Rogue Angel: Gabriel's Horn Page 5

  Annja chuckled. She knew how Roux was around women. And she knew how women were around Roux. They seemed drawn to each other.

  “No, I am talking about Garin’s father. The first Garin. Did you ever meet him?”

  Annja looked at Garin and realized that the woman had known Garin in her much younger days. Since Garin didn’t age, he had to disappear from his previous lives after a few decades.

  “No,” Annja said. “I never did.”

  “This one—” Mama pinched Garin’s cheek “—he is so much like his father. Handsome and powerful. This one, he could be a twin brother to his father.”

  Annja nodded. She wondered how much longer Garin—and Roux—would be able to keep up the pretense of being normal humans. Not dying in an age filled with computers and record archiving—including digital images—was going to be harder to cover up than in centuries past.

  Garin gazed down at the woman, and for a moment Annja thought she could see honest emotion in the man’s eyes. She wondered again how anyone could live five hundred years—and in Roux’s case probably more—and have any emotions left.

  “This one, though,” Mama said, “he is not so much like his father. He is more gentle. More respectful.”

  Garin almost looked embarrassed, and Annja couldn’t help but smile at his discomfort. After everything she’d seen Garin do, the almost offhanded way he killed people when they threatened him, she couldn’t imagine him being vulnerable. Venal, criminally so at times, but not vulnerable.

  Mama looked at Annja. “His father, he was much the man.” A dreamy expression showed in her eyes and Annja knew that—just for the moment—the woman was no longer in the restaurant. “He was so much the lover.” She sighed.

  “Please,” Garin protested. “Not before we’ve eaten.”

  Playfully, Mama slapped him on the arm. “You. Sit. You should know to leave an old woman her idle passions. All I have these days are memories. The flower of youth is gone far too quickly.”

  “The flower of youth,” Garin replied, “to the uninitiated, is oftentimes a weed.”

  Mama shook a finger at him. “Your father, he say such a thing to me one time.”

  “Father was fond of chiding me about my lackadaisical approach to my life. Perhaps he said that to a lot of people.”

  Annja knew that Garin had slipped up and had tried to cover his mistake.

  “I liked your father very much,” Mama said, “but he was not husband material, that one. He have an eye for the ladies. Like you. You won’t be any good as a husband unless you find a woman strong enough to claim you as her own. That kind of woman doesn’t come along so very much, you know.” She looked a warning at Annja. “Better you should keep this in mind.”

  “Oh, believe me,” Annja said, “I won’t forget.”

  Garin scowled.

  “The problem is,” Mama said quietly to Annja, “that sometimes a woman, she likes the bad boys. At least for a little while, no?”

  “Yes,” Annja agreed.

  “It is kind of like the sweet tooth. And it give us many problems.” Mama laughed. “Now I go get you plates. You enjoy. I have a special dessert tonight.” She stopped long enough for a final hug from Garin, then yelled at the kitchen crew.

  “Quite a woman,” Annja commented.

  “An amazing woman,” Garin agreed. Wistfulness stained his words. “You should have seen her when she was young. She was incredible. And it wasn’t just the way she looked, though she was stunning. It was her spirit. She almost seemed like she was on fire.”

  It was really weird, Annja thought, to be sitting there discussing an ex-flame with the man she was having dinner with. That had on occasion happened in Annja’s life, but never when forty years had passed.

  “So what happened between you two?” she asked.

  Garin hesitated. “She got older. I didn’t.”

  “You don’t like older women?”

  Garin grinned. “I love older women. A woman in her forties can be a tigress under the right conditions.”

  Annja felt no inclination to ask what those conditions might me.

  “But it’s selfish of me to get so involved with someone.”

  “You are a selfish person,” Annja pointed out.

  “I am. I’ll admit that. I’ll take a few weeks, a few months, perhaps even a year or two of a woman’s life if I’m truly infatuated. But I won’t ask any more than that.”

  “You could marry them.”

  Some of the humor went out of Garin’s face. “I made that mistake. A few times.”

  “Marriage didn’t agree with you?” Annja taunted.

  Despite Garin’s roguish grin, pain glinted in his eyes. “They died, Annja. No matter how fiercely I loved them, they died. They got old and perished and I remained. Alone.” He paused. “Those weren’t experiences I relished. Nor would I ever do something like that again.”

  Annja knew what it felt like to be alone. She picked up her fork and turned her attention to her salad.

  “Tell me about the men who attacked the movie set today,” Garin requested.

  Annja didn’t think Garin was truly interested in what happened earlier, but she couldn’t think of anything else to discuss. Evidently they both realized they were on safer ground with other topics. She gave him the gist of the events. When she got to the matter of the tattoo on the man’s neck, Garin stopped her.

  He touched his own neck. “You said this tattoo was of a sword?” He took a handheld device from his jacket and quickly sketched an image on the screen with the stylus.

  “I have to admit I’m surprised,” Annja said as he sketched. “I figured you more for a pen-and-cocktail-napkin kind of guy.”

