God of Thunder
Alex Archer

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

Prologue

Courland

Baltic Sea

1104 A.D.

Death slipped into the village with the thick fog that boiled in from the Baltic Sea. It came in on cat’s feet, but took shape as a raiding party. The warriors had been too long at sea and too long without seizing a proper treasure. This morning under the storm gathering over them, they hoped to change their luck.

Skagul, called Ironhand, led the way. He was the chieftain. A large man, well over six feet in height, he was massively muscled from a life spent working hardscrabble earth in his homeland for a harsh existence. His dirty blond beard, rimed with sea salt, hung down to his mid-chest. Tiny figurines carved of wood, stone and ivory hung in his beard and the long hair he wore pulled back in a ponytail.

The reindeer hide he’d added to his tunic to ward off blows and arrows was cracked with age but still supple and serviceable beneath the thick bearskin cloak. A metal helmet covered his head.

He carried a long-handled war ax in his right hand. His left hand was gone, replaced by a cruelly curved iron hook. Sixteen years earlier, he’d lost the hand in a battle with an opposing tribe. His father had been a blacksmith when he hadn’t gone raiding. Together, they’d fitted Skagul with the hook. He was short a hand, but he’d added an incredible weapon to his arsenal.

Senses tingling, Skagul trotted through the ice-cold ankle-deep tidewaters. The longship was nearly flat bottomed and could be sailed or rowed in only inches of water. In his years spent raiding, he’d taken his vessel across oceans, as well as upriver.

His heart beat quickly in his chest, warming him against the touch of early winter and the coming storm. The raiding season was almost over. It they didn’t take a prize soon, there would be little to show for their efforts when they returned home before winter settled.

Ahead of them, the village sat quiet and still, frosted by the light snow that had come during the night. Most of the houses were wooden one-room affairs much like the longhouses in Skagul’s village. Judging by the smoke from a few cook fires curling into the pink-hued sky, only a few people were up.

Goats bleated in small lean-tos behind many of the houses. Roosters crowed to greet the new day. A few dogs lounged in the lean-tos, as well, sharing space and warmth with the goats.

That suited Skagul and met with his expectations. The animals could be a problem, but men just crawling out of bed were often thickheaded and slow to react. He was gambling everything he had on this effort, wanting to go back to his people victoriously.

Victory meant wealth.

Behind them, the incoming tide lapped at the shore and birds cried overhead as they skirled through the sky. The dark clouds sailed the leaden sky with greater speed. The wind had picked up, buffeting the Norsemen as they hunkered down in the brush at the edge of the village.

Holding up his war ax, Skagul glanced over his shoulder.

There, in the rolling fog under the storm clouds, he spotted the dragon prow of his ship. Snarling and savage, the dragon looked fierce and hungry. Heavy red and white sails lay furled on the masts, ready at a moment’s notice. When raised, the mainsail displayed a snake, mouth open and fangs distended.

Skagul’s heart swelled with pride. Her name was Striking Serpent and she had earned her name many times over. She was a twenty-oar ship with sixty-three crewmen. There had been more, but twelve had died fighting the Finns and others had been lost along the way. Since Skagul had been chosen to command the vessel, he’d always been successful.

This, though, had been his hardest year. Only a few weeks earlier, a band of Finns had attacked them at camp and stolen away with all their goods. They’d lost everything they’d spent months stealing.

Skagul would not return home empty-handed with so many mouths to feed. Nor would he see his young crewmen return without bride-price.

“Archers,” Skagul growled.

Twenty warriors peeled away from the group. They nocked arrows to their longbows.

“There.” Skagul waved toward the forested low hills ringing the north side of the village. The land and the trees provided a windbreak against the freezing north winds, which was probably why the village had been built there.

The warriors went at once. They were mostly silent, but Skagul heard some of their gear ring and bang as they took up positions along the hills.

No one in the village noticed.

Standing, Skagul hefted his war ax. The storm winds pulled at his beard and hair. He ignored the cold and moved forward. If things went well, the villagers would take one look at them and surrender everything they had.

The dogs started barking, then ran out to challenge the invaders. Their sharp teeth flashed and snapped. The Norsemen growled.

Skagul swung his ax, cleaving the skull of one dog and killing it instantly. Other warriors killed more of them, and they left the furry corpses behind them.

The goats bleated and chickens ran for cover.

Something was wrong. The feeling coiled and twisted through Skagul’s belly like his ship’s namesake. He held up his ax, calling his warriors to a halt.

The Norsemen stopped, forming a ragged line.

No one peered from the windows of the huts or came to the doors.

Skagul pointed at his men. “You three. Check the homes.”

Immediately the warriors ran to the nearest hut. They broke down the door with their axes. The sharp crack of splintering wood cut through the whirling air. One of them went inside and returned almost immediately.

“No one’s inside,” the warrior announced.

“Check them all,” Skagul ordered. As the men went to do so, he strode angrily to the center of the village. He cursed violently, knowing that the spying they’d done the night before hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Norseman!” a voice rang out.

Spinning, lifting his war ax, Skagul peered to the east and spotted a man standing almost hidden among the branches of a tall spruce tree. He wore reindeer hide in much the same fashion as the Norsemen but stood empty-handed. His skin was too light to be one of the Curonians, but Skagul knew they were in Courland. The man’s beard was fiery red.

