Gabriel's Horn (12 page)

“He’s here?” Bart asked.

Maria nodded. “Yes. The last two or three days, maybe. Always looking in the windows.”

“Maybe he was just looking for a handout,” Bart suggested.

Annja couldn’t forget the way the old man had called her name. She didn’t think it was just because he’d recognized her from television. Those rheumy old eyes had madness in them.

“Come back inside,” Maria coaxed. “Your food will be up soon.”

* * * *

After dinner, Bart drove her to her loft. He parked in front of the building and placed his police identification sign on the dashboard as Annja got out. She checked the time and found it was a little after nine.

Bart reached into the car’s trunk and started removing suitcases. He put them on the sidewalk. “We’ll just take out a few, no more than we can carry, and we’ll leave the rest safe in the car.”

“Wait here,” Annja said. “Wally has a cart we can use.”

Inside the building, Annja knocked on Wally’s first-floor apartment. The building superintendent had one of the smaller units in the structure, but he kept it clean and neat. Wally took care of Annja’s mail and her plants while she was gone.

Wally answered the door himself, still clad in his work clothes. Behind him, a baseball game was on television.

“Annja!” he boomed. “It’s good to have you back.”

Annja smiled. “It’s good to be back.”

“I figured you’d call first.”

“I would have. I apologize. I came back early.”

“Nothing to worry about.” Wally waved the apology away. “You need help with anything?”

“I’d like to borrow the cart if I can.”

“Sure, sure.” Wally stepped back into the apartment and returned with a small four-wheeled cart. “You’re not gonna try to carry that stuff in yourself, are you?”

“Bart’s with me.”

Wally grinned. “Good. I like to watch a young man work.” He guided the cart through the door and walked out with Annja.

* * * *

“Can I borrow a sleeping bag?”

Startled, Annja looked up from her computer at Bart. He’d taken off his coat, and his pistol was visible holstered on his hip. “Planning a vacation?”

“No, I’m staying here for the night and you only have the one bed.”

“Did I miss the part where I invited you for a sleepover?” Annja asked.

“There was an implicit invitation when you left dead guys in Prague.”

“I had to leave them. They’d never have cleared customs.”

“You’re making bad jokes,” Bart said. “I know you’re tired.”

Annja actually felt a little guilty about that one. She didn’t take death lightly, but she’d been serious for far too long these past few days. Verbally sparring with Bart was always fun, and his humor ran dark occasionally.

“I’m going to be fine,” she told him.

“With me here, you’ll be finer.”

“You can’t stay here forever.”

“You’re right. I’ve got to throw on the Batman suit and get up early to fight crime in the morning. But for tonight I can be here and not worry about you.”

“You’re not exactly bulletproof yourself,” Annja pointed out.

“Let’s just hope I don’t have to be.” Bart smiled. “Humor me. I’m tired after carrying all that luggage.”

Annja got up and located a plush sleeping bag and gave it to Bart.

“Can you tuck yourself in?” she asked.

“Yeah. Gee, thanks, Mom.” Bart laid out the sleeping bag in the corner. “Will the TV bother you?”

“No.”

“Good. I can catch the rest of the Yankees game and compare notes with Wally in the morning.”

“You’re going to see Wally?”

“To let him know to keep an eye out for you, and to make sure he still has my cell number.” Bart picked up a small bag from the floor.

Annja didn’t recognize the bag. “That’s not mine.”

“It’s mine. Shaving kit. Change of clothes. Clean underwear.”

“Always prepared.”

“My mom trained me well.” Bart took out his toiletry bag, a pair of gray sweat shorts and a T-shirt, then headed to the bathroom. “I take it you’re going to be up for a while.”

“I slept on the plane. And I’ve got some research I want to do.” Annja turned and put her face back into the computer.

While waiting for her flight out of Prague, Annja had logged on to the archaeology sites she often used for research. She’d sent out queries regarding Nephilim and paintings of them.

She weeded through the discussions, finding most of it centered around horror movies—some good and some bad—and the mythology that Nephilim were the children of fallen angels and human women.

