by Alex Archer
A frequent player in Texas Hold ’Em tournaments, Roux’s face was known to diehard fans of the game. He had, however, avoided the attentions of ESPN. He loved playing cards, and he hated that he could never allow himself to become a champion. That would have put him too much in the limelight and he couldn’t have that. It was getting increasingly harder to hide the fact that he’d lived hundreds of years.
Over the past few centuries, several legends and half-truths had sprung up about him, about the things he’d done on occasion. Some of those stories were outright lies, of course, yet the hint of magic clung to them, and rightly so.
In the dining room last evening, he’d worn a nice suit and had settled in for a dinner with a couple of charming young women. He’d gone to the hotel with a plan to get into this very game. The women had been there as his backup plan, in case things hadn’t turned out as they had. Young women could sometimes be as exciting as wagering and watching the River shift as the cards were turned in Texas Hold ’Em.
Halfway into the meal, Faisal bint Saud, a cousin—he claimed—to the princes of the House of Saud, had approached Roux’s table. He was an elegant man with impeccable manners and a memorable baritone he’d cultivated to suit his suave appearance. Tall and good-looking, dark complexioned with soft brown eyes and a meticulously trimmed beard at his jawline, Faisal had introduced himself.
“I have seen you play in Vegas. Twice. I was there as a player, as well.” Faisal had ignored the attentions of the young women with Roux, even though he’d known they were watching him, of course, because he was a peacock. The man was well aware of himself and liked the impression he made on the opposite sex.
Roux had looked at the younger man and smiled benignly. His white beard made him look somewhat feeble, especially because he also had a thin physique and wore a suit that didn’t fit. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you. Did we play each other? I try to remember other people I play cards with.”
The reply was designed to offend Faisal as well as convince him that Roux wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.
Faisal’s smile had been forced, but he’d made the best of it. “No, no, we never played each other. Though I have to say I was impressed by your skill at the tournaments.”
“Thank you.” Roux had gestured a little broadly, just enough to convince Faisal he’d perhaps been drinking too heavily that night. He’d known the hook had been set when a feral light gleamed in Faisal’s eyes.
Now that it was the middle of the afternoon the next day, he no longer felt certain getting a seat in the game was a desired event. Playing for so many hours against the odds and against the machinations of his host was becoming tedious. Still, he sometimes enjoyed playing with his prey before springing his trap.
The other men at the table looked haggard and worn. Faisal and two of his cronies remained in the game, and they’d had to give one another a pot to keep them all in the game. Two other players had already left, cleaned out and disgruntled by the evening’s outcome.
Faisal, his tie askew and his eyes hollowed from drinking and nearly sixteen straight hours of playing, looked at Roux. “The bet is to you.”
Deliberately, Roux shuffled through the stacks of chips in front of him. He’d more than doubled his stake, and the men had intensified their efforts to separate him from what they considered to be their profits for the night.
Roux plucked chips from the stacks and pitched them into the pot in a spray of color, adding to the already considerable pile. “I’ll raise five thousand dollars.” He never even checked his cards.
Faisal remained motionless in his plush chair and inhaled slightly, nostrils pinching for a moment. That was one of the tells Roux had spotted during the game. The other men had them, too. They were, possibly, decent players, but together they made an excellent tag team of cheaters.
The three of them glanced at one another, then at the dwindling chips in front of them. Roux was steadily taking their money and they hadn’t yet found a way to stop him.
Roux yawned, all part of the game. Then he smiled easily. “Sorry, gentlemen. I guess I’m more fatigued than I thought.” He took another sip of his Scotch, then lit the cigar and blew a plume of thick, blue smoke into the air.
Evidently Faisal and his cronies reached a decision. They tossed their chips into the pot, as well, figuring with three-to-one odds that one of them would come out ahead.
Roux turned his cards over, exposing the four tens he’d managed to put together counting the two in his hand.
Faisal looked decidedly unhappy and one of the other two men, the young one named Otto who spoke with a German accent yet sounded like he’d spent time in South Africa, cursed vehemently and threw his cards on the table.
Faisal leaned back and sipped his drink. “You’ve got an incredible streak of good fortune going.”
Grinning magnanimously, Roux raked in the pot and began stacking chips. “It’s just experience. I told you that.” He shrugged. “Let me know when you’ve had enough.”
“I would like to take a small break.”
“Of course.”
As one, Faisal and his partners got up from the table and wandered over to the wet bar in the corner of the room.
Roux hummed happily, but he was wondering how much further he could push his luck with the men. According to what he’d learned about them during the game, they weren’t necessarily dangerous. They were just cheats, banding together to fleece less experienced players.
Roux took out his cell phone. He’d missed two calls. Both from a number he wasn’t familiar with. There were very few people who called Roux on this number.
He also had a text. Curious, and knowing that paying attention to his cell would gall the would-be malefactors, he pulled up the message.
I have found a clockwork.
Surprise and consternation tightened Roux’s chest. Memory of the clockwork creations plagued him. They were some of the worst things that had been set loose in the world, and there were a great many things out there that shouldn’t be.
