Rogue Angel 49: The Devil's Chord (4 page)

Roux had neglected to mention the babysitting aspect of this job. Annja was none too pleased. She preferred to focus on the task rather than on her partner’s character. Roux had never worked with Roberts before? Great. Nothing like going into something blind.

A large crest of water splashed the starboard side and up popped a diver. He tossed a hard-shell handheld lamp onto the boat and then gripped the aluminum stairs and climbed up over the side. After he peeled the tight diver’s cap off his head, the man’s dark blond hair spiked this way and that. He looked young. Annja’s age. Too young to hold tenure and to have been through such nefarious experiences as listed in the dossier.

He took in Annja from head to toe, noted Ian with a frown, winked at Kard, then slapped a wet palm into hers.

“Scout Roberts. Delighted to be at your service, Miss Creed. But not so delighted about that guy. You a cameraman?” he asked Ian.

Ian nodded and stood, but after the cold reception, did not offer a hand to shake.

“He’s with me,” Annja clarified. “I’ll be documenting the dive for possible use as a segment on
Chasing History’s Monsters.
”

“No, you won’t,” Scout confirmed confidently. He slapped a wet palm against his suit, and the spray of water misted Annja’s face. “I know that show. They do monsters. We’re not monster hunting, Creed.”

“No, but we are diving for buried treasure. I’ve occasionally featured lost treasures on the show.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that.” The man hooked a hand at his hip, glaring at Ian for a while. “I wasn’t even expecting you, Creed, until I got the call from Roux last night. A babysitter I can deal with. But no camera crew is getting in our way. The canal is relatively shallow and narrow and we don’t have the space.”

“The camera crew consists of one,” Annja corrected him, “and you don’t get a say in his being here. Roux approved it.” Buying the extra plane ticket was as good an approval as any. “You’ve already completed a dive this morning?”

“Nothing official. Just stuck my head down to get a lay of the land, or canal, if you will.” Scout addressed Ian. “If you get in my way—”

Annja stepped between the men. “He’s a professional and has filmed while diving in Venice before. And you’re out of line. Can we agree to keep things genial, since we must trust one another to have our backs while underwater?”

Scout whistled and turned his back to them. Let him pout about it, she thought. If Mr. Cocky couldn’t handle another diver on this team then Annja would take the lead, if necessary. Until then, she would stand back and let him run this show. For the most part.

“Scout?” she prompted him for a reply.

“Yeah, yeah.” He swept a dismissive hand behind him. A poor agreement, but she imagined it killed him to show that much assent.

“So this is the correct area?” she asked, hoping to settle both mens’ ire by changing the subject.

“According to the few details I’ve read about the heist, it should be,” Scout said.

He unzipped the wet suit to reveal defined pecs and abs that again made him appear much younger than Annja had expected. Sitting on the bench before her, he bent to pull off his fins. She couldn’t deny he was a handsome blond, with blue eyes and a sweet dimple that poked into his left cheek with each smile. Judging from his looks and quick wit, she’d bet he had no trouble making friends almost anywhere. But could he be trusted? His response to Ian being there didn’t bode well, or maybe she was being too paranoid.

Still, a hotshot? She could deal with that. Might prove more interesting than some of the shy academics she’d spent weeks with on a dig.

“And what are the few details?” she asked. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage. After Roux contacted me, I immediately hopped on a plane to Venice.”

“You at the man’s beck and call?” Scout cast her a curious glance. “Thought you were more independent. I’ve heard of you. Recognized you the minute I surfaced. Annja Creed, the host of her own TV show. A world-famous archaeologist. Author—”

“Roux’s a friend,” Annja interrupted. “Most of the time. And we both share an interest in Joan of Arc artifacts and history.”

“So do I.” Scout stood and gestured to Kard, who tossed him a bottle of beer that he’d taken from a mini-fridge. “More so on the da Vinci stuff, but I like a good saintly knickknack any day.”

“Whatever will earn you a few bucks, eh?”

“Creed, please. You calling me a treasure hunter?”

“I’ll reserve judgment. But what’s in it for you? What is Roux paying you for this job?”

“I don’t share salary information, sweetie. Would you?”

Salary? From Roux? That was a joke. She’d be lucky if he didn’t stiff her with the hotel bill. She might have to call Doug yet. “Sorry, that was crass.”

