Magic Lantern (Rogue Angel) (19 page)

“No one got a good look at us.” Fiona nodded to the concierge and headed for the elevators.

“There are security cameras over there, you know.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see how good their systems are, won’t we?”

“You drive a rather distinguishable car.”

Fiona pressed the elevator button. “I believe at the time we would have been spotted, Annja and I were freeing you from kidnappers.”

“True, but—”

Smiling sweetly, Fiona turned to Edmund. “But nothing, dear man. Relax and enjoy the adventure.”

“Adventure?”

“Yes. Events like this remind us why we’re alive.”

“After this morning, we’re lucky to
be
alive.”

“That’s part of the package. So few people get to enjoy adrenaline like that anymore.” Fiona faced the elevator doors as they opened. “I know I’ve missed it.”

Edmund shot Annja a look of disbelief.

Annja smiled at him and stepped into the elevator after Fiona. “I don’t have to collect my gear. I can get internet access practically anywhere.”

“True. But these are your tools we’re after. I think a professional should have access to her tools. This thing—whatever it is—is going to require some serious effort. I think you’d be at your best working with tools you’re comfortable with.”

“Detective Chief Inspector Westcox is going to have a man stationed on my door.”

“There was a policeman in the lobby. I’m sure he’s already phoned the inspector.”

“Was there?” Annja hadn’t seen the man.

“Yes. Callow fellow. Gray suit and a bad haircut. He was reading a fishing magazine. That’s what gave him away. Well, I’d already sussed him out, of course, but the magazine confirmed it.”

“How?”

“It had an address label on it. The magazine wasn’t one provided by the hotel, and it wasn’t one bought in the shop, or in any nearby shop.”

“He brought it from home.”

“Exactly.”

Standing there beside the older woman, Annja felt foolish. “I wouldn’t even have thought of looking for something like that.”

“But now you’ll never forget it.” Fiona reached over and took Annja’s hand. “Don’t waste time chastising yourself. We all have our specialties. This one happens to fall within my bailiwick. I don’t know as much about archaeology and antiquities as you do. And I definitely cannot pull a sword out of thin air even if my life depended on it.”

Edmund stood there and looked fondly back toward the front door.

Fiona held the door and waited for him. She lifted her eyebrows quizzically. “Are you coming? If you don’t, there’s a good chance you’ll never see Anton Dutilleaux’s magic lantern again. Or learn why so many people seem to prize it.”

With a piteous snarl of self-loathing, Edmund stepped into the elevator. He wrapped his arms around himself. “I’m going to regret this.”

Fiona smiled. “Only if you live long enough.”

The elevator doors closed with finality and they started to rise.

“Normally, I’m braver than this.” Edmund pursed his lips. “Then again, normally I don’t have to face gun-toting criminals who tie me to chairs and hit me. Seriously, that’s something that doesn’t happen every day.” He paused. “If it did, I’m convinced I’d find another line of work.”

“We’ll see.” Fiona took out her small pistol and checked it. Satisfied, she put it away. “You might be surprised how quickly you become accustomed to such a lifestyle.”

That was true. Occasionally, when she thought about her own life, Annja marveled, as well. But the action was addictive.

Edmund shook his head. “Absolutely brill.”

* * *

WHEN THE ELEVATOR STOPPED without fanfare at the correct floor, Annja stepped out first. After she turned the corner to the hallway leading down to her room, she saw the big man standing beside a chair in front of her door. He surely hadn’t been standing long.

“Ms. Creed?” The man faced her with his hands at his sides, his jacket unbuttoned, and the blue-and-yellow bulk of the X26 Taser nestled in a hip holster. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yes?”

“I’m Constable Stanbrook.”

“Is there something I can do for you, Constable?”

The smile stayed in place. “Detective Chief Inspector Westcox would like a word with you.”

“I’m not interested in talking to the inspector.”

The constable’s smile disappeared. “I’m afraid the inspector has insisted.”

Fiona stepped in beside Annja. “On whose authority?”

Stanbrook looked momentarily flummoxed. “On his own authority, of course.”

“Balderdash. What you’re doing here is illegal.”

“Back off before you get hurt, gran. I’ll be deciding what’s legal here and what’s not.”

Fiona kicked the constable in the shins.

Yelping, the man stepped away and bumped into the wall behind him. When he bounced off the wall, Fiona grabbed his jacket lapels in one hand, stuck out a foot and tripped him with an economy of motion. Stanbrook fell heavily to the carpeted floor. He reached for the Taser. Fiona was on him in a flash, controlling the man’s arm as he came up with the weapon. She helped him fire the Taser and both dartlike electrodes lanced into his crotch. He cried out in pain, then shivered as the current hit him and he finally relaxed into unconsciousness.

Fiona stood and ran a hand through her platinum hair. “Gran, my arse.” She nodded at the door. “Let’s go in, shall we?”

Still stunned at how quickly events had escalated, Annja fished her room key card from her pocket and slotted it. She was surprised when the lights turned green and the locking mechanism worked. She opened the door and went inside.

18

Laframboise sat in a small bar just off the Thames. On the television above the bartender’s head, police boats rocked on the river current as they tried to contain the Isle of Dogs crime scene. Several uniformed officers stretched yellow warning tape around the area. Other constables put up sawhorses to block vehicle access.

The news reporter covering the story talked excitedly, but the conversation buzzing around the bar was too loud for Laframboise to make out what she was saying.

