by Alex Archer
* * *
IT WAS A GOOD THING he hadn’t had an opportunity to reveal what the key was for back at the restaurant. Scout had sensed Annja Creed’s anger over not being told the whole story by Roux. That gave him a secret thrill. And proved that he’d successfully nudged a wedge between Roux and Annja. Or at least, he was beginning to.
When he’d accepted the job from Roux, he had not been told Miss Creed was going along for the dive. The surprise had not been welcome. To him or his other benefactor.
Now he had to think fast and smart. Which he could do. By nature, he was an obstacle jumper. Always prepared to leap when something came at him. There was nothing he couldn’t jump over or climb under or even slither between and out the other end.
Nothing but a woman scorned. He’d have to avoid Creed’s questions when next they met. She was curious. Though if she didn’t ask for details, that might bother him even more.
He opened the package he’d gotten in the market after ditching the thug and sorted through the contents in the palazzo kitchen where he was staying. He wasn’t hungry, so he tossed the carrots and yogurt he’d also bought in the fridge. He wasn’t sure why he’d bought the things. He preferred to eat out; much easier than actually having to prepare a meal.
Opening the cupboards, he browsed through the clear canisters of pastas and rices and spied a few boxes of loose tea stocked by the resident.
“Excellent.”
Now to revoke Annja Creed’s babysitting privileges.
Chapter 8
After three days of no contact, Roux finally answered his phone. Annja didn’t bother castigating him for his inattentiveness. It was the man’s style. And it could be a means of exerting his control. Likely that was the reason, so an argument wasn’t worth the wasted breath.
Foregoing niceties, she asked, “Tell me everything about the Lorraine cross. Everything that you, a man who possesses intimate details from the time period, would know.”
Clearing his throat, Roux complied. A refreshing change from his usual dodgy tactics.
Roux had known René d’Anjou since the Jeanne d’Arc days, but hadn’t spent any amount of time with him until decades later when d’Anjou had been in the midst of his quest to further the Renaissance. They’d initially hit it off, as Roux had noted the man’s genuine interest in promoting education, which at that time had only been available to the clergy and wealthy, privileged men. They had become enemies only after d’Anjou was thought to have been hiding important valued items, possibly for his own gain.
“So you’re telling me René d’Anjou may or may not have been entitled to the cross from Joan of Arc?” Annja asked.
“Whether he was or not, I don’t think it matters now. What does is returning the cross to the proper authorities. In this case, the museum from which it was stolen.”
Annja couldn’t stop her laughter and she almost felt bad as it continued to roll out. Roux was not this man talking to her on the phone right now. He was a collector who cared not for a thing’s origins, only that he owned a specific treasure and had trekked the world to obtain it.
“Fine, you want to do good?” she asked. “I’ll let that selfless admonition hang out there for you to consider. But Scout seems to think the cross is a key to something.”
Roux was the one laughing now, which was more a gentlemanly chuckle. “A key? To what? Did he say?”
“Actually, he didn’t have time. We had to split ways and divert the thugs who were after us.”
“That’s my Annja Creed. Always attracting the riffraff.”
“You joke about it, but who else knows about this dive for the cross? There have been two attempts on my life in two days. Not to mention the close brush with a harpoon Scout had the first day of the dive.”
“Annja, really?”
She sensed his concern, which surprised her. “Did you think you were really sending me on a mere babysitting mission?”
“Yes. I mean... Well...” Caught in a lie. Roux sighed. “Yes. I don’t know Roberts. And I do trust you. It was necessary. But you were able to get rid of the tail?”
“Yes. But I wasn’t able to have a chat with them between punches to learn their intentions. Do you think they could be following the bread crumbs from the museum heist? Of which, I have yet to receive the police reports. Can you fix that?”
“I...will get my hands on them. Scout said he’d gleaned a few details from them, but that none were helpful. The exact location of where the attaché had been dropped was not noted by the police. But it did place you in the correct canal, yes?”
“Yes. I’d still like to look over the actual reports, though.”
“I’ll get on it and will email them to you.”
“I’d appreciate that. Do you know what the key is for, Roux?”
“I’m looking for a cross, Annja.”
“Yeah, well, I’m surprised you brought me in on this project. The cross was stolen from a museum. You know what I will do as soon as I get my hands on the thing.”
“Yes, you’ll see to returning it to the museum.”
“If and when it is found, the cross remains in my care at all times. Can you agree to that?”
“I will need to examine it, look it over. Else what worth is this expedition?”
Annja sighed.
The man was not going to make this easy, and she knew his agreement to let her deal with the cross would be null and void as soon as the old man had control of the artifact. She was stepping into dangerous territory with this one.
“I’m okay with that,” she said. “But I will be standing right there when you look it over.”
“Excellent.”
“It doesn’t end here in Venice, does it, Roux?”
“Let’s just stay en pointe, shall we? You’ve yet to find the cross, so until then, every promise toward future actions is only conjecture.”
“Spoken like a man who has a plan. I need you to help me by listing any names of persons you believe could also have an interest in the cross. Scout seems oblivious to the danger.”
