12

Annja stared at the armed men on the other side of the limousine’s tinted window. They threatened her with the handguns and machine pistols they held. At least three of the five wore green-scimitar tattoos at their throats. If the others did, the shadows hid them.

“Come out!” one of them shouted. His voice barely penetrated the muffled confines of the luxury car.

The driver attempted to reverse and break away, but the second car crashed into the rear of the limousine. The tires spun but couldn’t get any traction.

“I suppose getting out of this while in the car is out of the question,” Annja said.

“Yes.” Garin looked irritated.

“We could stay in the car and call the police.”

“Until they decided to blow us up or drill holes in the car roof and flood the interior with gasoline.”

“Aren’t you the pessimist,” Annja said. She couldn’t believe she was as calm as she was, but she’d been in bad situations before. Since claiming Joan’s sword, those situations seemed to come along more often than not.

“No. It’s what I would do under similar circumstances,” Garin said.

“It’s a good thing you’re not out there, then.”

“Yes. But I, much as it grieves me to say so, am not wholly unique.”

“On the other hand, we might be able to stay in the car long enough for the police to arrive.”

“That,” Garin said, “would present a whole new set of troubles. I’d rather keep the authorities out of my business. Besides, the Prague police aren’t overly fond of charging into small armies of men armed with assault weapons.”

“That leaves us with trying to escape,” Annja said.

One of the men slammed his clenched fist against the tinted window. Hollow booms echoed within the limousine.

“Get out! Now!” the man ordered.

“It’s a pity about the dress,” Garin said. “I’d rather hoped you might get to have it as a keepsake. No matter how the evening turned out.”

“What?” Annja couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. There was no way the evening was going to end up with her doing anything other than going back to her hotel. Alone. And if Garin was so egotistical that he wouldn’t acknowledge that, then she was—

“Excuse me.” Garin put his hands on her thigh. He gripped the hem of her dress and tore it up to her hip.

Immediately, Annja slapped him. The open-handed blow landed hard enough to split his lower lip.

Garin released the dress and slid back out of reach. Anger darkened his face. “You couldn’t move in that dress as it was. I was trying to help you.”

“Oh.” Annja felt a little unsettled. “You should have said something.”

Gingerly, Garin wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. “I did. I said, ‘Excuse me.’ It was, I thought, polite enough.”

“Your intentions weren’t exactly clear.”

“Trust me,” he said, “if I ever moved on you in an amorous fashion, it wouldn’t be as clumsy or heavy-handed as that.”

“You’re just lucky I didn’t break something.”

Garin growled a curse.

The man at the window used his gun butt to rap against the glass this time. Then he reversed it and shoved the barrel against the glass.

“Is the glass bulletproof?” Annja asked.

“Against those weapons it should be,” Garin said in displeasure. “Of course, that also means that I can’t shoot back at them. By the way, would you like a pistol?”

At Garin’s touch, a section of the wall slid back to reveal a dozen handguns, two shotguns, three assault rifles and two machine pistols. Oil gleamed on the metal.

“You don’t have a rocket launcher in there?” Annja asked drily.

Garin pressed a recessed release button on the seat in front of them. The cushion flipped over to expose three rocket launcher tubes. “I keep it fully stocked,” he said.

“You normally need this much firepower?” Annja asked.

“Every day I hope that I don’t. But I’d rather be prepared than struggle to get that way.” Garin grimaced at the repeated hammering on the window. “So, would you like a weapon?”

Annja hesitated. Although she had killed from time to time to save her own life or those of others, it wasn’t something she was comfortable with. Nor was it something she wanted to ever get comfortable with. But she knew that violence was often best met with violence.

“It’s us or them,” Garin told her, “and I’d much rather not be the only one shooting back. I thought maybe if you were armed we could mix it up a little. Divide their attention.”

Annja took two of the 9 mm pistols.

“Good,” Garin said.

Expertly, Annja tucked one of the pistols between her knees and used the release button behind the trigger guard to drop the ammunition magazine. The bullets gleamed in the clip.

“They’re both loaded,” Garin said. “It’s foolish to keep a weapon around and not keep it ready, as well.”

Annja checked the magazine in the second pistol. It, too, was loaded.

The man at the window stepped back and warned his companions. For a moment, they all fell back.

Then another man came forward with a trenching tool and a can.

“That,” Garin said, “would be the gasoline.”

The man stepped up onto the limo’s trunk.

“We do have one thing in our favor,” Garin said.

“I’d love to hear it,” Annja replied.

“At this point I don’t think they want to kill you. I think they want to use you as a bargaining chip against Roux.”

“Not getting that warm, fuzzy feeling,” Annja said. She listened as the man hammered the trenching tool against the car’s roof. A dent took shape at once. She knew the roof was reinforced when the tool didn’t immediately rip through.

“We don’t have a lot of time.” Garin reached for a remote control in a pocket on his door. “And I do have one surprise left. Be prepared to move.”

“I am.” Annja just wished her stomach would stop flip-flopping.

“We go straight into them and hope they hesitate about firing into the middle of each other.” Garin took up a cut-down pump-action shotgun. “Then we cross the street and try to take the high ground.”

“Okay.”

The man atop the car roof hammered the trenching tool down again.

“Ready?” Garin asked.

Annja kicked her shoes off, sucked in a deep breath, then blew it out. “Ready.”

Garin pressed a button on the remote. Immediately the man on top of the limo started jerking and jumping. Annja watched the man’s shadow on the ground. If he hadn’t been trying to kill them, his antics might have been amusing.

Then he fell from the car and lay prone on the ground. The trenching tool and the gas can landed beside him.

“The car’s exterior can be lethally charged with electricity for a short time,” Garin said. He reached across Annja and opened the door. “Go!”

Annja stepped out into the alley and swiveled past the open door. She started to slow, but Garin put a hand into her back and shoved her forward. Thrown off stride, she stumbled, but quickly recovered.

The men faced her, but their attention was still partially on the quivering man on the ground. She ran toward them and hoped that Garin was right about them wanting her alive.

They brought their weapons up, then hesitated as they realized their companions were in their line of fire. Instead, they transformed into a solid wall of flesh and blood to block her.

Garin ran at Annja’s heels. He scooped the can of gasoline and flung it at the men. Annja sensed what Garin was about to do because she knew how destructive he could be.

“Drop!” Garin ordered.

As she spun and dropped into a crouch, Annja watched the gas can fly above the heads of the men. When the metal container reached chest level, Garin fired the shotgun. Pellets tore through the container and through the hapless man standing directly on the other side.

At least one or two of the pellets scraped sparks from the metal can. The descending gasoline suddenly turned into a maelstrom of liquid fire that fell across the center of the line of men.

Instantly engulfed in flames, the line broke. Men concerned themselves with beating out the fire rather than continuing to pursue their quarry.

Annja winced at the heat and the thought of what the gasoline fire would do to the men it covered. Then Garin shoved her into motion again.

“Run!” he shouted.

Annja sprinted for the opening. Men shrieked helplessly around her. Others cursed and someone ordered them to grab Annja. A man clawed at her arm. She pointed one of her pistols in his direction and quickly squeezed off two rounds. The offending hand dropped away.

A fire-enshrouded man blocked her way and lunged at her out of mindless terror rather than by design. Garin’s shotgun boomed again. The fiery man whirled like a top and fell away. Most of his head was gone. Annja ran across the street.

A racing engine warned her of a car’s approach. She glanced to her left and was almost blinded by the vehicle’s lights. The car came straight at her. The engine raced even harder as the driver stepped on the accelerator.

Unable to turn back, slow or outrun the car, Annja did the only thing she could do—she leaped up and forward. The incredible speed she sometimes acquired during periods of increased adrenaline saved her.

Her foot touched the car’s hood and she leaped again, throwing herself forward. As she flipped, she brought both of her pistols to bear and fired as quickly as she was able. She lost track of how many shots she fired.

The bullets smashed through the side window, then the rear glass. Fist-size holes appeared in the windows, mirrored by smaller ones in the car body.

Annja landed on her feet, arms thrown out for balance. Garin had been right. If he hadn’t torn the dress, she’d never have pulled off that move. Still, the draft was incredible.

“No time for a victory dance,” Garin growled as he ran by her and caught her by the arm. He yanked her into motion. Somehow she managed to stay on her feet as she went from zero to sixty in one of his strides.

13

Bullets chopped into the street and the buildings as Annja fled toward the alley. People at an outdoor café a block away screamed and took cover.

Annja felt the rough street surface slap at her bare feet. Yowling and spitting cats scattered from the crooked line of garbage bins lining the walls. The cloying stench of rotting food was overwhelming.

A glance behind her revealed that men were in pursuit.

“Don’t look.” Garin caught hold of a fire escape zigzagging up the side of the building. He rounded the corner and headed up. Bullets from their pursuers’ weapons licked sparks from the iron structure.

Annja paused at the bottom of the stairs and took aim. No one was out in the street except the men chasing them. She triggered her shots quickly, aiming at the center of the mass of men, and felt the pistols buck in her hands.

Two of the men sprawled onto the street. Others broke ranks and dived for cover. A few stood their ground and fired assault rifles on full-auto. Bullets rattled the fire escape as Annja took cover.

In the next instant, the limousine blew up. A concussive wave rolled over the men and knocked them flat. White noise filled Annja’s hearing. She heard Garin yelling at her from above.

“Hurry!” Hard, dark shadows lined his face. “Are you going to wait around for them to recover?”

Annja grabbed the railing and started up. Only a few sporadic bullets skidded off the stairs.

Garin waited for her at the top of the four-story building. Below in the street, the men had regrouped and charged for the fire escape.

“Why did the car blow up?” Annja asked. She tried to ignore the pain in her bare feet from the rocks across the rooftop.

“I blew it up.” Garin pulled a remote control from his pocket. “I don’t like to leave incriminating evidence behind. The explosion should at least confuse the police and help build a case for deniability. There are some drawbacks to the modern technology.”

“We were riding around in a car filled with explosives?” Annja was horrified.

“No,” Garin said. “There were just enough explosives in the car to dispose of it.”

“What about the driver?”

“He’s long gone by now.” Garin gazed down at the street.

As Annja watched, four sleek black cars screeched to a halt in the street. Men got out of the vehicles with grim efficiency and unlimbered weapons. For a moment Annja thought that reinforcements had arrived. Then the men started firing on the would-be kidnappers.

“Your security team,” Annja said.

“A little late, but that was my fault. I had them securing the club I was going to take you to.”

“I hadn’t agreed to go.”

He grinned at her wolfishly. “You would have.”

Harsh cracks sounded out in the street. Annja took partial cover behind a gargoyle at the corner of the rooftop and looked down. Methodically, the new arrivals killed the men left in the street. Only a few escaped. The security team checked the men on the ground and shot those still alive.

Sickened, Annja turned back to Garin. “Call them off. That isn’t necessary.”

“I think it is,” Garin said coldly. “They tried to hurt you.”

“That’s my problem,” Annja said angrily.

“While you were in my care,” Garin stated. “That’s intolerable. I didn’t get to where I am by being weak or showing compassion to those who declared themselves my enemies. You know history. That’s true of every ruler that claimed territory as his own.”

Annja listened to the flat cracks that grew further apart. She tried not to think about what was happening down there.

Sirens reverberated in the street and grew rapidly closer.

“Let me get you somewhere safe,” Garin suggested. “Staying to answer questions for the police isn’t going to help you any.”

Not knowing what else to do, not relishing the possibility of returning to the police station, Annja nodded.

* * * *

“This isn’t the safest place for you.”

Annja met Garin’s glower with one of her own. “I might point out that being with you didn’t prove safe.” She walked along the hallway to her hotel room in her bare feet.

An older couple passing by stared at her and Garin in consternation. It didn’t help that four of Garin’s men in black suits followed them.

“We were mugged,” Annja explained, feeling the need to say something.

The woman made sympathetic noises, but neither she nor her husband stopped.

“I was the one inadvertently in danger,” Garin protested. “If I hadn’t been with you, they wouldn’t have tried to kill me.”

“So this is my fault?”

“It’s hardly my fault,” Garin objected.

Annja slid her hotel door card through the slot. The light turned green and the electronic lock disengaged. She stopped inside the door and blocked Garin’s way.

He stared at her. “Surely you’re jesting.”

“Nope.”

“You’re not going to let me in?”

“Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin,” Annja confirmed.

“That’s stupid.”

“I don’t think so.”

Garin cursed.

Annja tried to close the door. Garin blocked her efforts with a hand.

“Take your hand out of the door,” Annja directed. “Unless you don’t need those fingers anymore.”

“You need me.”

