“Was that Gesauldi?” Roux demanded.

Annja furrowed her brow. “Do you know Gesauldi?”

“He sent the dressmaker?” Roux shouted.

“Gesauldi heard that,” Gesauldi called from the other room. “Gesauldi is no dressmaker. Gesauldi is an artist.”

“He heard you,” Annja said.

“I don’t care,” Roux snapped.

“How do you know Gesauldi?”

“If Gesauldi is involved,” Roux said, “then Garin is seeing this as more than a one-time date.”

Annja smiled, then caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and turned away. You’re not going to think past tonight, she told herself. But she knew she was.

“I don’t get that impression,” Annja said.

“Annja,” Roux growled, “Garin sent Gesauldi.”

“Of course he did,” Gesauldi said from the other room. “You only send for Gesauldi when you want the very best.”

He must, Annja thought, have ears like a bat.

“Maybe you should ask Gesauldi how many times Garin has sent him to dress his women,” Roux suggested.

That thought had crossed Annja’s mind, but she hadn’t given in to the impulse.

“Gesauldi will never tell,” Gesauldi said. “A promise from Gesauldi is like a little piece of forever. Because Gesauldi will take such knowledge to the grave with him.”

Terrific, Annja thought. “You know, Roux,” she said, “it wouldn’t have hurt you to let me have my little moment here.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Roux said.

Annja hung up.



AT SEVEN-THIRTY, Johan called Annja. “Miss Creed, there is a gentleman here to see you.”

Dressed in the spectacular black dress Gesauldi had tailored so that it showed her body to its best, Annja surveyed the results in the full-length mirror. She had to admit it—she looked exquisite.

Gesauldi had also brought along a hairdresser and makeup artist, who worked their magic, as well. She wore her hair pulled back, held by jeweled combs. The only thing missing was a necklace, but she hadn’t brought anything with her. This was supposed to have been a working trip, not one of leisure.

“Tell him to come up,” Annja said.

“I have suggested that,” Johan replied. “The gentleman refuses. He insists that such behavior is rude and unseemly.”

Annja thought about that.

“Given the circumstance,” Johan said in a lower voice, “I would have to applaud the gentleman on his sense of decorum. If you wish, I can come up for you.”

“That’s all right,” Annja said. “I’m on my way down.”




7


The sight of Annja Creed stepping from the elevator momentarily stole Garin Braden’s breath from his lungs. She was stunning. Even before Gesauldi’s magic, Annja possessed a natural beauty that made men glad they were men.

Now—she was a goddess.

Garin was aware of the effect her appearance had on the men in the lavish hotel lobby. Heads turned in her direction and conversations came to a standstill. And it wasn’t just the men who were affected. Women looked and quieted, too.

Thin straps crossed Annja’s smooth shoulders and supported the dress. The black material clung to her figure in all the right places. Handmade Italian slingbacks glittered like polished anthracite.

For a moment, Garin forgot himself in the hush that fell across the lobby. Although he’d seen Gesauldi work his magic before, Garin had never seen any woman as striking as Annja. He’d seen more beautiful women—that was true—but none of them possessed the innate qualities that he’d found at once appealing and unnerving about the young woman in front of him.

“Excuse me, sir,” the old assistant manager who had helped Garin whispered. “But if you don’t mind me suggesting it, perhaps this would be an ideal time to give the young woman the flowers.”

Garin’s senses returned. He remembered the flowers in his hand. He chided himself for being so overwhelmed.

When everyone stared at her, Annja felt extremely self-conscious. She knew other women dreamed of making this kind of entrance, but it had never once been in her thoughts. She found that kind of attention uncomfortable.

She saw Garin as he approached her. He looked every inch the warrior, and as he stood six feet four inches tall, that was impressive. He wore his dark hair long and sported a goatee. His eyes were blacker than oil. He wore a tuxedo that suggested Gesauldi didn’t just handle women’s clothes.

Johan stood at Garin’s side, dwarfed by the bigger man.

Garin carried an extravagant bouquet of flowers. He stopped in front of her and looked down. The fragrance of the flowers rode the air between them.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

This is so not a date, Annja told herself. “Thank you. You look very handsome,” she said quietly.

Garin handed her the flowers, then offered his arm.

Annja took it and let him lead her out of the lobby. She knew everyone in the hotel watched them go, and she didn’t know if she’d ever have a moment as perfect as that one again.

As soon as they stepped out of the hotel, a silver limousine glided to a halt at the curb. The hotel doorman got the door, smiled and tipped his hat.

“There is one thing, if I may,” Garin said. He took a small case from his jacket pocket and opened it.

What Annja saw inside took her breath away. A string of black pearls as shiny as drops of oil gleamed on the white fabric lining the case.