“I am Skagul,” the Norseman roared.

“I’ve heard of you, Ironhand.”

Skagul waited but the other man didn’t introduce himself. “Who are you?” Skagul demanded to know.

“Your death if it comes to that.”

Fury possessed Skagul. For two weeks the frustration he’d felt at the loss of his cargo to the Finns had festered inside him. To be addressed like this, in front of his warriors, was intolerable.

“Brave words from a man hiding in a tree,” Skagul scoffed.

The stranger smiled, calmly and confidently. “I didn’t have to show myself to you at all. I could have put an arrow through your eye.” He paused. “Go to the well and draw the bucket. We’ve left tribute for you. For all your hard work to take what little other people have struggled to gain.” His tone at the end was mocking.

Skagul walked over to the well. He nodded to one of his warriors. The bucket was quickly drawn. He’d expected a trick, but the bucket was filled to the brim with chunks of amber.

The material was valuable and could be used in trade in the Arab lands, as well as with the Franks, Saxons and Celts. Fishermen along the coasts of the North and Baltic Seas dredged amber from the seafloor. Skagul didn’t know why the amber was only found there, but knew its rarity made it more valuable.

“That bucket contains a fortune,” the man in the tree declared. “You’re not welcome to it, but it’s yours for the taking. Accept it and walk away. That way neither side has to lose a life today.”

Skagul gestured. His warrior poured the contents of the bucket into a bag.

“You have more than this,” Skagul told the man in the tree.

“Not for you to take,” the man replied. “I won’t let you strip these people of everything.”

These people. The word choice hung in Skagul’s brain. “You’re not a Curonian.” The more he looked at the man, the more he thought that the man was a Norseman.

“I’m not,” the man agreed. “I was born not far from where you were, but I’m raising my children here. My home is here.”

Skagul nodded and raised his war ax. “As a fellow countryman, I’ll stand you to a proper funeral, then.”

The man in the tree grinned grimly. “Then I’ll extend you the same offer.”

At Skagul’s gesture, the archers loosed arrows that flew straight and true. The man quickly rounded the bole of the tree, disappearing from sight.

The branches deflected most of the arrows, but some of them pierced branches and the tree trunk. Almost immediately, a volley of arrows erupted from the brush, arcing high, then descending on the warriors gathered at the center of the village.

“Shields!” Skagul shouted, throwing himself to cover next to the well.

The Norsemen reacted quickly, hauling their wooden shields overhead. The Curonian arrows found flesh, as well as the shields, though. Eight of Skagul’s warriors went down under the onslaught.

Standing immediately, Skagul grabbed a shield from the nearest dead man and pulled it into place over his head. “Move, you curs! Take the fight to them!” He led the way, pounding toward the huts, slipping through them as more arrows rained death from the sky. He reached the tree line.

The Norsemen ran at his sides as they had always done, axes, hammers and swords raised. They screamed and growled like a wolf pack.

Skagul ran for the tree, not expecting to find the man there, but hoping to catch some sight of him before he was able to escape. Carrying the shield through the heavy brush slowed him only a little.

They climbed a hill, mostly out of sight of the opposing archers, and surged through the forest. Skagul glimpsed the red-bearded man running swiftly through the forest on the other side of a narrow clearing.

“I see him!” one of the Norsemen yelled. “There!”

Skagul surged in pursuit, no longer in the lead because some of the younger men were faster these days. But all of them knew not to range too far ahead so they could be cut into smaller groups.

“Form a line!” Skagul bellowed. “Stay together!”

On the other side of the clearing, the red-bearded man turned and drew a short-hafted war hammer from his back. He stood his ground, glowering at the approaching Norsemen.

A few of Skagul’s archers loosed shafts that bit into the dirt at the man’s boots, tangled in his fur cloak and hit the trees around him. One of the arrows pierced his thigh. Without looking down, the man snapped off the end of the arrow and pulled the other half through his leg. He kept his eyes on the Norsemen.

“Strike now!” the man shouted, raising the hammer above him.

The storm’s fury suddenly increased. Wind whipped through the trees, clacking naked branches against each other and raising gusts of whirling snow. Lightning blazed through the sky and reached down for the hammer in the red-bearded man’s hands.

Yellow flashed on the hammer, revealing that it had been inlaid with amber on the sides of the head and the haft. It looked as if the weapon had been forged of lightning.

The detonation of thunder came immediately on the heels of the lightning strike. A blast of heated air washed over Skagul. When he opened his eyes again, he saw a tree near the red-bearded man topple sideways, trailing smoke.

All the stories about Thor, the Norse god of thunder, who controlled storms and lightning, rushed through Skagul’s mind. He knew the gods sometimes journeyed from Asgard, where they lived, across the Rainbow Bridge to Midgard, which was what they called the human world.

This is no god, Skagul told himself, and told himself to believe it. A god would never have retreated or relied on ambushes. For Skagul saw that was what they had run into as shadows shifted in the forest on both sides of the red-bearded man. Man, he told himself again, not god.