“Never.”

Garin heaved a sigh. “We were having such a good time.”

Annja pressed on the door. She knew it had to hurt.

Garin wiggled his fingers. “Annja, in all seriousness, you’re probably not safe here. You should let me take you somewhere else.”

Although part of her knew that Garin’s argument was valid, she didn’t want to place her fate in his hands. She didn’t trust him, and she also didn’t want to depend on him.

“I can manage,” she said. She renewed her efforts to shut the door.

“You’re hurting my hand.”

“Take it out.”

“I can’t.” Garin sounded totally put out. “You’ve got it trapped with the door.”

Annja eased back on the door. When she did, Garin leaned into it and shoved it open.

“Get out,” Annja ordered.

Garin ignored her and went to the couch. The room was small and he seemed to fill the space even while seated.

“I’m not leaving until I know that you’re safe,” Garin insisted.

“You don’t like me, remember? I’m the reason Joan’s sword is whole again. The reason you might not live forever.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’m feeling favorable toward you at the moment, but if I ever find one gray hair, that might change. And as difficult as you’re being, that could happen tonight.”

Annja glared at him. “I could call hotel security.”

“You could. But they don’t have enough people here to throw me out. They’ll have to call the police. Then the police will have questions they want answered. They won’t make me leave. They’ll take both of us into custody.”

“I’m willing to go. Are you? Or are you afraid of being inconvenienced?” Annja said.

“I have friends everywhere,” Garin said. “The local police will hold me only as long as I allow them to.” He grinned at her. “You, however, they would hold longer. If only to spite me because they might think we’re involved.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “That might be quite amusing. And I have no reason not to believe you’d be safe with the police. Let’s do that, then. Make the call.”

“No.”

“Coward.”

“You’re a jerk.”

“Stick and stones…”

Annja folded her arms. She took a deep breath and let it out. “Tell me about Saladin and the Nephilim again.”

Garin let his head drop in obvious frustration. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Of course you don’t. Believing me would be entirely too easy.”

A phone shrilled for attention. Irritably, Garin took his phone from his pocket and glanced at the caller-ID panel. Then he pulled it to the side of his head.

“What do you want, Roux?” Garin asked.

Some of the anger and frustration Annja had been feeling drained away as she listened intently. But she couldn’t hear Roux’s side of the conversation.

Garin remained quiet for some time. Then he stood and said, “I’m on my way. As soon as I make arrangements I’ll let you know when to expect me.” He closed the phone. “Well, that certainly changes things.”

“What?”

“I’ve got to go.” Garin walked to the door and let himself out. The four security men stood post in the hallway.

“Where are you going?” Annja followed him.

“Roux called.”

“I know that. The two of you hate each other.”

“Not always.”

Annja knew that was true. At times the two men seemed to care for each other deeply. Then they would try to kill one another. Keeping up with their relationship was confusing.

“Now?” she asked. “Now you like each other?”

Garin shrugged. “We’ll see how it works out.”

“This is about the Nephilim painting, isn’t it?” Annja asked.

Garin grinned at her. “So now you want to be my friend.”

That brought Annja up short. “For the moment,” she agreed.

Garin laughed.

“I’m going with you,” she declared.

“No,” he replied. “You’re not.”

Without warning, Garin leaned forward and kissed Annja.

14

Annja felt Garin’s lips pressed to hers, and her synapses fired in warning and excitement. After a moment, she recovered enough to draw back to punch him. Instead, he pushed her back into her room and closed the door.

Annja opened the door and tried to step out, but she was instantly confronted by Garin’s four security men. They didn’t move out of her way, and Annja got the distinct impression that any physical effort she put forth would be countered.

“Take care, Annja,” Garin called from down the hallway.

“Come back,” Annja told him.

Garin paused at the elevator. “Thank you, but no. Tonight has been an exercise in frustration. On any number of levels. And I don’t know that Roux is going to offer anything better.”

“Where are you going?”

The elevator doors opened behind Garin.

“If you’re really interested, maybe I’ll tell you someday.” Garin stepped into the elevator cage and pressed a button. “Over dinner. The next time, you can cook.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“You’re too curious.” Garin smiled. “I like steak. Potatoes. Maybe a wedge of apple pie and ice cream. I’m really a simple man with simple tastes.” He waved to her, still smiling, and the elevator doors closed.

Angrily, Annja drew back and slammed the door shut on the security men.

* * * *

Less than twenty minutes later, someone knocked on the hotel room door. Annja was in the bathtub soaking and trying to push past the evening’s frustration.

She wanted to ignore the knock. If it was Garin, she was certain he wouldn’t tell her anything. If Saladin’s men were knocking—and there was no reason they would, she told herself—she didn’t want to be caught in the bathtub.

Grudgingly, she climbed from the scented water and toweled off.

The knock sounded again, more insistent this time.

“Coming,” Annja called. She dressed quickly, pulling on her bra and panties, then covering that with jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt. She padded barefoot to the door. Before she arrived, the knock was repeated.

“Open up, Miss Creed,” an authoritative voice demanded. “We know you’re in there. This is the police.”

Anxiety pulsed through Annja. She peered through the peephole.

Two men stood in the hallway. One was Skromach, the police detective who’d investigated the bombing on the movie set. The other was younger and slimmer, but he looked as much like a cop as Skromach.

“Miss Creed,” the younger man called. He knocked on the door.

“I didn’t call for the police,” Annja protested. She felt like an idiot saying that as if she were protesting a pizza delivery.

“We need to speak with you, Miss Creed.”

Desperation set in then. Annja knew that a police visit at this time of the evening couldn’t bode well. She retreated from the door and crossed to the bed where her backpack and boots were.

After grabbing both, she headed for the balcony. She was only four floors up. The climb wouldn’t kill her. The fall might, but the climb wouldn’t. And she could claim, especially if they were investigating the violence that had broken out earlier, that she was afraid for her life. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and opened the balcony door.

Three men, all of them dressed in tactical riot gear, stood on her balcony. They looked at her.

“Good evening, Miss Creed,” one of them said politely in accented English. “Perhaps it might be better if you went the other way and accompanied the detectives.”

“Sure. That would be just great.” By the time Annja turned around, the detectives had let themselves through the door with a hotel passkey.

“Ah, Miss Creed,” Skromach said, and he looked almost happy. “So we did catch you at the hotel.”

Annja knew the verb was an intentional choice.

“We’d just like you to come with us down to the police station,” Skromach said.

“Why?”

Skromach shrugged. “We have just a few questions we’d like to ask you.” He pinned her with his gaze. “About a dozen or so men that were killed earlier this evening.”

“Don’t I get to call the United States Embassy?” Annja asked.

“Perhaps,” Skromach said. “We’re hoping that such a thing won’t become necessary. We’re certain that all of this is just a misunderstanding and can be cleared up in a short time.” He gestured toward the door. “Please?”

Knowing she wasn’t going to get out of the investigation, Annja sighed. “Can I put my boots on first?”

“Of course.”

* * * *

Annja woke when the door to the interview room opened. She lifted her head from her forearms. Her vision was blurry at first, and a headache throbbed at her temples.

Her return visit to the police station was less friendly than the first time. Earlier that day—yesterday, she reminded herself—she’d almost been a guest.

She’d been questioned off and on for the past fourteen hours. Skromach hadn’t gone home, though she suspected that he was catnapping somewhere because he seemed to come in bright eyed and ready every time he questioned her. The Prague policemen weren’t pushy with their questions, but they were persistent.

“Good morning, Ms. Creed.” A man approached the table. He wore an expensive suit and looked elegant. His dark complexion spoke of a history of outdoor activities.

Annja knew at once that the man wasn’t a policeman.

“May I sit?” the man asked.

“I’m not here in the position of hostess,” Annja said.

The man grinned, then pulled out the unadorned straight-back chair on the other side of the conference table. Unlike Skromach and his companion, this man didn’t carry a file folder with her name on it.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Who are you?”

The man spread his hands in front of his face and smiled again. “I could be your friend.”

Wariness filled Annja. She crossed her arms and studied the man.

He was in his late thirties and physically fit. A thick shock of black hair and a small, neat goatee framed his lean, hard-planed face.

“I’ve got enough friends,” Annja said.

That brought another smile to the man. “I’ve found in my business that a man cannot have too many friends.”

“I don’t usually meet my friends in police stations. I think I’ll pass on the offer,” Annja said.

The man gestured at the room. “It seems to me you could at least use one more friend at the moment.”

Annja paused for a moment as if considering. “What would this friendship cost me?”

“I’m sure we could arrive at something.”

“No, thank you.”

Something hardened in the man’s dark eyes. “Perhaps you shouldn’t act so rashly.”

“Do you call yourself Saladin?” Annja asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do. My father named me that. As his father named him. That name has been handed down in my family for generations.”

“I suppose it saves on monogramming,” Annja said, “but it must be confusing at family gatherings.”

A trace of a scowl tightened Saladin’s mouth. “Do you amuse yourself with your own wit, Ms. Creed?”

“I do. But you’re the one who chose to barge in and play. How did you get past the police?”

“I’m not without resources. As I said, I could be a good friend to have.”

“Trust is a big issue with me.”

Saladin favored her with a smile. “You can trust me.”

“You sent those men after me,” Annja argued.

Saladin shrugged and grinned again. “All work and no play tends to dull the minds of the men working for me.” He gazed at her intently. “You’re a cipher to me, Ms. Creed. I don’t like ciphers. How is it you know both Roux and Garin Braden?”

“That’s none of your business, but I will tell you this—the Nephilim painting you’re after? I don’t know anything about it.”

Saladin studied her and she noticed that one of his eyes was of a slightly different color than the other. The left one held a splash of green in the upper-right quadrant.

“Even if that were true,” he said slowly, “those two men value you.”

“Those two men,” Annja countered, “left me to my own devices while knowing full well that you were hunting me. Does that sound like they value me?”

Annoyance deepened Saladin’s scowl. “I guess the only way to truly know that is at your funeral.” He got up from the chair and left the room. Annja heard the lock click behind him.

* * * *

Hours later—Annja didn’t know how much time had passed because she didn’t have access to her watch or any of her electronics—another man entered the room. He looked around cautiously, almost a little fearfully.

“Miss Creed?” he asked. He held his briefcase in front of him like a shield. He looked as if he was barely into his twenties. Youth left his face soft and round. Glasses gave him a vulnerable look. His hair was already getting thin on top.

“Yes.” Annja made no effort to get up from her chair.

“I’m Walter,” the man said in a nervous voice. “Walter Gronlund. I’m with the State Department.”

“Don’t tell me. The United States government wants to place me under arrest also.”

Walter pushed his glasses up his nose with a forefinger. “Actually, no. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Annja breathed a sigh of relief and hoped that what the little man was saying was true. “Forgive me, but do you happen to have any identification?”

“Of course.” Walter reached into his jacket and took out a leather identification case. The photo ID looked just like him and announced that he worked for the United States Embassy in the Czech Republic.

Nervously, Walter settled his briefcase on the table. “I think they’ve got someone coming with your things from the hotel.”

That puzzled Annja. “Why are they bringing my things from the hotel?”

“That way you don’t have to stop on your way to the airport.” Walter checked his BlackBerry. “We’re getting a police escort to the airport, so getting there in time for the flight shouldn’t be a problem.”

“What flight?”

“Your flight, Miss Creed. Your visa has been canceled. Effective immediately.”

Annja couldn’t believe it. “They’re kicking me out of the country?”

“That’s an awfully blunt way to look at it, Miss Creed.”

“Is there any other way to put it?”

“Actually, I believe I did put it another way. They’re rescinding your visa.”

Stunned, Annja slumped back in her chair.

15

Despite the impatience that screamed through her, Salome forced herself to sit quietly in the plush chair amid all the other potential buyers. She knew many of them. Over the years, they’d all crossed paths. Many of them watched her covertly and quickly glanced away when she looked in their direction.

She had a reputation, and she was quite aware of it. In fact, she took a certain amount of pride in that reputation. She’d worked hard over the years to attain it.

The auctioneer called for the buyers to bid on another item. He was a fastidious man in a good suit. His voice, though quiet and controlled, was far larger than he was.

Two young women, both dressed in low-cut gowns that threatened to expose them, presented an antique silver tea service. After they had the item properly positioned to show it off to its best advantage, the young women stepped aside.

After referencing the three-by-five card that accompanied the piece, the auctioneer said, “This six-piece tea service was once owned by President Andrew Jackson while he resided in the White House. The set has been authenticated as having been made by Jabez Gorham himself very early in his career.”

Salome checked the details of the tea set in her catalog out of habit. The tea service was worth quite a bit.

