by Alex Archer
Annja bounced around the car’s interior. The floorboard and the roof weren’t covered in anything soft. The impacts hurt, but she kept her head and focused on escape.
The car warped as it rolled. The back passenger’s-side door warped out of its frame. Standing on the left door, Annja reached up and shoved on the right one. For a moment, the door held, refusing to budge, then it gave way with a loud screech. She reached back and caught the straps of her backpack.
Movement on the other side of the acrylic partition, which was no longer in its housing and now had gaps around it, caught Annja’s attention just as she shoved the broken door open farther. The Asian woman was struggling to shove her pistol into position to fire. The driver was immobile behind the steering wheel, held there by the deployed air bag.
Grabbing the sides of the door frame, Annja heaved herself up and out as the Asian woman started firing. Bullets bounced off the glass and the seat’s reinforced undercarriage. Off balance and desperate, Annja threw herself from the car in an inelegant sprawl. She tried to hit the ground prepared to run, but the soft earth gave way beneath her boots and she went down to one knee.
The driver’s-side door opened and the Asian woman popped up with her pistol in her fist.
Knowing she wouldn’t be able to run without being gunned down, Annja released her hold on the backpack, took a step toward the car, another step on the driveshaft to propel herself upward again and launched a flying snap-kick. Her foot caught the woman in the face and knocked her backward. The pistol fell from her hands and tumbled to the ground. Unconscious, the woman dropped back inside the car.
Annja landed on her feet, listed badly to one side and quickly righted herself. She sprinted for her backpack, then raced up the small incline toward the highway.
The sedan had stopped on the shoulder. The cars Fiona had taken out were a football field away, and the traffic ahead of the accident had mostly kept going. Only a few drivers had pulled over to see if they could help or to gawk. Motorists on the opposite side of the highway were all gawking.
Fiona, Georges and Edmund stood outside the sedan. Evidently they’d been about to come to Annja’s rescue.
Edmund looked enormously relieved. “You’re alive.”
“Of course she’s alive.” Fiona calmly lowered her pistols and smiled at Annja. “She’s made of stern stuff.”
Georges sighed theatrically. “Maybe you could give a smidgen of credit to my driving, eh? I am very good at what I do, Ms. Pioche.”
“Yes, you are, dear man.” Fiona looked down the highway.
In the distance, three men raced toward them and flashes lit up their hands. A moment later dirt clods lifted from the nearby ground and sparks leaped from the sedan’s top. They heard the harsh pistol cracks shortly after.
“Maybe you could postpone the mutual admiration fest till after we’ve made our escape.” Edmund held the rear door open for Annja.
Annja slid inside, quickly followed by Edmund, who slammed the door shut. Part of the backseat lay forward, revealing the armament hidden there.
Fiona passed the rocket launcher back to Edmund. “Be a dear and put that away. I don’t think we’ll be needing it any further.”
Gingerly, Edmund took the weapon and shoved it into the recess.
More bullets thudded against the back of the sedan, but they didn’t penetrate. Edmund ducked at the sounds, though. He glanced at Annja. “I know the glass is bulletproof, but I can’t help it.”
“It’s not something you get used to easily.” Annja had taken cover, as well.
“I have no wish to ever get used to it.”
Georges pulled the sedan back onto the highway and roared into the night that now shrouded Paris.
25
Forty minutes later, Georges pulled to a stop in front of a small electronics store on rue Marx Dormoy in the 18th arrondissement in Paris just down from a streetlamp. The neighborhood was also known as Montmartre and was equally famous and infamous in history.
Georges parked the car and opened the door. “Come, come. We must step lively now.”
Fiona got out at once and stood on the sidewalk, her sunglasses pushed up onto her head. She watched the lighted street as a parade of vehicles flowed through.
A lanky African-American youth in a soccer shirt and maroon hoodie stepped out of the shadows. “Georges.”
