9

Annja ran her eyes back up the page of the Italian antiquities journal she was reading. It dated from the spring of 1936, during the heart of Italy’s bungled incursion into Ethiopia. Since it was an official academic publication from Axis days, it promoted Germanophilia. Scholarly content had apparently been encouraged to bring in German contributions even when peripheral. Annja’s eye had skated disinterestedly over an article on discoveries by the French in the Cambodian sector of their Indochinese empire in which the author felt compelled to mention the infrequent German efforts in the region.

Suddenly her awareness snapped to the phrase, “German Southeast Asian expedition of 1913-14.”

Her gaze whipped back up the column of the time-yellowed page. She was surprised the old journal hadn’t been transcribed to digitized form and the original stored away; perhaps the French library system was showing residual pique at the fascists. And there it was—the phrase that had belatedly snagged in her attention, which continued, “led by Professor Rudolf von Hoiningen of the University of Berlin.”

She pumped her fist in the air beside her. “Yes!” And smiled happily at the glares that earned her.

“EXCUSE ME,” A VOICE said. “Aren’t you Annja Creed?”

The voice was young, masculine, smoothly baritone without being oily and spiced with a Latin accent. Annja couldn’t place it. That was unusual.

She looked up from her croissant. She blinked. The only thing she could think of were American beer ads, where drinking the advertised brand seemed to guarantee the drinker the company of magazine-cover models.

If women got their own beer commercials, the man standing at her little table in the library’s cafeteria would be their reward for imbibing.

He was tall, lean, immaculately dressed without being overdressed. His hair was dark and slicked back on his fine, aristocratic head. His cream-colored jacket was thrown casually over one shoulder. His eyes were dark and long lashed, his features fine yet thoroughly masculine.

“I beg your pardon,” she said.

“I’m a fan of yours. Both your yeoman service on Chasing History’s Monsters and your more serious work,” the man said.

She managed to avoid having either to clear her throat or gulp her coffee to speak intelligibly. “Uh, really?”

“If you’ll forgive the forwardness, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Giancarlo Scarlatti Salas. A colleague, at least in the scientific realm. I am an archaeologist myself. I received my degree from the National University of Córdoba in Argentina, my homeland. I did my graduate work at the University of Padua.”

“That’s in the Humid Pampa, isn’t it? Land of the Comechingón people?”

He laughed. It was a surprisingly easy laugh. “Spoken like an archaeologist!” he said. “The average person would no doubt have said ‘land of the gauchos,’ if she even recognized the word Pampa. May I sit?”

“Where are my manners? Sure. Yes. Please.” She started to get up, for no reason she could actually identify.

He held up a perfectly manicured hand. “No. Please. I’m fine.” He sat.

“You seemed a bit preoccupied when I noticed you,” he said. “I’m here doing research into recent progress being made in translating the great hoard of documents from the ancient kingdom of Tombouctou in Africa, which were recently discovered.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve heard of that. It’s outside my area, but seems tremendously exciting,” Annja said.

“Quite.” He leaned forward. “But, if you’ll forgive my noticing, you seem perhaps a bit excited yourself.”

Am I that obvious? She almost blushed.

“You must have just learned something remarkable,” he said.

She sat a moment. What the heck, she thought. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table.

“I’m trying to track down an early-twentieth-century German expedition into Indochina,” she said.

“Indochina? Not the usual German stomping grounds of the day,” he said.

“Not at all, as far as I can find. Then again I’ve had a ridiculously hard time finding any mention of it whatsoever. What’s got me worked up is that just minutes ago I was finally able to put a name to it—the von Hoiningen expedition of 1913.”

“Congratulations,” he said with a genuine smile.

“Thank you. I have yet to turn up anything more on the expedition. But at least now I know I’m on reasonably solid ground. For a while there I wasn’t sure the expedition really happened.”

“I see. You must be most gratified.” He sounded enthusiastic. “Do you mind if I ask, does your interest arise from your work on the show or your own researches?”

“Both,” she said. “I’m afraid I’d better not say anything more about it because of that. The network’s legal department is a bear about their nondisclosure agreements.”

“Ah! Lawyers. I understand.” He sat a moment, looking distracted. His elevated foot swung slightly to and fro.

“I work mostly in Mediterranean and South American archaeology,” he said at length. “But something about that name seems to tweak my memory. If I were to be able to provide you a further lead, would you be able to tell me what all this mystery is about?”

“Sure! If you’re willing to wait until the show is either shot and scheduled, or the proposal gets shot down.” None of which was exactly untrue.

“If I get a paper out of it, I’ll be happy to credit you,” she added.

“That would be most kind. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I won’t take up any more of your valuable research time. It’s been a delight meeting you, Ms. Creed. May I offer you my card?”

“Oh, yes.” She fumbled in the day pack she wore. “And here’s mine, too. It’s got my cell number. In case you remember anything about Rudolf von Hoiningen, you know.”

“To be sure.”

She extended her hand. He took it in both of his, bent over it and lightly pressed his lips to it. Then he let it go, and with a last smile turned and strode off.

She stood looking after him, goose bumps all over, wondering if this was what it felt like to be asked to the prom, and feeling like a damned fool for feeling that way.

THE SOUND OF HER cell phone trilled Annja awake.

In the darkness of her hotel room she floundered a moment. The ring continued, above the muted traffic noise from the street outside and the radiator’s hiss and clank. She was crabby at being roused from sleep.

The air was thick with the smells of traffic and hot metal. She thought about turning on the light but decided against it. She could see her cell phone glowing on the nightstand, even though her eyes wouldn’t focus.

She groped for it and knocked it to the floor. Fortunately it bounced on the throw rug next to the bed.

Finally she found the phone and fell back into bed, clutching her prize. I’m too stressed, she thought. Usually I snap wide-awake. It was another thing to worry about, since that facility had saved her life more times than she wanted to count.

She managed to say “Annja” instead of “Yeah?” And was instantly glad.

“Splendid.” The baritone voice poured from the phone like honey with its distinct accent. “It’s Giancarlo. Giancarlo Scarlatti. We met today.”

“I remember,” she said. “Hi, Giancarlo. What’s up?”

“I may have something for you,” he said. “I remembered where I heard about Professor Doktor von Hoiningen.”

Annja sat up straight. “What?” she asked.

“I believe I know somebody who can help you….”