by Alex Archer
“Do you have a room?” Annja asked.
“No. I plan on getting one—”
“Don’t,” Annja interrupted. “I have a suite. The couch pulls out. I’ll take that and you can have the bedroom.”
“I couldn’t impose.”
“It’s not an imposition. I insist.”
“Well, then, thank you,” the professor said, sounding weary.
“You’re welcome.”
“Did you get the boat, then?”
“I did. Captain Shafiq and I struck a deal earlier. We made a list of things we’d need.”
“At least we’ll be able to rest while he gets the boat ready. I can’t wait to bathe,” Lochata said.
Annja smiled. “Call when you get here. I’ll arrange for a taxi.”
“You needn’t do that.”
“It’s not me. It’s the television show I work for. Since they’re burying me, I’m blackmailing them into providing the room and the boat. Taxi fare is an incidental.”
WHEN SHE CHECKED the archaeological lists, there were a number of emails from people who had seen the naga images. Several of them were simply requests for more information when and where Annja discovered it. Those were from university professors, amateur archaeologists and museum curators.
There were several that accused her of falsifying the images. Those were also from university professors, amateur archeologists and museum curators.
One person pointed out that until she could pinpoint what religion the nagas came from, she’d have a hard time figuring out what they might mean.
Annja had figured that much. India’s history, culture, politics and religious beliefs were muddied from all the constant trade that had beat a path—or sailed the Indian Ocean—to their door.
She read on.
You’re only dealing with a one-headed naga. That’s gotta mean something. Many of the nagas over in that part of the world have multiple heads. Malaysian sailors think nagas are multiheaded dragons.
It’s interesting that both of those objects have moveable parts. That’s not usually the case. Unless they have some special purpose.
The ring’s especially interesting. Maybe it was a good-luck charm, but I get the impression there’s another use for it. Someone obviously took good care of it. Good luck, and lemme know what you find out. I’m curious.
So am I, Annja thought. She sorted through the e-mail for another fifteen minutes before she found another interesting one.
Quite the cool find you’ve got there. Looks really old, too. I’m a linguist working on my doctorate, so I’ve seen a lot of languages. My favorite region is India.
Even though I tried for hours, I couldn’t make heads or tails of that language. I even handed it over to the linguistics department here. So far none of them have any clues about the language, either.
That was odd, Annja thought. If the writer had experts studying the language and couldn’t crack it, the objects were even older than the books.
She moved on to the next e-mail.
Don’t know what you’re looking into over there, but there’s something you need to be aware of.
You posted those images on the Net, which is cool, but it could come back to bite you. Check out the story I’ve linked for you.
Be warned. You might want to keep a low profile over there.
Curious, Annja clicked on the link and opened the page in another window.
Snake Collector Murdered
Bombay, India.
William Newton, fifty-seven and noted American antiquarian and collector, was found murdered in his hotel room. Police investigators say that Newton was in the city to arrange the purchase of a naga statue for his collection.
The naga is a mythical creature that is half woman and half snake.
Newton’s family told police that he had gone to Bombay to pick up the naga statue after he purchased it over the Internet. Police speculate that Newton was killed shortly after taking possession of the statue.
Police are still searching for the seller, a man described as in his mid-thirties, black hair and beard.
Anyone having any information is requested to contact police at once.
A quick check of the article’s publishing history showed that it had originally run three years ago. Annja returned to the posting.
The thing is, this story isn’t the only one. I’ve been able to find five more just like it. If you want, I can link those for you, too.
Thought it might be something you’d want to know.
Annja closed her computer and slid it away. She hadn’t turned over the naga items she’d recovered. It wasn’t exactly breaking the law. More like delaying it, she thought.
Besides, if she found the shipwreck, she might need them. Those items might be part of a collection. It would be better to have the whole thing.
16
Goraksh walked through his father’s warehouse. He’d never thought of it as the family’s warehouse. That would never be possible.
Crates were stacked throughout the small building. All of them held tourist trinkets that were shipped to various stores and shops along the coast where the cruise ships put in to port.
His father’s business was modest and didn’t draw much attention except occasionally from the local police. They launched periodic raids, but they never found anything.
A few years earlier one of his father’s employees had made the mistake of bringing a small amount of hashish into the warehouse. When Goraksh had heard about it, he’d known the man was going to sell it to a friend. Goraksh had only been a handful of years younger than the man and had even been friendly with him. They’d swapped bootlegged American rock and roll.
When the police had come, Rajiv was forced to retain a barrister to keep the trouble from rolling over onto him. The police, once they discovered they couldn’t make a case against Rajiv, released the young man.
Embarrassed but still in need of a job, the man returned to the warehouse. Goraksh hadn’t known until later what his father had done. But the next morning the man was found out in the bay cut to pieces in a terrible “boating accident.”
