Gabriel's Horn (19 page)

“Do you have some special mutant ability for detecting lies that I don’t know about?” Bart asked.

“It’s the same one you have.”

“That guy, he was burying the needle on my radar.”

“You never talked to him.”

“I didn’t have to,” Bart said.

“There’s something decent about him.”

Bart shot her a perplexed glance. “Decent?”

“Yes.”

“He’s covered in street muck—”

“He’s relatively clean.”

“He doesn’t have a pot to—”

“There are public bathrooms.”

“Yeah. Normally anywhere those guys are standing.”

Annja didn’t bother to respond.

Bart sighed. “Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings or get into an argument here. I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t believe it. You want my opinion—and yeah, I get that you don’t, but here it is anyway—that old man sold you out.”

“If he was hooked up with the men who came to Luigi’s, don’t you think he’d be better dressed? Better able to take care of himself?” Annja asked.

“Maybe he’s disguised.”

Annja turned to him. “Are you listening to yourself?”

Bart held up a hand in defense. “Okay, maybe that’s a little far-fetched. But I’m tired. And I’ve been worried about you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You could act a little more appreciative.”

“And you could be a better listener.”

Bart growled in frustration. His jaws clenched and he readjusted in the seat. “Maybe I could,” he said.

“There had to be another way those men found me at Luigi’s.”

“The easiest way is for the old man to tell them.”

“He was with me at the museum all afternoon. Why didn’t he call those men then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he couldn’t get hold of them.”

“Think, Bart. There has to be a reason. You’re the trained investigator. You tell me.”

After a moment of tense silence, Bart answered, “You used a debit card when you paid for the meal. I checked the receipts.”

Annja remembered that. She’d given her cash to Charlie. “They can track my debit card?” she asked.

“It’s possible. If you want to factor the old man out of the equation, that’s what you’re left with. It plays.” Bart scratched his chin with his thumb. “The easiest way is to figure the homeless guy for it.”

“No,” Annja insisted.

“Then those guys could have tracked you through computer databases. You used your card while you were in Prague, didn’t you?” Bart asked.

Annja took only a moment to remember that she had used her card while shopping. “Yes.”

“They came at you in Prague. If these guys are as well equipped as they seem to be—and getting fully automatic weapons in this city, while not impossible, is still difficult, not to mention expensive—then imagining they have a geek squad able to do something like that isn’t a big stretch.”

Annja didn’t think so, either. Suddenly she felt incredibly vulnerable.

“Hey,” Bart said softly. “You okay?”

Not trusting herself to speak, Annja just nodded and kept her eyes locked straight ahead of her. She walled all the feelings out and concentrated on herself. That was what she’d always done in the orphanage when things turned against her.

More than anything, she wanted to talk to Roux at that moment. She wanted to know what was going on. But for the first time she was afraid to talk to him because she knew he’d turn down her attempts to question him.

He’s not your father, she told herself angrily. He doesn’t owe you anything. Despite the fact that he helped you find the sword—and that hasn’t always gone well, has it?—he’s never promised you anything. And he hasn’t gone out of his way to give you anything, either, has he?

And how many times has he nearly gotten you killed?

Still, she remembered the way he’d talked to her when they were together on occasion. And she remembered the conversation she’d had with him when she’d gone out with Garin that night in Prague. He’d been angry at her, but part of that anger stemmed from the fact that she’d hurt him.

“Hey, Annja. Are you okay?” Bart asked softly.

Annja tried to speak, but couldn’t. She just nodded.

“It’s going to be all right,” Bart said. “I promise.”

It sounded good to hear Bart say that, but he didn’t know about swords with strange powers or men who could live for hundreds of years. Annja had the distinct feeling that if he had, Bart wouldn’t feel so sure of himself at the moment.

He touched her shoulder hesitantly. Then, when she didn’t push his hand away, he put his arm around her.

“It’s going to be all right,” Bart said softly. “We’ll figure this out.”

“I know,” Annja answered, but she said it because she knew he expected her to say that. She didn’t believe it. For the moment she just simply shared in the illusion.

