by Alex Archer
“If there were not, then you would become sick with the power. There must be a balance. You do meditate?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t think of not meditating. It is what keeps me grounded,” she said.
“Those who live by the sword…”
“Die by it?”
“Is that how it goes?” He downed the remainder of his wine. “I’ve spoken to Garin recently. He won’t let it go. He will pursue the sword until his end days.”
Garin Braden had once been Roux’s protégé in the fifteenth century. A slave to a kind master who had taught him skills of stealth, defense and the martial arts, until the boy had betrayed his teacher. The twosome had engaged in a reluctant alliance over the centuries, bonded together by a common quest, but each having his own direction.
Now, since the sword had been re-formed, Garin had been at odds with both Annja and Roux. He wanted the sword back, and though he’d yet to prove successful in nabbing it from her, Annja could always be assured of his shadow lurking not far from her travels. He showed up in the most unlikely places, and possessed rather interesting contacts and knowledge of esoteric artifacts even Annja could not begin to grasp.
And he’d once almost been staked as a vampire. To summon that image gave Annja a certain amount of glee.
“Garin will have to take it from me himself,” she said. “If a man wants something, he can’t depend on others to snag it for him.”
And he had tried that method, more than a few times. To no great success. Was it because Garin feared going head to head with her?
No. While he paid others to do his dirty work, when it came down to it, Annja knew Garin would stand before her, determined and ready to take her on. For now, they had only engaged in a teasing play of sorts.
She tilted her head, eyes closed. A man obsessed with something he held of great value would take it for himself, wouldn’t he?
Another obsessed man, Ascher, had been very concerned she was walking away from him, sword in hand. Yet, he hadn’t been at all upset over the stolen map—arguably the greater treasure.
Annja rubbed a palm along her opposite arm, chilled even with the bright sunlight.
Had he?
The robbery at Ascher’s country estate still didn’t feel right. For a masked man to have sneaked in and taken so delicate an object? If she had only navigated the dark by feeling her way, how could the thief have proved any more capable? Unless he’d had a flashlight, which she would have noticed.
When she’d gone back into Ascher’s house, he’d come out of the den to see where she had been. And yet, now that she thought on it, he’d been surprised when she told him the map was missing.
If he had been in the den, shouldn’t he have known that it was gone?
Had there really been two thieves? And then, to battle her in the courtyard, while also holding that very delicate map? It didn’t fit.
Because it hadn’t been stolen?
“Oh, crap.” She sat upright. Roux winced against the bright sunlight, having gone quiet during her retrospective mood. “It was too easy.” She pounded the glass-topped patio table with a fist. “And when we returned to the house, the lights were on again. They’d gone out, and then—he has it. That bastard has the sword.”
“Your online lover?”
She scoffed at the old man’s salacious suggestion. “I don’t know who the figure in black was that I fought with, but he was a distraction. Had to be. Someone else had the map. And they couldn’t have taken it far, or in a great hurry. Which only means…”
Standing, Annja walked to the edge of the stone patio where a honeysuckle vine shaded the side of her face. She dug her cell phone out from her pocket. She hadn’t exchanged numbers with Ascher, but—yes. When scrolling to the last number received, an unidentified number showed up. She dialed it, and he answered on the first ring.
“You have the map,” she insisted. “You have it, I know. There was no one else in your house this morning, except perhaps the decoy you hired to take me on a wild-goose chase away from the map.”
“There are wild geese in the area? Annja, I did not know—”
“Nice try, Frenchman. Sit tight. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“I’ll save you the trip,” he said. “I am in the car right now, on the way to Paris.”
“You’ll hand over the map?” she asked.
“If you bring the musketeer’s rapier.”
So he did have it. “What value is the rapier to you?” She glanced to Roux, who, though he appeared to be intent on his crème brûlée, followed her conversation carefully.
“A personal quest completed,” he replied. “I want to ensure the rapier gets placed in the proper hands.”
“Those hands have blood on them? Your blood?”
“No, there is a museum dedicated to d’Artagnan in Lupiac. We discussed this online, Annja.”
She did not for a moment believe he would hand the rapier over. Not without recompense. But the map would provide that. If it were genuine, and if there was even a treasure to be found.
He had warned her they may come to arms over the ownership of the sword.
“Tell me what you know,” she said. “Who were those thugs?”
“Annja—”
“No details, no sword, treasure hunter.”
“Very well. They may have been with the investor who gave me no choice but to ally myself with him. But I got the map out for us, Annja. I didn’t want to lose that. All he wanted was the rapier.”
“Who is this investor?”
“He gave me the name of his company. Uh…BHDC.”
“What do they do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t believe you.”
“Well, perhaps I know they are into making new organs for transplants.”
“What?”
“You know…what is it you call it? To make a new organ from nothing. Cloning. Yes, that is it. So if a man loses a kidney, they can make a new one, oui?”
