The Spider Stone

by Alex Archer

  She didn't know what was going to happen. She was very aware that she had been changed by the sword's power, but she didn't know if those changes had been completed. She had no idea if they'd affected whatever spell or force or cosmic happening that had allowed Roux and Garin to live for five hundred years.

  "Getting yourself killed isn't an optimum career choice," Roux groused.

  "That didn't happen," Annja argued. She knew he was only worried about what might happen to the sword. If something happened to the sword – or to me – are you afraid you'll be held accountable again? It was a question that always hummed in the back of her mind whenever she talked to Roux.

  "According to what I saw on CNN a few minutes ago, getting killed was a near thing," Roux said.

  "That was yesterday."

  "So today is better? You're safe?"

  Annja looked around at the bored security guards. "Yeah. I'm safe."

  "Good. I don't want worrying about you throwing off my game."

  You're worried about me? That thought warmed Annja for just a moment, then she reined in those feelings. They were just the remnants of being raised in an orphanage.

  Roux wasn't exactly a fatherly figure, but there was something demanding and dependable about his presence. If they were on the same side in something, she knew he would never abandon her. He'd proved that when she'd first found the sword and had to fight to keep it. But he'd let her go her own way after that.

  Still, the sword somehow bound them and she was distinctly aware that both of them knew it. Neither of them was happy about it, but it was interesting.

  "I doubt you'd worry too much about me," Annja replied.

  Roux snorted again. "All of this is over people who've been dead for the last 150 years?" he asked.

  "Not completely," Annja admitted. "Do you know much about the Hausa people?" She knew that Roux had a vast knowledge of many subjects. She always learned something new whenever she talked to him.

  "Which empire?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "There were several empires. Come, come. You're supposed to be the archaeologist. I'm just a dabbler with an interest in old things."

  With five hundred years' experience, Annja thought. No archaeologist I know is going to be able to put together that kind of résumé.

  "I don't know which empire yet." Annja knew there had been several Hausa trading empires.

  "Then what are you dealing with?"

  Annja gazed at the tiger's eye stone that Hallinger was observing under a computer-assisted magnifying glass they'd borrowed from the university. From time to time, the professor took digital captures of the stone's surface. They were slowly mapping the intricate Hausa language written on the surface.

  "A stone," Annja answered.

  "Doesn't sound interesting to me."

  "It's supposed to be a treasure map."

  Roux laughed. "Treasure maps litter history. Even those a hundred or two hundred years old usually turn out to have been part of some con man's game."

  Someone called in the background. The voice was soft and young.

  That irked Annja a little, though she knew it shouldn't have. She knew Roux had a fondness for young women. Every time Annja had visited the old man at his rambling mansion outside Paris, he'd always had a woman with him. None of them ever stayed long.

  "I'm going to have to go," Roux said. "Someone requires my attention."

  Randy old goat, Annja thought. But she said, "Sure."

  "You may send me a few pictures of your latest hobby. If you wish. Perhaps I could help."

  "Are you sure I won't be taking up too much of your time," Annja said.

  Roux huffed. "There's no reason to be persnickety, Annja."

  "I'm not being persnickety," she argued.

  Hallinger looked over his shoulder at her, then quickly returned his attention to the Spider Stone.

  "You sound it to me," Roux said.

  "Maybe you should have your hearing checked."

  "Why? Everything else seems to be functioning well. I don't get any complaints," Roux said.

  Now that's an image I don't need, Annja thought.

  The soft voice called again, sounding more needy this time.

  "Send me the pictures if you've a mind," Roux invited.

  "Maybe." Annja was unwilling to commit to anything.

  "On that note," Roux said, "I'll say goodbye. Stay well, Annja. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

  He hung up while Annja was still trying to figure out how to react. Roux cared about her. Somewhere inside, she knew that, but caring about her exposed him to a lot of hurt. For five hundred years, he'd watched anyone he'd grown close to grow old and die. If they managed to grow old.

  Except for Garin. During most of that time, Roux's ex-apprentice had tried to kill him whenever they were around each other. Finding Annja and the sword had brought them together briefly. She knew their relationship was complicated.

  Annja put her cell phone in her pocket. Roux cared about her.

  Maybe it's hard for you to accept that, she told herself. She'd walled herself off from most people. She had some friends, good ones. And even a few who tried to mother her, the way that Maria Ruiz, the owner and chef of Tito's, her favorite Cuban restaurant in Brooklyn, did.

  But there had never been anyone like Roux in her life.

  "You okay?" Hallinger asked.

  "Yes." Annja stepped over to the coffeepot in the corner and poured another cup.

  "Your dad?"

  Annja frowned and shook her head. "Definitely not."

  "Sorry. Sounded like you were talking to your dad."

  "He's just...just a guy I know."

  "Oh." Hallinger looked away, clearly feeling awkward.

  Annja suspected the professor thought she'd been talking to someone she felt romantic about. "It's not like that," she said.

  "It's really not any of my business."

  "No," Annja said, feeling flustered, "I mean it. It's not like that."

  "I believe you."

