by Alex Archer
* * * *
“Ah, there you are! My movie star! Back from so far away!” Maria Ruiz, the owner of Tito’s Cuban restaurant, threw out her chubby arms and wrapped Annja in a bear hug.
Thankfully it was after eight o’clock and most of the dinner crowd was gone.
Annja hugged the big woman back. A feeling of seriously being home washed over Annja. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been gone lately until that moment. Of course, maybe getting tossed out of a country made her a little more grateful for the old neighborhood.
“I hope it’s not too late to get something to eat,” Annja said.
Maria dismissed the thought. She was short and stout, a pleasant, hardworking woman who drove her son Tito crazy while she managed the restaurant and he ran the kitchen. Together they’d created a restaurant clientele that kept them busy all day long.
“Never too late for you,” Maria said. “Come. I get the two of you a table. Then I fix you something special. You need something to put meat back on your bones. You’re getting too skinny. It’s not healthy.”
Annja knew better than to protest. She followed Maria back to the rear of the restaurant. In the next moment, Annja and Bart were seated. Tortillas, chips and an array of salsa and cheeses were placed before them.
Bart, never shy when it came to eating, dug in at once.
“So,” he said as he rolled a tortilla, “you didn’t blow up the car, but you maybe shot a few guys.”
“I don’t know. Probably. It all got pretty crazy.” Annja poured salsa onto a tortilla, added cheese and started rolling.
Bart looked at her for a moment, as if deciding whether to say what was on his mind. Then he said it. “You know, you’ve been involved in more gunfights than anyone I know.”
Annja was just glad she hadn’t told him everything she’d experienced since she’d found the sword.
“That wasn’t exactly my choice,” she replied. “I’m an archaeologist.”
Bart ticked his fingers off. “And television host, author, consultant—to museums, private collectors and the NYPD on more than one occasion—and gunfighter.”
“I never set out to do those things. I just wanted a better, deeper look at the world.”
“I guess you do that during the reloads.”
“I suppose you had time to figure out all this comic dialogue after you heard I was coming back.”
“I may have fine-tuned it a bit,” Bart admitted.
“My advice? Find an appreciative audience. I just got kicked out of a country, remember?”
“How much trouble are you in?”
“I don’t know.” Annja sipped the Diet Coke one of Maria’s servers had brought. “I don’t think it’s going to follow me back here.”
Bart rolled his eyes. “I hope not. The captain and commissioner haven’t forgotten the last debacle. Good times were not had by all, I assure you.” He sipped his soft drink. “Are you planning on returning to Prague?”
“Not anytime in the near future.” Annja popped a cheese-dipped chip into her mouth. “How good is my credit in the favor department?”
“You’ll never get out of debt.”
“Then it won’t matter if I go a little more in debt.”
“It’s that kind of cavalier attitude that really gets you into trouble.”
“I need to know about a guy.”
“You seem to know more about Garin Braden than the rest of the world.”
“Not him. Someone else.”
Bart reached inside his jacket and took out a small notebook. “Is this going to be like the time you asked me to check out a set of fingerprints and they turned out to belong to a person of interest in a 1940s Hollywood murder?”
That had been Roux. Annja still didn’t know what to make of that.
“I hope not,” she replied.
“Okay.” Bart waited, pencil poised.
“He calls himself Saladin.”
“First name or last?”
“I don’t know.”
“Helpful. Not.”
“He came to see me while the Prague police had me. Actually, he came to threaten me.”
Most of the levity left Bart then. He took threats to his friends seriously. “Saladin, eh?”
“That’s what he said.”
“The Prague police should know who he is.”
“If they’re willing to tell you. They let him in to see me, and I got the distinct impression they were willing to let him do whatever he wanted to.” Annja started to take another sip of her drink, but she suddenly felt eyes on her.
The sensation of being watched was uncomfortable but not frightening. She’d experienced such things before. Women generally did. Usually it was better to just ignore things like that, but Annja was aware that she no longer lived in a usually world.
She glanced at the window overlooking the street. Night had settled in over the city, and darkness hugged the doorways and alcoves.
A figure stood at the window and he was staring at her. Gaunt and dressed in rags, the old man looked more like a scarecrow than a human being. A ragged beard clung to his pointed chin. His hat had flaps that covered his ears and gave his face a pinched look. His eyes were beady and sharp, mired in pits of wrinkles and prominent bone.
He lifted a hand covered in a glove with the fingers cut off. His dirty forefinger pointed directly at Annja, and even from across the room she read his lips.
“Annja Creed.”
A chill ghosted through her. How did the man know her name?
“Annja Creed,” the old man said. “The world is going to end. Soon.”
17
“Annja Creed,” the old man repeated. His mouth moved, making her name clear even though his efforts carried no sound. His forefinger tapped against the glass.
“What are you staring at?” Bart asked. He turned in his seat. “That homeless guy?”
Without answering, Annja got up and walked toward the front door of the restaurant.
“Where are you going?” Bart asked.
“He knows my name,” Annja explained.
“A lot of people know your name. You’ve been on television.”
