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The Matador's Crown
Alex Archer


An invitation too irresistible to refuse from the Museum of Cadiz leads archaeologist Annja Creed to the sun-drenched southern coast of Andalucia, Spain. In a region rich in Moorish and Roman ruins, she leaps at the chance to join a dig across the Bay of Cadiz, where she unearths a bronze bull statue that makes the entire trip worth every minute.Until the day after her discovery, when she sees the same artifact beside the body of a dead Spaniard, killed by the estocada, the final sword thrust used by bullfighters to bring down the bull.Whoever killed the man left clear signs of having taken something. And yet the bronze bull remained. What was so valuable the murderer chose it over a priceless artifact? How had her find come into this dead man's hands? With few leads and a growing body count, Annja's investigation takes her through a colorful world of flamenco and bullfighting to a renowned matador and an illegal–and deadly–collection of Visigoth votive crowns.







A dead man. A stolen artifact.

As something of an expert on the medieval period, archaeologist Annja Creed jumps at the invitation from the Museum of Cadiz to assess its acquisition of Egyptian coins. Andalucia, Spain, is a region rich in Moorish and Roman ruins, and this invite gives Annja the chance to join a dig across the Bay of Cadiz. There she unearths a bronze bull statue that makes the entire trip worth every minute to her. Until the day after her discovery, when she sees the same artifact in the hotel room down the hall from hers, in the possession of a Spaniard killed by the estocada, the final sword thrust used by bullfighters to bring down the bull.

Whoever killed the man in the hotel room had left clear signs of having taken something. And yet the bronze bull remained. What was so valuable the murderer ignored a priceless artifact? With few leads and a growing body count, Annja’s investigation takes her through the colorful world of flamenco and bullfighting to a renowned matador and an illegal—and deadly—collection of Visigoth votive crowns.


Earth had been hastily shoveled over the body

“That is not good,” Garin said as he sidled up beside Annja and looked over the scene. “You think it’s the dig supervisor you wanted to talk to?”

“Someone looking for me?”

They turned in unison—Garin with pistol extended and ready to fire—to find Jonathon Crockett holding an AK-47.

“I believe my Kalashnikov trumps your Glock,” Crockett said.

Annja felt Garin’s elbow twitch against her arm. He was the last man Crockett—any man—should issue a challenge like that to.

“You think so?” Garin held the pistol barrel skyward with his finger off the trigger to show he meant to surrender. Annja knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Reaching into the otherwhere for her sword, she clasped the grip and swept the blade across Crockett’s wrist, taking him by surprise. The machine gun dropped to the dusty ground. In an agile move, Garin bent to claim it, as Annja released the sword back to where it had come from.

“Nice,” Garin said. He hooked the Kalashnikov under his arm and held both guns on the whimpering professor. “She’s my backup.”


Titles in this series:

Tear of the Gods

The Oracle’s Message

Cradle of Solitude

Labyrinth

Fury’s Goddess

Magic Lantern

Library of Gold

The Matador’s Crown

Destiny

Solomon’s Jar

The Spider Stone

The Chosen

Forbidden City

The Lost Scrolls

God of Thunder

Secret of the Slaves

Warrior Spirit

Serpent’s Kiss

Provenance

The Soul Stealer

Gabriel’s Horn

The Golden Elephant

Swordsman’s Legacy

Polar Quest

Eternal Journey

Sacrifice

Seeker’s Curse

Footprints

Paradox

The Spirit Banner

Sacred Ground

The Bone Conjurer

Tribal Ways

The Dragon’s Mark

Phantom Prospect

Restless Soul

False Horizon

The Other Crowd


The Matador’s Crown

Alex Archer


















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


The Legend

...The English commander took Joan’s sword and raised it high.

The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd. Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France,

but her legend and sword are reborn....


Special thanks and acknowledgment to Michele Hauf for her contribution to this work.


Contents

Prologue (#u5a4ccabd-15b3-5687-b28d-a46c3f992867)

Chapter 1 (#u6c46200e-c9bd-5cf0-8601-4f0ba19302dd)

Chapter 2 (#u440ba04b-5d31-513f-b136-83dadc77e38a)

Chapter 3 (#u86781d65-58fc-5262-a2ee-cc878594a7dc)

Chapter 4 (#ue4a18a9d-49ff-57c6-89f3-0baa62b7d018)

Chapter 5 (#u2d073ddb-413f-54dc-b014-9a7d3fa1c966)

Chapter 6 (#ub2156668-8c00-5125-a220-2ffdb38f2924)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue



The woman walking thirty strides ahead of him moved like a flamenco dancer. Powerful, forceful, yet graceful. She reminded him of Ava, the dancer in the club where he played guitar.

Ava barely acknowledged his existence and frequently complained he did not keep proper compas, marking the beat, which spoiled her dance and made her look bad in front of the audience. As a guitarist, he was attuned to the dancer and singer, but his concentration tended to waver around Ava.

He’d thought her just another dancer when he’d taken the job at the Gato Negra club. But there was a shadow inside Ava and he felt its presence every time she took the stage. Darkness emerged in her footwork, in the aggressive expressions that contorted her face and the fierce control with which she captured the audience nightly.

So he did not hurry his pace to catch up with this other woman. Best to admire from afar.

With the guitar he’d made from German spruce and Spanish cypress strapped across his back, Diego Montera carried the cumbersome wooden crate at stomach level. He had to deliver it at midnight. In a cotton bag tied to his belt loop, he had a change of clothing and enough euros to cover a meal. He also carried the small bronze artifact he had to deliver the following morning. He had seen that much—that it was bronze—as his employer had wrapped it and handed it to him. What was in the crate, he didn’t know. It wasn’t much heavier than his guitar.

His employer had rented him a room in the Hotel Blanca tonight for the first delivery. It was not as if he could complete the transaction on the street, in the open. Or at his home where Diego’s mother would question a stranger’s visit. The buyer preferred a private meeting, valued his privacy.

Diego was excited about tonight. That his employer had trusted him with two jobs within a day of each other meant he was moving up, earning respect. If both exchanges went well, perhaps he’d earn a position as a regular liaison. A guitarist’s wages were nothing to write home about, and he still lived with his mother, who complained when he didn’t help clean around the house. A guitarist shouldn’t do manual labor such as fixing the plumbing! Diego wanted his own apartment so he could entertain friends and bring home women without the curse of his mother’s condemning eye.

Even though he had no information about who would arrive to pick up the wooden crate and its contents tonight, Diego felt confident the meeting would go well. The money would be transferred electronically through a secure service. Then Diego got paid in cash. He knew to go online and verify that his employer had received the transfer before handing over the item. He had one of those fancy cell phones with the internet browser in his jeans pocket. The device, a hand-me-down, had received a pounding from one of Diego’s brothers and was on its last legs.

Tomorrow morning’s handoff would be at a public place—a city fountain—not far from the Museum of Cádiz. What he did when he was not playing in the club wasn’t legal, but it paid too well to pass up. He hadn’t learned the name of the outfit he worked for, but it probably didn’t have one. Most of the deals, if not all, were made under the table.

His mother would never look him in the eye again if she knew who he was involved with. But if Diego wanted to finally attract the eye of Ava, the beautiful flamenco dancer, he had to have money.

Hours earlier, the sun had set in fiery amber ripples on the horizon over the sea. A sharp slice of moonlight glimmered on the waters close to shore. The streets were busy at all hours in Cádiz. The city offered so much to experience in food, music and festivity. And with the bullfights on the mainland in Jerez, Cádiz celebrated with all-night dancing in the streets.

Diego turned a corner into an empty street. Though he’d been a Cádiz resident all his life, the sudden street-to-street changes from festive to silent startled him. He was tired, but the coffee he’d slammed down before leaving the club after tonight’s performance had given him a jolt.

Exiting the momentary solace, he crossed a main street peopled with tourists in jeans, sandals and baseball caps, and entered the Hotel Blanca’s whitewashed stucco facade. Diego smiled at the squat matron behind the front desk who wore black edged with touches of white lace. She was someone’s grandma, surely, and her jet eyes brightened at the sight of him. Yet as he approached, she blew him a kiss that seemed more flirtatious than motherly.

He was always startled to notice a woman’s reaction to his appearance. His mother had called him ma bonita, “my pretty,” but his three brothers had pounded him regularly because of his looks...and possibly because of their mother’s affection for him. And because he had no inclinations toward the bullfight. In a family of toreros dating back three generations, Diego had opted to study music.

His hotel room was on the second floor, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, several blocks from the avenue Compo del Sur that fronted the beach. Setting the crate on the small, wobbly table near the bed and untying the cotton bag, he let it slide down to his feet and land on the floor. Sitting on the narrow bed, he pulled the guitar around from his back. Quickly, he loosened the E, A and D strings, and drew them out from the wooden tuning pegs so they sprang like whiskers from the bridge. He slipped his hand inside the guitar’s sound hole.

The small statue had fallen out of the cloth bag and felt cold against his palm as he carefully eased it, and the duct tape he’d used to secure it, from inside the guitar. He shouldn’t have taken it out until morning, but he couldn’t play with it inside the instrument, so he set the shiny piece aside next to the wooden crate. Maybe it wasn’t bronze. Maybe it was gold. He was no expert on metals.

He considered what he could buy if he kept the statue for himself. A lot. But if he didn’t deliver it tomorrow morning, he knew he wouldn’t see tomorrow evening.

Now all he had to do was wait for the first meeting—at midnight. An appropriately menacing time to meet a stranger.

Diego passed the hours strumming his guitar.

* * *

AS MIDNIGHT TOLLED, the door to Diego’s hotel room creaked open. Diego abruptly stood as a tall stranger in a long black leather coat stepped in. He wore sunglasses and a dark fedora, the crown of it circled with a red ribbon. The brim was tipped low over his eyes. Cordoba leather shoes caught Diego’s eye. Very expensive. His father had once owned a pair.

He flexed his fingers. He couldn’t recall leaving the door open, but he hadn’t locked it.