Skagul’s reactions, honed in dozens of deadly encounters, pulled him up sharply. He opened his mouth to shout a warning. Before he could say anything, a withering hail of arrows from the Curonians drove him to cover.

This time Skagul saw the defenders hiding among the trees and brush. They rose only long enough to fire their bows and drop back behind cover.

Two of the Norsemen went down with arrows piercing them. But the others never broke stride, knowing from past experience that within a short distance they would be too close for the archers to fire again. As they raced across the clearing, the ground gave way beneath their feet. In disbelief, Skagul watched his men disappear as if the earth had opened up and swallowed them whole. Lightning flashed again and freezing rain poured from the sky. Less than twenty of the Norsemen pulled back from the edges of the pit that had been covered with branches and dead grass so that it blended with the landscape.

The trap hadn’t been prepared overnight after someone had seen the Norse ship out on the sea. The Curonians had been prepared for an invasion for some time. Skagul thought about the red-bearded man’s statement, that he was raising sons who were Curonians.

It was Redbeard, Skagul thought. He was the one who prepared the Curonians for battle.

A Norse warrior clambered up from the pit. With the rain falling, the earth had turned to greasy black mud. The man was stained with mud and blood. Three thin stakes pierced his body, letting Skagul know the bottom of the pit had been lined with them.

A single arrow flew across the distance and struck the Norseman in the face. The warrior stumbled and went down to his knees. The arrow protruded from one of his eyes through the opening in his helm. He reached for the arrow jutting from his face, then he simply rolled over and vanished once more into the pit.

Curonians charged from the trees. Their bowmen fired arrows over their heads that struck three of the surviving Norsemen.

“Back to the ship!” Skagul yelled. “Back to the ship!”

As undermanned as they were, he didn’t know if they would be successful in getting away. He ran, struggling through the brush.

Redbeard and the Curonians pursued, but they were temporarily slowed by the pit they’d built for defense. Occasional arrows slipped through the forest.

Skagul never slowed, but he heard the thump of heavy footsteps closing on him and knew who it was. Lightning flashed overhead and thunder pealed. Throwing a foot out in the slippery sand of the beach, Skagul slid forward and managed to twist his body at the same time. He brought the war ax around in a flat arc aimed at Redbeard’s midsection.

The amber hammer blocked the ax. Metal clanged as thunder pealed again.

Surprised and more wary, Skagul stepped back and raised his ax in a defensive stance. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Curonian bowmen put shafts into the backs of his men who’d made it to the sea. The Norsemen fell. The survivors of the first wave turned and charged the Curonians, unwilling to be shot down like dogs or taken prisoner. They were slaughtered one by one.

Several of the Curonians surrounded Skagul. They had arrows nocked back to their ears. At that range they couldn’t miss.

Redbeard held up a hand. Blood stained his wounded leg. He spoke in the Curonian language, obviously keeping them from loosing their shafts. To Skagul he said, “I’ve told them they can’t kill you unless I say so.”

“You’d better kill me,” Skagul replied. He was afraid, but his pride wouldn’t let him admit that. He’d always believed he would die in battle, not like a deer run to the ground by hunters.

Redbeard looked at the dead Norsemen lying on the ground around them. “I would prefer not to if I didn’t have to. We’ve already caused the death of too many of our brethren.”

“We?” Skagul scoffed.

Redbeard’s face darkened. “You chose to be greedy.”

“And those men aren’t your brethren.”

“I’ve not always lived among the Curonians,” Redbeard said.

“Where do you hail from?” Skagul asked. He pushed away the fear and tried not to acknowledge the cold that bit at him with sharp teeth.

“Birka.”

Skagul nodded. Birka was an island in Lake Malar. “I’ve been there. I come from Jorvik.”

Redbeard let out a breath. “I could demand payment from your family for your return.”

The offer was a true one, and Skagul knew then that his unwilling host was a Northman at heart. Mannbaetr reflected a man’s value in his tribe, and it was different for each individual. Even if a man killed another man in a fight, he wasn’t put to death as he would be in some cultures. Instead, the killer had to pay the mannbaetr everyone agreed on.

No one was put to death except for adultery, treason or stealing. But the worst punishment that could be doled out to a tribe member was banishment from the community.

Thinking about that, Skagul thought he had leverage that he could use. “They won’t accept a demand from someone who’s been banished.”

“I wasn’t banished,” Redbeard stated. “In my homeland, I was a jarl.”

The declaration surprised Skagul. What was a jarl, a man close to a king, doing living with the Curonians?

The storm raged overhead. Lightning blazed through the sky and leached the color from the world for a moment. The thunder rolled in over the sound of the waves.

Skagul didn’t want to be ransomed back to his village. He wouldn’t accept anything less than going back as a champion. Taking advantage of the lull, he threw himself at Redbeard.

Redbeard knocked Skagul’s ax from his hand, but Skagul had expected that. He kept rushing forward, planting his shoulder in his opponent’s chest and knocking him back. Before Redbeard could recover, two of the Curonian archers had loosed shafts.

Skagul felt the arrows bite into his flesh at his back and side, but he knew from past experience that neither wound would prove fatal. He carried scars from worse encounters.

Wrapping his hand around Redbeard’s face from behind, Skagul melded his body to that of his opponent. Skagul lifted his hook, reaching around in an effort to tear out Redbeard’s throat.

