by Alex Archer
Garin didn’t care for the statue, and he regretted his need to personally take care of the business that brought him to the city. Brazil was too hot and humid this time of year, though that was welcome respite from those northern climes. He could have handed the matter off to one of his subordinates.
And every time he looked at Christ the Redeemer, Garin thought of Joan of Arc. Some thought she was a warrior called by God and some believed she’d been a master strategist.
He hadn’t known her well. Joan had spent more time in Roux’s company than Garin’s. He’d kept away from Joan because Roux had wanted it that way. He’d been her champion, after all. Not Garin. Despite Roux’s efforts, and directly because of his distractions, she’d ended up tied to a stake and burned alive.
Garin’s final memory of her was of that horrific scene, forever etched in his memory by the stink of burning flesh. Not that he hadn’t seen such brutality before. His own father was a cruel man who hadn’t cared for his son except as a potential worker. His father had held a lot of resentment because he wasn’t certain he was Garin’s father. Garin’s mother had had a wandering eye when her husband wasn’t around.
Once his father had learned he could sell that son to Roux, he hadn’t hesitated. Even Garin’s mother hadn’t fought the transaction. Whatever money trickled into her husband’s purse could potentially end up in hers.
So he’d gone off, wrapped in rags and cold in the harsh winter, when Roux had decided he needed an apprentice. For the next few years, Garin had made fires and suppers and done whatever scut work the old man had decided needed doing. Their relationship even then had been strained, but there were occasions when it had been pleasant.
Sometimes Garin thought about those, but not often. More often, as with this day, he thought of himself and his business ventures.
And this day, he was in Brazil to kill a woman.
Standing well over six feet, Garin looked like a dockworker with his broad shoulders and massive build. Genetics and a harsh, active life had led to the physique, but he worked at it, too, because he liked women. It was one thing to be rich, but athletic prowess allowed him to enjoy his conquests even more.
His black goatee squared off his broad face. Faint scars showed on his features, but so much time had passed that they’d almost faded. Only the latest acquisition, a pink worm that curved across the right side of his neck, stood out. When the time was right, he had a laser surgeon who was particularly gifted in his craft who would remove the scar.
Dressed in cargo jeans, work boots and a black tank top that showed off his bronzed skin, Garin knew he easily passed for one of the dockworkers. He watched as massive hoists lifted the cargo containers onto waiting ships. The resounding booms of the containers settling onto metal-plated decks echoed around Garin and punctuated the droning noise of diesel engines. “I have her,” Sidnei Portinari reported over the comm link Garin wore in his left ear. Portinari was the leader of the DragonTech team based in Rio de Janeiro and spoke in Portuguese.
Garin slipped his smartphone from his pants pocket and looked at the screen. He touched the streaming app he’d had written for the operation and brought up a video link.
One of Portinari’s men had secured a position atop a container and focused on a narrow lane between containers. The view showed a gunmetal-gray Aspid GT-21 that rolled slowly along the lane, approaching the hidden camera. Sleek and swooping, the exotic car looked like something out of a science-fiction movie with its various angles and hollows.
“You have confirmed the woman is in the car?” Garin opened his fingers on the smartphone’s screen to magnify the view and still couldn’t see through the dark glass.
“Yes. Our people picked her up at her home. She has not stopped.”
The woman was Tarsila Innecco. She had given Garin the new scar. Even thinking of her now, he remembered the jasmine scent she favored and her taut, muscular body.
“Is she alone?” Garin continued watching. Sunlight splintered across the sports car’s sloped windshield.
“No. She’s accompanied by her second.”
Garin grinned in anticipation. Tarsila was dangerous on her own. Having Victor Volpi there heightened that danger. But Garin wouldn’t have had it any other way. Volpi was Tarsila’s lover and a lethal man in his own right. They’d never met, but the investigators who had found Tarsila Innecco and her little hideaway had uncovered Volpi, as well.
On the small phone screen, the car rolled to a stop near a light blue cargo container. For a moment, no one moved.
“Sir.” Portinari spoke softly and politely. “We can take care of this for you.”
Garin’s response was immediate. “No. Not this time. This is personal. But thank you.”
“As you wish. We will be on overwatch.”
“Of course.” Overwatch wouldn’t be necessary. Garin monitored the screen.
After another moment, an old man stepped from the shadow of the container and waved at the sports car. Dressed in faded gabardine pants and a plaid work shirt with the sleeves hacked off to reveal tattooed arms that had withered with age, the old man looked harmless. Gray whiskers dotted his lined face, and the left cheek was pockmarked by burn scarring.
The old man stopped twenty feet from the car and waved again.
Slowly, the passenger-side door opened and Volpi got out. He was in his early thirties and wore an expensive blue pinstripe suit and sunglasses. His dark blond hair was gelled into submission and looked black in places. Lean and muscular, he moved like a cat. And like a feline, he was aware of his presence. His hands moved automatically to straighten his clothing, though the fabric fell naturally into place.
