by Alex Archer
“Trust me. I’ll be careful. I know what I’m doing.”
Breathing slowly, Annja watched. She didn’t think the old man could hurt the charm, but she didn’t like having it out of her possession.
Roux worked gently. The grime fell away in tiny flakes. Beneath it, the metal proved as lustrous and shiny as the day it had been forged.
Given the conditions of the cave, Annja had expected a fair amount of preservation. Ships had spent hundreds of years in caves and were found remarkably intact, as if the pirates who had hidden there had only left days ago instead of centuries.
“Beautiful,” Roux whispered when he had finished. He turned the piece of metal in his fingers, catching the candlelight again and again.
Annja silently agreed. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
“A good-luck charm? Of course I have.”
“Not just a good-luck charm,” Annja said, “but one like this.”
Roux shook his head. “It’s a charm. I believe that. Since you found it around the dead man’s neck, I’d say it was made to defend him—”
“—against the Beast of Gévaudan,” Annja finished. “I got that. But the mark on the obverse looks like it was struck by a die. The wolf and the mountain appeared to have been carved.”
“So you believe this to be a unique piece rather than one of many?” Roux asked.
“I do,” Annja agreed. “You can see the die mark wasn’t struck quite cleanly and two of the edges are slightly blunted.”
Peering more closely at the charm, Roux said, “You have very good eyes.” He studied the image for a moment. “And, you’re exactly right.” He looked up at her.
“Have you seen such a die mark before?” Annja asked.
“No.”
Studying the old man, Annja tried to figure out if he was lying to her. If he was, she decided, he was very good at it. “I was hoping you had.”
“Never. I would be very interested to learn what you find out about it.” Roux studied her. “Tell me, in your archaeological travels, have you ever had cause to research the history of Joan of Arc?”
“I’m familiar with her stories, but I’ve spent no real time with them,” Annja said.
“Pity. She was a very tragic figure.”
For just a moment, Annja remembered the visions she had experienced. Joan of Arc had burned at the stake not far from where Annja now sat. Had her subconscious summoned that image during the quake?
“She was a very brave young woman,” Roux said. “Foolish, certainly, but brave nonetheless. She should not be forgotten.”
What are you trying to tell me? Annja wondered.
“One thing you should start doing immediately is taking better care of this charm.” Roux said. “After all, it could prove to be a significant find if you discover its history.” Roux took a handkerchief from his pocket and dropped the charm into the center of it. Picking up the ends of the handkerchief, he folded the charm inside. Then he handed the makeshift package to Annja with a smile. “There. That should better protect it until you can put it in a proper storage container.”
Annja closed her hand over the handkerchief and felt the hard outline of the disk inside. She put the handkerchief into her shorts pocket and closed the Velcro tab.
“Thank you,” she said.
Roux looked around, then tapped the table and said, “I’ll be back in just a moment. Too much wine.”
Comfortable and almost sleepy, Annja settled back in her chair and relaxed. Thoughts of the cozy bed at the bed-and-breakfast where she was staying danced in her head. She tried to marshal her thoughts and figure out her next course of action.
Identification of the charm was paramount. Doug Morrell would love the story and not hesitate at all over the digital pictures she had taken of La Bête. The television producer wasn’t like some police inspectors Annja had met.
Thinking of Inspector Richelieu reminded Annja of Corvin Lesauvage. It didn’t make sense to think that a well-organized crime figure would send a team after her for the camera equipment and whatever cash she carried.
But that wasn’t what they were after, was it? The man had wanted her. Lesauvage had wanted to talk to her.
She started to feel frightened.
Suddenly she realized how much time had passed since Roux had quit the table. He had been gone a long time. Too long.
Glancing around the bistro, Annja discovered that the server and the manager were watching her. She stood and looked outside. Sure enough, the bullet-scarred SUV was no longer parked at the curb.
“Mademoiselle?”
Annja turned and found the young brunette server standing at the table.
“Is something the matter, mademoiselle?” the young woman asked.
“I don’t suppose he paid the bill before he ducked out, did he?” Annja asked.
“No, mademoiselle.”
Annja sighed and took out the cash she carried. “How much is it?”
The server told her.
“That much?” Annja was surprised. She put her money back and reached for her credit card.
The waitress nodded contritely, obviously still hopeful of a large tip.
“He was supposed to be independently wealthy,” Annja said. “Several times over.”
“Yes, mademoiselle.” The server took Annja’s credit card and retreated.
Then Annja remembered how Roux had effortlessly shuffled and cut the deck of cards one-handed at the police station. A sick feeling twisted in her stomach.
She removed the folded handkerchief from her pocket. The disk shape was still there, but the panic within her grew as she opened the cloth package.
Inside the folds she found a two-euro coin. It was two-toned, brass and silvery, bright and shiny new.
Just the right size to make her think Roux had handed her the charm. Not only had he stuck her with the bistro tab, but he had also stolen her find.
Carefully, she folded the coin back in the handkerchief, noting that it was monogrammed with a crimson R. If she got lucky, he’d left her with more than he’d intended.