“You Diego Montera?” the stranger asked in a low tone.

A dreadful chill froze Diego at the end of the bed, his guitar held ready as if it was a weapon.

“Yes. Are you the liaison for—”

“Yes, the liaison. You have it?”

“Yes. Ah! I need to check a message first.” He eyed the corner of the battered cell phone on the floor, which lay half out of the cotton bag. “Verify the transaction before we do this.”

The other man tipped his sunglasses down and looked over the rim at Diego. “You’ve not done this before, have you, Señor Montera?”

Diego rubbed his sweating palms down the sides of his jeans. He didn’t like that his employer had given his full name to the client. “What makes you think that?”

The thin man smirked as he approached the crate. “Do what you must. All my accounts are in order. Is it in here?”

“Yes.” Diego opened up the cell phone and turned it on. The thing was four years old, taped across the cover and slower than an adagio. He waited for the screen to boot up.

The liaison didn’t seem to notice him. He paused to look at the statue of the bull in bronze...or gold... before pushing aside the top of the crate.

“This was nailed down originally. With more rivets?”

“Hmm?” Diego looked down at what he was doing, studying the cell phone in his lap. “Uh, not sure. That’s exactly the way it was when I received it.”

The cell-phone screen flashed and the icon that indicated it was searching for service blinked.

“So...” The stranger exhaled in a heavy sigh. He tapped a rough wood slat of the crate. “You’ve touched what’s inside?”

“Damn.” The battery warning flashed red and the screen flashed to black. Diego scampered to the other side of the bed trying to find an outlet to recharge the device. “Touched it? Oh, well... Yes, the cover came off easily, so I did look at it. I didn’t take it out.” An outlet. Excellent. He plugged in the phone.

“That’s unfortunate.”

Diego straightened and immediately had to take a step backward because the man suddenly stood before him. His brain registered the swing of an arm, a fist soaring in an arc to deliver a punch, but the man moved so rapidly, Diego had no time to duck.

Knuckles bruised the side of his jaw, and his head snapped back sharply. A loud crack could have been the man’s knuckles or Diego’s teeth. His equilibrium faltered, but he managed to stay on his feet.

The liaison emitted a guttural grunt, similar to a workman lifting a bale of hay. His thin, leather-clad body rose before Diego. He propelled himself into the air by stepping onto the bed, knocking the guitar onto the tiled floor.

Not his guitar!

Who was this man?

Searing pain pierced Diego’s spine at the base of his neck. He cried out, but only a gurgling mumble came out of his throat.

He tasted more blood and swallowed it back. He started to choke. He couldn’t catch his breath. Blood bubbled up into his throat. His spine felt numb, but his heart pounded rapidly. His neck and face were on fire.

Grasping for the man who had removed his sunglasses and stood calmly before him, Diego dropped to his knees. Grasping at his chest, he closed his eyes. He choked to death on his own blood.


1



Annja Creed dragged herself out of the narrow, lumpy bed mumbling, “Must find a new place to stay.”

Her regular morning routine found her rising, showering and fitting in a jog before the first glint of sunshine hit the rooftops. But today? Six o’clock was absolutely torturous after spending the night at a hostel populated with more partying teenagers than she could shake a fist at.

But after nearly two months straight of traveling, she teetered close to an edge no one wanted to see her step over. She powered up her laptop and located a hotel by the sea. She was financing this trip to Andalusia herself, so had initially thought to go cheap. She’d been invited by James Harlow, the head of acquisitions and curations at the Museum of Cádiz, to view their recently acquired collection of Greek coins featuring Hercules’s twelve labors, found in Egypt. He must’ve discovered that she was writing an article on coins depicting mythological heroes. She’d jumped at the opportunity. The collection was pristine, and she’d taken some excellent pictures yesterday. Today, she planned to take notes and make pencil rubbings of both the obverse and reverse of each coin.

Two days previously she’d been in Puerto Real, across the Bay of Cádiz, squatting alongside Professor Jonathan Crockett on a small dig she’d learned about while researching the area for hotels. The bay area was made up of tiny villages dotted with small white houses and was rich with Moorish and Roman remains. So she’d planned a few extra days to dig in the dirt. Frankly, it had been months since she’d participated in a dig. She’d been unable to resist.

The Cádiz website featured a list of recommended hotels, most bordering the Atlantic Ocean. Annja made a reservation, hoping for less of a party atmosphere. A touristy hotel was fine with her.

She swept her chestnut hair into a ponytail, stuffed her few articles of clothing and essential tools into her backpack—laptop, flash drives, camera, trowel and dental pick, latex gloves, passports and SPF 30 sunscreen—and headed out to find the Hotel Blanca.

On the sidewalk outside of the hotel, she splashed through a puddle, evidence of an early-morning rain shower. Her sure strides scattered a clowder of feral cats sprawled around the furry remains of what must have been a rat.

Set by the sea, Cádiz was a cosmopolitan Spanish city. Yet being one of the oldest cities in Europe, it clung to its heritage, steeped as it was in Gypsy culture and the art of flamenco dance and music. Farther inland, the province was covered with national parks and mountains. She’d once backpacked through Moorish villages to study an ancient fortress believed to have been Ferdinand II’s stronghold.

Founded by the Phoenicians in or around 1100 BC, Cádiz was interesting to Annja in that no archaeological strata on the site could be dated earlier than the ninth century BC. Historians decided Cádiz, or Gadir as the Spaniards called it, had once been a shipping stop instead of an actual port, which may be reason for the lacking pre-ninth-century archaeological finds.

Nothing of major importance had been found at the dig site until yesterday when she’d turned up a bronze bull statue. Possibly an effigy to Baal, the bull god, she had decided. Baal was associated with thunder and rain, and had been killed annually by Mot, the god of summer heat. Killing Baal stopped the summer rains so Mot could scorch the earth. Baal’s sister, Anath, brought him back in the fall, and he renewed plant life and allowed the earth to once again be plowed.

Annja figured Mot had worked his alchemy this week. The thermometer was rising, and out on the dig, the earth had been hard, which made for easy brushing, but challenging trowel work.

She’d taken photos of the bronze statue in situ and then again after digging it out and placing it on the finds table. After being cataloged, it would be sent to a local university. She’d shown James Harlow at the Cádiz museum the photos, and he’d been fascinated.

Annja dodged as a toddler, chasing a red rubber ball, with no mind for obstacles, zoomed toward her. His parents, exasperated tourists, apologized as they ran past her calling out in what she recognized as German.

A beam of sun glinted in her eye, magnified by the silver waves ridging the sea to her left. The water was clear and the sand on the beach bright and clean-

looking. After a few hours at the museum, she intended to walk down to the shore. A perfect way to end the trip before her flight back home.

Much as she enjoyed travel, she was looking forward to returning to her apartment in Brooklyn and stealing some writing time. Annja had collected notes from digs in Austria and Turkey and wanted to translate them onto the computer and see if she could wrangle a worthy story in the mix. She loved writing, and had published a few books on archaeology, but found writing time spare because, more than pounding away at the keyboard, she loved actual digs, searching for new discoveries. Generally being outdoors. Adventure ran through her veins.

The Hotel Blanca’s white-tiled lobby was filled with potted palm trees, and the overhead latticework created crisscross patterns of sunlight. The elderly receptionist wore a severely tight bun of salt-and-pepper hair and gave Annja a rote welcome to the beautiful city of Cádiz. She looked Annja up and down—taking in the hiking boots sorely in need of new laces, her khaki cargo pants sorely in need of an iron and her T-shirt that featured a fading Women for Women logo—then took her credit-card information and handed her a key.

Annja thanked the receptionist and took the concrete stairs featuring brightly colored paintings along the risers two at a time. Not authentic Spanish design, but the entire city couldn’t be authentic, she figured.

She had always been curious about Spanish culture and artifacts—okay, artifacts from any culture and time period. She’d spent two summers interning on digs in Granada during her college years and had fallen in love with this country. The Andalusians were proud of their history, which began with the Phoenicians, and over the centuries incorporated influences from the Visigoths to the Islamic empire. They were most famous for Christopher Columbus’s journeys and Ferdinand and Isabella’s rule. Not to mention their monopoly of the sea trade in the eighteenth century.

Annja found her room, and as she slid the key card through the lock, she noticed the door next to hers at the end of a hallway move inside a few inches, creaking.

With little more than a bend forward, she peered inside and noted the edge of a neatly made bed, and then two booted feet, facing down, hanging off the side.

“Must have partied over at the hostel,” she muttered. “Hello?” she called softly and moved to pull the door shut to give the guy some privacy.

But the sight of an acoustic guitar facedown on the floor instead prompted her to push the door open.

A stale, meaty odor assaulted her senses.

Clenching her fists, Annja stepped around the guitar and looked over the man sprawled on the bed. Blood stained the back of his blue shirt and had soaked the shirt through and puddled on the faded yellow bedspread.

Clasping her hands together to keep from inadvertently touching anything, Annja looked back to the door she’d left open.

“What went on here?” she wondered as she again studied the body of what appeared to be a young man. Long, dark hair covered his face. There were no signs of drug paraphernalia, no needles or spoons.

“Drugs usually don’t result in bleeding out,” she whispered. “He’s been attacked.”

The largest bloodstain was over the left side of his back, directly over his heart. He could have been shot in the back or stabbed. She’d call the reception desk to alert the police immediately.

Just as she was about to leave to do that, her gaze fell onto the bronze statue on the table next to a wooden crate that spilled out brown paper packing strips. A very familiar bronze statue in the shape of a bull, about the size of her fist. She knew that because she had held the statue not a day earlier.

Annja dodged around the dead man’s feet and tugged a pair of latex gloves out of her backpack. She put them on before picking up the bull statue.

“I just dug this out of the ground yesterday.”

It had been coupled with a bent silver platter she and Jonathan Crockett had assumed had been part of thieves’ booty. Probably nineteenth century, to judge from the strata layers where it had been found. Yet the actual statue and platter could possibly date to the eleventh century. That was her guess.

