Rogue Angel 49: The Devil's Chord

by Alex Archer

  Her headlamp swept over the darkness. She assumed if the diver was smart, he or she would have already vacated the area. But if the person was eager and desperate to find the case, then he or she might still be around. Seeking bubbles, she swam slowly through the murk.

  Twisting her head side to side, she swam into something solid on her left—that kicked away from her. Jackpot.

  Calling the sword from the otherwhere, Annja knew she wouldn’t be able to swing it with any effectiveness, but as she drew it before her and grasped the tip of the blade with her gloved hand, she used it as a deflector.

  A flipper kicked near her face. She stabbed the sword toward it, slicing through the heavy rubber. Unsure if she had cut through the shooter’s foot, she kept the blade before her to deflect a return blow. No return contact was made. He swam away from her, swiftly, to judge the trail of bubbles.

  She followed him to a concrete wall, where he swam through an open iron gate. Her headlamp beamed on his hand, pulling the gate shut behind him. A padlock and chain secured the gate, so by the time she reached it, she struggled with the lock only momentarily. There was no way in.

  She released the sword into the otherwhere. The man who had shot Scout was obviously familiar with the area. He’d probably readied the gate for the quick escape he might need.

  She surfaced, her shoulders bobbing in the cool water as she took in her surroundings. The dive boat was anchored twenty yards north. She treaded water on the opposite side of the canal from where she had begun. She waved, signaling to Kard, who waved back. Grasping a heavy iron ring set into the concrete curb once used for docking boats, Annja pulled herself up and heaved her body onto the narrow ledge, twisting to sit with her back against the wall of the building, her flippered feet dangling in the canal.

  Looking up and back, she noted the building behind her, where she sat, was under construction. White plastic tarps had been secured over the windows, the tattered ends fluttering in the breeze. The place was abandoned for the time being; no sign of any workers.

  The tunnel the shooter had escaped through was just below, so she should have seen him surface within the building. Annja pushed up and pressed her body against the wall. Through a window she could see an empty room littered with plaster buckets, more tarps and several ladders. The tunnel probably led out the other side of this block and into the next canal. She should pursue on foot, but she’d have to take off her flippers and run barefoot. It wasn’t a good idea.

  The boat chugged up to the shoreline, and Scout, his wet suit around his hips, waved for her to come aboard.

  He’d tied a thin strip of medical gauze around his biceps. Blood stained the tape. Annja guessed it had just been a flesh wound.

  “You see anything?” Ian called.

  “Followed him but he escaped through a tunnel. Closed an iron gate on me and locked it. I’m positive it’s below this building. I need to investigate further.”

  “Why?” Scout leaned over to offer her his hand as boarding assistance. “You want a smackdown with some angry dude carrying a harpoon?”

  She jumped onto the boat.

  “Don’t you want to find the guy who could have killed you?”

  “I’m still alive. I don’t think he was going for the kill. He was close enough to make a kill shot if he’d wanted to.”

  “At the very least, we need to report this to the authorities.”

  “Creed.” Scout placed a hand on her shoulder. “I admit it, I’m a treasure hunter. Trouble follows me wherever I go. This is nothing new.”

  She quirked an eyebrow at him. Most people wouldn’t be so casual about being attacked. Shrugging off her air tank, she bent to remove her flippers. “What do you have against my reporting this to the police?”

  “Nothing. Go for it.” Scout’s indifference only made her more suspicious. “I’m just saying encounters with idiots wielding harpoons are to be expected. I go after a treasure, the bottom-feeders follow in hordes.”

  “Nice.” Not. She unzipped the wet suit to reveal her skintight tank top beneath. “Let’s call it a day.”

  “Swell. You go to the authorities and explain to them we almost saw the guy who did it—did you get a good look at his face? Didn’t think so. Meanwhile, I’ll mark out the map for tomorrow’s dive.”

  She glanced at Ian. He shrugged, evidently as baffled by Scout’s disregard as she was.

