by Alex Archer
Garin feared the latter, Roux suspected. But Roux wasn’t so sure. He felt something grander awaited them when all the pieces had been reunited. And he would not rest until that moment had been delivered.
“Hand me the key.”
Garin slapped the needed item into Roux’s palm. In the darkness he could barely make out the lock and, using his fingers, fitted the key into the small port.
“I did that. Nothing happened,” Garin said.
“It probably requires a strong turn.” Roux tried to twist the key left and right but it didn’t budge.
“Uh-huh. Tried that too, old man.”
Roux bashed Garin under the jaw. The connection sent the burly man reeling, head rocking backward. He landed across the threshold, arms overhead and eyes closed, jaw open.
“That’ll grant me the silence I crave,” Roux said. “For less time than I desire, unfortunately.”
Bending over the stone safe, he wriggled the key in the lock, feeling if it would give in one direction or the other. The painter was known to experiment with devices of all sorts, so certainly this one could prove a puzzle.
He pushed the key upward and it moved. Downward, it slid as if on greased wheels. Then at an angle to the left and...right.
Some inner mechanism clicked. The safe door popped open.
“One of these days, old man,” Garin muttered as he came to.
“Stand back and give me some light,” Roux ordered. If only to get the brute as far out of the mausoleum as possible.
Garin complied and moonlight beamed in and highlighted the opened safe. Inside the safe were two notebooks, a curious wooden box fitted with metal parts, gears and arabesque designs, and a small silver chunk of steel. Roux grabbed the piece that looked as though it could have once been part of a blade that had melted under intense heat.
When he made to close the safe door, Garin’s hand clamped over his. “You got what you wanted. But what’s in it for me? What’s that?”
Lying before the box was also a small iron cross. It was in the style of the Lorraine cross Leonardo had once shown him.
“I am not a thief.” Roux struggled to close the safe door.
“You are, and you just proved it. I, on the other hand, will take whatever can fill my purse with coin. And what is that box? It looks like it’s bejeweled. Let me in there, old—”
He was fast tiring of knocking Garin out cold. And his knuckles ached. But persistence would not win the brute the prize this time. Closing the door and moving the key in the opposite direction to relock it, Roux then carefully replaced the key in his purse, along with the steel. He stepped over Garin’s sprawled body and hurried away down an aisle of tombstones.
A quick stop into da Vinci’s studio to return the key and then on to claim his horse. He would ride out of Milan before sunrise.
Chapter 20
“You have a laptop?” Roux asked as he cruised Milan’s streets.
“Yes, thanks to you.” Annja kept all her documents and research records in a cloud account online, so she didn’t have to worry about losing data, but ultimately, having her laptop back in hand would be optimal. “What do you want me to look up?”
“I’m not familiar with modern-day Milan. I can’t recall where Leonardo’s studio once stood.”
“You think that’s where Scout is headed?” Annja nodded. “Give me a minute.”
She tugged the laptop out of her backpack and powered up. It wasn’t long before she had a Wi-Fi connection and typed in a search for Leonardo’s address while he’d stayed in fifteenth-century Milan. She thought it might be a good idea to check the location of the Duke of Milan’s—Ludovico Sforza’s—castle, or else very close by. Her eyes wandered over the search results. The plague had struck the town for three years during this era, and there was the start of work on the dome of the cathedral.
She repeated these details to Roux, who appeared annoyed.
“Are you looking for a location or getting lost in research?”
“Ahem.”
Annja read the last bits of a bio. After Sforza’s fall in 1499, Leonardo left Sforza’s court for Mantua and Venice. She clicked on to the next listed URL.
“Anything?” Roux asked.
“I’m not sure. Sforza’s court could place him in the actual castle or still possibly somewhere else. There are no addresses that I can find, but give me a minute.”
“I never went inside the castle,” Roux said. “His studio was not far from there. I remember a big, wide doorway opening to his studio. No stairs. Slabs of marble against the walls and canvases stretched on frames.”
