Mystic Warrior

by Alex Archer

  Meszoly slipped off his sunglasses and consulted the tablet PC lying on the seat between them. He flicked his finger across the touch screen and went through the images Sabre had captured.

  “No. A couple look familiar, but you do this kind of work, people in our business start to look the same unless you really know them.”

  Shifting the camera, Sabre captured images of the two detectives he’d spotted working the crime scene, as well. Identification had been made simpler by the television reporters on-site who shoved microphones into the detectives’ faces and left the uniformed patrolmen alone.

  The small television monitor in the SUV’s dash picked up the live news feed on a ten-second delay. Crawlers beneath the scene identified the detectives as Bishop and Connolly.

  Putting the camera down for a moment, Sabre used a stylus to make quick note of the names on an app on the tablet. Then he emailed the names to Saadiya, who would gather background intel on the detectives, following up with the camera images. He felt certain all of the information would ultimately end up being useless, but he had been trained to be thorough by his father and then by his mentor, who had taken over his training after his father’s death.

  “I know Krauzer pays us well, and I know that he’s a high-profile client, so doing due diligence by him is a good public relations move.” Shifting in the seat, one hand still on the steering wheel and the other hand near the pistol on his hip, Meszoly kept his eyes trained on the hospital.

  For a moment, Sabre remained silent. Meszoly wouldn’t press him on the matter out of respect and past experience that Sabre wouldn’t answer until he was ready to. But he wanted to talk about this, just to make sure he wasn’t going too far in the matter. With all the stories he’d been told during his childhood, it was easy to get caught up in everything. He sighed when he thought of his brother and how that history had separated them. He didn’t want to turn out like his sibling.

  “The crystal and those pages and, ultimately, wherever they lead, are important to me.” Sabre lifted the foam container of hot oolong tea from the cup holder and took a sip.

  “Have you ever wondered why I named this security business the Black Legion?” Sabre asked.

  A grin spread across Meszoly’s lips. “Figured it was because it sounded sexy as hell and looked good on the website.”

  Sabre chuckled. “Not quite.” But he had to admit both were true. “Have you ever heard of the Black Legion?”

  “Some kind of German death squad back in World War II?”

  “No.” Reconciling himself to telling the story, at least as much of it as he would let himself at this time, Sabre took another sip of tea and leaned back in the seat.

  “Back in the fifteenth century,” Sabre stated, “there was a Hungarian king named Corvinus who assembled the largest professional army of its era. Until that time, in times of war, kings simply sent the word out that soldiers were needed and men gathered from fields and farms, from docks and shipyards, and from wherever men were to do their work. They came because the king called them to battle. And when that war was over, those that survived went home.

  “At the time, Hungary was in a world of hurt.” Sabre returned his gaze to the hotel, letting the police and media circus there soak up his attention. “The country was in the middle of hotly contested land grabs, and Corvinus constantly had to rob Peter to pay Paul to keep his seat on the throne. To ensure his position and to protect the future of his country, Corvinus wanted to flip the script and create a war machine the likes of which had never been seen before. He got his professional army, but the problem was the cost.”

  “Professional fighting men cost money. You don’t spill blood—yours or anyone else’s—without getting paid.”

  “Unless you’re a patriot.”

  “Which is another word for underpaid, underequipped and unappreciated.”

  For one silent moment, Sabre thought of all the patriots he’d seen die and those he’d killed. He’d signed up as regular Army for the Afghanistan action, come out, then gone back in as part of the private sector with DragonTech security services. His father had died shortly before he’d signed up for the Army. He’d been twenty years old and hadn’t known what to do with himself. He’d learned the United States military hadn’t been the way to go. DragonTech had provided an education and a mentor.

  “I suppose you got all of this from the History Channel?”

  “Actually, no.” Sabre grinned. “I got these stories from my grandfather. And he got them from his father before him. There’s a family book, a collection of books, actually, that have been handed down almost six hundred years.”

  “All of them telling the same story over and over?” Meszoly shook his head. “Must make for some boring reading.”

  “Those books tell the story of my ancestors’ search for a lost treasure.”

  “A lost treasure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Meszoly’s eyebrows rose from behind his sunglasses. “Why have we never had this conversation before?”

  “Because of the way you’re looking at me right now.”

  “It’s a little out-there, buddy.”

  “I know how it sounds.” Sabre breathed out and lowered the camera. He’d captured everything worth seeing. Whatever was going on in the building, the police had shut it down or boxed it in. “It is out-there. My father had a problem with the stories, too. That’s why he was never the one to tell them to me. It was always my grandfather. My father didn’t believe a word of those legends. That caused a problem between him and my grandfather.”

  “Is there some reason this story is important now?”

  “During the time I was talking to Krauzer—”

  “I find it hard to believe anyone can have a conversation with that blowhard.”

  Sabre nodded. “While I was listening to Krauzer talk, he mentioned that the woman and this professor believed the crystal and some documents they had might lead to the lost treasure of the Merovingian kings.”