  “You want to get something to eat?” Scout asked.

  “I think I’ll head back to the hotel after I’ve been to the police station.” Scout’s comment about her not getting a look at the attacker’s face annoyed her. She didn’t need his attitude. And really, she should have paid closer attention to the bad guy’s features. “Reconvene in the morning? Same canal, same boat?”

  “Fine,” Scout said. “Give me your cell number?”

  She gave it to him, and he promised to text her his number so she would have it, as well.

  Ian packed up his gear, and Annja hung the wet suit in the closet provided belowdecks.

  Kard offered Annja and then Ian a beer for the walk to the police station and both refused.

  “You think they’re a couple cards short of a full deck?” Ian asked as they strolled down the street.

  “Possibly.”

  “Nice crew, Annja. I’ll count myself lucky if I come out of this unscathed.”

  She winced because she took seriously the safety of those around her. She’d have a proper talk with Kard tomorrow. And she’d keep a much closer eye on Scout. The man could be too adventurous for her own good.

  Chapter 5

  At the police station in San Marco, Tomaso Damiani greeted Annja with a warm smile and welcomed her into his office. The small room held only his desk, two chairs and on the wall a map of the canals. No family photos. No knickknacks.

  A new hire? Or was the man so regimented that he couldn’t bother with clutter?

  She explained she was in the city on a dive for stolen artifacts. Tomaso was aware of that. The city had forwarded the dive permit Scout Roberts had applied for just this morning.

  Pleased that the city was in close contact with the police, Annja detailed the encounter with the mysterious diver in the Fondamenta della Sensa.

  “You are sure you did not surprise another who was merely diving?” Tomaso asked as he jotted down the information on a yellow notepad. “Perhaps the harpoon went off during the surprise?”

  “Then why would he swim off? Wouldn’t he want to make sure he hadn’t wounded anyone?”

  “Yes, of course. That is what we would hope for.” Tomaso ran a hand over his close-cropped dark hair. His narrow face fit with his tall, tight frame. He was young. A wedding ring shone on his sun-tanned hand, but there was no visible tan line beneath. New job, new wife? “Perhaps he was shocked that he had done such a thing. Perhaps not.”

  “Who dives beneath Venice with a harpoon in hand?” Annja asked. “It’s not as if the canals are populated with edible fish. Are they?”

  “We have much flora and fauna in the canals, Signorina Creed. But the fish are smaller, such as mullets and bullheads. Still, some are edible. We even get the occasional shark in from the sea. Perhaps your harpoon man was pursuing bigger game?”

  “Like humans?”

  She hadn’t meant it as a joke, but Tomaso chuckled. Then, noticing she didn’t share his humor, he abruptly stopped.

  “I take your report very seriously, signorina. There are drainage pipes and tunnels beneath much of our beautiful city. Some are registered. Others lead into private homes and still others may no longer be used.”

  “Which is why I didn’t try to break through the gate—I didn’t know if this was a residence.”

  Annja realized there really wasn’t a lot the police could do. Might it have been an accident? Possibly. And the man could have been frightened or even ashamed, so he’d fled.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to listen to my complaint. I know there’s likely nothing you can do without a
description of the man.”

  “Unfortunately, that is so. But I am personally eager for you to discover the missing treasure you’ve described. A cross with a possible connection to Leonardo da Vinci?”

  “It was likely a gift to him from René d’Anjou.”

  “Ah. Our beloved Leonardo. I am so taken with the man. He did so much. And has inspired so many.”

  Surprised the man was such an enthusiast of Leonardo’s and of René’s, Annja perked up.

  “Details linking Leonardo da Vinci with such a cross and so many other artifacts causes much interest. And sometimes from dangerous people,” he went on.

  “I find I’m more of a Leonardo purist myself,” she said. “Though there are academics and art historians who think there was more to his works. But I’m not inclined to search over his paintings or drawings for symbols and clues he may or may not have left in them. His output was so vast. I can only imagine how many European castles and manors are hiding a forgotten da Vinci in the attic or dungeon.”

