Tear of the Gods

by Alex Archer

  Returning to the cab, she quizzed the driver for a few moments about the various means of crossing the English Channel. Without a car of her own, she couldn’t use the Tunnel and she soon discovered that the only other alternatives, short of flying, were to take either a train or a ferry.

  “The train is faster,” the driver told her, “and much more comfortable. The fare is reasonable, as well.”

  “The ferry isn’t?”

  The driver shrugged. “Reasonable, yes. Fast or comfortable, no.”

  Anyone following her would expect her to take the fastest route possible. In order to throw them off the track, she decided to do the opposite.

  “Take me to the ferry, please,” she told the driver.

  “Which one?” was his laconic reply.

  A discussion followed and Annja learned there were several different ferries making the crossing, the most popular ones being on the Dover to Calais route, and that the cost of each trip depended on just where you wanted to end up. In the end, she selected the ferry at Portsmouth. It would take her over to Cherbourg in just under four hours. From Cherbourg she could catch a train directly into Paris, which would tack on another three hours to her trip but would still get her into the city in plenty of time for her meeting with Dr. de Chance.

  It would have to do.

  With things now in the hands of the cabbie, Annja leaned back in her seat and stared out the window.

  “MISS?”

  Annja heard the voice as if from a long way off. She tried to ignore it at first, but it was persistent and after a moment she woke with a start.

  She found herself staring into the cabbie’s face as he leaned across the front seat trying to get her attention.

  “We’re here, miss,” he said.

  She glanced around, trying to remember where “here” actually was. It had been a long and exhausting few days. The smell of the sea and the sight of the ship at the dock nearby brought it all back to her.

  She paid the cabbie with some of the money she’d taken from the dead operative and got out of the car, blinking in the sunlight.

  The ferry was already loading as she approached, the long line of cars in front of the ramp moving slowly forward at the direction of the crew members who stood at the boat’s stern. Despite this being one of the slower routes across the Channel, there were still plenty of cars being brought on board, as well as a decent crowd of pedestrians like her waiting to board at the gangplank.

  The more the merrier, Annja thought. Less chance of anyone picking me out of the crowd.

  With the brim of her hat pulled down low and her face pointed at the ground, Annja approached the ticket window.

  “Round trip, please,” she mumbled, sliding her cash through the slot below the window.

  The clerk printed her ticket and slid that plus her change back in the other direction.

  Annja joined the line waiting to board the boat. This was the most dangerous part of the process for her, when no one particularly had anything to do other than stand around and stare at their fellow passengers. She was using a fake passport she always kept with her as emergencies were frequent since she’d claimed the sword. She kept her eyes on the ground, didn’t look at anyone else and made it onto the boat without anyone shouting out her name in surprise.

  Once on board she made her way up several flights of stairs until she reached the upper deck. Here the passengers’ seats were out in the open air and on a chilly day such as this the deck was far less occupied than any of the enclosed ones below. For Annja, it was the best place on the boat to keep the chance of being recognized to a minimum. She found a seat, settled down and waited for the ship to get under way.

  26

  She noticed the man watching her about half an hour after they left Portsmouth. He was dark-haired, dressed in blue jeans and a light jacket, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. She’d seen him on the deck with her, but didn’t really pay attention until she’d gone down to the galley deck to get out of the wind for a few minutes and grab something to fill her empty stomach, only to have him show up there a few minutes later, as well.

  She caught him giving her the eye several times as she waited in line.

  So he thinks your attractive, she thought, is that such a big deal?

  Normally it wouldn’t be; having men find her attractive was something she dealt with on a regular basis. But right now, when it felt like half the world was looking for her, being followed made her distinctly uncomfortable.

  How could they have found her again that quickly? For that matter, how had they done so in the first place?

  She didn’t know, so she knew she couldn’t ignore the man. Doing so could severely endanger her life.

  Rather than return to the upper deck, Annja spent some time walking around one of the middecks, turning things over in her head, trying to find the pattern, the connection between recent events.

  As she stood looking out the window, she glanced sideways and saw the man again. He was a short distance away and was studiously being certain not to look in her direction. In fact, it was his very stillness that had caught her eye; it was out of place among the other passengers who were laughing and talking, trying to pass the time.

  Very casually, she continued turning, pretending to be looking for someone, a friend, a lover, but in truth she was scanning the rest of the passengers, trying to determine if the dark-haired man was alone.

  As far as she could tell, he was.

  Big mistake, she thought with a grim sense of satisfaction.

  She stepped away from the window and headed for the exit, being sure to walk straight past where he was standing. He didn’t turn and look at her as she went past, though his body went stiff with tension.

  Amateur.

  She stepped out into the passageway and immediately increased her pace, putting some distance between the two of them should he try to follow, so that she could be sure that she had time to spring her trap if she needed to. She passed several people going the other way and used the cover they provided to glance behind her.

