Magic Lantern (Rogue Angel)

by Alex Archer

  Annja glanced at the lower right side of her computer screen. It was 8:13 a.m., a lot earlier than she’d expected to get up, and much earlier than she suspected Jean-Baptiste Laframboise would be up. Still, it was better to get a lead on her quarry.

  Edmund leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I truly don’t know how your head can hold all that information without exploding.”

  She glanced at him. “Name the Romantic poets.”

  “William Blake, Lord Byron, William Wordsworth, Samuel Coleridge, Percy B. Shelley, John Keats, Matthew Arnold and John Clare.”

  “And why were they called Romantic poets?”

  “Because their work contrasted sharply with previous literary styles, philosophy, the church and the problems and promise of industrialization.” Edmund shook his head. “I get your point. I know the facts of my field as well as you know yours—history.”

  Annja swallowed another spoonful of yogurt. “But my field—history—touches your field—literature. The same period we’re talking about? The one with these Romantic poets? That took place at the same time Shanghai was becoming a major trade franchise in China. Lord Byron died in the 1820s in the Greek War of Independence, didn’t he?”

  Edmund frowned. “He did. From illness. In 1824 at the age of thirty-six while preparing to battle with the Greeks against the Turks.” He paused. “You know, I hadn’t before thought of the relationship that period in Europe had with China.”

  Fiona stirred her cereal and spooned up a bite. “Yet Europe and the United States were bent on invading China through Shanghai at the same time to open up the opium trade, which they primarily owned and operated down in India.”

  Annja set the empty yogurt container aside and picked up a piece of toast. “Enough of the history lesson. Where are we going to find Laframboise?”

  Fiona poured a cup of strong tea from the carafe on the table, then stirred in milk. “What do we know about him?”

  “That he’s a violent killer.” Unconsciously, Edmund touched his bruised face.

  Fiona waved that away. “He made a momentous decision to betray a very dangerous enemy. He’s also come into possession of an artifact that might possess magical properties. We know from his upbringing, from his mother’s interest in the arcane, that Laframboise is a man given to a belief in the supernatural. His world has been turned upside down. So where would he go?”

  Annja glanced at the thick folder at Fiona’s elbow. Georges had provided the information last night, and all of it concerned Laframboise and Puyi-Jin. She had a digital copy of the same information on her computer hard drive. Fiona liked hard copy. Last night she had spread it out around her and looked at photographs and documents. Judging from her responses and observations about the materials, Fiona was a much better hunter of men than Annja was. She was a remarkable woman.

  “Getting out at all will be dangerous for him.” Edmund steepled his forefingers under his chin. “He knows Puyi-Jin is looking for him. The attack on Annja last evening would have told him that. The story was all over the news last night and this morning.” He nodded at the television against one of the living room walls.

  Annja had picked the story up on her computer in her room last night. So far, the Parisian police and the Département de la Sûreté, the equivalent of the FBI, known locally as the Sûreté, hadn’t identified Annja.

  They had identified the Asians involved in the kidnapping attempt. They were all known Puyi-Jin gangsters. No one had a clue why the attack had taken place.

  They had been lucky the story was so vague.

  Fiona nodded. “The danger is something Laframboise will accept, though. That’s the price he pays for doing business. What is the least known thing he’s got on his hands at the moment?”

  Annja understood where Fiona was headed now. “The lantern.”

  “Yes. Now that he has his hands on it, he’ll want to know more about it. Where will he go?”

  “A museum.” Edmund sounded certain of himself. “Like me, he’ll want to verify the authenticity of the lantern.”

  “I mean no disrespect, Professor, but Laframboise would take the lantern to a museum or auction house only if he were interested in the financial value of the piece. He’s not interested in that, is he?”

  “No.”

  Annja tapped at her computer and called up the file on Laframboise. She found what she was looking for quickly. “He’s going to be more interested in the mystical aspects of the lantern.”