“Yes, I know he had his own studio in Milan....” Annja spent another ten minutes searching online. “I’ve found nothing. There’s got to be— Hang on. I have an idea.”
She signed on to archaeology.net and posted a question in one of the forums on Renaissance art.
Currently in Milan and am looking for original site of Leonardo da Vinci’s studio. Anyone know the location or the vicinity? Thanks.
“I’ve posted about the location on an archaeology site. I usually get replies within twenty-four hours,” she explained, closing the laptop. “So what did you have in mind? You think the device was transferred from the safe in the cemetery back to his studio?”
“It’s only a guess. The music box could have been destroyed for all we know.”
“Certainly, if there were items left behind in Leonardo’s studio they’ve been cataloged and recorded. Maybe I can find out once I get settled somewhere. I assume we’re staying in Milan?”
“Until we figure things out, yes. Braden is likely staying here.”
Roux pointed out the window. Annja hadn’t realized he’d parked. The hotel was on the opposite side of the street. A liveried doorman helped a sophisticated-looking woman out the back of a limo.
“How do you know it’s this hotel?” she asked.
A black SUV pulled away from the drive in front of the parked limo.
“Scout just walked inside before that lady,” Roux said. “I’m inclined to believe Braden will know we followed his lackey and, as you said, expect us to drop in on him. So what do you say?”
“I’m in.”
“Excellent.” Roux adjusted the rearview mirror. “You go first. I’ll just park the car. I believe the entrance to the lot is behind the hotel, actually.”
“Sure.”
Annja got out, and Roux peeled away from the curb. Startled by his quick retreat, she spotted a new car, a sleek black sedan. Roux drove past the sedan and that car stopped, made a U-turn and followed him.
Annja shook her head. “That old man and his gambling.”
Once inside the hotel, Annja bypassed the sophisticated-looking woman who was chastising the bellman, and looked around the lobby. No sign of Scout.
Her reconnaissance was distracted by thoughts of Roux’s hasty escape. It had been an escape of sorts.
She tapped a valet on the shoulder and asked, “Which way to the parking garage?”
* * *
ANYONE WHO HAPPENED to see the old man with the white ponytail and beard would expect he was on his way home, where his lovely wife waited with a roast in the oven and an apron tied about her ample hips. Or perhaps he was off to spend some time with the grandchildren in the park.
Either assumption would be dead wrong.
Annja approached the scuffle in the parking garage with caution. Roux stood against three thugs. He was holding his own. And she expected him to. He wasn’t an old man. In years, he was, but in terms of the ability to fight, and to deliver a choking throat chop with blinding speed—ouch, that had to hurt—he had not wavered over the centuries.
She winced as the thug who’d taken the throat chop went down. She guessed from his lean build and the biceps his muscle shirt revealed that he wouldn’t be out of the fray for long.
With one man down and yet another reaching inside his jacket to produce what Annja suspected was a weapon, she decided now was a good time
to make her presence known. Going straight for the man who flashed a gun, Annja gripped his wrist and directed the pistol downward, while using the heel of her opposite hand to smash up against the base of his jaw. His fingers loosened and she took away the gun and tossed it under a parked car.
“I can handle this, Annja. Thank you.” Just then the second man lunged at Roux, who easily deflected the incoming punch.
Meanwhile, Annja exchanged blows with her opponent. Dressed in a sleek black shirt unbuttoned to the waist to reveal tattooed abs, he was agile. He bent to avoid a right hook and went to kick out her legs from underneath her. She jumped high and used the momentum to inflict a roundhouse kick on him.
“You want me to leave?” Annja managed.
“Suit yourself! Watch his blade!”
Sure enough, she spotted the knife and dodged backward, feeling as though she was going to lose her balance. She immediately steadied herself and prepared for another onslaught. As he approached, she slammed into his chest, landing on top of his body. The blade clattered across the concrete floor, spinning within grabbing distance of the first thug Roux had left on the ground.