“I thought they would set the dress off,” Garin said.

Annja thought so, too, but she wasn’t ready to give in to temptation. “I usually don’t wear a lot of jewelry.”

“These will look beautiful on you.” Garin plucked the string of pearls from the case and held them up in his fingers. They looked ready to spill loose at any second. “Unless, of course, you’d rather not wear them.” He started to put them away.

“Wait,” Annja said.

Garin looked at her and smiled. “I didn’t think so. May I?”

Annja turned her back to him. Gently he strung the pearls around her neck. For just a moment Annja thought that maybe the pearls were actually a disguised garrote. If you’re thinking he might kill you, what are you doing here?

The necklace fastened and she felt the cool weight of the pearls against her skin. She turned to face Garin.

“I was wrong,” he said. “The pearls don’t make the dress. You make the pearls.”

“Thank you.” And you’re just too smooth at knowing the right things to say, Annja thought.

Garin helped Annja into the car and she slid across the seat. She felt uncomfortable and out of control. She didn’t like either feeling.

“Would you care for anything to drink?” Garin opened the well-stocked built-in bar as the limousine slid into motion and pulled out into the busy street.

“Water, please.”

He frowned in displeasure. “I’ve got a good selection of wines.”

“No. Thank you.”

Garin poured her a glass of sparkling water and poured wine for himself. “Well,” he said.

“Thank you,” Annja said. “For the dress. For Gesauldi.” She held her glass in both hands so she wouldn’t spill it.

Garin grinned a little. “Nervous?”

“No.” Annja paused. “Yes.”

After a brief hesitation, he said, “Me, too.”

“You?” Annja raised an eyebrow.

Garin shrugged. “A little, perhaps. I have to admit, the feeling is quite unexpected.”

“Just because I’m a little overwhelmed doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself,” Annja warned him.

“Of course not.” Garin waved the thought away.

“In case you get any ideas.”

“If getting ideas was going to get me in trouble, that dress would make me a dead man.”

Annja didn’t know how to respond. For a time, neither one of them spoke.



THE RESTAURANT WAS NESTLED between business offices downtown. After Garin helped her from the limousine, Annja gazed at the hand-lettered sign above the door. It read Keshet. A homemade sign tacked above an entrance that looked as if it let out onto an alley wasn’t exactly awe-inspiring.

“Is something wrong?” Garin asked.

“After the buildup of the dress and the limo, this isn’t quite what I’d expected,” Annja admitted.

Garin grinned. “You were expecting me to take you to one of those flashy restaurants.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you disappointed?”

Annja gazed at him warily and wondered if this was some kind of trick. “Should I be?”

“If you are, I’ll buy you dinner in any restaurant of your choice. In the world.” Garin offered his arm again. When Annja took it, he led her toward the burly doorman.

“Good evening, Mr. Braden,” the man said in English.

“Good evening,” Garin responded.

The doorman opened the door. Annja turned and found Garin almost filling the tiny hallway that led from the door. Muted lights illuminated the way over a plain concrete floor. She joined him.

Another doorman opened the next door. When she saw inside, Annja was even more surprised.

The restaurant was even smaller than she’d imagined. A quick estimate of the tables in the room meant that fewer than fifty people could sit in the room at one time.

Instead of a wall separating the cooking area from the diners, the kitchen was exposed for all to see. A squat woman in her late sixties ran the kitchen staff with the ironhanded control of a Marine Corps drill instructor. Her gray hair was cut short. She wore black pants and a green blouse with the sleeves pushed up past her elbows. The kitchen staff responded to her orders like a well-oiled unit.

“Mr. Braden.” A young hostess with olive-colored skin and a perfect smile joined them. “It’s been too long since you’ve visited us.”

“Merely growing my appetite for Mama’s cooking,” Garin said.

“She was excited to learn that you would be coming.” The hostess led the way to the only table in the room that wasn’t occupied.

Located at center stage, the table had a perfect view of the activity in the kitchen as cooks worked the stovetop and kept bread rotating through the ovens. Garin took Annja’s chair and seated her.

“Thank you,” Annja said.

“You’re welcome.” Garin sat beside her at the table so he could watch the kitchen.

After taking their drink order, the hostess returned with water for Annja and wine for Garin. “Mama will be with you in a moment.”

“Thank you, Petra,” Garin said.

“Of course, Mr. Braden.” The young woman’s fingers trailed softly across Garin’s when she handed him his glass.

Annja was surprised at the sudden jealousy that struck her. She took a deep breath and focused on the kitchen. It’s not jealousy, she told herself. No one would like watching her date get hit on by another woman.