It wasn’t helpful, but it was interesting. There was also conjecture that the Nephilim were a race of giants mentioned in the Bible, and that the Flood had been caused to wipe them and their wicked ways from the earth.

Annja leaned back in her chair and tried to get comfortable. Her mind kept pulling at the mystery. She kept thinking about Garin and Roux and wondering if they were all right.

More angels, in paintings and statuary, were mentioned. She started scanning those entries, and one instantly grabbed her attention.

Don’t know if this helps, but there’s a legend about a painting of a Nephilim that the Medici family was interested in. Cosimo de’ Medici supposedly sent an emissary to retrieve the painting from Constantinople during the siege by Ottoman forces under Mehmed II.

Annja responded.

Would love to talk to you more about this. Can we meet for IM?

The time frame sounded right, and Garin had mentioned the fall of Constantinople.

Annja sent the e-mail and continued to prowl restlessly through the Internet. Bart had gone to sleep on the sleeping bag. He snored gently. The blue glow from the television fell over him.

Annja got a blanket from the closet and spread it over Bart. He was a good friend, and she felt badly that he was sleeping on her floor rather than at home in his own bed. With all the artifacts and books she had crammed into the loft, Annja barely had room to live there herself, much less the luxury of a guest room.

Bart wasn’t like Roux and Garin at all, Annja thought. He wouldn’t ever leave her in the lurch the way those two had so often.

Bereft of energy and still full after the meal at Tito’s, she took a shower and went to bed. She kept hearing the old man’s voice in her dreams.

“Annja Creed. The world is going to end. Soon.”

18

Garin got out of the cab in the Hague and knew he was being watched. He reached up to the earpiece that connected him to the security team he’d placed inside the city.

“I’m being spied on,” he said quietly.

“Yes, sir. We expected that. We’re looking.” The man’s voice was calm and self-assured. Garin wouldn’t have paid for anything less. The problem was that such a man also wouldn’t acknowledge if things got out of control.

Garin didn’t think Saladin would have been able to find him so quickly. Since leaving Prague, Garin had changed identities four times as he traveled ever closer to his destination.

But Saladin wasn’t the only one who might be interested in whatever prize Roux was after.

His phone rang. “Yes.”

“Call off your men,” Roux said. “It’s only us here.”

Garin stopped and looked around. “You see me?”

“And your men, yes.”

“How many men?”

“So far?” Roux sounded bored and impatient. “Five.”

Garin had eight men flanking him. After being surprised in Prague, he’d decided not to take any chances for a time.

Still, Roux spotting five of them was impressive. Of course, he’d known for several lifetimes that the old man was a canny individual.

“Where are you?” Garin asked.

“Where I said I’d be.”

Garin looked up at the second-story window of a building a half block down. A small French restaurant occupied the first floor.

Roux appeared in the window for the briefest instant. He held a phone to his face and quickly stepped back. Even though he’d said no one else was there, the old man obviously wasn’t taking any chances.

“Don’t dawdle,” Roux said.

Garin unleashed a scathing retort, then realized he was speaking to dead air. He looked at the caller-ID screen, thought about calling back and knew it would be a wasted effort.

For a moment, Garin thought about just turning around and leaving. But he couldn’t do that, either. He was certain Roux knew that. The mystery of the Nephilim painting had hung in the back of Garin’s mind for hundreds of years.

Angry, Garin pocketed the phone and headed for the building.

* * * *

An immaculate maître d’ approached Garin. “Would you like a table, sir?”

“He’s with me,” Roux announced. Dressed in slacks, a windbreaker and a golf shirt that made him look like a casual diner, the old man stood near the door. From the way the jacket hung, Garin knew that Roux carried a pistol in a shoulder holster. He led Garin toward the wall farthest from the windows.

“You should have had that jacket tailored,” Garin said in German. That had been the first language they had shared.

Roux spoke in the same language. “That would have been a waste of money.”

“Ever the skinflint, and you’re sitting on more money than you’ll ever spend.”

“No,” Roux said. “It’s just that I don’t see a reason to advertise my affluence to call forth pickpockets and muggers. We’ve got enough problems.” He pointed his chin at a nearby table.

Garin stared at the woman seated there. She wore a light peach blouse that accentuated her dark skin. She was stunningly beautiful.

