Magic Lantern (Rogue Angel) (12 page)

As the man staggered backward, flames wrapping his feet, Annja moved out into the hallway and used the man for cover. The two other men with guns weren’t standing in the growing pool of fire.

Annja shoved the staggering man into the others and tossed the captured pistol away. She wasn’t going to kill anyone if she could help it. She was already in enough hot water with Westcox and the Metro police. But she wasn’t going to let her or Gaetano be killed, either. With her right hand now free, she reached for the sword and pulled it into the hallway with her.

The element of surprise was only going to last a moment. She stayed low as she stepped over the gangster on fire. The man was too distracted by kicking his shoes off to be a threat at the moment.

The pool of solvent that had collected in a depression worn into the hallway ignited in a rush that sent flames spiraling three feet high, much higher than Annja had anticipated. She threw her left arm across her face as she charged through them, keeping the flames from her face and eyes and hair.

On the other side, the two remaining Triad members took hasty steps back from the fire and their fallen comrade. They lifted their pistols and fired, and the crescendo of sudden thunder pealed through the hallway. At the same time, the fire alarm stuttered to life.

One bullet plucked at Annja’s jacket sleeve. The other five or seven—she lost count—screamed off the walls.

She swung the sword and caught the weapon of the man on the left in midrecoil. The slide snapped off the pistol, flying through the air and leaving the weapon useless. She set her left leg, pivoted and drove her right into the man’s face.

The second man whirled on her and fired again. Annja dropped into a crouch and the bullets cut the air over her head before thudding into the wall behind her. She stepped forward and drove the sword into the man’s shoulder just deeply enough to cause him to drop the pistol. Blood streamed from the wound but she knew it wasn’t life-threatening.

The man stumbled back and clasped his good hand over his injured arm. Annja kept moving forward and kicked him in the crotch. When he bent over, she brought a knee up into his face and left him sprawled on the floor.

The man whose shoes she’d set on fire had scrambled out of them and was batting at sparks on his pant legs. He caught her looking at him and quickly backed away.

The fire in the hallway licked at the walls, seeking fresh footholds in the building. Annja let go of the sword and sprinted a few steps down the hall to grab the fire extinguisher from the wall.

As she returned, the man she’d kicked in the face was scrambling for his weapon. She swung the fire extinguisher against his head and he dropped like a rock.

Aiming the fire extinguisher at the base of the flames, Annja yanked the safety pin and squeezed the release handle. A cloud of white chemicals boiled from the nozzle and spewed over the fire. When it finally cycled dry, the flames were out and only scorch marks remained.

Annja ran back to Gaetano and found him nursing a large bump on his forehead. His eyes looked glassy. “I’m afraid we’ve lost Edmund’s magic lantern. I tried to stop the Frenchman, but he got away. I wasn’t strong enough to overpower him.”

“That’s all right. We’ve got a lead on where Laframboise is keeping Edmund. That’s more than what we had when we came here.” Annja pulled Gaetano into motion and herded him toward the door as the fire alarm continued to shrill.

Thankfully, none of the combatants she’d left behind were in any shape to pursue.

11

The sign on the door was professional and understated. Bronze letters barely stood out against the simulated wood. Fiona Pioche, Private Inquiries.

When Annja knocked, the solid sound told her the wood was merely a veneer over a security door. Fiona Pioche’s offices were in the upscale Mayfair district of London. She had a downstairs corner office, which would be even more expensive. Annja decided that whoever Fiona Pioche was, she must be doing quite nicely for herself.

And she wondered how Roux knew the woman. Of course, Roux and Garin knew all sorts of people, from refined gentry to cold-blooded killers. Unfortunately, both Roux and Garin seemed more at home with the latter. And that made Ms. Pioche even more interesting.

Gaetano stood unsteadily at Annja’s side. He blinked repeatedly, trying to bring his vision into focus. Seeing her concern, he patted her on the shoulder, missing the first time before correcting his aim.

“I’m perfectly fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“I wish you’d let me take you to see a doctor. You could have a concussion.”

“It won’t be the first concussion I’ve had. We need to find Edmund.”

“If you’re not feeling any better when we finish up here, you’re going to see a doctor.”

“I fear the chief inspector will have you locked up and possibly deported if he gets his hands on you.”

Annja worried about that, too.

The door opened and a young man about Annja’s age stood there in an expensive suit. His black hair was neatly cropped and he wore a tailored Savile Row suit that emphasized his lean athleticism. “Ah, Ms. Creed, we’d been wondering when you would show up.”

He opened the door wider to reveal a large and expensive office filled with modern furniture.

“My name is Oliver Wemyss. You may call me Ollie, if you like.” He waved Annja and Gaetano to plush seats in front of the desk. “Would you care for a refreshment?” He crossed the room to a service bar. “We have tea and coffee, and a large selection of juices, liquors, beers, wines and soft drinks.”

Annja shook her head. “No, thank you.”

Gaetano declined, as well.

“Come, Mr. Carlini, you simply must have a spot of tea. I have some analgesics for that headache you’re obviously sporting, and you need something to wash them down.”

“You’re right. And thank you. Tea with milk, please.”

Ollie poured and brought a steaming cup and saucer over to Gaetano, who managed to take it in shaking hands.

Efficient and crisp, Ollie folded himself into the chair behind the big desk and studied the three monitors in front of him. He tapped the keyboard in rapid syncopation, then looked up at Annja. “Were you at the Cleburne storage unit this morning?”

Surprised, Annja nodded. “How did you know that?”

“It appears Detective Chief Inspector Westcox has interviewed men taken from there who named you as their attacker.”

“Preposterous.” Gaetano was so upset he almost lost his tea, but he recovered quickly. “Those men attacked us.”

