by Alex Archer
“We could also wait for Roux and you could hand the case over to him,” she suggested, “since you do work for the man, and this case is, for the most part, his property.”
“For the most part?”
“If it indeed contains a stolen cross that once belonged to Leonardo da Vinci—”
“And Jeanne d’Arc.”
“Yes. If it is inside, then you know we have to return it to the museum.”
“I’m sure Roux has that all under control. But I’m not passing anything over until I’ve taken a look at it. And what if it’s someone’s rotten egg salad inside? There is the possibility we may have found the wrong case.”
He winced and swallowed, then pinched the bridge of his nose as if to fend off the sudden need to sneeze.
“I would suspect rotten egg salad might tear this case apart if left to sit too long,” Annja joked. “But I’ll fall on the side of finding a valuable artifact within.”
Scout blew out a long breath. He removed his glasses. “Is it hot in here?”
“No. It’s started to rain, just as you predicted.”
“Why don’t you crack the window open, please?”
“You were just complaining about the chill.” She did as he’d asked and the breeze brought a salty odor from the canal. She turned to find Scout bent over the desk, his hands pressed to his temples. “Scout? Are you okay?”
“I think the food poisoning is setting in.”
“Seriously?” She assessed her own stomach. She didn’t feel weak or even woozy. Maybe the breeze was a bit too cold to leave the window open for too long. And she did have a strong stomach from traveling so much and having to survive sometimes on whatever she could find. But shouldn’t Scout be the same?
Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead and he had begun to shake. The glasses tumbled from his face, falling to the floor.
Annja rushed to his side, pressing a hand over his forehead. His skin was boiling hot. “You need to lay down.”
The man pushed the chair back, but instead of standing, Scout tumbled forward onto the rug.
“Not exactly how I’d intended you to do it.”
Annja lunged toward him, helping him onto his back. His clammy skin disturbed her. Food poisoning didn’t occur so quickly, did it? She couldn’t recall how long a reaction had taken the few times foreign foods had disagreed with her.
“I should call for help. The emergency number in Venice—what is it? It’s not 911, I know.”
“For an ambulance, 118” Scout muttered. “Phone’s in...” He turned his head and vomited. His body began to convulse.
Chapter 11
Milan, 1488
The piazza at the Santa Maria delle Grazie cloister was bustling with many who followed the ringing of bells for matins. The convent had been expanded and a chapel added for public services. Services were now complete for the morning.
Roux pushed through the crowd of parishioners questing toward homes and a meal with family, sliding a hand over his hip as he did so. He tied his purse inside his tunic and high up under his arm against his ribs. Cutpurses looked for victims in the least suspecting places.
Laughter echoed from nearby. He spied Leonardo da Vinci’s shoulder-length curly dark hair. The man was dressed in his usual tunic—much shorter than the typical style that dropped to the knees—and high leather boots. A green jasper ring drew attention to his long fingers. A painter’s hands.
Leonardo spoke to a man whose back was to Roux, yet Roux would recognize that deep, guttural chuckle any day.
“Garin Braden,” he said softly. He hadn’t seen him in a while, but he’d sensed him the past few days as he had followed Leonardo about the city.
“Bold move.” He admired the man’s audacity to talk directly to the painter. “But do you know what you are after, Braden?”
He must know. And if he did not, then he was merely making a show, expecting Roux to witness his interaction with the painter and suspecting it would dig into his gut and pick at his competitive nature.
He wouldn’t fall into the man’s game. And yet, he would not be able to shake Braden now that he had infiltrated Leonardo’s trust.
If he had.
Garin Braden did have a way about him. Despite his gruff manner and superior physicality, he had the ability to charm practically anyone with a few sentences. It frustrated Roux that the insolent young thing—whom Roux had trained as a solider earlier in the century—could so easily assimilate himself into any crowd, situation or even a private conversation.
As the twosome wandered off, Braden put his arm across Leonardo’s shoulders and again the men chuckled.
“I won’t let you win this one,” Roux vowed.
Braden had attempted to sabotage his quest for the sword pieces before. The man could have no idea what might occur should Roux collect them all, so why was Garin so worried about said collection?
“Obstinate bastard,” Roux muttered.
* * *
LATER THAT AFTERNOON Roux observed as, outside his studio, Leonardo da Vinci spoke with a uniformed guard whose livery marked him from the castle Sforza. Ludovico Sforza, a man who had seized control of Milan’s government despite his many vocal and oftentimes violent naysayers, also had an interest in artists.
Roux had been doing a bit of sleuthing. Apparently da Vinci was owed quite a bit on a recent commission he’d agreed to complete for an altarpiece in a chapel here in Milan. He’d been paid in parts and had yet to receive the entire sum. Supposedly Sforza had attempted to appeal for payment on Leonardo’s behalf, but still no luck. Roux would never accept a fee being split into payments, but then, would he ever have to take on a job? Likely not. His was more a cause.
On the other hand, with some of these painters and sculptors... The more he learned about their lackadaisical habits in completing projects, the more he understood the buyer’s need to ensure the artist be kept to heel and not be given any payment that he would then spend before he even touched paintbrush to canvas.
