God of Thunder

by Alex Archer

  Garin waited, not knowing what to say. His thoughts roamed from the study to those nights sixty years ago. He could still feel the touch of her skin. Even though there had been hundreds of women since then.

  "Do you think your father would have had me?" she asked without warning.

  "Yes," Garin answered instantly.

  Kikka smiled. "It's nice to think so, but I think eventually we would have done each other in. We were both too exacting. We had our fun, but it was always that. Our time together never became a hardship."

  Garin breathed out slowly, trying to ease that ache. He hated weakness in others, though he relished using it to exploit them. But he especially despised weakness in himself.

  "But what about you?" she asked. "Enough talk of the past and things better left forgotten. You look as though you've accomplished a lot in your life. Don't tell me you're just living off your father's estate."

  "No. I've done quite well with my own investments." Even though it shouldn't have made a difference, Garin didn't want her thinking he was living off anyone's accomplishments but his own. Pride was his strength and his weakness. "What he started has grown into multinational corporations."

  "Good. He must have been very proud of you." Kikka sighed and shook her head. "My grandson has yet to learn how to do more than spend the money he thinks grows on trees." She held her hands out to the fire to warm them. "I think the winter months must be getting harsher every year."

  Picking up the poker, Garin shifted the logs in the fireplace to create a larger blaze for a little while. He was almost getting too hot himself, so he knew the chill Kikka was experiencing came from her age and frailty. Realizing that made him feel sad. It was an unfamiliar feeling that hadn't touched his life in years.

  When he'd received the call from her after all these years, part of him had been vindictive. He'd wanted to come to her and glory in his youth while she was trapped in a sagging bag of skin. He'd even planned to tell her that he was the same Garin Braden, not some fictional son, and prove it by revealing the intimate knowledge of the time they'd spent together.

  He'd wanted to see the hurt in her eyes when she recognized he was telling the truth. The same pain she'd delivered to him sixty years ago was going to come back at her a hundredfold.

  The only thing that had stayed his hand from killing her in a jealous rage back then had been his love for her. He'd never had a love so passionate or so consuming. In the end, he'd left Vienna, had even left Germany for a time and journeyed to the United States.

  Garin watched the old woman as she tried to warm herself. He took a blanket from the couch and brought it over to her.

  "Thank you." She seemed embarrassed at accepting the blanket. She'd always hated admitting vulnerability. "There must be a draft in the room," she said.

  Garin stood and looked down at her. He'd come to Castle Schluter prepared to ridicule and hurt her. He was surprised at how protective he felt.

  "I supposed you're wondering why I asked you to come," Kikka said.

  "When you're ready," he told her. But he was curious.

  "Let's have dinner," she said. "Let me at least play the proper hostess before we get into why I called you here."

  Chapter 18

  When she finished blocking in the other letters, Annja examined her handiwork. She'd manipulated the letters, bringing them into the center of the five-by-five grid in a coil.

  It looked right. More than that, it felt right.

  But there was only one way to find out.

  She started with the first line of letters, reminding herself to reverse the direction of the progression of letters in the rows and columns. The substitution rules on the corners of rectangles were still in effect.

  "Venice."

  Annja's excitement soared. According to Pietro, Mario's investigation into whatever prize he'd been chasing had begun in Venice.

  Not exactly true, Annja reminded herself. It had started in Vatican City. But she knew she was on the right track. Mario had left a trail for her to follow. She worked the translations on the other lines quickly.

  She divided the letters one more time to get the answer: "St. Mark's Books."

  A bookstore? she wondered. It would make sense. A bookstore in Venice, given all the history that had passed through that city, could offer a treasure trove.

  Or a friend.

  Annja turned her attention to the final line of code.

  "Mjolnir."

  There was only one Mjolnir that Annja could think of. Mjolnir was the name of the enchanted hammer carried by Thor, the god of thunder in Norse mythology.

  Annja sat back to think about what the message meant. There were still too many questions, too many interpretations.

  The Vikings had impacted many countries during their travels. Most people remembered them for carnage and destruction, but mostly the Vikings were explorers and traders. They carried their culture to many places, and brought home culture from other places, which they integrated into their own society, reinterpreted and took back out into the world again.

  What had Mario found?

  Opening her computer, Annja hooked up the mini-satellite receiver and got online. She googled St. Mark's Books in Venice and immediately got a hit.

  Going to the Web page, she discovered that it was a small bookstore specializing in history, maps and walking tours of Venice. The Web page was attractive, looking like sepia-toned parchment. Business hours were from 10:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.

  The time in the corner of Annja's computer screen showed it was currently 1:18 p.m. Italy was six hours ahead of New York, making it after seven there. There was a possibility that the shopkeeper hadn't gotten out of his shop yet.

  Annja scooped up her cell phone and dialed the number shown on the Web page. An answering machine picked up after the third ring and informed her that the bookstore was closed and would reopen in the morning. She decided she'd call again when the store reopened.

  Frustrated, but pleased to at least have a lead, Annja exited the page and logged on to alt.archaeology and posted a message.

