by Alex Archer
Sirens screamed, sounding close.
Roux sighed. "Garin."
"Garin called you?"
"Yes. Is something wrong with your hearing?"
"Well, there was all that gunfire," Stanley said helpfully from the backseat.
"Why did Garin call you?" Annja asked.
"Because he wanted you clear of the situation."
"What situation?"
"Actually, that's my question," Roux said. "I got a phone call from Garin telling me to keep you from looking for Mjolnir, and I didn't even know you were looking for it." He narrowed his eyes. "Why are you looking for Mjolnir?"
"Garin didn't ask you to warn me off because he was worried about me," Annja replied. "He was worried I might get to it before he did."
"Perhaps." Roux tugged on the trunk again. "Could you lend a hand? It appears to be jammed."
"Why is Garin looking for Mjolnir?" Annja asked.
"Really, Annja, can you not see this is hardly the time for this?"
Annja stood quietly, waiting.
"I should have stayed in Monaco," Roux groused. "I gave up the charms of a very beautiful woman – a woman who's quite rich, mind you – to get disrespected first on the phone, then while trying to dispose of a getaway car riddled with bullet holes. Does that make any sense to you?"
"I'm still struggling with why Garin is looking for Mjolnir. And why you're not."
"Because the Mjolnir he's looking for is a sham."
"Then Mjolnir does exist?" That caught Annja off balance even though she'd been expecting the reply.
"Joan's sword exists. Why shouldn't Thor's hammer?"
"Because it belonged to a god."
"Everybody forgets that the Norse gods weren't gods when it came to immortality," Roux said. "They had to eat the apples Idun kept in order to maintain their youth. If you'll recall the Prose Edda, Loki stole the apples at one point and all the gods aged. The Greek gods had the golden apples they had to eat."
"I suppose some people – and that could be using the term loosely – could lead extended lives. Through some means," Annja said, glancing at Stanley.
Roux grinned at her. "An apple a day keeps the birthdays away."
"Apples?" Annja asked.
"No," Roux answered. "Not apples. The sword. For however long it lasts. I think. Now, could you help me with this trunk? I truly don't know any more about Garin's involvement in your current project than you do. I only came here because the two of you seemed to be on a path that promised collision."
Annja hooked her fingers under the trunk lid and lifted. "Garin could have sent those men."
The trunk lid came up.
"He could have," Roux agreed, "but I don't think he did."
"Why?"
"Because Garin respects you enough that he'd try to do it himself. Oh, he may not come at you from the front and may try to stab you in the back, but he'll do it himself."
"Because he was trained that way?"
Roux gave her a sour look, then reached into the trunk and brought out a quart bottle of bourbon. He grinned as he hefted the bottle. "Pity. Such a fine distillation, too." He uncapped the bottle and took a drink, then offered it to Annja.
Annja politely refused.
"You're taking time out for a drink?" Stanley asked.
"Just a stiffener," Roux said. Then he frowned. "You need to get out of the car, Mr. Younts."
"I could call my attorney," Stanley offered. "He could get this whole thing straightened out. We didn't do anything wrong." He paused. "Well, we didn't do too much wrong."
"Aside from the time factor not exactly being on our side in this thing," Roux replied, "you also need to realize that doing our civic duty and going to the authorities will place us in harm's way, Mr. Younts."
Roux's polite deference to Stanley bothered Annja. She'd written a few books, tons of magazine articles and been in a television series that was at least partially built around her. He didn't treat her like that.
"How in harm's way?" Stanley asked.
"Because we would be sitting ducks inside a police station."
"Oh." Stanley looked perplexed. "I didn't think about that."
"You did once," Roux insisted. "In Assault on Ice Station Episilon 2: Revenge of the Quaquod."
"I'd forgotten about that." Stanley beamed. "You really do read my books, don't you?"
"All thirty-four of them so far. If I can, I'd like very much to have them autographed."
"Sure."