Salome quietly wondered how and where the auction house had gotten its hands on such a prize.

Once the bidding began, it went fast and furious. Bids were increased with the movement of a finger, the tap of an identifying number or simply the wiggle of an eyebrow.

Salome kept track of the bidding, not at all surprised at the brisk pace. Major buyers had known the service was going to be present. Auction houses in the Hague didn’t often get such things.

Salome immediately wondered if the tea service had been stolen at some point, or was even a very good replica. Either was possible. If a theft had occurred long enough ago, and if it had happened in another country, it was possible to get away with such a thing. Especially if documentation was provided that checked out against art-theft lists generated by Interpol and other international police agencies.

The tea service finally sold, but it was for at least, she judged, twenty percent over fair market value. That told her whoever had purchased it had bought it out of love, not as an investment. It was worth making note of, and she did. But it was a mental note. Nothing she ever thought or observed or noticed was recorded anywhere. Her insight was much too valuable.

Once the tea service was taken away, the two buxom beauties brought out the next piece. When Salome saw it, she stopped breathing for just a moment.

She trusted that she gave no outward sign. To the room she was prim and proper. The elegant Versace business suit—with pants, not a skirt—was the foundation of her professional image. Her brunette hair, parted on the left, hung to her shoulders and stayed carefully in place.

“The next item up for bid,” the auctioneer announced, “is a painting by a little-known Venetian artist Virgil Carolini.”

Salome knew that was not true. Virgil Carolini’s brush had never touched the canvas in the antique frame sitting at the front of the room.

“Carolini’s works are starting to find favor with collectors around the world,” the auctioneer said. “Some said he was a madman, that the visions he wrought so carefully on the canvas were merely fever dreams he’d trapped in paint.”

A naked man lounged on a bearskin rug in front of a fire. He was beautiful. The fire warmed the man’s dusky skin and backlit him so that the shadows gave him partial modesty. His black hair gleamed and framed his face in ringlets. He was huge and proportioned evenly, godlike in every way.

“Oh, my,” one of the female buyers gasped.

Salome regained control of herself. During her thirty-six years, twenty-nine of them spent chasing objets d’art beginning with her father when she was very young, she’d only felt this near the loss of control a handful of times. She took a slow breath and let it out.

Another woman laughed.

“He’s rather…large, isn’t he?” the woman asked, but Salome could tell from the woman’s reaction that she hoped this was no fantasy.

“Who was the model?” another woman asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” a man grumbled. “Whoever he was, he’s long dead. And the artist probably embellished that anyway.”

The auctioneer smiled a little, and it was the first emotion Salome had seen out of the man the whole long morning.

“Actually, if the rumors about this piece are true—” the auctioneer couched his terms salaciously “—the model could still be alive.”

Salome’s pulse quickened. She hadn’t expected the auction house to have any of the real history of the painting. The secret was about to be exposed, and she wondered who was responsible. She knew that Roux would never have told anyone. In fact, when she’d let him know how much she knew, he’d nearly killed her.

That was nine years ago. The incident had happened in Luxembourg after an art show. Despite the fact that she’d been checking for Roux’s presence since she’d stepped into the auction house, she looked around again.

There was no sign of the old man. Or of Saladin. She would be doubly blessed.

How did I find the prize before you did? she wondered. Then she admonished herself for feeling so fortunate. She hadn’t made off with the painting yet.

“According to the legend surrounding this piece,” the auctioneer went on, “the figure in this painting is a fallen angel.” He used a laser pointing device to indicate the fireplace. “If you gaze into the fire, you can see tormented souls twisting in Hell.”

At her distance, Salome couldn’t see the figures, but she knew they would be there. The notebooks she’d studied, the ones found in Cosimo de’ Medici’s private collections, had shown sketches of the Nephilim.

“And this shadow?” The auctioneer traced the curved shadow barely visible on the right side of the painting. “This is supposed to belong to the artist who painted this piece.”

“Unless I’m mistaken,” one of the men said, “that shadow belongs to a woman.”

The auctioneer smiled. “You’re not mistaken. Virgil Carolini was actually the pseudonym of a woman painter.”

“There weren’t many of those in the seventeenth century,” someone observed.

Salome was relieved to realize they didn’t know the painting was actually painted earlier than that. No one, except perhaps for Roux, knew the painting’s true origins.

And the old man wasn’t telling.

“No,” the auctioneer agreed. “There weren’t many female painters for a long time.” He let that sink in.

Salome knew he’d expertly moved the piece from art to a definite acquisition for possible investment. Collectors and investors alike treasured the unique in that regard.

The auctioneer moved the laser pointer again. “If you look in the shadows here, you can see what appear to be wings folded beneath the man.”

An appreciative murmur came from the crowd.

“I see them,” a woman said.

Salome did, as well. She slipped her phone from her purse and opened it to the keyboard. She typed quickly without looking at the keys.

“It’s here.”

The response came almost immediately. “It won’t escape us.”

“Make certain that it doesn’t.” Salome put the phone away.

The bidding started gingerly at first. Since there was no real knowledge of the piece or the artist, buyers were hesitant. Salome stayed out of it.

Eventually the painting sold to one of the women in the room.

Salome sat through eight more items. She bid on a few, always stopping short of where she knew the final price would hit. She even purchased a clock handmade by Jens Olsen, the internationally known clockmaker who’d designed and built the world clock in the Radhus, the Copenhagen City Hall. The price was low because most of those assembled didn’t know that it was an original. Salome knew she could sell it to a collector she knew for at least forty thousand dollars more than she paid for it.

Then the woman who had bought the painting got up to make arrangements for the acquisition. Salome did the same. While she was in line, she also rifled the woman’s purse and found her identification without getting caught.

* * * *

As Salome left the auction house, she was met at the curb by a car. The man in the backseat got out and helped her inside.

Riley Drake was a big man. He headed his own private security company and rented his shock troops out to countries around the globe. He’d grown up in England, but he’d learned his trade in the killing fields in Africa. He kept his head shaved and looked deadly earnest at all times. It was a quality that influenced CEOs and heads of state to do business with him.

“Her name is Ilse Danseker,” Salome said. “I got her address.”

Drake nodded. He was also not much of a talker, which many of his employers appreciated. He only spoke when he had something to say.

“She’s having the painting transported to her house,” Salome said. “But I don’t know when.”

“We could take it during transport,” Drake suggested.

Salome shook her head. “Then it looks like we were targeting the painting. No, this will play better if it looks like a home invasion.”

Drake looked at her. “You’re afraid of that old man you told me about, aren’t you?”

Salome considered that. “I’m not afraid. I’m just knowledgeable enough to be wary.”

Reaching over, Drake took her hand. His felt warm, confident and strong. “I could have him removed.”

Salome touched his face and smiled gently. “I would rather that be a course of action we have to follow rather than one we choose. For all I know, Roux doesn’t even know the painting has surfaced.”

“You’re sure this is the one?”

“The painting is right. I haven’t seen it up close yet, but it matches the sketches in Cosimo de’ Medici’s journals.”

Drake nodded. “And this thing is going to give you enough power to do anything you want?”

As she listened to him, Salome’s excitement grew. She couldn’t help herself.

“With what that painting hides,” she said seriously, willing him to believe her even though he seldom believed in anything that he couldn’t see with his own two eyes, “a person will have the power to remake the world.”

“And if it’s just a story?”

Salome refused to believe that. “It’s not just a story. Too many people are chasing after it.”

“You mean the old man.”

“More than just the old man,” Salome said.

Drake frowned slightly. “I thought you said not many people knew about this.”

“They don’t.” Salome knew that Drake was upset because she hadn’t trusted him with everything she knew. Men were like that. They got their egos bruised easily. Even big men.

“It’s just that these things can be difficult to control, love,” Drake said as he took her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm.

The kiss sent tingles through Salome. “There’s only one other,” she said. “His name is Saladin. He’s a very dangerous man.”

Drake regarded her with his pale blue eyes. “I’m more dangerous, love.”

Salome silently hoped so. But it wouldn’t matter after they had the painting.

16

Fall chill had settled into New York by the time Annja returned. As the jet came down, she glanced at the cold, slate-gray ribbon that was the East River and tried to convince herself it was good to be home.

She didn’t buy it.

She didn’t get to stay and work on the movie, hadn’t been able to follow up on the King Wenceslas piece she’d planned for Chasing History’s Monsters, hadn’t explored more of Prague’s Old Town and didn’t find out anything about what Garin and Roux were doing.

Or even if they were still alive. Saladin hadn’t struck her as someone who would be easy to deal with. Probably none of the Saladins had been.

She felt incredibly grumpy after the plane landed. Rather than stand in line with the rest of the passengers as they waited to be released, she reached into her pocket, took out her phone and turned it back on.

Her menu showed six missed calls. Four of them were from Doug Morrell, and she didn’t want to talk to him at the moment. Two others had come from Bart McGilley’s cell phone and were only minutes old. Knowing that Bart had called lifted her spirits somewhat.

Detective Bart McGilley of the New York Police Department had been Annja’s friend almost from the time she moved to Brooklyn. One of Bart’s superiors had seen Annja on Letterman and decided to call her in to consult on a case involving artifacts stolen from one of the smaller private museums in the city.

Bart and Annja had hit it off from the beginning. Both of them had been working to get their careers started, and the case had ultimately helped them do that in their respective fields.

Despite the fact that Annja’s relationship with Roux and Garin sometimes caused problems because she couldn’t tell Bart everything that was going on, they’d remained friends.

She punched his number in and listened to the ring.

“Hey,” Bart answered after the first ring. “It’s you.”

“It is me,” Annja agreed. She felt a little happier just connecting with him. “As it happens—”

“You’re back in NYC,” Bart said. “I know.”

“How did you know that?”

“Well, you get kicked out of a country, that country kind of lets your home country know about it. So they can check and make sure you make it home. A guy from the State Department—”

“Walter Gronlund,” Annja said. The little man had been very kind but very firm about her departure. He’d stayed with her until she’d boarded her flight.

“That’s him,” Bart agreed. “Anyway, he called and wanted a background run on you. Locally. I guess the Feds have got a whole other book on what you’ve been doing elsewhere.”

“Terrific.” Annja suddenly felt worse despite Bart’s warm, friendly voice. She stood, retrieved her backpack from overhead storage and shrugged into it.

“Naturally, the captain sees your name, he calls me. I think he figures I’m the Annja Creed specialist.”

“You’re stuck babysitting me.” Annja wasn’t sure, but she felt entitled to be more than a little angry at the turn of events.

“Nope. Not even.” Bart sounded incredibly chipper. “I got to fill out the background check for Walter. Talked to him over the phone. He explained about the dead guys in Prague. I thought about telling him about the dead guys you’ve sometimes left over here.”

“Thanks. Heaps.”

“I said I thought about telling him. I didn’t actually do that. Figured it would have complicated things for you.”

Annja fell into line and followed the passengers out. She even managed a smile for the flight attendants.

“I called to let you know you’re in luck,” Bart said.

“How’s that?”

“I’m here. Waiting on you. You’ve got me to tote and carry the baggage, give you a ride home, and I’m going to take you to dinner. Sort of a ‘welcome home, glad to have you’ thing instead of ‘sorry you got kicked out of a country’ thing.”

“Thanks, Bart.” In spite of the turn of events, Annja was actually smiling by the time she deplaned.

“Hey, I see you.” At the end of the boarding tunnel, Bart stood outside the ropes. He was six feet two inches tall and solidly built, not a guy to trifle with. His dark hair was razor cut, and a permanent five-o’clock shadow tattooed his jaws and chin. He wore a lightweight dark gray trench coat.

He waved in a good-natured way that didn’t befit the preconceived notions of a homicide detective, and she couldn’t help but grin like a loon. Suddenly it did feel good to be home.

* * * *

“So,” Bart said while they stood in line at the baggage carousel, “what’s it like?”

“What?” Annja kept careful watch for her baggage.

“Getting kicked out of a country. I mean, man, that’s gotta suck.”

“I’ve really missed that sympathetic shoulder you always offer.”

Bart chuckled. “At least they didn’t throw you so far under the jail that they had to pipe in sunlight.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Annja excused herself and leaned through the crowd to collect a bag. She placed it beside Bart.

“Is this it?” Bart asked.

“No.”

“No?” Bart looked worried.

“Be brave.”

Bart sighed. “Anyway, it looked like you did plenty wrong. There were fourteen dead guys. Some of them were shot, but there were a half-dozen killed when the car you were riding in blew up.”

“I didn’t do that.”

“Didn’t kill anybody?”