And now Garin had one?
Roux prayed that it wasn’t so. Noticing that there was an image attached to the text, he brought that up, as well, having to struggle to remember how to perform that particular task. Once he’d accomplished it, he stared at the misshapen thing. Despite the buildup of age covering it, he could tell what it was. It looked disturbingly familiar. He was certain he remembered the clockwork, but it had been years since he had referenced those images. A clockwork hadn’t shown up in over two hundred years.
He tapped out a laborious text to his driver, letting her know he would need the car, then put his phone away and stood, drawing Faisal’s attention immediately.
“Is something wrong?”
Roux picked up his jacket from the chair behind him. “I’m afraid I have to leave. An emergency has come up. I need to cash out.”
That drew the other two men over, as well, and they clearly weren’t happy about the prospect of Roux leaving. The South African man bowed. “You can’t just leave.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Correct.” The man stepped closer to Roux, making the most of his size. He was half a head taller and at least fifty pounds heavier, all of the weight muscle. Blond and blue-eyed, he looked the epitome of an Aryan warrior. “You’re going to stay here and finish the game.”
“Otto, please.” Faisal stood in front of the man. “Keep this civil. This was a friendly game. Nothing more.”
“‘Nothing more?’” Otto pushed Faisal back. “All night, despite everything the three of us have been able to do, this man has been winning. Can you explain that?”
All pretense at being a gentleman dropped away from Faisal. He shrugged and grimaced at Roux. “I’m afraid my friend has said too much and tipped our hand. Misfortune, it seems, lies in w
ait for you.”
Roux didn’t say anything. Truthfully, he was paying the three men scant attention. They had been a diversion, nothing more, even as targets for his sense of fair play. In light of Garin’s potential discovery, they were even less interesting now. He held on to the walking stick he’d carried into the room. Like the ill-fitting suit and the two beautiful women who had accompanied him, the ornate stick was part of the disguise he’d chosen to wear. Last night and during the infrequent breaks from the game, he’d leaned on the stick as though he needed it to get around.
Faisal gazed at Roux. “I’m afraid we’re not letting you leave here with the money.”
Otto pulled a small Walther from behind his back and pointed it at Roux.
Seeing the pistol, Roux smiled. “Ah, the trademark weapon of James Bond. How exciting for you. I suppose that means that not only do you fancy yourself as something of a cardsharp, but you’re an international spy, as well.”
Otto narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “That’s all you have to say, old man?”
“As a matter of fact, no, it isn’t.” Moving with deceptive speed, Roux swung the walking stick up suddenly, catching Otto between the legs with a sharp rap.
9
Letting rip a high-pitched, pain-filled yelp, Otto started to double over and struggled to bring the Walther to bear at the same time. Roux snatched the pistol from the man. Miraculously, the South African straightened and lunged forward, recovering much more quickly than Roux had surmised he would.
At first, Roux gave ground, stepping back as he pocketed the Walther. He didn’t intend to use the pistol if he didn’t have to. Corpses were so much harder to explain than a good thrashing. Twisting, Roux whipped the walking stick from his left side to his right at an angle. The stick slammed into Otto’s face, breaking the man’s nose and splattering blood, then slid on by, free for another blow. Dazed, the big man dropped to his knees.
Mercilessly, Roux drove the walking stick’s heavy handle against his opponent’s temple. Eyes rolling up into his head, Otto sprawled across the floor.
Cursing, the third man pulled out a Derringer. He thumbed the hammer back as Roux drew a previously hidden sword out of the walking stick’s sheath. Naked steel flashed in front of the man’s face and drove him backward fearfully.
With the next pass, Roux pierced the man’s right shoulder, expertly slicing into the brachial nerve and causing his arm to go limp. The pistol fell from his numb hand. When the man turned to run, Roux stepped forward rapidly in a fencing move and hammered the base of his skull with the hilt. The man dropped.
Spinning with the grace of a ballet dancer, Roux slashed the blade across the front of Faisal’s trousers, deliberately not cutting into flesh, but pointing out how easy it would have been.
“Drop the gun.” Roux’s voice now carried as much of an edge as the sword blade.
The pistol dropped onto the carpet, which muffled the impact.
Holding the man at bay with the bloody sword tip just inches from his chin, Roux addressed the silent dealer still seated at the table. “You. Gather up the money. You’re coming with me.”
The dealer, a nondescript man with quick hands and a cheap suit, stood and with trembling hands picked up the small suitcase that held everyone’s money. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. None of this was me.”
“Then do as I tell you. Otherwise, I’ll kill you along with your friends.”
“They’re not my friends.”
Roux returned his attention to Faisel, who stood at stiff attention against the wall. “I know you. If you send hotel security after me, I’ll be back, and when I’m finished, no one will ever find your body. Do we have an understanding?”
Wordlessly, Faisel nodded.
“Good.” Roux grinned. “And remember this, playing cards isn’t a gamble. Luck and some skill, yes. Sitting down at a table with opponents you don’t know? That’s the true risk you take. Find another city to play your shoddy game, or I’ll be back.”