Still, Annja felt drawn to the man for reasons she couldn’t explain. Maybe it was his apparent helplessness.
“Do you know this guy?” Bart was suddenly at her side.
Annja saw Bart’s reflection in the glass next to hers. Both of them overlaid the old man for a moment.
Terror filled the old man’s eyes and he opened them wide. He placed both palms against the window and shook his head.
Annja kept moving and Bart matched her step for step.
“What is the matter?” Maria called out. She hurried over as she wiped her hands on a bar towel. “You don’t have to go, do you? Your food, it is not ready.”
The old man turned and fled before Annja reached the restaurant door. By the time she was out on the street, he was gone. She jogged to the corner, but there was no sign of him.
“Do you know him?” Bart asked again as he surveyed the street scene.
Annja shook her head. “No. But he knew me. He called me by name.”
“Television,” Bart replied.
“Does he look like the type to watch television on a regular basis?”
“He looks more like the type to have aluminum foil packed into his hat,” Bart admitted.
Annja turned back to Maria, who stood in the doorway and peered out. “Did you see that man?”
“I did.”
“Do you know him?”
“That one?” Maria shook her head. “Not so much. I’d never seen him before, then—poof—he is here. Like a wizard.”
“He’s here?” Bart asked.
Maria nodded. “Yes. The last two or three days, maybe. Always looking in the windows.”
“Maybe he was just looking for a handout,” Bart suggested.
Annja couldn’t forget the way the old man had called her name. She didn’t think it was just because he
’d recognized her from television. Those rheumy old eyes had madness in them.
“Come back inside,” Maria coaxed. “Your food will be up soon.”
* * * *
After dinner, Bart drove her to her loft. He parked in front of the building and placed his police identification sign on the dashboard as Annja got out. She checked the time and found it was a little after nine.
Bart reached into the car’s trunk and started removing suitcases. He put them on the sidewalk. “We’ll just take out a few, no more than we can carry, and we’ll leave the rest safe in the car.”
“Wait here,” Annja said. “Wally has a cart we can use.”
Inside the building, Annja knocked on Wally’s first-floor apartment. The building superintendent had one of the smaller units in the structure, but he kept it clean and neat. Wally took care of Annja’s mail and her plants while she was gone.
Wally answered the door himself, still clad in his work clothes. Behind him, a baseball game was on television.
“Annja!” he boomed. “It’s good to have you back.”
Annja smiled. “It’s good to be back.”
“I figured you’d call first.”
“I would have. I apologize. I came back early.”
“Nothing to worry about.” Wally waved the apology away. “You need help with anything?”
“I’d like to borrow the cart if I can.”
“Sure, sure.” Wally stepped back into the apartment and returned with a small four-wheeled cart. “You’re not gonna try to carry that stuff in yourself, are you?”
“Bart’s with me.”
Wally grinned. “Good. I like to watch a young man work.” He guided the cart through the door and walked out with Annja.
* * * *
“Can I borrow a sleeping bag?”
Startled, Annja looked up from her computer at Bart. He’d taken off his coat, and his pistol was visible holstered on his hip. “Planning a vacation?”
“No, I’m staying here for the night and you only have the one bed.”
“Did I miss the part where I invited you for a sleepover?” Annja asked.
“There was an implicit invitation when you left dead guys in Prague.”
“I had to leave them. They’d never have cleared customs.”
“You’re making bad jokes,” Bart said. “I know you’re tired.”
Annja actually felt a little guilty about that one. She didn’t take death lightly, but she’d been serious for far too long these past few days. Verbally sparring with Bart was always fun, and his humor ran dark occasionally.
“I’m going to be fine,” she told him.
“With me here, you’ll be finer.”
“You can’t stay here forever.”
“You’re right. I’ve got to throw on the Batman suit and get up early to fight crime in the morning. But for tonight I can be here and not worry about you.”
“You’re not exactly bulletproof yourself,” Annja pointed out.
“Let’s just hope I don’t have to be.” Bart smiled. “Humor me. I’m tired after carrying all that luggage.”
Annja got up and located a plush sleeping bag and gave it to Bart.
“Can you tuck yourself in?” she asked.
“Yeah. Gee, thanks, Mom.” Bart laid out the sleeping bag in the corner. “Will the TV bother you?”
“No.”
“Good. I can catch the rest of the Yankees game and compare notes with Wally in the morning.”
“You’re going to see Wally?”
“To let him know to keep an eye out for you, and to make sure he still has my cell number.” Bart picked up a small bag from the floor.
Annja didn’t recognize the bag. “That’s not mine.”
“It’s mine. Shaving kit. Change of clothes. Clean underwear.”
“Always prepared.”
“My mom trained me well.” Bart took out his toiletry bag, a pair of gray sweat shorts and a T-shirt, then headed to the bathroom. “I take it you’re going to be up for a while.”
“I slept on the plane. And I’ve got some research I want to do.” Annja turned and put her face back into the computer.
