by Alex Archer
“We can’t transport you all back at the same time,” Captain Yadav said when they’d finished. He was in his late thirties and already going gray at the temples. “But we can take a few of you now.” He wiped at his stubbled face with a big hand. “Of course, we’ll need to transport the prisoners, too. We can hardly leave them here with these young people.”
“I heartily agree, Captain,” Lochata said.
“We can take a few of you back to Kanyakumari. Afterward we can make arrangements to get the rest of you out of this place.”
“I don’t know that we’ll be ready to leave,” Lochata said. “Some of the students might wish to leave, but I’ll have to ask them.”
“Why would you stay?” the captain asked.
“If I can get my site reequipped, I plan on staying until I finish what I came here to do.”
Captain Yadav nodded. “As you wish, Professor. Is there any way I can assist you?”
“I need to get word to the families of these students that they’re fine.”
“Of course. Get me a list of their names and their information. I’ll see to it everyone is contacted even if I have to do it myself.”
“And Professor Creed will need to be flown into Kanyakumari to make arrangements,” Lochata said.
“Actually, her transportation has already been arranged.”
Annja was confused. “My transportation?”
The captain nodded. “There was another search-and-rescue effort going on along with ours.”
“Who was it?” Annja couldn’t believe Doug Morrell would go to the expense of hiring a private team to find her.
The captain shook his head. “I only know that the man looking for you was known to my superiors. They asked me to give him all the information I could get as soon as we located you.” He looked up in the sky as the sound of another helicopter grew louder. “Ah. There it is now.”
Annja turned and looked. The helicopter looked like a small blob in the sky, but the rotors instantly identified it.
“Someone sent a search-and-rescue party after me?” Annja asked.
Yadav nodded. “Evidently you have influential friends.”
10
The black helicopter with the corporate logo of a gold dragon in midflight landed out on the ocean on large pontoons. Annja watched as the helicopter sat there while a crew disembarked and waded through the sea to reach the narrow shore.
The new helicopter was larger than the coast guard’s. The crew threw out anchors to hold the craft in position. They moved with crisp efficiency that spoke of military training. Without speaking, they spread out and secured the beach. All of them carried assault rifles.
A medium-sized black man with a shaved head and wraparound sunglasses approached Annja. He was smooth-shaven except for a soul patch on his chin.
“Ms. Creed.” His voice was melodic, Caribbean by way of England, Annja thought.
“I am,” Annja said.
“I’m Matthew Griggs, ma’am. I’m here on behalf of my employer to make certain you’re safe.”
“Who’s your employer?”
“Mr. Garin Braden, ma’am.” His face was like stone.
He looked familiar but Annja couldn’t remember where she’d seen him.
“Do you have any ID, Mr. Griggs?” Annja asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” Griggs reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim wallet. Inside was an official-looking license. He was a member of DragonTech Security Services. “Mr. Braden also told me to have you call him when I made contact.”
“My phone’s battery is dead,” Annja said.
“Mine isn’t, ma’am.” Griggs handed over a slim phone.
“I don’t have his number,” Annja said.
“It’s in the phone directory, ma’am.”
Annja located the number and punched Talk. “I know he protects his private information,” she said while the phone dialed. “I guess he wouldn’t be happy if you lost this phone.”
“No, ma’am. That number is a temporary one. After you call Mr. Braden, it won’t be used ever again. I’ve memorized other numbers for him that I use.”
The phone rang and rang.
“He’s not answering.” Annja handed the phone back to Griggs.
Griggs made no move to take the phone. “Perhaps we should give him a moment, ma’am. Mr. Braden was adamant about speaking with you.”
Irritated and determined not to play Garin’s little game, especially since she didn’t know the rules, Annja tossed the sat phone back to the security officer.
Griggs caught the phone in one hand without batting an eye.
“Can you fly me to Kanyakumari?” Annja asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How many others can you put on board that helicopter?” Annja knew some of the dig members wanted to go home. Some would help Lochata put together supplies to continue work at the site.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. My orders are to take you, and only you, wherever you want to go.”
“If you can’t take anyone else, then I’ll ride with the coast guard.” Annja turned and walked away.
The phone chirped.
Annja never broke stride until Griggs called out to her.
“Mr. Braden would like to speak to you, ma’am,” Griggs said.
If it hadn’t been for the fact that the DragonTech helicopter could help ferry people, Annja wouldn’t have taken the call. That was what she told herself, anyway. The truth of the matter was that she was curious as to why Garin had sent the security team.
She returned to Griggs and took the phone he offered. “Yes.”
“Ah, Annja,” Garin said. He sounded out of breath. “Good morning. I see you survived your debacle.”
“I did.” Annja listened to the noise coming from the other end of the connection. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn Garin was running through a forest with branches whipping at him. “What are you doing?”