“Blow the car up.” Annja snared another bag.

“Is this it?” Bart asked.

“No.”

An unhappy look crossed his face.

“You volunteered,” Annja argued. “I was going to grab a cab.”

“I didn’t know you were caravanning through Prague,” Bart said. “When I saw it on the Travel Channel, it looked like a party spot.”

“I wasn’t caravanning.” Annja pulled another suitcase from the belt. “And I didn’t get to party.” Then she reflected on a couple of the movie soirees she’d been to and amended her answer. “I didn’t get to party much.”

“This much luggage, there shoulda been camels involved.” Bart looked around. “You know, maybe I need to start looking for a camel.”

“You’re a big boy. You can handle this. I got it to the airport.”

“All the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you pack this much stuff. What could you possibly have needed? And is there anything left at home?”

“I was working on a movie,” Annja said. “Not exactly a regular gig for me. I didn’t know what I needed. They make a lot of extras for the DVDs these days. I knew I was going to be in some of them. I wanted to make sure I was dressed right.”

“Were you in the movie?”

“A couple of times when they needed background people. But I worked on three of the features regarding the artifacts they’re using in the movie, as well as the history of Prague.”

“Did you meet the main actor, what’s-his-name?”

“I did,” Annja replied. “Terrific kisser, by the way.”

Bart frowned. “You’re making that up.”

“Yes.”

Bart looked a little relieved about that. Annja knew they were attracted to each other. They always had been. But Bart was the marrying kind, the kind who’d want to put down roots and raise a family. That meant his wife couldn’t be out in the field digging through broken Mayan pottery and possibly getting sniped at by grave robbers.

And there was no way he was going to understand the sword and the problems it seemed to bring.

Bart had recently called off an engagement he’d had, or the woman had. Annja wasn’t exactly sure how that had gone down because Bart was busy pretending it had never happened.

“Back to this shoot-out in Prague,” Bart said.

“They were trying to kill us.”

“Us? You mean you and this guy, Garin Braden.”

“No. Me and the Earps and Doc Holliday.”

Bart grimaced.

“Yes. I mean Garin Braden.” Annja hadn’t known what name Garin was doing business under in Prague. Besides, if the Prague police could track him down and make his life miserable for a while, he deserved it for running out on her.

“Well, nobody seems to know who that guy is. I looked him up and didn’t find anyone by that name who fits the information you gave the Prague police.”

Annja pulled her last bag from the carousel. “He’s got a lot of names.”

Bart blew out a disgusted breath. “You know, you really ought to watch who you hang out with. You might not get in so much trouble that way.”

“I’ll try to do better.” Annja looked at the pile of luggage, then looked around the baggage area. “Did you spot a camel?”

* * * *

“Ah, there you are! My movie star! Back from so far away!” Maria Ruiz, the owner of Tito’s Cuban restaurant, threw out her chubby arms and wrapped Annja in a bear hug.

Thankfully it was after eight o’clock and most of the dinner crowd was gone.

Annja hugged the big woman back. A feeling of seriously being home washed over Annja. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been gone lately until that moment. Of course, maybe getting tossed out of a country made her a little more grateful for the old neighborhood.

“I hope it’s not too late to get something to eat,” Annja said.

Maria dismissed the thought. She was short and stout, a pleasant, hardworking woman who drove her son Tito crazy while she managed the restaurant and he ran the kitchen. Together they’d created a restaurant clientele that kept them busy all day long.

“Never too late for you,” Maria said. “Come. I get the two of you a table. Then I fix you something special. You need something to put meat back on your bones. You’re getting too skinny. It’s not healthy.”

Annja knew better than to protest. She followed Maria back to the rear of the restaurant. In the next moment, Annja and Bart were seated. Tortillas, chips and an array of salsa and cheeses were placed before them.

Bart, never shy when it came to eating, dug in at once.

“So,” he said as he rolled a tortilla, “you didn’t blow up the car, but you maybe shot a few guys.”

“I don’t know. Probably. It all got pretty crazy.” Annja poured salsa onto a tortilla, added cheese and started rolling.

Bart looked at her for a moment, as if deciding whether to say what was on his mind. Then he said it. “You know, you’ve been involved in more gunfights than anyone I know.”

Annja was just glad she hadn’t told him everything she’d experienced since she’d found the sword.

“That wasn’t exactly my choice,” she replied. “I’m an archaeologist.”

Bart ticked his fingers off. “And television host, author, consultant—to museums, private collectors and the NYPD on more than one occasion—and gunfighter.”

“I never set out to do those things. I just wanted a better, deeper look at the world.”

“I guess you do that during the reloads.”

“I suppose you had time to figure out all this comic dialogue after you heard I was coming back.”

“I may have fine-tuned it a bit,” Bart admitted.

“My advice? Find an appreciative audience. I just got kicked out of a country, remember?”

“How much trouble are you in?”

“I don’t know.” Annja sipped the Diet Coke one of Maria’s servers had brought. “I don’t think it’s going to follow me back here.”

Bart rolled his eyes. “I hope not. The captain and commissioner haven’t forgotten the last debacle. Good times were not had by all, I assure you.” He sipped his soft drink. “Are you planning on returning to Prague?”

“Not anytime in the near future.” Annja popped a cheese-dipped chip into her mouth. “How good is my credit in the favor department?”

“You’ll never get out of debt.”

“Then it won’t matter if I go a little more in debt.”

“It’s that kind of cavalier attitude that really gets you into trouble.”

“I need to know about a guy.”

“You seem to know more about Garin Braden than the rest of the world.”

“Not him. Someone else.”

Bart reached inside his jacket and took out a small notebook. “Is this going to be like the time you asked me to check out a set of fingerprints and they turned out to belong to a person of interest in a 1940s Hollywood murder?”

That had been Roux. Annja still didn’t know what to make of that.

“I hope not,” she replied.

“Okay.” Bart waited, pencil poised.

“He calls himself Saladin.”

“First name or last?”

“I don’t know.”

“Helpful. Not.”

“He came to see me while the Prague police had me. Actually, he came to threaten me.”

Most of the levity left Bart then. He took threats to his friends seriously. “Saladin, eh?”

“That’s what he said.”

“The Prague police should know who he is.”

“If they’re willing to tell you. They let him in to see me, and I got the distinct impression they were willing to let him do whatever he wanted to.” Annja started to take another sip of her drink, but she suddenly felt eyes on her.

The sensation of being watched was uncomfortable but not frightening. She’d experienced such things before. Women generally did. Usually it was better to just ignore things like that, but Annja was aware that she no longer lived in a usually world.

She glanced at the window overlooking the street. Night had settled in over the city, and darkness hugged the doorways and alcoves.

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

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

“Annja Creed.”

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

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

17

“Annja Creed,” the old man repeated. His mouth moved, making her name clear even though his efforts carried no sound. His forefinger tapped against the glass.

“What are you staring at?” Bart asked. He turned in his seat. “That homeless guy?”

Without answering, Annja got up and walked toward the front door of the restaurant.

“Where are you going?” Bart asked.

“He knows my name,” Annja explained.

“A lot of people know your name. You’ve been on television.”

Still, Annja felt drawn to the man for reasons she couldn’t explain. Maybe it was his apparent helplessness.

“Do you know this guy?” Bart was suddenly at her side.

Annja saw Bart’s reflection in the glass next to hers. Both of them overlaid the old man for a moment.

Terror filled the old man’s eyes and he opened them wide. He placed both palms against the window and shook his head.

Annja kept moving and Bart matched her step for step.

“What is the matter?” Maria called out. She hurried over as she wiped her hands on a bar towel. “You don’t have to go, do you? Your food, it is not ready.”

The old man turned and fled before Annja reached the restaurant door. By the time she was out on the street, he was gone. She jogged to the corner, but there was no sign of him.

“Do you know him?” Bart asked again as he surveyed the street scene.

Annja shook her head. “No. But he knew me. He called me by name.”

“Television,” Bart replied.

“Does he look like the type to watch television on a regular basis?”

“He looks more like the type to have aluminum foil packed into his hat,” Bart admitted.

Annja turned back to Maria, who stood in the doorway and peered out. “Did you see that man?”

“I did.”

“Do you know him?”

“That one?” Maria shook her head. “Not so much. I’d never seen him before, then—poof—he is here. Like a wizard.”

“He’s here?” Bart asked.

Maria nodded. “Yes. The last two or three days, maybe. Always looking in the windows.”

“Maybe he was just looking for a handout,” Bart suggested.

Annja couldn’t forget the way the old man had called her name. She didn’t think it was just because he’d recognized her from television. Those rheumy old eyes had madness in them.

“Come back inside,” Maria coaxed. “Your food will be up soon.”

* * * *

After dinner, Bart drove her to her loft. He parked in front of the building and placed his police identification sign on the dashboard as Annja got out. She checked the time and found it was a little after nine.

Bart reached into the car’s trunk and started removing suitcases. He put them on the sidewalk. “We’ll just take out a few, no more than we can carry, and we’ll leave the rest safe in the car.”

“Wait here,” Annja said. “Wally has a cart we can use.”

Inside the building, Annja knocked on Wally’s first-floor apartment. The building superintendent had one of the smaller units in the structure, but he kept it clean and neat. Wally took care of Annja’s mail and her plants while she was gone.

Wally answered the door himself, still clad in his work clothes. Behind him, a baseball game was on television.

“Annja!” he boomed. “It’s good to have you back.”

Annja smiled. “It’s good to be back.”

“I figured you’d call first.”

“I would have. I apologize. I came back early.”

“Nothing to worry about.” Wally waved the apology away. “You need help with anything?”

“I’d like to borrow the cart if I can.”

“Sure, sure.” Wally stepped back into the apartment and returned with a small four-wheeled cart. “You’re not gonna try to carry that stuff in yourself, are you?”

“Bart’s with me.”

Wally grinned. “Good. I like to watch a young man work.” He guided the cart through the door and walked out with Annja.

* * * *

“Can I borrow a sleeping bag?”

Startled, Annja looked up from her computer at Bart. He’d taken off his coat, and his pistol was visible holstered on his hip. “Planning a vacation?”

“No, I’m staying here for the night and you only have the one bed.”

“Did I miss the part where I invited you for a sleepover?” Annja asked.

“There was an implicit invitation when you left dead guys in Prague.”

“I had to leave them. They’d never have cleared customs.”

“You’re making bad jokes,” Bart said. “I know you’re tired.”

Annja actually felt a little guilty about that one. She didn’t take death lightly, but she’d been serious for far too long these past few days. Verbally sparring with Bart was always fun, and his humor ran dark occasionally.

“I’m going to be fine,” she told him.

“With me here, you’ll be finer.”

“You can’t stay here forever.”

“You’re right. I’ve got to throw on the Batman suit and get up early to fight crime in the morning. But for tonight I can be here and not worry about you.”

“You’re not exactly bulletproof yourself,” Annja pointed out.

“Let’s just hope I don’t have to be.” Bart smiled. “Humor me. I’m tired after carrying all that luggage.”

Annja got up and located a plush sleeping bag and gave it to Bart.

“Can you tuck yourself in?” she asked.

“Yeah. Gee, thanks, Mom.” Bart laid out the sleeping bag in the corner. “Will the TV bother you?”

“No.”

“Good. I can catch the rest of the Yankees game and compare notes with Wally in the morning.”

“You’re going to see Wally?”

“To let him know to keep an eye out for you, and to make sure he still has my cell number.” Bart picked up a small bag from the floor.

Annja didn’t recognize the bag. “That’s not mine.”

“It’s mine. Shaving kit. Change of clothes. Clean underwear.”

“Always prepared.”

“My mom trained me well.” Bart took out his toiletry bag, a pair of gray sweat shorts and a T-shirt, then headed to the bathroom. “I take it you’re going to be up for a while.”

“I slept on the plane. And I’ve got some research I want to do.” Annja turned and put her face back into the computer.

While waiting for her flight out of Prague, Annja had logged on to the archaeology sites she often used for research. She’d sent out queries regarding Nephilim and paintings of them.

She weeded through the discussions, finding most of it centered around horror movies—some good and some bad—and the mythology that Nephilim were the children of fallen angels and human women.

It wasn’t helpful, but it was interesting. There was also conjecture that the Nephilim were a race of giants mentioned in the Bible, and that the Flood had been caused to wipe them and their wicked ways from the earth.

Annja leaned back in her chair and tried to get comfortable. Her mind kept pulling at the mystery. She kept thinking about Garin and Roux and wondering if they were all right.

More angels, in paintings and statuary, were mentioned. She started scanning those entries, and one instantly grabbed her attention.