Redbeard lifted the amber hammer. Skagul thought of Thor’s enchanted hammer. It had been crafted by the black elves on orders from Loki, his half brother. The hammer was the most powerful weapon the Norse gods wielded.

Skagul thought the man was lifting the hammer to bring it into battle. It was going to be too little, too late. Skagul had torn out men’s throats before. Nothing would stop him.

Then Skagul saw a tongue of lightning reach down from the dark sky and touch his hook before he could sink the tip into Redbeard’s throat. Skagul lost his hold and flew backward, paralyzed and in agony. He felt as if he were buried in red-hot coals.

On his back in the wet sand, Skagul tried to rise but couldn’t. When he looked down, he saw that the lightning had blown off both his legs. Blood pumped from the stumps and was washed away immediately by the rushing tide.

Redbeard came to him then. Sorrow showed on the man’s face.

“It didn’t have to be this way,” Redbeard said.

Skagul focused on the amber hammer. As he lay dying, he waited to see if the Valkyries would arrive to take him to Valhalla. After all, he’d died a brave death. But he feared they might not because his death hadn’t been a wise one.

Only a fool would have tried to kill a god.

1

The four men approached Annja Creed like a well-oiled machine. Their actions told her they’d done this before.

She didn’t break stride or change direction, heading toward the Mailboxes & Stuff store that she used to mail and receive packages. In her career as an archaeologist, she often received items for study and sometimes for authentication. A handful of museums and private collectors paid her to do certificates of authenticity on items they were putting on display.

Although everything added up, payment for the certificates wasn’t much. However, the benefits included free access to those museums and private collections, and the goodwill of curators who were valuable sources of information when she was doing research.

The four men moved with determination, without speaking. They were young and athletic, casually dressed and instantly forgettable. She guessed that they had military training.

Everything’s already been planned, Annja thought. Adrenaline spiked within her, elevating her heart rate and her senses. She stayed within the flow of the lunch crowd flooding out of the buildings onto the street. Everyone was hurrying to try to make it back on time.

She knew the four men had been waiting for her, and wondered if they had followed her from her loft. She hadn’t been home in weeks. A dig in Florida had consumed her and given her a brief respite from the dregs of winter that still hovered over New York. She’d quickly dropped off luggage and headed back out.

Layered in dark winter clothing—a thigh-length navy wool coat, sweater over a long-sleeved top, and Levi’s, with a knitted black beanie and wraparound blue-tinted sunglasses, her backpack slung over one shoulder—Annja figured the team had watched her closely to recognize her. But at five feet ten and with chestnut-colored hair that dipped below her shoulders, she forgot she had a tendency to stand out in a crowd.

Nikolai, the manager at the shipping business, had left messages with her answering service to let her know she had a number of packages waiting for pickup.

So why hadn’t they picked her up at the airport? Annja mulled that over and realized that they weren’t law-enforcement personnel. Maybe they hadn’t wanted to draw attention to themselves.

Then why hadn’t they nabbed her at her loft? If they knew about Mailboxes & Stuff, they surely knew where she lived. That thought led to a whole new line of questions.

Although it stunk to the high heavens, the situation made Annja curious, and curiosity had driven her through most of her life.

Annja took her cell phone out of her pocket and punched in numbers.

“Mailboxes & Stuff,” a friendly male voice answered. “This is Nikolai. How may I help you?” His Russian accent was charming, but Annja knew it was fake. Nikolai had been born and raised in Brooklyn.

“It’s Annja.”

“Ah, Annja, it is so good to hear from you.” Nikolai lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “You would not believe what has been going on.”

Annja stopped at the newsstand at the corner across the street from Mailboxes & Stuff. She waited in line as customers ahead of her picked out newspapers, magazines and snacks.

Checking the reflections in the windows of the nearby coffee shop, Annja watched the four men attempt to lose themselves in the crowd of pedestrians. If she hadn’t already made them, she knew she wouldn’t have noticed them.

“So tell me,” Annja invited.

“A man came into the store,” Nikolai said. “He showed me government credentials and claimed that he needed a package that was supposed to be delivered to you.”

The newsstand owner dealt with his clientele quickly. The line shrank faster than Annja wanted.

“What kind of credentials?” Annja asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look. They tried to intimidate me. Something with a photograph and badge.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Agent Smith.” Nikolai cackled. “I thought it was very humorous. I asked him if he’d seen The Matrix. ”

Nikolai was a die-hard science fiction fan. He spoke Klingon and was constantly trying to teach phrases to Annja.

“What did he do?” Annja asked.

“He was not amused. Then he threatened me. So I told him he had to have a court order before I gave any package to him. He didn’t produce a court order,” Nikolai said. “So I called the police.”

“You called the police?”

“Sure. I’m not going to play around with them. You get expensive things here, Annja, but you’re not the only client I have that does.”

“Right. So what did Agent Smith do?”

“What did he do? He left is what he did.”

“Did the police come?”

“An hour or so later, sure. Evidently my call wasn’t very important.”

“Did you file a report?”

“I did. But I kept your name out of it. I just told them that someone using government ID wanted to go through the packages.”

