Magic Lantern (Rogue Angel) (21 page)

Fiona glanced at Annja. “Sounds as though you might need a barrister. I know a good one.”

Annja checked her own anger with difficulty. Nothing that had happened to her had been her fault. She was just experiencing an incredibly bad run of luck. “If it goes that far, sure. I’m also convinced that the media company I work for wouldn’t like the idea of getting pushed around, either.” She wasn’t certain of that, but Doug Morrell and the production staff had interceded on Kristie Chatham’s behalf a number of times.

Westcox fixed Fiona with his stare. “You cannot just circumvent the law.”

Fiona stared up at him. “Until Ms. Creed releases this room, it’s still hers and she has a right to expect privacy.”

For a moment, Annja didn’t know which way the situation would go. Then Westcox stepped back from the doorway.

Fiona took the lead out of the room. Annja followed and Edmund fell into step behind her.

“Be careful, Professor.” Westcox’s voice was chipped ice. “I get the distinct feeling that you’re a lamb among lionesses.”

“Flatterer,” Fiona muttered without turning around.

* * *

ANNJA AND EDMUND FOLLOWED Fiona to a long limousine waiting outside the hotel. The chauffeur opened the rear door for them. Two other men, both dressed in dark suits, stood around the luxury car.

“I thought it would be better if we improved security.” Fiona slid across the seat and patted the one next to her.

One of the security men relieved Annja of her backpack and duffel bag. Before he spirited them off to the trunk compartment, Annja slipped her notebook computer out of the backpack.

Edmund sat on the seat across from them. Annja indicated the notebook computer. “Do you mind? I’ve been out of touch.”

“Of course not. We need information.”

Annja booted it up.

Fiona took out a small notepad and pen. “Now, Professor Beswick, it seems we have time for a little chat.”

Edmund nodded. “Definitely.” He grimaced. “Sorry about that back in the hotel. I was trying to help.”

“Of course you were.” Fiona held her pen poised over her pad. “You said a man named Laframboise kidnapped you.”

Annja lost touch with their conversation as she immersed herself in the thread she’d created on alt.history. Anton Dutilleaux’s magic lantern had sparked more interest than she’d anticipated. She started reading and taking notes as the limousine wound through the London streets. She was hunting now, and she knew on some level that Fiona Pioche was doing the same thing.

20

In addition to the offices she kept on the bottom floor of the building, Fiona Pioche also reserved the top floor for herself, which she’d remodeled into spacious living quarters. She told Annja that she also maintained an estate in the country, if they had to leave the city, and that it was a proper fort.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Pioche.” Oliver Wemyss held open the door to the foyer of the top suite of rooms. He took jackets and weapons without hesitation, storing them in a secure closet off to one side of the foyer. “Everything went well, I trust.”

“Well enough, Ollie. We’re still alive and several of our opponents are not.”

“Cutting down the odds already. Sounds as though you’ve had a productive day.” Ollie grinned at Annja and lifted an eyebrow. “Does Ms. Pioche surprise?”

“Every minute.”

“One of her more endearing and consistent qualities, rest assured.” Ollie glanced at Edmund. “And you’re the erstwhile Professor Beswick.” He offered his hand. “Oliver Wemyss at your service. I work with Ms. Pioche. Please be at ease.”

“Is that possible around her?”

“On most days, no. But occasionally it does happen. This way, please.” Ollie swept an arm toward the open room on the other side of the foyer.

Annja kept her backpack and duffel with her.

The immense living room was filled with plush cream and tan furniture—easy chairs, two love seats and a huge modern couch. An enormous Persian rug anchored them all. The walls were a rich gold, with deep brown curtains over arched lattice windows. Pink and white lilies filled a gold vase on the large coffee table.

Annja just stood there a moment, taking it in. “Wow.”

Ollie beamed at her, then shifted his attention to Fiona. “Ms. Pioche, I’ve taken the liberty of assigning rooms.”

“Thank you, Ollie.” Fiona went to the wet bar in the corner of the large room and began preparing a drink.

Ollie stood before them like a tour guide and Annja slightly resented his energy. “I thought the three of you would like to freshen up first. I’ll have sandwiches and fresh fruit laid out, or you can have something more substantial if you wish.”

“Sandwiches will be fine. I think we’ll want to talk and finger food will be excellent.” Fiona lifted her glass to Annja and Edmund, but both politely declined.

Edmund glanced down at his clothing self-consciously. “I’m not exactly dressed for lunch.”

“I took the liberty of ordering a suit and other clothing for you,” Ollie said. “You’ll find them in your room.”

“I have other clothes at my flat.”

“I thought it best you stayed away from your flat until we got the lay of the land. Safer all around that way, I think.”

“I suppose. But how did you know what size to get?”

Ollie grinned. “I’m a very good judge of a man’s clothing, Professor. If I’m wrong, I’ll have it attended to.”

Fiona smiled and sipped her drink. “He won’t be wrong.”

“Ms. Creed, I took the same liberties for you.”

Annja lifted a speculative eyebrow. “Good at guessing women’s sizes, as well?”

“Very dangerous territory, that. I followed Ms. Pioche’s direction.” Ollie shook his head. “Americans are also rather too casual for my expertise, I’m afraid. When it comes to style, I don’t speak American.”

Fiona waved a dismissive hand. “Cut Ollie and he’d bleed Brit aristocrat.”

Ollie grinned. “And be smug about it the whole time.”