 

Don’t know if this helps, but there’s a legend about a painting of a Nephilim that the Medici family was interested in. Cosimo de’ Medici supposedly sent an emissary to retrieve the painting from Constantinople during the siege by Ottoman forces under Mehmed II.

 

Annja responded.

 

Would love to talk to you more about this. Can we meet for IM?

 

The time frame sounded right, and Garin had mentioned the fall of Constantinople.

Annja sent the e-mail and continued to prowl restlessly through the Internet. Bart had gone to sleep on the sleeping bag. He snored gently. The blue glow from the television fell over him.

Annja got a blanket from the closet and spread it over Bart. He was a good friend, and she felt badly that he was sleeping on her floor rather than at home in his own bed. With all the artifacts and books she had crammed into the loft, Annja barely had room to live there herself, much less the luxury of a guest room.

Bart wasn’t like Roux and Garin at all, Annja thought. He wouldn’t ever leave her in the lurch the way those two had so often.

Bereft of energy and still full after the meal at Tito’s, she took a shower and went to bed. She kept hearing the old man’s voice in her dreams.

“Annja Creed. The world is going to end. Soon.”

18

Garin got out of the cab in the Hague and knew he was being watched. He reached up to the earpiece that connected him to the security team he’d placed inside the city.

“I’m being spied on,” he said quietly.

“Yes, sir. We expected that. We’re looking.” The man’s voice was calm and self-assured. Garin wouldn’t have paid for anything less. The problem was that such a man also wouldn’t acknowledge if things got out of control.

Garin didn’t think Saladin would have been able to find him so quickly. Since leaving Prague, Garin had changed identities four times as he traveled ever closer to his destination.

But Saladin wasn’t the only one who might be interested in whatever prize Roux was after.

His phone rang. “Yes.”

“Call off your men,” Roux said. “It’s only us here.”

Garin stopped and looked around. “You see me?”

“And your men, yes.”

“How many men?”

“So far?” Roux sounded bored and impatient. “Five.”

Garin had eight men flanking him. After being surprised in Prague, he’d decided not to take any chances for a time.

Still, Roux spotting five of them was impressive. Of course, he’d known for several lifetimes that the old man was a canny individual.

“Where are you?” Garin asked.

“Where I said I’d be.”

Garin looked up at the second-story window of a building a half block down. A small French restaurant occupied the first floor.

Roux appeared in the window for the briefest instant. He held a phone to his face and quickly stepped back. Even though he’d said no one else was there, the old man obviously wasn’t taking any chances.

“Don’t dawdle,” Roux said.

Garin unleashed a scathing retort, then realized he was speaking to dead air. He looked at the caller-ID screen, thought about calling back and knew it would be a wasted effort.

For a moment, Garin thought about just turning around and leaving. But he couldn’t do that, either. He was certain Roux knew that. The mystery of the Nephilim painting had hung in the back of Garin’s mind for hundreds of years.

Angry, Garin pocketed the phone and headed for the building.

* * * *

An immaculate maître d’ approached Garin. “Would you like a table, sir?”

“He’s with me,” Roux announced. Dressed in slacks, a windbreaker and a golf shirt that made him look like a casual diner, the old man stood near the door. From the way the jacket hung, Garin knew that Roux carried a pistol in a shoulder holster. He led Garin toward the wall farthest from the windows.

“You should have had that jacket tailored,” Garin said in German. That had been the first language they had shared.

Roux spoke in the same language. “That would have been a waste of money.”

“Ever the skinflint, and you’re sitting on more money than you’ll ever spend.”

“No,” Roux said. “It’s just that I don’t see a reason to advertise my affluence to call forth pickpockets and muggers. We’ve got enough problems.” He pointed his chin at a nearby table.

Garin stared at the woman seated there. She wore a light peach blouse that accentuated her dark skin. She was stunningly beautiful.

“You didn’t mention you had company,” Garin said as they approached the table.

“She’s an old friend,” Roux explained. He made the introductions.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Braden,” Jennifer said.

Garin captured one of her hands and kissed it. He bowed slightly in a gentlemanly manner.

“Aren’t you suave,” Jennifer said, chuckling. Clearly she wasn’t impressed with his behavior.

“He’s obviously in one of his elegant moods,” Roux groused. He sat himself on the other side of the table. “There’s no need to be flattered. It merely signifies that he’s measuring you up as a potential romantic fling.”

Jennifer’s dark eyes sparked. “Really? Well, I find that quite interesting, actually. As you know, I happen to like a man who knows what he wants.”

In just those few words, Garin knew that Roux and the woman had been lovers at one time. She casually flirted with him not to catch his eye, but to catch Roux’s. Garin pocketed that little bit of trivia and sat at the table.

“Did you have a safe trip?” Jennifer asked.

“Yes. Thank you.” Garin spread his napkin in his lap.

“We have wine. May I pour you a glass?”

“Please.” Garin sipped the wine when she gave it to him. It was a robust red, but it wasn’t expensive. That told him Roux had ordered the wine. “I’d like to know what’s going on.”

“Jennifer believes she’s found the painting,” Roux said.

“After you’ve been looking for it for all these years?” Garin arched a mocking brow at Roux.

Roux ignored the slight and swirled his wine.

“Luck has as much to do with a find as diligence,” Jennifer said. “Surely Roux taught you that while you were with him.”

Knowing that Roux had told her at least something about him put Garin on notice. Roux wasn’t one to let anyone into his business. “So you were luckier than the old man?”

Roux curled a lip in displeasure. “I wondered if you were going to be more hindrance than help. I guess you’ve answered that question.”

“No.” Garin turned fully toward Roux and shifted back to speaking German. “When the chips are down and your back is to the wall, there’s only one person you’ll ever send for. And you know it.” Even as he said that, though, he knew Roux was incapable of admitting it. The old man had never been one to give praise willingly.

Then a realization hit Garin. “This is about Annja, isn’t it? That’s why you didn’t call her instead of me. You’re upset that she went out with me.”

“She didn’t go out with you,” Roux said icily. “You took advantage of her.”

“I,” Garin stated forcefully, “was the perfect gentleman.”

“You forced the situation.”

“The situation, yes, but not her.” Garin leaned back in his chair. No one would ever force Annja Creed to do anything. He’d known that before he’d arranged the evening.

Roux cursed.

“Stop it,” Jennifer said sharply. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on between the two of you, but I do know that there’s been bad blood in the past.”

Idly, Garin wondered what she’d think if she’d known that bad blood had been brewing for hundreds of years.

“The bottom line is that you called—” Jennifer nodded at Roux “—and you came.” She nodded at Garin. “And that the painting of the Nephilim, for whatever reason you want it—” she looked at Roux again “—might be here.”

“Might be?” Garin snorted derisively. “You don’t know?”

“Not yet,” Jennifer said.

“Then I’ve wasted my time.”

“Not yet,” Jennifer repeated.

Roux turned to Garin. “There’s every likelihood that the painting is here. Jennifer has worked with me regarding this matter before.”

“Until he ditched me thirteen years ago,” Jennifer said, staring daggers at Roux.

Despite his own troubled mood, anxiety and confusion about his own motives, Garin had to laugh at the woman’s thinly veiled rancor. “She’s not exactly part of your fan club, is she, old man?”

Roux pointedly ignored Garin and turned his attention instead to the arrival of the food. “I took the liberty of ordering for you.”

Watching carefully, Garin studied the plates as the servers burdened the tables with them. The dishes were all French, which wasn’t Garin’s favorite, but his favorites among that fare were clearly represented. Roux had forgotten nothing.

“That’s fine,” Garin said. “Thank you.” He turned his attention to the food.

One of Roux’s first lessons to him had been to eat when he had food before him. They’d lived like wolves much of the time in those long-ago days. Often they’d never known where their next meal was coming from.

“Where is the painting?” Garin asked.

“With a collector,” Roux said. “Here in the city. There was an auction earlier today. We couldn’t make it in time.”

“Pity,” Garin said. “I might have been able to finish my date.”

Roux visibly bristled.

“As it was, I believe she was quite upset,” Garin went on.

“She returned to Brooklyn,” Roux countered. “Don’t make her out to be heartbroken.”

Garin smiled. Roux would never had handed out the thought if it hadn’t been in his mind.

“How did you find the painting?” Garin asked. His eyes locked with Jennifer’s.

19

“For the last thirteen years,” Jennifer stated, emphasizing the number of years and flicking a glance at Roux, “I’ve been searching for the painting.”

“Because Roux told you about it?” Garin asked.

“Partly. And partly because it was the only chance I thought I’d ever have of meeting Roux again.”

Garin peered at her over his glass of wine. “The old man must have left you with quite an impression.”

Some of Jennifer’s edgy emotions showed. “This isn’t about then. It’s not even about the future. It doesn’t concern Roux at all. This is about the painting.”

“Nothing like a vindictive woman,” Garin said in German.

Roux ignored him.

“How did you find it?” Garin asked Jennifer.

Jennifer looked at him. “This isn’t a trap.”

Garin shrugged. Just because she said so didn’t mean it wasn’t. And even knowing something was a trap didn’t mean the intended victim would be clever enough to stay clear of it.

“I followed up on the painter’s family,” Jennifer said.

“They didn’t have the painting.” Garin flicked his glance at Roux. “We talked with them.”

Jennifer looked startled. “Recently? Because they certainly didn’t mention it.”

“Quite some time ago, actually,” Roux said. “It doesn’t matter.”

All the people they’d asked, Garin knew, had died generations ago.

“They didn’t know what they had.” Jennifer cut off a bite-size piece from a stuffed crepe. “Artists back in those days lived by the grace of a patron. Not from selling their work.”

Garin held his thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. “Condensed version.”

Jennifer flashed him a disdainful look. “Roux told me the two of you had talked to the family once. But you pursued the paternal family. As it turns out, the painter, Josef Tsoklis, was an illegitimate child.”

Even after all the years that had passed, Garin still felt the physical impact of that description. He felt Roux’s eyes on him and didn’t dare look at the old man. Garin would never completely forget his upbringing.

“Josef took the name of his mother’s husband,” Jennifer said, “but he was always closer to his mother and her people.”

“All right, he was really a mama’s boy,” Garin said. “What of it?”

“Josef’s family has been trying to track down the painting. They’ve heard the legend.”

“What legend?” Garin asked.

“That Josef hid most of the gold he earned from patrons and the painting reveals the hiding place.”

“Do you know how little those artists were paid?” Garin shook his head. “I’m telling you now that whatever amount they’ve imagined, it’s either not real or far less than what they believe.”

But that only made Garin wonder all the more why Roux was looking for the painting. He turned his attention to his food.

“There’s also conjecture that Tsoklis stole an immense fortune from one of his benefactors.”

Garin snorted, and knew from the angry look on Jennifer’s face that he’d offended her.

“I don’t believe in those old stories for a minute,” she declared.

But Garin could see that she wasn’t completely telling the truth.

“Finding the painting became a family project for Josef’s cousins on his mother’s side of the family because of their beliefs, not mine. Over the intervening five hundred years, they’ve been looking for the painting, as well. You’re familiar with Cosimo de’ Medici?”

“Yes.”

“Some—those few that knew of the painting’s existence—also knew of Cosimo’s interest in it.”

“Looking for a lost fortune isn’t something Cosimo de’ Medici would have done,” Garin challenged. From the corner of his eye, he watched Roux for a reaction.

The old man blithely ate and seemed content to listen.

“No, he was interested in the painting’s ability to bring about the end of the world.”

Garin paused. Now that would be something to catch Roux’s interest. During their years together, Roux had hunted such objects and talismans of power. At first, Garin hadn’t believed in any of those things. But he had soon realized that those things—like the sword Annja carried and whatever power had kept him ageless for five hundred years—existed.

“Of course,” Jennifer said quickly, “I don’t believe in any of that.”

“Of course,” Garin replied. He glanced at Roux, but the old man wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Then what do you believe in?”

“That painting has a lot of history. Whatever secret it’s been hiding has been there for hundreds of years. People are willing to kill to get it.”

“What people?” Garin asked.

“Salome,” Roux said. “She’s chasing the painting, as well.”

The name resonated inside Garin’s skull. “Now, there’s as pretty a viper as you’d ever want to meet.”

“Yes,” Roux said.

“I see now why you called me.”

The old man shrugged.

“Salome?” Jennifer looked confused. “I don’t know the name.”

“You weren’t the only one Roux has used to bird-dog his little artifacts,” Garin said. “Salome was a few years ago.” He smiled mirthlessly. “She’s a particularly nasty piece of work. I’m surprised she’s still alive.” He glanced at Roux and spoke in German. “You must be getting soft if you let her live.”

