by Alex Archer
An older couple passing by stared at her and Garin in consternation. It didn’t help that four of Garin’s men in black suits followed them.
“We were mugged,” Annja explained, feeling the need to say something.
The woman made sympathetic noises, but neither she nor her husband stopped.
“I was the one inadvertently in danger,” Garin protested. “If I hadn’t been with you, they wouldn’t have tried to kill me.”
“So this is my fault?”
“It’s hardly my fault,” Garin objected.
Annja slid her hotel door card through the slot. The light turned green and the electronic lock disengaged. She stopped inside the door and blocked Garin’s way.
He stared at her. “Surely you’re jesting.”
“Nope.”
“You’re not going to let me in?”
“Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin,” Annja confirmed.
“That’s stupid.”
“I don’t think so.”
Garin cursed.
Annja tried to close the door. Garin blocked her efforts with a hand.
“Take your hand out of the door,” Annja directed. “Unless you don’t need those fingers anymore.”
“You need me.”
“Never.”
Garin heaved a sigh. “We were having such a good time.”
Annja pressed on the door. She knew it had to hurt.
Garin wiggled his fingers. “Annja, in all seriousness, you’re probably not safe here. You should let me take you somewhere else.”
Although part of her knew that Garin’s argument was valid, she didn’t want to place her fate in his hands. She didn’t trust him, and she also didn’t want to depend on him.
“I can manage,” she said. She renewed her efforts to shut the door.
“You’re hurting my hand.”
“Take it out.”
“I can’t.” Garin sounded totally put out. “You’ve got it trapped with the door.”
Annja eased back on the door. When she did, Garin leaned into it and shoved it open.
“Get out,” Annja ordered.
Garin ignored her and went to the couch. The room was small and he seemed to fill the space even while seated.
“I’m not leaving until I know that you’re safe,” Garin insisted.
“You don’t like me, remember? I’m the reason Joan’s sword is whole again. The reason you might not live forever.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’m feeling favorable toward you at the moment, but if I ever find one gray hair, that might change. And as difficult as you’re being, that could happen tonight.”
Annja glared at him. “I could call hotel security.”
“You could. But they don’t have enough people here to throw me out. They’ll have to call the police. Then the police will have questions they want answered. They won’t make me leave. They’ll take both of us into custody.”
“I’m willing to go. Are you? Or are you afraid of being inconvenienced?” Annja said.
“I have friends everywhere,” Garin said. “The local police will hold me only as long as I allow them to.” He grinned at her. “You, however, they would hold longer. If only to spite me because they might think we’re involved.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “That might be quite amusing. And I have no reason not to believe you’d be safe with the police. Let’s do that, then. Make the call.”
“No.”
“Coward.”
“You’re a jerk.”
“Stick and stones…”
Annja folded her arms. She took a deep breath and let it out. “Tell me about Saladin and the Nephilim again.”
Garin let his head drop in obvious frustration. “I’ve told you everything I know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Of course you don’t. Believing me would be entirely too easy.”
A phone shrilled for attention. Irritably, Garin took his phone from his pocket and glanced at the caller-ID panel. Then he pulled it to the side of his head.
“What do you want, Roux?” Garin asked.
Some of the anger and frustration Annja had been feeling drained away as she listened intently. But she couldn’t hear Roux’s side of the conversation.
Garin remained quiet for some time. Then he stood and said, “I’m on my way. As soon as I make arrangements I’ll let you know when to expect me.” He closed the phone. “Well, that certainly changes things.”
“What?”
“I’ve got to go.” Garin walked to the door and let himself out. The four security men stood post in the hallway.
“Where are you going?” Annja followed him.
“Roux called.”
“I know that. The two of you hate each other.”
“Not always.”
Annja knew that was true. At times the two men seemed to care for each other deeply. Then they would try to kill one another. Keeping up with their relationship was confusing.
“Now?” she asked. “Now you like each other?”
Garin shrugged. “We’ll see how it works out.”
“This is about the Nephilim painting, isn’t it?” Annja asked.
Garin grinned at her. “So now you want to be my friend.”
That brought Annja up short. “For the moment,” she agreed.
Garin laughed.
“I’m going with you,” she declared.
“No,” he replied. “You’re not.”
Without warning, Garin leaned forward and kissed Annja.
14
Annja felt Garin’s lips pressed to hers, and her synapses fired in warning and excitement. After a moment, she recovered enough to draw back to punch him. Instead, he pushed her back into her room and closed the door.
Annja opened the door and tried to step out, but she was instantly confronted by Garin’s four security men. They didn’t move out of her way, and Annja got the distinct impression that any physical effort she put forth would be countered.
“Take care, Annja,” Garin called from down the hallway.
“Come back,” Annja told him.
Garin paused at the elevator. “Thank you, but no. Tonight has been an exercise in frustration. On any number of levels. And I don’t know that Roux is going to offer anything better.”