No one ever brought contraband materials to the warehouse again. They’d learned never to steal from Rajiv Shivaji.
None of the men in the warehouse spoke to Goraksh as he took the narrow wooden steps up to his father’s second-story office. Only a few of them were pirates like Rajiv. Most only knew about the tourist-trinket business.
At his father’s door, Goraksh took a deep breath and knocked.
“Come.”
Goraksh twisted the knob and followed the door in.
Rajiv sat behind the desk. If he wasn’t out on the antiques floor hand-selling curios and cheap authentic Indian furniture, he was in the warehouse helping move crates. When he was in the office, he was at the computers managing the business.
Goraksh knew no one worked harder than his father. Many people, some of them honest shopkeepers, praised Rajiv Shivaji for his work ethic.
The office was cramped and cluttered, but Goraksh knew his father knew where everything was. Books on appraisal, history, a dozen different pottery fields, more on gems and jewelry, filled the shelves. All of them had been well read. Papers filled with notes and drawings crowded the pages.
Goraksh was also convinced that his father, though he’d never finished public school, could have taught more history than most university professors.
Quietly, Goraksh stood and didn’t take one of the two mismatched chairs in front of his father’s desk.
Rajiv turned from the computer screen. “I have an assignment for you.”
Goraksh nodded. He’d gotten the message on his cell phone after his last class.
“How is your neck?” Rajiv asked.
“It’s fine, Father. Thank you for asking.” In truth, if it wasn’t for the painkillers Goraksh was taking, he didn’t know if he could handle the pain.
“You are checking for infection?”
“Yes. The
re’s none.” Goraksh stood there awkwardly. He knew his father truly cared about him. That was what made the idea of separation or betrayal unfathomable.
“Good. It’s better if we don’t have a physician treat that. Too many questions would be asked.” Rajiv reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick envelope. He riffled through it quickly, then tossed it to Goraksh.
Goraksh caught the envelope and peered inside. It was filled with rupees. Fear ignited within Goraksh. If this much money was involved, surely his father was going to ask nothing legal of him.
“What am I to do with this?” Goraksh asked in a thick voice.
“Four young men about your age were jailed today,” Rajiv said. “I’ve been told they saw this American archaeologist, Annja Creed, with solid-gold naga statues from the sea after the tsunami struck.”
Goraksh had heard no such thing, but he did know of Annja Creed. Chasing History’s Monsters had several fans at the university.
“I want you to get these young men out of jail so that I may speak to them.”
“Do you want me to bring them here?”
“No.” Rajiv frowned. “Simply talk to them. Find out what they know about the nagas.” He tapped the computer screen. “This Annja Creed is curious about them. I am curious about them.”
Curious himself, Goraksh glanced at the computer screen. Images of nagas held steady there.
Rajiv had long been interested in the nagas. There were old stories he had discovered in Kanhoji’s pirate treasures that spoke of an island of naga worshipers that had disappeared beneath the waves of the Indian Ocean thousands of years ago.
Personally, Goraksh believed they were just stories, not histories in any way. But he would never tell his father that.
“One thing further,” Rajiv said.
Goraksh waited.
“Find out what you can about the Creed woman. I want to know where she’s staying.”
THE PART OF WORKING for the IMB that James Fleet most hated was the waiting for things to happen. When he worked with the special boat service they had to wait between missions, as well, but those times were filled with training.
He and his mates had spent grueling hours pushing their bodies to their physical limits. They’d run miles, exercised and fought in various martial-arts styles. He missed those times. His body still craved the physical release of pushing himself to the edge.
Instead, he sat in Ranga’s office and went through the files he’d gotten familiar with over the past few months. The .357 Magnum tied together several of the cases he was currently working on, but he had other investigations on his plate. There was no shortage of work.
Idly, he reached down to massage the leg where the prosthesis was attached. In the beginning he’d been encouraged to massage the leg to ensure proper blood circulation. Now he thought it was just a habit.
Or a way of reminding himself that he wasn’t what he had once been.
He opened the newest file in the assortment he had. A publicity still from Chasing History’s Monsters lay on top. He’d decided immediately that Annja Creed was a good-looking woman. But researching her name had brought up a history of violent encounters.
That had set off Fleet’s personal trouble detector.
Some of it could have been discounted as bad luck. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time had accounted for a lot of unpleasantness in people’s lives. Annja Creed just seemed to be a magnet for it. There were domestic investigations concerning her, as well as international ones.
Some of it might have had to do with her work. As an archaeologist, she was always going off the beaten path and dealing with disreputable people. As a host for a television show that sensationalized the weird, exotic and murderous, she would attract even more.
But there was no accounting for the sheer volume of incidents the beautiful Ms. Creed had been involved in. More than that, in most cases he felt certain he was only getting half the story.
Ranga entered the room. The bags under the little policeman’s eyes had become more pronounced.