“You’re still alive,” Roux replied.

“I’ve had a long time to learn how to survive. And I never betrayed you the way that woman did.”

“No.” Roux sighed. “You didn’t.”

“Then we kill her this time?”

Roux thought about that for a moment. “If circumstances permit.”

“We’re not committing murder,” Jennifer said in flawless German.

Surprised, Garin turned to her. “You speak German?”

“I’d heard Roux speak in German during the years we were together.”

It wasn’t any great leap of logic on Garin’s part to realize that Roux had probably been talking to him. They’d always kept in touch—even when they’d been trying to kill each other.

“After he left,” Jennifer went on, “I thought I’d learn the language.”

Garin switched to Latin. It was the first language Roux had taught him that wasn’t his own. “This woman is going to be trouble. We should get rid of her.”

“No,” Roux replied. “She’s resourceful. And more in tune with this world than you or I. Annja would be better to have, but this one will serve.”

Although neither of them spoke of it, Garin knew that Roux didn’t want Annja there because Roux wasn’t certain how to deal with her yet. Their date behind his back had thrown their relationship into a murky state of affairs.

Not only that, but Roux wouldn’t have wanted to bring Annja anywhere near Salome, who was pure poison. And she was as deadly as any woman Garin had ever met.

“This is stupid,” Jennifer said in English. “I’m not going to learn every language in the world just to talk to the two of you.”

“All right,” Roux said.

“No more…whatever it was you were speaking.”

Roux inclined his head.

“And you.” Jennifer pointed her fork at Garin.

With a smile, Garin spread his hands and said, “Of course.” But if he got the chance to kill Salome, he intended to.

And he’d drive a stake through her heart to make certain she stayed dead.

* * * *

Drake took Salome into the estate shortly after darkness consumed the tree-lined grounds along Koningskade Quay. She was dressed all in black, had her hair pulled back, and wore a Beretta 93-R at her hip. She carried a cut-down shotgun tucked in a scabbard that ran down her back.

“All right,” Drake said as he studied the BlackBerry in his hand. “Byron and his lads have taken out the security system. We’re good to go.” Cosmetic blackface disguised his features.

Salome wore the paint, as well. She hated it because it was so hard to clean off, and it was hard on her skin. Her beauty meant a lot to her. Her features were the most potent weapon in her arsenal.

Drake carried a silenced H&K MP-5 in both gloved hands as he broke into a trot. Salome knew weapons because she often dealt in them. No product translated into cash as readily in so many countries as weapons. The same couldn’t be said of drugs. She knew because she’d dealt in those, too.

As they neared the security gatehouse, a black-clad warrior stepped from within. He gave Drake a thumbs-up. Salome glanced briefly through the darkened window and saw the men slumped over inside. Blood dripped down the inside of the bulletproof glass and offered mute testimony that the men inside hadn’t gone down easily.

Their deaths didn’t bother Salome. She was prepared to kill everyone inside the large house within the security walls.

“Do you really think this painting has magical properties, love?” Drake asked.

Salome walked behind the man, two steps back and one step to the right to give herself a proper field of fire. “It’s supposed to,” she replied.

“According to this old duffer you’ve talked about? Roux?” Drake sounded as if he spit every time he said Roux’s name.

Salome answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

Although Drake didn’t make a reply, she knew he was somewhat disappointed in her. When they’d first met, while he’d been providing security for a man who’d owned one of the artifacts she’d been after, they’d been enemies. But only professionally. As Drake had insisted, he hadn’t known her well enough to dislike her.

That night she’d killed two of his best men. One of them had been a good friend. He’d almost been unable to forgive her for that. But he had. When it came to the bottom line, they were both professionals.

He just didn’t like the fact that she believed in magic.

It would be better, Salome thought, as she often did, if I could show him the things I’ve seen. The problem was, of course, that she couldn’t. She’d only seen those things while she’d been with Roux. Talking about those times always left Drake in a foul mood.

The one drawback she’d found in him was that he was insanely jealous. Other than that, he was perfect. He was a talented and generous lover. And he was a flawless killing machine when he was in action.

She followed him through the darkness that filled the estate’s inner courtyard. Her hands firmly gripped the pistol.

* * * *

Ilse Danseker snored softly. She was in her late forties. Strands of her henna-colored hair lay across her slack face. She’d had plastic surgery done to preserve her looks. Without makeup, the scars under her chin were just barely visible.

She lay cuddled in the arms of a man who was not her husband. Salome had seen a picture of Edward Danseker. The shipping magnate was in his early seventies, a quiet and distinguished man from his appearance. He was also rich enough and selfish enough to overlook a wayward wife nearly half his age while he was out of town.

The bedroom looked as though it had been transported from a child’s book of fantasy stories. The huge four-poster bed was the centerpiece. One wall contained electronic entertainment equipment. The blue glow of the television washed over the woman and her lover.

Drake looked at Salome. They weren’t really on a timetable, but he’d trained her to recognize that any moment spent in hostile territory was a risk.

Salome held the Beretta in one hand while she reached out to tap Ilse on the cheek with the other. The woman stirred but didn’t wake. Salome patted her more firmly.

This time the woman’s eyes fluttered open. Then they locked open and she started to scream. Salome clapped a gloved hand over the woman’s mouth.

“No,” Salome said firmly but quietly. “No screaming. We’re going to handle this like civilized adults.”

The man shifted. Salome knew he was awake from his posture beneath the silk sheets. He sprang up and tried to grab Salome’s wrist. She thought it was possible that his eyes hadn’t adjusted and he didn’t see Drake and the others standing in the room’s shadows.

“Let her go! Get out of here!” the man shouted. “Who are you?” Obviously he didn’t see the pistol in her fist, either.

Without hesitation, Salome shifted the Beretta slightly and squeezed the trigger. A trio of bullets sang free of the sound suppressor and thudded into the man’s face. His hands on her arm relaxed, and he slumped back onto the bed. Blood stained the sheets.

The woman opened her mouth to scream.

Salome shoved the Beretta’s suppressor between the woman’s lips and shushed her as if she were a child.

“Well,” Salome whispered as she stared into the woman’s wide, frightened eyes, “perhaps this will be a little less than civilized.”

20

“Is that man your father, Ms. Creed?”

Annja knew, without turning around, that the homeless man was back. He’d been watching her for almost two hours. Frankly, she was surprised it had taken this long for the museum’s assistant curator to notice the old man standing there.

“No.” Annja didn’t look up from the exhibit she was working on. The museum had recently received acquisitions from a benefactor who had died, and she’d been hired to catalog and certify the artifacts.

Since most museums existed more or less by the sufferance of their patrons—especially so in the case of a small museum like this one—she knew they would have rather continued the man’s yearly donations than accept his collection after his death. After all, the collection acquisition only came in once.

The pieces were good, but by no means spectacular. They were worth putting on display. Most visitors to the museum wouldn’t recognize their significance, though.

“Oh, he’s not your father.”

“No.”

Evan Peably, the assistant curator, frowned in confusion. He was in his early twenties and looked as though he’d just graduated university. His appearance was deceiving, though. Black hair hung long and lank, as if he’d only just returned from an excursion in the Gobi Desert or someplace, and he maintained a five-o’clock shadow through the use of a beard trimmer set to leave only stubble behind. His khakis held straight lines, and his shirtsleeve cuffs, rolled to midforearm, looked crisp and carefully measured.

Peably tapped his upper lip with a forefinger and gazed at the man. “I was just wondering—”

“Because he’s been there for the last hour and a half.”

“I didn’t know he’d been there that long.”

“He has.”

Peably sighed. “Well, do you think he means the museum any harm?”

Not me, Annja thought. He’s worried about the museum. She straightened, put both hands on her hips and stretched. Vertebrae in her spine popped and she felt better almost immediately. She looked at the assistant curator.

“I think if he’d meant any harm,” Annja said, “it would have happened by now.”

Peably folded his arms over his chest. “Perhaps I should alert the security guard.”

Annja smiled at that. The security guard was Oswald Carson, a retired seventy-year-old NYPD policeman who had never drawn his weapon while on the job. The guard looked like a rake dressed in a security uniform.

“He knows,” Annja said. “He’s watching.”

Carson stood near the bronze exhibit beside a Spartan warrior holding a spear and shield.

“Maybe he could do something more than watch,” Peably suggested.

“Like what?” Annja took pictures of vases.

“He could chase that man off.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s creepy-looking, that’s why.”

“Being creepy-looking isn’t against the law,” Annja said.

Peably tapped his foot in agitation. “It’s obvious that he’s stalking you.”

“Is it?” Annja glanced over her shoulder at the old man. He stood beside a model of Athens that had taken someone months to construct.

“Was he here when you got here?”

“No.” Annja was pretty sure she would have remembered that.

“Then I submit to you that he followed you here.”

“I doubt that.”

“Why?” Peably seemed irritated that Annja refused to take his advice.

“Because I came straight here from my loft. If he followed me here, he would have had to know where I live.” That particularly unsettling thought had popped into Annja’s mind the moment she’d seen the old man. Wally had mentioned that he’d seen an old man around. But that didn’t mean anything.

Maybe more than one of them was following her. In an instant she imagined an army of old men handing off surveillance on her.

Now that’s definitely a paranoid thought, Annja chided herself. Still, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure that the old man was the same one from Tito’s last night.

The truth was that she didn’t know. Old men tended to look the same. And this one wore nondescript clothing. Furthermore, the wild look in his eyes could be seen in a lot of people these days.

She supposed, given the right circumstances, that she might even see it in hers.

“I think you should take his presence here a little more seriously,” Peably admonished her.

“I am. I took his picture and sent it in to a detective friend of mine. He’s trying to find out who he is and where he belongs.”

When she’d turned around with the camera she was using to capture images of the artifacts, Annja had fully expected the old man to cut and run. Instead he’d stood his ground as if he was posing for a photo op.

“Maybe he’ll do something,” Peably said.

Annja hoped Bart could at least identify who he was and where he belonged.

Then, as she knew it would, Peably’s mind got around to recognizing the fact that if Annja was in danger, so was he because he was standing so close.

“It looks like you’re doing well here,” he said nervously.

“Don’t you want to go over everything?” Annja barely kept from grinning.

“Not today.” Usually Peably was only too happy to question her every spare moment she had regarding whatever she was working on.

Annja was pretty certain that he resented the notoriety she had. It didn’t help when some of the museum’s guests recognized her and asked for autographs while they were trying to work through an authentication.

“Just finish up quickly,” Peably said. “We’re going to lock up the museum promptly at seven. What you don’t finish tonight, you’ll have to come back tomorrow and do.”

Annja didn’t intend to let that happen. The authentication job didn’t pay well enough to spend two days on it. Besides that, she still had the King Wenceslas piece she wanted to put together for Chasing History’s Monsters.

She glanced back toward the old man. He was still there. And he was still watching her.

* * * *

“Can I help you?”

Annja knew at once that the old man had shuffled over to her. She looked over her shoulder at him. Up close, she realized that he was taller than she’d believed.

For a fleeting moment she wondered if she should run. Then she decided that if she thought she had to run from a skinny old man, she was really losing it and needed to just stay home.

“I don’t mean to impose,” the old man said. He smiled and revealed crooked teeth. “It’s just that I thought you might use a hand. I heard that young fellow say you had to be out of here by closing time, and it’s a quarter to now.”

Annja glanced at the time on her phone lying nearby and was surprised to find that it was six forty-five. There was no question that she needed help. She’d counted on Peably’s presence to help get everything finished on time.

“I’ve got steady hands, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not an alcoholic. I just get a little mixed up from time to time.” The man held out his hands. They were steady as rocks. They were also scarred. His fingers were twisted and his knuckles were misshapen. They looked arthritic at first glance, but he still possessed supple movement. “I won’t drop anything.”

“Okay.” Annja handed an urn to the man. “Just hold that there so I can take pictures of it.”

“Of course.” He smiled as if pleased to be of use.

Annja settled behind her camera lens and took pictures. She took several of the old man, as well. But she didn’t think she succeeded in taking them without his knowledge.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

The man smiled as he turned the urn under her direction. “I’ve had several names. Do you have a favorite?”

“For me?” Annja asked, confused.

“For me,” the old man said. “Your name is Annja.”

Even though he’d called her by name the night before, it was still weird to hear him do it again and she wondered how he knew her.

“I don’t have a favorite name,” Annja said.

“Of course you do,” the old man said. “You love stories of the past. You’ve heard many names. Surely you have a favorite among them.”