“If it matters, I approached Roux. I overheard him discussing Joan’s history at an auction, and having been studying this theft-gone-wrong for a few months and yet not put together the budget to recover the lost relics, I sought Roux out. Wanted to see if he’d like to invest in something that would net a valuable artifact for him.”

“So you’re just going on the dive for the thrill?”

“And the fame, of course. Maybe a spot on your show?” he added.

“As you pointed out, we only feature monsters. You fall into that category, Roberts?”

“Me? No way. I’m as harmless as they come.” He gave her a wide, warm smile and took a long drink of his beer.

“Again, I’ll reserve judgment.”

Yeah, the man would be able to work fame like a pro, she guessed. But with his background? If he were seeking fame, that didn’t jibe with the dossier that marked him a pariah among his fellow archaeologists.

“Why don’t you two suit up?” Scout said. “Then I’ll show you the maps.”

Chapter 4

Scout hadn’t expected that someone would be scrutinizing his every move while he recovered the case. But he could live with it. Actually, he could use the backup when diving. And the backup was gorgeous. That would make the day go a little faster.

But the cameraman?

Scout shot a look toward Ian Tate, who pulled on a wet suit as he chatted with Kard about the tidal flows in and out of the canal. Scout had found Kard and hired him late last evening. The boat wasn’t the greatest, biggest or best, but it was cheap and would ferry them around the canal safely, and Kard seemed reasonably able, even with a few beers down his gullet. While he wasn’t footing the bill, Scout did like to keep expenses to a minimum. Fat bills attracted questions.

With luck, this operation should prove an in-and-out foray. Even with the close proximity to the sea, Scout didn’t suspect the tides could have moved the lost treasure that far. Or he hoped they had not.

Too bad the tides weren’t so rough they could wash a cameraman out to sea.

“You want a beer?” he asked Ian.

The cameraman shook his head. “You crazy, man? We’re getting ready to dive.”

Scout shrugged. It had been worth a try.

* * *

S
O
R
OBERTS
WAS
the one who had gone to Roux with the information about the Lorraine cross. Interesting. Roux rarely trusted those not within his circle, so he must have a serious need for this thing. That it had possibly belonged to Joan of Arc and then Leonardo da Vinci made it valuable, but again, Roux had to know if Annja found it she would insist it be returned to the museum that had formerly owned it.

Dialing Roux’s number, Annja tugged up the zipper at the back of the wet suit using the long cord. She padded about in the small room belowdecks. Roux didn’t answer.

“You ready, Creed?” Scout called down from above.

“Always.”

On deck, Scout had laid out a laminated map on the bench beside the steering wheel. Kard sat back, visor cap pulled down to shade his eyes from the afternoon sun and a beer bottle in hand nestled against his stomach. Ian had suited up and looked over Annja’s shoulder as Scout explained what he’d learned about the heist.

“So the thieves, who were also lovers,” Scout said as he straightened the map, “snagged the stuff from the museum in Poland. They had intended to vacation in Venice, the City of Love.” He gave that label a dramatic tone.

Annja stepped forward, drawn into the man’s tale. And yet... “How do you know the thieves were lovers? A man and a woman?”

“It was in the police report. They were arrested, Creed. You should do your homework.”

She usually did. The police report should have been included in the dossier. She’d have to look into it as soon as she got a few minutes to fire up the laptop.

“But the man mistook the woman’s intentions—he thought she wanted a break from their relationship as much as he—and his partner revolted against him. An argument ensued as they were taking a gondola ride down the Fondamenta della Sensa, very near here.”

Scout circled the map where the boat was currently docked.

“As an act of spite, the woman tossed the attaché over the side of the gondola and took off. The man searched for it at the time, but it was hopeless that late at night. The case had been lost. Unbeknownst to both, the gondolier, a part-time fireman who spoke English well, called in the matter to his policeman friends. The couple, while escaping the city separately, were arrested, one at the Milan airport. The other managed to make it all the way to New York City, where a police escort waited for him.”

“Don’t tell me the gondolier didn’t try to find the dropped attaché?” Annja asked. “It should be fairly obvious that what was dropped would stay in the area.”

“The tides are pretty strong here. Only one more canal paralleling us, and we’re northernmost in the city.”

“Yes, but the moon is waning. We should be safe from high tides while we’re here,” Annja noted. “Whatever happened to the gondolier?”