She turned it over now, noting bits of dirt were still embedded in the creases that outlined the bull’s head. It had to be the same statue. Wasn’t every day a person stumbled on something like this, though it certainly wasn’t remarkable. The bull was a symbol and totem used throughout the ages. Baal, the bull god? Maybe. Or perhaps a simple study of a bull.

No matter what it was, she knew without doubt this was the same piece she’d dug up yesterday. How had this gotten into a small seaside hotel in the hands of a dead man in less than twenty-four hours?

The impressions in the paper packing strands of the crate indicated a round object had been inside, about three times the size of the statue, perhaps a ring like a halo. Something else could have been in the crate. Maybe the bull had been set in the center with something bigger around it.

No, it didn’t look as though the packing paper had been disturbed in the center.

Had the man on the bed been transporting stolen artifacts? It made sickening sense. Port-side cities like Cádiz were rife with small operations that trafficked in stolen and looted artifacts. Annja wanted to string them all up and force them to understand they were robbing an entire culture.

“Who was here before me?” she asked the dead man. “And what did he take from the crate?”

She was no forensics expert but could make an educated guess how long the man had been dead. His skin was pink at the bottom of his hands, which were flat on the bed, indicating the blood had settled. That meant six hours after death. He must have been murdered around midnight. It was a guess, though.

Slipping a hand inside her backpack, she drew out a digital camera and took a picture of the statue, flipping it over and getting edge shots of it as well as inner shots, trying to match the previous shots she’d taken while at the dig site. She and Harlow had uploaded those photos to their laptops. Then she snapped shots of the empty wood crate from all angles.

She wouldn’t take a picture of the dead body, but she did take another look at the man’s back to note the exact position of the wound. Set at the base of the neck and to the left of the spinal column, it looked too messy and wide for a bullet, but an exit wound could tear the flesh if the rifle had been high caliber. She adjusted her guess to a knife with a narrow blade.

She had the urge to search the dead man’s pockets for a wallet and identification except that she heard footsteps down the hallway. The door, which she hadn’t pushed closed, crept inside an inch.

Stepping out into the hallway, she spied a maid and grabbed her by the arm and said in her most theatric Spanish, “He’s dead! I was going into my room, and his door was open. Send for the police!”


2



Annja had waited until a pair of officers had arrived at the hotel, and answered their brief questions. They’d asked her to come along to the Cádiz city police station.

She relayed all the information she could to a Maria Alonzo—a female officer Annja decided wasn’t in a high position. She merely nodded and jotted things down and didn’t prompt with leading questions. The officer then said she’d return with Annja’s belongings in a few minutes and left the room.

Having been escorted to an interrogation room upon arrival at the police station hadn’t bothered Annja. Of course they would be thorough. And, having been on the scene, she could understand how she might be construed a suspect. But she wasn’t going to sit patiently for long.

She still had one more day at the museum planned, working alongside James Harlow. The murder mystery she would leave in the capable hands of the Cádiz police. But the question of what had been inside the wooden crate tread on her turf. And whatever it was had been worth murder to someone.

It wasn’t related to the bronze statue, she suspected. Or else wouldn’t the murderer have pocketed that, as well? There was a possibility whatever had been stolen wasn’t even an artifact. But the crate and the packing materials screamed archaeological interest.

She got up from the uncomfortable metal folding chair and stretched her arms over her head. Despite its seaside location, the heat index could rise to blistering before noon and the room didn’t have air-conditioning. She had waited an hour alone in this room before an officer had arrived to get the details from her. She was hungry, yet her system buzzed with nervous adrenaline.

“Señorita Creed?”

A second officer strolled in, favoring his left leg with a slight limp. He set her heavy canvas backpack on the table. He stood back, thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his brown, creased slacks. He wore the force’s green flak jacket with the gold policia emblem emblazoned across the back over a yellow-and-blue-striped shirt. Visible under his left arm, a holstered pistol. The big silver buckle of his belt was either a black enameled bucking horse or a bull. Annja couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to look too closely.

“César Soto,” he offered, but didn’t offer his hand. “Chief Inspector, Cádiz PNP.”

He wore a nonissue beige cowboy hat low over his brow, which emphasized his dull, black eyes. He needed a shave, and sweat slicked his cheeks and nose.

“Am I free to leave?” she asked, fingering the backpack strap. “I answered all the other officer’s questions.”

“Just a few more minutes, if you don’t mind, Señorita Creed.” He spoke English well, with only a hint of a Spanish accent. “My assistant is typing up her report, but I wanted to go over a few key points with you that I don’t quite understand.”

He pulled a credit-card-size digital camera out of his jacket pocket and set it on the table. It was her camera. Annja picked it up and turned it on.

“We uploaded and then erased the contents,” Soto said before she could verify that for herself. “Tell me why a woman who happens upon a murder scene moments after renting a room in a hotel takes pictures of the incident.”

“I didn’t photograph the victim.” She winced. As if that made her amateur-photography expedition sound more virtuous. “I’m an archaeologist, Officer Soto. I explained to your assistant, when I arrived at my room the door next to mine was open, and I am, by nature, curious.”

“And apparently quite brave to walk in on a dead man?”

“I’m also accustomed to dead bodies.”

“Is that so? How often do you come across a fresh kill?”

More often than she was willing to reveal.

“Not often,” she offered carefully. “I’ve learned to view the scene with an unemotional eye for detail. I hadn’t expected to see an item on the man’s dresser that I had touched less than twenty-four hours earlier.”

“The bronze bull we’ve taken into evidence?”

“Yes. It’s possibly a statue of Baal, the bull god of thunder and rain. A fertility god.”

“And you dug that up at a dig site near Jerez?”

“Puerto Real, yes. Professor Jonathan Crockett’s dig. I’ve given the officer this information. So, yes, at the time, it felt natural to photograph the evidence.”

“You Americans are a strange breed.” Soto shifted his jaw and a bulge pushed out his cheek. Annja figured he had chewing tobacco and now noticed the leathery scent that surrounded him like a rancid perfume. “You ever work forensics?”

“No. But I’ve worked alongside professionals from the field. I know it sounds odd, but trust me, it was an innate reaction to take out my camera.”

“With a dead body lying feet away. Yes, I’d mark that as odd, for sure. If not suspicious.”

“He was dead before I arrived, Officer Soto. Even without a forensics background I could determine that, as I’m sure your investigating officers also did.”

“You didn’t take any pictures of what had been in the crate?”

“There wasn’t anything in the crate when I arrived.”

“You could have removed evidence.”

“I didn’t take anything. I give you my word.”

His forehead lifted in a dark chevron beneath the hat brim. He didn’t know her from a tourist. Or a thief, for that matter.

“Who was the man, if I can ask?”

Soto studied her with slow calculation. “He was a guitar player from a local club.”

“His name?”

“That’s not public information.”

She nodded. It had been worth a shot.

“Although, you’ll learn soon enough. It has already leaked to the press.” He eyed her as if she’d just spat at him. The tobacco bulge shifted from one cheek to the other. “I hate the press and all forms of media.”

“They have a job to do. I’m sure they can’t all be bad.”

He winced and again shifted the tobacco to the other cheek. “You some kind of movie star?”

The thought process that had generated such a question baffled her. She hadn’t mentioned her work with Chasing History’s Monsters to the other officer. Even so, hosting the cable television show hardly qualified her as a movie star. “Why do you ask?”

“I did a search for you on the internet. Something about a monster chaser came up.”

Good old Google.

“It’s a cable television show that explores the facts behind monsters, legends and other myths throughout history,” she explained. “I am one of the hosts. As an archaeologist, I offer a unique perspective. But I am far from what you’d consider a movie star. What does the television show have to do with this case?”

“Just wondering what sort of publicity is going to develop if you start opening your mouth.”

“I—” That had been a clear threat. She could feel his condemning stare penetrate her skull. “I’ve no intention of speaking about this to anyone. I’m hardly in a position to be doling out details on a murder case. In fact, I’m headed out of town soon. I’ve been working with the city museum, looking over a recent acquisition of Greek coins found in Egypt. In another day I’ll have all the notes I need for my project, and then I’ll hop a flight back to New York City.”

“Then I wish you a good journey.” He tipped his hat to her. “Thank you for the information, señorita. Please give your contact phone number and the location you’ll be staying at after leaving Cádiz with my secretary. You are witness to a crime scene, you understand.”

“Of course.” She slung the backpack over her shoulder and offered her hand to Soto, which this time he shook. “Luck with the case.”

After speaking with the secretary and signing the report of the information she’d given, Annja pulled out her cell phone and dialed Roux. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. The man had connections worldwide. She recalled listening to him and Garin wax over their visits to Spain in the 1950s and how they’d loved the country and the bullfighting. As well, the man was interested in art and antiquities, so she figured he might have some connections.

His phone rang over to an answering machine, which surprised her. Usually the former soldier—fifteenth-century soldier, to be accurate—had a cell phone on him. She had no idea where in the world he could be right now. But if he was at his Paris château, they were in the same time zone.

She tucked her phone away and decided to try back later.

Foregoing a return to her hotel room—surely the police would still have the dead man’s room marked off—she headed toward the Cádiz city museum on the Plaza de Mina. But a block away from the museum, James Harlow waved her down on the sidewalk and redirected her to a nearby tapas bar.

James Harlow was a slender man in his fifties who walked with a cane, due to an injury to his hip he’d never explained to Annja. He dressed in Oxford plaids and bespoke leather shoes, and had a habit of checking his watch with a tap to the crystal face.

Inside the cool bar, with walls painted blue and wicker ceiling fans, Annja ordered lemon water from the waitress. Harlow followed that up by ordering lunch for the two of them. The tortitas de camarones sounded delicious.

Harlow hooked the cherrywood cane on the edge of the table and leaned on his elbows toward her. “You’re getting a late start this morning, too, I see.”

“Not by choice. I spent the morning at the police station.”