The opponent got a hand on the weapon.
“Sorry!” Annja said.
She leaped up and off the bruiser. Gripping the side mirror on the SUV behind her, she swung up and caught the man in the chest with a forceful kick. He stumbled backward, connecting with his buddy, who currently swung the knife toward Roux. His aim went skyward, missing Roux’s nose by inches.
Roux pressed his hands together and performed a grateful bow to Annja.
“De nada!” she called.
Now she gripped the collar of her thug and kneed him high in the kidney. Once, twice, she effectively moved around to pummel the blows directly to his side. He began to wobble. Arms reaching out before him, he huffed out a breath and spat blood. Annja continued the punishment until she felt his body grow heavy in her grip. She dropped him, but followed through with one more kick to the ribs.
Roux walked up behind her, dusting off his hands. “I think he’s down for the count.”
“He is now.” She stepped back to look over the three fallen men. “How much did you win off these guys, anyway?”
Roux smiled and moved on toward his vehicle. “One point two million,” he called back. “And I’ve suddenly developed an extreme aversion to this hotel.”
“But we tracked Scout here. What if Braden is here, as well?”
“He’ll keep. You want to come along, or are you staying put?”
Annja turned back to the men lying on the concrete. They were out cold.
“Staying put. They weren’t after me. I think I’ll do some investigating.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait!”
Roux slid behind the wheel and cast her a glance. Annja advanced and got her backpack from the car. Some online research was necessary before they could make another move.
“You don’t know for sure that Garin is staying here?”
He shook his head.
“Okay. I’ll wait for you to get in touch. I’ll check in and see if anyone replied regarding a possible location for da Vinci’s studio.”
“Excellent.” He revved the engine and Annja stepped aside as he backed out of the parking space and drove away.
She waved, but knew he wouldn’t bother to look back. “You’re welcome!”
Annja strode inside the hotel. The thugs wouldn’t complain about their rough treatment in the parking garage. And if there were security cameras, no one could blame her for jumping in to help out an old man, right?
* * *
ASKING AT RECEPTION for Scout Roberts didn’t merit recognition from the desk clerk. The man shook his head.
“He’s a friend. I was supposed to meet him here,” Annja tried. “He was just in here about twenty minutes ago?”
“Oh, that gentleman. American?”
“Yes. Blond hair. Killer smile?”
“Killer smile?” The desk clerk frowned.
“Uh, not like a killer.” Bad translation. “Kind of sexy in a charming— Forget it. Could you give me his room number?”
“He is not here with us, miss. He merely came by to pick up a package from one of our former guests. Sorry.”
“Oh.” A former guest? Could it have been Garin Braden? She needed to think about this, so without a place to land she checked in.
Once in her room, Annja decided a sauna was well deserved. The spa was gorgeous and soon the sweat was rolling down her skin. Twenty minutes later, she felt like a wet noodle when she exited the intense heat, but oh, what an awesome feeling. Quickly wrapping a towel around her as another woman entered the sauna, she covered the bruises on her shoulders and thighs and made a swift exit.
Roux was probably enjoying a fine wine at his four-star hotel. He hadn’t offered to cover her expenses now, although he should have. She was, in essence, working for him.
And she was not. She wanted to serve history. To save pieces once stolen and have anyone be able to view them and learn from them was what she was working for. Adding the music box as a possible new find would prove phenomenal. And then to convince the world it was a time-travel device? Uh-huh. Make that a time-shifting device. She hadn’t gotten her hopes up about finding it for exactly that reason.
She tightened the belt on her terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel, then wandered down to her room.
Did Roux actually buy into his fantasy about Leonardo having been a time traveler himself? No, he did not. He was just trying to make fantasy meet reality, as people often did when they wanted to believe in the impossible.