  “Yes, it is an intriguing thing to wonder about. The Renaissance artist was a great genius and I wonder what it might have been like for him if he could have possibly traveled through time.”

  “Da Vinci a time traveler?” Now Annja chuckled.

  “I know,” Tomaso agreed, “I have a tendency toward the fantastical—it has to be with the books I read. I like the science-fiction novels.” He gave her a warm smile. “Signorina Creed, have you been to Il Genio di Leonardo da Vinci Museo? They’ve re-created dozens of the inventions Leonardo designed. Quite a fascinating study.”

  “No, I haven’t been able to do any sightseeing since arriving in Venice, but it sounds like a stop I’ll have to make while I’m here.”

  Tomaso stood and shook Annja’s hand. “If there is anything you need from me, do let me know.” He offered her his business card. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Signorina Creed.”

  * * *

  ANNJA BOUGHT A sandwich on her way to the hotel. Glad she’d gone with the panino instead of the soft-crusted tramezinni, she wondered now if she could eat it all. Calling the huge chunk of bread, cheese and meat a sandwich was like calling the Canal Grande a stream. The prosciutto was so thin she could read through it, and stacked thickly within pillows of fresh mozzarella. She ate half before forcing herself to sit at the desk in her hotel room and power up the laptop for a little research.

  She started with the antiquities museum located in Kraków, Poland. It featured artifacts she’d label as sentimentally significant. Annja assumed the Lorraine cross must have fit right in with their collection.

  The museum had a history similar to a number of others in Europe during the turbulence of the 1800s. Items had been looted and recovered a number of times during this age. And it was all repeated again in the early part of the twentieth century when the Nazis eventually got their hands on the museum’s pieces and there they stayed until the place was restored and reopened to the public after the Second World War. Though it housed many important relics and documents, a lot of the most valued pieces had been lost as they changed locations over the decades and centuries.

  The recent burglary was a bold and well-planned heist that had taken place just after the museum had closed its doors. The one employee who had locked up for the day had only been in the parking lot for minutes, the online newspaper account reported, before the theft had occurred. Suspicion fell on two suspects, but neither was captured by security cameras.

  Annja speculated about the thieves who were arrested in the Milan and NYC airports. Why had they not been detained if they were known to be related to the theft? Or had the gondolier’s report merely alerted the police to the pair, and after questioning them, the police hadn’t obtained the details required to charge them with the crime?

  Most likely. But still odd.

  There wasn’t anything else online regarding the theft, and she couldn’t get access to the police reports. Although, she might be able to get something on the thief who had been questioned in New York from her friend on the NYPD, Detective Bart McGilly.

  “Good idea.”

  She sent Bart an email with the details, and the situation surrounding her dive, and asked if he could find anything on the thief who had been arrested.

  Satisfied she had done what she could to follow up on that angle, Annja switched to the history associated with the stolen items. She already knew quite a bit about Leonardo da Vinci and Joan of Arc, so she looked up the third party.

  She was familiar with René d’Anjou as an integral force behind the Renaissance, but she was also aware d’Anjou was sometimes glanced over or even excluded from the history books. Could it be because of his rumored associations with the Priory of Sion and Order of the Crescent?

  Annja shook her head.

  René d’Anjou had held ties to royal houses in France, England and Spain. His sister had married Charles VII of France. His daughter married Henry VI of England. He had control of three duchies, Anjou, Bar and Lorraine, as well as being king of Jerusalem and Aragon, including Corsica, Majorca and Sicily. He had been duke of many places, yet his most common title was Good King René.

  His involvement in Joan of Arc’s life may have been orchestrated by his mother, Yolande, who had been a supporter of Charles VII of France. There were rumors René had traveled with Joan to Orléans, possibly disguised as the king’s messenger. Evidently, he was also along when Joan had escorted the dauphin to Reims for the coronation. Once there, René had been knighted by the Count of Clermont.