“The police station? I’ve heard the hostels tend to have some wild parties, but, Annja, what were you up to?”

She liked that he joked with her so easily. No professional rivalries between the two of them.

“I decided sleep was more valuable than partying, so this morning I checked into a place I thought would prove more restful. But in the room next to mine I found a man who had been stabbed to death.”

“Are you serious?” He sat back in his seat and stared at her. “What are the odds of that? You do have a manner of sniffing out intrigue wherever you go.”

He’d confessed to following her adventures on Chasing History’s Monsters, but that show was just the tip of the iceberg with Annja Creed. The man couldn’t possibly be aware of all the adventures that had demanded she wield a sword to save innocent lives.

“Must be the young man I heard about on the radio twenty minutes ago,” he said. “A guitar player?”

“Yes. Did they mention his name?”

“Uh, Diego someone. Montera? That could be it. I noted it because I think there’s a family of toreros by that name. It’s also what they call the hat a matador wears in the ring, a montera. So, someone didn’t like his music?”

“Well, there was a stab wound in his back, but I won’t make a judgment call on his talent.”

Harlow choked on his beer. He set the mug down on the napkin and, face tight, smoothed the napkin out neatly to each corner before tapping his watch. “I’m so sorry, Annja. Finding a dead body is certainly not the best way to start the day. What the hell happened?”

“Someone killed him for an artifact.”

“Is that so? How do you know?”

“Listen, this is privileged information and the police are handling the case, but...”

“A mystery? Tell me.”

“There was a wooden crate in the room, and whatever had been inside it was gone. I suspect the murderer stole it. I also suspect it was an artifact, though I can’t be sure. I took pictures, but the police erased them from my camera.”

“Bold. On both your parts.”

“You’ve still got the pictures you transferred from my cell phone, right?”

“Of the bronze statue.”

“Great.” She paused. “There was another artifact that wasn’t stolen. One I actually unearthed a day ago.”

“What? You don’t mean...”

She nodded. “The bronze bull statue.”

“But how? You just discovered that on Crockett’s dig.” The man wiped a hand over his face and shook his head. “Damned looters.”

“That has to be the case. Someone looted Crockett’s site and made a quick turnaround, hoping to sell it. But apparently Diego Montera was carrying something of even more interest and value if his killer left the statue behind.”

“Which would give one reason to assume what was stolen was more valuable,” Harlow deduced. “Where’s the Baal statue now?”

“In the police evidence locker room, I’m sure. I handled it, with gloves on, and took pictures, but—”

“You should have slipped it into a pocket, Annja. That piece was an awesome little find.”

She hadn’t thought it so remarkable, but then remembered his interest in bull artifacts.

“It’ll run through the system eventually. You’ll get your hands on it sooner or later, I’m sure.”

“Don’t bet the farm on that one. Police evidence tends to find its way to the University of Cádiz on the mainland. Damned Edmond Rogers, head of acquisitions, will have his hands all over the thing before I will. That they get first dibs at police seizures is such a bloody crock. They don’t even have an archaeological department. Their focus is marine studies.”

“Well, you’ve still got the picture I took on-site.”

He nodded and looked aside, wincing. Disappointed, surely. But what could either of them do? Annja didn’t make it a habit to steal police evidence. Not that she hadn’t done so before; she just wouldn’t call it a habitual thing.

“I’m going to look into it,” she said. “If the site was looted, and the artifacts were turned around in less than a day, that tells me there’s an illicit antiquities operation in town.”

“There are likely many operations in town. This is a seaport.”

“True. I’ve got to call Jonathan Crockett. Or rather, I think I’m going to head out there after we’ve eaten.”

“You’ve more work at the museum. You think you have time to do that?”

Annja tilted her head at the man. “Professor, I’m surprised. This reeks of everything I thought you abhorred. I thought the museum took a hard stance against acquiring items without provenance?”

“Damn it,” he said softly. Clasping the mug, he stared out the window at passing tourists. After a few moments, he swung a look at her. “Annja, forgive me. I’m being absolutely rude. You must be in a state to have found a body. Are you okay?”

“Sure. Nothing I haven’t—” She cleared her throat and took a long swig of the cool lemon water. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen things,” he said. “But as archaeologists we usually find the bodies long after death, and that involves little blood or gore.” He reached across the table and laid a hand over hers. “If you need to talk, I can take the rest of the afternoon off.”

She appreciated his kindness. His reputation as being a hardnose had never been apparent to her. “Thank you, James. But I really am fine. And I am going to drive out to Crockett’s site, so I won’t be at the museum this afternoon. Is it all right if I stop in tomorrow to finish my work with the coins?”

“Of course.” He rubbed a hand along his thigh, the wounded leg, she assumed. He’d mentioned he felt constant pain, yet was able to bypass painkillers by using visual relaxation. “Yes, you’re right. Spain’s cultural heritage is not a renewable resource. If illicit trade is going on in the city, it’s our responsibility to put a stop to it. Now that I think on it...perhaps you’ll want to take a closer look at Jonathan Crockett. He’s a retired college professor who can’t find funding for a big-time dig so he’s taken what he can to keep his fingers in the dirt. A man like that...you never know what he’d do for cash.”

Annja didn’t know Crockett well, but the few days she had worked alongside him, she hadn’t gotten the murderer vibe from him. Or the I-will-sell-potsherds-for-cash vibe, either. But she wouldn’t assume anything right now.

“You worked with him?”

“It’s been over a decade, but we headed a dig together in Egypt along the Nile valley. I had to keep an eye on him. Finds went missing that I couldn’t prove.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

The waitress arrived with two steaming-hot plates. Annja dug into the thin omelet stuffed with onions and tiny prawns.

The professor studied her intense enjoyment for a few moments, smiling before diving in himself. So she was a hearty eater. It was always wise to eat her fill whenever she was around food, because there were long times when she wasn’t able to eat. Either because of her work schedule, travel or, more often, because of mysterious dealings that involved her stowing away in a ship’s hull or battling gunrunners or falling into a pit in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

After they’d eaten, with a promise to stay in contact with Harlow regarding details of the case, Annja stepped out of the tapas bar into the searing summer sun, courtesy of the god Mot. Glancing to the left, she spied the sea and a beautiful white-sand beach littered with bikini-clad women and children. Out on the water a windsurfer cut through the silver waves.

And then she saw the tall, broad-shouldered man leaning against a metal street pole pasted with posters for flamenco dance concerts. Arms crossed high over his broad chest, and a smirk softening his square face from its usual steel to the lesser iron, his presence wasn’t as much of a surprise as it should’ve been.

“Garin Braden,” she muttered, not in an altogether welcoming tone. She’d decide soon enough if she was pleased, indifferent or just plain offended to see the man.


3



“Surprised?” Garin asked in Spanish, waiting for her to approach, which Annja did with forced disinterest. He looked abnormally vacationy in his pale cream linen suit and straw fedora. Garin presented her with a different side of himself each time she ran into him.

Annja replied, using the local dialect, “I’m never surprised that you always seem to know exactly where I am at any given time. It’s your innate Annja radar, right?”

“Something like that.” His dark eyes, shaded by the hat, held hers. Annja didn’t flinch. “Also not a surprise to learn you were in a building of authority earlier.”

“That would be what most people call a police station.”

Likely, it wasn’t innate radar but rather GPS coordinates Roux had gotten from her earlier call. And he’d already let Garin know about it? Interesting. The two men didn’t work together unless there was something in it for both of them.

“Is that so? And here I thought my Spanish was so good.” He switched to English. “So what adventures have you been up to? Slaying bad guys? Leaping tall buildings in a single bound? Chasing after dusty old pots?”

She walked along the stretch of stucco and brick buildings fronting the beach and he paralleled her. “I have a feeling I don’t need to answer that one. You already know why I’m in Cádiz. Actually, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“I confess I do know the reason you were at the police station. That sort of information just comes to me, you understand. My people keep a keen eye out for threats, danger and—”

“I’m a threat?”

“No, you fall squarely in the Persons of Interest category.”

“Of course.” He did, too. Sort of like an ancient Grecian urn was interesting to her. “So Roux is one of your people?”

“When it serves me.”

The sidewalk narrowed and the big man’s arm brushed hers as they walked. He was a good head higher than her five foot ten inches—probably pushing six-four—and his shoulders were as broad as the toro bravo they bred for the bullfight here in Spain. Annja mused that he even possessed all the qualities matadors looked for in a bull: aggression, strength, stamina and intelligence. He was also several centuries old, which made him irresistible to her. And that offended her moral need to remain aloof toward the man.

“Headed anywhere in particular?” he asked.

“Off this sandspit to Puerto Real, to a little dig tucked on the edge of town.”

“Ferdinand and Isabella’s town,” he commented.

Annja searched historical dates in her head. Puerto Real had been founded by King Ferdinand II of Aragon and Isabella I of Castile near the end of the fifteenth century. Garin had been walking this earth since the early fifteenth century.

Okay, she’d give him that one.

“The town has been around since before the Romans,” she said. “Ferdinand made it a royal port to lure trade from North Africa his way.”

“He was not a stupid king. And his wife was hot.” He gestured to the black Jeep parked ahead. “I’ll give you a ride. It’ll give us an opportunity to catch up.”

Blinking into the sun, Annja agreed she did want to catch up—and learn what Braden knew about her latest adventure. Even if she didn’t trust the man as far as she could toss him. And with his bulk, that was more like a drop down her body before she sprained a wrist.

Sliding into the Jeep’s passenger seat, she buckled up and tossed her backpack into the open truck bed. She hadn’t missed the dried mud on the wheel rims and quarter panels. “You doing some off-roading in the area?”

“Rained yesterday.”

“Sure. And that pitiful sprinkle managed to splatter your rearview mirror with mud.”

“You got it.”

Garin probably fancied himself an international man of mystery—which he was—but Annja knew he used the persona around her only when he wanted to tease her. On the other hand, he had secrets. Lots of them. And sometimes it was better to let things slide than to question them.