And even if Garin wasn’t a real date, he was accompanying her tonight. There were lines that weren’t supposed to be crossed.

Servers brought heaping plates out to the guests, who clapped and exclaimed appreciatively in a half-dozen languages. The diners still waiting looked on in envy.

Annja’s stomach growled in anticipation. The smell of the food was divine. The aroma of fresh-baked bread permeated the air.

“Hungry?” Garin asked.

“Famished,” Annja replied. “So what’s on the menu?”

“I don’t know.” Garin sipped his wine. “Mama arrives in the morning and decides then. She could walk into any kitchen in the world and get a job.”

If she had to make a decision to believe that based on the smells in the dining room, Annja would have. She also noticed the pride in Garin’s voice when he talked about the woman.

Mama left the kitchen area with two salads and walked to their table and put them down. Garin stood immediately and hugged the woman. He dwarfed her in size.

“Ah,” Mama said, turning to Annja, “and you must be Annja Creed.” Her eyes glittered as she surveyed Annja. In just that brief second, Annja knew that her measure had been taken, and she had no clue if she’d been found acceptable or wanting.




8


“It’s very nice to meet you,” Annja said, not at all certain if the statement was true. Still, she smiled and made the best of it she could.

“I have heard so much about you.” Mama spoke with a thick accent. “This one—” she poked Garin in the chest with her forefinger “—I know him a long time. And before him, his father.”

Father? Annja gazed at Garin in idle speculation. “Do you mean Roux?”

Mama waved that away. “No. I know Roux, as well.” She shrugged. “I like him okay, but he can be an old goat.”

“Roux tried to cook in Mama’s kitchen one night,” Garin explained.

Mama held a hand to her ample breast. “He has so much nerve, that one.” She whispered behind her hand. “That was long ago. When I was much younger and more beautiful. He also pinched my bottom.” She rolled her eyes in feigned shock. “I slap his face for him, I tell you.”

Annja chuckled. She knew how Roux was around women. And she knew how women were around Roux. They seemed drawn to each other.

“No, I am talking about Garin’s father. The first Garin. Did you ever meet him?”

Annja looked at Garin and realized that the woman had known Garin in her much younger days. Since Garin didn’t age, he had to disappear from his previous lives after a few decades.

“No,” Annja said. “I never did.”

“This one—” Mama pinched Garin’s cheek “—he is so much like his father. Handsome and powerful. This one, he could be a twin brother to his father.”

Annja nodded. She wondered how much longer Garin—and Roux—would be able to keep up the pretense of being normal humans. Not dying in an age filled with computers and record archiving—including digital images—was going to be harder to cover up than in centuries past.

Garin gazed down at the woman, and for a moment Annja thought she could see honest emotion in the man’s eyes. She wondered again how anyone could live five hundred years—and in Roux’s case probably more—and have any emotions left.

“This one, though,” Mama said, “he is not so much like his father. He is more gentle. More respectful.”

Garin almost looked embarrassed, and Annja couldn’t help but smile at his discomfort. After everything she’d seen Garin do, the almost offhanded way he killed people when they threatened him, she couldn’t imagine him being vulnerable. Venal, criminally so at times, but not vulnerable.

Mama looked at Annja. “His father, he was much the man.” A dreamy expression showed in her eyes and Annja knew that—just for the moment—the woman was no longer in the restaurant. “He was so much the lover.” She sighed.

“Please,” Garin protested. “Not before we’ve eaten.”

Playfully, Mama slapped him on the arm. “You. Sit. You should know to leave an old woman her idle passions. All I have these days are memories. The flower of youth is gone far too quickly.”

“The flower of youth,” Garin replied, “to the uninitiated, is oftentimes a weed.”

Mama shook a finger at him. “Your father, he say such a thing to me one time.”

“Father was fond of chiding me about my lackadaisical approach to my life. Perhaps he said that to a lot of people.”

Annja knew that Garin had slipped up and had tried to cover his mistake.

“I liked your father very much,” Mama said, “but he was not husband material, that one. He have an eye for the ladies. Like you. You won’t be any good as a husband unless you find a woman strong enough to claim you as her own. That kind of woman doesn’t come along so very much, you know.” She looked a warning at Annja. “Better you should keep this in mind.”

“Oh, believe me,” Annja said, “I won’t forget.”

Garin scowled.

“The problem is,” Mama said quietly to Annja, “that sometimes a woman, she likes the bad boys. At least for a little while, no?”

“Yes,” Annja agreed.

“It is kind of like the sweet tooth. And it give us many problems.” Mama laughed. “Now I go get you plates. You enjoy. I have a special dessert tonight.” She stopped long enough for a final hug from Garin, then yelled at the kitchen crew.