“You didn’t mention you had company,” Garin said as they approached the table.

“She’s an old friend,” Roux explained. He made the introductions.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Braden,” Jennifer said.

Garin captured one of her hands and kissed it. He bowed slightly in a gentlemanly manner.

“Aren’t you suave,” Jennifer said, chuckling. Clearly she wasn’t impressed with his behavior.

“He’s obviously in one of his elegant moods,” Roux groused. He sat himself on the other side of the table. “There’s no need to be flattered. It merely signifies that he’s measuring you up as a potential romantic fling.”

Jennifer’s dark eyes sparked. “Really? Well, I find that quite interesting, actually. As you know, I happen to like a man who knows what he wants.”

In just those few words, Garin knew that Roux and the woman had been lovers at one time. She casually flirted with him not to catch his eye, but to catch Roux’s. Garin pocketed that little bit of trivia and sat at the table.

“Did you have a safe trip?” Jennifer asked.

“Yes. Thank you.” Garin spread his napkin in his lap.

“We have wine. May I pour you a glass?”

“Please.” Garin sipped the wine when she gave it to him. It was a robust red, but it wasn’t expensive. That told him Roux had ordered the wine. “I’d like to know what’s going on.”

“Jennifer believes she’s found the painting,” Roux said.

“After you’ve been looking for it for all these years?” Garin arched a mocking brow at Roux.

Roux ignored the slight and swirled his wine.

“Luck has as much to do with a find as diligence,” Jennifer said. “Surely Roux taught you that while you were with him.”

Knowing that Roux had told her at least
something
about him put Garin on notice. Roux wasn’t one to let anyone into his business. “So you were luckier than the old man?”

Roux curled a lip in displeasure. “I wondered if you were going to be more hindrance than help. I guess you’ve answered that question.”

“No.” Garin turned fully toward Roux and shifted back to speaking German. “When the chips are down and your back is to the wall, there’s only one person you’ll ever send for. And you know it.” Even as he said that, though, he knew Roux was incapable of admitting it. The old man had never been one to give praise willingly.

Then a realization hit Garin. “This is about Annja, isn’t it? That’s why you didn’t call her instead of me. You’re upset that she went out with me.”

“She didn’t go out with you,” Roux said icily. “You took advantage of her.”

“I,” Garin stated forcefully, “was the perfect gentleman.”

“You forced the situation.”

“The situation, yes, but not her.” Garin leaned back in his chair. No one would ever force Annja Creed to do anything. He’d known that before he’d arranged the evening.

Roux cursed.

“Stop it,” Jennifer said sharply. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on between the two of you, but I do know that there’s been bad blood in the past.”

Idly, Garin wondered what she’d think if she’d known that bad blood had been brewing for hundreds of years.

“The bottom line is that you called—” Jennifer nodded at Roux “—and you came.” She nodded at Garin. “And that the painting of the Nephilim, for whatever reason you want it—” she looked at Roux again “—might be here.”

“Might be?” Garin snorted derisively. “You don’t know?”

“Not yet,” Jennifer said.

“Then I’ve wasted my time.”

“Not yet,” Jennifer repeated.

Roux turned to Garin. “There’s every likelihood that the painting is here. Jennifer has worked with me regarding this matter before.”

“Until he ditched me thirteen years ago,” Jennifer said, staring daggers at Roux.

Despite his own troubled mood, anxiety and confusion about his own motives, Garin had to laugh at the woman’s thinly veiled rancor. “She’s not exactly part of your fan club, is she, old man?”

Roux pointedly ignored Garin and turned his attention instead to the arrival of the food. “I took the liberty of ordering for you.”

Watching carefully, Garin studied the plates as the servers burdened the tables with them. The dishes were all French, which wasn’t Garin’s favorite, but his favorites among that fare were clearly represented. Roux had forgotten nothing.

“That’s fine,” Garin said. “Thank you.” He turned his attention to the food.

One of Roux’s first lessons to him had been to eat when he had food before him. They’d lived like wolves much of the time in those long-ago days. Often they’d never known where their next meal was coming from.

“Where is the painting?” Garin asked.