“Not really,” Annja replied. But she found herself thinking of Charlemagne instead of Wenceslas. The king of the Franks had been a true warrior and recognized as one of the Nine Worthies, one of the nine historical figures that were thought most chivalrous.

“You can just call me Charlie.” The old man turned the urn. “I haven’t been called Charlie in a long time.”

It was just luck, Annja told herself. She didn’t give in to the temptation to believe that the man had read her mind. That was impossible.

So is the sword you carry, a voice whispered in the back of her mind.

* * * *

Bart called at five minutes to seven.

Annja transferred the call to the clip-on earpiece she wore so she could keep her hands free. Together, she and Charlie had almost completed the pictures she needed to take. With them in hand, she’d be able to finish the authentication at home and send the museum a bill.

“Hello,” Annja answered.

“Hello,” Charlie said.

Annja pointed to her ear, hoping the old man would realize she was talking to someone over the phone.

Charlie smiled and nodded agreeably. He leaned to that ear, then he spoke more loudly. “Hello!”

“Hello,” Bart said. “Who’s the guy you’re with?”

Annja handed Charlie the last piece. “I’m talking on the phone,” she told him, and pointed to the earpiece.

“Oh. Sorry. All this new technology is hard to comprehend.” The old man grinned as he held on to the urn.

“Is that him?” Bart asked. “Is that the old man?”

“I’m here with Charlie,” Annja said.

Charlie nodded. “Hi.”

“Charlie says hi,” Annja said.

“Great.”

“He’s friendly.” During the past few minutes Annja had been surprised to find herself warming up to him.

“He says Charlie is his name?” Bart asked.

“Yes. Unless you have something different.” Annja felt hopeful.

Bart heaved a sigh. “No. I ran him through the photo database of missing people and came up with nothing.”

“Maybe it hasn’t been reported yet.”

“I thought of that all by myself. I went through missing-persons’ reports. It’s scary thinking about how many of them disappear every year,” Bart said.

“Did you find anything?” Annja asked.

“No. So how are things going there?”

“Fine. I’ve got help working through the authentication.”

“He’s working with you?” Bart sounded incredulous.

“Yes.”

“No end-of-the-world speeches?”

“Not yet.”

“Need me to come by?”

Annja thought about that and was grateful for the offer. “No. Not if you’re busy. I think I can handle this.”

“Okay.” Bart sounded tired.

Even though he claimed to have rested well in the sleeping bag at her loft, Annja knew he hadn’t.

She heard someone call Bart’s name.

“Look,” he said. “I’ve got to go. A triple homicide just got called in. But I’ve got my phone. If you need anything, call.”

“I will,” she said.

“And don’t trust this guy.”

“I won’t.” Annja broke the connection and pocketed the earpiece in her jeans.

Charlie stood nearby and smiled pleasantly to himself. “It seems the curator is in a hurry to go.” He nodded toward the front of the museum.

Peably stood by the main doors. The PA system had already blared out the news of the museum’s closing. Within minutes the museum patrons had filed through the door. It hadn’t taken long because there weren’t many of them.

Determined to beat the clock, Annja grabbed the files and papers she’d been working with and shoved them into her backpack. She was ready in seconds.

Without a word, Charlie fell in step behind her.

“What are you going to do?” Annja asked the old man.

Charlie shrugged. “I thought maybe I could take you to dinner.”

Annja pulled at her backpack straps. There was no reason to go with him. In fact, there was every reason not to go with him.

Thunder rumbled outside. The concussions shook the museum’s plate-glass windows. For the first time Annja realized the darkness outside wasn’t just from the lateness of the hour. The smell of rain blew in through the door Peably was pointedly holding open.

“Ms. Creed,” the curator invited in a strained voice. “If you please.”

“Dinner?” Annja repeated.

Charlie nodded. “There’s a nice soup kitchen not far from here. They might still be serving.”

Annja felt terrible. If Charlie had stayed at the museum past serving time, he might be going to bed hungry.

Bart’s advice not to trust him echoed in her head. Thoughts of serial killers bounced around in there, too. But there was something about the old man—except for the fact that he seemed a little spotty when it came to reality—that drew her in.

While she’d worked with him, she’d seen his gentleness and innocence, as well as his quiet strength.

Peably cleared his throat in a rude fashion.

You’re going to be in a public place, Annja told herself. You’ll be able to protect yourself even if something happens. He doesn’t exactly look like a kung-fu master.

“All right,” Annja said. She headed out into the rain, which by that time had increased to almost a deluge. Peably didn’t even offer to let them stay within the doorway until the rain slackened.

Annja stood at the curbside and searched for a taxi. There was never one around when it was raining.

Without warning a voluminous pop sounded behind her. Annja took one step to the side and bladed automatically, turning so that her body was presented in profile to the old man. Her left hand came up to defend and her right reached behind her and felt for her sword in the otherwhere.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” Charlie stood unconcernedly and worked with a battered umbrella he had pulled from under the ratty trench coat he wore. Annja didn’t know how she’d missed it before. “I thought maybe you would like to be out of the rain.”

He shook the umbrella and it made creaking noises that didn’t sound encouraging. Incredibly, the umbrella opened to gigantic proportions. The black fabric had turned gray from age and hard use. Small slits allowed the rain to drip through in places, but it blunted the downpour.

“There,” he said. “That’s better.” He grinned, and for a moment Annja could see the young man he had once been.

Annja gazed down the darkened street. She was grateful for the shelter of the umbrella, but the possibility of being picked up by a taxi didn’t look good.

“I think we’re going to have to walk,” she said.

“Nonsense,” Charlie said. “We’re on a quest to save the world. Just as the forces of darkness align themselves against us, those of light will favor us.”

“Maybe we’d better get started,” Annja said.

Charlie smiled at her benignly. “Maybe you should have a little faith, Annja Creed. You’ve been given a great responsibility in this world. You’ve also been given a bit of luck.” He nodded down the street.

Annja looked. Incredibly, the headlights of a taxi bored through the darkness. Even more incredibly, despite the number of pedestrians trying frantically to wave the taxi down, it pulled to the curb in front of Annja.

“See?” Charlie took a step forward and opened the door. “Just have a little faith.”

Annja slid inside and made room for Charlie. She stared at the old man as he closed the umbrella, raked his hair from his face and slid inside.

“But you still have to make your own luck,” Charlie said. “Without that, the world will end for certain.”

21

Seated in the darkened cargo area of the panel van he’d rented for the night’s excursion, Garin studied Roux. He and Jennifer sat on the other side of the van. Both of them wore black clothing.

Members of the security team Garin had hired bookended them. That hadn’t happened by chance. Garin didn’t trust Roux ever.

Roux had remained strangely quiet through the meal, and on the ride back to the hotel where he’d rented rooms for all three of them. There were only two rooms. As it turned out, Jennifer was rooming with Roux.

Why are you so quiet, old man? The question kept banging through Garin’s head.

The only time Roux got so quiet was when he was fretful. Of course, there was plenty to fret about. Both Saladin and Salome were after the painting. Saladin was a dangerous man. And Salome was definitely deadly. Garin still wore the scars she’d given him.

“Sir.”

Garin turned his attention to the earpiece he wore. “Yes.”

“We’re coming up on the estate now.”

“Good.” Garin reached up and flipped down a video monitor from the vehicle’s roof. The cargo area only had windows in the back door. Both of those had been blacked out.

Instantly, an image filled the screen. The monitor showed the road leading up to the estate. A soft glow of light from a guardhouse could be seen.

Roux snorted.

Jennifer looked at him.

“The old man doesn’t much care for technology,” Garin said. He touched the screen and shifted through the different perspectives available to him.

The security team had outfitted the van with a satellite relay that allowed Garin to stream video coming in from the camera mounted on the front of the van. Select members of the group also wore more cameras.

“A child and his toys,” Roux muttered.

“Don’t knock it,” Garin said. “I’ve found it most helpful.” He turned to Roux. “Plus, the last time I was at your estate, you seemed to have the latest security measures.”

“It only serves to keep the idiots out.”

Jennifer frowned as she stared at Roux. “You have an estate?”

Roux took a moment to answer. “A small one.”

“Since when?”

Roux shrugged.

Exasperated, Jennifer glanced at Garin.

“I love technology,” Garin said. “He likes secrets. You’ll never get anything more out of him than he’s willing to give.”

“It seems like he could have mentioned he had an estate,” Jennifer said.

“The same way he could have mentioned why this painting is so important. But he chose not to.”

“Perhaps we could concentrate on getting inside this estate,” Roux suggested.

The team leader interrupted. “Sir, are you ready for us to approach the outpost?”

Garin surveyed the front of the estate. Nothing moved there.

“Go,” he said. He touched the screen again and shifted through the views until he’d selected the camera mounted on the man in the approach team.

In the camera’s view, two men took advantage of the brush on the side of the guardhouse as they closed on their objective. The camera bounced slightly as it followed.

“Do you want to tell me how you were going to break into this place if I hadn’t decided to lend a hand?” Garin asked.

“I have resources,” Roux said as he watched the screen.

Garin almost delivered a derisive response. The only thing that kept him from doing so was the fact that Roux did know people who could do exactly what he was doing. The old man preferred subtlety and subterfuge. Those had always been his weapons of choice.

A moment later, the two men entered the guardhouse.

So far, so good, Garin thought.

Then the whole operation went to hell.

“Sir,” one of the men said, “we have a problem. Somebody killed these guys.”

The cameraman stepped forward. The image carried back showed corpses lying where the bullets had left them sprawled.

Roux cursed. “Salome beat us here.”

* * * *

Heart rate elevated, senses flaring as adrenaline flooded his system, Garin held a sound-suppressed pistol in his gloved right hand. He focused his attention on the monitor as the van hurtled toward the house.

“Invading the premises at this point isn’t the smartest thing we could do,” Jennifer said. “If Salome got here before us—”

“She did,” Roux grated. “We waited too long.”

Garin didn’t say anything. It had taken time to get his team in place. Besides that, no matter how things went tonight, he’d known going in that he’d be blamed for any mistakes. That was how his relationship with Roux generally worked.

“Then we’d be better off leaving,” Jennifer finished.

“She might still be here,” Roux said.

“And the police might be on their way,” Jennifer added. “I didn’t come here to get arrested for murder.”

“That,” Roux declared, “will be the least of our worries if Salome gets her hands on that painting.”

“Maybe if we knew what was at stake,” Jennifer suggested, “we’d all feel better about the risk we’re taking.”

Roux ignored her as Garin knew he would.

The view of the main house grew bigger as the van sped across the landscaped grounds. A few lights glowed softly inside the structure. Two of Garin’s teams closed on the back door and left the front entrance to the van crew. Snipers positioned on the security walls kept watch over the site.

“I think Salome is already gone,” Jennifer said.

“If she was, then the police would be here,” Roux said.

“What makes you so certain?”

“She’d do that to make the situation even more insufferable,” Roux grated. “As a final insult.”

Or, Garin thought, she might set up a trap. He scanned the front of the house less than fifty yards away. Shadows cloaked the facade.

Without warning, the sound of a heavy-caliber rifle cracked through the radio frequency. An instant later, it rolled over the ground.

“Look out!” one of the snipers warned. “They’ve got a rocket launcher set up on the second floor!”

“Get us out of here!” Garin ordered. He slammed a fist against the metal plate that separated the front seats from the cargo area. He slammed against the side of the van as the driver took evasive action.

* * * *

The safe was located behind the entertainment center. Ilse Danseker had given up the location quickly after she’d seen her lover killed.

Salome tripped the electronic locks with the same remote control that operated the television, surround sound, DVD player and other entertainment devices. Evidently the woman’s husband liked having everything linked to the same controller.

After Salome keyed in the special code, the entertainment center slid away to reveal a safe built into the wall. The safe was the size of a regular door. Another key code spun the tumblers inside the lock. They fell into place with loud clicks.

When she glanced at Drake, Salome saw the man was grinning in anticipation.

“Excited?” she asked.

“Positively brimming,” Drake assured her. “A man builds a safe like that, he’s not casual about what he puts in there. I expect to find a few other things to pick up besides the painting you’re after.”

Ilse Danseker sobbed at the foot of her bed. Disposable cuffs bound her wrists and ankles. She rocked on her knees, unable to keep still. A whispered prayer poured from her lips in a litany. “Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.”

The temptation to put a bullet through the woman’s head was almost more than Salome could bear. But until she had her hands on the painting of the Nephilim, she wasn’t going to lose her only avenue of information.

Drake nodded at one of the men in the room. He stepped forward and started to pull on the door.

“Wait,” Drake said. He looked at the sobbing woman. When he aimed his pistol at her, he depressed the trigger just enough to bring the targeting laser to life.

