by Alex Archer
The Russian had sold Shaw a nuclear weapon. That it was inoperable didn’t matter; the fact that he was willing to put a device like that, working or not, in the hands of a man like Shaw was clear evidence that he’d do it again if the opportunity arose. He’d said it himself; if Shaw had the money, he would have sold him two.
Roux wouldn’t consider himself a crusader for the greater good, not by a long shot, but the idea of letting this guy back into general circulation just didn’t sit well with him. He’d given his word that he wouldn’t kill him, but that didn’t mean that he had to just let him go with no thought at all to consequences.
Getting up, he checked Perchenko’s bonds, making sure they were secure, and then joined Henshaw in the garage where he was watching over their other captive. Out of earshot of the other man, Roux explained what he wanted his majordomo to do.
Henshaw agreed with the plan and disappeared back into the house for the few minutes it took him to blindfold Perchenko and lead him down into the cellar where he wouldn’t be heard if he started to call for help. When he was finished with Perchenko, he did the same with the bodyguard. Roux spent the time gathering the tools from the table in the living room and wiping down the surfaces they’d touched while in the house.
They made a final sweep through the property to be certain they hadn’t missed anything and then they were on their way.
Eventually, he knew, the Russians would free themselves, particularly if they worked together. It might take a little while—a day, maybe two at the most—but they certainly wouldn’t starve to death before getting loose. In the meantime, Roux could give the situation a bit more thought and decide exactly what to do with them.
It was actually a decent solution to a rather thorny problem and as they drove off into the night Roux felt he had the situation under control.
34
Trevor Jackson gathered seven of his best men together in one of the conference rooms at the Vanguard offices in Paris just after dawn the next morning. Their quarry wasn’t due to arrive at the target destination for hours yet, but Jackson wanted to be certain to brief his men thoroughly beforehand. That way there would be less chance of a screwup when the operation actually went down.
He was out of second chances and knew it. Shaw wouldn’t accept another failure. If Jackson failed to produce the torc this time around, he might as well find the fastest route out of the country, for Shaw was not known for showing mercy to those he considered unable or unwilling to carry out the tasks he’d assigned to them. Jackson either returned with the torc in hand or he’d spend the rest of his life holed up in some third-world shantytown, constantly looking over his shoulder and wondering when Shaw’s men were going to show up to put a bullet in his brain.
No doubt about it, he thought, this one had to go right.
To that end he’d selected men he’d worked with on various jobs in the past. Each and every one of them had been tested in the crucible of combat and wouldn’t fall apart at the first sign of difficulty.
There had been some talk of moving in ahead of time and simply being in place when the Creed woman arrived at the offices of the geologist, but Shaw had vetoed that idea. He wanted the geologist to run the tests first; that way he wouldn’t have to spend the time or expense to do them himself. Jackson and his men were to find positions where they could observe the activity going on in the lab and only move in to secure the torc once the tests had been completed.
Jackson felt it was an unnecessary risk to wait, for it increased the chances of his men being seen and identified before they could make the snatch, but he wasn’t about to argue about it given his prior failures.
Focus on doing the job, he told himself, and worry about the rest later.
He used the conference room computer to connect to Google Maps, then pushed the image up onto the screen on the far wall. He zoomed down to street level and was able to give his men an accurate view of the target site. It was so much easier than sending a man out with a camera and hoping he got some decent shots of the surrounding area.
The screen showed a quiet street lined with old houses that had been converted into office space for lawyers, accountants and other professionals. Number 4522 was in the middle of the block, sandwiched between an import/export company and an architectural firm. There was parking on both sides of the street, which eased one of Jackson’s concerns. A quick in and out was what they needed and this would allow for that without difficulty.
“All right,” he told his men, “here’s the drill.”
He zoomed back slightly, so his team could see the entire building as well as those around it.
“We’re going in as two units. I want Green and Danvers with me at the front door.” He highlighted the location on the map.
“Connor, O’Brien and Driscoll, you’ve got the back door,” he said, pointing it out with the mouse. “There’s an alley that runs behind the buildings here—” another quick highlight “—and you can use that to gain access. When you give the signal that you’re in place, we’ll go in.
“Michaels and Baker will be our wheelmen. I want the vans positioned here and here,” he said, indicating the two positions, one on either side of the road facing in opposite directions. “If necessary, we’ll split up and rendezvous later at the usual location.
“Our best intelligence indicates there will be two people inside, though there may be more. The first, a geologist, is of no real consequence. I don’t expect him to do anything but whimper and die,” Jackson said, which elicited a few laughs from the grim-faced men sitting around the table with him. “The other is this woman.”
He put a picture of Annja Creed up on the screen and then waited for the catcalls and whistles that followed to die down.
“Yes, she’s a looker, I’ll give you that. But she’s also as deadly as a pit viper. She single-handedly defeated both of the teams we’ve sent after her, so I’m not taking any chances this time around. If you see her, put her down. It’s that simple. I don’t even care how many bullets it takes, just be sure she doesn’t get up again.”