  Her pursuer was just coming out of the compartment she’d vacated, pushing his way past several of those standing in the passageway as if afraid Annja would get so far ahead that he’d lose her.

  Game on, she thought.

  She led him down passageway after passageway and through compartment after compartment, always staying just a bit ahead of him, until she was certain that he was acting alone. If anyone had been working with him, they would have boxed her in long before now. Since no one had emerged from the crowds to hinder her, she had to conclude that he was flying solo.

  Time to turn the tables.

  She was half a corridor length ahead of him, and as he rounded the corner behind her she pulled open the door marked Crew Only and slipped inside.

  If he was just an overzealous fan looking for an autograph, the sign would more than likely stop him. But if he was following her for other reasons—if he was a cop or, more likely, a member of the RHD, then he’d blow right through it like it wasn’t there.

  The room Annja found herself in was full of various pieces of machinery. She slipped into the shadows beside one, summoned her sword and waited.

  A moment passed.

  The sound of running feet reached her ears and then the door she’d just entered was opened, then closed quietly behind her pursuer. Footsteps approached.

  She waited, listening to them get closer, closer….

  Her dark-haired pursuer stepped into view, his attention on the door on the opposite wall, and he didn’t realize Annja was there until she reached out of the shadows, grabbed his arm and spun him around against the lump of machinery she’d been hiding behind. The point of her sword pressed up into the tender flesh beneath his chin.

  “Who are you?” she asked with a snarl.

  The man’s eyes were wide with fear, his head straining upward as he tried to keep his neck as far from the edge of her blade as possible.

&
nbsp; “Mike,” he said, his voice shaking. “Mike Gilmore.”

  Annja started. She hadn’t been expecting him to actually answer her….

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked, putting a little more upward pressure on the sword.

  Mike rose up on his toes, wincing. “Take it easy, lady! I’m not a rapist or anything, promise!”

  “I asked you a question. If you don’t want a back-alley tracheotomy, I suggest you answer me!”

  Rather than send him into a panic, the notion that she might actually carry through with her threat and slit his throat seemed to steady him. When he answered her, his voice was calm and his pace steady.

  “I’m a reporter for the Minneapolis Sun-Times,” he said, staring directly at her, as if he might foresee her intent in her eyes. “I’m here on vacation and just happened to recognize you when I boarded the ferry. I thought I might have a chance at a story.”

  Annja snorted. “By following me?”

  “I wanted to see what you were doing but didn’t want to get too close.” He raised his shoulders slightly in a shrug. “I guess I’m not too good at this kind of thing.”

  She studied him for a moment. “Got an ID to back up that story?”

  He began to nod, then thought better of it when he felt the sword beneath his chin.

  “Left pocket. You are Annja Creed, right? I mean I didn’t get myself into this mess for nothing, did I?”

  Ignoring his questions, and keeping the sword right where it was, Annja fished into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a lanyard that had an ID clipped to it. It was a standard press ID, with his name and photo over that of the newspaper.

  Still, it paid to be certain.

  “Take off your shirt,” she commanded.

  “What!” Mike exclaimed.

  She gave the sword a little twist, watching a drop of blood well up under its tip. “Take off your shirt,” she repeated.

  As he moved to do as he was told, Annja took the sword away from his throat but kept it trained on his chest. One hard thrust would be all it would take.

  Mike apparently recognized that, or else had concluded that he was dealing with a complete madwoman, for he made no move to escape. Instead, he let his jacket fall to the floor and then whipped his shirt over his head, exposing a decently muscled chest and a bare pair of shoulders.

  No tattoo.

  Satisfied, Annja stepped back, giving him a little more room.

  “Okay, you can get dressed.”

  His shoulders slumped and he almost shut his eyes in relief, but then he remembered there was an angry woman with a sword in front of him and they snapped open again.

  Annja found it almost comical.

  Almost.

  As she watched him pull his shirt back on, she considered the current situation. Not for the first time since she’d fled the dig site, she didn’t know what to do. Clearly he was telling the truth, but rather than helping her out that fact created more problems for her.

  He knew who she was and where she was. If she let him go, he would probably take that information right to the police. Heck, he didn’t even need to wait that long. He could go to the ship’s captain and have him radio ahead so that when they arrived in France, there would be law enforcement officers waiting there for her.

  On the other hand, he was an innocent and she couldn’t just get rid of him, convenient as that might be. Garin, and possibly even Roux, wouldn’t think twice about it, but Annja just couldn’t bring herself to do such a thing.

  She was going to have to find a way to convince him not to turn her in.

  When he was finished getting dressed, Annja asked, “What did you hope to get out of following me?”

  He didn’t hesitate to answer. “A story, of course,” he said bluntly. “Ever since your producer gave that idiotic press conference, people have been wondering where you were and what, exactly, your involvement is in the Bog Mummy Case.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it? The Bog Mummy Case?”

  For the first time, Mike looked embarrassed. “Yeah. It kind of stuck after your producer made that wild-ass comment about bog mummies.”