Georges’s face lit with a smile. “Ah, Hasan, it is good to see you. You are on time tonight.”
“I try, mon ami.” The young man spoke in a lilting accent that Annja placed as West African.
“It is good.” Georges tossed the car keys into the air.
Hasan caught the keys with a quick flicker of movement and never broke stride as he walked toward the car. “What do you wish done with the vehicle?”
“Take it to Gardiah.”
“And what should I tell him?” Hasan opened the sedan’s door and glanced at the scars left by the bullets. He got in.
“That it needs a new face and a new name, okay?”
“Okay.”
“There are things in the back I will need. You know the address?”
“I do. I will have them there in a few hours. When I am certain I am not followed.” Hasan glanced over his shoulder and pulled out into traffic.
Georges turned to Fiona. “The car has to disappear as we do, true?”
“Of course.”
“As you have heard, your things will arrive shortly. If not, I will replace them.”
“You are as capable as ever, my friend.”
Georges waved down a cab. “I have suitable quarters for you a short distance away. Hasan will meet us there with your things. Taking a few cabs along the way will ensure we are hard to follow.”
The cab pulled to the curb and Georges opened the back door for Fiona.
* * *
FOUR CAB RIDES LATER, ALL of them sandwiched between walks of a few blocks—and sometimes split up into two groups of two and a mix of one and three to keep the numbers off in case the police were looking for four—they arrived at the studio apartments Georges had leased for their stay. Although they’d taken different cabs, none of them within sight of the other, they’d remained within the 18th arrondissement.
“The apartment will not be up to hotel standards, I’m afraid.” The lower floor housed a shoe repair shop and a dress shop. Both businesses were currently closed and had steel curtains pulled down over the doors and windows.
“I’m more interested in privacy than in the accommodations.” Fiona studied the street.
Edmund walked beside Annja. The air was cool enough that she felt a chill. Traffic noises and shouts of passersby and residents rang around them. Neon lights shone dimly from a bar on the corner and a small Chinese restaurant across the street. American rock and roll competed with Japanese pop and some Delta blues. Paris had always been an eclectic city. That was one of the things Annja loved about it.
The neighborhood was one of the rougher districts in the city. The street was paved, not cobbled, and some of the surrounding buildings had been made over, but everything remained old. It wasn’t too hard for Annja to close her eyes and imagine the city as it had been two hundred years ago.
The 18th arrondissement had been the eye of the storm of political unrest in the city since the mid-1800s. The Paris Commune, with its focus on the rising power of the working class, had taken root here.
Edmund matched his steps with Annja’s. “You’ve been to Paris before?”
“A few times.” Annja had found the sword not far from where they now were, and she’d bearded Roux in his home outside Paris. Since then she’d visited Roux here on a few occasions, and come on her own, as well.
“Then you know this isn’t a very good neighborhood.”
“I think we’ll be safe enough with Georges.”
A frown knitted Edmund’s brows.
Crime had favored the 18th arrondissement since the influx of workers had settled here to work at the coal mines
and the factories that sprang up with the Industrial Revolution.
“What I’m trying to say,” Edmund continued, “is that Laframboise may have spies everywhere, and he most assuredly has them in this place.”
“We knew we were taking a chance in coming to Paris.” Annja glanced at the traffic but saw no one giving them any special attention. “Fiona trusts Georges, and he risked his life to get me back. I think we’re in good hands.”
Edmund nodded but he wasn’t happy.
* * *
THE APARTMENT DIDN’T HAVE much in the way of flash, but it held all the creature comforts they would need. Like a proud real estate agent, Georges conducted a brief tour of the rented rooms.
The apartment had two small bedrooms and a common bath, but Georges assured Edmund that the couch pulled out into a comfortable bed. There was also cable television and internet. A sprig of flowers sat on the dining table just off the small kitchen.