“Quite a woman,” Annja commented.

“An amazing woman,” Garin agreed. Wistfulness stained his words. “You should have seen her when she was young. She was incredible. And it wasn’t just the way she looked, though she was stunning. It was her spirit. She almost seemed like she was on fire.”

It was really weird, Annja thought, to be sitting there discussing an ex-flame with the man she was having dinner with. That had on occasion happened in Annja’s life, but never when forty years had passed.

“So what happened between you two?” she asked.

Garin hesitated. “She got older. I didn’t.”

“You don’t like older women?”

Garin grinned. “I love older women. A woman in her forties can be a tigress under the right conditions.”

Annja felt no inclination to ask what those conditions might me.

“But it’s selfish of me to get so involved with someone.”

“You are a selfish person,” Annja pointed out.

“I am. I’ll admit that. I’ll take a few weeks, a few months, perhaps even a year or two of a woman’s life if I’m truly infatuated. But I won’t ask any more than that.”

“You could marry them.”

Some of the humor went out of Garin’s face. “I made that mistake. A few times.”

“Marriage didn’t agree with you?” Annja taunted.

Despite Garin’s roguish grin, pain glinted in his eyes. “They died, Annja. No matter how fiercely I loved them, they died. They got old and perished and I remained. Alone.” He paused. “Those weren’t experiences I relished. Nor would I ever do something like that again.”

Annja knew what it felt like to be alone. She picked up her fork and turned her attention to her salad.

“Tell me about the men who attacked the movie set today,” Garin requested.

Annja didn’t think Garin was truly interested in what happened earlier, but she couldn’t think of anything else to discuss. Evidently they both realized they were on safer ground with other topics. She gave him the gist of the events. When she got to the matter of the tattoo on the man’s neck, Garin stopped her.

He touched his own neck. “You said this tattoo was of a sword?” He took a handheld device from his jacket and quickly sketched an image on the screen with the stylus.

“I have to admit I’m surprised,” Annja said as he sketched. “I figured you more for a pen-and-cocktail-napkin kind of guy.”

Garin frowned at her. “I love technology. Roux doesn’t care so much for it. But I love it. I own several companies that specialize in software and hardware research and development.” He showed her the screen. The sketch revealed a sword that was heavy bladed and curved. “Was this the sword?”

“Yes. What do you know about this?” Anxiety and suspicion warred within Annja.

Garin studied the image. “A scimitar. You said it was green?”

Annja nodded.

A low curse escaped Garin’s full lips.

“Do you know who these men are?” Annja asked.

“Pawns. If they belong to the man I think they do, they’re very highly trained. You’re lucky to have escaped with your life.”

“Who are they and why would they be interested in me?”

“I think I know who they are, but I don’t know why they would be interested in you. Unless they want to get to Roux. They might know about the connection you have to Roux. And to me.”

“They’re enemies of Roux?”

“Their master is.” Garin took his cell phone from his pocket. “Excuse me for just a moment.” He punched in a number. The phone was answered almost instantly. “We may have a security problem. Make sure my dinner is uninterrupted.”

“Who was that?” Annja asked.

“The security chief of the team watching us.”

“Do you always travel with a security team?”

“I do. Except for those times I don’t care to live my life in a fishbowl.” Garin shrugged. “And during those times when it’s better if no one knows what I’m doing.”

Annja picked at her salad. She wasn’t nervous, not really. But the thought of the man with the scimitar tattoo lurking around outside did give her pause.

“Who are you afraid of?” Annja asked.

“I’m not afraid of this man,” Garin growled. “But I’d rather err on the side of caution where he’s concerned.”

“Should we go?”

Garin blew out a short breath. “No. I’m not going to be chased from my dinner like some timid little mouse. We’re going to have a fine meal, and we’re going to enjoy it.” He looked at her. “Why? Do you wish to leave?”

Annja thought about it. She knew she should. But she was stubborn, too. Growing up in the orphanage had been hard. She’d never liked quietly going away, either.

“No,” she answered.

“You don’t care much for playing the mouse, either, do you?” Garin asked.

“I’m hungry.”

Garin chuckled.

“Who do those men work for?” Annja asked.

“He calls himself Saladin.”

“Like the Saladin who fought Richard I during the Crusades?”

“Yes.” Garin looked pained. “But also like Honest Saladin, the camel dealer I met in Cairo when I was tomb hunting with Howard Carter.”

Annja stared at Garin. Curiosity filled her like a tidal wave. “You were in Egypt with Carter?”

Garin shook his head. “Focus, Annja. What I’m telling you now may save your life if Saladin truly is after you.”

“Why would he be after me?”

“Weren’t you paying attention? Saladin would take you to get to Roux.”