Garin eased into traffic and headed toward the ancient defensive walls that had circled the city since Roman times. Gadir, the name the Phoenicians had given the original outpost, meant “walled stronghold.”

They didn’t speak as Annja took in the scenery. Two massive electricity pylons hugged either side of the Bay of Cádiz as they neared La Pepa, the bridge that accessed the mainland. It was one of the longest cable-span bridges in the country. On the pylons, steel framework supported electric power cables. She wondered with amusement how long before Wi-Fi and satellites obliterated the need for such things.

“So tell me what you know,” she said, her attention following the construction crew working on the bridge with pneumatic hammers and drills. “You always know something.”

“I know you stumbled onto a body this morning.”

“Word travels fast. And you rushed to Cádiz to console me?”

He chuckled as he drove off the bridge. “I’ve been in Cádiz a few days. Roux knew that and sent me to see if you needed any assistance.”

“Awful swell of the guy.” Of the two of them, she would have preferred Roux’s assistance. The old man was more like a father to her and she never felt overly threatened by his presence. “Yes, a dead body, placed most conveniently next to the room I had rented.”

“And it’s related to some kind of artifact?”

She wouldn’t question the man’s knowledge. Garin Braden had access to intel that would make the CIA blush. “A bronze totem in the form of a bull, possibly representing Baal. Ceremonial, I assume, or it could have been a commemoration piece. Who knows, it could have been a tourist tchotchke. Did you hear about the other artifact?”

“Just the one. What was the other?”

“I don’t know. It was missing.”

He flicked her a questioning glance. “Stolen?”

“From the dead man. The dead musician.”

“Ah. I sense an adventure coming on.”

“In fact, we’re headed to the first stop right now.” The stretch of road around Puerto Real quickly segued from pavement to gravel. “Turn left. It’s only a few kilometers ahead. So, do you also have information on the dead man? I was given his name, but not by the police.”

“What did you tell the police?”

“I was first on the scene, but I could only tell them what I knew. Which was very little.”

“A little is more than nothing. You hungry?”

“Just ate. We can stop if you are.”

“I’ll do for a bit.” The Jeep navigated the increasingly rough road like a dream. “Looks like you’re taking us into the boonies, your favorite kind of place.”

“Don’t worry, we’re not heading into mountainous terrain.”

“The tires are off-road all-terrain.”

“Yes. Glad you’ve already tested them when it sprinkled yesterday.”

“It was a damn good downpour.”

“Sure, if you say so.” Changing the subject, Annja said, “I’d held that very bronze statue a day ago.”

“Is that so? Now I’m intrigued.”

“It takes a lot to get your interest.”

He lifted one dark eyebrow, which was more a come-on than castigation. She ignored the flirtation.

“I unearthed it on the dig we’re heading to right now. It had been waiting for cataloging to be sent back to the University of Cádiz. I believe it was Spanish. It had a decorative Moorish arabesque circling the bull’s neck. But beyond that, I hadn’t the time to do further research.”

“Spanish artifacts are to be expected when one digs on Spanish soil.”

“Not always. Pieces of history travel all over the world and can be found thousands of miles from their original country of provenance. At the time I found it, we thought it was part of thieves’ booty.”

“So it had once been stolen. You unearthed it. Then it was stolen again? Or do you suspect someone from the dig of handing it over to the dead man?”

“I don’t know. The dig supervisor, Jonathan Crockett, seemed on the up-and-up. I’m a pretty good judge of character. But I have no clue regarding Diego Montera. The dead man,” she added when Garin raised a questioning eyebrow. “He may have been some guy on the dig crew who was handed a valuable artifact and wanted to get some fast cash for it.”

Garin stared at her. “A musician on a dig?”

She shrugged. “Maybe he stole it, but if that was the case, I suspect it wasn’t planned. Although, if he wasn’t crew, someone had to have smuggled the bull off-site. I don’t know. Its value is questionable. It was small, a simple piece.”

“Sounds like a delicious mystery. Too bad you’re not a homicide detective.”

“No, I’m not. Doesn’t mean I don’t have an interest.”

“In the objects a dead man was carrying?”

“Archaeology is all about deciphering the objects people carried, wore, used, lived in. I’m an object detective.”

This area of Spain had been gone over by archaeologists many times in the past century, but a recent chunk of mountain had been dislodged and had changed the landscape, prompting new discoveries.

The dig supervisor, Jonathan Crockett, was a laid-back Englishman who had never aspired to anything but squatting in the sun all day, his hands in the dirt. And he had a trust fund to make it happen. He was a hard-core archaeologist. Quiet, he never bragged about his finds or elaborated overmuch. He measured his words, and Annja had been fine with that. The sun had toasted his skin nicely and enhanced the distinguished lines at the corners of his eyes and temples. His sun-streaked brown hair never did stay in the ponytail he tied at the back of his head, and as dirty as he got, his clothing always looked freshly pressed. A well-seasoned man, he was movie-star fodder, without the ego or need for fame.

That James Harlow had suspected him of underhanded dealings didn’t feel right, but Annja would reserve judgment until after she’d talked to him.

Garin pulled the Jeep outside the main—and only—tent, dirt billowing up from the tires in a cloud. The soil was a fertile mix of gravel, sand and silt in the southern areas of Spain, ideal for viticulture.

Annja jumped out into the dirt cloud. “You stay here,” she told Garin.

“Don’t think so.” He patted the linen jacket over his heart. The man, who now made his home Germany, tended to favor semiautomatic pistols manufactured there or in Austria. “I’ll be your backup.”

“Don’t go all alpha on me, now. The villagers are not going to attack with trowels and buckets.”

“If someone here is selling artifacts to people who apparently kill to obtain them, you want to be safe.”

“I don’t know Crockett is selling artifacts. I highly doubt he is. Ambition is not one of his finer points.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be inconspicuous.”

Garin got out and stood beside the Jeep. With his height, broad shoulders and chiseled square jawline, he looked the medieval warrior trying to masquerade as a regular Joe. The man would never achieve subtlety.

“Inconspicuous. Bang-up job.” Annja stabbed him with a look, then strode toward the tent, leaving the misplaced warrior to guard the battlements.

The dig area was quiet. The excavation unit marked off with stakes and string before she’d arrived days earlier looked like the pit to hell, blackened by the shadows. It was only four feet deep. Crockett had gotten a lot done with the few college students who had occasion to drop in for a day at a time. No one except Crockett stayed on-site overnight, so either they had all taken a day off or had decided to start late. Really late. It was after noon.

She called out, but no one replied. Crockett’s tent door was untied and flapping in the breeze. She peered inside. Empty, except for two tables used to sort out artifacts, and bag and catalog them in a field notebook. Toward the back stood an old army-issue cot and dressing table with water canisters, basin and towels, and a hand-crank radio.

Wandering around the south side of the tent, she caught sight of Garin’s bulky figure out of the corner of her eye. He leaned against the Jeep’s hood, ankles crossed, head tilted back to take in the sun.

“Some backup.”

Not that she expected anyone to jump out from behind a rocky outcrop with guns blazing. On the other hand, experience had taught her to never presume any situation was safe.

Where had Crockett gone? He wouldn’t abandon the site without leaving an assistant to watch over the supplies and finds.

Her instincts suddenly flared. Tensing, she slowly tracked along the side of the tent. The smell of dirt-dusted canvas material was like perfume to Annja’s soul, but the buzz of flies nearby made her suspicious. Odd. Crockett kept a tidy site.

A rancid odor grew as she turned the back corner of the tent and stepped into a pool of congealed blood. She quickly took in the blood spatter that had dried to brown across the tent canvas.

“Garin!”

She tracked the path of blood until she came to the edge of the pitoned-off dig square. A body had been rolled into the four-foot-deep area, which measured about sixteen by twenty feet. Earth had been hastily shoveled over it, but the booted feet, hands and the back of a dark-haired head showed.

“That is not good,” Garin said as he sidled up to her and looked over the scene. “You think it’s the dig supervisor you wanted to talk to?”

“Someone looking for me?”

They turned in unison, Garin with pistol extended, to find Jonathan Crockett standing behind them. Holding an AK-47.


4



“I believe my Kalashnikov trumps your Glock,” Crockett said to Garin.

Annja felt Garin’s elbow twitch against her arm. He was the last man Crockett—any man—should issue a challenge like that to.

“You think so?” Garin held the pistol barrel skyward and finger off the trigger.

Crockett gestured with the machine gun for Garin to toss the pistol aside. Annja knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Before Garin could react, Annja reached into the otherwhere, felt the sword’s power tingle in her fingers and clasped the grip. She swung out, sweeping the blade across Crockett’s wrist and taking him by surprise. The man yelped. The machine gun dropped to the dusty ground. In an agile move, Garin bent to claim it.

Crockett clutched his bleeding wrist. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he winced with the pain. He looked to Annja, but she’d released Joan of Arc’s sword back to where she’d found it.

“Nice,” Garin said. He hooked the Kalashnikov under his arm and held both guns on the whimpering professor. “She’s my backup,” he said with a nod toward her. “Who would have thought I’d need her in such an innocuous place? Pothunters shouldn’t play with guns.”

“Pothunter is a derogatory term,” Annja corrected him. Had Crockett turned into a merciless pothunter? Had he killed the man in the pit for his own gain?

James Harlow had intimated he didn’t trust Crockett, yet she’d brushed if off as all-too-common collegiate rivalry.

“I was trying to protect myself.” Crockett sank to his knees, clutching his wrist against his chest. Blood soaked into his white shirt. “They came so quickly. Yesterday evening. Hours after you left, Annja.” He gasped. “Took everything. When I heard the vehicle drive up just now I thought they’d returned to finish me off, so I hid in the gorse.”

“You didn’t kill this man,” Annja stated.

Crockett shook his head. “No, they did. Yesterday.”

And the body was still lying out in the open? Annja winced. Why hadn’t Crockett contacted the authorities? And for that matter, why was he still here?

