Magic Lantern (Rogue Angel) (30 page)

“Negative. You guys are boxed. I’m sorry. I’ll call our friend. Perhaps there’s something he can do. The police are on their way.”

Fiona drew up alongside Annja and they ducked around another turn in the hallway. This one left them facing a wall of glass that looked out over Paris. The view was spectacular. In the distance, Annja could see the Eiffel Tower and perhaps even white crenellations of the Arc de Triomphe sitting in the Place de l’Étoile.

Annja took a breath. You’re trapped. How are you going to get out of this?

Fiona stood at attention beside her. Gunshots rolled and echoed around them. She held the pistol, pointing at the ceiling. “You don’t think they’d be willing to surrender, do you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so, either. But it’s only because they don’t know what they’re up against.”

Annja couldn’t help but laugh. Fiona Pioche was irrepressible.

More staccato gunshots peppered the hallway.

“For the moment, they’re distracted by each other, but they’ll get round to us soon enough.” Fiona brandished her weapon ruefully. “I’m down to my last magazine. And to be frightfully honest, I don’t think either Laframboise or Puyi-Jin’s group intends to let us survive this.”

A flicker of movement on the other side of the window distracted her from the dark thoughts that crowded her mind. When she saw the second snakelike flicker slide across the glass, she recognized what it had to be.

She rushed over to the window, listening to the steady roar of weapons closing in relentlessly on their position. There, outside the window, the suspended scaffold she’d spotted earlier hung a floor below them and to one side, perhaps eight feet away. Two men dragged squeegees across the windows with iPod earbuds in their ears.

Annja turned to Fiona. “How do you feel about heights?”

“We’re on the sixth floor. Jumping is
not
an option.”

“It’s the only option we have.”

Fiona joined her at the window and peered down at the window-washer rig. “Oh, bloody hell. Surely you’re joking.”

“We’re all out of places to run to.” Annja stepped back from the window and drew her pistol. She aimed for the center of the glass and fired.

At first she thought the window was going to hold. Though the surface integrity of the glass had been compromised, with thin cracks that looked like spiderwebs spreading out from the bullet hole, it clung stubbornly to its moorings. The windows had been designed to handle the wind shear and accidental impacts.

Annja set down the lantern case and reached for one of the spare magazines she carried. Just as she slammed it home, the glass sucked out of the window and broke apart, leaving the space relatively empty. The pieces glittered as they sailed across the street, smashed into the building opposite, then rained down over the sidewalk as pedestrians ran for cover.

No one was hurt.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Annja holstered her weapon and picked up the case.

Below, the window washers were definitely aware that something was going on. Both young men looked up at the broken window and spotted Annja. They plucked the earbuds out of their ears and stood waiting. The gunfire was unmistakable, and they hunkered down immediately.

Annja didn’t give them much more time to think. She climbed into the window, barely managed her balance against the sucking pull of the wind and the vertigo as she stared down at the street far below.

She blew out her breath, hefted the lantern case and brought it in close to her body to better manage the balance, then flung herself toward the nearest cable supporting the washing rig.

She clamped her hand around the wire rope and the rigid surface bit into her palm. Maintaining her grip, she wrapped her leg around the rope, as well, and then released her hand and wrapped the rope inside her elbow to protect her fingers. Holding on, able to somewhat control her descent, she slid down until her foot reached the scaffold’s safety rail.

The wind caught her again, but she fought it and dropped onto the scaffold. The men stared at her in shock. Driven by Annja’s landing, the scaffold swung sickeningly.

“Mademoiselle.”

Ignoring them, Annja set the case down and turned to look up at Fiona. The woman stood at the window and gazed down. Gunshots cracked behind her and reverberated over the street. Sirens screamed, growing closer with every passing second.

“Fiona.” Annja wished the scaffold weren’t swinging. She hadn’t considered the effect her jump would have on the platform. “Just get the timing and jump. Wrap your arms and legs around the cable. Don’t try to hold on with your hands.”

Cautiously, swaying with the wind, Fiona climbed into the window frame and gathered herself. Without a word, she leaped toward the scaffold.

Panic froze Annja for just a moment when she realized that something had gone wrong, that Fiona had misjudged the jump. Then the woman wrapped her arms and legs around the wire rope and she slid. She came too fast, though, and her foot hit a glancing blow on the scaffold’s edge and bounced off. Her legs shot past the scaffolding and her grip with her arms was slipping.

Annja grabbed the back of Fiona’s jacket, prayed that it would hold and yanked. Fiona came up a couple inches, giving Annja just enough purchase to catch her under the arms and start hauling.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just hang on.”

The scaffold swayed and banged against the windows, jarring Annja as she pulled and fought against the changing leverage provided by the uncertain fulcrum of the safety railing. Before she could get Fiona onto the scaffold, an Asian gunman thrust his head and shoulders through the window above. He pointed his pistol and fired.

Bullets ricocheted off the scaffold and cracked into the nearby windows. The scaffold’s wild swings and the wind shear hammering the gunman made them a harder target, but it was only a matter of time.

Fiona released her grip on Annja’s arm with her right hand and drew her pistol. She had the weapon up and firing even as Annja set herself and yanked again. Fiona’s bullets slapped into the man’s chest. He struggled to step back or shoot, Annja wasn’t sure which, but the wind caught him and sucked him out the window.

His screams echoed around them as Annja pulled Fiona onto the scaffold and fell onto her haunches.