Jackson looked directly at each man one at a time, making certain they understood his order.
“I’ve yet to see her use a firearm. She seems to prefer a sword, of all things. Don’t laugh,” he said to the chuckles that sounded from around the table. “That blade can kill you as quickly as a bullet. Just ask O’Donnell or MacGuire.”
Hearing the names of their dead comrades quieted the laughter.
“We’ve been tasked with recovering an ancient Celtic necklace from the premises.” He took a moment to describe the torc and even put the grainy photograph they’d received from Professor Novick up on the screen for them to see. He wanted everyone to be aware of what it looked like, just in case the geologist, Cartier, or Creed had a chance to hide it from view.
“We won’t be claiming responsibility for this strike, the way we usually do, but it is an important mission nonetheless. In fact, it is absolutely crucial to a larger mission that will take place next week, so there isn’t any room for failure.”
It was going to be a typical smash-and-grab, something these men had all done multiple times, so he expected it to go smoothly. There was always the chance that they’d run into a roaming police patrol, but the chances were slight, particularly in that area, and he expected them to get in and out again before anyone even had a moment to figure out what was happening. Speed was the key, he knew, and he fully intended to implement it.
If things went well, he would be back in Shaw’s good graces, and his place in the RHD hierarchy would be secured for the foreseeable future.
Repaying the Creed woman for the embarrassment she caused him would just be one of the side benefits of the job.
AN HOUR LATER they were in position on the street outside Cartier’s offices. Traffic was light, though there were enough vehicles parked in either direction that the vans they were using didn’t look out of place or irregular. Jackson was seated in front, in th
e van driven by Michaels, the more experienced of the two wheelmen. They’d worked together on the bombing of a member of the Royal Irish Constabulary a few months before and Jackson knew Michaels would keep his head together if things went to hell, which was why he’d chosen to ride with him rather than Baker.
He expected the snatch to go off without a hitch, but it was always good to be prepared just in case.
35
Annja was a few minutes early for her appointment, so she had her cabdriver drop her off at a nearby coffee shop, intending to walk the rest of the way on foot. It was a cool, blustery day, which gave her an excuse to slip inside and order a hot chocolate to go.
Cup in hand, she continued on her way.
Before going to bed the night before, she’d caught the tail end of a press conference on the BBC run by a detective out of New Scotland Yard. Her name had been mentioned several times, along with the fact that the police were still hoping to speak to her in conjunction with the events at Arkholme. Clearly she had more than just her enemies looking for her now.
Paris was a world away from London and the chances of anyone recognizing her on the street were slim, but she’d still done what she could to disguise her appearance. Most of her publicity shots showed her with her hair down, so she’d bundled it up on top of her head and slapped a baseball cap down over it all. A thick sweater and a baggy pair of jeans hid her trim figure.
It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.
Sipping her hot chocolate as she walked along, she admired the morning and the quaint French neighborhood.
Annja knocked on Cartier’s door right at the appointed time.
She heard a voice call out, “Coming,” and then the clatter of locks before the door opened to reveal Sebastian Cartier waiting on the other side.
There was only one problem.
He was gorgeous.
He had thick, dark hair that hung in lazy curls in front of his forehead. His eyes were piercing blue. His smile was like a one-hundred-watt lightbulb. Never mind the broad shoulders covered by a blue T-shirt or the trim waist and long legs encased in a pair of dark jeans.
Annja had been expecting some stuffy academic, someone a lot like Professor de Chance, actually, and so finding Cartier to be not only younger—in his mid-thirties was her guess—but so good-looking as well left her momentarily tongue-tied.
She opened her mouth to introduce herself and nothing came out.
Thankfully Cartier barely noticed. Or, if he did, he was enough of a gentleman not to let it show. He smiled upon seeing her standing on his stoop and said, “Miss Creed! What a delight to meet you in person. Please, come inside.”
His accent threw her off as well; it was classic Chicago and not Parisian at all. Who was this guy?
She followed him through the small reception area and waiting room that was just inside the front door and through a door on the left into a well-appointed office that she knew was his sanctum sanctorum. The walls were lined with bookshelves and a desk with two soft leather chairs in front of it sat in the center of the room.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m all set, but thanks,” she said, holding up the remains of her hot chocolate to show that she wasn’t just being polite.
Cartier flashed a smile that practically lit up the place and Annja felt some of her initial apprehension fading. She hadn’t known what Cartier’s response to her would be; after all, she was currently wanted by the police in conjunction with a multiple homicide and she wouldn’t have put it past him, or anyone else for that matter, to make a few calls and have a few members of the local law enforcement division waiting to speak to her when she arrived.
Apparently she’d given him too little credit.