Yet she believed in men who could live beyond a normal age, so Annja wouldn’t dismiss everything entirely.
Depositing her backpack on the end of the bed, she dropped the robe and sorted through the new clothing that had been provided for her by Roux. Very basic, but everything fit, so she couldn’t complain. The gray cotton T-shirt and olive-green cargo pants were actually comfortable. She pushed aside the curtains and scanned the metropolis that had grown up into an amazing city.
A major economic and financial center, Milan was also famous for a number of cultural and architectural sites. La Scala, the opera house, was one of her favorite places to hang out. She easily recalled the building’s sumptuous auditorium. The red velvet, silk and gilded stucco always caught her eye and the chandelier was a dazzler. The revered venue was just one of many in the city. She guessed tourists must flock to Milan almost as much as they did Paris.
And what about when Leonardo da Vinci would have strolled the streets taking in every detail? She imagined herself in an elegant gown with her hair done up and decorated with a beaded headdress and rich gold trimmings on her sleeves and hems as she strolled beside him. Obviously, she imagined herself someone from the court.
Annja laughed. “Why not? If I’m going to dream, I might as well have been rich.”
Where rich was concerned, the de’ Medicis and the Sforzas popped instantly to mind. Annja powered up the laptop and typed in a search on the nefarious families. The de’ Medicis had ruled over Florence and accumulated much wealth to fund their influence and standing.
Ludovico Sforza was Duke of Milan from the end of the fifteenth century until he died early in the sixteenth. He had commissioned The Last Supper from da Vinci. He had been big into taxation to support his artistic and agricultural ventures. An alliance with the French king Charles VIII turned sour and resulted in the French laying claim to not only Naples but Milan, as well. He had been responsible for starting the Italian Wars against the French, yet was eventually driven out of Milan by the French because he had no allies. He’d died in a French prison.
Time travel was starting to lose its appeal.
Annja shook her head, unwilling to make that leap. “It’s just a pretty music box that still holds historical value. And I will find it. I’ve come this far.”
Because once set on a mission, she rarel
y abandoned the quest. Even when attacked by natives—or threatened by thugs miffed about losing 1.2 million dollars—she never gave up. It wasn’t in her DNA to surrender. And someone had to remain the calm, rational one who would see to bringing any found treasures to a local museum or university for authentication.
Her cell phone rang. The No Caller ID flashing on the screen annoyed her. “Hello?”
“Annja, I’m surprised you didn’t catch me. I think you let me get away, yes?”
“We needed to follow you back to your home base.”
“Which you didn’t find.”
Yes, well, stating the obvious.
“What do you want now, Scout?” She had to stop calling him by that name. While she spoke, she opened her email program. Roux had said he’d sent her a copy of the files she hadn’t seen.
“I have this keen notion that you don’t know everything there is to know about this whole search for the missing music box slash time machine. Am I right?”
“I know as much as you do, Scout.”
“I think not. And I’m willing to divulge my secrets if you’ll meet me for coffee sans the white-haired old man.”
Annja sighed. Playing into the enemy’s hand, allowing him to lure her to his choice of meeting place, was never wise. But he did have more knowledge than she did. And if he was willing to share?
“I saw a bistro near the Parco Sempione that sported a pink pig hanging over the door,” she said. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“I’ll have the coffee waiting for you. You take cream? No, wait. Black. You’re one tough lady.”
She hung up, thinking she did like it black. Coffee that bit back was the only way to go.
A message from Roux sat in her email inbox. Attached was a pdf scan of the police report filed by the antiquities museum in Poland after the heist. It didn’t tell her anything new. But the second page was a Milan police document regarding the arrest of Lisa Phelps and the subsequent arrest of her partner, Evan Merrick, a few days later in the States.
The thieves who had stolen the Lorraine cross.
“So Phelps must have squealed on her partner, since he was caught a few days later,” she said as she scrolled through the document. “In his New York apartment.”