  I'm looking for information regarding Thor's hammer, Mjolnir and any specific ties it might have had to Riga, Latvia.

  Anything would be helpful at this point.

  She signed it "Hammer Hunter" and left another posting at alt.archaeology.esoterica. Then she pulled up the Google search engine in hopes of scoring something to leverage Doug Morrell. Chasing History's Monsters had deeper pockets than she did. Running for her life was expensive.

  Plus, if the trail led from Venice to Riga as she thought it might, searching for Mario's killers was going to be even more costly.

  She typed in "Vampires Venice" and hit Search. Doug was a sucker for vampire stories. He masqueraded as one from time to time.

  ****

  Why isn't there a vampire around when you need one? Annja asked herself irritably. A few minutes spent searching through various Web pages had shown that vampires in Venice existed only in movies and books.

  Then she sighed and reminded herself that vampires in general were nonexistent.

  If it hadn't been for Doug Morrell's continuing interest in the subject, as well as most of the audience of Chasing History's Monsters, Annja wouldn't have known as much about vampires as she did.

  Vampires weren't on required-reading lists for archaeology majors. As for her personal tastes, she happened to like occasional vampire novels. But she didn't understand the fad about vampires that had existed since Bram Stoker first penned Dracula.

  She couldn't believe she hadn't been able to find even one legend about vampires in Venice. Sultan Mehmet, known as "the Conqueror," had taken Venice back after it had fallen. One of Mehmet's primary opponents had been Vlad Tepes III, also known as Dracula.

  That had been as close to a vampire-in-Venice story as she got. Annja had searched as quickly and efficiently as she could but there was no mention of vampires there except on film.

  There weren't any serial killers
or mass murderers, either. When she wanted to get to a dig site to pursue her own interests, she could usually count on finding serial killers or mass murderers in the vicinity.

  Ghosts, she told herself grimly, knowing she was reaching. Gotta be ghosts. She turned back to the computer screen, regretting the cooling bathwater that she couldn't get to.

  ****

  "You missed the meeting this morning," Doug said coolly.

  Sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed, Annja gazed out at the gray afternoon sky. The weather had worsened and snow flurries rode the wind.

  "Sorry," she apologized. "I forgot."

  "You forget a lot."

  Ah, we are in a snarky mood, aren't we? Annja thought but she chose not to rise to the bait. "Did the phantom shark turn out okay?"

  Doug hesitated, as if afraid of stepping into a trap. "It turned out okay. He's got some tweaking to do to finalize it, but the concept has been approved."

  "That's good."

  "That's good?"

  "Yeah."

  "Yeah?"

  Annja frowned. "This isn't going to be much of a conversation if you keep repeating everything I say."

  "You'll have to forgive me," Doug told her. "I'm not sure which conversation we're having."

  "The shark," Annja reminded.

  "You hate the shark."

  "Did I say that?"

  "Yes. Yesterday."

  "I must have been having a bad day."

  "Or maybe you were suffering a concussion after running into the side of a bus," Doug said.

  Annja frowned again. This was going to take more finesse than she'd anticipated. "You saw that?"

  "Someone filmed it and sent it in to Letterman. It was featured on his show last night."

  Terrific, Annja thought.

  "Who were the guys you were running from?" Doug asked.

  "Muggers."

  "Muggers don't usually shoot up the city chasing a victim."

  "Really determined muggers. I thought maybe we could have a drink."

  "A drink?"

  "Yes. A drink and some conversation."

  "We're having a conversation now," Doug pointed out.

  "The phone's impersonal."

  "It's also easier to say no over the phone."

  "You could say yes."

  "No is safer."

  "You haven't even heard me out yet."

  "I don't want to. I find it very hard to tell you no in person."

  Annja smiled. That was true. "You're going to love this."

  "Then give me a preview now."

  "I'll see you at Sherlock's in an hour."

  "I'll still be at work."

  "I'm getting you out of the office. You should thank me."

  "No, because if you were sure about this story, you'd e-mail me and we'd set it up."

  "We don't always do the stories I want to do," Annja said.

  "We don't always get the stories we expect," Doug parried. "Like the phantom-shark thing. I had to dig into the budget to make that happen."

  "Meet me," Annja urged. "Three o'clock. Sherlock's." She broke the connection before he could disagree.

  Walking into the bathroom, she let the scented water out of the bath with true regret. Even only settling for a shower, she was going to be cutting it close to get there in time.

  Chapter 19

  "You're not talking much, Wolfram."

  Schluter gazed at his grandmother at the other end of the long dining table. She'd placed Garin Braden at the head, which was Schluter's traditional spot when they entertained on infrequent occasions. And it was always her friends who were invited. Thankfully, there were fewer and fewer of those friends around these days.

  His grandmother sat at the man's left and fawned over him so much that Schluter thought he was going to be sick.

  Dinner had been an elegant affair that Schluter hadn't seen the like of in months. There hadn't been much cause for celebration for a long time. The fact that the dregs of the family fortune were now dwindling had preyed on them and made their already-strained relationship even worse.