“Where are you going?”
The elevator doors opened behind Garin.
“If you’re really interested, maybe I’ll tell you someday.” Garin stepped into the elevator cage and pressed a button. “Over dinner. The next time, you can cook.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“You’re too curious.” Garin smiled. “I like steak. Potatoes. Maybe a wedge of apple pie and ice cream. I’m really a simple man with simple tastes.” He waved to her, still smiling, and the elevator doors closed.
Angrily, Annja drew back and slammed the door shut on the security men.
* * * *
Less than twenty minutes later, someone knocked on the hotel room door. Annja was in the bathtub soaking and trying to push past the evening’s frustration.
She wanted to ignore the knock. If it was Garin, she was certain he wouldn’t tell her anything. If Saladin’s men were knocking—and there was no reason they would, she told herself—she didn’t want to be caught in the bathtub.
Grudgingly, she climbed from the scented water and toweled off.
The knock sounded again, more insistent this time.
“Coming,” Annja called. She dressed quickly, pulling on her bra and panties, then covering that with jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt. She padded barefoot to the door. Before she arrived, the knock was repeated.
“Open up, Miss Creed,” an authoritative voice demanded. “We know you’re in there. This is the police.”
Anxiety pulsed through Annja. She peered through the peephole.
Two men stood in the hallway. One was Skromach, the police detective who’d investigated the bombing on the movie set. The other was younger and slimmer, but
he looked as much like a cop as Skromach.
“Miss Creed,” the younger man called. He knocked on the door.
“I didn’t call for the police,” Annja protested. She felt like an idiot saying that as if she were protesting a pizza delivery.
“We need to speak with you, Miss Creed.”
Desperation set in then. Annja knew that a police visit at this time of the evening couldn’t bode well. She retreated from the door and crossed to the bed where her backpack and boots were.
After grabbing both, she headed for the balcony. She was only four floors up. The climb wouldn’t kill her. The fall might, but the climb wouldn’t. And she could claim, especially if they were investigating the violence that had broken out earlier, that she was afraid for her life. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and opened the balcony door.
Three men, all of them dressed in tactical riot gear, stood on her balcony. They looked at her.
“Good evening, Miss Creed,” one of them said politely in accented English. “Perhaps it might be better if you went the other way and accompanied the detectives.”
“Sure. That would be just great.” By the time Annja turned around, the detectives had let themselves through the door with a hotel passkey.
“Ah, Miss Creed,” Skromach said, and he looked almost happy. “So we did catch you at the hotel.”
Annja knew the verb was an intentional choice.
“We’d just like you to come with us down to the police station,” Skromach said.
“Why?”
Skromach shrugged. “We have just a few questions we’d like to ask you.” He pinned her with his gaze. “About a dozen or so men that were killed earlier this evening.”
“Don’t I get to call the United States Embassy?” Annja asked.
“Perhaps,” Skromach said. “We’re hoping that such a thing won’t become necessary. We’re certain that all of this is just a misunderstanding and can be cleared up in a short time.” He gestured toward the door. “Please?”
Knowing she wasn’t going to get out of the investigation, Annja sighed. “Can I put my boots on first?”
“Of course.”
* * * *
Annja woke when the door to the interview room opened. She lifted her head from her forearms. Her vision was blurry at first, and a headache throbbed at her temples.
Her return visit to the police station was less friendly than the first time. Earlier that day—yesterday, she reminded herself—she’d almost been a guest.
She’d been questioned off and on for the past fourteen hours. Skromach hadn’t gone home, though she suspected that he was catnapping somewhere because he seemed to come in bright eyed and ready every time he questioned her. The Prague policemen weren’t pushy with their questions, but they were persistent.
“Good morning, Ms. Creed.” A man approached the table. He wore an expensive suit and looked elegant. His dark complexion spoke of a history of outdoor activities.
Annja knew at once that the man wasn’t a policeman.
“May I sit?” the man asked.
“I’m not here in the position of hostess,” Annja said.
The man grinned, then pulled out the unadorned straight-back chair on the other side of the conference table. Unlike Skromach and his companion, this man didn’t carry a file folder with her name on it.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Who are you?”
The man spread his hands in front of his face and smiled again. “I could be your friend.”
Wariness filled Annja. She crossed her arms and studied the man.
He was in his late thirties and physically fit. A thick shock of black hair and a small, neat goatee framed his lean, hard-planed face.
“I’ve got enough friends,” Annja said.
That brought another smile to the man. “I’ve found in my business that a man cannot have too many friends.”
“I don’t usually meet my friends in police stations. I think I’ll pass on the offer,” Annja said.
The man gestured at the room. “It seems to me you could at least use one more friend at the moment.”
Annja paused for a moment as if considering. “What would this friendship cost me?”
“I’m sure we could arrive at something.”
“No, thank you.”