  She was silent for several long minutes, trying to figure out her next move. Thankfully Mike had a solution.

  “Look,” he said, licking his lips a little nervously at her continued silence. “Despite the sword-in-the-throat thing, I don’t think you’re dangerous, nor do I believe that you had anything to do with the murders of those scientists. If you did, you already would have run me through with that pigsticker of yours, right?”

  Annja just stared at him.

  “So, uh, how about we do this? I’ll keep my mouth shut about seeing you here if you give me an exclusive on the story.”

  With that, he shut up and didn’t say anything more despite the fact that Annja let the silence grow.

  He who talks first loses, Annja thought, an old sales saying she’d picked up from somewhere. She had to admit it was a truism if she’d ever heard one.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Mike stared at her. “Okay? Really?”

  She nodded. “Really. You allow me to get off this ship without informing the authorities and I promise to give you an exclusive interview when it is all said and done.”

  “Why not now?” he asked.

  “Because I’m still trying to put it all together.”

  “But you promise to give me the full story before you speak to anyone else? A total exclusive? You’ll tell me everything?”

  Certainly not everything, she thought, looking at the sword in hand, but enough at least for you to get what you are looking for. Aloud, she said, “Of course.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” he asked.

  Annja frowned. “Are you suggesting I’d lie to you?”

  You could see he was about to answer yes, but then he caught sight of the sword she still held in one hand and apparently changed his mind. “No, not at all,” he said with a forced smile. “I just wanted to be clear.”

  Annja understood his predicament. If he walked away and she never made good on her promise, he’d be missing out on a huge story. On the other hand, she had to trust him as much as he had to trust her.

  She said as much to him.

  “Yeah, but you’re the one holding the sword, not me. You can make me agree to anything, just by sticking me with that thing again.”

  “Fair enough,” she replied. “Give me your notebook and a pen.”

  Frowning, he did what he was told, passing over a black notebook that he had in the back pocket of his jeans.

  Annja took it, turned to a clean page and wrote out a short note to Doug telling him to draw up a contract giving the Minneapolis Sun-Times and its reporter, Michael Gilmore, an exclusive interview with her on the Bog Mummy Case when she was freely able to do so. She instructed him to sign it on behalf of both her and the studio and to keep a copy for their own records. When she was finished she read it over a second time, but decided against changing anything. Short and to the point, that was the best way of dealing with Doug.

  When she was finished, she handed the pad and pen back to Gilmore and said, “Send that to my producer, Doug Morrell, at the corporate offices in Manhattan. He’ll draw you up a proper contract to see that you get what’s coming to you.”

  Mike read the note, looked back at her for a moment and then shrugged. “I can live with that,” he said, then grimaced when he realized the double meaning behind his words.

  Annja simply smiled.

  27

  At the same time that Annja was cutting a deal with her wannabe paparazzo, Detective Inspector Beresford was entering the morgue at New Scotland Yard, intent on checking the results of the autopsies that had been done that morning on the bodies of the two men recovered from the roadside ditch south of the dig site.

  Clements had prepared a preliminary report after returning to the office earlier and Beresford had read it on the way over. Fingerpri
nt analysis had identified the two men as Brian O’Donnell and Sean MacGuire. Both of them had records; they’d been in and out of prison several times over the past fifteen years. At first it was just small stuff—petty larceny, possession of stolen goods, assault and battery—but it wasn’t long before they graduated to more serious crimes. The last time they’d been pinched they ended up doing five years together in Swansea on an armed robbery charge. It was there, according to the file, that they’d been recruited into the Ulster Volunteer Force.

  Beresford wasn’t surprised to see the notes to that effect. The UVF had been in need of men who didn’t shy away from violence, and O’Donnell and MacGuire had equally needed the protection and standing that membership in the UVF would have given them. It was practically a match made in heaven. The two men had kept their noses out of trouble and had been released within a month of each other in 2005. There were rumors that they were involved in the slaying of a Catholic alderman in the summer of 2007 and again in an attempted car bombing in London in 2009, but that’s all they were—rumors. CT Command didn’t have enough to haul them in as accomplices, never mind pin the jobs on them. The two men had dropped off the radar and that had been that.

  Until they were found cast aside like so much trash on the side of the road south of the dig site.

  It wasn’t a coincidence; that much was obvious. But how they fit into the bigger picture and what their roles had been in the massacre, Beresford didn’t know.

  It seemed clear that they had met their end in a confrontation with the now-infamous Annja Creed. Beresford had watched the sideshow of a press conference that her producer had orchestrated the other day and while it primarily raised more questions than it answered, it did seem to confirm his reasoning with regard to her behavior. If she had been a witness to the events at the dig site, as her producer had indicated, then it would be natural for her to go into hiding, especially if she had already fought off a second attempt on her life. Twice was usually two times too many for most people; he didn’t blame her for wanting to avoid a third.

  It still didn’t explain why she hadn’t come forward since then, and that bothered him.