While waiting for her flight out of Prague, Annja had logged on to the archaeology sites she often used for research. She’d sent out queries regarding Nephilim and paintings of them.
She weeded through the discussions, finding most of it centered around horror movies—some good and some bad—and the mythology that Nephilim were the children of fallen angels and human women.
It wasn’t helpful, but it was interesting. There was also conjecture that the Nephilim were a race of giants mentioned in the Bible, and that the Flood had been caused to wipe them and their wicked ways from the earth.
Annja leaned back in her chair and tried to get comfortable. Her mind kept pulling at the mystery. She kept thinking about Garin and Roux and wondering if they were all right.
More angels, in paintings and statuary, were mentioned. She started scanning those entries, and one instantly grabbed her attention.
Don’t know if this helps, but there’s a legend about a painting of a Nephilim that the Medici family was interested in. Cosimo de’ Medici supposedly sent an emissary to retrieve the painting from Constantinople during the siege by Ottoman forces under Mehmed II.
Annja responded.
Would love to talk to you more about this. Can we meet for IM?
The time frame sounded right, and Garin had mentioned the fall of Constantinople.
Annja sent the e-mail and continued to prowl restlessly through the Internet. Bart had gone to sleep on the sleeping bag. He snored gently. The blue glow from the television fell over him.
Annja got a blanket from the closet and spread it over Bart. He was a good friend, and she felt badly that he was sleeping on her floor rather than at home in his own bed. With all the artifacts and books she had crammed into the loft, Annja barely had room to live there herself, much less the luxury of a guest room.
Bart wasn’t like Roux and Garin at all, Annja thought. He wouldn’t ever leave her in the lurch the way those two had so often.
Bereft of energy and still full after the meal at Tito’s, she took a shower and went to bed. She kept hearing the old man’s voice in her dreams.
“Annja Creed. The world is going to end. Soon.”
18
Garin got out of the cab in the Hague and knew he was being watched. He reached up to the earpiece that connected him to the security team he’d placed inside the city.
“I’m being spied on,” he said quietly.
“Yes, sir. We expected that. We’re looking.” The man’s voice was calm and self-assured. Garin wouldn’t have paid for anything less. The problem was that such a man also wouldn’t acknowledge if things got out of control.
Garin didn’t think Saladin would have been able to find him so quickly. Since leaving Prague, Garin had changed identities four times as he traveled ever closer to his destination.
But Saladin wasn’t the only one who might be interested in whatever prize Roux was after.
His phone rang. “Yes.”
“Call off your men,” Roux said. “It’s only us here.”
Garin stopped and looked around. “You see me?”
“And your men, yes.”
“How many men?”
“So far?” Roux sounded bored and impatient. “Five.”
Garin had eight men flanking him. After being surprised in Prague, he’d decided not to take any chances for a time.
Still, Roux spotting five of them was impressive. Of course, he’d known for several lifetimes that the old man was a canny individual.
“Where are you?” Garin asked.
“Where I said I’d be.”
Garin looked up at the second-story window of a building a half block down. A small French restaurant occupied the first floor.
Roux appeared in the window for the briefest instant. He held a phone to his face and quickly stepped bac
k. Even though he’d said no one else was there, the old man obviously wasn’t taking any chances.
“Don’t dawdle,” Roux said.
Garin unleashed a scathing retort, then realized he was speaking to dead air. He looked at the caller-ID screen, thought about calling back and knew it would be a wasted effort.
For a moment, Garin thought about just turning around and leaving. But he couldn’t do that, either. He was certain Roux knew that. The mystery of the Nephilim painting had hung in the back of Garin’s mind for hundreds of years.
Angry, Garin pocketed the phone and headed for the building.
* * * *
An immaculate maître d’ approached Garin. “Would you like a table, sir?”
“He’s with me,” Roux announced. Dressed in slacks, a windbreaker and a golf shirt that made him look like a casual diner, the old man stood near the door. From the way the jacket hung, Garin knew that Roux carried a pistol in a shoulder holster. He led Garin toward the wall farthest from the windows.
“You should have had that jacket tailored,” Garin said in German. That had been the first language they had shared.
Roux spoke in the same language. “That would have been a waste of money.”
“Ever the skinflint, and you’re sitting on more money than you’ll ever spend.”
“No,” Roux said. “It’s just that I don’t see a reason to advertise my affluence to call forth pickpockets and muggers. We’ve got enough problems.” He pointed his chin at a nearby table.
Garin stared at the woman seated there. She wore a light peach blouse that accentuated her dark skin. She was stunningly beautiful.
“You didn’t mention you had company,” Garin said as they approached the table.
“She’s an old friend,” Roux explained. He made the introductions.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Braden,” Jennifer said.
Garin captured one of her hands and kissed it. He bowed slightly in a gentlemanly manner.
“Aren’t you suave,” Jennifer said, chuckling. Clearly she wasn’t impressed with his behavior.
“He’s obviously in one of his elegant moods,” Roux groused. He sat himself on the other side of the table. “There’s no need to be flattered. It merely signifies that he’s measuring you up as a potential romantic fling.”