by Alex Archer
“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?”