What he was telling her sounded not at all related to a stolen map. But he was either rather clever to summon such a story on the run, as it were, or else telling the truth. And he had lost a kidney recently. Unless that was another lie.
“That’s the truth?” she asked.
“On my honor and cross my heart. Annja, please, I need to hand over the rapier to this man or…”
“Or what?”
“He’ll take my other kidney from me. He’s already stolen the one. I can’t afford another. So will you bring me the prize?”
She recalled his flinching in the car, and his explanation that it was a recent injury. Someone had attacked Ascher, destroyed his kidney, all for a sword? Without the treasure map?
What had she walked into? And how, in the greater scheme of her life, did this relate to what Joan’s sword called her to do?
As an archaeologist, she had learned to search for the why of things, not just the what. A couple of treasure hunters squabbling over a sword? Didn’t make sense. But the mystery of it intrigued. And if not for the mystery, she did have to see Ascher once again to give him what for on tricking her.
“I’ll meet you in the courtyard before Notre-Dame in an hour,” she said, and hung up. “I have to go into the city,” she said to Roux. “Can I leave the rapier with you?”
“Of course you can, my dear.”
She paused in the doorway to the patio, pressing her palms to the frame. A place to rest and a nice lunch was one thing. But she still had not drawn a definite bead on her relationship to Roux. The man could be concerned when it served him, but she wouldn’t fool herself by extending blind trust.
“Can I trust you with it?” she asked.
Roux set down his wine goblet and wiped his lips. “Whatever might I do with it? It’s not got a treasure map in it, so I might only spend the time looking upon its ancient beauty and being reminded about the certain lovely who shared my bed that night after I had first looked it over with Castelmore.”
> Rolling her eyes, Annja headed back through the house, but called back, “Keep it safe, Roux. I’ll be back!”
11
Annja arrived before the Notre-Dame cathedral a half-hour early and lucked out finding a parking spot right across from the parvis that fronted the tourist attraction.
Two parking slots down from her bumper, a red-and-white-striped hawker’s cart sold hot crepes to a stream of eager tourists. The scent of burned bananas permeated the car windows Annja had rolled down an inch. The giggles of children chasing the ever present flocks of pigeons in the courtyard tickled the air.
She remembered the first time she’d visited the cathedral a few years ago. She’d walked right up to the Arago disk set into the ground fifty yards before the cathedral and taken a picture of her feet standing on the timeworn piece of history. The disk marked point zero, the starting point from where all distance in France was measured. There were 135 disks all over the city, and some day she planned to hike about and see them all. Just for kicks.
Laptop set on the passenger’s seat of the rental, Annja twisted and tucked an ankle up under her other leg. She leaned across the shift console and opened her browser. After checking all the possible URL combinations and coming up with nothing, she Googled “BHDC,” the initials Ascher had mentioned.
There were numerous corporations and businesses with the initials, scattered all across the world. None seemed like what she was looking for. But after the sixth Google page, she hit paydirt.
“BioHistorical Design Corporation,” she read. There was no company Web site, merely a small notation in a science journal. The article, dated 2002, conjectured the few European genetics labs that may have successfully accomplished therapeutic cloning.
Ascher had mentioned something about a cloned kidney, so this may be the right lead.
Annja searched “therapeutic cloning” for a definition. Such a form of cloning involved extracting human DNA from a sample, growing an embryo to about fourteen days, then extracting stem cells to then grow human tissue or even complete human organs capable of transplant. The first successful therapeutic cloning had been done in 2001, and the article, written but a year later, supposed BHDC had accomplished therapeutic cloning the year of the article.
“Huh.” Annja sat back in the driver’s seat.
From her position, she would notice if Ascher arrived in front of the cathedral. The day was overcast, and a few rain sprinkles spotted the hood, but it wasn’t heavy enough to dissuade the pigeons or the children.
“Cloning and d’Artagnan,” she muttered, not connecting the two. “But only human organs, not complete humans, which is what I thought cloning was all about.”
More surfing found that therapeutic cloning had been legal in Britain since 2001. It was not currently legal in France, though there were a few exceptions, like if the stem cell was drawn from a frozen embryo.
In America they were trying to pass a law where couples who had stored embryos for infertility therapy could donate the unused embryos for stem-cell research. It was a very touchy subject, both morally and politically.
Overall, the law defining therapeutic cloning was different in various European countries and the United States, though Britain was far ahead and open to the technology.
Across the board, human cloning was illegal.
Interesting, that only this morning Annja had watched Roux pull a hair from d’Artagnan’s sword. She had then explained to him that DNA could sometimes be used to identify maternal genetic matches. With a hair sample, an intact root was needed to create a DNA sequence. The actual process was beyond her knowledge, but it was interesting enough that she wanted to learn more.
“But why BioHistorical?” she mused. “Does it have something to do with historical figures? Why would BHDC want Ascher to hand over d’Artagnan’s rapier? Do they believe there might be DNA evidence on the artifact? Which would provide them…what?”