Something hardened in the man’s dark eyes. “Perhaps you shouldn’t act so rashly.”
“Do you call yourself Saladin?” Annja asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do. My father named me that. As his father named him. That name has been handed down in my family for generations.”
“I suppose it saves on monogramming,” Annja said, “but it must be confusing at family gatherings.”
A trace of a scowl tightened Saladin’s mouth. “Do you amuse yourself with your own wit, Ms. Creed?”
“I do. But you’re the one who chose to barge in and play. How did you get past the police?”
“I’m not without resources. As I said, I could be a good friend to have.”
“Trust is a big issue with me.”
Saladin favored her with a smile. “You can trust me.”
“You sent those men after me,” Annja argued.
Saladin shrugged and grinned again. “All work and no play tends to dull the minds of the men working for me.” He gazed at her intently. “You’re a cipher to me, Ms. Creed. I don’t like ciphers. How is it you know both Roux and Garin Braden?”
“That’s none of your business, but I will tell you this—the Nephilim painting you’re after? I don’t know anything about it.”
Saladin studied her and she noticed that one of his eyes was of a slightly different color than the other. The left one held a splash of green in the upper-right quadrant.
“Even if that were true,” he said slowly, “those two men value you.”
“Those two men,” Annja countered, “left me to my own devices while knowing full well that you were hunting me. Does that sound like they value me?”
Annoyance deepened Saladin’s scowl. “I guess the only way to truly know that is at your funeral.” He got up from the chair and left the room. Annja heard the lock click behind him.
* * * *
Hours later—Annja didn’t know how much time had passed because she didn’t have access to her watch or any of her electronics—another man entered the room. He looked around cautiously, almost a little fearfully.
“Miss Creed?” he asked. He held his briefcase in front of him like a shield. He looked as if he was barely into his twenties. Youth left his face soft and round. Glasses gave him a vulnerable look. His hair was already getting thin on top.
“Yes.” Annja made no effort to get up from her chair.
“I’m Walter,” the man said in a nervous voice. “Walter Gronlund. I’m with the State Department.”
“Don’t tell me. The United States government wants to place me under arrest also.”
Walter pushed his glasses up his nose with a forefinger. “Actually, no. I’m going to get you out of here.”
Annja breathed a sigh of relief and hoped that what the little man was saying was true. “Forgive me, but do you happen to have any identification?”
“Of course.” Walter reached into his jacket and took out a leather identification case. The photo ID looked just like him and announced that he worked for the United States Embassy in the Czech Republic.
Nervously, Walter settled his briefcase on the table. “I think they’ve got someone coming with your things from the hotel.”
That puzzled Annja. “Why are they bringing my things from the hotel?”
“That way you don’t have to stop on your way to the airport.” Walter checked his BlackBerry. “We’re getting a police escort to the airport, so getting there in time for the flight shouldn’t be a problem.”
“What flight?”
“Your flight, Miss Creed. Your visa has been canceled. Effective immediately.”
Annja couldn’t believe it. “T
hey’re kicking me out of the country?”
“That’s an awfully blunt way to look at it, Miss Creed.”
“Is there any other way to put it?”
“Actually, I believe I did put it another way. They’re rescinding your visa.”
Stunned, Annja slumped back in her chair.
15
Despite the impatience that screamed through her, Salome forced herself to sit quietly in the plush chair amid all the other potential buyers. She knew many of them. Over the years, they’d all crossed paths. Many of them watched her covertly and quickly glanced away when she looked in their direction.
She had a reputation, and she was quite aware of it. In fact, she took a certain amount of pride in that reputation. She’d worked hard over the years to attain it.
The auctioneer called for the buyers to bid on another item. He was a fastidious man in a good suit. His voice, though quiet and controlled, was far larger than he was.
Two young women, both dressed in low-cut gowns that threatened to expose them, presented an antique silver tea service. After they had the item properly positioned to show it off to its best advantage, the young women stepped aside.
After referencing the three-by-five card that accompanied the piece, the auctioneer said, “This six-piece tea service was once owned by President Andrew Jackson while he resided in the White House. The set has been authenticated as having been made by Jabez Gorham himself very early in his career.”
Salome checked the details of the tea set in her catalog out of habit. The tea service was worth quite a bit.
Salome quietly wondered how and where the auction house had gotten its hands on such a prize.
Once the bidding began, it went fast and furious. Bids were increased with the movement of a finger, the tap of an identifying number or simply the wiggle of an eyebrow.
Salome kept track of the bidding, not at all surprised at the brisk pace. Major buyers had known the service was going to be present. Auction houses in the Hague didn’t often get such things.
Salome immediately wondered if the tea service had been stolen at some point, or was even a very good replica. Either was possible. If a theft had occurred long enough ago, and if it had happened in another country, it was possible to get away with such a thing. Especially if documentation was provided that checked out against art-theft lists generated by Interpol and other international police agencies.