“Who are they?” Garin demanded. “Did they take your field phone with them, too?”

“Let’s move him inside the tent for some first aid. We need to bandage your wrist before you lose too much blood,” she said to Crockett, then with a glance in the direction they had come from, added, “We should take him to the hospital.”

She met Garin’s fierce stare, leaving her in no doubt that he thought her suggestion a bad one. Cleaning up the mess by taking out the professor with a bullet to his heart would probably be his suggestion. Joan of Arc wasn’t into vigilante justice. Neither was she.

“No hospitals,” Crockett said as Annja led him into the tent.

“Why? You got something against hospitals?”

“My sister died five years ago when she caught an infection following surgery.”

“I’m sorry. But we do need to alert the authorities to the dead man. He’s been lying in the pit since yesterday?”

“No police, either,” Crockett pleaded as she helped him settle onto the cot, and then grabbed the water flask and a towel. She had cut him on the side of his wrist and hadn’t severed an artery, so the injury shouldn’t prove life-threatening. “I think I’ve done a very bad thing.”

“Murder is a bad thing,” Garin commented matter-of-factly, tilting back a swig of whiskey from the bottle on the professor’s bedside table. “But it is sometimes necessary.”

Crockett screwed up his face in disbelief at that comment, but then he winced again, leaning forward over his arm. “You think I killed that man out there? I didn’t. I swear it to you. Who are you?”

“A friend of mine,” Annja quickly said. “Trustworthy.” For the moment. “Did the man out there attack you?” she asked while inspecting Crockett’s wrist. The battle sword had cut neatly to the bone, but she was able to close the flesh with liquid bandage and figured it shouldn’t get infected thanks to the whiskey. She wrapped a tight bandage around it. It would serve until he could get medical attention.

“Attack me?” Crockett was starting to hyperventilate and sweat beaded on his forehead. “Didn’t you see who that was?”

“His face was covered with dirt. Who dragged him into the pit?”

“I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Call the authorities?”

“I...” The professor tugged away from Annja’s hold. “I didn’t kill Simon.”

Annja stilled. “That’s Simon Klosky out there?”

He’d arrived on the morning of her last day at the dig. Annja had only worked with him half the day before leaving for Cádiz to meet James Harlow. Nice guy. Young. But either the Spanish sun or—her strongest suspicion—extracurricular drugs had made Simon a little loopy and gregarious. He’d had a habit of singing random lines from gospel songs.

“Who did kill him? And why are you still alive, Jonathan? Has this to do with the stolen artifacts?”

Crockett wiped the sweat from his eyes and studied her. “You know about the theft?”

“I saw the very same bronze bull statue I unearthed yesterday in a dead man’s room this morning.”

His jaw dropped. “Dead?”

“Do you know Diego Montera, Jonathan?”

His unwounded hand shook badly, but from the bits and pieces Annja was cobbling together, maybe he had been defending himself against robbers. Maybe. If there had been robbers.

“I haven’t heard the name,” Crockett offered. “He had the bull? I didn’t have a chance to research it, but was beginning to think it was newer than we’d suspected. Maybe medieval or even seventeenth century. Whoever stole our artifacts certainly circulated them quickly. But you took pictures, right?”

“Yes.” Which had all been erased from her camera, except for the ones she had transferred to her laptop. “So you were robbed?”

“Of course! Why else do you think I’d come after you with a bloody machine gun? I thought you were them.”

“Why are you alive?” Garin asked carefully. Pacing the small tent, he still held the Kalashnikov ready to fire. “Makes no sense. Surely the top man in charge of the dig would be considered a target. Criminals don’t generally leave a man behind to tell tales of their notorious escapades.”

Crockett gaped, apparently aghast to have his fate detailed for him so coldly. “I—I hid when they first came to the camp. I was back in the gorse just now, like I said...hiding. Simon was the only other person here. They shot him, then took off with all the artifacts in the tent.”

“Why didn’t you report this to the police, Professor Crockett?”

He caught his forehead in a palm and rubbed roughly along his cheek. “There’s a body outside my tent, rotting, and I just...don’t know. I haven’t been the most upstanding citizen over the past few years. Since leaving the university, my life has taken a decidedly negative turn. I can’t get legit jobs. I suspect someone has it in for me. I want to be on a flight out of the country before the authorities arrive. I’ve already begun to pack up the site, but every time I walk past the body I get physically sick. I know it’s wrong. Simon has a family. I will report this, but not directly to the police. I can’t do that.”

He must have done something pretty awful to be so afraid of contact with the police. Annja couldn’t imagine what. She didn’t want to know.

“They’ll find you for questioning,” she said. “And they’ll be very curious to learn why you felt it necessary to bury a body that you had no hand in killing.”

“Will you vouch for my innocence?”

She couldn’t do that because she hadn’t witnessed the crime.

“Exactly,” Crockett said in response to her silence. “I wouldn’t ask you to, either, Annja. Why are you here?” he posited. Regaining his usually cool exterior, his eyes searched hers, then Garin’s.

“By having worked with you, and being the one who found the stolen statue in a dead man’s possession, I am indirectly involved. If someone is trafficking in antiquities I want it to stop. I wasn’t sure the police would follow this lead so...”

“So, I’m not telling you, or your henchman, anything else. You’ve got no authority. I’ll ask you to leave.”

“Fine. We’ll call in the dead body,” the henchman remarked.

Annja met Garin’s steely gaze. Who was he kidding? The man kept his distance from any form of authority. He’d sooner dig the grave outside this tent than have his name typed in permanent ink on a police report.

“Very well,” Crockett conceded angrily. “But you won’t need to. The authorities already know.”

“How’s that?” Annja asked.

Crockett sighed and gestured out to where the body lay. “Simon was killed by the Cádiz police.”


5



Garin whistled and stepped outside the tent. “I’m out of here,” he called. His boots tracked the dusty earth toward the Jeep. “Come on, Annja!”

She held Crockett’s gaze, but there was no need for him to repeat what he’d said. According to him, the Cádiz police had murdered Simon Klosky and stolen the artifacts. The cops were dirty? Always a possibility.

On the other hand, it could be a lie from a man who’d never had to face the kind of guilt murder could induce.

“You didn’t hand the bull statue over to one individual? Sell it on the antiquities market?”

He shook his head miserably, but didn’t meet her eyes.

“So it was stolen from here, along with the rest of the worthless potsherds we found.”

“There was the platter and I did unearth a few drachms after you left.”

“Was there anything you’d packed into a wood crate, about this size?” She held her hands out.

The professor shook his head again. “It wasn’t packaged up yet, as you know. I had no intention of sorting through anything until this weekend. You see now why I can’t report this?”

She nodded. If the police were involved that could make things touchy for Crockett. If.

“It would be wise if you left town,” he said. “That is, if you’d prefer to keep a low profile. You’re not involved, but the police are thorough and they have eyes everywhere.”

“I’m already involved. And I’m not about to stand back and allow this kind of blatant robbery and antiquities trade to continue.”

Crockett nodded, clutching his wounded wrist to his chest. “You’re skilled with the dagger. I didn’t even see you move before I felt the pain. I’d heard you were talented before you arrived for the dig. But I thought your talent lay in archaeology, not the martial arts. I have to ask. Why this particular dig? It was nothing remarkable. Nothing newsworthy. And yet, the theft occurred only after you arrived.”

“You’re not seriously accusing me, Crockett.”

He bowed his head and shook his head slowly. “No, that was unkind of me. Sorry. Just...out of sorts, you understand.”

The Jeep’s horn honked. Garin was showing a surprisingly impatient side of himself.

“You should head directly to the airport,” Crockett warned her.

She nodded. “How long do you think it’ll take you to pack up the site?”

“Another few hours.”

Annja nodded a third time, then stood up from the cot. “I’ll hold off calling the authorities until after Garin and I to return to Cádiz. They’re going to love hearing from me again.”

* * *

GARIN DROVE BACK to the city proper, offering little in the way of conversation. He’d wiped the AK-47 clean of his prints before leaving it with Crockett at the camp. It wasn’t a gun he needed, and it was never wise to claim an unidentified weapon from a man he knew next to nothing about. Besides that, he didn’t want to draw police attention to him, especially in Cádiz. He liked it here and didn’t want to give the local authorities any reason to force him to leave.

Leave it to Annja Creed to involve him in a questionable situation.

He chuckled at that thought, and she looked over at him from the passenger seat.

“Just thinking how you always get me in trouble,” he offered.

“Me? You’ve done your share of being a bad influence in my life.”

“That I have done, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Extra sunglasses in the glove compartment.”

“Thanks.” She put on the Armani shades and, sighing heavily, flipped her ponytail around to fall over her shoulder. “I can’t believe he let that body sit out there all day.”

“Puts him on top of the suspicious-persons list, if you ask me.”

“I’m not sure.”

He couldn’t help but frown. “I’ll never figure you out, Annja. That’s probably a good thing.”

“You don’t believe Crockett about the police being involved?”

“It’s possible. In any town, in any country, there are always bad seeds who hold a position of authority. But like I said, I’m taking myself off this list. I like the city too much to lose the privilege of visiting.”

“I understand, and I wouldn’t ask you to participate in anything that challenges your tender moral position.”

“Annja.”

“Couldn’t resist.”

He’d show her what a tender moral position looked like. Just keep it up with the digs at his character.

Annja Creed was a breed of woman like no other, and that made her so appealing he sometimes felt humbled near her. But that feeling only lasted as long as it took to remember she could best him in a fistfight if he let his guard down.

“I appreciate the ride and the backup,” she said.

“So, you up for a little afternoon entertainment?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Bullfight’s in a few hours.”

“Seriously? I...don’t know.”

Her mind was back at the dig site, working all the angles and plotting her next move. But for him this visit was strictly vacation.

“Come, Annja, I can’t be seen at the corrida without a woman by my side.”

“You fresh out of the pretty ones so you’re slumming with me?”