He waved her into a chair and took the one opposite for himself. “I’m sorry if I sound like a total fanboy, but I can’t believe that I have the Annja Creed right here in my living room. I watch your show whenever I’m not out trooping around the field on behalf of one mining organization or another and really enjoy your mix of archaeology and historical insight. From one scientist to another, you’re a credit to our profession.”
Relaxing back into her chair, Annja said, “Thank you, Dr. Cartier. I really appreciate—”
“Sebastian. Please,” he said, interrupting, and she found herself warming to that smile all over again.
“Sebastian,” she replied. “And I’m Annja.”
“Annja, it is!”
She found her thoughts straying from the torc to how blue Sebastian’s eyes were and brought herself back to the present with a quick bit of mental scolding.
Focus, girl, focus, she told herself.
“What can I do for you, Miss…sorry, Annja. Dr. de Chance mentioned that you needed to determine the composition of a particular object?”
“Right.” She explained how they’d found the torc at the site of an Iron Age burial site in Britain, conveniently leaving out the actual location in case he’d been watching the news and just hadn’t put two and two together yet. “More often than not, torcs like this are made of gold, occasionally silver. They were signs of nobility and high status, after all, so you’d expect them to be made of precious materials of one kind or another. But this one is different.”
“How so?” Cartier asked.
“It’s made of a type of metal I’ve never seen before. Maybe it’s something mixed with iron, maybe it’s a combination of other elements. I really don’t know. Understanding what it is, however, can tell us a lot about the society that produced it.”
Cartier was already nodding his head. He understood that archaeology was as much an adventure in guesswork as it was hard science and that sometimes a single piece of the puzzle, when viewed in the proper light, could make all the difference in piecing the rest of it together in coherent fashion.
“I’m assuming you brought the torc with you?”
Annja nodded. “I had it shipped in overnight,” she said, remembering the lie she’d given Dr. de Chance and not wanting there to be any discrepancy should the two compare notes. She didn’t owe either of them anything, but still…
“Well, get it out and let’s get started.”
He led her out of the office, back through the reception area and down a hallway leading deeper into the building until they came to what was obviously his working area and laboratory. It reminded her of a college chemistry lab more than anything else. There were several workstations standing like islands throughout the room and the counters were covered with a variety of equipment and racks of test tubes and various-size pipettes. There was an electron microscope along one wall and what she thought was a squat-looking spectroscope against the other.
Sebastian walked over to one of the workstations and spent some time examining the torc, first with his naked eye and then with a bank of high-powered lights and a series of magnifying glasses. Just as she’d done, he marveled at the intricacy in the strands of braided metal that made up the length of the torc and in the fine detail that went into fashioning the eagle-head clasps.
“You say you found this where?” he asked, after thinking about what he’d seen for several long minutes.
“A peat bog, in northern Britain.”
“Any idea when it might have been fashioned?”
Annja considered for a moment, and then said, “Based on the artifacts discovered with it, we’re guessing the burial site was established in the first century, somewhere in the neighborhood of 70 A.D., give or take a few years. I’d think the torc itself was fashioned in that general time frame as well, though I suppose it could be older. Why?”
“I’m surprised at the level of craftsmanship, that’s all. Most of what I’ve seen from that time frame has been considerably rougher in nature—less refined, if you will. Metallurgy techniques were just growing out of their infancy and the ability to craft hard metal like this was beyond most of the societies I’m familiar with from that era.”
&nb
sp; “I’m listening,” Annja told him.
“Well, take gold, for instance. It’s what we call a soft metal. It’s easily workable, even when cold, and extremely malleable. You can force it into pretty much any shape you want, especially when heated.”
He pointed to the torc. “Now take this, whatever it is,” he said. “It’s very similar to iron, which means that it would require a very high heat to make it malleable and constant attention to get it to do just what you want. Creating a twisted braid with this much detail would be extremely difficult.”
Annja was disappointed; she’d hoped for something much more unique. “So you think it’s iron or some derivative thereof?” she asked, unable to keep some of that disappointment out of her voice.
But Sebastian surprised her. “Chin up, now,” he said. “I didn’t say it was iron, just that I was guessing it would act like iron. In fact, I don’t know what it is. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
He paused, considering. “Is there anything else you can tell me? Items that might have been near it when it was found? Unusual stories or myths involving a torc like this?”
Annja hadn’t thought it relevant at first, but since he’d asked she decided to share with him the legend that de Chance had told her the day before.
As the story unfolded, she could see Sebastian getting more and more excited.
“Why didn’t I see it?” he exclaimed when she was finished. “That makes so much more sense! Damn, I’m an idiot!”
“Want to fill me in?” Annja asked, amused at the way he was talking to himself and smiling in response.
He nodded. “As an archaeologist, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that there’s often a kernel of truth hidden in the myths and legends that have been passed down to us through history.”
Annja nodded; that was certainly true. The ancient city of Troy was a perfect example. Until Schliemann found Troy in 1870, no one believed that Homer’s Iliad was anything but fiction. The same could be said for legends from hundreds of cultures the world over.