Terrified, Faisel just stood there with his hands raised.
Roux followed the dealer, walking through the door and heading down the hallway to the elevators. He slipped the blade back into its walking stick sheath, then wiped the pistol he’d taken with a handkerchief and dropped it into a waste receptacle beside the elevator as the doors opened.
The dealer, much calmer now, led the way inside, then handed Roux the small suitcase. “Here you are, sir.”
“Thank you, Devore. I trust you saw to your share of the proceeds?”
Patting his pocket, Devore nodded. “Yes, sir. And I must say, sir, it’s been a pleasure working with you. I hardly ever had to mechanic the cards during the game. As I’d already known, you’re an excellent player. You read those men magnificently.”
As the elevator dropped toward the lobby, Roux waved away the compliment. “Thank you. I’m just glad we could come to terms regarding the matter.”
“I don’t like cheaters, sir,” he said disdainfully. “After I hired on to deal for Faisal and found out how he conducted his ‘business,’ I immediately knew you wouldn’t tolerate it. I’ve seen you deal with such matters before.” He shook his head. “I was eager to see them get their comeuppance.” He grinned. “And they certainly got that.”
* * *
GARIN SAT IN the elegant bar of the hotel where he was staying and watched the casual afternoon crowd that filled the booths and tables. Most of the people here were doing business, talking about stock portfolios and options and impending mergers in a half dozen languages. None of the chatter was interesting to Garin. He caught himself checking his phone again and grew more irritated.
Once Roux saw the message and the image, Garin had been certain the old man would contact him. Since Roux had not responded, Garin was also certain that Roux hadn’t seen the image or the text. Waiting was a singularly unappealing event, and it was something he still hadn’t mastered even after hundreds of years.
During the past half hour or so, Garin had pondered calling Annja Creed and revealing his find to her. Then he realized she had no knowledge of the history of the clockwork and having to cover all of that information while waiting on Roux to call back would have been even more irritating.
So he’d decided a few drinks would take the edge off his anticipation. He’d drunk enough to more than take the edge off, though, and was working on maintaining a buzz that let time pass more easily.
He finished his latest drink, then held up his glass to the passing cocktail server. Young and pretty, if a little tired, the woman took the glass from his hand, mumbling something pleasant. She returned in short order with a fresh drink.
Out in the lobby, a beautiful redhead caught Garin’s attention. She was dressed for business in a charcoal suit, but a pearl-gray turtleneck clung to her shapely curves. Her hair, so dark it looked as black as coals, fell across her shoulders. She gazed briefly around the lobby, her features strong and calculating, and she made Garin think of a lioness in its hunting ground. She spoke briefly even though no one was around, revealing that she wore an earbud.
She was immediately...interesting.
Taking a sip of his drink, Garin watched the woman walk to the front desk. But more than her looks drew him. She was dangerous. The promise of violence radiated from her and resonated within him like a tuning fork.
His cell vibrated on the table and the caller ID told him it was Amalia. He picked up the phone and growled into it.
“Hey, don’t kill the messenger.”
Garin took his Bluetooth earbud out of his pocket and linked it to the phone. He activated the FaceTime app and looked at Amalia. “If you’re the messenger, then you have something.”
“I think I located who Claudia Golino was working for, but I don’t think you’re going to be really happy about it.”
; “I’m not really in the mood for riddles, Amalia.” Garin only let a smidgen of his irritation seep into his words.
Amalia’s image went away and a photograph of a woman took shape on the phone. The same woman he just happened to have been studying in person when he took this call. “Her name is Melina Andrianou. She’s a board member of an historical preservation society. Very hush-hush. They don’t have a dedicated web presence, don’t advertise—except to the superrich.”
The name stirred a fleeting memory in Garin’s mind, but he couldn’t nail it down quickly enough before it was gone. With hundreds of years of experiences in his past, it was sometimes hard to remember everything. But there was something about the name.
More images of her shuffled across the phone’s screen: indoors at extravagant parties, on the decks of yachts.
He watched as Melina Andrianou in real life talked briefly at the front desk. The clerk went away while she waited, gazing around the room, her eyes never settling on any one thing. Taking stock of her environment.
In his peripheral vision, Garin also noted that three men had filed into the hotel lobby shortly after the woman. Even though they made an effort not to move at the same speeds and they’d dressed differently, from street casual to business attire, Garin sensed that they were together. If he hadn’t spent hundreds of years dealing with violence, seeing it take shape before the moment of action, he wouldn’t have noticed the web they were weaving.
“I haven’t been able to discover what Andrianou’s business is, or why she would have been tied to Claudia Golino. However, I was able to establish the connection between them because they had been named in a civil suit three years ago in Amsterdam. The plaintiff maintained that Golino and Andrianou conspired to replace a piece in his collection with a fake. He caught Golino at it red-handed. Andrianou had introduced them.”
“What was the piece?”
“According to the civil suit, it was believed to be a child’s toy.”