As soon as she asked, she realized she didn’t want to know. Garin Braden was a true sybarite. From what she knew of him, he loved women and luxury. Neither he nor Roux abstained from the pleasures of the flesh. She’d found Roux with women young enough to be his granddaughter on more than one occasion.
“Never mind,” she said quickly when she envisioned what Garin might be preoccupied with. “I don’t want to know.”
She always found thoughts of Garin confusing. He was larger than life. His long black hair and goatee were always immaculate. He was a devilishly handsome man, but he also had a devil’s heart.
“I was busy escaping my own debacle when you called,” Garin said. “It was an inopportune moment to take a call.”
“I’ll bet.” Was it a brunette, blond, or a red-haired moment? Annja wondered.
“I’m glad you survived,” Garin said with such sincerity that she almost believed him. Fool, she chided herself. False sincerity and bare-faced lying were two of Garin’s greatest abilities.
“Do you still have the sword?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Pity.”
Annja smiled. As long as she had the sword, she knew Garin could never completely forget about her. The downside was that he would never forget about her.
“Why did you send the helicopter?” she asked in an effort to focus on another line of thinking.
“I thought you might need it.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“It was on television.”
“Television?” Annja couldn’t believe it.
“Yes. On CNN and Fox News.”
“How did they know?”
“Your television producer. That little cretin, Morrelli.”
“Doug Morrell,” Annja said.
“Whatever.”
“CNN contacted Doug?”
“I think it was the other way around. It was a great performance,” Garin said.
Annja felt as if the world had just opened up beneath her feet. “What
was a great performance?”
“His tears and gnashing of teeth. I think he would have torn his clothing if he’d had time. This generation doesn’t know how to properly grieve.”
“Why would he be grieving?” Annja struggled to catch up. Events were twisting too quickly.
“Morrelli claimed that you were killed when the tsunami struck. I didn’t believe that—”
Or you just wanted to confirm for yourself, Annja thought.
“—so I sent a security team I already had in the area,” Garin finished.
“Thanks.” Annja paced and glared out to sea.
“You sound angry,” Garin said.
“I am.”
“At me?” Garin sounded puzzled and a little hurt.
“No. At the cretin.”
“Ah. Well, good. It’s one thing to have you mad at me when I deserve it—”
“You deserve it,” Annja said. “A lot.”
Garin laughed. “That’s debatable.”
“Not with me.” Annja turned and glared at Griggs. The man didn’t wilt a millimeter. His sunglasses only reflected her and the beach. “Your officer here—”
“Griggs.”
“Right. He tells me I’m the only one who gets to ride on the helicopter.”
“You want to take someone?”
“Several someones. There are a lot of scared college kids out here. I’d like to see that some of them get home.”
“Let me have a word with Griggs.”
Annja gave Griggs the phone.
“Yes, sir,” he said twice, and handed the phone back to her.
“Take as many as you can fit onto the helicopter,” Garin said.
“Thank you. Can I keep the phone for a while, too? Mine is dead.”
“Of course.” Garin took a breath. “I hate to arrange an escape-and-run, but that’s how these things are generally best handled. And I’ve got an escape of my own to finish.”
“Good luck with that,” Annja said.
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Garin declared. “I’m a master planner. This little—”
He was cut off by a burst of machine-gun fire. He cursed loudly and the phone went dead.
Annja tried to call back, but the phone only rang a couple times and went to an answering service.
“Problem, ma’am?” Griggs asked.
“Garin got cut off,” Annja replied. She was surprised how much the idea of him hurt somewhere worried at her.
“Satellite signals sometimes get—”
“By machine-gun fire,” Annja interrupted.
“Ah.” Griggs nodded and took a deep breath. “Well, ma’am, I wouldn’t worry too much. Mr. Braden has been taking care of himself for a long time. I’ve found him to be quite capable.”
“I’m not worried,” Annja said. But she knew she was lying.
“Of course you aren’t, ma’am.”
Evidently Griggs knew she was lying, too.
11
James Fleet arrived in the Kanyakumari morgue two minutes ahead of the appointed time. He descended the dark, narrow stairs that led to the basement. Despite his familiarity with the dead, he’d never truly learned to relax around them. Dread filled him at what he knew he was about to see.
He knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a voice called from within.
Fleet opened the door and entered.
The morgue was larger than he’d expected. Four tables lined the wall on the right. Sheets covered the newly dead, and Fleet was glad he didn’t have to see them. Stainless-steel vaults lined the wall on the left. Cabinets with surgical instruments and chemicals occupied the wall ahead.
A thin old man in a white coat and a turban worked on the body of a middle-aged man with three bullet holes in his chest.
“Who are you?” the old man asked.
“Dr. Singh?” Fleet asked because he didn’t want to explain himself only to find out he was talking to the wrong person and have to explain everything all over again.
“Yes.” The man paused and leaned on the surgical table as if he were tired. But he was wary.
