Serpent's Kiss

by Alex Archer

  “Jason,” Annja said as calmly as she could.

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s a cargo door behind you. One more word and I’m going to drop you through it.”

  Jason mimed zipping his lips, turning a key and throwing it away.

  Just then the page split and a pop-up flashed onto the screen.

  Chasing History’s Monsters presents the memorial DVD of Annja Creed’s most memorable moments. Includes bonus footage of Kristie Chatham’s eulogy of her beloved cohostess.

  Video footage of Kristie followed immediately. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, and her movements only emphasized her cleavage.

  Another video ran. This one showed Doug Morrell sitting at his desk looking devastated. A single tear leaked down his cheek as he spoke.

  Annja didn’t have the volume turned on so she couldn’t hear him. She was pretty sure she didn’t want to.

  Doug finally buried his head in his arms in a theatrical gesture.

  Unable to bear more, Annja shut the Web page down. Focus, she told herself. You’ve got work to do.

  She reached for her bag and took out her camera SDRAM card and got ready to try tracking down the statue of the female naga.

  One thing she’d discovered about herself was that whenever things got out of her control, she could focus on work. Working always helped her get through.

  “HAVE YOU IDENTIFIED HER?” Fleet asked.

  Dr. Singh pulled open one of the stainless-steel vaults. Inside, the woman’s body lay in a plastic container that obscenely reminded Fleet of a sandwich bag.

  “Not yet,” Singh said.

  “You’ve got pictures of her?”

  Singh nodded. “I can give you a file containing what we have on her. It isn’t much.”

  “That would be most helpful,” Fleet said. “You haven’t done an autopsy on her?”

  “There was no need. Her death is simple to figure out. She was shot in the head with an extremely powerful handgun.”

  “A .357 Magnum.”

  “Exactly.”

  Fleet looked at the nightmarish head wound and felt badly for the woman. She was in her mid-thirties, about his age.

  “You came here because of the bullet.” Singh smiled in sudden understanding.

  Fleet looked at the man. “Yes. The gun has been used before in murders. All of those murders tie to a particularly vicious pirate who we know has been operating in the Indian Ocean.”

  “Several pirates operate in the Indian Ocean,” Singh said.

  “Eventually,” Fleet replied with a small grin, “I’ll get them all. Today I want the one who killed this woman.”

  “I ran a toxicology report on the woman,” Singh said. “At the time of her death, she was under the influence of opium. The coast guard officer I talked to said that drug paraphernalia had been found on the boat where she was killed.”

  “The report also said a man was brought in with her.”

  Singh rolled the vault back into the wall and picked another unit. He pulled it out and revealed the dead man inside the plastic bag.

  “I don’t see any marks on this one,” Fleet said.

  “There aren’t any. He died of a drug overdose.”

  “Opium?”

  Singh nodded.

  “Was he a dealer?”

  Singh shrugged. “Until he came in on a gurney with a toe tag, I’d never seen him before. I have no way of knowing that. Perhaps the police can help you.”

  Fleet carefully took a deep breath. The stink of the morgue was making him ill.

  “I haven’t been here before,” Fleet said. “Maybe you could direct me to the police station.”

  12

  Only a few minutes out of Kanyakumari, according to the helicopter pilot, Annja posted the images of the female nagas on her favorite archaeology Web sites. She chose the images that showed the egg-shaped naga opened and closed, then did the same for the cube. She also posted images of the naga ring.

  I found these on a recent trip to India. I was on one of the beaches in the Tamil Nadu District. I turned them over to the Archaeological Survey of India, but I’m curious about their history. Can anyone help?

  She’d just finished checking to make certain the postings had cycled through and were up when her phone rang. Her phone sat on the floor of the helicopter cabin where she’d found the outlet and plugged in the charger.

  A glance at caller ID showed that it was a New York number, but it wasn’t one that Annja recognized. She flipped the phone open and said, “Hello.”

  “Annja,” Doug gasped. “Thank God you’re alive. I mean, when I heard the story I couldn’t even begin to imagine that you’d been killed.”

  The irritation she felt at Doug returned full force. “That’s not exactly what you were saying a few moments ago.”

  “I couldn’t let anyone in production know you were alive.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—” Doug fumbled for a reason. “Because they might try to kill you again.”

  “Who? The people in production?” Annja asked.

  “No. Not production. You know. The people who tried to kill you in India.”

  “Doug,” Annja said slowly, “no one tried to kill me.” She stopped herself. Technically that was incorrect. “Well, someone did try to kill me, but you were evidently telling everybody I died in the tsunami, which was before people tried to kill me.”

  “That’s right!” Doug exclaimed. “You died in the tsunami attack!”

  “Doug.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not dead. And tsunamis don’t attack,” Annja said, although, admittedly it hadn’t felt like that the night before.

  “Oh, yeah. I knew that.” Doug sighed. “It’s just that right now isn’t a really good time for you to be alive.”

  “Being alive works for me,” Annja said.

  “I know. I know. And it’s going to work really well in the ratings when we let everybody know you escaped that tsunami’s clutches.”

  Annja started to point out that tsunamis didn’t have clutches, then decided against it.