9
“You’re getting back quite late, Mademoiselle Creed.”
“I am, François. I’m sorry. I should have called.” Annja stood in the doorway of the bed-and-breakfast. She’d come in feeling inept and foolish, and angry with the local police because they didn’t know Roux and hadn’t even bothered to ask his name. No one had even taken down his license plate. She’d wasted an hour and a half discovering that.
She hated feeling guilty on top of it.
The clock on the mantel above the fireplace showed that it was almost eleven p.m.
François Lambert was a retired carpenter who had thought ahead. While building homes for others, François had also built for his own retirement years. The bed-and-breakfast was located a few miles north of Lozère, far enough out of the town to afford privacy and a good view of the Cévennes Mountains.
One of the things that Annja loved most about her vocation was the endless possibility of meeting people. They hailed from all walks of life, and were driven by all kinds of dreams and desires.
Over seventy years old, François was long and lanky, a whipcord man used to a life filled with hard work. He had a headful of white hair brushed back and touching his collar. His white mustache looked elegant and aristocratic. He wore slacks and a white shirt.
François waved away her apology. “I was worried about you, that’s all. Lozère can be dangerous sometimes when it is dark.” He studied her. “But you are all right, yes?”
“I am. Thank you.”
He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook one out. He lit up with a lighter. “I heard the police were involved.”
Small towns, Annja thought, you have to love them. She did, too. They were usually quaint and exotic and moved to their own rhythm.
But gossip spread as aggressively as running bamboo.
“I was attacked,” Annja said. “Up in the mountains.
”
François shook his leonine head. “A beautiful woman such as yourself shouldn’t be out alone. I told you that.”
“I know. I promise I’ll be more careful in the future.” Annja started up the stairs.
“Were you injured?”
“No. I was lucky.”
“I heard Corvin Lesauvage was involved.”
Annja froze halfway up the stairs. “Do you know anything about him?”
A pensive frown tightened her host’s lined face. “Very little. I’m told that is the best thing to know about him. Lesauvage is a bad man.”
“Inspector Richelieu told me that, as well.”
“You went to him for help?” François looked concerned.
“He was assigned to the investigation.”
“He is not a good man, either, that one. He tends to take care of things his way.”
Annja hesitated a moment. “I was told he shot Avery Moreau’s father.”
“Yes.” François looked sad. “It is a bad way for a boy to lose his father. Avery, he struggles with right and wrong, you see. At least when his father was around, knowing that his father was a thief, he had an idea of what he didn’t want to be when he grew up.”
“You didn’t mention this when I hired him to help me,” Annja said.
François’s face colored a little. “If I had, would you have hired him?”
Annja answered honestly. “I don’t know.”
“I was only looking out for the boy. Someone needs to. But I should have told you.”
“This,” she said, wanting to let the old man off the hook, “had nothing to do with that.”
“I hope not.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t.”
François nodded. “Camille wanted to know if you would be joining us for breakfast.”
“Yes,” Annja said. “I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow. There is one thing you could help me with.”
“If I may,” he agreed.
She asked for some rosin from his violin kit and was quickly supplied with a small portion in a coffee cup. After thanking François, Annja said good night and went up to the room she’d rented.
She had a lot to do tonight. She didn’t intend to let Roux get away with what he’d done.
ANNJA’S RENTED ROOM WAS small and cozy. Camille Lambert had filled it with sensible curtains and linens. But the bed, desk, chair and trunk all spoke of François’s knowing hands.
She opened the windows and stood for just a moment as the night breeze filled the room. She took a deep breath and let go of the anger and frustration she felt. Those emotions were good motivators, but they wouldn’t sustain her during a project.
No, for that she’d always relied on curiosity.
This time, there were a number of things to be curious about. Why was a man like Lesauvage interested in her? Why had Roux stolen the charm she’d found in La Bête’s lair? Could the hidden cave in the Cévennes Mountains be found again? What did the designs on the charm mean?
And who was Roux?
Annja started with that.
Although the house was wired with electricity, power outages sometimes occurred. The Lamberts had shown her where the candles were kept for emergencies.
She took one of the candles, placed it in a holder on the desk and lit it. Then she held one of her metal notebooks a few inches over the flame. In a short time, a considerable amount of lampblack covered the metal surface.
Using a thin-bladed knife she generally used on dig sites, Annja scraped most of the lampblack into the coffee cup with the rosin. When she was satisfied she had enough of the black residue, she used the knife handle to grind the lampblack into the rosin. The mixture quickly turned dark gray.
She spread Roux’s handkerchief on the desk. Using one of the fine brushes from her kit, she dumped some powder onto the euro coin.
Gently, she blew away the powder. When she could remove no more in this manner, she employed the brush, using deft strokes like those she would use on a fragile piece of pottery to reveal the images she was after.
A fingerprint stood out on the coin.
Annja smiled. Roux hadn’t been as clever as he’d believed.
