by Alex Archer
I do.
What field are you in? the contact asked.
Archaeology.
Awesome. I thought about getting into archaeology. I still might. I want to take a doctorate before I’m through. Maybe then.
Annja didn’t want to sound impatient, but she also didn’t want to spend the night comparing degrees. How did you find out about the painting? she asked again.
I studied with a brilliant man named Dr. Anton Krieger. Ever hear of him?
Annja had. There had even been a Discovery Channel special on the man after his recent death. I have. Smart man. It was a shame to lose him.
Yeah. He was one of those rarities—a really good guy. But he was eighty-nine when he died. He’d lived a full life. The funny thing is, he’d never gotten to figure out the truth about the Nephilim Medici was trying to find. Dr. Krieger told me he had papers Cosimo de’ Medici left behind. He felt certain the secret location of the Holy Grail was hidden in that painting.
Annja didn’t believe that. If a code had been embedded in the painting it would have been figured out long before now. There were a lot of legends about paintings hiding secrets.
That’s pretty hard to believe, she typed.
I know. I don’t think I bought into it, either. But it was weird when you started asking questions about the painting.
Did Cosimo de’ Medici find the painting?
Maybe. There’s a rumor that he did. One of his men supposedly located it in Constantinople as the city fell to the Ottomans. He was supposed to have gotten out of the city with the painting, but something happened to him on the way back to Venice.
What? Annja asked.
According to the story Dr. Krieger ultimately got, this guy was killed by a jealous husband in an inn. Nobody said what happened to the painting.
What did Dr. Krieger think happened to it?
He thought there was every possibility that the killer or killers saved the painting and sold it. Or they might have destroyed it on the spot.
Or the innkeeper threw it out the next morning because the dead man bled all over it, Annja typed. Or because he thought it might have been cursed. The painting was incredibly suggestive from what I’ve read.
Right. There was even some conjecture that Cosimo had the man killed to prevent anyone from connecting him to the painting.
Do you know who the artist was? Annja asked.
The original artist was a man named Josef Tsoklis.
Annja took a moment and opened up another window. She Googled the name quickly but didn’t get any hits.
Doesn’t appear to be much on Tsoklis, she typed.
Except for this one painting, he was pretty much a nonevent. He died soon after he did the painting.
Then why did Krieger get interested? Annja asked.
Because of the Grail story. Dr. Krieger was interested in the aspects of the story that equated it to the horn the archangel Gabriel was supposed to blow that would bring about the end of days.
That was something Annja hadn’t heard before. How did Krieger arrive at that conclusion?
There have been other papers written about that possibility. Dr. Krieger was just covering his bases when he did the work on this project sixty years ago. But it was interesting enough that it stuck with him. Shortly before he died a few months ago, we had a breakthrough.
What happened?
Dr. Krieger had discovered some sketches in Cosimo de’ Medici’s personal effects. They showed what Cosimo had been told the Nephilim painting looked liked.
That bothered Annja at once. If sketches existed, there was every possibility that the work had been copied more than once. If so, finding the original painting would be infinitely harder.
While I was working with him, her contact wrote, I noticed that some of the sketches were a lot like another painter with moderate success at the time. I was preparing a paper on Venetian artists.
The cursor sat blinking for a moment.
Anyway, I found some notes in Dr. Krieger’s collection that he got from the Medicis’ records. There’s a possibility that this second artist was in Constantinople and did some touch-up work on the Nephilim painting before the city was sacked.
Define ‘touch-up,’ Annja wrote.
Bringing the color back into line. Smoothing out some of the texture. Back in those days, artists had a tendency to glop the paint onto the canvas.
Who was the other artist? Annja asked. She waited, wondering if she’d scared him off.
27
If Dr. Krieger was alive, her contact wrote, I wouldn’t give you this. It was his story. And in a way, because I worked so long with him on this, maybe it’s mine.
I understand how you feel. Mentally Annja crossed her fingers as she typed. I’d be protective, too. But that’s not the story I’m after.
The problem is, I’m not going to be able to do anything with the information I’ve got. The funding for Dr. Krieger’s research was cut almost the day he died. With what I’m getting paid, I can’t continue.
Annja assured her contact she’d give him full credit in her research.
The artist’s name was Jannis Thomopoulos. He was born and raised in Venice, but he traveled extensively. Some of those travels were to Constantinople.
What did he do there? Annja typed.
Found clients and did portrait sittings. He did several watercolors and sketched a lot. Pretty much lived a hand-to-mouth existence till the end of his days.
Okay, that’s great. Annja felt her cell phone vibrate. She glanced at the caller ID and saw that it was Bart. Can I get in touch with you again if I need more information? she typed.
Definitely. And if you find anything out, please let me know.
Annja assured him that she would. Then she took Bart’s phone call.
“Nobody got hurt,” Bart said.