“Another drink, sir?” A thin server with black skin and close-cropped blond hair and electric-blue highlights stopped beside his table.

“Please.” Laframboise tapped his wineglass.

The waitress took it and scurried back to the bar.

Laframboise swiveled his attention to Gilbert Campra, his majordomo. “Those were Puyi-Jin’s people?”

Campra was a large man, over six feet tall and steroid-enhanced. He shaved his head but grew a thick goatee that was artificially colored black. Silver hoop earrings glittered in his ears. He wore loose-fitting gym pants, a T-shirt and a lightweight jacket that covered the pistols he carried. Red-lensed wraparound sunglasses masked his eyes.

“Yes.” Campra wore an earpiece that kept him in contact with the rest of the security team.

“How many are still on our tail?”

“Three.”

“That we’ve found.”

Campra nodded. His team was good at surveillance, but Puyi-Jin’s people were good at not being surveilled.

The two women at the ambush had been a surprise.

The server brought back another glass of red wine. Laframboise paid her, tipped generously and swirled the glass by its stem. The wine had a good nose. He sipped. It was far from the best he’d ever had, still, it was good.

“Do we know who the woman was with Annja Creed?”

Campra shook his head. “Not yet.”

If the woman had shown up in Paris, Laframboise would have known who she was within minutes. “Where are the rest of Puyi-Jin’s men?”

“Nearby.” Campra frowned. “They appear to be closing ranks.” The big man had spent time in the military before turning mercenary. The other men who worked with Laframboise didn’t hang out with Campra. To them, he was dangerous and unpredictable. Campra would rather kill someone than worry about them.

Laframboise found that Campra’s most endearing quality. Laframboise didn’t believe in leaving witnesses alive behind him, either. He hated that Annja Creed had gotten away with Professor Edmund Beswick.

“They’re closing ranks?”

Campra nodded again and sipped his water. He never touched alcohol. “Evidently they’re satisfied that they know where you’re going.”

Laframboise fully intended to return to Paris. That was where he felt the safest, and that was where Anton Dutilleaux had lost the lantern—along with his life.

“Then what do you think they’re going to do?”

Campra shrugged. “Kill you.”

He grinned at that. People had tried to kill him before. He carried scars and two bullets from those encounters.

“Are you certain the professor didn’t know anything more about your little party favor?” Campra glanced at the shopping bag in the seat next to Laframboise. Inside, a specially constructed protective box held the magic lantern.

“He’s not the kind to hide the truth when he’s being physically punished. Everything he knew, he told us.”

Campra ran a hand through his goatee. “Something you have to ask yourself.”

“What?”

“Is the lantern worth going up against Puyi-Jin?”

Laframboise smiled at the other man. “Are you afraid of the Chinaman?”

A grin twitched Campra’s lips but failed to light his eyes. “Afraid, no. Wary, yeah. The guy is dangerous.”

“So are we.”

Campra nodded. “I still can’t help thinking you’re making a very powerful enemy for no reason. Puyi-Jin hasn’t been able to figure out the lantern, and that professor doesn’t have a clue, maybe you should cut it loose.”

Campra’s opinion was valued in his organization and he was offered the opportunity to propose courses of action. “Do you think I could buy Puyi-Jin’s forgiveness for betraying him with that act?”

The red lenses remained focused on Laframboise. “No.” Campra sipped his water again. “Not forgiveness, but he’s losing money and men on this, too. Several of his people have been arrested, chasing Annja Creed. He’s lost some good men.”

“I don’t want to give the lantern to him.”

Campra didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t get where I am by letting people push me around, my friend.”

“I know that.”

“And I’m curious.” Laframboise upended his wineglass and drained the dregs. “I hate being curious. Especially if there’s money involved. The professor mentioned that Dutilleaux was around Shanghai when money was flowing. You and I both know that a smart man, one willing to take risks, can divert some of that free-flowing money into his own pockets.” He tapped the shopping bag with his hand. “I have a feeling about this—a very
strong
feeling—that there’s something to the story of Anton Dutilleaux’s lantern.” He smiled. “Annja Creed being involved is most interesting. Have you seen her show?
Chasing History’s Monsters?
”

“Not much of a TV watcher.”

“Pity.”

“You’re a fan?”

“Of Annja Creed?” He shook his head. “No. I am, however, a fan of Kristie Chatham, the cohost of the show. Loses her clothing in all manner of delightful ways during most episodes.”

Campra shook his head. “You through with that wine?”

“I am.” He set the empty glass on the small table.

“Then we should be going. The car is here.”

“Of course.” Laframboise picked up the shopping bag and followed Campra through the crowd.

Research he’d done into the lantern had included scouring old photographs of Dutilleaux standing in front of wild phantasms in the catacombs. Laframboise had gone down into the catacombs to the exact spot where the phantasmagorist had been stabbed to death.

Laframboise liked to believe he was psychic. His mother had told fortunes when he’d been a boy. He remembered watching her spread the large tarot cards on a black felt cloth.

From the moment he’d put his hands on the magic lantern Puyi-Jin had offered to pay him so handsomely for, he’d felt certain the device would change his life forever. His mother’s gift was real enough and he’d inherited it. He was convinced of that.

* * *

OUTSIDE ON THE DOCKS, THEY headed for the rendezvous point. Despite the mad rush from the warehouse, everything else had gone according to plan.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the three Chinese men trailing him. The men were dressed in street clothes, but the loose shirts and light jackets easily concealed whatever weapons they carried.