  Get a grip, Annja told herself. But she couldn't let it go. She suspected maybe it was because she was tired. "He's a...mentor."

  "A professor?"

  And didn't that just bring up the lovely subject of star students crushing on professors? Annja let out a breath. "You know, I just don't want to talk about it."

  "Okay." Hallinger didn't look at her.

  Maybe it would have helped if he had. Then she could have known what he was thinking, and maybe he would have been thinking that nothing she said was any of his business and that would have been the end of it.

  But he didn't look up.

  "He's just this guy. A really old guy." Annja described Roux that way because that fact seemed important. "He knows a lot about history."

  "A historian?" Hallinger asked.

  "More or less."

  "That's a good field. I've always been interested in history myself." Hallinger shrugged. "I guess it's a natural spin-off from archaeology. Reading other people's interpretations of an event or a person."

  "He just called to check on me."

  "That was thoughtful."

  "He's not really that thoughtful."

  Hallinger continued working.

  "He knows a lot that I would like to know," Annja said. "Except he won't tell me. He says I need to find out some things for myself."

  "My dad used to tell me the same thing," Hallinger said. "He was an archaeologist, too."

  "The guy I was talking to isn't my dad."

  "You said that already."

  Annja sighed and gave up. There was no explaining Roux. She couldn't even explain the man to herself. Whatever tied them together wasn't going away, and she didn't know whether to feel glad or threatened by that.

  Hallinger glanced at her. "Are you really all right?"

  "Yes," Annja replied, folding her arms and sealing off the confusion of emotions that ran through her. No. She really needed a good night's sleep.


  "Ready to work?" he asked. "I think I've found a map."

  ****

  "You think they got enough Five-O there?"

  Icepick gazed from the shadows of the alley across the street from where the woman archaeologist was supposed to be holed up with whatever she had found. Three police cars sat out in front of the building.

  He looked at Terrence. "We don't have a choice about this. My uncle sent me to get this thing."

  Terrence nodded. He knew Tafari, and he knew the warlord would not allow them to back off just because of the police.

  The men were pumped on speed, tense and wired up, ready to take action. Dressed all in black, the members of the small army held assault weapons and were connected by walkie-talkie headsets.

  "What we need is a distraction," Icepick said. "Send Pigg and a couple of others to the bank we passed on the way into town. Have them plant some of the explosives we brought, like someone's trying to break into the bank, then wait for my signal. That's far enough away to buy us time to take down the warehouse, get the stone and hit it. By the time everything gets sorted out, we'll be gone."

  Terrence nodded and turned to make things happen.

  Crouched with his back against the wall, Icepick took out a small vial of cocaine. His uncle didn't like him using the hard drugs, but Icepick kept his use to a minimum. They were just for times when he needed an edge.

  He shook some of the cocaine onto the back of his hand, then snorted it. He licked the back of his hand and felt his tongue grow numb. The cocaine was good, expertly cut.

  New energy blossomed within Icepick. He forced himself to wait although his nerves jangled for him to be up and moving.

  He reached under his leather duster and took out the Glock 18C machine pistol. The weapon looked like a normal semiautomatic handgun, but it was configured to fire through a 17-round or 33-round magazine in a single pull of the trigger.

  The pistols were usually employed by American law-enforcement agencies, but Icepick had negotiated the purchase of a few dozen. The weapon had been featured in one of the Matrix films and Terminator 3. After seeing the Glock there, Icepick had decided he had to have one.

  Several 33-round magazines filled the deep pockets of the duster he'd had specially made. It was like something Neo from the Matrix movies would wear, too. He also wore a Kevlar vest. It was bullet resistant and would stop most rounds. He'd take a vicious beating from the blunt trauma, but a few bruises were a small price to pay. But he didn't plan on getting shot at all.

  Icepick inserted one of the 33-round magazines. High capacity meant that his team didn't have to be accurate. They just had to be careful not to shoot each other.

  Pigg and the two men Terrence had chosen drifted away into the night.

  Crouching, zinging inside, Icepick whistled tunelessly while he waited.

  ****

  Hallinger had found a map.

  Annja shifted through the images the professor had taken and fed into the computer. The digital images could be dramatically blown up.

  "Do you see it?" Hallinger asked.

  "I do." Annja manipulated the image. "The map's unmistakable."

  "But we have no reference points." Hallinger sounded tired. "It could be anywhere in Africa."

  "West Africa," Annja said. "We know that because of the Hausa language."

  "The Hausa were once scattered across a far larger part of Africa than they are now," Hallinger pointed out. "Where this map is depends a lot on how old this stone is."

  "Not the stone," Annja said. "The carving."

  "Agreed." Hallinger leaned a hip against the table and looked disgusted.

  "The carving is exquisite work." Annja studied the lines. "There's not a misplaced line in the map."

  "The Hausa worked in stone."

  "But whoever made this was a gifted craftsman. That's going to narrow the field a bit."

  "I shouldn't allow myself to be disappointed," Hallinger said. "It's not like we're going to get to go look for the treasure."

  Annja looked at him and smiled. "Is it the treasure you want?"

