Mystic Warrior

by Alex Archer

  “I can take your bags for you if you’d like,” Ian offered.

  “No. You’ve done more than enough. Thank you.” Bag in hand, Annja strode down the walkway.

  Racz thanked Ian, as well, accepted another luggage care package and trailed after Annja.

  On the tarmac, assaulted by the roar of jet engines and airport cargo handlers yelling orders to each other in a handful of languages, Annja headed for the Jaguar driver’s door. She was not going to put up with a driver, no matter how much better that person was at driving through the neighborhood.

  Before she reached the car, the driver’s window rolled down and a weathered arm curled over the vehicle’s roof and pointed imperiously to the other side. “Passenger seat,” a familiar voice ordered.

  Annja’s worry disappeared for the most part, but her irritability rose drastically.

  The trunk sprang open. Taking the cue, Annja deposited her new valise in the space but kept her backpack.

  Racz paused at the rear of the Jaguar. “This driver could be anyone. We might be better off arranging our own transportation.”

  “This driver can’t be anyone. Put your bag away.”

  Grudgingly, Racz did as he was told.

  Annja walked to the passenger seat and the door popped just as she reached for it. She opened the door wider and slipped into the leather seat.

  Roux sat behind the steering wheel, looking like a curmudgeonly grandfather on vacation. His mostly cranberry Hawaiian shirt featured 1950s rocket ships and ray guns and stood out against the white duck pants, but the leather sandals fit right in. His white hair and beard looked vaguely unkempt, but that might have been from being out in the wind. He wore wraparound sunglasses that covered his eyes.

  “You look like someone who should be playing with ZZ Top.” Annja strapped herself into the seat.

  “I sat in on a few of their sessions when they were just starting out.”

  Roux’s weathered face was blank and she didn’t know if he was serious. “What did you play?”

  “Badly.” Roux waited until Racz was settled in the backseat, then accelerated from the private jet. Annja was certain there was a speed limit on the tarmac, but Roux ignored it.

  “Has anyone followed us?” Annja asked.

  “That’s an interesting question.” Roux shot ahead of a baggage cart and zipped toward the exit. “Did you call Garin?”

  “Not after you told me you could get me out of California. Why?”

  “It appears he’s taken an interest in your latest treasure hunt.”

  “Why?”

  Roux shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Garin is following me?”

  “He is.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because my people caught his people tracking you.”

  During the five hundred years they’d lived, Roux and Garin had had an on-again, off-again relationship. They’d journeyed together for a while after Joan had been burned at the stake, but they had gone their separate ways, as well. Roux sometimes referred to the separation as a natural outgrowth of a young man standing up to his father, and Annja saw that kind of challenge and resentment between them on occasion.

  But after five hundred years, with no one else truly capable of sharing their history, the two men had been drawn again and again into each other’s orbits during difficult or lonely times. After all, there was no one else they could tell their stories to.

  Except that five hundred years was a long time, and Annja had already discovered Roux and Garin didn’t share all their stories.

  “Where is Garin now?” Annja asked.

  “Close,” Roux mused. “Getting closer.” He pulled out onto the street and merged with traffic.

  “Excuse me,” Racz called from the backseat. “Who is Garin?”

  “No one,” Roux answered.

  “A treasure hunter,” Annja said, because that was the best explanation she could come up with that would explain the situation.

  “And he’s following us, too? In addition to everyone else?”

  Racz sounded put out and Annja didn’t blame the professor. The situation kept getting more complicated.

  “He is.” Annja took her tablet from its place on the floorboard between her feet.

  “Is this man dangerous?”

  “He can be,” Annja said, and she wondered where Garin’s interest in the search for the treasure came from and how much of a problem he would be.

  27

  “Istvan, it is so good to see you again!” A vibrant woman in her late thirties bustled up to Racz, took him in her arms and enthusiastically kissed him on both cheeks. A colorful dress sheathed her generous curves. Her black hair was cropped at the jawline and framed a sun-bronzed face that held dark blue eyes. She wore only a little makeup, letting her natural beauty show. A dimple in her left cheek twisted the corner of her lips slightly but added character. Finished with her bone-crushing hug, she stepped back and took Racz’s hands, examining him from head to toe. “The years have been good to you.”

  Racz grinned broadly. “Evita, you are more beautiful than ever.”

  Evita shrugged. “Always with the compliments. You are as incorrigible as ever. I assume you are still turning the heads of young women?”

  “When I can.” Racz stepped back and waved to Annja and Roux. “May I present Dr. Evita de Elcano, professor of European history with specialization in circumnavigators. Evita, these are new friends of mine. Annja Creed and Mr. Roux.”

  Annja took the woman’s proffered hand and matched her smile. “Dr. Elcano? Any relation to Juan Sebastián d’Elcano, the Basque captain who sailed with Magellan?”

  “If there is a relationship, I’m afraid those ties were muddied centuries ago. I like to think, however tenuous, that such a connection exists.” Evita beamed. “I have to admit, I’m impressed. Many people don’t remember Juan Sebastián d’Elcano.” She turned her attention to Roux. “Mr. Roux, a pleasure to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine, dear lady.” Roux’s sudden change to courtliness clashed with his outfit, and that chameleonlike ability still caught Annja off guard. Roux could switch from an old-world dandy to an alley hoodlum in a heartbeat, though crotchety seemed to be his most natural mode.