“He is a rather cocky sort. I’ll give it some thought, Annja, but I honestly have no idea. Scout came to me—”
“Yes, I’m glad you mentioned that previously. Here I thought this dive was your idea and that you had hired him. So you joined forces with a random treasure hunter who knew you had an interest in Joan of Arc? Did you bother to look into how Scout Roberts learned so much about you?”
“It was after an auction featuring a sword from Joan’s army. Nothing of hers, unfortunately. Roberts approached me and made an assumption that was correct. Are you going to fault him for that?”
“Hey, I’m just the babysitter. You’re the one with the reputation, and history, to protect. I’m due at the dive site in half an hour. If there’s nothing else you can give me now, I’ll talk to you later. Oh, uh, weren’t you going to meet me here in Venice?”
“I find that I am detained at the moment.”
That could imply any number of situations, of which more than a few could be illegal. Annja did not want to consider the options.
“I should be there by Friday, at the latest.”
“That’s two more days. If we find the cross, you know I’ll get itchy sitting on it.”
“I do know that. But I also know that you are a curious woman. Oh, I got a text from Scout regarding the cameraman.”
“You okayed Ian’s coming along.”
“Right, but I don’t want this expedition showing up on your television show.”
“I’m not going to make any promises.”
“You know I can confiscate any and all footage.”
Yes, and he’d do it without her or Ian being aware until it was too late.
“I know of your need for privacy and to keep out of the media’s spotlight. Your name will never be mentioned, I can promise that.”
“Not good enough.”
“Well, it’s going to have to be. Goodbye, Roux.”
She hu
ng up and guessed what she wasn’t hearing right now were Roux’s curses. The only one who could tell her what she could and could not film for the show was Doug Morrell, and he was only ever concerned with the bottom line.
Annja wasn’t sure this fruitless hunt was going to provide that ratings jolt Doug loved so much.
She checked her email and found Bart McGilly had replied.
Hey, Annja, long time no type. We need to get together soon. Tito’s? Let’s make a date for next month. Okay?
She would try her hardest to make that date. Tito’s served up the best Cuban cuisine in the States. And Bart’s company was always fun and interesting. They were both members of the gym not far from where she lived in Brooklyn. They boxed a few rounds on occasion. He was a good guy.
Sorry, but I wasn’t able to access the case files you requested. They belong to Interpol. Out of my jurisdiction. You in trouble?
She replied that she was not in trouble and was, in fact, chasing mermaids in Italy. Close to the truth was always best with Bart. He knew she hosted the show about “weird things.”
She signed off with a See you next month.
* * *
Milan, 1488
FOLLOWING THE AUSPICIOUS meeting in the tavern, Roux observed Leonardo da Vinci’s comings and goings for days. Prior to that night, he had not known that man was the painter and inventor so many talked about, but Roux had certainly recognized his genius in the few sketches he’d shown him in the little notebook he’d kept at his belt.
Roux’s travels had taken him across Italy the past month, and so a few days’ rest was opportune. His horse had taken a stone in a back hoof, which required the farrier to fit him with new shoes. The beast would require a day or two of rest if the stone had wedged in deep. Beyond that, he had no pressing business in Milan besides ensuring he not leave without the piece of Jeanne d’Arc’s sword Leonardo had mentioned.
Could it possibly be? If it had come from René d’Anjou’s hands, there could be little doubt of its authenticity.
Since the execution of the Maid of Orléans, Roux’s life had changed dramatically in so many ways. He admitted that there were some things he simply knew he must pursue, such as collecting the sword pieces. He must gather them all until— Well, he wasn’t sure what would happen when finally he did have all the pieces, but he understood it would be important.
His future stretched long and far ahead of him. He felt it in his soul. He had no explanation for it beyond that, yet he could accept it as a strange destiny that had befallen him that heinous afternoon of Jeanne’s death.
Now he slipped around the corner of a butcher shop buzzing with big black flies and hastened his steps to follow the man in the velvet tunic who marched away from the city. Nothing but wheat fields and hovels stood outside the gates. And the burial site where new mausoleums were erected daily.
Leonardo rarely left his studio, usually only for food or drink. Roux had found a convenient, discreet post from which he could keep an eye on things.
This morning, Leonardo had purchased paint from the color man—a bit of verdigris and a pale yellow Roux hadn’t a name for—and now, with dusk falling on the town, the painter walked along its busy streets.
Roux had decided wherever the man kept his treasures it was not in his studio, which was open all day to the public and his students. It seemed everyone was allowed to browse among the students at work or look over finished pieces for sale. Leonardo’s sleeping quarters were merely sectioned off with a curtain; no privacy whatsoever. Certainly no place to keep valuables.
Perhaps tonight Leonardo would lead him to the spot? It wasn’t long before Roux discovered the man’s destination.
The cemetery was eerily quiet and Leonardo did not look back as he wandered down a wide aisle toward a mausoleum on the north end beneath a copse of oak trees.
Roux held off, squatting between two gravestones, one frosted in verdant moss, the other new, for the name carved in its surface held a sharp edge. The fetid air did not agree with him, and he wished he’d brought along a clove sachet but then dismissed it as another foul situation he must endure. He was tired and hadn’t eaten since morning.