* * *

THE BEDROOM PROVED TO BE as incredible as the living room, with a view of the Thames from the king-size bed.

Evidently when Fiona Pioche decided to put a guest up, she did so in style.

Boxes of clothing in the correct size sat on the bench at the foot of the bed. Annja went through them in short order, picking out a pair of olive khakis and a fitted black T-shirt, before heading to the bathroom.

She started the bathwater, added one of several floral bath gels and stripped.

No one appreciated a bath the way an archaeologist did. They often spent days and sometimes weeks working on location without the benefit of anything other than makeshift showers at best.

She retrieved her notebook computer and power cord, crawled into the spacious tub and logged on to the internet using the pass code Fiona Pioche had provided.

Dozens of emails had come in since she’d last logged on. Several of those were from Doug, and a glance at her phone confirmed that he’d even started calling her. She put the phone away and filed the emails in the folder she’d set up for Doug. Chances were good he’d call again before she got back to him.

She dug into the responses to her posts about Dutilleaux’s lantern. Several of them were without basis and she dismissed those. The ones that looked promising she copied and filed into a folder.

As she soaked, she reviewed the more promising posts from alt.archaeology.esoterica.

Hey, Lantern Girl,

Your mysterious lantern looks cool. I’m an American college student in France and have been doing a doctoral thesis on popular illusionists, primarily Étienne Robertson (I’m sure you know who he was, but if not, hit me up for the 411). I came across some flyers from Anton Dutilleaux’s shows as part of my research.

Dutilleaux was amazing for the time. A lot of people were convinced he was doing actual black magic. Getting killed like that kind of sealed the deal.

Anyway, I also found out that Dutilleaux’s lantern was on Adolph Hitler’s short list of things to acquire during World War II.

Is that news to you?

The message was from [email protected]. And the information was news, although Annja wasn’t convinced how important it was.

She knew about Hitler’s efforts to track down supernatural artifacts, including the Spear of Destiny that had been used by a Roman soldier to kill Jesus Christ. Originally, Hitler had intended to gather items that belonged to Aryan history, but the stories had grown during the war, and after the war the stories had exploded into cryptohistory, providing so many tales that finding out the truth was almost impossible.

Eyes on the Prize had also appended photocopied pages of resource material. Annja flicked through both pages. Basically the mention was more or less a footnote, a tale that had spread from a Paris museum worker who’d cooperated with the Nazis.

The information wasn’t what Annja was looking for, but it let her know that more people than Edmund Beswick, the mysterious French gangster and the Chinese crime lord had been interested in Dutilleaux’s lantern.

She flipped through the next two entries. One of them insisted that Dutilleaux’s magic lantern actually held a trapped demon who had eventually gotten out and killed him. The other presented an unsupported case that the lantern was mystical in origin and would give three wishes to its owner.

The three wishes smacked too much of genies, or
djinn,
which were from the Arabic culture. Neither Dutilleaux nor the lantern had been there as far as she knew.

However, [email protected] had another tidbit.

Hola, Lantern Girl,

Interesting subject you have there. I’ve been writing an article on illusionists—prompted by my love of the very sexy Hugh Jackman in
The Prestige.
But I digress. *Sigh*

I did a lot of research on Anton Dutilleaux but eventually dropped him—they cut my word limit! Don’t you hate when that happens? Anyway, I found a diary entry in a journal written by one of Étienne Robertson’s understudies that had been put online. It said Dutilleaux got the lantern in Shanghai, China.

From what I’ve been able to piece together, Dutilleaux was an assistant banker for the French businesses there in Shanghai. But he also worked for the Shanghai bankers as a go-between for emerging international business interests. There was some kind of kafuffle there and Dutilleaux left the city—and China!—in a hurry.

Hope this helps. I’m sending my research as an attachment.

Annja sent a quick thank-you to all those who’d written in to the thread. She opened her mail client and sorted through her email. Doug Morrell had sent another dozen emails since she’d filed his other ones.

She sighed, shut down the notebook computer and put it on the floor beside the tub. Then she held her breath and slid beneath the warm water for a thorough soak.

21

The phone rang just after Annja had finished drying her hair and putting on makeup. Caller ID told her it was Doug Morrell. He’d called four times while she’d been in the bath. Knowing she couldn’t really put the call off any longer, she answered.

“You’re alive!” Doug sounded more irritated than relieved.

“I am.” Annja checked her hair in the antique full-length mirror in one corner of the room. She was having a surprisingly good hair day in spite of everything she’d been through.

“The bit about you being alive? That was sarcasm.”

“Noted.”

“See, I knew you were alive.”

“Why the sarcasm?”

“Because I’ve been calling for hours.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Working on the Mr. Hyde story?”

“Not exactly.”

Doug groaned. His chair springs squeaked and Annja pictured him leaning back in his chair in his stuffed office. He kept a lot of vampire paraphernalia there, including an old original Revell Dracula model kit Annja had found on eBay.

Annja sat on the bed and pulled her computer over to her. “How did you find out I was alive?”

“Legal contacted me. They told me you’re going to be listed as an undesirable in London. If you are, we don’t get the Mr. Hyde story.”

“That may not be a story, anyway.”

“Somebody’s killing those women.”

Annja scanned her notes on Anton Dutilleaux and focused on the material concerning his job in the financial sector while in Shanghai. “I think that whoever the actual murderer is will probably turn out to be a regular serial killer—and I’m using
regular
loosely—not some college student who’s discovered Dr. Jekyll’s secret formula.”