From the camera angle, Garin saw Volpi speaking, but there was no audio pickup.
“Volpi— Where is it?” The translation came from Aasta Thaulow, the Norwegian linguist and lip-reader monitoring the meeting.
The old man stepped back and gestured to the container.
“Garcia— Here. It is here.”
Emil Garcia was a local fence, a man who auctioned off cargoes that were “lost” and needed to be “found” by others willing to pay for them. Portinari had recruited the man for the operation.
What he’d supposedly found today was a shipment of pharmaceuticals. The cargo was actually provided by one of the shippers DragonTech provided security for. The goods would be returned before anyone knew they were missing.
Pharmaceuticals were the fourth-largest item selected by cargo hijackers. A single tablet of OxyContin went for twelve times the original value on the street. The cargo container provided a $7 million haul for someone who had a supply network. Volpi had friends and Tarsila was greedy.
“Volpi— How much do you want?
“Garcia— As we agreed. Four million in US dollars.”
Volpi shook his head.
“Volpi— That’s too much.
“Garcia— You can double your money.
“Volpi— Only after weeks or months of trafficking it. I will give you two million.”
The bickering went on for a short time and Garin’s irritation grew. The sun was hot.
Finally, Garcia settled on $2.6 million, enough of a discount to make Volpi think he’d gotten a good deal. Satisfied, Volpi turned and nodded toward the car.
A moment later, Tarsila Innecco climbed from the car wearing brown leather trousers, strappy sandals and a sleeveless yellow blouse. Her red hair was gathered and tied back so that it flowed over her shoulders and down her back. The round-lensed sunglasses hid her hazel eyes. She carried a Versace handbag just big enough for the Taurus M45/410 revolver she favored.
Garcia waved them to the container as he reached for the locks.
Trusting that Volpi and Tarsila would be focused on their windfall, Garin pocketed his smartphone and strode forward.
&n
bsp; Portinari made one last attempt. “Sir—”
“No,” Garin snarled. He slid a hand into another pocket, through the cutout to the holster strapped to his leg, and brought out a suppressor-equipped AMT .45 ACP subcompact pistol. His hand swallowed the weapon’s small frame.
By the time he reached the cargo container, Volpi and Tarsila were inside. He stepped up his pace because there was every chance they would kill Garcia if they thought they could get the pharmaceuticals without paying for them. They might wait to see if Garcia had anyone watching them.
“Move!” Portinari’s sudden command cracked over the earwig.
Instantly, Garin dived to the hard-packed earth. His breath puffed a cloud of dust. Then he rolled against another container as a bullet whined from the target container. The hammer-like impact bonged inside the container.
“Sniper!” Portinari called out commands to his team. “Those two didn’t come alone.”
Neither did I, Garin thought.
“Where is the sniper?” Edging up against the container where he’d taken shelter, Garin peered around the corner. Another bullet slammed into the container’s edge and drove heated steel splinters into his cheek. He ducked back and watched the front of the pharmaceutical container.
22
“I may have something.” On the tablet PC, Saadiya looked pleased with herself.
Her call wasn’t the one Sabre had been waiting for, but he took it. “Tell me.”
“I managed to hack into the phone records on the satellite phone Annja Creed discarded.”
“What do you have?”
“A telephone number and address she called right before she disposed of the phone.” Saadiya took time to make a couple keystrokes. “I just sent it to you.”
Sabre’s phone dinged with the arrival of the text. He stared at the name in disbelief and couldn’t help feeling his luck had turned. Sickness twisted in his stomach.
The name Istvan Racz was followed by a telephone number and an address that Sabre knew well.
“I’m doing some background on Racz.” Saadiya kept typing. “On the surface, it looks like he’s a college professor specializing in Hungarian history. As I get more intel, so will you.”
“Thanks, Saadiya.” Sabre didn’t bother telling her what he already knew or that the man was familiar to him. He leaned forward and plugged the address into the GPS unit. Looking at Meszoly, Sabre pointed a forefinger at the map as the unit traced their new journey for them. “There. Now.”
Meszoly nodded and pressed his foot harder on the accelerator.
Sabre sat back and wondered if the revelation was good luck or bad.
He felt certain it was bad.
* * *
ANNJA’S PHONE RANG as she was leafing through one of Frigyes Racz’s journals of his exploration of Translyvania while following up on information relating to King Géza II’s attempt at colonizing that country. At the outset, the transplanted Germans were supposed to protect and patrol the southeastern border of the Kingdom of Hungary.
The journal was enticing reading. Frigyes Racz was a good raconteur and hadn’t been afraid to go into dangerous places. The man’s writing had a good blend of ancient history and his own adventures while tracking artifacts. After reading some of the passages, Annja was surprised the man had lived as long as he had.
“You called?” Roux spoke in French.
“I did. I have a favor to ask.” Annja felt as if she was on thin ice with that. She didn’t like relying on Roux or Garin, though all three of them were tied because of the sword.