Scout shrugged. “Still working the canals? The police reports reveal he had an idea that the couple was arguing about something that had been stolen. He wasn’t aware of what had happened with the case, until the man asked him to cruise back down the canal in search of it. So it’s been established he did not witness the drop into the canal, either. As well, he had no clue what was in the case. And the police did not divulge that information to him.”

Annja gazed out over the water. The scent was not unpleasant, though tendrils of rotting wood and sea flora lingered in the air. This canal was quiet, the sidewalk on one side wide and inviting for tourists; the opposite side featured only a small ledge, perhaps two feet wide but in some spots it narrowed to a foot, the docking worn from years of water running over it.

“Like you said, the canal is not that deep,” Annja said. “And despite the tides, if anyone wanted to find something that had been dropped half a year ago, I suspect it wouldn’t take long. And you just went down.”

“Yes, but only to test the equipment. The waters are dark. This headlamp only beams about two, three feet before me. It’ll take some time to scour the area. Come on, Creed, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Oh, I’ve got it in spades. You have a permit to dive here?”

She scanned the stone-fronted buildings, marking most as private residences. Here and there were canal garages, which she expected would provide an excellent nook for a lost suitcase surfing the tidal rhythms to wedge into. She briefly wondered if a resident had already come upon the case while using their private dock. A few were under construction and, she guessed, unoccupied at the moment.

“I did get permission to dive, Creed. And the authorities know exactly what it is I’m diving for. It’s all aboveboard, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s what they all say. And then they disappear.”

“Do I detect a bruised ego? Perhaps a tragic romance in your past for such a reaction?”

“Please. I don’t know you, Roberts, so I won’t be sharing.”

“What do I have to do to earn your trust, sweetie?”

“For starters? Stop calling me
sweetie.
”

“But I thought you were here to keep an eye on me.”

Grabbing the closest headlamp, she said, “Let’s go have a look around.”

* * *

T
HE
V
ENETIAN
CANAL
swirled with sediment, murky at the lightest spots. The headlamps allowed Annja and Scout to see about four feet in front of them at the most, and less than two feet the majority of the time. The canal was a few meters deep, and the bottom was littered with timbers, stones and building materials that had been abandoned through the centuries of construction, remodeling and growth. Iron rebar was the most dangerous obstacle, and Annja brushed her hands over the rusted metal often.

Annja loved to scuba dive and had done so all over the world, from the indigo waters of Phuket in Thailand to the volcanic outcrops in Bali. She preferred the bright coral reefs of the Red Sea in Egypt, but the dark and manta ray–infested waters of Belize had fascinated her equally. There was something about the mystery of what lay immediately before her that kicked up her adrenaline and beckoned her forward to discovery.

Ian’s dive light, specially designed for underwater filming, cut a deeper and wider swath through the dimness. He intended to film some initial shots of the canal, then wait for her cue to continue filming. It wasn’t necessary to film the entire dive, and she wanted to reduce later editing.

This area of the canal hugged the buildings and Annja noted the crumbled cement chunks and lots of garbage, including tin cans and broken wood oars.

Venice’s buildings sat upon oak and pine pilings, most having existed since Renaissance times. Since the wood was embedded in airless, muddy soil, it did not decay or rot. It was the constant wetting, drying and shrinking of wood that caused it to rot and that only occurred in wood above the waterline. Another torment to the abovewater wood was decay from fungi and mold. She imagined upkeep on the pilings alone must tax the city’s budget.

Scout’s headlamp beamed in her face briefly, and she saw his hand gesture. Annja started to follow. Yet Scout swam quickly, and she was compelled to pause and beam her light down a narrow channel to her right. Looked like a passage under a building. Couldn’t be more than a foot wide. No way a diver could risk entering. Flashing the headlamp around, she looked for a glint, as the light would catch on the lost object. Scout had said it was in a silver attaché case, so that should stand out in the murk.

Marking off the channel, she pushed back and started in the direction Scout had pointed.

Annja felt something touch her arm, and she swung her head to the right to acknowledge Ian—but it wasn’t him. In fact, she caught a glimpse of the white glow-in-the-dark ribbon sewn down the diver’s arm. Scout hadn’t such a design on his wet suit. Ian had complained about his suit lacking the racing stripes.