Annja heard the sounds of traffic passing over the telephone connection and knew that Bart was probably on his way to pick her up. Still, the news was good. She let out a sigh of relief and started packing her computer into her backpack.
“Luigi’s all right?” Annja stood and stretched.
“Once you bolted,” Bart said, “the guys chasing you vanished.”
“Luigi has cameras inside the restaurant.”
“We got the storage drives from the cameras. I looked at the images myself. That’s one of the reasons I’m calling back so late. We’ve got a chance at identifying the men who came after you. If they’ve got records.”
“What about Charlie?” Annja asked.
That was clearly a sore subject with Bart. “There was no sign of him. I tell you, Annja, you may feel softhearted toward that old man, but the possibility that he set you up has to have entered your mind.”
It had, but for whatever reason Annja couldn’t believe that was really what had happened. She slung her backpack over her shoulder, then took another glance at the street below the cybercafé. A few pedestrians moved along the sidewalk. New York never ground to a complete halt in any of the five boroughs. None of the pedestrians appeared to be Saladin’s men.
“Where are you headed?” she asked.
“I’m coming to pick you up,” Bart growled. “I’m thinking that may be the only way I’m going to get any sleep tonight.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Annja said, meaning that she didn’t want him to do that.
“Hey, we’re talking about my peace of mind here.” And that meant that Bart wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “You’re at the cybercafé a few blocks down, right?”
Annja thought about lying. She had her own life and her own agenda. She really didn’t need her friends butting into it. Except that what was going on these past few days had left her owing those people.
“Yes,” she replied. “I’ll be out front.”
“Not out front,” Bart said quickly. “Stay hidden. I take it you’ve looked around.”
“Two of them passed by right after I got here, but I haven’t seen them again.”
“I know.”
“I don’t get the impression that these guys are going to go away easily. Not if they’ve followed you from Prague.”
Annja waved at Graham and Helen, who were in the process of turning the evening shift over to the night manager and night cook. They waved back. A few of the gamers called out halfhearted goodbyes, still wrapped up in the imaginary worlds on their screens.
She told Bart she’d see him in a few minutes, then folded the phone and put it away. She went down the steps quickly and waited just inside the doorway. Her mind spun as she tried to process the new information.
Okay, the news about the other artist is good, she told herself. That gives you an avenue no one else who’s been looking for this thing has explored. Maybe Roux and Garin don’t even know about Thomopoulos. Just focus on that for the moment.
As she stood in the foyer, she felt the night’s chill soak into her bones. Her eyes burned with fatigue. She hadn’t slept well in two nights and it was catching up with her.
A moment later Bart’s unmarked car slid to a stop at the curb. She pushed through the door as Bart got out of the vehicle and looked around. His hand rested on the pistol holstered at his hip.
Sliding into the car was almost anticlimactic. Annja sat back in the seat and cranked the heater as Bart slipped back into the car.
“Did you just offer to take the homeless guy out for dinner?” Bart asked irritably. He pulled the transmission into Drive and pulled away from the curb.
“Yes.”
“He didn’t even have to give you a sob story about being hungry.”
“I could see that he was hungry. He looked like he hadn’t eaten well in days,” Annja said.
“Terrific. You and I need to compare notes on your idea of keeping a low profile.”
“I didn’t expect those men to show up here.”
“You also said you thought they were after this guy, Garin Braden.”
“I think they were.”
“Well, where’s he?”
Annja refused to look in Bart’s direction, but she watched his reflection in the windshield. He clearly wasn’t happy.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “How did those men find me?”
“I told you, the old man—”
“He didn’t have anything to do with those men showing up at Luigi’s,” Annja protested.
“Do you have some special mutant ability for detecting lies that I don’t know about?” Bart asked.
“It’s the same one you have.”
“That guy, he was burying the needle on my radar.”
“You never talked to him.”
“I didn’t have to,” Bart said.
“There’s something decent about him.”
Bart shot her a perplexed glance. “Decent?”
“Yes.”
“He’s covered in street muck—”
“He’s relatively clean.”
“He doesn’t have a pot to—”
“There are public bathrooms.”
“Yeah. Normally anywhere those guys are standing.”
Annja didn’t bother to respond.
Bart sighed. “Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings or get into an argument here. I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t believe it. You want my opinion—and yeah, I get that you don’t, but here it is anyway—that old man sold you out.”
“If he was hooked up with the men who came to Luigi’s, don’t you think he’d be better dressed? Better able to take care of himself?” Annja asked.
“Maybe he’s disguised.”
Annja turned to him. “Are you listening to yourself?”
Bart held up a hand in defense. “Okay, maybe that’s a little far-fetched. But I’m tired. And I’ve been worried about you.”
“I appreciate that.”
“You could act a little more appreciative.”
“And you could be a better listener.”
Bart growled in frustration. His jaws clenched and he readjusted in the seat. “Maybe I could,” he said.
“There had to be another way those men found me at Luigi’s.”
“The easiest way is for the old man to tell them.”