  Fiona set her teacup on the saucer on the table. “And where is he going to go to find out about that?”

  “Georges has listed three fortune-tellers here in Paris that Laframboise sees on a regular basis.”

  “None of them will be able to satisfy Laframboise, because whatever knowledge they have is going to be incomplete at best.”

  Edmund tapped his fingers on the table nervously. “We have no way of knowing which one he’ll see.”

  “On the contrary, I think he’s going to see them all. He has no choice.”

  “Then we stake out these three people?”

  “Georges has already put eyes on them. I asked him to do that last night.”

  Annja was impressed.

  “So we’re going to try to intercept Laframboise when he goes to see these people?” Edmund didn’t sound happy.

  “No. If we try to engage Laframboise in the streets, he’ll be riding in an armored car. We won’t be able to get at him.” Fiona rummaged through the file and pulled out an eight-by-ten of a luxury car, which she spun into the center of the table. “This is his vehicle. Top of the line and very well equipped.”

  Annja glanced at the photograph. “Laframboise could always just have the fortune-tellers come to him.”

  “One of them does on a regular basis.” Fiona drew out another photograph, this one of a young man with intelligent eyes and thin lips. “He’ll have to go to the other two.” She laid their photographs out, as well.

  The first was a stylishly dressed young African woman. The second was an older Asian woman whose face was gnarled in wrinkles and flecked with age spots. Her hazel eyes glittered in an otherworldly way.

  “The first is Magdelaine de Brosses, a popular Parisian psychic.” Fiona touched the photograph. “She has a network set up. Phone lines and websites. She has a local television show and does private consulting in her office.”

  Fiona laid another photograph on top of de Brosses’s. A tall building in downtown Paris.

  “That building has considerable security and manpower.” Fiona tapped the photograph of the old woman. “This is Bui Thi Trinh.”

  “Vietnamese?” Annja studied the picture.

  “Yes.”

  Edmund leaned in. “I wasn’t aware that the Vietnamese went much in for fortune-telling.”

  “Belief in the supernatural is cultural.” Annja buttered a piece of toast. “Every primitive people developed some sense of the supernatural to explain things. You’re thinking of the Vietnamese as they are now and were back in the twentieth century. Influenced by communism and torn apart by one outside nation after another. Back in the feudal era, the Vietnamese people believed in thầy phù thủy. Sorcerers or witch-men. They set up small temples all over the country. They also believed in âm binh, ghost warriors that could cure disease or insanity, or cast love spells.”

  “Interesting.” Edmund leaned back. “Where does this woman operate?”

  “In her flat,” Fiona replied. “It’s also interesting to note that this woman was one of those who taught Laframboise’s mother fortune-telling.”

  Annja nodded. “So Laframboise’s link to this one isn’t just professional.”

  Fiona shook her head.

  Edmund frowned. “Don’t tell me we’re going to go after this old woman?”

  “No. She lives in a building that could be hard to control, hard to get into and out of.” Fiona put Bui Thi Trinh’s picture back into the folder. “We’re going after the lantern when Laframboise goes to se
e Magdelaine de Brosses.”

  “I thought you said she worked out of a heavily secured office building.”

  “She does.” Fiona smiled. “It’ll make it more interesting, won’t it?”

  27

  Annja sat at a small table in an internet café across from the building where Magdelaine de Brosses regularly delivered the future for her clientele. Jean-Baptiste Laframboise arrived a few minutes before noon. That saved Annja the hassle of finding a new observation post. She’d been rotating locations with Fiona, cycling through the internet café across the street, a bistro a half block down the street and a tourist shop in the bottom floor of the building.

  Across the street, Laframboise got out of his car while one of his bodyguards held the door. The man looked good, sleek and rested, and that made Annja even more annoyed with him. Despite the solid hours of sleep she’d gotten the previous night, she still felt ragged and off.