There was another diver down here? What were the odds? Had Kard, manning the boat above, seen someone go down?

Veering to the right, where she had last seen Scout, Annja swam into a fizz of oxygen bubbles. An arm slashed across her headlamp beam. Silt stirred up from the canal floor. As she swam closer, she spotted blood in the water.

A pair of fins hung motionless, then kicked as she neared the person. Gripping Scout’s arm, she turned him to face her. His eyes were wide behind the goggles and he slapped his arm. Out spilled more blood in a red cloud. He’d been injured by the other diver?

She tugged him upward, passing Ian. Signaling to him that they intended to surface, the cameraman nodded.

Surfacing, Annja pulled off her mask and tugged out the breathing apparatus. She did the same for Scout. “What the—”

“Didn’t recognize the guy,” he blurted. “Thought it was the cameraman at first. He got me with a harpoon.” He lifted his arm to reveal the slash through the dive suit. “It’s only minor.”

“Kard!” she hollered.

The boat master nearly tumbled over the side of the boat as he righted from what must have been some serious REM sleep. The clatter of beer cans near his feet shouldn’t have been so easy for Annja to hear from where she treaded water.

“Trouble?” Kard called.

Annja pushed Scout toward the boat. “You’re done for the day. He’s been injured!” she yelled to Kard, who reached down to grasp Scout’s good hand. “Ian, we’re done filming.”

The cameraman had followed them and now handed his equipment up to Kard. After a second try, he managed to grip the ladder to climb into the back of the boat.

Too curious to leave the water just yet, Annja slipped her mask over her eyes and adjusted the fit. “I’ll be right back. I want to see if the person’s still around.”

“You can’t go down there by yourself,” Scout shouted after her. “Not without a weapon!”

Reinserting the breathing apparatus into her mouth, Annja dived. Scout’s last word was distorted by bubbles as she kicked her flippers and headed in the direction where Scout had been injured. It wasn’t wise to return without a weapon, but she did have one that worked in water, on land, in the air and anywhere else she might get in a bind.

Her headlamp swept over the darkness. She assumed if the diver was smart, he or she would have already vacated the area. But if the person was eager and desperate to find the case, then he or she might still be around. Seeking bubbles, she swam slowly through the murk.

Twisting her head side to side, she swam into something solid on her left—that kicked away from her. Jackpot.

Calling the sword from the otherwhere, Annja knew she wouldn’t be able to swing it with any effectiveness, but as she drew it before her and grasped the tip of the blade with her gloved hand, she used it as a deflector.

A flipper kicked near her face. She stabbed the sword toward it, slicing through the heavy rubber. Unsure if she had cut through the shooter’s foot, she kept the blade before her to deflect a return blow. No return contact was made. He swam away from her, swiftly, to judge the trail of bubbles.

She followed him to a concrete wall, where he swam through an open iron gate. Her headlamp beamed on his hand, pulling the gate shut behind him. A padlock and chain secured the gate, so by the time she reached it, she struggled with the lock only momentarily. There was no way in.

She released the sword into the otherwhere. The man who had shot Scout was obviously familiar with the area. He’d probably readied the gate for the quick escape he might need.

She surfaced, her shoulders bobbing in the cool water as she took in her surroundings. The dive boat was anchored twenty yards north. She treaded water on the opposite side of the canal from where she had begun. She waved, signaling to Kard, who waved back. Grasping a heavy iron ring set into the concrete curb once used for docking boats, Annja pulled herself up and heaved her body onto the narrow ledge, twisting to sit with her back against the wall of the building, her flippered feet dangling in the canal.

Looking up and back, she noted the building behind her, where she sat, was under construction. White plastic tarps had been secured over the windows, the tattered ends fluttering in the breeze. The place was abandoned for the time being; no sign of any workers.

The tunnel the shooter had escaped through was just below, so she should have seen him surface within the building. Annja pushed up and pressed her body against the wall. Through a window she could see an empty room littered with plaster buckets, more tarps and several ladders. The tunnel probably led out the other side of this block and into the next canal. She should pursue on foot, but she’d have to take off her flippers and run barefoot. It wasn’t a good idea.

The boat chugged up to the shoreline, and Scout, his wet suit around his hips, waved for her to come aboard.

He’d tied a thin strip of medical gauze around his biceps. Blood stained the tape. Annja guessed it had just been a flesh wound.