“What does he have against Roux?”

“He wants the Nephilim.”

Annja had to think a moment. “The child of a fallen angel?”

“A painting of one.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Roux never told me. That old man has been keeping secrets for hundreds of years.”

Annja’s mind spun with questions.

“What was the importance of the painting?” Annja asked.

Garin shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Roux never offered any hints?”

“Roux,” Garin stated, “never offers hints, and he never slips up. If you think he has, he’s merely setting you up. Trust me on that.”




9


“What do you know about the Nephilim?” Annja asked.

“I never found out much. It was supposed to be a painting that at one time hung in a church in Constantinople. The painting, if it truly ever existed, disappeared when the city fell.”

“That was 560 years ago,” Annja said.

“I know.”

“How do you know those men belong to Saladin?”

Garin touched his throat. “I know Saladin’s mark. The green scimitar you saw on that man’s neck.”

Annja thought about that as she pushed her empty plate away. The food had been superb, but she had a lot on her mind.

“And they want the painting of the Nephilim?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“But why?” Annja shook her head in frustration.

“I don’t know. That, so far, has remained one of Roux’s secrets.”

Annja took out her phone and glanced at the number she’d stored in memory.

“What are you doing?” Garin asked.

“I’m calling Roux.” Annja punched the button and held the phone up to her ear as she listened for the rings.

“He’s not going to tell you anything.”

Annja ignored the negative response. The phone rang six times before it was answered in French.

“Hello,” she said, speaking French.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a man named—” Annja stopped because she had no idea what name Roux was using.

“Yes?” the man inquired.

“I’m looking for the owner of this phone,” Annja said.

“That would be me, of course.”

“And who are you?”

“Jean-Paul.” The man’s voice lowered. “You know, you sound very sexy. Perhaps you and I—”

“Do you know a man named Roux?”

“No, but if you like men named Roux, you may call me Roux.”

“He called me from this phone.”

Jean-Paul laughed. “Then this man Roux has very good taste. This is a very expensive phone. I can afford expensive things. Tell me, do you like the ride in a BMW?”

“Where are you?”

“Monte Carlo. I came here to gamble.”

Okay, Annja thought, at least that made sense. The old man loved playing Texas Hold ’Em and other games of chance.

“Have you let anyone borrow your phone?” she asked.

“No.”

Annja knew Roux was quite the magician, though. It would have been easy for him to pick someone’s pocket, use the phone and replace it. But why go to all the trouble?

So you couldn’t call him.

That realization made her angry. She told Jean-Paul goodbye and hung up despite his protests.

“I take it the old fox didn’t call on his phone,” Garin said.

“No.”

Garin laughed. “He’s worth millions and he stints on a long-distance bill.”

Annja slipped her phone back into her purse.

Garin sipped wine. “Why did he call you?”

“Someone,” Annja said, pinning Garin with her gaze, “told him I was having dinner with you.”

Garin held up his hands. “It wasn’t me. I know what he would say.”

“He said it. I don’t suppose you have a phone number where he can be reached?”

“No. Where is he?”

“Monte Carlo.”

Garin stroked his chin. “I know where he might be. You and I could—”

“No,” Annja said. Dinner had been far too comfortable for her liking. She didn’t want to spend any more time in Garin’s company because doing so was all too easy. “Whatever’s going on, it’s going to have to go on without me.”

“Where’s that driving curiosity that I’ve noticed is so much a part of you?” Garin taunted her.

“I’m going to turn it in other directions,” Annja said, but she knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

Roux and Garin were never forthcoming about information they had that she lacked. Thankfully, there were institutions all around the world that had more knowledge than both of those men combined.

In fact, when it came to pure history and the science of archaeology, she knew more than they did. Just not on a personal basis.

A few moments later, Mama served a cherry torte topped with homemade ice cream. For a time Annja forgot about the Nephilim.



“DID YOU HAVE a nice time?” Garin asked.

With the heavy meal sitting in her stomach, topped by the rich dessert, Annja felt sleepy. She stared through the limousine’s tinted windows at the streets.

“I did,” Annja said.

“I thought perhaps we might go dancing,” Garin told her. “Unless you’re too tired.”

Annja considered that. She’d worked late on the movie set each night for the past few days and hadn’t really seen much of the local scene. Several of the movie crew had mentioned the clubs throughout the downtown area.

Dancing sounded fun, but it sounded almost too attractive.

Noticing her reticence, Garin said, “I know you have an eclectic taste in music.”

That was true. Annja liked what she liked, and the gamut ran from jazz to R&B to African tribal songs.

“I know a great club,” Garin said. “It’s not far from your hotel.”