  Evita blushed a little, and Annja noted that Racz frowned in response. Annja had no doubt that Evita had been one of the women Racz claimed to have fallen in love with while in Spain, and she immediately wondered who had ended the relationship. She dismissed that idle speculation and concentrated on what had brought them there.

  * * *

  ANNJA AND THE OTHERS stood in one of the great rooms of the library in Ordizia’s downtown. The building had once housed apartments, but it had been renovated decades earlier. The outside appearance hadn’t changed, and the interior sported an art-deco look.

  Large Mercator projections from various historical periods hung on the walls. One of them showed Magellan’s voyage as well as Viking raider routes. Tiffany lamps hung from the high ceilings and gave off a soft light. There were no windows because sunlight would have faded the documents. Shelving filled the walls, and workstations with computers created islands over hardwood floors. More burgeoning stacks stood at attention in neat rows throughout.

  That old familiar thrill of being in a place soaked with history filled Annja as she looked around. Library, souk or catacomb—all offered chances to explore what had been.

  Stepping back, Evita gestured to the massive library room around them. “I know that Istvan has told you of Andrés de Urdaneta’s collection of ships’ logs, but he hasn’t told me exactly what it is you’re looking for.” She shot him a mock frown. “He likes to keep his little mysteries to himself.”

  “I’m not the only one guilty of that,”
Racz replied.

  “True, but if I may be of any help, please allow me. I have taken the liberty of requisitioning the library for your use this afternoon so you can work without being bothered. Since you’re also newly arrived, I arranged for a light lunch to be served.” Evita waved to a table in the corner where a small buffet had been laid out.

  Roux stepped forward and glanced at Evita. “I haven’t eaten in hours. Perhaps you’d care to join me at the buffet.”

  “You’re not here to look at maps?” Evita looked surprised.

  “No. I came here to look after Annja.”

  Annja frowned at that. She didn’t need looking after. Roux was just using her to better sell himself. It was irritating but not worth the hassle of challenging.

  “She is family?” Evita asked.

  “Yes,” Roux answered.

  Probably the old man said that because it was the easiest answer to give, and maybe it was a little more ingratiating to their hostess, but Annja couldn’t help feeling a little pleased at the announcement. She didn’t let Roux see that, though.

  “Family is important,” Evita said, “and tending to familial needs is admirable.”

  Roux managed to look modest in a way that made Annja want to roll her eyes.

  Evita looked at Racz. “You know your way around.” She linked her arm through Roux’s and they walked toward the buffet table together, already lost in conversation. Roux had her laughing before they reached the food.

  Racz furrowed his brow at the two of them. Then he made a concerted effort to get focused. “Juan Cabrillo’s logs are this way.” He started across the room and Annja followed.

  * * *

  “NOT ALL OF these logs are originals.” Annja stared at the shelves filled with bound ships’ logs and felt frustrated. “They’re copies.” Even Urdaneta had been forced to replicate some of the maps and journals that he’d lost to the Portuguese after being captured in the Spice Islands.

  “But they’re good copies.” Racz stood beside her and glanced through one of the tomes. The book was roughly eighteen inches tall, fourteen inches wide and three inches thick. The pages were good vellum and pristine for the most part. “Whatever information was in the original ships’ logs will be in these.”

  “Not if it was hidden.”

  “What? Do you mean like written in invisible ink?”

  “Sounds cartoony when you say it out loud like that, but yes. I’ve found documents that were layered beneath other documents. And written in invisible ink. Julius Caesar invented the first code that was used in military operations. Hiding information has a long history.”

  Racz pursed his lips and nodded. “Caesar reputedly invented the transposition code. Substituting one letter for another. I know that.”

  “If the Merovingian treasure exists, especially if it hasn’t been found, you can bet it’s not going to be in plain sight.”

  “There’s every possibility that it doesn’t exist. My grandfather never found it.”

  Racz’s constant wavering between believing and not believing was irritating Annja. She understood the man not wanting to get his hopes up after all these years, but no matter how things turned out, the leads had to be tracked down.

  Annja took down another thick book and opened it. “It would have helped if Julio Gris’s journals had been kept separate from Cabrillo’s.” They’d already checked and discovered that, although Gris was referenced occasionally, there was no book dedicated to him.

  From time to time, Racz stepped around the end of the stack for a moment. Annja knew the man was checking on Roux and Evita. Racz’s jealousy would have been at least slightly humorous if she hadn’t been preoccupied with finding the information she needed. She picked up the sandwich Roux had prepared for her and took another bite.

  A short time later, Roux appeared with Evita on his arm. “Since you don’t need our help, Evita has graciously offered to show me some of the highlights of Ordizia.”

  Annja looked at him and lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve never been to Ordizia before?”

  “Of course I have, but I haven’t seen everything here. Evita herself is proof of that.”

  Evita smiled in response to the compliment. Evidently, she didn’t mind Roux’s company at all.