If there had been usable DNA evidence on the rapier, what would BHDC have done with it? Create an organ? But that would only serve the one whose DNA had been used to create the organ. Charles Castelmore was no longer around. The musketeer was definitely not in need of a transplant.
Ascher was one kidney short, but he could never use a kidney cloned with someone else’s DNA. It wasn’t possible unless the match was a relative, and even then, it was never a guarantee.
Was Ascher related to d’Artagnan?
“No. He would have mentioned that. Over and over.”
If anything, the enigmatic treasure hunter might get a thrill to trace his genetic heritage to Henri III, his favorite Valois king. But he’d already checked that out. No match.
She glanced at her watch. Ascher was five minutes late.
She tapped the keyboard. “I’m missing something.”
The more she searched the Internet for information on cloning, the more her head spun. It was not her area of expertise, though certainly there were archaeologists who specialized in genetics. When digging up bones and pieces of history, she was more concerned with who the person had been, not who they could become?
Cloning a historical figure? It all sounded too like a science-fiction movie to her.
Though, certainly, the DNA for historical figures was out there and was being put to use. DNA testing was used all the time to date archaeological finds. Heck, there was that whole debacle over slices of Einstein’s brain.
Why hadn’t anyone tried to clone Einstein?
The topic boggled, so she switched gears to focus on the sword and treasure.
Annja searched the law of finds in France. She wanted to be clear on whom, exactly, the found rapier belonged to, and ultimately, the treasure.
Trying a few simple searches, there were no clear details that she could find. What she needed was access to a law library. But she was able to piece together that treasure belonged to the country it was found in.
“Obviously,” she muttered, having already known that. “Though there must be a finder’s fee.”
Not that she cared to claim any remuneration, but she did want to be clear on what rights Ascher had should the map actually turn up something.
Closing the laptop, she opened the car door and twisted to stretch out her legs. Only yesterday she’d been smiling ear to ear because this venture had been a means to escape her calling to fight injustice.
There was nothing whatsoever world-threatening about this situation. Not that she was ever rescuing the entire world—just small portions of it, most often. And yet, Annja couldn’t help wonder what she did not yet know, and if that would push the stakes higher.
Ascher had lost a kidney because BHDC wanted a sword that once belonged to a famous musketeer. Those same investors didn’t seem to be aware of the greater prize, the treasure map inside the sword.
Or did they? Certainly anyone would be interested if they knew there was treasure.
Tugging out her cell phone, she dialed Roux’s number. Henshaw hooked her up within thirty seconds.
“Miss me so quickly, then, my dear?” Roux asked.
“You still have that hair strand you pulled from the sword?”
“I haven’t returned to it since you left. I’m sure it’s still there. Do you need it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve discovered a new player in this game. They’re called BHDC, which stands for BioHistorical Design Corporation.”
“Means nothing to me.”
“They do therapeutic cloning. With DNA samples—like a hair strand—they can then create new organs for transplant. Although it’s clear that it is not legal in France. Thought I’d run it by you.”
“DNA from a hair strand? Still sounds incredible to me, though I will not deny having heard it on the news stations from time to time. I’m sorry, Annja, what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.”
Yes, what could a five-hundred-year-old soldier provide in way of a complicated topic as cloning?
D’Artagnan and I looked over the
map.
Incredible.
“Keep your ears open for me?” she asked.
“Will do.”
“Annja!”
A thump on the roof of her car startled Annja. She hadn’t seen him coming from the right and behind. “Thanks, Roux, gotta go.”
She snapped the phone shut and rose out from the car.
Ascher was looking his usual suave, handsome self. Blue jeans and a gray T-shirt emphasized his athletic build. Sneakers for running. The physicality of him made it impossible to look away. He was all muscles and cocky smile. Standing still was out of the question; he either shuffled his weight from foot to foot or paced a few steps before her. Always ready. A bit like an eager puppy.
But trust had been lost.
Ascher grinned his roguish smirk and came around the hood with arms spread as if to hug her. She sidestepped him. His smile fell.
“You bring the rapier?” he asked.
“You bring the map?”
Daring a move, Annja lunged around and grabbed the coiled roll sticking out from his back pocket.
He protested, but Annja did not listen. The feel of the slick plastic in her hands started Annja’s heartbeats to a race. He did not!
“Oh, my God, you…laminated it?”
Uncoiling the roll revealed a small map—about six inches square, with a corner missing—completely laminated within a glossy plastic sheet.
“This thing was priceless, Ascher. It’s…” What to say when all she felt was utter disbelief? “I can’t believe you did this!”
“Would you prefer we walk about in the dark tunnels losing flake after flake like the gingerbread kids until we know not where to go?”
“Dark tunnels?”
This was the first time she’d had the opportunity to look at the map. At first glance it was merely a twist of lines. It was impossible to determine what the lines represented for there were no street names or landmarks indicated.
Sickened at the incredible damage done to this priceless artifact, Annja swallowed back a huge sigh.