“He was with me at the museum all afternoon. Why didn’t he call those men then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he couldn’t get hold of them.”
“Think, Bart. There has to be a reason. You’re the trained investigator. You tell me.”
After a moment of tense silence, Bart answered, “You used a debit card when you paid for the meal. I checked the receipts.”
Annja remembered that. She’d given her cash to Charlie. “They can track my debit card?” she asked.
“It’s possible. If you want to factor the old man out of the equation, that’s what you’re left with. It plays.” Bart scratched his chin with his thumb. “The easiest way is to figure the homeless guy for it.”
“No,” Annja insisted.
“Then those guys could have tracked you through computer databases. You used your card while you were in Prague, didn’t you?” Bart asked.
Annja took only a moment to remember that she had used her card while shopping. “Yes.”
“They came at you in Prague. If these guys are as well equipped as they seem to be—and getting fully automatic weapons in this city, while not impossible, is still difficult, not to mention expensive—then imagining they have a geek squad able to do something like that isn’t a big stretch.”
Annja didn’t think so, either. Suddenly she felt incredibly vulnerable.
“Hey,” Bart said softly. “You okay?”
Not trusting herself to speak, Annja just nodded and kept her eyes locked straight ahead of her. She walled all the feelings out and concentrated on herself. That was what she’d always done in the orphanage when things turned against her.
More than anything, she wanted to talk to Roux at that moment. She wanted to know what was going on. But for the first time she was afraid to talk to him because she knew he’d turn down her attempts to question him.
He’s not your father, she told herself angrily. He doesn’t owe you anything. Despite the fact that he helped you find the sword—and that hasn’t always gone well, has it?—he’s never promised you anything. And he hasn’t gone out of his way to give you anything, either, has he?
And how many times has he nearly gotten you killed?
Still, she remembered the way he’d talked to her when they were together on occasion. And she remembered the conversation she’d had with him when she’d gone out with Garin that night in Prague. He’d been angry at her, but part of that anger stemmed from the fact that she’d hurt him.
“Hey, Annja. Are you okay?” Bart asked softly.
Annja tried to speak, but couldn’t. She just nodded.
“It’s going to be all right,” Bart said. “I promise.”
It sounded good to hear Bart say that, but he didn’t know about swords with strange powers or men who could live for hundreds of years. Annja had the distinct feeling that if he had, Bart wouldn’t feel so sure of himself at the moment.
He touched her shoulder hesitantly. Then, when she didn’t push his hand away, he put his arm around her.
“It’s going to be all right,” Bart said softly. “We’ll figure this out.”
“I know,” Annja answered, but she said it because she knew he expected her to say that. She didn’t believe it. For the moment she just simply shared in the illusion.
But when they pulled up to her building, Charlie was sitting on the steps with Wally.
28
Garin was late getting back to the house Roux had arranged outside the Hague. As he’d seen to the care of the men who’d been wounded, and to the disposal of the bodies of those who had been lost, his anger had become well stoked. By the time he parked his Mercedes in the large driveway, he was seething.
The
encounter at the Danseker estate was hours in the past. News stories about the break-in and subsequent murders filled the news channels. CNN and Fox News had picked up the story because of the macabre nature of the painting.
Images of the painting had already flooded the Internet. So had vicious theories about devil worshiping and ritual sacrifice gone wrong.
Dressed in a suit, Garin left the armored luxury sedan and crossed the flagstone walk to the big house’s front door. The structure was three stories tall and felt empty. Garin wondered if Roux owned it or had leased it for the effort to get the painting.
To the east, the sun had started to streak the sky in purple and gold. Garin didn’t plan to be in the Netherlands by the time it reached its zenith.
Inside the house, Garin could smell frying sausages and potatoes. He followed his nose to the immaculate kitchen at the back of the big house. He kept his hand on the gun holstered at his hip. The next unpleasant surprise that met him was going to receive a bullet between the eyes.
Jennifer stood at the stove, bathed in the soft glow of a small television mounted on the counter. The channel displayed the scenes of the violence at the Danseker estate.
She’d put on slacks and a sleeveless blouse. With the short heels she wore, she looked like an elegant wife making a quiet and private breakfast.
Garin stared at her. The woman was beautiful; there was no doubt about that. He could see what Roux had seen in her.
She moved smoothly and reached toward a ladle, but her hand instead sought out a small flat black autopistol hidden in a dish towel. In the space of a single breath, she came around in profile with the pistol leveled before her.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
Garin left his hand on his holstered pistol, just in case. “I came to see the old man.”
“Why?” Jennifer didn’t lower her weapon.
Garin frowned. Now he had to entertain the possibility that she’d feel threatened enough to pull the trigger. Garin planned on living, so he’d be forced to kill her. It seemed like such a waste.
“To talk to him,” Garin answered.
“About what?”
“To let him know I’m out.”
“You’re quitting?” She didn’t lower the pistol.