Annja wavered. It had been a long time since she’d last been dancing. She wanted to relax and let go. The offer was extremely tempting.

“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” she said.

“So you’ll miss out on some sleep. You’ve done that before.” Garin smiled. “Come on, Annja. A night of revelry and wild abandon. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

It did. It sounded like exactly what Annja needed.

“I’m going,” Garin said, “whether you go with me or not.”

Was that intended as a challenge or a threat? Annja wondered.

“I’m just saying,” Garin continued, “that you’re free to choose. My plans are already set. But I’d love the company and I think you’d have a good time.”

So he isn’t pressuring you, Annja thought. Before she could make up her mind, two cars roared into motion along the street.

Garin saw them, too. He yelled a warning to the driver as he pulled out a pistol and his cell phone.

The lead car slammed into the limousine hard enough to knock it from the street and across the sidewalk. The luxury car struck the corner of the building on the other side of a narrow alley, and the sound from the impact echoed inside the vehicle.

“Get someone up here!” Garin barked in German over the cell phone.

The seat belts had snapped tight and kept Annja from being thrown from her seat. Liquid fire traced her chest as the straps jerked the breath from her lungs.

Men boiled from the car that had rammed the front of the limousine. All of them carried assault weapons and pistols. They darted through the glaring headlights as they raced to surround the limousine. Annja saw at least two green-scimitar tattoos.

“Apparently your friends haven’t given up,” Garin growled.

“They’re not my friends,” Annja shot back. But she couldn’t imagine why Saladin’s men—if they were Saladin’s men—were so driven to get to her. More than that, though, she didn’t know how she and Garin were going to escape.




10


Quiet and composed, contemplative almost, Roux sat at the Texas Hold ’Em table in one of the casino’s private rooms. He smoked a big cigar and watched the other players.

Six men and one woman still remained at the table. Only four of them, including Roux, were still in the hand currently being played out. The other three had thrown their hands onto the felt tabletop in disgust and studied their dwindling pile of chips. The game was all about skill and luck and husbanding the resources on the table.

Roux studied his own stacks of chips. They looked positively anemic.

The dealer politely called Roux’s name. At least, the man called the name Roux was currently employing. The identity was a conceit that could conceivably backfire on him. He tried his best to live in the world without a paper trail. However, in order to qualify for the Texas Hold ’Em tournaments and other games he liked to play, he had to provide an identity that had some depth and texture. That was inherently dangerous.

“In or out, sir?” the dealer asked quietly. He was an older man with a jowly face and short-clipped hair. All night he’d acted as a seasoned veteran with cards.

Roux seethed inside. The cards had been so good to him at first, and now they ran cold. He didn’t know if he could trust what he was seeing, and he hated to take long shots. It was absurd and intolerable.

He kept his frustrations locked in, though. Even so much as a deep breath could have given away crucial knowledge about him to the other players. Those behaviors were called “tells” in the trade, and they were dangerously destructive to a player.

Declan Connelly was an Irish launderer worth millions. He sat solid and imposing on the other side of the table. As if he didn’t have a care in the world, he sipped his whiskey straight up. He could drink for hours—and had been—and still play as though he were stone-cold sober.

He’d also apparently brought the luck of the Irish with him. He’d hit on combinations during the night that had at first appeared all but impossible.

“C’mon, old man,” Connelly taunted. “You’re squeezing onto them chips like they’re the last ones you’re likely to see in your lifetime.” He snickered. “’Course as old as you are, I guess maybe that could be the case.”

Roux ignored the insult and concentrated on his cards. He wasn’t going to let himself be baited.

Two queens—hearts and diamonds—had shown up in the flop, the spill of the initial three community cards across the felt. Roux felt certain Connelly was holding another queen in his two down cards because the river was widely split unless someone was holding a queen. There was nothing really to build on in the river and more than likely winning the hand would depend on pairing up cards. The third card was the jack of spades.

“We really need to get on with this,” Ling Po said. “I’d like to get in another hand before I go for the massage I’ve scheduled.” She was British and from old money. Besides her money, she also possessed her youth. She was in her twenties and was a beautiful porcelain doll of a woman.

“Now, honey,” the big Texas wildcatter, Roy Hudder, drawled, “you ought not rush a man at two things in this life. One’s romance and the other’s poker. Give the old-timer a little breathin’ room.”

Roux hated being called old-timer by the Texan. Hudder was in his sixties and dressed like a television cowboy in a rhinestone-studded suit. Eyes flicking over the cards showing on the table, Roux knew that he still had a chance to put his hand together.

He held the ten and the king of spades as his hole cards. Together with the jack of spades showing, he had a chance at a royal flush. Provided that the next two cards dealt were the right ones.