The ruby beam was steady between the woman’s eyes. The reflection turned her tears pale scarlet.

“Are there any booby traps on the safe?” Drake demanded.

“No,” the woman whispered.

“Because if there are, if something happens to my man or if the police suddenly decide to arrive,” Drake said, “I’m going to kill you.”

“There aren’t. I swear.” The woman closed her eyes and ducked her head so she couldn’t look at him.

Drake turned back to the door and nodded to the man at the door. The man went inside and found a light switch. Illumination filled the safe.

Salome entered. It almost looked like a bank vault. Stacks of currency from a handful of countries sat on a shelf in neat bundles.

Drake stripped a pillowcase from the bed and swept the cash into it. “Nothing wrong with walking away with a little extra.”

Salome barely noticed. Her eyes locked on to the painting that sat inside a protective case. She took a small penlight from one of the many pockets in her Kevlar vest. She shone the beam directly on the painting.

The brooding figure of the angel glowed.

Carefully, Salome took a reagent from her pocket, applied it to a handkerchief and knelt to swab it on a corner of the painting. She waited patiently. For a moment nothing happened and her hope remained intact.

Then, slowly, paint lifted from the canvas.

She cursed as she took the reagent from her pocket and upended it across the painting. Applied in greater volume, the paint bubbled from the canvas in strips.

“What’s wrong?” Drake stood nearby in the midst of helping himself to the jewelry in the boxes on a shelf.

“It’s fake,” Salome snarled. “This isn’t the original painting.”

Drake finished adding the jewelry to his bag and glanced at the painting. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Salome gazed at the painting in disgust. “It’s a very good copy, but it’s forged.”

“You said it was a copy,” Drake stated.

“It is.”

“Not merely guesswork on part of the forger?”

In an instant, Salome saw where Drake was heading with the question. “You think the forger painted this from the original painting?”

Drake shrugged. “You said yourself that no one had seen this painting in years.”

“Yes.”

“Then how did you know what it was supposed to look like?”

“From reports of people who have seen it.” Salome looked at the dripping mess of the painting oozing onto the floor.

“Whoever forged this knew what he or she was doing, love,” Drake declared. “Stands to reason that maybe the artist was working from good source material. Like, for instance, the original painting.”

“Find the painter, find the original,” Salome said.

“Perhaps we can trace the painting’s ownership back. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find him.”

“Someone could have hired the painter,” Salome argued.

“Once we find him, love, we can ask him. This isn’t the end of the world. Or a dead end.”

Salome turned away from the false painting. She sealed away her frustration and anger. All of this could still be sorted out.

The radio receiver in her ear buzzed. She thumbed it on and watched Drake reach up for his receiver at the same time. “Yes.”

“We have visitors,” a man said quietly.

“Who are they?”

“We haven’t identified them.”

“Where are they?”

“Front of the house.”

Salome crossed to the bedroom’s window. One of Drake’s men shut off the light inside the safe at his barked command.

She peered around the edge of the window at the estate grounds. A van sped up the road to the main house. They would arrive in seconds. She felt certain she knew who was inside. Roux had always been driven to succeed.

“There are also ground forces,” the man said. “We’ve identified two separate units in addition to the van. They’ve placed snipers on the walls.”

“We have the rocket team,” Drake told Salome.

For a split second, Salome thought about Roux and the years they’d spent together. The old man had taught her a lot, but he hadn’t taught her everything she’d wanted to know. In the end, she’d stolen part of his knowledge, taken a journal that talked about many wondrous things that she wanted to find.

So far, she’d found none of them. Twice before she had found items mentioned in that book, and twice before Roux had managed to strip them from her hands before she could realize her prize.

She knew what she had to do.

“Kill them,” she commanded.

Drake gave the order. Immediately, a rocket shot from the second-story window on the other end of the building and streaked toward the van. The vehicle’s driver was already trying to take evasive action, but it was too late. The rocket struck the van’s left front bumper and knocked it aside like a child’s toy. Flames engulfed the van at once.

So long, Roux, she thought. There was a twinge of sadness inside her as she watched the van roll over and over.

Drake gave the rocket team the order to reload.

22

“You have the most beautiful eyes.”

The comment startled Annja as she sat across the small table from the old man. She and Charlie occupied one of the back tables at Luigi’s, a small Italian restaurant that offered an evening buffet. Even Luigi, who prized Annja’s patronage because she was—in his view at least—”a television star,” barely admitted Charlie to his establishment.

Italian-themed bric-a-brac occupied the walls. Friezes of grapes outlined every door. Small fishermen’s nets hung from the ceiling. Gallon wine jugs—empty, to prevent grievous bodily harm—hung in the net, as well as Italian stuffed toys that were often given to the children of patrons.

“I’ve never seen eyes quite like yours,” Charlie went on. “They’re like a cat’s, but they have so much more promise. And maybe threat.”

“Thank you,” Annja said. “I think.” She felt a little embarrassed. “But they’ll be closing the kitchen before long. You should eat.”

“I am eating. I was merely letting my stomach settle a little. The food here is very filling.”

Annja knew that. It was why she’d brought him there. From the look of him, he hadn’t had a decent meal in a long time.

“You don’t find this kind of thing in the soup kitchens.” Charlie picked up his fork and resumed his attack on the huge slab of lasagna in front of him.

“I suppose not,” Annja said.

“It’s true. The food there is very wholesome. It’s just that all too often there isn’t enough of it or it isn’t prepared as well.”

“Look,” Annja said, “I can give you a little money. If you think that will help.”

Charlie smiled beatifically. “Dear lady, I haven’t asked you for tribute, have I?”

“No.” Annja felt guilt for even offering. The reaction was foolish, but there was an air of pride about the homeless man that won her over. Even as she realized that, though, she could hear Bart’s voice in the back of her head telling her not to trust the man.

You’re not trusting him, she told herself. You’re just feeding him a little. She looked at the lasagna piled high on his plate. Well, okay, maybe a lot.

“But it’s also foolish to turn down generosity just because of pride when you’re in dire straits,” Charlie said. “Do you have money you could spare?”

Annja reached into her pocket and brought out two twenties. She’d use her debit card to settle the tab at Luigi’s.

Charlie crumpled the bills into his palm, curled his fingers into a tight fist, turned his hand over, then opened it so the palm faced up. There was no sign of the money.

A moment of stunned fascination passed. Annja stared at Charlie’s empty hand. It was a child’s trick, a practiced maneuver of simple deception. Except she hadn’t seen a single hint of misdirection.

“Surprised?” Charlie asked.

“How did you do that?” Annja asked.

“Magic,” Charlie whispered.

“You’re a magician?”

The bony shoulders lifted and dropped. “Some have called me that. I’ve never considered myself a magician.”

Despite her need to get home and get to work on other projects she had going, as well as check on the research on the Nephilim painting, Annja found herself mesmerized by the old man. There was something about his voice, weak as it was, that drew her in and seemed to hold her spellbound.

“Have you been an entertainer?” Annja asked. With the feat of legerdemain, she found she was even more intrigued by him. Somehow the magic seemed to fit.

“For many years.” Charlie forked more lasagna. “I’ve been throughout Europe. Trod stages and conducted performances ‘neath leafy boughs.”

“What was your act?”

“Why, magic, of course. That’s the one thing that attracts everyone’s attention.”

Annja silently agreed. “But I thought you didn’t consider yourself a magician,” she said as she handed her debit card to the server who’d presented the bill.

“I didn’t. I don’t now. I’m a storyteller.” Charlie smiled. “I tell most wondrous stories, but I find that if you don’t keep an audience’s attention they’ll never stay with you to the end of the story.” He shrugged. “It’s the same thing Hollywood does with all the special effects they cram into movies these days.”

“You watch movies?” That surprised her more than the magic did.

“Of course. Puerile entertainment at best, but Shakespeare entertained the common masses with the same aplomb,” Charlie said.

“Shakespeare and special effects.” Annja shook her head in amazement.

“They weren’t unknown to each other. Shakespeare took advantage of stage presentation to get his tales told. He did have a limited landscape in which to perform, after all.”

“What kind of magic did you do?”

“All kinds.” Charlie waved his fork around to take in the room. “I once made a camel appear in downtown Cairo to amuse a handful of children. That little maneuver brought about far more attention than I’d hoped for.”

“Besides magic, what other jobs have you held?” In spite of her fascination, Annja wanted to get enough information to help Bart find out where the old man belonged when he wasn’t out wandering the streets.

“Oh,” Charlie said, “I’ve been a soothsayer now and again for different kings and queens.”

The statement saddened Annja because it reminded her how far from a balanced mentality he was. She hoped it was only a matter of his body’s chemistry and that the remedy would be a simple one. Maybe he’d simply been off his meds for too long.

Charlie looked at Annja and smiled wistfully. “I find that people really don’t change. No matter where you go, once they discover that you can foretell events, they all want to know what’s going to happen to them. They never want to know what’s going to happen to the world or how they might help the global community.”

“People tend to be self-involved,” Annja agreed. She got that every time she dealt with Roux and Garin, and when she tried to explain true history to Doug.

Charlie sighed. “It’s become embarrassing, if you ask me. Everybody always wants to know what’s going to happen next in their lives.”

“Not me,” Annja said.

“Not you,” Charlie agreed. “That’s because you already know you’ve got a great destiny before you.”

Annja smiled and played along. “How would I know that?”

“Because,” Charlie said good-naturedly, “you have Joan’s sword.”

Surprised, Annja glanced around to see if anyone had overheard. She immediately wondered if she was being set up by an enemy of Roux’s whom she hadn’t yet met. Or if Garin had sent someone to try to get the sword from her.

Satisfied that no one had, she turned her attention back to Charlie. She also felt a lot more paranoid than she had previously.

“I don’t have a sword,” Annja said.

“You do. It belonged to Joan of Arc.” Charlie stabbed another piece of lasagna and popped it into his mouth.

The low buzz of the few scattered conversations around the restaurant suddenly seemed threatening. She had the sudden sensation of being watched. She tried to dismiss the impressions and told herself she was imagining things. Neither of the feelings went away.

“What makes you think I’ve got a sword like that?” she asked.

“You positively glow with its possession.”

“No.” Annja couldn’t keep the impatience out of her voice. “Who told you that I had a sword like that?”

Charlie smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. That isn’t part of this tale.”

Still paranoid and edgy, watchful of everyone around her, Annja asked, “What is this tale?”

“Why, the one where you save the world, of course. Why else would I be here?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do.” Charlie looked pleased. “I came here to tell you that you have to save the world.”

“How?”

“By stopping the king, of course.”

“What king?”

“One of the sleeping kings.”

Annja thought instantly of Wenceslas and how she’d been investigating the history of the man and the legend he’d inspired. Had she mentioned something to the old man about it? She was sure she hadn’t, but she couldn’t positively remember. There’d been a lot of talk about history in the museum. It was possible.

“One of the sleeping kings is going to end the world?” Annja asked.

“Yes.” Charlie smiled as though she were a particularly bright pupil who’d made an overdue breakthrough.

“The mythology of the sleeping kings is that they’re supposed to save the world,” Annja said.

“Well, these things sometimes go astray,” Charlie said. “That’s why heroes—and heroines—like you were mixed into the weave. To keep everything on track. That’s what you’re going to have to do this time.”

Annja sat and tried to figure out which way to direct the conversation next or even if she should bother. Charlie, as much as she liked him, wasn’t in full possession of his faculties. It was a disheartening thing, but there it was.

How did he know about the sword? a voice in her head shouted.

“I don’t mean to be indelicate,” Charlie said in a low voice, “but do you happen to know where the men’s room is?”

Annja pointed the way to the sign and watched him walk away.

As soon as Charlie disappeared, Annja made notes about their conversation. The small bells over the door rang. One of Luigi’s servers went to the new arrivals and told them that the restaurant was unfortunately closed for the evening.

“Get out of my way,” an accented voice ordered.

The sharp tone drew Annja’s attention immediately. When she looked up, she saw three men in dark street clothes gazing directly at her.

The server, one of Luigi’s young cousins or nephews, put a hand in the center of the man’s chest to halt his forward movement.

“I told you, we’re—”

The man caught the young server full in the face with a back-fist, then spun and delivered a roundhouse kick. The server sailed backward and landed in a crumpled heap on the floor.

The man’s eyes focused on Annja. “Ms. Creed, if you come with me, you won’t be hurt. My master has asked that you be taken without harm.”

In that moment Annja caught a flash of a scimitar on the chain at the man’s throat.

“If possible,” the man added. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He reached under his jacket and pulled a pistol free from a shoulder holster.