  Edmund Beswick’s continued involvement plagued her. The literature professor was probably safer with them than he was in London on his own, but she was too aware that he was on the firing line with them when things went wrong.

  And things were going to go wrong even if they went right, of that Annja was certain. Thankfully, for the moment, Edmund had agreed to remain with the car.

  On the curb, Laframboise glanced around, spotted the window washers working on the eighth-floor windows, then he buttoned his coat and nodded to his bodyguard. The big man took the lead toward the building and Laframboise followed. Two more bodyguards came after him. One of them carried a case slightly larger than Dutilleaux’s lantern.

  Annja lifted the disposable phone Georges had given her to use. She punched in Fiona’s number. The woman answered on the first ring. “He’s here.” Annja watched Laframboise pass through the building’s double glass doors and into the foyer.

  “I have him.” Fiona’s voice was cool and competent. She was currently inside the tourist shop. “We know where he’s going.”

  Magdelaine de Brosses operated out of a small office on the sixth floor. According to the information Georges had provided, the fortune-teller’s day began promptly at eight o’clock and was over by 5:00 p.m. Clients came and went every thirty minutes and stayed no longer than twenty minutes—unless they made arrangements to stay longer, and that was expensive.

  Georges’s information on the fortune-teller was extensive. Some of the background came from a man Georges knew inside the Parisian police. De Brosses and her operation had been under investigation for some time, but none of the law enforcement people had found anything incriminating. The woman claimed to deliver glimpses of the future, and she never took more money than she charged for her time.

  “I’m on my way.” Annja felt her pulse speed slightly as she got up from the chair at the table. She clipped the phone’s earpiece to her ear and pocketed the cell, leaving the connection in place.

  Out on the street, Laframboise’s car pulled into traffic and glided away. There was a parking garage two blocks away. Georges had assumed the driver would take the car there, or he would simply circle the block until Laframboise reemerged. Either way would keep the man out of play.

  In the foyer across the street, Laframboise and his retinue stood waiting for the elevator to arrive. Fiona was nowhere in sight.

  Outside the internet café, Annja pulled her jacket a little tighter against the wind and walked to the corner to cross. She wore a black wig and wraparound sunglasses that dramatically altered her features. She felt confident that neither Laframboise nor his people would recognize her. They hadn’t met, but Chasing History’s Monsters had an extensive database of pictures of her online.

  “He is going up to six.” The detached male voice had a West African accent, but there was a lot of Parisian influence there, as well. He might have been born somewhere else, but Annja knew he’d spent most of his formative years in France.

  She hadn’t met the young technical wizard Georges had provided for their recovery effort. They’d talked briefly by phone before leaving the flat that morning, but there had been no face-to-face encounter. As Georges had explained, it was as much for their benefit as it was for his young technical wizard.

  When the light changed, Annja strode across the street with the other pedestrians. She wore cargo pants and a T-shirt with a loose shirt and a jacket to cover the pistol at the small of her back. She didn’t want to have to rely on the gun. She also wore the thin gloves so she wouldn’t leave prints on the weapon. Thankfully, the weather was cool enough that gloves wouldn’t draw attention.

  “He’s arrived at six.” The tech spy had hacked into the building’s CCT system. The closed-circuit television system showed all the public areas, the hallways and the elevators.

  “Very good.” Fiona’s voice was calm, like she did this kind of thing all the time.

  Maybe she did. Annja smiled at the thought, but she felt out of depth. She’d been involved in similar operations in the past, but she’d never grown comfortable with all the clandestine cloak and dagger.

  “What about his associates?”

  “They’re with him.”

  “Let me know if there’s any deviation.”

  “Of course.”

  Annja pushed through the double glass doors and entered the building’s lobby. A uniformed security guard stood at one post. He had a magazine in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, but he was talking over a phone headset. Despite the man’s inattention, Annja’s stomach knotted.

  Fiona fell into step with her and they reached the elevator together. She’d changed her appearance also, adding a long brown wig and different makeup.