“What did the police say?” Only two people separated Annja from the newsstand vendor.

“Just to let them know if the guy showed up again. They really don’t like people jacking around with official identification and pretending to be police officers.”

“Have you seen him today?” Only one person remained in front of Annja.

“No. Why?”

The last customer moved off after buying copies of Time and Newsweek.

“Hang on a second.” Annja asked for copies of Cosmopolitan, Wired, National Geographic and People. If she ended up in some government agency’s interview room, it would be nice to have reading material while she waited for her attorney to arrive.

“Are you at the newsstand?” Nikolai asked.

Annja paid for the magazines and said thanks. Then she returned to the phone conversation. “Yes.”

Across the street, Nikolai peered through the Mailboxes & Stuff window. He had shoulder-length dark hair, beard stubble, a checked shirt under a sleeveless sweater and deep blue eyes.

“Do you see Agent Smith?” Annja slid the magazines into her backpack, two on either side of her notebook computer to provide extra cushioning. The backpack was built around an impact-resistant core case, but it never hurt to be prepared.

Nikolai scanned the crowd waiting for the light. “Maybe. He’s wearing different clothes today.”

Annja was aware of the four men closing in on her. “Who was the package from?”

“Mario Fellini.”

The name surprised Annja and took her back a few years. When she’d finished school, she’d worked at a dig at Hadrian’s Wall in England. The Romans had built the eighty-mile-long wall to cut the country in half, walling out the Picts.

Mario Fellini had been on the dig after completing a double major in fine arts and archaeology. He was Italian, from a large family in Florence, with four older sisters determined to marry him off.

During her time there, Annja had struck up a close friendship with Mario but it hadn’t gone any further than that.

Annja didn’t know why he would send her something. They hadn’t been in touch in years.

“Annja?” Nikolai said.

“Yes?”

“The light is green.”

Annja became aware of the pedestrians flowing around her, crossing the street. She stepped off the curb and continued across.

“Do you know this Fellini?” Nikolai asked.

“Yes. At least, I did. We haven’t talked in years.” Annja’s pulse quickened.

“Would he send you anything illegal? Like contraband, maybe?”

“If he’s still the same guy I knew, then no, he wouldn’t.”

“This is good,” Nikolai said. “Some of my customers, I’m not so sure. I try to stay away from trouble.”

“I know. I’m sorry you’re caught up in this.”

“You’re more caught up in it than I am. That is Agent Smith behind you and to your right.”

Great, Annja thought. She took a deep breath. “Is the package there at the store?”

“No. With all the interest in it, I thought perhaps I could arrange a more private delivery. I’ve got it put away for safekeeping.”

Annja smiled. “Thank you.”

“Is no problem, Annja. For you, anything. If you hadn’t gotten so famous doing that show, maybe you wouldn’t attract strange people, you know?”

Annja knew Nikolai was referring to Chasing History’s Monsters, the syndicated show she cohosted. During the trip to Florida she’d worked the dig site involving Calusa Indians. Although now extinct, the Calusa had been Glades culture American Indians who had lived on shell mounds.

Doug Morrell, Annja’s producer on Chasing History’s Monsters, had turned up a story of a ghost shark that protected the sunken remnants of Calusa villages. Annja had covered the legend of the ghost shark—which, as it turned out, most of the local people hadn’t even heard of—while she’d been on-site.

As a result of the television show, Annja had ended up being known by a lot of strange people around the world. Sometimes they sent her things.

“You remember the shrunken head the Filipino headhunter sent you?” Nikolai asked.

“Yes.” There was no way Annja was going to forget that. It wasn’t the shrunken head. She’d seen those before. The troublesome part was that it turned out to be evidence in a murder case against a serial murderer who had liked the show. That had involved days spent with interviewers from several law-enforcement agencies.

To make matters worse, in the end the investigators found out that the head shrinker had intended to send the head to Kristie Chatham, the other star of the television show. Kristie was known for her physical attributes rather than her intellect. Annja had to admit Kristie’s enormous popularity sometimes bothered her.

“That was a mess,” Nikolai sighed. “I thought I would never get the smell out.”

“I’m sure it’s not another shrunken head,” Annja said.

“I hope you’re right.”

Annja’s mind was racing. She was usually a quick thinker even under pressure. “Can you make a fake package about the same size as the one I was sent?”

“Yes, but why?” Nikolai asked.

“I want you to give it to me when I get inside.”

“Wouldn’t it be smarter to go to the police?”

“The police would drive these guys away,” Annja replied.

“That seems like a desirable thing to me.”

“They’ve made me curious.”

“You know what that did for the cat,” Nikolai pointed out.

“Cats are also great hunters. I intend to be a great hunter. I’ll talk to you in a few minutes.”

“Okay. I’ll get the package ready.”

“Make me wait on it for a few minutes,” Annja said. “I’ve got a phone call I want to make.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, and put something in the box.” It wouldn’t do to lug around an empty box.

“What should I put in it?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Papers?”

“No. Something with some weight.”

“I don’t know—”

“Anything that feels heavy, Nikolai. I just want to fool them for a minute or two.”

“Okay. I’ll find something.”

Annja broke the connection and dialed another number from memory as she went through the door to Mailboxes & Stuff. The reflection in the door glass showed that the four men were close behind her.