“After a shower and something nicer to wear, you’ll look fine. I’ll drop you at your hotel to change and be back in an hour for you, okay?”

She disguised her humph by turning away from him. Garin pulled the Jeep to a stop before the Hotel Blanca. She gave him the look. The look that said she wasn’t stunned he knew where she was staying. He had his ways, and he’d never divulge his methods to her. Made it more intriguing that way.

“One hour!” he called after her retreating back.

* * *

CLOSING THE HOTEL room door behind her, Annja shucked off her boots and patted off her dusty cargo pants before starting up the coffee machine on the bathroom counter. A bullfight? There were less interesting ways to spend an afternoon. But she couldn’t enjoy anything until she got a little research done and made the call about the body at the dig site.

She dialed the police station, asked for Officer Soto and was put through to a machine. Fine with her. Made telling him about the body, but forgetting to mention whether or not she had seen Crockett, easier. She left her cell number because she predicted Soto would have real smoke coming out of his ears once he got her message. Unless he already knew about Simon Klosky’s death...because he’d been there when the guy was killed.

If the police had stolen artifacts and were reselling them on the black market, they were likely involved in looting other digs in the area. Annja immediately got online and searched for digs in progress. The closest was in Granada. Two hundred and fifty kilometers away. Depending on the illicit operation’s size, it could be local or international.

The museums, along with dealers and collectors, often inadvertently supported the illegal antiquities trade, and sometimes made the unconvincing argument that looters put history into the hands of the people. History yanked from its origins and placed without provenance or context before the unaware but appreciative public. Right. She was glad James Harlow was one museum employee not on that list. Much as he’d wanted to get his hands on the bull statue, he was as concerned about the illegal buying and selling of antiquities as was she.

Archaeologists and the source nations would continue to fight the underground trade, but it was getting more difficult every day as war, and pillaging of the spoils, saw major museums looted and priceless artifacts damaged or lost.

Sipping the passable coffee, she paced before the open seaside window, breathing in the ocean breeze.

Professor Crockett’s suggestion the Cádiz police were accomplices in the looting still didn’t place a name to Diego’s murderer. If the police were involved they would cover it up. Had likely already marked the file Unsolved.

She hated knowing Diego’s death would be swept under the carpet like so much trash. She didn’t know the guitarist, but everyone deserved justice.

Flipping open her cell phone, she dialed James Harlow, who answered on the first ring.

“I’ve just returned from Crockett’s dig site.”

“So what have you learned?”

“I spoke to Jonathan Crockett while he held an AK-47 on me.”

“I knew it. The bastard,” Harlow said on a hiss. “He’s implicated himself. He’s probably behind the young musician’s murder, as well.”

One thing was clear, James Harlow really wanted to pin this on Crockett. Annja made a mental note to find out if the two men had a rivalry. She wasn’t about to judge anyone until she got all the facts. And what did she really know about Harlow?

“Crockett’s site was raided, he claims, by the Cádiz police.”

“What? Really? That doesn’t make sense. The authorities have always proved helpful to me.” She heard the familiar sound of a fingernail tapping a watch crystal. “Don’t you suspect it was a lie? The man is shifty.”

“Not sure. The dead body in the dig pit makes me wonder. Crockett said the police killed Simon Klosky, his assistant. Did you know Simon?”

“No, sorry. Another dead man?” The pause on the line was disturbingly long. She had second thoughts about revealing this information to Harlow, but his knowledge of the city and the local archaeological digs and personnel could help her. He finally asked, “Where’s Crockett now?”

“Said he’s going to pack up and get out.”

“Did you call the police?”

“I left a message about finding the dead man. This links me to the two deaths. I worked on the dig for two days. I handled the bull statue before it was stolen.”

“Right. I didn’t think of that. You could also be implicated. But still...you had to call in a report.”

“It’s my duty.”

“So the product circulates in a close range,” Harlow said. “Interesting. Though it could be a starting point for something larger. I can’t pinpoint a source. I suspect they must be operating close to shore, for shipping, perhaps. I haven’t gone so far as to cruise the area, mind you. Skulduggery is not my strong suit. Besides, I imagine there are countless illegal operations in the

area. Always seem to be in rich archaeological geography.”

“Can you run some kind of background check on all of Crockett’s other digs?” she asked. “See if there have been other robberies?”

“Sure, gladly. In fact, I’ve been looking into Crockett since you brought him up yesterday. I’ve got records for most of his work in the area, but I haven’t been able to come up with anything for the past year. He hasn’t turned in any field reports or catalogs. Hence, the reason I suspect him in dirty dealings. Will you be coming to the museum tomorrow?”

“That’s my intention. I still have some final notes to make on the coins. Thanks, James. I’ll talk to you soon.”

When she should have felt relieved to have discussed the details with someone else who could relate, Annja was now uncertain if James Harlow was the man to share that information. He hadn’t sounded gung ho about tracking the looters. Maybe he wasn’t as on board with the idea of refusing artifacts without provenance as she had assumed?

Or maybe it really was a rivalry between the two men, and he was more focused on slandering Crockett’s name than the real issue.

Clicking over to the Photos file on her laptop, Annja opened the six shots of the bronze bull she’d taken on-site and studied the few details in the Moorish carvings around the neck.

Online, she turned to archaeology.net and uploaded the photos of the Baal statue. She was calling it a Baal statue, but really, it could have been made to represent anything, not necessarily the mythic Canaanite god of fertility. She usually got a few replies to her queries, and some often led her to the truth about the particular item she had posted.

“Let’s hope the bull can be traced.”


6



Much as she was ambivalent about the corrida—she was neither for nor against bullfighting—Annja had to admit the atmosphere of the bullring satisfied her love of competitive sporting events. She wasn’t convinced, though, that the corrida was competitive, unless that competition was between the matadors.

Sea scented the air, combined with sweat and women’s perfume. Cádiz didn’t have a stadium for bullfighting so they had driven back to the mainland to Jerez de la Frontera, where the summer festival featured two weeks of fights.

The audience was colorful, peopled with stalwart aficionados sporting cigars, straw hats and beers who had probably never missed a fight in decades, alongside tourists toting seat cushions emblazoned with the stadium’s logo. And local women wearing the flamenco-style dress, which ruffled in many layers from the knee down to the ankle. Odd. They must be dressing for the tourists.

Flamenco guitar music played over the loudspeaker, and down in the barrera—the outer row of seats that circled the ring—an impromptu set of dancers stomped out a beat, arms twisting above their heads. The people in the grandstands around them clapped compas and cheered them on with shouts of “Olé!”

This was a medium-size bullring, probably seating around ten thousand. Garin led her to what he’d said was his usual seat on the shady side of the ring. The most expensive and exclusive seats were in the shade, and in the contrabarrera, which was the second circle of seats around the ring. Close to the action, it was the place to sit for the best view of the matadors, who stood behind the barriers while eyeing up their competition, the bull. Just before the contrabarrera was the circular barrera, where Annja believed Hemingway used to be photographed sitting with cigar in hand.

The first matador had left the ring minutes earlier, and as Annja had learned from the advertisement outside the stadium, there were only two fighters today. Normally there were three, sometimes as many as six. Manuel Bravo would walk onto the grounds soon. Right now they were dragging out the dead bull from the previous fight, harnessed to two mules, accompanied by the orchestra, which played a lively paso doble. A cleanup crew followed with rakes to sweep sand over the blood so as not to spook the next bull.

Annja knew Spaniards were zealous about their national pastime. More than a pastime, it was a sport highly revered throughout the ages. Though the sides for and against bullfighting were equally passionate. She’d watched a few bullfights on YouTube and found she could relate to the art of the fight, yet she couldn’t help but want to look away when it came time for the kill.

Garin tipped his cigar to her before the next fight. The man possessed a wicked charisma. Yet with his twisted morals, he wore the costume of a villain as easily as the hero.

Annja winced. Hero was too powerful a label to give the man. It was also a label used too often and easily by the media. Real heroes never expected to be recognized for a brave act. At his best, Garin Braden tended toward helpful citizen. At his worst? She did not want to be in his vicinity.

The man was an enigma. He’d lived for more than five hundred years thanks to the sword she controlled. He was connected to the battle sword, having been there when Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake. He’d witnessed the British soldier break her sword and scatter the pieces among the crowd who had damned Joan and made her a martyr through their own ignorance.

For some reason Garin and his friend Roux, whom Garin had been apprentice to at the time of Joan of Arc’s burning, had both obtained immortality that fateful day. And a lifelong connection to the ineffable sword.

The two men had tracked the pieces over the centuries, and when finally the last piece had been placed, Annja had touched the sword—and as it had become whole, it had also become a part of her. She had not asked for possession of such an object, nor had she anticipated anything of the sort. But now that she did wield the sword, she did so as if it had always been meant for her. It was, in fact, her destiny. Only she could bring it forth from the otherwhere, and as soon as she released it, it was made intangible once again, unless she allowed another to hold it. Then the battle sword would maintain its solid state until she decided it should not. She couldn’t explain the innate process even if a gang of terrorists held AK-47s to her heart. That was just how it worked.

Garin wanted the sword—hell, she’d let him hold it for a few moments of wonder—but she hadn’t decided if it was because he believed keeping it whole would render him mortal or if breaking it would ensure his continued immortality.

Either way, she never let down her guard around Garin Braden.

She accepted the beer he offered her, which had been delivered to his hands moments after they sat down. Obviously, he held some status here. Then again, the man could make things happen no matter where he was. That wasn’t incomprehensible magic, but rather confident command honed over centuries.

She hadn’t taken time to shower after he’d dropped her at the hotel, she’d been so involved in research. She still wore the ponytail she’d hastily tied back this morning after her escape from the hostel, which had dried tightly and was probably looking pretty scrappy right now. Add to that her dark, loose camo pants, standard wear for Annja Creed, adventurer and archaeologist, and a T-shirt. Garin was just lucky she hadn’t dug her boonie hat out of the backpack. But from where they sat the sun promised to stay out of her eyes.