Roux knew that his luck hadn’t been running like that. It was just that he couldn’t let go of Connelly’s constant heckling.

“It takes nerve to play this game, boyo,” Connelly said. He bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Maybe you’ve already spent yours, eh?”

Roux called, matching the bets that had been made on the table.

The dealer burned a card and slid the turn card onto the felt. The ace of spades stood neatly beside the two queens and the jack.

Now a potential straight lay in waiting. Some of the betting picked up pace.

Roux reluctantly parted with his chips. One card in his favor didn’t mean much. And he hated bidding on luck, but he couldn’t walk away from the table.

“Growing a spine, old man?” Connelly taunted.

Roux ignored him.

The dealer dealt the river, the final community card that finished the seven cards the players had to make a hand from.

It was the queen of spades. Roux couldn’t believe his luck. He kept his face neutral and didn’t move.

Connelly’s left nostril twitched. It was a tell Roux had spotted hours ago. The man definitely had a queen among his hold cards. He now had four of a kind.

The bet went to Ling Po. She raised the stakes a little.

Roux pushed the rest of his chips into the pot. “I’m all in,” he said.

Ling Po tossed her cards onto the table and Hudder did, as well.

Connelly stared at Roux from across the table. “So now it’s just you and me, old man.” His grin grew wider. “You’re so desperate you’re trying to buy this pot, aren’t you?”

Roux said nothing.

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Connelly asked. “A big bluff at the end to show everybody you’re not afraid to lose your money.”

Roux returned the man’s gaze without comment.

Connelly cursed. “Bit of theatrical nonsense is what it is.” He tapped the table with a forefinger. “For you to beat me, you’d have to have the ten and king of spades. But you don’t have them, do you?”

“The bet is to you, Mr. Connelly,” the dealer informed the big Irishman politely.

With an impatient wave, Connelly quieted the dealer. “You’re just smoke and mirrors, old man. I still remember that bluff you tried to run when we opened this game.”

Roux had done that purposefully because the pot had been small enough that getting busted running a bluff wouldn’t cost much. And he’d gotten caught doing it, as he had intended.

“I hate bluffers,” Connelly said. “Either you have the cards you need to win, or you need to go home. This game’s about luck and skill, not about drama.”

“Actually,” Ling Po said, “I prefer a man who knows how to make a production of things. Otherwise this game becomes tedious. Except for the winning and losing, of course.” She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “That’s what we’re all here for, right, Irish? The winning and losing? So are you going to talk and try to figure out if our friend is bluffing, or are you going to play cards?”

The red in Connelly’s face deepened.

Roux knew the woman’s words had seared Connelly, and they had sealed the deal. Although Roux had fewer chips, by going all in he’d shoved enough into the pot that losing a matching amount would seriously impact Connelly’s game. Roux was counting on the hand playing out and doing that very thing.

“You don’t have it,” Connelly said.

Roux kept silent as the Sphinx. Anything he said would potentially tell Connelly something.

“Mr. Connelly,” the dealer said quietly.

Like an impatient child, Connelly blew out his breath. It was the most out of control Roux had seen the man all evening. He also knew he’d never have a better chance to break Connelly’s confidence.

“You don’t have it,” Connelly repeated. Angrily, he pushed in stacks of chips to match Roux’s wager. As if delivering the death stroke, the Irishman flipped over his hole cards and exposed the queen of clubs. “I’ve got four ladies, boyo. Unless you can come up with three kings or three aces in those two hole cards, you’re beaten.”

“I can’t do that, I’m afraid.” Without fanfare, Roux flipped his cards over to reveal his royal flush.

Connelly screamed a curse and pushed back from the table.

“We have a scheduled break at this point,” the dealer said smoothly.

Roux got up from the table and walked out into the main casino.

Standing on the second-floor landing overlooking the main pit, Roux took in a deep breath and let it out. There wasn’t anything that felt as good as victory. If he ever lost that feeling, if he ever grew jaded with it, he honestly didn’t know what he would do with himself. Living a long life could be incredibly boring and repetitious.

Especially in modern times.

In the past, when the world had been wide open and a man had been free to fight wars and love women indiscriminately, when there had been so many things to discover, Roux had felt better about his long years.

He had dined with kings, helped them slay their enemies and aided them in seizing their crowns. He’d raised armies and fought tremendous battles. Every day, those stakes had been for his life or the lives of those around him.

Now, though, he couldn’t do those things. Warmongers tended to draw too much attention and the enmity of the world. World conquerors, he feared, were a thing of the past when all it took was one man with a satellite and a long-range missile to put that would-be world conqueror in the grave.

The times were so different these days, and he had started to fear sometimes that if he lived too much longer he wouldn’t be able to blend in.