  “They were the kings of Hungary?”

  “No. They were the kings of the Salian Franks. They ruled over what we know as France and parts of Germany. Too much history goes by, borders tend to float on from where they actually were.”

  “That’s a long way from Hungary.”

  “Not so far in some ways. The point is, the Merovingians were believed to be gods, or—at the least—near gods. They were deposed in the eighth century by Pepin the Short. That started the rule of the Carolingian kings, but that’s not what my family was interested in.”

  Across the street, the police cars and media trucks were starting to pull back from the hospital and move along.

  “One of my ancestors served in Corvinus’s professional troops. It was sometimes called the Black Army because they wore black armor, but it was called the Black Legion just as much. My ancestor, Vilmos, was one of the top generals and was with Corvinus until the end.”

  “Corvinus died?”

  “He was forty-six or forty-seven at the time. Guys didn’t live as long back then.”

  “Especially if they’re trying to hold on to a country a lot of people wanted.”

  “There’s some question as to whether Corvinus died from a stroke or from poison. Vilmos thought Corvinus died from a heart attack.”

  “That’s a better story when the guy you’re supposed to be protecting dies on your watch.” Meszoly grinned. “If it was me, that’s the story I would tell.”

  Chuckling, Sabre nodded. “The point being, Corvinus put together this huge library. Outside Italy, Hungary was in the largest Renaissance period in the world. Art. Dance. Literature. Music. Corvinus wanted all of those things brought to his kingdom. He wanted to be cutting-edge.”

  “Wow. Ambitious guy. Supporting a professional army and being a patron of the arts would break
most people.”

  “True. We’ve seen it happen. After Corvinus died, the feeding frenzy began. The throne was supposed to go to his son, but Corvinus’s wife, the prince’s stepmother—”

  “It’s always a good story when there’s a wicked stepmother.”

  Sabre grinned. “Long story short, the Black Legion fell on desperate times as they got fragmented by the infighting. Most of them ended up siding with other people, hoping they could continue getting paid.”

  Meszoly snarled an oath. “You and I both know how that usually works out. Generally, everything’s okay if you back a winner, but not always. And when you end up on the losing side, you’re screwed.”

  “No one could pay for the Black Legion. Those men ended up having to rely on themselves to survive.”

  “So they stole from whoever was around them, even the people they were supposedly there to protect, because, in the end, an army has to eat.” Meszoly sighed. “Man, we have lived that story.”

  A few times, when they’d been trapped behind enemy lines without support, Sabre and his men had been forced to resort to similar tactics.

  “Gradually, the Black Legion members ended up getting executed, imprisoned or scattered,” Sabre said.

  “I’m assuming your ancestor was one of those.”

  “He was. And he was the one who started my family’s search for the Merovingian treasure.”

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “Jewels. Paintings. Gold.” Sabre shrugged. “No one knew for certain. Vilmos and Corvinus evidently talked about the possibilities a lot. There was a rumor that Pepin the Short was outwitted by Childeric III, the Merovingian king that he deposed, that not all of the Frankish swag was accounted for. Some of the rumors stated that the Merovingian magic was tied up in the treasure, too.”

  “What magic?”

  “The Merovingians were noted for having red hair and for wearing it long. Legend had it that as long as a Merovingian warrior wore his hair long, he couldn’t be killed in battle.”

  “How true was that?”

  “Merovingians died. You and me, we haven’t met anyone who’s unkillable.”

  “You don’t believe that one?”

  Sabre shook his head.

  Meszoly studied Sabre for a time. “But you believe that treasure’s still out there? That it’s even real?”

  “I do.” He paused. “I’ve never gone looking for it. Not once. I’ve read through the books plenty of times, and I hung on to my grandfather’s stories, but I think that was because he was raising us while my father was off fighting in whatever war would have him and my mother had left when I was really young. I don’t even remember her.” He tapped the tea container. “But I remember my grandfather. He believed those stories.”

  “So you want to follow up on this?”

  Sabre nodded slightly. “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Because last night that legend came to me. I didn’t go looking for it. It came to me.” Sabre thought about that some more, realizing how true that statement was. “That’s not something I can ignore.”

  Meszoly snorted. “You and your superstitions.”

  Sabre smiled, but he couldn’t help feeling excited. What he’d said was the truth. All of those events last night had joined together to put him on this path. He couldn’t just walk away.

  “So,” Meszoly said, “what do you want to do?”

  “We’re going to have to try to pick up Annja Creed’s trail. I’ve got a feeling she knows a lot more about this than we do.”

  “Do you plan on going over there in that hospital and asking her?”

  “She’s not in that hospital.” Sabre packed the camera away and powered down the tablet PC and shut down the Wi-Fi satellite dish.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because two of de Cerceau’s guys came out bloody. Who do you think wrecked them?”

  “You think she’s that good?”

  “She survived against de Cerceau’s people last night. That wasn’t luck.”