Fleet was six feet tall and weighed close to two hundred pounds. With sandy hair and freckles across the bridge of his nose, he’d never pass for a local. His fair skin was still pink from the sun exposure he’d had yesterday. He blamed his mother’s Welsh ancestors for that. He wore slacks, a knit shirt and a loose windbreaker to cover the 9 mm pistol in the holster at the small of his back.
He showed his identification to Singh.
Singh peeled off his bloody gloves, dropped them into a biohazard container and took the identification. He swapped one pair of glasses for another.
“Special Agent James Fleet of the International Maritime Bureau,” Singh read aloud. He squinted up at Fleet. “You’re British.”
“Does that make a difference?”
“No. Just an observation. Usually the IMB allows the coast guard or the Indian navy to handle investigations like this.”
“Special case,” Fleet said.
Singh touched his own nose. “You should be careful out in the sun.”
“I know.” Fleet took the ID back. “My office called to let you know I was coming.”
Singh nodded. “They did. What may I do for you, Agent Fleet? Your office didn’t tell me what it was you wanted.”
“You can just call me Fleet.”
“Of course.” Singh waited patiently.
Fleet put his ID away and took a folded printout from his pocket. “You received a gunshot victim yesterday.”
Singh held up four fingers. “I received four. Perhaps you would like to clarify.”
“A woman.” Fleet unfolded the paper displaying the image of the woman who’d been shot in the head with the .357 Magnum.
“DOUG MORRELL.”
“You sound really chipper for somebody who’s supposed to be grieving over me,” Annja declared as she sat in the passenger seat of the DragonTech Security helicopter. The luxurious cabin was soundproofed enough that she could make the phone call without being drowned out by the rotorwash.
There was a pause. Then Doug’s voice turned angry. “Who is this? How dare you call in and claim to be Annja Creed, may God rest her soul?”
Annja counted to three. It was the best she could manage. “Doug, it’s me.”
Anguish—fake and syrupy to the ears of someone who truly knew him—filled his words. “Oh, God. You sick, pathetic person. Annja Creed was one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”
“I’m. Not. Dead,” Annja stated evenly. The fierce tone in her voice drew the attention of the archaeology students seated around her. A few of the security team’s heads turned, as well.
“Why don’t you come down here and tear the heart right out of my chest?” Doug wailed. “And stomp on it?”
Annja didn’t know what to say to that.
“Are you close enough to come down here?” Doug asked.
“I’m still in India.”
“Good,” Doug whispered. “Stay there. Stay out of sight.”
“What?”
“I’ll call you in a few minutes.” Doug hung up.
Not believing what had just happened, Annja took the phone from her face and stared at it. She closed it and tried Garin’s number again.
“Hello,” Garin answered.
Annja was surprised to discover how relieved she was. The sword bound them and she knew as long as Roux, Garin and she lived that they would have some connection to each other.
“You’re still alive.” She tried to sound neutral, as if they were discussing the weather.
“I am. Are you happy about it? Or disappointed?”
“Disappointed.”
“You don’t lie very well.”
“I lie just fine.” Annja bristled at his confidence. She leaned back in the executive chair and stared down at the jungle below. They hugged the coastline as they flew toward Kanyakumari.
“Maybe to someone else. Why did you call?”
The question caught Annja by surprise. She’d called because she wanted to know how he was, but she didn’t want him to know that.
“I didn’t know if I’d thanked you for the use of the helicopter,” she said weakly.
“You did. And thank you for calling to check on me.”
“I didn’t call to check on you.”
“Have you called the cretin?”
“I have. He accused me of pretending to be me.”
“Of course he did.”
Annja was at a loss. “Why would he do that?”
“Because, at the moment, it’s more profitable for the television show if you’re dead.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re advertising the Chasing History’s Monsters: The Annja Creed Memorial Collection.”
“What?” Annja was stunned.
Garin chuckled. “I have to admit, I was really surprised at how quickly they pulled it together. Do you have your computer?”
“Yes.”
“Look at the show’s Web site. I’ll talk to you later. I’ve still got a few things to handle here.”
“Where’s here?” Annja asked before she could stop herself.
“Not there,” Garin assured her. He hung up.
Annja cursed Garin’s arrogance as she took her computer from her backpack. She’d plugged it into one of the outlets built into the helicopter to charge the battery. When she started to attach the minisatellite receiver through the USB slot, Griggs addressed her.
“You don’t need to use that,” the security officer said. “The helicopter has wireless capability built into it.”
Annja went online and accessed the Chasing History’s Monsters Web page.
Normally the page opened up on a side-by-side profile of Kristie Chatham and Annja and had a current Top 40 song playing in the background. Now the focus was all Annja.
A black border ran around the page. The words “Annja Creed RIP” scrolled across the page. She gazed at the information posted about her. Most of it was incorrect or wildly exaggerated. The birth year was seven years earlier than it should have been.
“Hey,” Jason said, peering over her shoulder, “you’re dead.” He blinked. “And you’re older than I thought you were.”