They split up into two teams of two. Annja knew then that they were going to try to take the package inside the store.

She was curious and they were impatient. She knew it could prove to be a recipe for disaster.

2

“You’ve reached the desk of Detective Bart McGilley. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. If you need immediate attention, please call Detective Manuel Delgado.” The recording gave Delgado’s number.

Standing at the counter in Mailboxes & Stuff while Nikolai went into the back to “check” for her mail, Annja dialed Delgado’s number.

Two of the men trailing Annja, one of them Agent Smith, entered the store and started looking through racks of mailing supplies. Nikolai kept an assortment of boxes, envelopes and mailing labels. Annja wondered what they would have used for cover if the accessories hadn’t been there.

Both men were intense looking. Their winter clothing could have concealed an arsenal. They never appeared to look at her.

“Detective Delgado.” The voice was smooth and Hispanic.

Annja switched to Spanish to make it harder for the men to listen to the conversation. “Hi. This is Annja Creed. I’m a friend of Detective McGilley’s.”

“I know who you are,” Delgado said. “Didn’t know you were a friend of McGilley’s, though. I catch the show every week.”

Terrific, Annja thought, a fan. She figured that could cost her a big chunk of believability.

“Seems like McGilley would have mentioned he knew you,” Delgado continued.

Maybe he’s not exactly proud of it, she thought. That gave her pause for just an instant. She couldn’t imagine Bart being embarrassed about knowing her. Then again, she couldn’t blame him, either. If Chasing History’s Monsters hadn’t opened so many doors for archaeological exploration for her, she would never have done the show.

Annja chose to ignore Delgado’s statement. “Do you know where I can find Detective McGilley? I called his cell phone number but got his answering service by mistake.”

“That wasn’t a mistake,” Delgado said. “Detective McGilley is in court today. He always switches his cell phone to his answering service when he’s on the stand.”

“Is he in trouble?” Annja thought back to the last conversation she’d had with Bart. They’d caught lunch at Tito’s and chatted briefly. Bart’s fiancée was pressing him to set a date for the wedding.

“No,” Delgado answered. “He’s testifying in a murder case. Should be a slam dunk, but the assistant district attorney wanted McGilley there. The ADA is one of the new batch of wonder kids the law school keeps churning out. She just needed a little hand-holding.”

“Do you know when you expect him back?”

“Soon. More than that, I can’t tell you.”

“All right. Can you give him a message?”

“I can.”

“Ask him to call me as soon as he has a chance.”

Delgado said he would.

Annja pocketed the cell phone. She’d exhausted the number of people she could call for help. In a way, that was sad. But then again, she didn’t usually ask for help.

A moment later, Nikolai came back with a package. It was about the size of a hardbound book. The address on the front was written in Nikolai’s hand, but Annja doubted the two men inside the store would know that.

“Thank you,” Annja said.

“Of course.” Nikolai gave her one of his patented friendly smiles. “Be careful out there.”

“I will.”

“The potato soup at Cheever’s Diner is good today,” Nikolai added as she walked toward the door.

Looking back at Nikolai, Annja couldn’t help thinking that the announcement sounded like some kind of spy code. She couldn’t believe Nikolai had just blurted that out. All that was missing was a big conspiratorial wink.

At the counter, Nikolai shrugged and looked embarrassed. “It’s warm, you know. It’ll take some of the winter chill off. That’s all I mean.”

Annja shoved the package under one arm, then walked toward the door. That was when Agent Smith made his move.

T HE MAN WAS SMOOTH —Annja gave him that. But he was working on the presumption that he was dealing with someone unused to violence. Most people would have frozen when a strange man grabbed them by the arm. An uninvited touch in polite society usually elicited a blistering look of disdain, followed by a command to release the arm or a demand to know what was going on.

By the time all that happened, it was usually too late for the person who was accosted.

Annja had expected the touch, had desired it, in fact, because it made everything easier. The move put the man in reach.

Gripping her backpack straps with her left hand, Annja turned inside the man’s grip. He stood flat-footed, never expecting her to turn like that. Or, at least, not expecting what followed.

Agent Smith opened his mouth to speak. Annja didn’t know what he was going to say. Maybe he was going to say her name, or maybe he was going to give her his fake name.

Before he could utter a word, Annja jerked a knee up into his crotch as hard as she could. He wasn’t totally unprepared, though. She felt the hard surface of a protective cup jar her knee with bruising force. Despite the presence of the cup, there was a certain amount of force that still communicated through the protective gear.

The man froze, not certain how badly he was hurt. Annja knotted her right hand in his coat and pulled him close. She head-butted him in the nose and heard it break with a loud pop. As he stumbled back, his coat fell open and revealed the pistol holstered on his hip.

Okay, Annja thought, that’s good to know. It was better to have the bad news up front. She stuck her foot between Agent Smith’s legs to hook a foot behind his, then put her shoulder in the middle of his chest. Agent Smith smashed backward into his partner.

“Help!” Nikolai shouted, going to cover behind the counter. “Help! Police!”

“Try using the phone,” Annja urged as she turned back to the door.