  “What if we need something?” A trace of irritation echoed in Racz’s voice.

  Evita smiled at him. “Simply call me. You have the number.”

  Roux led her away.

  Racz grumped away to another library shelf.

  Grinning to herself at the professor’s apparent displeasure, Annja continued her search.

  * * *

  ALMOST THREE HOURS LATER, Annja discovered one of the ships’ logs that held a sizable section written by Julio Gris. The entries had been written while at sea after Cabrillo’s unfortunate death.

  I have constructed my device and left it in the New World not far from where we buried poor Captain Cabrillo. It exists solely so that the trail to the Salian Frankish treasure, if not clearly marked, is at least still there, a signpost to someone clever enough to find it.

  “He’s talking about the Merovingian treasure.” Racz read the manuscript over Annja’s shoulder. “They were the Salian Franks.”

  Annja knew that but didn’t bother to point that out. She continued reading.

  I wonder if I will live to see my home again. Things have gone so badly on this voyage. Captain Cabrillo was a friend and a confidant. Had he not died, I am certain he would have gone with me to seek the fortunes that persistent myths say are there. Now there is no one I truly trust to watch over me while I undertake this task. Treasure hunting must ever be a solitary pursuit. Greed turns even the best of friends into mortal enemies when a fortune hangs in the balance.

  I will take up the trail upon my return, and I will hope that my knowledge and bravery are rewarded. If they are not, and I am somehow unable to finish my chosen quest, there still exists a map created by György Dózsa’s pain. It can be found in the third casting of the Virgin Mary that was created by Father Janos Brankovic.

  After that, Gris wandered for a bit in his narrative, writing down memories and thoughts about family members and about the inevitability of the cruel sea. Annja thought the man sounded lonely. Having a close look at mortality during Cabrillo’s lingering death would cause a person to take stock. Annja had seen similar things happen on digs after someone died or was killed.

  Those brushes with death often put weaker archaeologists and relic hunters off their game.

  “What casting of the Virgin Mary is Gris referring to?” Racz asked. “Dózsa was a warrior, a soldier of fortune who served whoever paid him more.”

  “György Dózsa was also a crusader.” Annja walked to the table of food and helped herself to another glass of water. Her brain clicked and spun like a machine as facts threaded together in her thoughts. “In the early 1500s, Tamás Bakócz, the Hungarian chancellor working as an agent of Pope Leo X, raised an army against the Ottoman Empire. The paper he brought from the Holy See allowed him to raise an army and appoint a commander to lead it.”

  “I know all of that,” Racz declared impatiently. “The army Dózsa raised wasn’t supplied, and the soldiers eventually went rogue after the landlords the kuruc had previously worked for began brutalizing their wives and children because they wouldn’t return to the fields. The war effort became a mission of vengeance.”

  “Yes.” Kuruc was supposed to have been created from the Latin word cruciatus, which meant crusader or cross. There were some who believed the word merely meant rebel. “Do you know what happened to Dózsa when the Crusade failed?” She sipped the chilled water.

  “He was killed.” Racz shrugged, obviously through talking about Dózsa. “He went from potential hero to revolutionary leader.”

  Annja didn’t see Dózsa
’s plight so simply. The military leader had landed in a hard spot, trapped with an army and possessing no means of taking care of his warriors or using those forces as they’d been intended.

  “Dózsa did the best that he could. In fact, he worked hard to make certain that many of those noblemen and landlords were not killed. He helped some of them escape. Unfortunately, many of his warriors tracked those people down and put them to death.”

  “What does this have to do with the Virgin Mary casting?”

  “I’m getting to it. Dózsa was eventually defeated by a heavy cavalry of noblemen. His amateur warriors couldn’t stand up to them. After the battle at Temesvár, the noblemen captured Dózsa and took him prisoner. Later Dózsa was tied to an iron throne that had been heated hot enough to burn. He was also forced to wear a heated crown and given a scalding scepter to hold.”

  Racz frowned and shifted impatiently.

  “Nine of Dózsa’s men were brought before him while he was held captive and dying in the seat,” Annja went on. “Dózsa’s brother was in the lead, and he was immediately killed and cut to pieces. Afterward, the torturers pulled bits of Dózsa’s flesh from his body with red-hot pliers.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about the Virgin Mary.”

  “During Dózsa’s torture, monks who were there to observe that justice was being done said they saw the image of the Virgin Mary in Dózsa’s ear.”

  “That’s just so much balderdash.” Racz scowled skeptically, but there was a gleam in his eye that told Annja he wanted to believe the story. “They couldn’t have seen the Virgin Mary in Dózsa’s ear. What would be the point of that?”

  “I don’t know, but Vilmos Szekely and György Kiss designed and built the statue of the Virgin Mary based on that sighting. It was erected in 1865 on the site where Dózsa died on that iron throne. It’s a symbol of the unrest between the serfs and the landed gentry that was taking place at the time.”

  “If the statue was built in 1865, it can have no bearing on our search.” Bitter venom echoed in Racz’s words. “It’s much too late. There can’t be any clues related to it that tie back to the Merovingian treasure.”