by Alex Archer
Campra was a large man, over six feet tall and steroid-enhanced. He shaved his head but grew a thick goatee that was artificially colored black. Silver hoop earrings glittered in his ears. He wore loose-fitting gym pants, a T-shirt and a lightweight jacket that covered the pistols he carried. Red-lensed wraparound sunglasses masked his eyes.
“Yes.” Campra wore an earpiece that kept him in contact with the rest of the security team.
“How many are still on our tail?”
“Three.”
“That we’ve found.”
Campra nodded. His team was good at surveillance, but Puyi-Jin’s people were good at not being surveilled.
The two women at the ambush had been a surprise.
The server brought back another glass of red wine. Laframboise paid her, tipped generously and swirled the glass by its stem. The wine had a good nose. He sipped. It was far from the best he’d ever had, still, it was good.
“Do we know who the woman was with Annja Creed?”
Campra shook his head. “Not yet.”
If the woman had shown up in Paris, Laframboise would have known who she was within minutes. “Where are the rest of Puyi-Jin’s men?”
“Nearby.” Campra frowned. “They appear to be closing ranks.” The big man had spent time in the military before turning mercenary. The other men who worked with Laframboise didn’t hang out with Campra. To them, he was dangerous and unpredictable. Campra would rather kill someone than worry about them.
Laframboise found that Campra’s most endearing quality. Laframboise didn’t believe in leaving witnesses alive behind him, either. He hated that Annja Creed had gotten away with Professor Edmund Beswick.
“They’re closing ranks?”
Campra nodded again and sipped his water. He never touched alcohol. “Evidently they’re satisfied that they know where you’re going.”
Laframboise fully intended to return to Paris. That was where he felt the safest, and that was where Anton Dutilleaux had lost the lantern—along with his life.
“Then what do you think they’re going to do?”
Campra shrugged. “Kill you.”
He grinned at that. People had tried to kill him before. He carried scars and two bullets from those encounters.
“Are you certain the professor didn’t know anything more about your little party favor?” Campra glanced at the shopping bag in the seat next to Laframboise. Inside, a specially constructed protective box held the magic lantern.
“He’s not the kind to hide the truth when he’s being physically punished. Everything he knew, he told us.”
Campra ran a hand through his goatee. “Something you have to ask yourself.”
“What?”
“Is the lantern worth going up against Puyi-Jin?”
Laframboise smiled at the other man. “Are you afraid of the Chinaman?”
A grin twitched Campra’s lips but failed to light his eyes. “Afraid, no. Wary, yeah. The guy is dangerous.”
“So are we.”
Campra nodded. “I still can’t help thinking you’re making a very powerful enemy for no reason. Puyi-Jin hasn’t been able to figure out the lantern, and that professor doesn’t have a clue, maybe you should cut it loose.”
Campra’s opinion was valued in his organization and he was offered the opportunity to propose courses of action. “Do you think I could buy Puyi-Jin’s forgiveness for betraying him with that act?”
The red lenses remained focused on Laframboise. “No.” Campra sipped his water again. “Not forgiveness, but he’s losing money and men on this, too. Several of his people have been arrested, chasing Annja Creed. He’s lost some good men.”
“I don’t want to give the lantern to him.”
Campra didn’t say anything.
“I didn’t get where I am by letting people push me around, my friend.”
“I know that.”
“And I’m curious.” Laframboise upended his wineglass and drained the dregs. “I hate being curious. Especially if there’s money involved. The professor mentioned that Dutilleaux was around Shanghai when money was flowing. You and I both know that a smart man, one willing to take risks, can divert some of that free-flowing money into his own pockets.” He tapped the shopping bag with his hand. “I have a feeling about this—a very strong feeling—that there’s something to the story of Anton Dutilleaux’s lantern.” He smiled. “Annja Creed being involved is most interesting. Have you seen her show? Chasing History’s Monsters?”
“Not much of a TV watcher.”
“Pity.”
“You’re a fan?”
“Of Annja Creed?” He shook his head. “No. I am, however, a fan of Kristie Chatham, the cohost of the show. Loses her clothing in all manner of delightful ways during most episodes.”
Campra shook his head. “You through with that wine?”
“I am.” He set the empty glass on the small table.
“Then we should be going. The car is here.”
“Of course.” Laframboise picked up the shopping bag and followed Campra through the crowd.
Research he’d done into the lantern had included scouring old photographs of Dutilleaux standing in front of wild phantasms in the catacombs. Laframboise had gone down into the catacombs to the exact spot where the phantasmagorist had been stabbed to death.
Laframboise liked to believe he was psychic. His mother had told fortunes when he’d been a boy. He remembered watching her spread the large tarot cards on a black felt cloth.
From the moment he’d put his hands on the magic lantern Puyi-Jin had offered to pay him so handsomely for, he’d felt certain the device would change his life forever. His mother’s gift was real enough and he’d inherited it. He was convinced of that.
* * *
OUTSIDE ON THE DOCKS, THEY headed for the rendezvous point. Despite the mad rush from the warehouse, everything else had gone according to plan.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the three Chinese men trailing him. The men were dressed in street clothes, but the loose shirts and light jackets easily concealed whatever weapons they carried.
