by Alex Archer
He took a final breath, then returned to the house.
****
"Did your father tell you about the promise he made to me on the night we separated?" Kikka asked.
"That he would help you if you ever needed it?"
Kikka looked at him, and Garin knew she was remembering how it had been all those years ago. That knowledge made him feel good and sad at the same time. The experience was confusing.
"Yes." Kikka smoothed her dress over her knees. "You came because of the promise your father made?"
"I came because of curiosity," Garin said truthfully. That was only part of it, though.
"That's another trait you share with your father."
"People tell me I'm very like him."
"You are." Kikka studied him and her intense scrutiny made him feel more vulnerable and exposed than he had in centuries. "I never expected to have to call," she said.
Garin waited.
"But I did," the old woman went on.
"Anything," Garin said. "My father made me promise. If it's money, simply tell me how much."
Pride stiffened Kikka's bent and withered spine.
Garin knew at once he'd made a mistake.
"I didn't call for charity," Kikka said with a hint of the old fire that had burned within her during the time Garin had known her. "I would never do that."
"I apologize," Garin said, dropping his head in deference. "I didn't mean to offend."
For a moment the old woman said nothing. Garin thought she wouldn't allow herself to ask him for anything and that she would tell him to leave.
Evidently her desperation was great.
"You've heard that I've fallen on hard times," she said.
Garin looked her in the eye and didn't lie. "Yes."
"It wasn't all my own doing," Kikka said. "The businesses the Schluter money has been in, businesses that we've had for years – factories and real estate – have struggled recently."
"It's the shifting labor pool," Garin said. "Global trade and the ability to outsource so much labor-intensive business has affected everyone."
"That's what my investment counselor told me," Kikka admitted. "Unfortunately, I tried to manage my investments for myself for a time and what's left of our fortune is leveraged." She paused. "If something doesn't happen soon... "
Garin waited, knowing Kikka would only tell the story when she was ready. He stood quietly and shared his attention between the old woman and tending the fire.
"I've read about you, you know," Kikka announced. "It appears you've inherited your talent for business and no-nonsense approach from your father."
"Thank you."
"I also saw an article on you in Forbes. You're something of a treasure hunter and collector."
Garin shrugged. "That greatly depends on the treasure." Curiosity tugged at him. Kikka Schluter had never been one to go chasing after treasure. She'd always remained firmly fixed on her family's standing and fortune.
"Your father loved the idea of hidden treasure," Kikka said. "He told me about some of the finds he'd made."
Garin hadn't told her all of the stories, though. He'd only embellished a few of the more entertaining ones. In too many others he'd arguably played the villain, though that was never a role he would assign to himself.
A servant came to the doors with a serving tray and two brandy snifters.
"Your father was a brandy connoisseur." Kikka waved the servant in.
"I've developed a taste for it," Garin replied.
The servant placed the tray on the table and departed. Garin picked up the snifters and offered one to Kikka. She took it and swirled it around, gazing through the glass against the light to check the quality.
"I called you here to offer you a business proposition," Kikka said. "For hundreds of years," the old woman said in a soft voice that barely reached Garin's ears, "there has existed within the barony the legend of a fabulous treasure in Latvia. Early in the thirteenth century, one of my ancestors went to Riga in search of it."
Garin wasn't impressed. There were many myths and legends about buried treasures and lost fortunes in the world. Even back in France, when he'd first been apprenticed to Roux, they had tracked down several legends. Some of them, a very few, had turned out to have a grain of truth in them. On occasion they'd found amazing things. Garin owned a few of them now, though he didn't completely understand them. An image flashed in his mind of Annja Creed and her sword.
"Are you familiar with the history of the Baltic states?" Kikka asked.
"I am." Garin knew he wasn't as studied as Roux, but he knew a lot about history because he had lived through so much of it. "Latvia has constantly been a country in turmoil. It was, and remains, a major trade hub in the Baltic Sea. But trade brings wars and conquerors. They've seen more than their share of both. Russia has wanted control of that area because of the deep-sea ports."
Kikka nodded. "Your father was a very intelligent man, too. I always appreciated that about him, though I don't think I ever told him."
Never, Garin thought. But he appreciated the comment even if it was sixty years too late.
"The Vikings went there often," Kikka said. "To trade and to loot. There is a story that was handed down to us through Baron Frederick of Schluter. He was a Teutonic knight. A devoutly religious man who worked to carry out the mission of the order."
Garin took that information with a grain of salt. Kikka had always overemphasized her ancestors' successes and altruism. Garin had known her father. Baron Erich Schluter had been a fierce military man, a warrior on the battlefield who in the end had been forced to turn from Hitler.
"While he was there, establishing churches and spreading Christianity – "
At the end of a sword, Garin thought, and struggled to keep a straight face.
" – he found, in one of the pagan churches, the journal of a German trader who recorded a legend from Courland." Kikka sipped her drink. "According to the German trader, Vikings attacked a village in Courland in 1104, somewhere west of Riga along the coastline. To a man, the Vikings were killed."