Irritated, Annja said, "Look, the mutual-admiration society is hereby officially dissolved. We need to be moving."
"Sadly, she's right," Roux agreed. "I've got hotel rooms reserved. We can talk there. But I really need you to get out of the car."
Stanley got out.
"Shouldn't we wipe down the car?" Annja asked. "We've left prints all over it."
"No. This will take care of the need for that." Roux offered the bottle to Stanley. "Stiffener?"
"Sure." Stanley drank from the bottle, swallowing the alcohol with difficulty. "Wow!"
"Wow indeed." Roux smiled affectionately. Then he moved to the car, grabbed Annja's backpack and handed it to her. He emptied nearly all of the remainder of the bottle over the car's interior, saving enough for the exterior and a final swallow.
Holding a lighter a few inches from his face, Roux breathed out the alcohol. His breath turned to flames like a circus fire-eater and ignited the alcohol in the car.
"Wow!" Stanley said.
"Show-off," Annja said.
"Let's walk a few blocks and flag down a taxi. We'll take a water taxi to Venice. Our hotel reservations are there."
****
At the hotel, Annja discovered that Roux had rented a suite of rooms. She'd never stayed at the Hotel Concordia Venezia before. Overlooking St. Mark's Square, the hotel was located at the heart of the floating city. Getting to St. Mark's Books in the morning would mean only a matter of minutes on foot.
She left Stanley and Roux waxing eloquently about the author's books, which seemed to make them both happy. But it irritated Annja. They were acting as if they were on a camping trip and happened to end up with great bunk mates instead of being involved in a potential life-or-death situation.
Still, watching them, Annja knew that if Mario had been alive tonight and along for the trip, he'd have been right in there with them. Mario had loved popular fiction, as well.
She walked into the bathroom and saw the marble and mirror walls. The tub was a yawning pit that would hold an ocean of water. She turned on the taps, found what sounded like a soothing bath oil and poured it in. The fragrance, spread by the hot water, filled the room and promised divine deliverance.
Before she could get undressed, a knock sounded at the adjoining door. Reluctantly, she went to answer it.
Roux stood there.
"I swear to you," Annja said, "if you try to pull me into your deliberation on who is the best writer in the world, I'm reaching for the sword."
"My, my," Roux said. "Surly tonight, aren't we?"
"Tired. Cranky. Under-pampered." And feeling guilty because I'm alive and a friend of mine isn't, Annja added silently.
"You lost your luggage at the airport," Roux said. "I know from personal experience that young women appreciate the ability to present themselves well and generally hate dishabille."
"Could we save the flowery speech? I've got a bath and I intend to soak until I look like a raisin."
Roux grimaced. "I could have done without knowing that." He stepped back and pointed at the uniformed bellhop holding on to one end of a transfer cart. "I took it upon myself to provide you suitable raiment."
Annja looked at all the boxes from a clothing store. "But everything's closed."
"I still have a few old acquaintances here who will give me preferential treatment. I simply called in a favor."
Annja stepped back and allowed the bellhop into her room. He wheeled the cart in and looked around. Annja directed him to put everyt
hing on the bed. He did, then left.
Mesmerized by the unexpected bounty, Annja opened boxes, finding jeans, tops, underwear, tennis shoes, boots and even three dresses, one of them a simple black cocktail dress. There was even a full makeup case, toiletries containing an assortment of perfumes, and a too-big T-shirt that would be perfect to sleep in.
Everything was in her size. Annja looked at him. "How did you know about the sizes?"
"I've bought clothing for hundreds of years," Roux said. "I know sizes. Do you need anything else?" He eyed the clothes dubiously. "I think I got most everything, but if I missed something, I can still – "
"No," Annja replied, grinning like a loon and unable to stop herself. "This is perfect. Really."
"I'm glad you like it." Roux turned to walk away. "I'll leave you to your bath and bed. We're going to have an early morning."
"Roux."
He turned to face her.