Laframboise felt alive. He didn’t know where Puyi-Jin had come from or what the man had been forced to do to create his empire, but Laframboise had been killing for survival since he’d turned fourteen. He fisted the big pistol in his jacket pocket.
“Campra?”
“I see them.” The big man’s voice was flat and hard. “We don’t have to take them on ourselves. We have men nearby.”
“Worried?”
Campra snorted. “Not about me.”
“I want one of them left alive.”
“I can’t guarantee that.”
Laframboise turned right and took the next alley. “Work on it.”
He guessed that the three Chinese men would meet him on the other side. They gave themselves a moment and then wheeled and ran back out of the alley, hoping to double back around behind their stalkers.
Shoppers and tourists, already edgy from the police boats out on the river and the reports cycling through the media, hurried out of the way.
The three gangsters had no clue they’d been outfoxed. They’d spread out at the end of the alley Laframboise had initially taken, waiting.
A few yards away, holding the shopping bag in one hand, Laframboise lifted the Colt .44 Magnum and squeezed the trigger. The heavy round cored through the head of the closest man. The detonation sounded like an artillery shell going off, so near the narrow confines of the alley.
The .44 Magnum bullet nearly decapitated the target. Already dead on his feet, the man stumbled onto the man in front of him. The other two men tried to turn and draw their weapons from under their jackets. One of them was blocked by the dead man, but the other took a step to the side.
Campra’s bullet snapped into his face and drove the man backward. He jerked and fought for his balance, then sank to one knee. Campra shot the man twice more in the chest, making certain of the kill.
<
br /> The third man finally managed to get the corpse off him. Covered in the other man’s blood, his young face tight with fear, he lifted his weapon.
“Alive, Gilbert.” Laframboise held his weapon in a relaxed grip. He wore body armor and didn’t think the man would get a shot off, anyway, but he was prepared to put a round into the man’s chest if he had to.
Campra didn’t speak. His weapon barked twice.
The Chinese gangster shuddered at both impacts, and the pistol fell from his nerveless fingers. At different times, Campra had explained the shot to Laframboise, how the round could tear through the brachial nerve cluster in the shoulder and leave a wounded man unable to use his hands.
The shot was difficult, but Campra was a master.
He strode forward, keeping the wounded man covered. “Get down.” He waggled the pistol for emphasis. “Down on your knees. Do it now.”
Off balance, the man did as he was told. He barely managed to stay upright. He couldn’t raise his hands because his arms wouldn’t obey him, but he held them out from his sides.
“Don’t shoot.” The young man blinked fearfully.
“You work for Puyi-Jin. Tell me a lie and I’ll kill you.”
He hesitated only a moment, then nodded. His eyes were glazed and otherworldly. Between the fear and the pain, he was barely hanging on to consciousness.
“What did Puyi-Jin send you to do?”
The man clenched his teeth and swallowed hard. He was afraid. He wanted to run. All of that showed in his eyes. “To kill you. To get the lantern.”
Laframboise smiled. “All right. I want you to do something for me.”
He didn’t respond.
“If you’re not going to do it, I’ll kill you and leave you with your friends.”
“It will be done.”
“Give Puyi-Jin this message—I’m not easy to kill. Tell him that and tell him to stay away from me. Otherwise, I’ll come after him.”
He nodded.
Lowering his weapon, Laframboise strode past the wounded man with Campra at his side, heading to the black luxury sedan idling down the street.
The driver got out and opened the back door. Laframboise holstered his weapon and slid in. Campra joined him a moment later.
In the space of a drawn breath, the chauffeur put the transmission into gear and eased into the morning traffic.
Calmly, Laframboise shook the empties from his pistol and replaced them with fresh cartridges. “Do you think Puyi-Jin will get the message?”
“Yes. But he’s not going to listen.”
“You don’t think so?”
Campra snorted. “Would you?”
Laframboise grinned. “No.” He put the pistol away. “Puyi-Jin’s continued involvement will only make things interesting.”
“Isn’t that an old Chinese curse? May you live in interesting times?”
“I suppose it is.” Laframboise looked down to the magic lantern in the bag at his feet. There was something there, something just beneath the surface. He sensed the darkness inside the device and it called to him. “A curse can be a powerful weapon against people who believe it. We’ll make it our weapon.”
19
“You travel light.”
Zipping her duffel bag, Annja glanced up at Fiona Pioche. “It’s a gift. And a necessity in my line of work.”
Fiona stood at the window with her arms crossed, looking out over the city. “And which line of work would that be? The television personality? The archaeologist? Or whatever it is you are when you draw that sword?”
“Sword?” Sitting in the small straight-backed chair beside the equally small writing desk, Edmund perked up at once. “There was a sword, wasn’t there? And you had it. What happened to that sword?” He didn’t look happy at all.
Annja dropped the duffel on the floor. “I don’t have it anymore.”
“I didn’t see what you did with it.”
Annja ignored him and went back to the bathroom to make sure she’d got everything. Satisfied everything was packed, she returned to the bedroom.