  “Are you ready for this?” Fiona stood beside Annja like she was in no hurry.

  “As ready as I can be.” Her heart was beating rapidly. She watched the elevator numbers drop lower as they neared the lobby.

  “I always get nervous right before we get down to it.”

  “I thought you were born for stuff like this.”

  Fiona chuckled. She leaned over to Annja conspiratorially. “I just put on a good show.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  The elevator pinged and the doors separated in front of them a moment later. They were the only two people to get on.

  Fiona snaked a hand to her back, checking on the pistol. “Are you still with us, Heimdall?” She glanced at Annja. “I feel ridiculous using that sobriquet.”

  “I see everything.” The young man sounded amused over the headset links. “No evil shall escape my sight.”

  Annja grinned as she felt the elevator start up. “You’re mixing your comic book cultures. Heimdall is from the Norse mythology in Thor as published by Marvel Comics. The bit about ‘no evil’ is from Green Lantern’s oath, a DC Comics thing.”

  “Depends on your point of view. It’s all Hollywood to me. Idris Elba and Ryan Reynolds. And how do you know so much about comics?”

  “I’m a big reader. I was always a big reader.”

  Fiona smiled and looked at her. “You do surprise, Annja Creed.”

  “You should hear me talk about Lost and Supernatural.”

  “Given your schedule, I wouldn’t think you’d have time to keep up with television.”

  “If it weren’t for the internet, I wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

  “Personally, I’ve always enjoyed Gilmore Girls.” Fiona briefly took out her pistol and racked the slide. “Shame they took it off the air.” She put the pistol away again.

  The elevator went past the sixth floor and stopped at the seventh. The doors opened and Annja went through at Fiona’s side. The plan was to take the stairs back down to six. Magdelaine de Brosses’s office was near the corner.

  * * *

  “GOOD MORNING, M. Laframboise.” The young man seated behind the glass-and-chrome desk looked relaxed and cheery. He always did.

  Laframboise couldn’t recall the man’s name and had never liked him. The man was too pretty, too perfect. But he suited Magdelaine w
ell as an intermediary. He was handsome enough to keep the attention of young women and too laid-back to threaten the husbands of those women. He was also young enough to stir the fantasies of older women and make them wish they had a few years back, and at the same time make them look on him like a son or grandson.

  Innocuous. That was the word that often came to Laframboise’s mind when he dealt with the man.

  Laframboise nodded.

  “Would you care to have a seat?” The young man gestured toward one of the seats in the elegant room. Plants and art prints of scenic areas around Paris brought an Old World feeling to the modern room.

  “No.” Laframboise wandered over to look at a print of the Eiffel Tower. His mobile showed three minutes of twelve. Magdelaine wouldn’t keep him waiting. She wouldn’t dare.

  Gilbert Campra took one of the seats and gave the appearance of relaxing. The news reports of Puyi-Jin’s men attacking a woman who was doubtlessly Annja Creed had confirmed the Shanghai crime lord’s continued interest in the lantern.

  One of Laframboise’s security guards sat in another chair, the case containing the lantern in his lap.

  “Mademoiselle de Brosses should only be a moment.”

  Laframboise didn’t respond. He knew for a fact that Magdelaine had finished with her prior client at eleven-fifty. The woman was prompt, conscious of time and never broke her rules. She always took ten minutes between clients to recover the psychic energies she expended.

  The time he was kept waiting irritated Laframboise, but he knew better than to push it. In past visits, when he had made an issue of being kept waiting, the readings hadn’t gone as well, and he believed Magdelaine needed time to gather herself.

  He took a deep breath and tried to relax. He hadn’t slept well last night, and only alcohol and drugs had put him out of his head at all. He had spent hours working on the lantern, trying to guess its secrets. One thing was for sure: the lantern possessed power. He could feel it. He was enough of his mother’s son to sense that.