"Thank you. This means a lot."
Roux grinned. "Enjoy, dear girl. It does my heart glad to see you happy." He left.
Annja took new underwear, the toiletry kit and the oversize T-shirt to the bathroom.
Chapter 32
St. Mark's Books was a small shop situated only a couple blocks off St. Mark's Square. Pedestrians, a mix of tourists and residents, filled the sidewalks and alleys. Since there were no automobiles or bicycles, all traffic – except for the canals – was by foot.
After making certain no one was at the bookshop, Annja rejoined Roux and Stanley at the open-air bistro across the street. They'd ordered breakfast and it was waiting by the time Annja took her seat.
"Don't be impatient," Roux advised.
"I'm not impatient," Annja said. It was hard to be irritable with him when she was wearing clothes – really good clothes – that he'd bought for her in the dead of night. "I'm anxious. I keep expecting Garin."
"He's not here." Roux helped himself to a ham-and-cheese frittata, then added another sweet roll, as well.
Annja didn't hold back. Roux wasn't the only one gifted with a fast metabolism. She piled her plate high. "How do you know he's not here?" she asked.
"He called me last night."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I knocked. I heard you snoring, so rather than wake you, I thought I'd wait until this morning."
"I don't snore."
"You snore," Stanley said.
Annja shot him a look.
"In a ladylike manner," he added. "A loud ladylike manner."
"What did Garin say?" Annja asked.
"He was glad to see that we hadn't been killed. Then he told me he'd be happy to do the job himself if we continued to interfere."
"Where is he?"
"Austria, if his phone number was legitimate. I've heard those can be artificially altered."
"Who's Garin?" Stanley asked.
Annja let Roux field that one.
"A former associate. He's become somewhat disenchanted with us, I'm afraid."
"That's too bad. You guys are a blast to be around. Gunfights. Car chases. Never a dull moment. I've already started fleshing out my next plot. It's gonna be a doozie. It's going to feature a young woman who's struggling to get her independence from her doting archaeologist grandfather, who's kind of a passive-aggressive control freak, only he's gone missing in the wilds of... of somewhere – I'll work that out later – and she's the only person in the world who can find him. Their minds think alike, see?"
"We don't think alike," Annja said.
"And I don't picture myself as a doting grandfather," Roux said. "Furthermore, how can you possibly be both doting and a passive-aggressive manipulator at the same time?"
"If he's never around to share things with her – " Annja shot Roux a glance " – how can he be controlling?"
Stanley sighed and held his hands up, palms out. "Guys, could we take an ego break here? I'm going to be writing a novel, not a biography. Those two characters aren't you guys. They're the people I imagine them to be." He frowned. "You know, this is why writers never talk about their books to their friends. The friends keep trying to see themselves in the plot."
Roux muttered something under his breath.
"And this is novel writing," Stanley continued, "not brain surgery. You can't take fiction too seriously. If it was too much like real life, it would be boring." He looked around. "Although I'll be the first to admit that you guys don't have boring lives."
****
The owner of St. Mark's Books was a man named Michelangelo DiBenedetto. He was in his late fifties or early sixties, portly and had a habit of running his hand through his longish cotton-white hair. He arrived at ten minutes before ten, put the open sign in the door, and was just setting out a stand of clearance books when Annja approached him.
"Good morning," he greeted in English.
"Good morning," Annja said.
DiBenedetto looked at Annja strangely. "I know you. You're Annja Creed. Mario's friend."
The words hurt. It was one thing to be remembered as the cohost on Chasing History's Monsters, which she got a lot – but the association DiBenedetto made reminded her of what had been lost to bring her to this point of her journey.
"You're also supposed to be dead," DiBenedetto went on. "At least, the police keep denying that you are so dogmatically that the media is certain that you are."
"Dead?" Annja repeated.
"In the terrorist attack at the airport."
"They're saying it was a terrorist attack?"