“Geniuses,” Roux muttered. “Impossible children, if you ask me.”
He should simply accost the man while he walked the dark streets, cut his purse strings and be gone before he realized who had knocked him over the head. But he didn’t need the aggravation of becoming a hunted man. And the city guards walked everywhere in this, the closest district to the Sforza castle. He needed to do this in secrecy and without Leonardo being the wiser. Roux did not want Leonardo to gain knowledge of his crime until it would prove impossible to locate him.
So he waited as the night grew long. Waiting, waiting for that single candle flame in the window of the man’s studio to finally extinguish.
“Does he ever sleep?” Roux pulled his wool cloak over his shoulders against the fall chill. He sat wedged between two buildings farther along the street, squatting against the wall. “Perhaps he sleeps with the candle lit?”
His horse had recovered and was ready to ride. And frankly, Roux was tired of Milan. Time to move on. But not without the prize.
Roux pushed up from the wall and stretched out his back muscles. Time to take action. He strode across the cobbled street, using darkness as his cloak.
The studio door was unlocked and creaked as it swung inward. Roux popped inside, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light that crept from behind the curtained sleep area. The studio was small and littered with canvases in all stages, from sketch to partially colored to completed work. All must have been done by Leonardo’s students, though Roux suspected the maestro put his touch to the canvas when needed.
The man’s bed was behind the curtain. Not a lot of space to maneuver. The painter was snoring. He sat at the head of his bed, boots still on and blankets pushed into a heap at his knees. His head tilted forward onto his chest, a canvas with charcoal sketch but a hand’s reach away. The candle on the low table near his bed had guttered and would soon blink out.
Knowing a wrong footstep could startle the painter instantly, Roux scanned the room
while keeping one eye on Leonardo. The man was wearing his pants and a tunic, but his belt had been removed, so the purse should be—right there, beside the plate of half-eaten bread and the small chunk of cheese.
The cheese had attracted a fly, and Roux shooed the insect away as he lifted the purse. No coin inside to jingle, but he felt the distinctive shape of the key. To take the whole purse or simply to slip out the key? Either way, the painter would realize the theft as soon as he either lifted the purse or saw that it was missing.
Roux stuffed the purse into his waistband and slipped out through the door as silently as he’d entered. He shut it behind him and listened but heard no shuffling about inside the studio. Then he strode down the street.
Chapter 12
The hospital emergency room was located close by in the Cannaregio. An ambulance boat had arrived and whisked Scout away. Two hours later, Scout’s stomach had been pumped and the nurse had reassured Annja it had not been food poisoning, but perhaps instead the tea.
Stale tea? Or perhaps tea that one suspected was dandelion root but instead was something far worse? The weed could be potentially toxic, the nurse had suggested. Annja was thankful she hadn’t drank any. And to look at Scout now, whose skin was white and lips were a chalky shade as well, she was doubly thankful.
Annja had called Tomaso Damiani at the police station when she and Scout had arrived at the hospital and told him about their find in the canal and that Scout was ill. The police officer said he’d be there soon to talk to her further about the situation.
While Scout weakly answered the nurse’s questions so she could fill out a file on him, Annja waited by the door, wondering if she’d had the forethought to lock the palazzo doors as they’d left. No, she hadn’t. And inside were many valuable artifacts. In her panic to get Scout medical help, she’d forgotten about the case. She needed to return and lock up shop.
Or better yet, Ian should have arrived at the palazzo by now. She was surprised she hadn’t run into him while they had been carrying Scout out. She dialed his number, but it rang through. Must have turned off his phone. She’d have to return to the palazzo, and soon.
The nurse left the room, leaving the door open behind her. Scout moaned, which prompted Annja to his bedside.
“And here you were warning me about the egg salad,” she teased.
He laughed, but just barely. “If only it had been the sandwich. Nurse said the tea could be the culprit. I need to stay in this place for twenty-four hours for observation.”
“The police will want a sample of that tea for testing,” she said. “I didn’t see any bags. Was there a canister in the cupboard?”
“I’ll take care of that when I return. You don’t need to worry about it, Creed. Oh, man, I feel like a truck hit me.”
“You should rest.”
“Already on that,” he said, his eyelids fluttering. “We found it, Annja.”
“Yes, but what do we really have? A cross? A key? Or a poisoned pot of tea?”
“It could be something so much more.”
“Yes. You never did get a chance to tell me the big secret about the cross before we were intruded upon by thugs.”
“Hmm...”
“I should leave you to rest,” she offered. “We were in such a rush to get you to the hospital I didn’t have a chance to lock up. Is there a key for the palazzo? I’ll bring it back once I’m sure the place is secure.”
“In the office desk drawer. But I’m sure the place is fine. You needn’t rush out, Creed.”
“What? You want me to sit here and hold your hand?”
The man cracked a half smile. “Would you?”
“Are you serious?”
“No. But a guy has to try, you know? Gorgeous woman like you...”
He was delirious. And he did look pitiful. Annja patted his hand. “I’ll stay a bit. And if you feel inclined to chatter aimlessly about the truth behind the cross, don’t let me stop you.”