"That's unusual," Garin admitted. There had been no fiercer warriors than the Vikings during their day.
"The villagers had help. There was a warrior among them they had rescued from the sea. He was a fierce man – of Viking birth, perhaps – who carried a magical war hammer that could call down the lightning itself."
That caught Garin's attention. He wasn't sure, but he believed he'd seen references to such a relic in Roux's books.
"He called the hammer Mjolnir," Kikka said.
Garin looked at her and smiled. "You do realize you're saying that Thor, the Norse god of thunder, lived with those people."
Kikka's eyes turned flat and hard. "I do not wish to be mocked."
No, but you do wish to believe in anything that will help you save your castle and title, Garin thought.
"Baroness," Garin said, "you must at least allow me the courtesy of being caught off guard. We are talking about one of the most powerful entities in Norse mythology."
"That's exactly who we're talking about," she insisted. "Not only that, but Thor left a treasure with those people."
"What makes you think the treasure is still there?"
"Thor hid it. He left it there for his wife and children. Unfortunately, his wife died in childbirth and he left the village."
"He didn't take his fortune with him?"
"They say that losing his wife drove him mad for a time. Perhaps he still is."
Garin was silent for a moment. He didn't believe that a god had taken up residence with a barbaric tribe along the Baltic coast. He knew that something existed beyond the mortal realm; otherwise he wouldn't have lived over five hundred years. But the idea of a god living a hand-to-mouth existence among barely literate people was ridiculous.
Still, legends were generally based on some small truth.
"Wolfram has gone to Riga in an effort to track down the fortune, but there have b
een problems."
"What kind of problems?" Garin was thinking about hearing her out, then getting in his car and avoiding all the foolishness. This was desperation, pure and simple.
"There is a woman who is believed descended from the Curonians. She's supposed to be a witch, as was her grandmother before her."
"A witch?" Garin was amused.
"She's more than a witch. She's very skilled at killing. She managed to murder three of the mercenaries Wolfram employed to help him seek the truth over there."
That was much more intriguing. "What's her interest?"
"We think she's seeking the treasure, as well. She had taken up with an Italian archaeologist named Mario Fellini."
The name meant nothing to Garin.
"Wolfram arranged to have the man killed – "
The casual way Kikka said that surprised Garin. He'd known she was selfish and vain, but he'd never known her to be so cold-blooded.
" – but not before he involved another archaeologist. He sent her a package, but we don't know what the contents were." Kikka grimaced. "That woman has proved even more irksome. And it appears now she's hunting the treasure, as well."
"Who is she?" Garin asked.
"Her name is Annja Creed."
Garin took a breath. His pulse quickened in anticipation. Annja's participation in the hunt put things in a whole new perspective.
Chapter 20
Sherlock's was a small club on the second floor of the building where Chasing History's Monsters was housed. The clientele were dedicated mystery enthusiasts. Book covers and movie posters decorated the walls.
Lights at the booths ranged from mock Victorian lamps that conjured images of the great detective and his faithful Watson to green shaded desk lamps that would have looked at home on Philip Marlowe's desk to stained glass ones bearing beer slogans that would have made Mike Hammer proud.
Annja got there before the afternoon rush and managed to get the Thin Man table. Beneath the poster of William Powell and Myrna Loy, she opened her notebook computer. Taking the mini-satellite receiver from her backpack, she logged on and checked the Web sites where she'd left messages.
The first reply was from [email protected].
Hey, Hammer Hunter, Good luck with your project! Sounds interesting. I've been a fan of Norse mythology since third grade. Seems like everybody likes it. Comic books. Movies. Star Gate. Jim Carrey's movie, The Mask, even said the mask he wore was made for Loki, Thor's evil half brother. There was even a Lost in Space episode where Billy Mumy found Thor's hammer and gloves. I'll look around and see what I can find.
[email protected] wrote, "Cool quest! Can I play?"
Annja straightened for a moment to work the kinks out of her back. She was a little stiff and sore from the physical confrontations yesterday.
Sherlock's began to fill up around her as office workers stopped in to get a drink before heading to the subways to go home. Spirited conversations over books and movies began, and Annja found them slightly distracting. Book people were passionate about what they read, and she loved the conversations.
It sounded a lot like when archaeologists got together to compare, argue and recommend. She took a look around for Doug, glanced at her watch and realized that not much time had passed, and resolved to return her attention to the message boards.
Before she did, though, she noticed that a nerdy guy in glasses sitting across the bar was watching her. Fortyish and lean, he had a notebook computer open in front of him. He wore an ill-fitting suit and had a beanie pulled down to his ears.
When she looked directly at him, he glanced away, obviously embarrassed.
You're paranoid, Annja told herself. He's not a threat.
[email protected] sent:
Fascinating subject. Latvia, as you probably know, has a tumultuous history. Everybody that was anybody has walked all over that country. The Vikings. The Germans. The Russians. The people living there must have felt like they'd lived in the path of a steamroller for hundreds of years.