  René had been with Joan in a few more battles that followed, including the siege on Paris. But soon after that, family deaths turned René’s attention away from Joan. He had been detained during a battle against the Duke of Burgundy and subsequently imprisoned. While imprisoned, Joan had been branded a heretic and...

  “So René d’Anjou wasn’t able to speak up for Joan of Arc because he had been possibly held captive at the time,” Annja muttered, leaning back in her chair.

  She grabbed the panino and took another bite. Heaven. She’d left Ian to do his own thing, and he’d gone in search of pizza. Normally, she’d invite him to eat with her, but her mind was still reeling from the harpoon attack. It had been so bizarre and out of place. It didn’t make sense to her.

  And Scout claimed it was the norm, him being a treasure hunter? He’d acted as if the attack was to be expected. Could he have hired the man to take out Ian, whom he hadn’t wanted there in the first place?

  “No.” He had only found out about Ian just before the dive.

  “Something not right with that guy.”

  She focused again on René d’Anjou. He headed to Naples in 1438 and later returned to France amid further political turmoil and controversy.

  D’Anjou had also been a painter and a poet. He set up court at Aix-en-Provence, although she guessed that René must have interacted with Leonardo on his own turf in Italy. D’Anjou had died in 1480. Leonardo had been born in 1452. Annja knew Leonardo had traveled with his father to Florence and had received an apprenticeship when he was fourteen. Possibly, René d’Anjou had met Leonardo between 1470 and 1480, which was around the time Leonardo’s father had been employed under d’Anjou.

  And if Roux had said he’d met Leonardo at the end of the 1480s, that made sense to her and would fit the timeline of when d’Anjou had supposedly gifted Leonardo with the Lorraine cross.

  “Amazing.”

  Annja experienced the same adrenaline rush she felt when uncovering a valuable historical treasure. The thrill of the find, or knowing that with further research a discovery could be made, was something she never tired of.

  And now, before her, was the idea of a significant connection of three incredible historical figures: René d’Anjou, Leonardo da Vinci, and Joan of Arc.

  She was deeply involved, too, more so than on a usual archaeological dig, because she was inexplicably tied to Joan herself. And Roux had known all three?

  Thinking of him, she diale
d Roux’s number. She wanted to check when he planned to arrive. Voice mail. She didn’t leave a message, didn’t want to reveal her irritation. He’d get a real kick out of that.

  Finishing off the panino, Annja then scanned through the local television news stations. Nothing of interest. The night had grown long while she’d been hunting for information. She’d save the check on Scout’s story for the morning.

  Stripping off her clothes and pulling her long chestnut hair out from the tangled ponytail, she padded into the bathroom and made good use of the hot water for the next twenty minutes.

  * * *

  Milan, 1488

  “YOU SAID...” Roux leaned forward across the table, knowing he could not possibly have heard the artist correctly. The tavern was noisy, and the hissing back-and-forth sweep of a sword blade across a whetstone nearby didn’t help matters. “Something about a sword piece?”

  “Indeed. From Jeanne d’Arc’s sword. The one she wielded in the siege on Paris,” Leonardo explained. “Though it’s malformed. Melted, I believe. I was to understand they had burned her ashes twice to be sure nothing remained. The English army didn’t want to leave anything that could be sifted from the ashes and later passed on. Obviously they missed the sword.”

  Roux rubbed his chin, thinking back to that moment when the flames had wrecked Joan’s life forever. And his. The sword had been held aside, along with the few items of clothing she’d worn while imprisoned. How the sword had made it out into the crowd, and then had been broken before all, was beyond him.

  It felt surreal to place himself back at that heinous event. He’d never felt helpless before that moment and never had since. But the sense of anguish returned now, made him uncomfortable.

  Leonardo was unaware of his distress. And he wished to keep it that way.

  “If you guarded Jeanne— She was burned in 1431, wasn’t it?” he asked. “That was sixty-seven years ago. You must have been quite young. You’ve certainly aged well.”

  “I’ve been living well,” Roux boasted, smiling.