  Garin frowned at her. “I love technology. Roux doesn’t care so much for it. But I love it. I own several companies that specialize in software and hardware research and development.” He showed her the screen. The sketch revealed a sword that was heavy bladed and curved. “Was this the sword?”

  “Yes. What do you know about this?” Anxiety and suspicion warred within Annja.

  Garin studied the image. “A scimitar. You said it was green?”

  Annja nodded.

  A low curse escaped Garin’s full lips.

  “Do you know who these men are?” Annja asked.

  “Pawns. If they belong to the man I think they do, they’re very highly trained. You’re lucky to have escaped with your life.”

  “Who are they and why would they be interested in me?”

  “I think I know who they are, but I don’t know why they would be interested in you. Unless they want to get to Roux. They might know about the connection you have to Roux. And to me.”

  “They’re enemies of Roux?”

  “Their master is.” Garin took his cell phone from his pocket. “Excuse me for just a moment.” He punched in a number. The phone was answered almost instantly. “We may have a security problem. Make sure my dinner is uninterrupted.”

  “Who was that?” Annja asked.

  “The security chief of the team watching us.”

  “Do you always travel with a security team?”

  “I do. Except for those times I don’t care to live my life in a fishbowl.” Garin shrugged. “And during those times when it’s better if no one knows what I’m doing.”

  Annja picked at her salad. She wasn’t nervous, not really. But the thought of the man with the scimitar tattoo lurking around outside did give her pause.

  “Who are you afraid of?” Annja asked.

  “I’m not afraid of this man,” Garin growled. “But I’d rather err on the side of caution where he’s concerned.”

  “Should we go?”

  Garin blew out a short breath. “No. I’m not going to be chased from my dinner like some timid little mouse. We’re going to have a fine meal, and we’re going to enjoy it.” He looked at her. “Why? Do you wish to leave?”

  Annja thought about it. She knew she should. But she was stubborn, too. Growing up in the or
phanage had been hard. She’d never liked quietly going away, either.

  “No,” she answered.

  “You don’t care much for playing the mouse, either, do you?” Garin asked.

  “I’m hungry.”

  Garin chuckled.

  “Who do those men work for?” Annja asked.

  “He calls himself Saladin.”

  “Like the Saladin who fought Richard I during the Crusades?”

  “Yes.” Garin looked pained. “But also like Honest Saladin, the camel dealer I met in Cairo when I was tomb hunting with Howard Carter.”

  Annja stared at Garin. Curiosity filled her like a tidal wave. “You were in Egypt with Carter?”

  Garin shook his head. “Focus, Annja. What I’m telling you now may save your life if Saladin truly is after you.”

  “Why would he be after me?”

  “Weren’t you paying attention? Saladin would take you to get to Roux.”

  “What does he have against Roux?”

  “He wants the Nephilim.”

  Annja had to think a moment. “The child of a fallen angel?”

  “A painting of one.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Roux never told me. That old man has been keeping secrets for hundreds of years.”

  Annja’s mind spun with questions.

  “What was the importance of the painting?” Annja asked.

  Garin shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Roux never offered any hints?”

  “Roux,” Garin stated, “never offers hints, and he never slips up. If you think he has, he’s merely setting you up. Trust me on that.”

  9

  “What do you know about the Nephilim?” Annja asked.

  “I never found out much. It was supposed to be a painting that at one time hung in a church in Constantinople. The painting, if it truly ever existed, disappeared when the city fell.”

  “That was 560 years ago,” Annja said.

  “I know.”

  “How do you know those men belong to Saladin?”

  Garin touched his throat. “I know Saladin’s mark. The green scimitar you saw on that man’s neck.”

  Annja thought about that as she pushed her empty plate away. The food had been superb, but she had a lot on her mind.

  “And they want the painting of the Nephilim?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But why?” Annja shook her head in frustration.

  “I don’t know. That, so far, has remained one of Roux’s secrets.”

  Annja took out her phone and glanced at the number she’d stored in memory.

  “What are you doing?” Garin asked.

  “I’m calling Roux.” Annja punched the button and held the phone up to her ear as she listened for the rings.

  “He’s not going to tell you anything.”

  Annja ignored the negative response. The phone rang six times before it was answered in French.

  “Hello,” she said, speaking French.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a man named—” Annja stopped because she had no idea what name Roux was using.

  “Yes?” the man inquired.

  “I’m looking for the owner of this phone,” Annja said.

  “That would be me, of course.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Jean-Paul.” The man’s voice lowered. “You know, you sound very sexy. Perhaps you and I—”

  “Do you know a man named Roux?”

  “No, but if you like men named Roux, you may call me Roux.”

  “He called me from this phone.”

  Jean-Paul laughed. “Then this man Roux has very good taste. This is a very expensive phone. I can afford expensive things. Tell me, do you like the ride in a BMW?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Monte Carlo. I came here to gamble.”

  Okay, Annja thought, at least that made sense. The old man loved playing Texas Hold ‘Em and other games of chance.