  “But we’ve got this thing going on right now,” Doug said. “It’s kind of important.”

  “You mean the Annja Creed memorial DVD?”

  “Oh. You know about that?”

  “It’s being advertised on the show’s Web site.”

  “You never look at that Web site,” Doug complained. “Why are you looking at it now?”

  “Someone told me you were telling people I was dead,” Annja said.

  “The story was on the Internet. I didn’t start it. Somebody must have known you were in India doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “Looking for space aliens,” Annja said.

  “Get out of here!” Doug exploded. “If you’re doing something like that, why aren’t we covering it? Aliens do all those cow mutilations and stuff. They’d be great to have on the show.”

  Annja put her free hand to her head and rubbed her temples. Talking to Doug sometimes gave her a headache.

  “I’m not looking for space aliens,” she said. “I told you I was here—”

  “Digging up human-sacrifice victims. See? I remember. I do listen.”

  “Good. Then listen to this—I’m alive.”

  “Um. Yeah. About that.” Doug took a breath. “I was thinking—”

  “Doug, I don’t want to be dead,” Annja shouted

  “Hey, you’re getting a great cut of the memorial DVD.”

  “Dead people can’t use their credit cards,” Annja said.

  “I don’t think they know you’re dead in India.”

  “The story ran on CNN. They probably know I’m dead in India.”

  “I didn’t know they got CNN there.”

  Annja sighed.

  “Anyway,” Doug said, “I thought you were camping in a tent.”

  “I was. Tonight I’m not. Tonight I’m staying in a hotel with a bed and a bath. I’m going to pay for it wi
th my credit card.”

  “What about the camping-out-and-getting-close-to-nature thing?”

  “You don’t go on an archaeological dig hoping to get close to nature,” Annja said. “It’s the workload of eighteen-and nineteen-hour days and a long trip to the dig site that necessitate staying at a base camp.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “It isn’t. All kinds of insects crawl into your sleeping bag in a cot that’s about half the size you need. I want a hotel tonight, Doug.”

  “The DVD is selling really well,” Doug pleaded.

  “And a bathtub big enough to swim in,” Annja said.

  Doug was silent for a moment. “You know, sometimes you’re hard to get along with.”

  “Me? I didn’t declare you dead.”

  “I mourned you on national television. My mother says I was wonderful.”

  “Terrific.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to do this one little thing for me.”

  “Being dead,” Annja said, conscious of all the university students watching her, “is not a little thing.’”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Doug said.

  “I don’t like doing deals with you. Every time I do, I feel like I get hosed.”

  “You’re killing me here. If I go up and tell marketing that you’re alive, they’re going to freak. I’m freaking just thinking about telling them.”

  Annja sighed.

  “Let me pay for your hotel room,” Doug offered. “You stay dead a few more days, and I’ll pick up your hotel tab. And room service and cable.”

  “What if the hotel has seen the news reports that says I’m dead?” Annja asked.

  “I won’t reserve the room in your name. I’ll reserve it in someone else’s.”

  Annja glanced outside the window and saw the airport coming into view. She didn’t have time to argue. “Get me a hotel room, Doug.”

  “Cool! Fantastic! I’ll get you a suite!”

  “How long do I have to stay dead?”

  Doug was quiet for a moment. “It’s three days until the weekend. Let us have three business days to sell the memorial DVD and you can resurrect on Saturday. Or Sunday if you think that’s more fitting.”

  “I don’t like doing this,” Annja said.

  “I kind of got that.”

  “Besides the room, I want to talk to you about a boat.”

  “A boat?”

  “If I’m going to stay dead a while longer, I’m going to need a boat.”

  “For what? A Viking funeral?”

  “No.” Annja hesitated, then quietly went on. “I think I’ve found a shipwreck. I’ll need the boat to look for the shipwreck.”

  Doug sounded wary. “Is this boat going to cost a lot?”

  “Probably,” Annja said.

  “I can’t promise a boat.”

  “I can’t promise I’ll stay dead,” Annja warned.

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “You started it.”

  “Can we get a story out of this?”

  “Maybe. It’s a shipwreck. If I find it, there’s going to be a story,” Annja said.

  “Any monsters?”

  Annja thought for a moment, then said, “A naga.”

  “Another what?”

  “Not another. A naga.”

  “Still clueless,” Doug said.

  “A creature that’s half female, half snake,” Annja explained.

  “Which half is which?”

  “Female from the waist up.”

  “Okay. That sounds good. Sounds photogenic,” Doug said.

  Annja leaned back in the seat and tried to get comfortable. It didn’t work. She couldn’t believe how crazy her life—her death—was getting.

  “Can you get me any pictures of a naga?” Doug pressed. “I want to run it by the number crunchers in marketing. Pictures will help. They don’t listen very well, and you know they’re not very imaginative.”

  Annja truly believed the lack of listening was a job requirement among the show’s production crew. “I’ve got pictures. I’ll e-mail you,” she said.

  “Set up a new account and e-mail me with any questions you have. We’ve got to keep you dead for as long as we can.”

  Annja sighed. “Sure. Just look for a posting from DeadinIndia. And I want that boat.”