Ollie typed more. “Oh, I’m certain their claims will fall apart once the inspector pulls their records. They each have long criminal histories. I’m quite convinced you’d be exonerated even without Ms. Pioche’s help.”

Watching Ollie work both impressed and irritated Annja. She shifted in the chair, wishing she could just take a quick nap, but knowing she wouldn’t be able to until Edmund was safe.

“We’ve got a friend out there who’s in trouble. If it’s going to be a while before Ms. Pioche can see us—”

“Ms. Pioche is already working on that. That is to say,
I
am already working on that. Your friend’s troubles—Professor Beswick’s kidnapping—is precisely the reason I have broken into the Metro Police Division’s files.” Ollie shot her a small smile. “If I am discovered, they will be properly vexed.”

“I’m sure they would.” And I’m going to be one step closer to deportation. Annja sat tensely. “But shouldn’t we have some kind of arrangement before she starts working?”

Ollie glanced at her and raised his eyebrows. “You should. Ms. Pioche assures me that we don’t need the usual contract agreement in your case. She considers you…
special.
”

“Why?”

“She did not see her way clear to elucidate. Mystifying, actually.” Ollie shrugged. “I have been through your files and see nothing that connects you to Ms. Pioche.”

“Until this morning, I’d never heard of her.”

Ollie grimaced at that. “Oh, dear. She’s quite well-known. And getting her known—to the right people—is part of my job description.”

“Maybe I’m not the right people.”

Ollie nodded and smiled. “Judging from the background checks I’ve done on you, you seem to travel in areas outside Ms. Pioche’s normal purview. Though you both certainly have been in the news regarding aggressive involvement with criminal types.”

“One of the drawbacks of the job.”

“As a television personality?”

“As an archaeologist.”

“Ah.” Ollie nodded again. “To be sure. There are any number of unsavory types in that job field. Ms. Pioche has dealt with some of them, as well.”

“She’s an archaeologist?”

“No. But she has worked for those who are.” Ollie cocked his head to one side. “Yes, Ms. Pioche?” He listened for a moment, then nodded. “Of course, Ms. Pioche. Straightaway.” He stood and looked at Annja and Gaetano. “Ms. Pioche will see you now.”

Gaetano frowned. “If that was supposed to be ESP, I’m not impressed. All you had to do was set up a prearranged time to make that announcement.”

Ollie grinned. “Nothing so esoteric, I’m afraid. I have an earbud that keeps me in touch with her. Would you like another cup of tea, Mr. Carlini?”

* * *

THE INNER OFFICE WAS AT ONCE imposing and impressive. Blond wood covered the walls and Italian marble covered the floor. Persian rugs added a layer of wealth that the paintings and sculptures might not have fully expressed.

Annja stood in awe of the artifacts that were on such casual display. Arranged as they were, though, she didn’t get the sense that they were shown to intimidate prospective clientele. Rather, the pieces were there as keepsakes of an extraordinary life.

Drawn to a brass gladiator mask, Annja noted that it hadn’t been restored. Instead, it showed the scars of having been taken in battle centuries earlier.

And beside it was a ceramic Russian icon, an image taken from Christian stories of Christ, which showed an angel Annja assumed was Archangel Michael. The figure brandished a flaming sword.

“That one is a particular favorite of mine.”

At the sound of the woman’s voice, Annja turned. “Ms. Pioche?”

“Yes.” The woman sitting behind the desk was in her late fifties. Her silver hair was cropped at her jaw and parted on the left side. She wore red lipstick that enhanced her dark blue eyes. Diamond earrings glistened from under her bob. Her white cashmere sweater, black skinny pants and black boots suggested wealth, class and good taste.

“I apologize. I just didn’t expect to see anything like this here.”

Ms. Pioche’s right eyebrow arched. “What were you expecting?”

“For starters, a much smaller office.”

“Roux told you nothing of me?”

Annja couldn’t decide whether the older woman sounded angry or hurt. Of course, with a man in the picture—especially with a man like Roux—the one wasn’t very far from the other.

“Only that you were very good at what you do.”

“I am.” She glared at Annja.

Annja folded her arms and returned the woman’s challenging gaze full measure. She didn’t know the source of the animosity between them, but she wasn’t simply going to roll over. “Perhaps coming here wasn’t a good idea. I’m sorry to have imposed.” She turned to Gaetano, who appeared to be too dazed to know what was going on. “Let’s get you to a doctor.”

“Nonsense.” The woman’s voice was a razor claw in a velvet glove. “That poor man is almost out on his feet. If you ask him to move from that chair, he might well collapse.”

Gaetano started to force himself out of the comfortable chair in front of the massive Louis XIV desk. “Madam, I am quite capable of—”

“Oh, do sit down, Mr. Carlini, before you topple over.” She never took her eyes off Annja.

“Quite right, madam.” Annja didn’t know if it was Gaetano’s realization of his own infirmity or Ms. Pioche’s imposing will that motivated him, but he sat.

“Ollie, be a dear and ask Dr. Whitehead to come around.”

Ollie took out a small, slim cell phone and punched a single digit.

“I’m awaiting orders, Ms. Pioche, but I have yet to figure out whether you’re helping this young woman.” Ollie beamed at Annja.

“Oh, God.” Ms. Pioche leaned back in her chair. “Annja Creed, I apologize for my behavior and would like to do my best to help you rescue your kidnapped friend.”

The woman stood and offered her hand. “Although you obviously do not know the history involved in this situation, I hope we can put that aside and bring your friend—Mr. Edmund Beswick—home safely.”

Annja took the offered hand and felt the calm, cool strength of it. “Roux said you were the best at this. Please, call me Annja.”