Fiona rolled and contorted, then got into a crouched position with her pistol braced on the scaffold’s safety railing for support.

Searching the scaffold, Annja spotted the control panel. The directions were simple and in French. But there was another problem. She looked at the men.

“Will the scaffold reach the ground?” Scaffolds were usually mounted on rooftops with parapet clamps and didn’t necessarily reach the ground. They were designed to clean the upper-story windows of buildings.

“Second floor.” One of the men answered in a stunned monotone. “It will go to the second floor. Perhaps a little farther.”

“Thank you.” Down, then. Up would have been more problematic, requiring them to escape from the building all over again. Annja pressed the button and the scaffold started dropping. “Heimdall, are you still with us?”

“Yes, but I thought you were dead when you jumped out of that window.”

“Have the car brought around. There’s an alley—” Annja made sure she hadn’t gotten her sense of direction mixed up during the excitement “—on the west side of the building.”

“Siasia will be there. Don’t worry.”

Annja looked at the two window washers. “Can this go any faster?”

The man who had spoken pointed to the control panel. “The lever.”

Spotting the lever, Annja threw it in the other direction. Immediately, the scaffold dropped almost as fast as an elevator. The dizzy feeling in her stomach was there, but it was constantly interrupted by the scaffold banging against the side of the building as the wind caught them again and again.

Fifty yards away, white Peugeot cars with Police on the sides in red and blue slewed to a stop in front of the building. Pedestrians ringed the dead man on the sidewalk only a few yards away. So far no one was paying particular attention to the window-washing scaffold.

Reaching the end of its tether, the scaffold swung six or seven feet from the ground. The motor hummed for a moment, then shut off automatically.

“I’m sorry.” The window washer wrung his hands apologetically but didn’t get up from his position on his knees. “This is as far as it goes.”

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

He looked at her hopefully. “Will you be going now?”

“Yes.” Annja grabbed the lantern case and clambered over the side of the scaffold, which was still swinging, though less so now that it had come to a stop. Several pedestrians stared at the scaffold as Annja heaved herself over the side and dropped to the sidewalk. Fiona dropped into place beside her.

“Well, that was certainly an adventure.” Fiona tugged the bottom of her jacket into place. “Is it like this for you all the time?”

“More often than not.”

“Does Roux accompany you much?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. I believe the life you lead is perhaps a little too exciting even for his tastes.”

“It’s a little too exciting for mine.”

“Ah, Annja Creed, I don’t think that’s exactly true.” Fiona grinned. “There’s a certain glow about you that I see when we’re under fire. Or jumping from tall buildings.”

Several of the pedestrians called to the nearby policemen. One of the uniformed men came toward them, then saw the dead man lying on the pavement. He clicked his shoulder radio and more policemen came running with their guns drawn.

Annja shoved through the pedestrians and broke into a full run on the outside of the crowd. Fiona followed her. Together, they sprinted for the alley and she hoped the car would be there.

When she arrived, the alley was empty. She came to a stop and looked around. “Heimdall.”

“Patience. He’s almost there.”

Three uniformed policemen had pursued Annja and Fiona, probably only because they had run. Pursuit was an instinct and man was, by nature, a predator.

“You two,” one of the officers, a woman, said, in French. “Hold it there. We want to talk to you.” She repeated her order in English.

Just as she finished, the car that had brought Annja and Fiona roared out on the street and swooped into a tire-eating turn. The police officers drew back as the vehicle bore down on them.

“Stop! Stop the car!”

The driver did stop, but he came to a rocking halt beside Annja and Fiona. In the backseat, Edmund flung the door open, his face tight with anxiety.

“Get in.”

Annja wasted no time sliding in, and was immediately followed by Fiona. The police officer who’d first spoken yelled in protest and gave chase on foot, but none of them fired their weapons.

The driver, Siasia, was a young West African man who wore his multicolored hair in dreadlocks and chewed gum incessantly. Despite the situation, he blew a pink bubble as he wheeled out onto the next street and churned through traffic.

Edmund stared at the case. “You got the lantern.”

Annja nodded. “Now we get to see what secrets it holds.”

31

Two hours later, back in the safe house Georges had provided, Annja had to admit she was stumped. If the lantern had any secrets, and she was certain it had to, then it was stubbornly holding on to them. Her back aching from the prolonged strain—and maybe from leaping out of buildings and wrestling thugs—she sat up straight at the dining table and massaged her back.

The bronze dragon held on to the lens in its mouth, as well as any secrets it had, and seemed to mock her. She knew that was just her imagination and frustration, but she couldn’t keep from personalizing the little monster.

Fiona and Edmund sat across from her. Fiona occupied herself cleaning their weapons. Edmund had watched every move Annja had made but had thankfully kept his questions to a minimum.

“Is there anything at all you can tell us about the lantern?” Edmund looked a little desperate and worse for wear.

“No more than I’ve already told you.” Annja glumly surveyed the object on the dining table. “The lantern is authentic. Handmade. At least three hundred years old.” She shook her head. “Other than that, I can’t find anything.”

“No secret markings? No hidden code?” Edmund’s disappointment colored his words and showed in the slump of his shoulders.

“None that I can find.” Annja gestured at the array of chemicals and powders she’d used on the lantern. “There are no inscriptions, no contact points that could be braille or glyphs.” The Chinese written language was a collection of strokes that fit neatly into a square shape, and those were sometimes referred to as glyphs.