  “Have you let anyone borrow your phone?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Annja knew Roux was quite the magician, though. It would have been easy for him to pick someone’s pocket, use the phone and replace it. But why go to all the trouble?

  So you couldn’t call him.

  That realization made her angry. She told Jean-Paul goodbye and hung up despite his protests.

  “I take it the old fox didn’t call on his phone,” Garin said.

  “No.”

  Garin laughed. “He’s worth millions and he stints on a long-distance bill.”

  Annja slipped her phone back into her purse.

  Garin sipped wine. “Why did he call you?”

  “Someone,” Annja said, pinning Garin with her gaze, “told him I was having dinner with you.”

  Garin held up his hands. “It wasn’t me. I know what he would say.”

  “He said it. I don’t suppose you have a phone number where he can be reached?”

  “No. Where is he?”

  “Monte Carlo.”

  Garin stroked his chin. “I know where he might be. You and I could—”

  “No,” Annja said. Dinner had been far too comfortable for her liking. She didn’t want to spend any more time in Garin’s company because doing so was all too easy. “Whatever’s going on, it’s going to have to go on without me.”

  “Where’s that driving curiosity that I’ve noticed is so much a part of you?” Garin taunted her.

  “I’m going to turn it in other directions,” Annja said, but she knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

  Roux and Garin were never forthcoming about information they had that she lacked. Thankfully, there were institutions all around the world that had more knowledge than both of those men combined.

  In fact, when it came to pure history and the science of archaeology, she knew more than they did. Just not on a personal basis.

  A few moments later, Mama served a cherry torte topped with homemade ice cream. For a time Annja forgot about the Nephilim.

  * * * *

  “Did you have a nice time?” Garin asked.

  With the heavy meal sitting in her stomach, topped by the rich dessert, Annja felt sleepy. She stared through the limousine’s tinted windows at the streets.

  “I did,” Annja said.

  “I thought perhaps we might go dancing,” Garin told her. “Unless you’re too tired.”

  Annja considered that. She’d worked late on the movie set each night for the past few days and hadn’t really seen much of the local scene. Several of the movie crew had mentioned the clubs throughout the downtown area.

  Dancing sounded fun, but it sounded almost too attractive.

  Noticing her reticence, Garin said, “I know you have an eclectic taste in music.”

  That was true. Annja liked what she liked, and the gamut ran from jazz to R&B to African tribal songs.

  “I know a great club,” Garin said. “It’s not far from your hotel.”

  Annja wavered. It had been a long time since she’d last been dancing. She wanted to relax and let go. The offer was extremely tempting.

  “I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” she said.

  “So you’ll miss out on some sleep. You’ve done that before.” Garin smiled. “Come on, Annja. A night of revelry and wild abandon. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  It did. It sounded like exactly what Annja needed.

  “I’m going,” Garin said, “whether you go with me or not.”

  Was that intended as a challenge or a threat? Annja wondered.

  “I’m just saying,” Garin continued, “that you’re free to choose. My plans are already set. But I’d love the company and I think you’d have a good time.”

  So he isn’t pressuring you, Annja thought. Before she could make up her mind, two cars roared into motion along the street.

  Garin saw them, too. He yelled a warning to the driver as he pulled out a pistol and his cell phone.

/>   The lead car slammed into the limousine hard enough to knock it from the street and across the sidewalk. The luxury car struck the corner of the building on the other side of a narrow alley, and the sound from the impact echoed inside the vehicle.

  “Get someone up here!” Garin barked in German over the cell phone.

  The seat belts had snapped tight and kept Annja from being thrown from her seat. Liquid fire traced her chest as the straps jerked the breath from her lungs.

  Men boiled from the car that had rammed the front of the limousine. All of them carried assault weapons and pistols. They darted through the glaring headlights as they raced to surround the limousine. Annja saw at least two green-scimitar tattoos.

  “Apparently your friends haven’t given up,” Garin growled.

  “They’re not my friends,” Annja shot back. But she couldn’t imagine why Saladin’s men—if they were Saladin’s men—were so driven to get to her. More than that, though, she didn’t know how she and Garin were going to escape.

  10

  Quiet and composed, contemplative almost, Roux sat at the Texas Hold ‘Em table in one of the casino’s private rooms. He smoked a big cigar and watched the other players.

  Six men and one woman still remained at the table. Only four of them, including Roux, were still in the hand currently being played out. The other three had thrown their hands onto the felt tabletop in disgust and studied their dwindling pile of chips. The game was all about skill and luck and husbanding the resources on the table.

  Roux studied his own stacks of chips. They looked positively anemic.

  The dealer politely called Roux’s name. At least, the man called the name Roux was currently employing. The identity was a conceit that could conceivably backfire on him. He tried his best to live in the world without a paper trail. However, in order to qualify for the Texas Hold ‘Em tournaments and other games he liked to play, he had to provide an identity that had some depth and texture. That was inherently dangerous.

  “In or out, sir?” the dealer asked quietly. He was an older man with a jowly face and short-clipped hair. All night he’d acted as a seasoned veteran with cards.