  Meszoly flicked a thumbnail across his stubbled chin. “Maybe the police are holding her inside.”

  Sabre shook his head. “No. She’s long gone. Let’s get back to headquarters and see what Saadiya’s turned up.”

  As Meszoly put the SUV in gear and pulled out into traffic, Sabre’s mind was elsewhere. He remembered sitting on the wooden bench in his grandfather’s woodworking room. He’d watched the old man build furniture, turning out chests and chairs and tables like clockwork. Sometimes he’d allowed Sabre to help. But he’d always smoked his pipe and told those stories.

  Sometimes Sabre’s brother would sit on the bench and listen, too, but his brother had never worked with the old man. He’d just sat there and listened to the stories. Occasionally, afterward, they would talk about the stories. Sabre had been fascinated by what had taken place, but his brother had always been caught up in wondering what the treasure was.

  Reaching into his pocket, Sabre removed a special padded case that held a single coin. He took the coin out and touched it reverently, feeling the smooth texture of the worn sides. Despite cleaning, the coin still looked ancient and discolored. It held the raven shield that had been the mark of Matthias Corvinus.

  The coin had been struck sometime during Corvinus’s reign, and it had been—according to family legend—one of the first denars the king had paid Vilmos after employing him. Like the stories and the books, the coin had been handed down from father to firstborn son.

  Only this coin had been refused by Sabre’s father, and his grandfather had given it to Sabre, though he was his father’s second child. Tradition had been broken.

  Meszoly glanced over. “That old thing?”

  Sabre squeezed the coin in his fist, feeling the solidity and the heaviness of it. “Yes. It’s always brought me luck.”

  “I’ve known times it didn’t.”

  “If it was a sure thing, it wouldn’t be luck, now, would it?” Despite the tweak of irritation, Sabre smiled at his friend. The coin was a point of contention between them. Meszoly didn’t like trusting luck, and he liked trusting Sabre’s luck even less.

  Sabre’s cell phone trilled for attention. He punched the connection button and put it on speaker function.

  “I see you two have finally quit skulking on the local constabulary,” Saadiya said. She sounded chipper. “Boring?”

  “It’s always a treat to watch our tax dollars at work,” Meszoly said.

  “Well, while you two lads have been out on a lark, you’ll be happy to know that your brilliant computer support has been busy, and successful, I might add. I managed to ID two of de Cerceau’s men inside the hospital from police reports I accessed. I don’t know if the identities are the actual real names of the men, but they’ve been listed in police reports.”

  “I’m waiting to be impressed,” Meszoly said.

  “All right. Here it comes, then. It appears one of those lads, Claude Matisse—”

  “Not his real name,” Meszoly interjected.

  “—also has a prepaid mobile registered in his name. I took the liberty of accessing his phone records and tracing his calls. I’m building a map of potential malevolent creeps, one of whom has already turned up on the attack on the college last night, so we can get some insight into our opponents’ network. As I was doing that, I noticed that Matisse’s mobile just lit up two minutes ago.”

  “The police took him into custody,” Meszoly said.

  “That they did, but his mobile is not on him. It was there at the hospital, but now it’s not.” The smile in Saadiya’s voice carried over the connection. “You know where he is. Now, would you like to know where his mobile is?”

  Grinning triumphantly, Sabre showed the denar to Meszoly, listened to his friend�
��s irritated curse and put the coin away. “I would like to know.”

  “It’s in an internet café in Santa Monica. I’ll send the address to your vehicle’s GPS. Cheers.”

  Sabre hung up. A moment later, a text flashed onto his screen with the address of the internet café. He punched it into the SUV’s GPS system.

  “You’re thinking the Creed woman took Claude Matisse’s cell phone.” Meszoly pressed harder on the accelerator and guided the big vehicle through the traffic.

  “Do you know anyone else who would take it?”

  “Perhaps one of Matisse’s mates got away in the confusion.”

  “And took his phone, leaving him there?”

  Meszoly shrugged, then sighed and nodded. “Okay, the Creed woman took his cell.”

  “And now we can find her.” Sabre shifted in his seat and wished the traffic would thin out. Anticipation squirmed in his stomach.

  15

  The man was a fake, and Ligier de Cerceau didn’t want to swallow the prickly ire he felt at the arrogance of whoever was behind the deception. He had laid his life on the line to get the crystal for his unknown employer and getting handed off to a go-between was intolerable. Controlling his anger, the mercenary commander sat in a back booth in the overpriced deli restaurant in Beverly Hills and planned his next move.

  The crystal had drawn too much attention for him to simply walk away.

  He glanced around, wondering if his true employer was sitting somewhere inside the restaurant or if he—or she—had set up in one of the buildings across the street to observe the meeting from afar. Maybe that person had just settled for listening in on the conversation.

  The diner was as much a celebrity as the movie industry in the city. Actors and actresses, producers and directors and writers all went there to pretend they were ordinary. And to be seen.