Thankfully he had gambling, though the money was never an issue. He had more than he could ever spend in his long life, and there was more to be had if he needed it.

One of the reasons he loved Annja Creed as he did was that she had that fire in her that he could barely remember. Still, she had Joan’s sword, and that thing had never proved helpful in living a long life.

He took out a hand-rolled cigar. It was a blend that he specially ordered. Cigars were one thing he’d never grown bored with.

Action was heating up at a craps table. Whoever was rolling the bones had evidently been inordinately lucky. The crowd was two and three deep, all of them cheering the shooter on as she threw the dice again. Another cheer rose.

Despite the movement going on around him and the steady current of conversations, Roux heard the light tread and sensed the movement behind him. He took another puff off the cigar and didn’t react.

“They’re happy.”

“Yes,” Roux agreed, “they are.”

Ling Po stepped to his side and joined him at the railing above the pit. “You knew I was there.”

Roux glanced at her. “Yes.”

“Yet you ignored me.”

“Trust me, dear girl, you’re not easy to ignore.”

“Well, then, why don’t you pay more attention to me?”




11


Roux took in Ling Po’s slender figure. It was obvious from the graceful way she moved that she paid attention to her physical health and was athletically inclined. The black pants, black jacket and white blouse almost looked like a business suit, but the tailor had made certain the material didn’t hide the curves beneath. There was a generous expanse of cleavage.

“How did you know I was there?” Ling Po’s brows knitted, and the effort almost made her look like a little girl.

“ESP?” Roux suggested.

Ling Po smiled. “No, I don’t think so.” She paused. “You’re a very interesting man.”

“I am,” he agreed, and he silently thanked the gods that gambling wasn’t the only interest left to him. His infatuation with young women, especially those who felt they had to compete with him on some level, was huge.

Ling Po laughed. “And you certainly don’t lack for confidence.”

“I find myself emboldened by your beauty,” Roux said. “I find my spirit made larger for being in your presence. You’ll have to forgive me.”

Her cheeks turned slightly pink. That had been unexpected. With all of her wealth he would have expected her to be hardened to any form of flattery.

“You talk a lot of nonsense,” the young woman responded.

“Do you think so? I thought it sounded much better than telling you that you had a great set of hooters.” Roux smiled.

Ling Po laughed, but she didn’t bother to hide her cleavage. She seemed genuinely amused rather than put off by his crude remark. “You know, I could think you’re hitting on me.”

Roux lifted his eyebrows. “I’d be devastated to know that you approached me with anything less in mind.”

“You’re entirely too confident.”

“I’ve always been very successful with women.”

“Have you?”

“You came over to meet me, didn’t you?”

“Not because of any sexual allure.”

“Are you certain?”

“You’re old enough to be my grandfather.”

“And that makes me even more intriguing, doesn’t it?”

Ling Po didn’t deny it. “I like the way you handled Connelly.”

Roux shrugged. “The man was positively begging for a comeuppance of the rudest sort. Although, if the cards hadn’t favored me, that could have been embarrassing.”

They shared a brief laugh.

“He didn’t know that you allowed yourself to be caught bluffing earlier,” Ling Po said.

Roux managed an innocent look but couldn’t help grinning just a little. Ling Po was sharper than he thought. It would be good to keep that in mind.

“Did I do that?” he asked.

The young woman nodded. “Yes. It was very carefully done, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t think anyone else caught on.”

“Yet you did.”

“Truthfully, I think I’m better than anyone else in that room.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I don’t mean to take anything away from you. You’re a very good card player,” she said.

“Again, you’re too kind.”

“No. I’ve seen some of the best. That’s why I’m surprised I’ve not crossed paths with you before.”

“I play a small game.”

“By choice. You could be on television, playing in one of the tournaments that get broadcast.”

Roux waved that away and took another puff off his cigar. He rounded his ash into a nearby ashtray. “I’ve no interest in that. Entirely too much attention.” And there was too much of an opportunity for too many people to see him and perhaps recognize him.

“I can’t believe you’d be shy.”

“Perhaps I just prefer a gentleman’s game among friends.”

Ling Po shook her head. “After the way you ambushed and baited Connelly, I don’t think so. That wasn’t very gentlemanly.”

“He isn’t—by any stretch of a generous imagination—anywhere close to being a gentleman.”

“No, but I have to wonder what you’re all about.”

“Then I’ll just say that I like being mysterious. I’ve found that women think that’s attractive.”

“It is.”

Roux turned to face the young woman. “So is your intent in meeting me merely to get a better sense of my game? Or do you have something else in mind?”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/alex-archer/gabriel-s-horn/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.