Working with meticulous care, which was a necessary skill in archaeology, she trapped the fingerprint on clear tape. She mounted her discovery on a plain white index card.
Taking a brief respite from the backbreaking labor, Annja straightened and placed her notebook computer on the desk. She hooked it to her satellite phone, then used the Web service to log on to the Internet.
Moving mechanically, she brought up alt.archaeology and alt.archaeology.esoterica, her favorite Usenet newsgroups. The former was a format for archaeology and history professors, students and enthusiasts to meet and share ideas. The latter held discourse on more inventive matters.
If she needed hard information, Annja resorted to alt.archaeology. But if she needed something more along the lines for guesswork, she would generally post to alt.archaeology.esoterica.
Since she had no idea where to begin with the images of the charm, she elected to post to both.
Taking her digital camera from her backpack, she changed lenses and switched the function over to manual instead of automatic. She also used a flash separate from the camera rather than mounted on it.
Working quickly, confidently, she took pictures of the rubbings of the charm she’d made in her journal. Then she took pictures of the fingerprint from the coin.
Opening a new topic on the alt.archaeology newsgroup, Annja quickly wrote a short note.
I’m seeking information about the following images found on a charm/talisman/coin? Not sure which. I saw it in France recently, at a small town called Lozère. It caught my attention and now I can’t get it out of my mind. Can anyone help? Is it just a tourist geegaw?
She framed her request like that to detract immediate attention. She knew if she sounded like a newbie other wannabe experts wouldn’t leave her alone and would try to impress her. Hopefully only someone who knew something about the images would bother to respond.
She attached the images of the charm’s rubbings and sent the postings to both newsgroups.
Going to her e-mail service, she opened her account, ignored the latest rash of spam and picked a name from her address book.
Bart McGilley was a Brooklyn cop she occasionally dated when she was home. He was a nice guy, on his way to making detective at the precinct. They had a good time whenever they were together. Thankfully, he shared an interest in some of the city’s more historical settings and museums.
She typed a quick note.
Hey Bart,
I’m in France doing a workup on a piece for Monsters. I’m keeping my blouse together, so I’m having to make this good. Points of interest, rather than interesting points.
I ran into a guy who swiped something from me. Nothing big. But I thought if I could give the police his name, it might help.
I know it’s a big favor to ask, but could you run this print?
Best,
Annja
She attached the image of the fingerprint and sent it. She also took a moment to send the pictures of La Bête and the cave to Doug Morrell. Then she retreated to her bathroom.
One of the finest things François Lambert had done in creating his retirement business was to add a soaker tub to each guest bathroom. It wasn’t something that many bed-and-breakfasts in the area had. But it was one of the selling points that had caught Annja’s attention.
Once the tub was filled, she eased in and turned on the jets. In seconds, the heat and the turbulence worked to wash away the stress and tension of the day.
CONTROLLING THE EXCITEMENT that filled him, Roux drove toward the iron gates of his estate outside Paris. The land was wooded and hilly. The large stone manor house and outbuildings couldn’t easily be seen even by helicopter.
At a touch of a button on the steering wheel, the iron gates separated and rolled back quietly. An armed guard stepped out from t
he gatehouse holding an assault rifle.
“Mr. Roux,” the man said.
Roux knew another man waited for confirmation inside the bulletproof and bombproof gatehouse. Not only was his landscape well tended, but so was his security. He paid dearly for it and never begrudged the price.
“Yes,” Roux said, turning his head so he could be clearly illuminated by the guard’s flashlight.
The guard swept the SUV with his beam. “Ran into some trouble?”
“A little,” Roux admitted. There was no way to conceal the bullet holes from a trained eye.
“Anything we should know about?”
The guard was American. He was direct and thorough. Those were qualities that Roux loved about the Americans. Of course, they balanced that with obstinacy and contrariness.
“I don’t think this will follow me home,” Roux said. “But it wouldn’t hurt to be a trifle more vigilant for a few days.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roux drove through. The gates closed behind him. For the first time since he’d left Lozère, he felt safe.
His headlights carved through the night as he followed the winding road to the main house, which butted up against a tall hillside. The location helped hide the house, but also allowed a greater depth than anyone knew of. Another electronic device opened the long door of the five-car garage bay.
He pulled the SUV inside and parked next to a new metallic-red-and-silver Jaguar XKE and a baby-blue vintage Shelby Cobra. He loved cars. That was one of his weaknesses.
Poker and women were others. Of course, he never bothered to make a list.
Henshaw, his majordomo and a British-trained butler, met him at the door to the house.
“Good evening, sir.” Henshaw was tall and thin, thirty-eight but acting at least forty years older.
“Good evening, Henshaw.”
Roux’s good-natured greeting must have taken the man by surprise. Henshaw’s eyebrows climbed.
“There’s been a problem with the SUV?” Henshaw asked. In his capacity during the past six years, he was well aware of some of the problems Roux dealt with.
“Yes.” Roux tossed the man the keys. “Take it. Dispose of it. Destroy all of the paperwork that ever tied me to such a vehicle.”