  "If the Hausa put gold and ivory away for a rainy day, you can bet they put away more than that. That place, wherever it is, could also be a library containing records, histories and a real look into the Hausa culture during those days. Some of the oldest empires of civilization are in those areas." Hallinger rubbed his jaw. "I wouldn't mind being remembered as the guy who found something like that."

  Neither would I, Annja thought. She turned and leaned against the table, too. She was aware that some of the security guards were watching and listening to their conversation even though they were trying to be subtle.

  "Maybe we can get a shot at doing that," Annja said.

  Hallinger stared at her.

  "My producer on Chasing History's Monsters has wanted in on this," Annja said. "So far I've kept him out of it. The last thing we needed was a film crew leaning over us."

  "Agreed. But you think he might be interested in this?"

  Annja smiled. "An ancient map to a lost treasure of a people protected by a spider god? He'd go for it in a heartbeat. There's only one catch."

  Hallinger lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.

  "We'll need a monster. Or a legend of a monster."

  "We haven't found any monsters yet that weren't of the human variety," Hallinger pointed out.

  "We could play up the Anansi angle. Anansi wasn't always a good god. He's believed to have come from the Ashanti people. Maybe there's something there."

  "If you're talking about Africa, and especially West Africa, you're talking about voudoun and zombies."

  "I think my producer may finally be as sick of doing stories about zombies as I am." Annja thought about it. "Maybe we could work with the cult aspect of the bokors. They lean toward the dark side of voudoun."

  "They create the zombies."

  "Without getting into the whole zombie litany," Annja said.

  "With the Islamic influence, we also have the jinni."

  "Weak." Then Annja reconsidered. "Actually, we haven't done anything with jinni that I know of."

  "Several of the African cultures also believe in lycanthropes," Hallinger said.

  "But we don't have a specific monster. Or person who was thought to be a monster. A general story about werewolves wouldn't fly."

  "That makes a difference?"

  "Can you believe it?"

  "I have to admit," Hallinger said, "I've seen the show. I wouldn't have thought there was much criteria for acceptable monsters."

  "There is," Annja said.

  They both fell silent for a moment.

  "What about vampires?" one of the security guards volunteered.

  "Vampires," Hallinger said.

  Annja shrugged. "My producer loves vampires. He hangs out at vampire clubs and plays a count."

  "Terrific," the professor said dryly. "You know, this is a sad statement on our profession that we even have to sit around discussing such subjects."

  "It's all about acquiring funding," Annja replied. "You have to get creative when you're going after funding."

  "In 2002 and 2003," the security guard said, "they had a bunch of vampire attacks in some country. Killed a governor and a bunch of other people. Started a riot."

  "Malawi," Annja said.

  The guard snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "That's it."

  "Only one person was killed during the riot. Four other people, including the governor, were stoned but lived. The citizens thought the governor was in league with vampires." Annja had been offered the story at the time. She'd passed. Kristie Chatham had accepted the story, negotiated a fat bonus for the travel, then proceeded to run screaming through the streets of Blantyre, Malawi.

  No vampires had ever put in an appearance. There was no mention of the hominid remains and stone tools that dated back more than a million years. The episode had still gotten one of the highest ratings in the history of the show.

  "Maybe we just
need to sleep on this," Hallinger suggested. "By morning, we could have a new take on what we're doing."

  Before Annja could say anything, a loud explosion sounded outside.

  "What the hell was that?" one of the guards shouted.

  No one had an answer. They all stood and put their hands on their weapons.

  Apprehension triggered Annja's personal early-warning system. She put her hand out and touched the sword but didn't draw it from the otherwhere. There were too many people around. But she had the definite sense that something very wrong was happening.

  Chapter 13

  Icepick cursed. The sound of the explosion at the Executive National Bank could be heard throughout all of Kirktown.

  "Done." Pigg's voice over the earpiece sounded distant.

  "How much of that damn plastic explosive did you use, Pigg?" Icepick demanded.

  "Enough, man. That bank's front door is in splinters. There's alarms going off everywhere."

  There was no arguing that. Even where Icepick was, with the echo of the explosion bouncing around inside his skull, the strident wailing of the alarms screamed through the streets.

  "We're haulin' ass," Pigg advised.

  "Get clear." Icepick took a fresh grip on his pistol as the three police cars in front of the warehouse burned rubber getting into motion. He supposed that every cop dreamed of catching a bank robber.

  In seconds, the police cars had disappeared, roaring toward the other side of Kirktown.

  "All right," Icepick said, "let's move." He led the way across the street, closing in quickly on the warehouse door they'd figured was closest to the area where the archaeologists were working.

  Annja Creed. He rolled the woman's name in his mind, enjoying the sound of it. She was a good-looking woman, and his uncle hadn't said he had to keep his hands off of her. It was always better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission, he thought.

  Terrence came up behind him and took the other side of the door. One of the other men came forward with a shaped charge. Icepick took care to surround himself with capable people when it came to killing. The killing itself could be learned on the spot, but getting into areas rapidly took special skills.

  "Back," the man said. He'd once been part of a special-forces unit, trained by the military to do exactly what they were doing now. Urban assault, he called it. "Fire in the hole."