The man’s whistling echoed through the air. The painter was jovial and frenetic, always jumping from one idea to the next. As he’d explained, the notebook he kept secured at his hip with a length of braided leather provided the means to catalog his stream of creative ideas and thoughts.
Roux didn’t think he’d ever need to worry about having so much on his mind he must write it down to make room for it all. Despite his lacking position in a military or a royal court, he did have a focus. And he would not waver.
Moments passed, and the painter strolled by Roux’s hiding spot, which wasn’t concealed, yet Leonardo did not notice him, for the shadows had fallen over Roux’s brown tunic and pants. The painter jingled coins in his purse. A jingle Roux had not heard previously. For as sought after a painter as he was, he didn’t seem to reap many rewards for such work. Roux suspected the man was in debt.
When Leonardo reached the edge of the cemetery and silence hung over the place as if covered by a shroud, Roux snuck down the aisle to the mausoleum that the painter had visited. The narrow building that but a single man might stand inside was fronted by an iron door featuring a cut-out cross in the metal.
Roux pushed against the door and it gave. Not locked. But then, he didn’t see a means to secure even a padlock. He entered the dry, dirt-tainted air of the small chamber. The walls boasted burial drawers, something new he’d not seen until now. The darkness would not allow him to read the inscriptions, so he ran his fingers over the words and names carved into the stone.
Well, that didn’t help, either. Didn’t matter. He cast his gaze about the dark room, but didn’t see any handles or rings to open the sarcophagi. He tested the floor with some bounces on his boots. Oftentimes there was a chamber beneath for more burials. Felt solid.
A sweep of his hand along the front of a stone bench revealed a keyhole.
Roux cursed.
Stepping outside the mausoleum, Roux pulled off his hat and cast a glance at the starry sky. Now he would be forced to pinch the key from Leonardo da Vinci’s home.
He was not a thief.
Until he must be.
Roux made his way back toward the city, well aware of the shadowy presence that tracked a number of paces behind him. He didn’t have to wonder if it were a footpad or cutthroat. Some devils were impossible to shake. And this one in particular had been on his backside for years.
Chapter 9
Annja had only stepped out for a quick meal, but for some reason all the thugs in Venice seemed attracted to her.
Behind her hotel, Annja felt the intruder stir the air before actually hearing the footsteps that quickened to gain on her. She spun swiftly and caught a dark-clothed figure advancing. The attacker put his weight into the lunge and growled, attempting to push her down. She countered by bracing herself and leaning into the person. A forceful shove managed to disengage their sudden, surprising tangle.
The man was dressed in black; even his face was wrapped, ninjalike. He bounced on his feet, clad in black athletic shoes, ready for another lunge or even a kick. Seeing no weapons in either of his hands, Annja reacted with a roundhouse kick that skimmed her attacker’s shoulder just as he tilted his hips and bent backward to avoid the connection.
Her opponent kicked out a leg and connected with the side of her knee. Pain vibrated up her thigh and down her shin, but she didn’t buckle. Leaning forward, she bent to avoid a return swing from the man, and coming up at his side, she turned and clawed her fingers down the attacker’s face, gripping the black mask. The mask did not give way, but she used it to manipulate him. Annja used the momentum to hoist him from his feet. She tossed the guy aside, and he rolled away, coming up onto his feet.
He immediately charged, head bent and aiming for her torso. An intense tobacco scent permeated the air. Annja swung a fist that was ex
pertly blocked with a high forearm. She kicked up a knee and hinged out her leg, catching him at the jaw with her boot. He huffed out a groan, then toppled backward against a wall.
Using his brief incapacitation, Annja punched him in the kidney. He was still bent over to breathe through the blows, so she caught his cheek with her elbow. Swinging an uppercut toward his face, she smashed her fist into his nose. Blood bled over much of the mask.
“I just wanted a sandwich,” she muttered. “You, signore, have spoiled my appetite.”
Gripping him by the wrist, she swung him around. A foot jammed against the back of his knee buckled both legs, and she was able to slam his body to the ground. Kneeing him in the spine to pin him down, she rotated his arm at the shoulder, wrenching it backward to bring on the pain. His shout indicated extreme displeasure.
“Who are you and who do you work for?” she asked.
He swore at her in Italian.
So Annja switched to Italian, demanding the name of his employer. With a brutal twist of the arm, tweaking the muscles at his shoulder, she forced out a few bits of information from his tightly clenched jaws. His employer sought the lost Leonardo treasure. Her attacker had been ordered to divert her from the dive.
“So you could dive for it?”
“I do not even swim!”
“So there are others already searching?”
“I don’t know. I do not go in the water. I don’t know any details.”
“What about Scout Roberts?” she asked. Because shouldn’t both she and Roberts be on this nameless thug’s hit list?
“I do not have that name,” the man said.
“The other man I’m diving with? You were sent only to attack me?”
“Yes, the woman archaeologist with the long hair and pretty face.”
Flattery would not gain him any favor. He struggled and managed to twist his body over, screaming as Annja wrenched his arm out of the socket. It had been because of his move that she’d been able to do such a thing. Stupid man.