I've been doing some research into that subject. I was on summer break last year and went to Riga with my archaeology prof. He was there doing research on the indigenous tribes that lived in Latvia prior to the twelfth century. While we were there, we visited a bar in one of the small, virtually nameless villages outside Riga proper. That evening we happened on an old man who knew we were with a university.
I suppose he thought we might be generous enough to buy him a few beers. We were. And he told us this fascinating story that he said just wouldn't die. Apparently Thor washed up on the shores of one of the Curonian villages – if you can imagine that – and decided to stay. While Thor was there, he fought off Vikings and amassed a great fortune that he supposedly hid. That's all I know. I can't tell you any more. Except there seem to be a few people interested in the subject. It's weird how these things keep getting out but you can't find anything to back them up.
We stayed a few weeks, visited some of the churches and read the archives left by monks and historians, and did a little work at one of the Crusader castles to gather information for the prof's book. But it was really more like one long beer run. The book met the prof's publish-or-perish requirement and he got tenure. But I really don't think anyone ever read it.
Good hunting!
And from [email protected]:
If you're looking for tall Nordic women, we have them! They're waiting just to meet you! Hot and ready! Just sign up at www.meetyourmate.biz today!
You gotta love spam, Annja thought. She took a moment to write a reply to loremaster.
Thanks for the info! This sounds promising. If you don't mind, could I ask you to dig a little deeper? Do you have any maps of the area where you were? Narrow down the village where you heard that story?
"I'd be interested in a tall Nordic woman."
Looking up, Annja saw Doug Morrell gazing over her shoulder. "Didn't your mother ever tell you it was impolite to read over someone's shoulder?" Annja asked.
"She was just happy I learned to read." Doug was twenty-two, younger than Annja, but bright and brash. Except for the whole vampire fetish he insisted on clinging to.
Doug sat across the booth from her and flagged down a female server with a smile. As busy as Sherlock's was, anyone else would have had to use a police whistle. Annja had seen Doug use that smile at night in a forlorn part of Manhattan and seemingly pull a cab out of thin air.
"What are you having?" Doug asked.
"Hot chocolate." Annja closed the notebook computer.
Doug gave her a raspberry.
"It's cold outside," Annja protested. "Alcohol thins your blood. You get colder faster."
"You should consider thinning it to the point you go numb," he replied. Then he ordered another hot chocolate for her and one for himself.
Annja raised an eyebrow. "Not drinking?" Doug wasn't a big drinker, but he didn't have to be. One or two drinks usually made him pliable. And she wanted him pliable.
The producer shrugged. "Coming in here makes me want to act like one of those tough-guy detectives. You know, give me a shot in a dirty glass."
"I think that's generally what evil gunslingers say in bad Western movies."
"Whatever. I'm not into detectives or cowboys. I'm all about monsters, serial killers and deviants."
A table of elderly women who'd been comparing the merits of Agatha Christie to some of the crop of cozy writers pinned Doug with their sharp gazes.
But Doug smiled at them and they stopped just short of reaching over to pinch his cheeks. They shifted their looks of disapproval to Annja.
Great. I attract the fallout. Annja ignored them and took her hot chocolate as the server returned. There were, of course, people who had placed orders ahead of Doug, but after Doug smiled at the server, they'd been forgotten.
Annja shook her head.
"What?" Doug asked.
"You."
"What about me?"
"What? Just because I can get hot chocolate really quick?"
"Everything comes easy to you."
Doug spooned up his whipped cream and sucked down a dollop. He looked pleased. "You don't come easy to me."
Annja looked at him.
"I meant that in a totally non-sexually-threatening way," he said quickly.
Be nice, Annja thought. And normally she was. She often saw Doug for dinner, drinks or a movie. The attraction wasn't there, as it was with Bart, so things were simpler.
Except for the work part.
Doug just couldn't help being Doug.
"Because I don't want you to kick my butt," Doug added.
"I'm not going to."
"Good." Doug looked relieved. "Because that would be sooooo embarrassing."
"Business," Annja said.
"Sure."
"Before you say no, I want you to hear me out."
"Okay."
"I want to go to Venice – "
"No."
Annja looked at him. "That was hearing me out?"
"Yep. Everything after the 'I want to go to Venice' part doesn't matter."
"It might matter."
"No, it won't. We don't have the money in the travel budget to get you to Venice."
Annja took a deep breath and decided to play hardball. "Doug – "
He rolled his eyes.
"Don't roll your eyes like that," she admonished.
"I don't know any other way."
"You owe me for that stupid phantom shark in the Calusa Indian piece."
"No. That wasn't the Calusa Indian piece. That was the phantom-shark piece. And now, thanks to my connections, we not only got a price break, but we got a good-looking fake shark, too."
Annja leaned back in the booth and crossed her arms. She noticed that the geeky-looking guy across the room was watching her again. When he saw that she was aware of him, he looked away.