  13

  Fleet stepped into the police station from the humid heat of the streets. The day hadn’t even fully started and the climate was already almost unbearable.

  As soon as he was inside the building, Fleet felt at home in the boiling clutter and sense of urgency. The police station held an array of desks and computers with attendant police officers and inspectors.

  Fleet gave his name at the desk and was shown to a chair. He waited for five minutes and filled the time by staring at the bulletin board on the wall across the hall.

  He didn’t see what was on the bulletin board, though. All he saw were the faces of the dead left by the pirate with the .357 Magnum. Those faces were broken, shattered, charred and vacant. Fleet had been tracking the path of destruction for fourteen months. The bullet the coast guard found on the burning yacht had been a fortunate thing.

  And you’re the closest you’ve ever been to him, Fleet reminded himself. So bloody well watch your step and go slow. Don’t lose this.

  “Special Agent Fleet.”

  When he glanced up, Fleet saw a short, thin Indian man in a wrinkled suit standing nearby. Probably in his late forties, the man had iron-gray hair, a round face and a neatly trimmed mustache.

  “I’m Fleet.”

  The man offered his hand and spoke in a clipped British accent more polished than Fleet’s own. “Inspector Phoolan Ranga at your service.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Fleet said.

  “Likewise, I’m sure.” Ranga appeared to be a man who got down to brass tacks quickly. He tapped the file Fleet had in his hand. “You’ve been by the medical examiner’s office, I see.”

  “I have. I like to get an early start on the day when I can.”

  “As do I. I’ve not been home since yesterday.” Ranga looked at the controlled chaos going on in the room.

  “If this isn’t a good time for you—” Fleet said, though he was loath to lose the opportunity to speak to the man. There was no telling when another meeting might be arranged.

  “There’s never a good time, Special Agent Fleet.”

  “Just Fleet, please.” Fleet didn’t like being addressed by his title. It was a holdover from his days with the special boat service. He’d been chasing terrorists in those days, not pirates.

  “Of course.” Ranga smiled again. “I know a pushcart where we might get a decent cup of tea if you’d like.”

  “I’d like to see your files.” Fleet wanted to remain focused on his task.

  “I know those files,” Ranga said. “We can talk. You can tell me what you know. I can tell you what I know. And I’ll make sure you get copies of those files delivered to your hotel room.”

  Fleet felt certain there was no way to convince the man otherwise. “All right.”

  Out in the street, Ranga waved to the right toward a vendor.

  Fleet walked with the man but kept his senses alert. During the eleven years he’d spent with the special boat service as a part of the Royal Marines, he’d been in many rough port cities that were all too ready to take advantage of strangers.

  The sounds of the city were strange to Fleet even though he’d been there a handful of times. Before, he’d only stayed long enough to investigate what was left after the pirate attacks.

  “After your office called and I agreed to meet with you,” Ranga said, “I took the liberty of looking you up. I hope you don’t mind.”

  It’s a little bloody late now, isn’t it? Fleet thought unkindly. But he said, “No. I don’t mind.” He would have looked him up, too. In fact, he’d looked Ranga up and had discovered nothing but good things.

  “You were with the special boat service,” Ranga said.<
br />
  “I was.”

  “You look young.”

  “Thirty-four. Not as young as some.”

  Ranga grinned. “I could be your father.”

  That surprised Fleet. The man didn’t look that old, and he hadn’t been looking for an age when he’d researched Ranga.

  “I have a daughter a year older than you. She’s made me a grandfather twice over.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. You were a commander,” Ranga said.

  “I was.” Fleet struggled not to sound bitter.

  “Weren’t you young to be a commander?”

  “Some thought so. I got the job done, and that’s what my superiors were looking for—someone who could get the job done.”

  Ranga nodded. He stopped at the pushcart and ordered two cups of tea. He took his plain. Fleet added milk because he knew the tea would be strong.

  “What did you do in your military career?” Ranga asked.

  Fleet tried not to let his irritation get the better of him. He wanted to talk about the case, not his military background. But he knew the Kanyakumari police didn’t even have to talk to him. As a special agent for the International Maritime Bureau, he was strictly civilian and dependent on the goodwill of the law-enforcement agencies he coordinated with.

  “I patrolled coasts and tracked down terrorists,” Fleet answered.

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “Some days.”

  “Young men like excitement.” Ranga walked through the neighborhood. “You were involved in several altercations.”

  “One too many,” Fleet agreed.

  Ranga looked at him.

  “You’re wondering why I’m not still with the special boat service,” Fleet said.

  “It had crossed my mind.”

  “I was honorably discharged after my last mission. My team and I were ambushed by terrorist forces running drugs from Turkey to Bristol. They’d made us. We didn’t know that until it was too late.” Fleet looked away, no longer focusing on the Kanyakumari street, but back on that fast attack boat the night the world had blown up in his face.

  “Two men on my team were killed. I caught shrapnel in my right eye that blinded me.” Saying it now was almost easy. He touched the smooth lines of the scar on his cheekbone. The surgeons had been forced to rebuild it, as well. “They matched the prosthesis to my left eye. It’s hard to tell the difference if you don’t know what to look for.”