“Just want to be quiet,” he murmured, “and know someone is here with me.”
Great. Annja hadn’t much of a bedside manner. Her thoughts raced to the unlocked palazzo. Surely the owner would be inconsolable should a theft occur. But she didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes Scout’s snores echoed in the private room and Annja couldn’t force herself to remain any longer. If anything happened to the palazzo—or the case—she would blame herself. And she felt sure Ian must be wondering what was up.
When she returned to the palazzo to find the front door slightly open, she struggled with her memory. Had they left so quickly she hadn’t closed the door properly? It was possible. Scout’s attack had come on so suddenly it had startled her and she hadn’t been thinking straight.
“I didn’t leave through the front door.” She’d been allowed to accompany Scout in the ambulance boat, and they had all left by a rear door.
Could it be Ian?
Pushing the door wide open, she entered the foyer cautiously. The hum of the sword tickled her fingers. Sometimes she could sense it in her grip without even calling it to hand, as if it knew when she was in a dangerous situation.
Shadows darkened the foyer—it was well past nine in the evening—and her boots softly thudded on the stone floor. The office door was wide open, which made sense to her. The emergency workers had carried Scout out on a stretcher, she following close behind to the garage dock tucked at the back of the palazzo.
“Ian?”
No reply, but she hadn’t expected one.
As she turned to enter the office, she saw the curtains were fluttering in the breeze and the window was open. Her gaze immediately went to the granite-topped desk. The stack of old books had been pushed over, a few of them on the floor. The silver case was open and empty.
Annja put her hands on the case, noting the screwdriver beside it, the one Scout had been using earlier. No signs of trauma on the case or the digital lock, the display was flashing.
“Interesting.” Had someone known the code or been able to crack it?
If she’d had her backpack with her and the ever-present camera inside, she would have snapped some shots of this apparent crime scene. As it was, she had best not touch anything.
A smack outside the window startled Annja and instantly she was on alert. She raced over to the window. A man had just landed on the narrow ledge hugging the building. He’d jumped out of the kitchen window. Must have heard her calling out for Ian.
He adjusted his backpack, looked up at her, grinned and ran away.
Chapter 13
Climbing through the open window, Annja stopped with one leg dangling over the ledge when she heard Ian’s voice calling to her from the foyer.
“In here!” she hollered, keeping an eye on the man who now sprinted over the bridge fifty yards away from the palazzo.
“I stopped in earlier, and the door was open but no one was here,” Ian said. “You didn’t answer your cell phone. I wasn’t sure if you two had gone out somewhere to eat, so I grabbed a bite myself. So weird.”
Ian strode into the office and looked about the dim room. When he saw her sitting on the window ledge, he sputtered and gave her a confused look. “Annja?”
“Scout was poisoned. The attaché case was looted. I think the thief just left. I’m on him right now. The palazzo key is in a desk drawer. Lock up, please, and I’ll call you as soon as I can!”
Annja prepared to jump off the ledge, admonishing herself for not having considered any security before dashing off to the hospital.
Now she couldn’t let the thief out of her sight. She saw the silhouette of the man on the opposite side of the little pedestrian bridge down the canal.
Inching along the narrow ledge, her footing was sure. Behind her, Ian’s head appeared out the window, along with his video camera. She wasn’t sure the chase was necessary for the show, but then again, Doug would love this footage. Leaving Ian to his pursuits, Annja dashed along the ledge and jumped onto the bridge. Soon, she was within yards of th
e thief. Whatever had been in the case they’d recovered was now in that backpack. And she’d lay bets it wasn’t an egg-salad sandwich.
Gripping the railing at the end of the bridge, she leaped and made the cobbled sidewalk. The thief had dodged left, down a narrow stretch between buildings too close for anything larger than a bicycle. She moved along the passage, her elbows scuffing the concrete.
The thief had spotted an iron ladder clinging to one wall; he grabbed the bottom rung and seemed to defy gravity as he pulled himself up each side of the ladder with his hands. Employing amazing upper-body strength, he only pushed off a rung with a foot every so often. With an audible ouff, he landed on the top of the roof.
Making a running leap for the ladder—the bottom rung was about seven feet from the ground—Annja gripped the lowest rung and used the momentum of her body to boost herself up and clasp the next rung, and the next, until she could steady herself using her feet. It took her mere seconds to breach the roof.
The curved terra-cotta shingles were at a low angle, so balancing was easy enough. Gaining speed, though, on the smooth shingles still moist with rain, proved a challenge for her hiking boots. Still, like the thief, Annja ran as best she could, bent over, stabbing the tiles to steady herself.
The thief paused at the edge of the building to look back at her. Yeah, she was on his ass. He leaped to the next building, his silhouette disappearing from her view. On the street below a clatter of tiles had broken and fallen as the thief had jumped.
“A little parkour on this cloudy evening?” Annja eyed the lower rooftop. “Just what I was in the mood for.”
She’d learned from one of the best, a parkour trainer in Paris, and enjoyed the physical challenge. She estimated the drop to be about fifteen feet with a six-foot gap between buildings. The missing tiles could either provide a foothold or a nasty slip off the edge.
The thief was already halfway across the other building.