“So how is it you always manage to stumble upon dead bodies, Annja? That’s, what? Two in one day.” He tilted his beer bottle to her in salute, then swallowed down half.

“I think I have a kind of dead-body radar, actually. It does kick in more often than not. I’m never to blame, of course.”

“Course not. Not my sword-wielding adventuress. How is the sword, by the by?”

“True, straight and always there when I need it.”

“They say the man in the hotel room was killed by a sword.”

“Really? Why didn’t you mention that on the drive out of town?”

“You didn’t ask about it.”

She gaped at him.

With a shrug, he added, “I suspect the authorities decided to keep the details from you in case you could be goaded to cough up said details.”

“And how do you have the details?”

“I heard it on the radio.”

Officer Soto had mentioned a media leak. Was there a mole on the force? Interesting. Perhaps there was a dirty cop who had an interest in artifacts?

She watched as the parade of banderilleros and picadors preceded the next matador into the ring. “Can you get more information for me?”

“Why? Who was Diego Montera to you?”

“I didn’t know him. But this hit close. As I’ve said, I had only recently unearthed the bull statue.”

“Alas. I so had hopes for your descent into nefarious deeds.”

“We can’t all be unscrupulous like you, Garin.”

“Of course not.”

“I took pictures.”

“Ah, there’s my girl.”

“The Cádiz police erased them from my camera.”

He gave her a look that said “did you expect anything less?”

“The murder isn’t my concern,” she said. “But it could aid my investigation into the stolen artifacts. I know you have connections. I wouldn’t ask if I couldn’t get answers some other way.”

He nodded, but didn’t say he would look into it for her. Annja marked her request off as Ignored. It was a lot to ask. But generally he didn’t mind helping her, so his silence gave her concern.

Garin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his pale linen pants. His attire was de rigueur for hot Spanish summers. He wore the look well, but then he always seemed to blend into any situation or country. Despite his size and sometimes menacing presence, he had that everyman look.

Cheers erupted around them, and Annja turned her attention to the ring. The matadors spilled out onto the sand ring in suits of black and blue and violet. The man she pinpointed as the principal matador wore a brilliant gold traje de luces or “suit of lights,” along with a black felt montera hat, fuchsia stockings and the classic black flat shoes that reminded her of ballet slippers.

“That’s Manuel Bravo, simply called El Bravo. Fearless. He is this generation’s greatest bullfighter from Cádiz,” Garin explained. “He completed one hundred corridas last year and is on schedule to do the same this season. The man’s a marvel.”

One hundred fights in one season was a marker the pro matadors worked toward. It was an elusive goal, but those who made it were honored and guaranteed a full fight schedule the following season. A great matador could earn up to twenty-five thousand for one fight, so a hundred fights in a season added up nicely.

Annja couldn’t share the excitement the surrounding crowd displayed as they cheered and waved white handkerchiefs and colorful scarves at the matador.

“Though I’m not willing to get out a flag and protest,” she said, “I’m not sure how I feel about the blood sport.”

“It is not a sport, Annja,” Garin reprimanded her. He tilted his beer bottle toward the ring. “Bullfighting is an art, a spectacle. But never a sport.”

“Okay. I defer to your expertise to explain it to me.” Crossing her arms and leaning back in the chair, she braced herself to be convinced.

“I will do my best, but you must know there are over thirty different ways to describe the placement of the torero’s sword according to depth, position and entry point. Tauromachy is an elaborate art. I think we’ll just enjoy it today, okay?”

Right now it wasn’t the matador who swung the cape before the hulking bull, but rather a banderillero dressed in a smart red costume detailed with jet beading. El Bravo stood off beside a portion of wood fence, a barrier the matadors could flee behind during a bull’s attack. The matador was tall and slender. Regal in his suit of lights, he studied each move the bull made as his assistant goaded the animal with the magenta-and-yellow cape.

“Why doesn’t El Bravo test the bull himself?” she asked.

“That’s his assistant’s job. El Bravo needs distance to take it all in. Looking for which horn the bull favors, and whether or not the beast charges straight and with its head down or high. This one is calm. A good bull.”

“How would you know a bad bull?”

“Those cartoons that feature the snorting bull that paws the ground with a hoof? That is a bad bull. Too cocky and fearful. Easily riled and nervous. The matador desires a calm, brave animal to put him to the ultimate test.”

“The bull being an herbivore,” she mused, “it’s surprising they charge a man at all.”

“Rhinoceroses are herbivores. I wouldn’t want to stand alone before one of those tanks.”

“Point made.” Annja noted the matador’s keen eye on the bull as it lowered its head to charge the cape. “Do they know what they’re getting before the bull comes to the ring?”

“Not usually. The bulls are selected before the fight in the sorteo. The matador never does the selection. He sends his second in command, who pays close attention to horn size, sharpness and shape. But it’s difficult to determine the animal’s mien in a small stockyard.” Garin finished off the beer. His attention swerved to her. “I assume you’re going to stick around and look into the murdered man’s life?”

“Like I said, I’ll leave that to the police. It’s curious, if you ask me, that someone would leave behind a piece such as the bronze bull at the scene. Even if the murderer had no idea the value of the object, he—”

“Or she,” Garin interjected.

“Or she, should have been able to take one look at it, known it was an artifact and pocketed it.”

“Perhaps their morals for stealing were stronger than for taking another man’s life?”

“That makes no sense.”

“Why? I’m not much for theft myself. Yet if faced with a situation where I had to defend my life by taking another’s life, I wouldn’t question the choice.”

“Are you suggesting whoever killed Diego did it in self-defense? A knife to the back is hardly a defensive wound.”

“No. Just showing you there are many ways to reason a man’s actions.”

“Explain to me, then, a man’s choice to watch another man murder an animal before a crowd?”

“Ah, but it’s not a defenseless animal. Name one other situation where an animal raised for slaughter is allowed the opportunity to defend its life?”

Annja opened her mouth to reply, but said nothing. He had a point. A vague, far-reaching point.

“Besides, the man isn’t safe from danger,” he added. “The matador faces danger for us all. He offers us that risk we are unwilling to take for the thrill of near death.”

“This coming from a man who I know takes risks daily.”

“Well.” Garin shrugged. “I’m speaking about the others.”

The common people was the unspoken part he left out. So like Garin, and not at all offensive when delivered with his charming smirk.

The matador had stepped out from behind the fenced barrier and swirled the magenta-and-yellow cape to attract the bull’s attention. The cape moves were called veronicas, named after the veil Veronica had used to wipe the sweat from Jesus as he marched to his doom.

“Left horn,” Garin muttered. “He’ll present the cape to that one because that’s the dominant one.”

The crowd cheered when the bull passed close to the matador, one deadly ebony horn brushing his hip. The matador didn’t step back, but instead leaned in toward the bull, bringing man and beast together as one. The bravery required to maintain that stance and not step aside was incredible, at once brutal and graceful. Annja nodded, impressed.

“As I’ve said, bullfighting is an art,” Garin said into her ear to be heard over the approving shouts of “Olé.”

And yet the word matador translated to killer. Annja took another sip of her beer, avoiding comment.

“The crowd doesn’t attend to witness a grisly murder,” Garin continued, “but rather the art of man against beast as each offers his very life in a competition that pits grace and style against ferocity and danger.”

She could buy into that. To a point. “Except when the picador enters, then the grace and style fades and the cheating begins.”

Garin shook his head and popped open another beer that again seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. “Annja, I won’t even try. I had expected you, of all people, to have an open mind about this event.”

“I can look at it objectively.” There was a certain art to bullfighting. “Just call me a nonpartisan observer.”

She understood the first capework performed by the matador was designed to tire the bull, to seek out its weaknesses and exploit them. It was a mind game between man and beast. It was the moment when the bull showed its mettle, be it gentle and awkward when approaching the cape or determined and ferocious with each charge. It was also the first time the bull had ever seen a man on foot and not mounted on a horse.

But her carefully restrained judgment nudged loose as the picador rode in on his horse, wielding the long spear he would use to poke the bull in the shoulder muscle to further weaken it. Rumors held that often the horse was drugged to keep it docile and less skittish.

The horse the picador rode was shielded with a heavily padded mattresslike fabric and was turned to one side to give the bull a charging target, diverting its attention from the matador, who had successfully avoided all the bull’s charges, giving the beast nothing to connect with. The picador provided the bull something to charge after so many false charges against the matador, to give it encouragement as the beast’s instinct to charge the cape might fade.

With his eight-foot lance, the picador stabbed the bull in the morillo, the huge neck muscle, in an effort to make it swell and weaken the animal. Before the picador could maneuver the horse to move in for the second lance, the crowd hissed as the bull pinned the horse against the wood barrier surrounding the ring. The picador flew off over the side of the barrier and into the contrabarrera, leaving the horse alone with the bull. A horn penetrated the horse’s unprotected chest and the dying whinny forced Annja’s attention back to Garin.

The man wasn’t watching. His gaze followed the matador, who’d retreated behind the protective barrier. The matador was no fool. As much as Garin argued that bullfighting was an art, the horse was the most unsuspecting victim of it all.

“So what brings you to Cádiz?” she asked, unable to take in what was happening below. “You mentioned you were already here. What, were you following me?”

“I had no idea you were in the city until Roux’s call.” He nodded toward the ring. “Manuel is a good friend. He’s invited me for the week. I’ll introduce you to him following the match.”

It would intrigue her to meet the man who currently caped the bull away from the dying horse. A man who stood arrogantly bold and waited for the bull to charge before swishing the cape behind him and redirecting the bull’s aim.

To more rousing cheers of “Olé,” the matador worked a crowd-pleasing performance and even picced the bull himself, placing the bright blue-and-pink-ribboned barbed darts—which looked to Annja like big cocktail sticks—at the hump of the bull’s neck with a daring charge directly at the animal. The trick was to jump high and to the side to avoid the horns. Normally this act was performed by the banderilleros, but some matadors chose to do it themselves out of machismo and to further impress the crowd.




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