Someone knocked on the door. Fiona casually drew her pistol and nodded at Annja.
At the door, Annja stood to the side, almost inside the small closet. “Who is it?” She’d seen nasty things happen to people who made the mistake of looking through the peephole.
“Ms. Creed, it’s Detective Chief Inspector Westcox. I’d like a word if I might.” The man sounded irate.
Fiona put her pistol away.
Annja opened the door.
Westcox stood in the doorway with his hat in one hand.
“I was just leaving.”
“That might not be as easy as you like. There are several matters I need to discuss with you.”
Fiona stepped forward. “If I may be permitted, Annja.”
Westcox gritted his teeth. “Ah, Ms. Pioche. I would say it’s nice seeing you again. If that were true.”
Fiona smiled thinly. “Likewise, I’m sure.” She waved a hand toward Annja’s duffel and backpack. “As you can see, Ms. Creed was on her way out. If you’d like, you could help carry.”
“No, I don’t think I would. Furthermore, I was just thinking of escorting Ms. Creed—and you—down to the station for questioning.”
“We have rather pressing business to attend.”
Westcox worked his jaws and his color deepened.
“Unless your offer wasn’t an invitation? In that case, I’d have to get my barrister involved. And as you know, Chief Inspector, Maurice doesn’t care for the bullying tactics you sometimes employ.” Fiona’s smile was saccharine.
Distaste compressed Westcox’s lips. “There’s no need to get that man involved.”
“So this is an invitation?”
Westcox hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Of course.”
“Then we decline.” Fiona turned to Annja. “Grab your things. The car should be out front by now.”
Annja retreated long enough to pick up her duffel, backpack and leather coat.
“Chief Inspector.” The constable who’d been guarding the door stood in back of Westcox with a hand held protectively over his groin. His voice had risen a full octave. His eyes looked watery and his face was red. “You can’t just let that woman go. Not after…not after what she did.”
Westcox glared at Fiona. “My constable says you assaulted him.”
“With his own Taser. And he’s a head taller than I am.” Fiona shook her head sorrowfully. “Do you really want something like this to end up in the papers and on television, Chief Inspector?”
The constable tried to edge forward.
Westcox held the man back with an arm. “Walk away, Constable.”
“But—”
“I said, walk away. Do it now.”
Cursing, the constable turned and walked down the hallway.
Westcox shifted his focus back to Fiona. “You’re going to involve yourself in this, Ms. Pioche?”
“I’m afraid I am already involved.”
“Why?”
“At the behest of an old friend, Chief Inspector. And you know how I treasure my friendships.”
“I also know that the moral nature of your friends is often questionable.”
“Merely part of what makes them interesting.”
Westcox glanced at Annja. “What has made this woman so interesting?”
Annja objected to being casually dismissed, but she allowed Fiona to handle the situation.
“After you get to know her, Ms. Creed is quite endearing.”
“Endearing or not, the two of you are in a mess.” The chief inspector reached back over his shoulder. A serious young woman in uniform stepped into view in the open doorway and handed him a file. Westcox opened it and took photographs out. “I just got these from a security camera on the Isle of Dogs where an apparent skirmish was fought between known criminals—and yourselves.” He handed them the pictures.
Annja studied the images with a sinking feeling. They we
re of Fiona, Edmund and her fleeing the scene.
Fiona took one of them and pulled a pair of reading glasses from her jacket. She put them on and studied the photograph.
“Tell me what you were doing there,” the chief inspector said.
“I don’t think these images are high quality enough to prove that the people in these pictures are us.”
“That car of yours is sufficiently distinct to mark you. Your ego is going to drive the nail in your coffin.”
Fiona handed the photograph back dismissively. “If you’d like to take your chances before a judge, Chief Inspector, then, please, by all means. I keep Maurice on year-round retainer. It would be good to see him work for some of that.”
Westcox returned the photographs to the folder and handed the file back to his young subordinate. “Tell me what you were doing there, Ms. Pioche.”
“You haven’t proven I was there.”
Edmund cleared his throat nervously and spoke up. “Actually, they were there to rescue me. I’d been kidnapped, you see.”
Westcox rounded on Edmund like a cat that had just swallowed the canary. “And who are you?”
“Professor Edmund Beswick.” He brushed ineffectually at his ruined and bloody clothing. His face was swollen and bruised and his hair was in disarray.
“Pleasure to meet you, Professor.” Westcox stood a little taller. “Ah, it appears I have a witness that can put you at that scene, Ms. Pioche.”
“Wait,” Edmund said frantically. “Did you not hear me? I said I was kidnapped.”
“I’ll be glad to take you down to the station where you can fill out a report.” Westcox reached out for Edmund.
“No. I’m no longer kidnapped.”
Fiona looked amused. “If you choose to go with the inspector, Professor Beswick, I think you might as well consider yourself kidnapped again. And the process will be about as regrettable.”
Westcox snorted.
Edmund looked confused. “What I’m trying to tell you is that Ms. Pioche and Ms. Creed had a reason to be there.”
“They could have contacted the police, Professor Beswick. That’s what we’re here for.”
Fiona yawned. “Police take forever and a day getting paperwork together.”