But when they pulled up to her building, Charlie was sitting on the steps with Wally.

28

Garin was late getting back to the house Roux had arranged outside the Hague. As he’d seen to the care of the men who’d been wounded, and to the disposal of the bodies of those who had been lost, his anger had become well stoked. By the time he parked his Mercedes in the large driveway, he was seething.

The encounter at the Danseker estate was hours in the past. News stories about the break-in and subsequent murders filled the news channels. CNN and Fox News had picked up the story because of the macabre nature of the painting.

Images of the painting had already flooded the Internet. So had vicious theories about devil worshiping and ritual sacrifice gone wrong.

Dressed in a suit, Garin left the armored luxury sedan and crossed the flagstone walk to the big house’s front door. The structure was three stories tall and felt empty. Garin wondered if Roux owned it or had leased it for the effort to get the painting.

To the east, the sun had started to streak the sky in purple and gold. Garin didn’t plan to be in the Netherlands by the time it reached its zenith.

Inside the house, Garin could smell frying sausages and potatoes. He followed his nose to the immaculate kitchen at the back of the big house. He kept his hand on the gun holstered at his hip. The next unpleasant surprise that met him was going to receive a bullet between the eyes.

Jennifer stood at the stove, bathed in the soft glow of a small television mounted on the counter. The channel displayed the scenes of the violence at the Danseker estate.

She’d put on slacks and a sleeveless blouse. With the short heels she wore, she looked like an elegant wife making a quiet and private breakfast.

Garin stared at her. The woman was beautiful; there was no doubt about that. He could see what Roux had seen in her.

She moved smoothly and reached toward a ladle, but her hand instead sought out a small flat black autopistol hidden in a dish towel. In the space of a single breath, she came around in profile with the pistol leveled before her.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Garin left his hand on his holstered pistol, just in case. “I came to see the old man.”

“Why?” Jennifer didn’t lower her weapon.

Garin frowned. Now he had to entertain the possibility that she’d feel threatened enough to pull the trigger. Garin planned on living, so he’d be forced to kill her. It seemed like such a waste.

“To talk to him,” Garin answered.

“About what?”

“To let him know I’m out.”

“You’re quitting?” She didn’t lower the pistol.

“Unless he comes clean with me, I’m done with this thing.”

Jennifer held the pistol steady. “He told me, on more than one occasion, that I wasn’t to trust you. He also told me that you had a rather nasty habit of killing people who got in your way. And that you were vengeful to the
n
th degree.”

“Really?” Garin grinned. It was all true, and a savage part of him took pride in the fact that Roux had recognized those capacities in him. Of course, the old man was no pushover, either. Maybe not as vengeful in the long run, Roux still didn’t suffer enemies who were determined to return again and again.

“Yes. So you can appreciate that we’re at something of an impasse here.”

“Well,” Garin said affably, “you’re going to have to trust me a little, unless you plan on shooting me. If you’re prepared to do that, then go ahead.” Even though he said it in an offhanded manner, he still tensed in expectation of a bullet striking home.

Her eyes narrowed, but Garin paid attention to the nail on her forefinger as it rested on the trigger. So far the nail hadn’t whitened with pressure.

“After what happened back there, I didn’t expect you to come here,” she said.

“Actually, I hadn’t planned to come. I left. Twice, in fact. Both times I ended up retracing my tracks. Finally, I gave up and came here.” He shrugged. “I didn’t expect a party on my arrival, but I hadn’t foreseen this.”

“You lie. You know Roux doesn’t have a lot of faith in you.”

“No,” Garin said. “That’s where you’re wrong. That old man has every bit of faith in my ability, and in my nature. I sometimes think he knows what I’ll do before I do. I think that’s why I haven’t been able to kill him when I tried.”

“He said you hadn’t tried as hard as you could have.”

Garin shrugged. Maybe that was the truth, too. The world would certainly have been a different place without Roux in it.

“But he sent for you to help him in this,” Jennifer said.

“He did.”

“And you came.”

“I did.”