DiBenedetto nodded. "One of those fruitcake fringe groups called in and took credit for it." He looked past Annja and spotted Stanley. A grin split the shopkeeper's face. "You'd be Stanley Younts."
"I am." Stanley was obviously happy to be recognized.
"I would have known you from your picture on the back cover of the books," DiBenedetto said. "Even if there hadn't been all the press coverage this morning."
"Well," Roux said sourly, "I can see that disguises will be in order before we go much further in this endeavor."
They went inside the store, and Roux and Stanley combed the book racks. Both of them wanted to stock up on reading material, and DiBenedetto had some first editions of Younts's books that he wanted autographed.
While they were busy with that, the bookstore owner got the package Mario had left for Annja.
The package was rectangular and five inches thick. Covered in brown paper and secured by twine, it looked unassuming.
"Do you know what it is?" Annja asked.
"No. Mario didn't say. He just asked me to keep it here for him. Until he returned or you came for it."
Annja took her Swiss Army knife out and cut the twine. "Do you know what happened to Mario?"
DiBenedetto nodded somberly. "The family called me and told me. They're going to have the funeral in a couple of days – when they get his body back from the United States. I'm going to shut down the shop and go. He was always in and out of the shop, always talking about things he was researching. I enjoyed our conversations."
The revelation caught Annja's attention. "Had you known him long?"
"Sure." DiBenedetto shrugged. "Since he was a boy. He was my nephew. I married his mother's sister."
Mario had left the package with family. It made perfect sense to Annja then. She unwrapped the contents of the package.
Two books, both leather covered and thick, came loose in her hands. One bore the stamp of the Vatican and looked very old.
"If I didn't know any better," DiBenedetto said, "I'd say that was the genuine article."
"It is genuine," Annja said. The reverent tone in her voice drew Roux and Stanley close. They looked over her shoulder.
An outdated cursive script covered the pages, written in Latin. The first entry was dated January 23, 1209: "Here Opens the Personal Narrative of Janis Ozolini, Town Historian."
"That book is eight hundred years old," Stanley said.
Annja nodded.
"But it's gotta be a fake."
"Why?" Annja asked.
"Because the pages are too white. A paperback has a shelf life of about three weeks and begins to yellow on day one."
"This is the way paper used to be made," Roux said. "The way it should always be made. If you get the chance to look at some of the books that were made six and seven hundred years ago, and longer, I think you'd be surprised at how well they were made, from the paper to the stitching to the binding." He shook his head. "You just don't see that kind of quality anymore."
"I'll take your word for it," Younts said.
"Come to my house sometime," Roux invited. "I'll show you the private collection I've put together."
Annja looked at Roux in irritation. He usually wasn't so generous with his things.
He refused to meet her gaze.
There was a note from Mario in the first book. Annja read it aloud to the others.
Dear Annja,
If you're getting these books from Uncle Michelangelo, then I guess that means something has gone horribly wrong.
I wasn't looking for this story when I found it. But that's the way things are sometimes in our field, isn't it? Looking for one thing and finding another.
Of course, I was looking for embarrassing discrepancies committed by the Holy Roman Church because that seems to be all the rage these days. While doing that in my copious spare time – the job there as an archivist was not only boring, but there wasn't much of it – I started researching the Teutonic order. You know, the German knights in black and white that went forth to smite religion into the heads of unbelievers?
I found this journal – please see to it that Archbishop Morelli gets it back because he is really a decent person who loves books and I didn't exactly tell him I was taking it with me when I left – and the story it contained. It's not really a big secret, but apparently it was enough of one.
It seems there was this Austrian baron, Frederick of Schluter, who got the story of a Viking who lived among the Curonians. As the tale was told, this Viking was named Thor and he had an enchanted hammer that gave him power against all his enemies.
One of the stories involved Thor's untold wealth that he brought with him from wherever it was that he hailed from. No one has said and I haven't found that story. Yet. Hopefully you will.