“Are you hungry?” Georges stood beside a pantry and waved, like a game show host presenting a prize. When he opened the door, shelves laden with canned and boxed items stood in neat rows. “The refrigerator is well stocked, also. Meat. Fresh vegetables. And there is a Russian bakery only two blocks away that makes wonderful breads.” He closed the pantry door. “It will suffice, yes?”
Fiona crossed to Georges and kissed him on the cheek. “This is perfectly lovely. More than I had expected.”
“Good, good.” Georges rubbed his hands together. “But we should see to your armory needs.”
“Please.”
On the way out of the kitchen, Annja picked up a green apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. As she followed she bit into the apple, relishing the tart, sweet taste. Edmund still didn’t look happy.
Georges apologized as he led the way to the back bedroom. “If this had been one of the usual safe houses I’ve used, I would have had a much better hiding place for these things. And more built-in security measures.”
Fiona nodded in understanding. “But if this had been one of your usual haunts, someone might know about it and might take an interest in what we’re doing here. I’d rather we remain off-grid as much as possible.”
Concern filled Georges’s face as he came to a stop at the back wall. “Laframboise is a most dangerous man, Fiona.” He drew the heavy drapes over the room’s only window, plunging the room into near-darkness till he turned on a bedside lamp.
“So I’ve heard. But you know yourself that I’m lethal when prompted to be.”
“And then there is this Asian contingent that tried to kidnap Miss Creed.” Georges tapped his chin with his forefinger. “I suppose you know who they are?”
“I believe they were with Puyi-Jin, a Chinese—” She stopped when she saw Georges wince. “Have you heard of him?”
“Have you had dealings with Puyi-Jin before?”
“No. He’s new to me.”
“A very bad man. Is his interest in Miss Creed separate from your business with Laframboise?”
“They’re tied together.”
“Either one of those men would be daunting by himself, yes?”
Fiona smiled. “It is our good fortune, though, that Laframboise was working for Puyi-Jin and betrayed him.”
Immediately, Georges brightened. “Ah, then we can use this to our advantage.”
“I was hoping so.”
“You’ve always been such a fascinating woman, Ms. Pioche.” Georges turned toward the wall and took a small knife from his pocket. “I’m afraid getting to your armory won’t be quick if you should need it in a hurry.” The blade glinted as he pried molding from the corner of the wall, then from a decorative beam three feet away. “This wall adjoins the apartment in the next room, but the occupants living there have no idea what this space conceals.”
When Georges finished removing the molding, he inserted the knife behind the wallboard and quickly pried the section out of place. He set the piece of wall aside and the lamplight played over the lubricated sheen of the weapons hanging on the wall. A dozen handguns and an equal number of assault rifles and shotguns hung from pegs. Boxes of ammunition sat neatly organized at the bottom of the space.
“The ammunition is color-coded for the weapons.” Georges pointed to the small colored dots on the boxes and the matching colored stripes on the butts of the handguns and rifles and shotguns. “For speed.”
“Wonderful.” Fiona took out a pair of thin gloves, then selected a pistol and cut-down belt holster. She loaded the weapon’s magazine and slammed it home. Methodically, she worked the action, stripped a bullet into the receiver, then popped the magazine and replaced the bullet. Satisfied, she tucked the weapon and holster at the small of her back.
Fiona looked back at Annja and Edmund. “Would you care to make a selection?”
Edmund shook his head. “No. I don’t know the first thing about pistols.”
“Well, we’ll have to attend to that, won’t we, Professor. And for you, Annja?” Fiona held out another pair of gloves. “Mustn’t leave any prints, so don’t touch the weapons without gloves on. Unless the situation calls for it.”
Knowing Fiona wouldn’t be satisfied until she picked something, Annja pulled on the gloves, then stepped forward and surveyed the pistols. After a moment, she found one she easily recognized. She plucked the Baby Desert Eagle 9 mm from the wall, then took time to load the weapon. Unlike Fiona, she didn’t put a round under the hammer. She chose another of the cut-down belt holsters.