Nikolai’s hand came up and began feeling around for the phone handset while she bolted through the door. Agent Smith and his partner were already getting to their feet and grabbing for their weapons.

Outside, Annja turned right and ran. She knew the area well. Not only did she frequently walk to Mailboxes & Stuff, but she also jogged in the neighborhood and did most of her shopping there.

She took a firmer hold on the ersatz package as she lengthened her stride. “Excuse me. Out of the way. Coming through.” She pushed herself down the crowded sidewalk, jostling the pedestrians.

Most of the men and women shot her looks of indignation. A few of them cursed at her as only a native New Yorker could, and it would have taken a master linguist to sort out all the variations of the single-syllable word they used most.

Then they saw the pistols in the hands of the men pursuing her. Trained by the post-9/11 world, the pedestrians hit the sidewalk and wrapped their hands over their heads.

They also shouted, and the shouts caught up to Annja and passed her. In seconds, the pedestrians in front of Annja had hit the ground, as well. The sidewalk became treacherous with bodies, and there was no way she could lose herself in a crowd.

A gypsy cab with a Buddha swinging from the mirror and blaring Eminem braked to a halt at the curb. The driver hit his horn repeatedly, cursing at the traffic congestion that had gridlocked him.

Annja threw herself across the cab’s hood, sliding on her hip in a move made famous on The Dukes of Hazard television show. She hit the street on the other side of the cab and managed one step before she leaped again.

This time she sprinted across the next car. Horns blared behind her. The gypsy cabdriver shrilled curses at her, but shut up when he saw the men with guns. Annja used that sudden silence to mark the progress of the two men following her.

The other two men were across the street and tried to set themselves up on an interception course, running along the sidewalk.

By that time Annja was dealing with the oncoming traffic. It wasn’t as congested. The flow wasn’t moving quickly, but it was moving. Tires shrieked as the drivers in the inside lane tried to halt, but a New York City transit bus advertising the Late Show with David Letterman blocked her path.

Annja got her free arm up and used it to cushion her impact against the bus, slamming up against the Letterman photo. The bus never even slowed.

Whirling, Annja ran to the left. She figured the two men trying to intercept her would expect her to run to the rear of the bus and try to get around. Instead, she trusted herself to outrun the bus and the other two pursers.

She ran, breathing quickly, hoping she didn’t get a muscle cramp from the cold weather. A quick glance at Agent Smith and his partner showed them trying to negotiate the first lane of traffic that wasn’t stalled. Horns blared all around them.

Smith, his nose streaming blood, stopped long enough to yell to the other two men. He waved them back in the direction Annja had gone.

Annja’s thoughts ran rampant. Cold air hit her lungs like a fist. She’d gotten acclimated to Florida over the past few weeks, and the weather there hadn’t been anything like Brooklyn’s.

Going back to the loft is a bad idea, she told herself. She kept running. Then the side mirror of a flower-delivery van in front of her shattered. Pieces of glass scattered across the street. The sound of the gunshot followed immediately.

Panic spread over the street as some of the motorists tried to lock down their vehicles while others searched for a gap to make their getaway.

A limousine ahead of Annja plowed into the back of an older sedan. Immediately a man in a black business suit and wraparound sunglasses got out of the limo and dropped into a crouch. His hand snaked under his jacket.

Annja was pretty sure he was going for a shoulder holster. A shoot-out in the middle of the street was the last thing that needed to happen.

She jumped up in a flying kick just as the man’s hand cleared his jacket. The large pistol had a shiny nickel finish.

Swinging her left foot out, Annja caught the man in the forehead. His head snapped back and bounced off the car. He went boneless and dropped, out cold.

Thankfully, the impact didn’t throw Annja off much. She caught herself on her hands, prone on her stomach on the street.

Two car lengths behind her, Agent Smith and his friend had gone to cover, ducking behind the florist van. Seeing the unconscious bodyguard sprawled in the street beside Annja, they grew brave enough to shove their pistols around the van.

Annja vaulted to her feet and ran across the back end of the limousine. At least two rounds smashed the vehicle’s bulletproof rear window, leaving spiderwebbed cracks in the reinforced glass. The front glass of a coffee shop shattered. Patrons inside screamed and threw themselves to the floor.

Okay, Annja thought as she leaped for the curb. Now we know these guys aren’t afraid to use those guns.

She hit the pavement with both feet and stumbled forward. Knowing she had to get off the street and out of the sights of the two men, she raced for a nearby theater.

T HE THEATER WAS small, with an upper and lower screen. Decked out in yellow and red, the theater looked as if it were still in the 1950s when it had shown first-run movies instead of hand-me-downs that came out on DVD the same week.

The marquee advertised a couple of movies—one a horror picture and the other a new fantasy picture about a dragon. A line had formed at the ticket window.

Annja ran past them, slamming through one of the front doors. The box she carried absorbed some of the impact.

She was inside the building. A crew of early-twenty-somethings and a few teens worked the counter. The heavy scent of buttered popcorn hung on the air, mixing with the sharp stink of a cherry air freshener. Movie posters of the movies that were currently showing hung on the wall between the two bathrooms.

Barely breaking stride, Annja headed for the theater at the back of building. An usher in a red vest stood at the small podium reading a comic book. He looked up at Annja’s approach, then looked as if he was going to say something. By that time she was already past him, and the four armed men came through the door. People began screaming.