“Both of you are bloody buggy—you know that, don’t you?” Jennifer lowered her weapon and put it back on the counter within reach.

“He tends to make people that way.” Garin took his hand off his pistol and took a seat at the breakfast bar behind her.

“I know he’s had that effect on me.”

“It’s not just you,” Garin said. “Did you burn the sausages?”

“No.” Jennifer seemed frustrated. Her hands shook with restrained emotion.

Garin abandoned his seat and went to the stove. “May I?”

When Jennifer looked up at him, there were tears in her eyes. “Sure.” She took a cup of coffee from the stove and slid away to rest a hip against the counter. “Do you know how to cook?”

“I’m a fabulous cook,” Garin assured her. He set the sausages aside to steep in their juices.

“I’m afraid the eggs are ruined,” Jennifer said.

Garin scraped at the blackened husks. “So they are.”

“We’ve more in the fridge.”

Concentrating on making a meal, giving his hands something to do, Garin relaxed.

“He seems to prepare for everything, doesn’t he?” Jennifer asked.

“Except for failure,” Garin agreed. “When it comes to that, when it’s something he actually cares about, he doesn’t do so well. Is he here?”

“Out back. In the garden.”

“He’s brooding,” Garin said.

“He claims to be thinking.”

“He can call it whatever he likes. He’s brooding.”

“I know. I’ve seen it before. Not often.”

“Do you like crepes?” Garin asked.

“Yes, but you needn’t go to all the bother.”

“I’m having crepes. It won’t be any trouble to make you some.”

Jennifer wiped her tears away. “Thank you.”

Garin looked at her. “For what?”

“Breakfast.” Jennifer shrugged. “For not making me kill you.”

“You wouldn’t have killed me. And you haven’t had breakfast yet. You may want that pistol back.”

Despite her sadness, Jennifer laughed.

* * * *

Salome, dressed tourist casual, walked through Schiphol Airport. Her short skirt and one-size-too-small blouse drew attention away from her face. She wasn’t wanted anywhere, but it still helped blunt identification by onlookers if something should happen. The papers Drake had secured came through his private security corporation, but sometimes complications arose.

Last night happened, didn’t it? she asked herself again. She hadn’t slept yet. After barely escaping, she and Drake had fled. She stopped at the gate and checked her watch. It was twenty minutes until boarding time.

Less than three minutes later, Drake joined her. He was dressed in jeans, good shoes and a pullover shirt. He looked as if he’d just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine.

“Hello, pet,” he greeted her.

Salome tilted her head up and presented her cheek for a chaste kiss. Drake’s stubble grazed her flesh. He smelled of cologne and male musk.

“Did you get the luggage dealt with, dear?” she asked.

Drake took her by the elbow and guided her from the gate and toward the nearest wall where they could have a little privacy.

“I did,” he said. “There was some argument about weight allowances. I told you not to pack so much. I had to pay a little extra for your bags.”

Salome smiled at him. “But you know I’m worth it.”

“I do.” Drake grinned back at her, and the ease and expression—even the answer—weren’t all due to playacting.

When they reached the wall, they were all business.

“Did you find Annja Creed?” Salome asked.

“I did.” Drake shrugged. “I have to admit that the feat was a lot easier than I was expecting. You would think that anyone involved in the television industry would be more protective of her address.”

“Where does she live?”

“In New York City. One of the boroughs. Brooklyn.”

Salome hadn’t been there, but she knew that Drake had. His American contracts—especially assassination—often took him to the largest metropolises.

“Is she there?”

“Yes. I’ve got a team posted at her address. Are you sure this is the avenue you wish to pursue, love?” Drake asked.

“It’s all we have left to us. Roux—”

“Only got a look at a forged painting the same way we did,” Drake said.

Although she knew he was trying to allay her fears, his efforts weren’t successful. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that. He worked very hard to please her, and she almost loved him for that.

But she loved the power of the objects Roux knew about even more. If she could get her hands on even one of those, she would have everything she had ever imagined.

“You don’t know what Roux is like,” she said. “He knows so much.”