  "I was just listening, Grandmother," Schluter responded politely. Actually, he wouldn't have been able to get a word in edgewise if he'd tried. Several times during the meal he'd fantasized pulling out his pistol and shooting Garin Braden between the eyes.

  His grandmother smiled as if she were embarrassed, and maybe she was. But it was because she thought she might have come off badly in front of their guest more than the fact she might have done Schluter any wrong. "I'm sorry. We've been wrapped up so much in our conversation that I wasn't paying attention," she said.

  As if she ever paid attention to him, he thought bitterly. The only time she acknowledged him was to give him an assignment or take him to task. The resentment Schluter felt was an old and powerful thing. He no longer felt guilty over it. He embraced it because it made him stronger.

  He didn't know how much his grandmother had told the man about "the Riga problem," but he was angry over that, too. He'd told her he would take care of it. He would. It was just going to take longer than he'd expected.

  "That's all right," Schluter said. "I can see that you've got a lot of catching up to do. If you don't need me, I think I'll go into town."

  For a moment he thought his grandmother was going to object and command him to stay home. But he knew his absence would allow her to talk more privately with Garin Braden.

  "If you wish," his grandmother said.

  "Then I'll see you in the morning." Schluter stood.

  "In fact," his grandmother said, "I think we'll retire to the study and continue our conversation there."

  Garin was on his feet at once and helped the old woman from her chair. "I'll meet you there in a moment," he told her. "I just want to get a breath of fresh air."

  ****

  In his room, Schluter opened the safe in the floor. He removed a stack of money and used a disposable cell phone to call Dieter Humbrecht.

  "Hello?" Dieter's response was guarded.

  "It's me," Schluter said. "Have you found the woman or the package?"

  "We know where she's going to be in the next hour or so. Klaus managed to get a listening device into the office of the woman's boss."

  "He's not her boss. He's her producer."

  "He's also meeting her for a drink. We'll be there, as well."

  Schluter closed the safe and tucked the money into his jacket pocket. "Will she have the package?"

  "We hope so. She told him over the phone that she wants to discuss something with him. What else could it be?" Dieter paused. "The police are looking for us."

  "They've identified you?" That surprised Schluter.

  "Yes."

  "How?"

  "We don't know yet. But we are taking a chance by staying here."

  "Don't get caught, Dieter. It's as simple as that. And keep me apprised of the situation." Schluter closed the phone and headed downstairs. Things were heating up on several fronts.

  ****

  Garin Braden stood outside the main house when Schluter arrived there. Schluter had the immediate feeling that the man had been waiting for him. Ignoring him, Schluter started down the steps to his car.

  "Wolfram."

  The cold menace so naked in the man's voice brought Schluter up short. It sparked a sense of fear inside him. But the fear was instantly replaced by anger as adrenaline flooded his body. He turned to face Braden. Fear had a strength of its own, and he'd learned how to use it.

  "What do you want?" Schluter didn't bother hiding his dislike.

  "A moment of your time, if I may," the big man said. Shadows draped him where he stood. He looked threatening, primeval within them. Like a beast in its lair.

  Schluter flicked a deliberate look at his Rolex. "Only just."

  Braden grinned, obviously neither insulted nor challenged. Too late, Schluter realized that by agreeing to stop at all he'd already capitulated.

  "I like your grandmother," Braden said. "I've k
nown her for a long time."

  "She said the two of you had only just met." The claim confused Schluter.

  "I just wanted you to know that," Braden stated easily.

  "All right." Schluter turned away.

  "If anyone hurts her," Braden said, "I'll kill that person."

  It took all of Schluter's willpower not to draw his pistol and shoot the man where he stood. Instead, he stepped up to the man, giving away at least three inches and thirty pounds.

  "Well, I've got a news flash for you," Schluter said. "I don't know why my grandmother felt it necessary to call you here, but if you try to take over my operation, I'll bury you."

  Bright lights gleamed in Braden's eyes. He didn't back away. "Ever notice the way a little dog makes a lot of noise?" he asked. "But when you get right down to it, it's still just a little dog."

  Schluter made himself turn away and walk to his car. He was going to deal with his first problem first, but the matter of Garin Braden had just moved up onto Schluter's top-ten list.

  ****

  Garin watched Schluter roar through the outer gates, only missing a collision with the wrought iron because the security guards had been expecting his actions. Probably through dealing with him for years.

  Schluter might have been thirty years old, but Garin was willing to bet he'd been acting the same way for the past twenty years. He was willful and spiteful, truly an arrogant ass, and he didn't care about anything but his own skin.

  In fact, Garin had to admit there were things about Schluter that reminded him of himself. He wouldn't care to admit that to anyone else, though. He would never admit it to Roux.

  Ah, Kikka, you've certainly birthed your own punishment in this life, haven't you? he thought.

  Before coming to SchluterCastle, Garin had researched Kikka Schluter over the Internet. There hadn't been any pictures of her in forty years, and the stories suggested she hadn't left her house in all that time. Garin suspected it was because of the tragic murder-suicide of her daughter and son-in-law twenty years earlier.