Roux growled irritably. Calm voices sounded in the background, and there was a televised presentation of at least three horse races that she could identify. Roux didn’t bet on horses much, but he favored Texas Hold’em, sitting in on games around the world.
She pictured him in her mind dressed in a conservative suit, his white beard trailing to his chest and his blue eyes piercing above his thin nose. There was something grand and almost mystical about him.
“And what might this favor be?”
“I’ve got to get out of Los Angeles—Santa Monica, actually—and was hoping you might arrange for a jet that I could use.”
“Contrary to your view of me, I don’t just carry around jets in my pockets.”
Annja knew he was being short with her because she hadn’t been able to hide her judgmental reaction. Still, if a man was going to live five hundred years, it would seem he would gain some good sense and a little propriety.
“No, but you can arrange for a jet.” Annja didn’t want to have to ask again. They didn’t keep markers between them, so no one owed anyone anything, but she didn’t think she should have to ask twice.
“So can you.”
“It would be better if I didn’t do that. I don’t want my name showing up anywhere.”
Roux’s tone changed, became more interested and a little protective. “Are you in trouble?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“With the police?”
“They’re on the periphery of things. They can’t keep me here, but they do want to talk to me. However, if they slow me down, the other people looking for me can catch up.”
Roux paused, and for a moment, Annja thought the connection had dropped.
“You have been busy.” He sounded distracted.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a considerable amount of information about your present situation on Twitter and Facebook. Murders. Suspicious deaths. Shoot-outs. Chases. Questioning by the authorities. Mercenaries. Bodyguards. And some kind of missing artifact?”
Sighing, Annja glared at the artifacts in their glass display cases. Things had been so much simpler back then, when social media didn’t tune into everyone’s lives. Back then, the only worry had been gossip.
“The last two days have been...interesting.”
“And you’re all right?”
“I am.”
“You sound tired.”
“I am tired.” Annja felt uncomfortable when Roux started acting in the least bit paternal. “Look, is this jet going to happen? If not, I could still call Garin.”
She didn’t want to do that, though. Things with Garin had gotten complicated. She didn’t quite trust him, because he always took care of himself first but didn’t bother telling anyone when that was going to happen. And he was far too attractive. Garin was confusion incarnate some days.
“Calling Garin won’t be necessary, and it might complicate the situation, actually.”
That made Annja immediately suspicious. “Complicate the situation how?”
“Never mind about that. Where would you like your jet to pick you up and deliver you?”
Roux probably had more money than Garin had, but he didn’t flaunt it. The old man liked to play in the shadows, while Garin seized the limelight when he could. That would eventually catch up with him, though, because he couldn’t keep reinventing himself. Eventually, he’d have to retreat to the shadows, too. There was no telling how he would take that.
“There’s an airport here in Santa Monica. We can be there within minutes.”
“‘We’?”
“I’m traveling with a companion. A history professor who’s helping me.”
“So just the two of you?” Beeping at Roux’s end of the connection probably came from notes he was putting into his smartphone.
“Yes.”
“And where will you be going?”
“Ordizia, Spain.”
“Lovely city. For what reason?”
“Research.” Annja expected Roux to pry because he was often nosy, though he would never admit to it.
“This isn’t the number you usually call from.”
“I had to get rid
of my phone.”
“Probably a wise move. Will this number be good?”
“Until I let you know that it isn’t.”
“Give me a few minutes to make arrangements.”
That was one of the things Annja struggled to comprehend. Roux and Garin moved through the world as though there were no international boundaries. She couldn’t imagine what a life like that would be like.
“Call me back.” Annja pressed Disconnect and pocketed the phone, about to return her attention to Frigyes Racz’s journal as something to focus on. Her mind had a tendency to clutter when she didn’t keep it busy. And she had plenty to think about at the moment.
Still, why would calling Garin complicate matters? That bothered her because it meant Roux knew something about her present situation that she didn’t know. She wanted to call Roux back and demand an answer, but she knew that would only delay what he was doing for her.
Before she could open the journal, rumbling sounded out in the hallway and Racz stepped into the room towing a luggage bag behind him.
“We have a problem,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“I believe someone tailed you here.” Racz crooked a finger at her to follow him.
Annja stepped forward and joined him at the desk.
Racz tapped his computer keyboard and security video popped up on the monitor screen. In the sixteen views afforded, three of them showed uniformed men circling the house with slow, methodical precision.
“Do you know who they are?” Racz rocked a little as he stood there. A tight grimace pulled at his mouth. “They are obviously not the police.”
“I can’t be certain, but I think they’re with the Black Legion security people. Their uniforms look right.” And they didn’t come in guns blazing, she thought. That was something Annja felt certain de Cerceau’s mercs would do.
Racz’s nostrils flared and his breathing quickened, though whether in fear or irritation Annja wasn’t certain. “I assume they share our interest in the secret message in the crystal.”
“Oh, I’m willing to bet they have an interest in it, and they won’t stop to find out what we know about it.”