“Anything else?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.” Annja stepped back.
Fiona chose a chopped semiautomatic shotgun with a shoulder sling. Meticulously, she loaded the shotgun, worked the slide and fed a last shell into it. Then she slid the weapon under the bed.
“I’ll be taking this room, if that’s all right.”
Annja nodded.
Smiling, Georges clapped his hands. “Then, perhaps, we could return to the kitchen. I’ve laid in an excellent selection of wines, if I must say so myself. And I can show you the information I have on Laframboise.”
* * *
HEAD SWIMMING A LITTLE FROM the wine, Annja settled into bed. Georges had departed, slightly tipsy but as professional as ever, in the company of Hasan and a couple other young men who looked capable of violence. Fiona had retired to her room, and Edmund was curled up asleep on the couch. His body wasn’t used to being pushed so hard for so long.
Aches and pains plagued Annja, too, most of them from the car wreck, but she knew from past experience that she’d probably feel just fine in the morning. Since she’d found the sword, her recuperative powers had surpassed Olympic standards.
Hasan had brought them their luggage a couple hours after their arrival, and had stayed around for the wine. He had been watchful and intelligent, and Annja had recognized almost immediately that he was a street kid who paid attention. She had known kids like that while she’d been at the orphanage in New Orleans. Hasan, no matter where he was—West Africa or Paris—was a survivor.
So was she.
Dressed in gym shorts and a Yankees jersey, Annja opened up her computer and dug into the alt.history sites, hoping for more information. Several of the entries were just basic information on the magic lanterns, a few focused on different illusionists scattered across two hundred years of legerdemain, and there was even a flame war regarding Criss Angel’s ability to do real magic.
Ni hao, Lantern Girl,
Don’t mind the two rockheads arguing above. Apparently they didn’t see Criss Angel’s interview with Larry King when he said he didn’t believe in magic. *Sigh*
Anyway, I was writing because the lantern you’ve got in this picture looks a lot like one I heard about while visiting one of my friends in Shanghai. Their family has some kind of legend about that lantern, about how they were disgraced by an ancestor or something. You know how big that is in Asian culture.
I’m adding a picture of the lantern my friend’s grandmother told me about. The pic is
in black and white and it’s not very clear, but maybe this helps?
New Shanghai Girl
A surge of excitement stirred Annja as she clicked on the attachment. The photograph was large and it took a while to download, but when it had, the image was big enough to blow up and examine.
At first blush, the lantern resembled the one Edmund had bought. Then again, all lanterns looked a lot alike.
What most interested Annja was the two men in the photograph. Neither of them was Anton Dutilleaux, but they stood in front of a small building that had signs in the windows advertising banking in English, French and Chinese.
Her excitement grew.
26
“You think this is where Anton Dutilleaux worked?” Edmund looked doubtful.
Sitting at the dining room table the next morning, Annja stared at her computer studying the old Chinese picture. She spooned up another bite of key lime pie yogurt, not the most breakfasty yogurt ever made, but she liked it. “I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t really look like a bank, does it?”
“Banks didn’t always look like banks back then. China was expanding, growing rapidly. It took time for construction to catch up.” Fiona poured milk over her cereal. She was already dressed for the day in pants and a loose pullover to cover her pistol. A thick folder sat at her elbow. “You have to remember, Professor, Shanghai was a budding community back then. Trade was opening up along the Yangtze River. The customs office was moved to Shanghai from Songjiang in the 1730s.”
“Seventeen thirty-two.” Annja’s response was immediate and she didn’t know she’d said anything until the others stopped to look at her. “Sorry. I suppose saying the 1730s was close enough.”
Fiona smiled. “You must worry Roux to death with everything you know. He remembers events and people, but he’s not one to keep dates in mind.”
“I didn’t exactly know the date until I refreshed what I knew last night.” Annja said that, but she’d also been blessed with a near-photographic memory.