“It appears,” Ranga said, “that our patience is about to be rewarded.”
Fleet closed the file. “Rajiv Shivaji came to talk to the men who attacked the archaeological team.”
“Not Rajiv,” Ranga corrected. “His son. Goraksh. But you can bet he is here at his father’s behest.”
Fleet smiled a little. There was nothing like watching a target take the bait.
GORAKSH FELT awkward as he sat in the jail’s waiting room. Security cameras and the jailer on the other side of the bulletproof glass kept constant watch over him.
The chair was uncomfortable and his wound throbbed miserably. He forced himself to sit straighter but it didn’t help.
Then the door opened and four young men stepped through looking rumpled and bruised.
Opening the papers his father had included in the packet of rupees, Goraksh matched the faces of the men to the ones on the paper. In the pictures, their bruises weren’t quite so apparent.
The four men talked with the police officer who took off their handcuffs. The police officer pointed at Goraksh.
One of them walked over and scanned Goraksh from head to toe. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m the man who’s taking you from this place,” Goraksh answered. He’d grown up around harder men than these. His father had taught him how to deal with them.
“Why would you do that?”
“I know someone who wants to employ you.”
The four men looked at each other, then back at Goraksh. “Who?”
He named the amount his father had first told him to offer them. There was negotiation room, of course. There always was. But the men accepted straightaway.
“What are we supposed to do for that?” one of them asked.
“Just answer a few questions. If there’s anything further, you’ll be compensated for that, as well.”
On the other side of the glass, Goraksh watched a white man in plainclothes step into view. He looked American or European. Or perhaps he was Russian. He was too fair-skinned to be anything else.
For a moment his gaze met Goraksh’s and held it. Goraksh was afraid. Then the man turned his attention to one of the computer screens.
Breaking the thrall that held him, Goraksh led the way out of the building. The four men behind him hesitated for just a moment as they considered their options.
Goraksh knew he couldn’t return to his father empty-handed. “Gentlemen,” he said patiently in a tone that he normally used at university.
They looked at him.
“You are in a lot of trouble,” Goraksh pointed out. “Perhaps it would be a wise thing to have some money in your pocket before you tried to run. This will only take a few minutes.”
Reluctantly, they agreed.
Goraksh led the way to the van that he had parked nearby.
BY NINE-THIRTY THAT EVENING, after dinner with Professor Rai, Annja had set aside her computer and tried to turn her attention to television.
On the way back from the restaurant downtown that Lochata had recommended, Annja had spotted an entertainment store advertising the first season of House. She’d bought it on impulse and discovered to her delight that Lochata loved American television but usually didn’t have time for it.
Since both of them had napped, Annja after her bath and Lochata aboard the coast guard ship, neither of them was ready for bed.
They were on the second episode of the first disc when a loud knock sounded on the door.
Annja paused the DVD player and peered through the peephole. When she saw Captain Hakim Shafiq standing there scowling, she knew there was a problem.
17
Annja opened the door. “Captain.”
“Miss Creed.” Shafiq looked angry and his deep voice carried out that impression. “We need to talk.” He barreled past her and stepped into the hotel suite.
Annja curbed the impulse to grab hold of the man and throw him back out into
the hall.
“Won’t you come in?” she said sarcastically to his back. She peered out into the hall to see if there were any other surprises, but nothing appeared in the offing. After she pulled back into the room, she locked the door and turned to face her uninvited guest.
Shafiq looked confused. “Didn’t know you had company,” he said.
“I do.”
“I’m sorry about barging in like that.” Shafiq nodded at the professor. “Ma’am.”
Lochata nodded. “Clearly you’ve come on a matter of some importance.”
“I have. Very important.”
“Can I get you something, Captain?” Annja asked. “Water? Tea? Maybe a refresher course on civility and politeness?”
Shafiq grimaced. “You’ve put me in a most perilous position, Miss Creed. Especially by having to get my boat ready on such short notice.”
“How have I done that?” Annja felt less defensive and more curious.
“You gave me purchase order numbers to work off to get the necessary supplies.”
Annja nodded. She’d arranged that through Doug Morrell.
“They’ve all been canceled,” Shafiq said. “Every last one of them. Suppliers have been calling me all evening long. All those things that are supposed to be delivered tomorrow? Well, they’re history, most of them. And the rest I have to pay for out of my own pocket.” He glared at her. “Now, I don’t know what kind of game you have running, but you’re not going to make your problem my problem.”
“DOUG,” ANNJA SAID as evenly as she could under the circumstances, “I know you screen your calls. I know you’re probably sitting there listening to this one. We need to talk.”
The white noise of the recording session continued for a moment, then the call ended.
Annja stood in front of the window overlooking Kanyakumari and the harbor. Lights filled the night. Anxiety rattled through her.
I do not want to lose this opportunity, she told herself. I’m not going to lose it.