Annja ran inside the dark theater, cut around the corner that blocked the light from entering the viewing area and ran down the steps toward the emergency door at the back. She halted, framed by the screen as a band of warriors gathered on a rocky cliff. She looked back at the protective wall.

She knew she hadn’t left her pursuers, but she didn’t want them to lose her now. The idea of the four men searching through the theater crowd left her chilled. They needed to know where she was.

“Hey, lady!” someone yelled. “Down in front! Some of us are here to see the movie!”

The four men came around the protective wall, briefly backlit by the closing door. Agent Smith pointed his gun and fired. The shot rang out in the enclosed space, but it was quickly drowned out by the dragon’s roar on the film. On-screen, the warriors screamed and ran for their lives. Anyone watching would have thought the film was interactive, because the moviegoers did the same.

Annja turned and ran toward the lighted emergency exit as a line of bullets chopped into the wall behind her. Evidently the emergency factor compelling the men to seize the package was escalating. She couldn’t keep up the chase or an innocent bystander was going to get hurt.

3

Plunging through the emergency door, Annja ran out into the alley behind the theater. Potholes lined the street. Battered Dumpsters filled to overflowing stood resolute as old soldiers against the wall. She spotted some fire escape stairs to her right and headed for them.

Under the retractable ladder leading up to the fire escape, she leaped up and caught the chain, pulling the ladder down. The ladder clanked through the gears, then halted with a clang that echoed through the alley.

The noise drew the attention of the four men exiting the theater. As they turned toward her, Annja dropped the package she’d been carrying and climbed the ladder. She crunched her body from side to side, taking the rungs three and four at a time, one side pulling and pushing while the other reached for new hand-and footholds. Her backpack thumped against her back.

Agent Smith fired at her, and his aim had improved. One of the bullets hit the rung in front of Annja’s face. The round ricocheted with a shrill screech. Two more bullets jackhammered brick splinters that pelted her face and coat.

Annja didn’t look down. She looked up, focusing on where she wanted to go. Looking back or anywhere else would have divided her attention and slowed her.

Reaching the rooftop, Annja heaved herself over as a new salvo of shots chopped into the side of the building. She dropped to a squatting position, keeping her head below the edge of the roof.

The gunfire stopped.

Annja forced herself to wait. She reached into the otherwhere for her sword and felt the familiar hilt against her palm. All she had to do was pull and it would be there with her.

But she didn’t do that. The sword was only an option when she was out of all other options. Even Joan of Arc, who had first carried the sword into battle, hadn’t relied on the sword as anything more than a last resort. Joan’s words and actions had brought countries, kings and churches to heel at different times in her young life. Now that the sword belonged to Annja, she knew it carried with it a heavy responsibility.

Not hearing any sounds on the fire escape, Annja relaxed her hand and the sword faded away. Duckwalking farther down the roof, she cautiously peered over the edge into the alley.

Agent Smith had the package. He used a small knife to slit it open. Reaching inside, he brought out a Star Wars collector plate that featured Yoda.

“Yoda?” Agent Smith held up his captured prize in surprise.

Nikolai had once coerced Annja into accompanying him to a local sci-fi event. As it turned out, Annja had discovered she had a fan base among the convention goers. She was surprised that Nikolai had shoved his prized plate into the package.

One of the other men spoke rapidly in a guttural language that Annja thought was German. She spoke the five Romance languages fluently, a little Russian and even less German, but she could make her wants known in those languages. The man below spoke too quickly and quietly for her to understand what was said, but she gathered that he wasn’t a happy guy.

Agent Smith argued with the man, evidently protective of the plate. That made Annja wonder if they even knew what they had been sent after.

Abruptly, a cell phone chirped for attention. Annja realized it was her phone in the side pocket of the backpack. She pulled her head back just as the men looked up and one of them pointed his weapon at her. The bullet cut through the air where her head had been.

She fished out the phone, hoping it was Bart returning her earlier call. But she didn’t recognize the phone number on Caller ID. The string of digits logged there were too long to be domestic, and she knew it was an international number.

The country prefix was 371. She didn’t recognize that, either. Curious, not hearing anyone running up the fire escape and thinking that the call might be from Mario Fellini, Annja answered the phone.

“Hello.”

“Ms. Creed?” a woman’s voice asked in a professional manner. There was an accent, too, but Annja couldn’t place it.

“Speaking.” Annja crept across the rooftop and took up another position. A siren screamed in the distance. She hoped that Nikolai had gotten hold of the police.

“You don’t know me, Ms. Creed,” the woman said, “and I’m sorry to trouble you. Am I calling at a bad time?”

“If you’re trying to sell me something, yes.” Annja peered over the roof. The four men, satisfied with their ill-gotten gain or not, had elected to leave.

They know who I am, Annja realized. It’s not like they’re going to have trouble finding me again if they want to.

That wasn’t exactly a happy thought. In fact, it made her angry to think she couldn’t go back to her loft. Her work was there. Her life.

I am not going to be afraid of going home, she told herself as she watched the men flag a cab. She took her small digital camera from her backpack, focused on the men and snapped off captures in rapid succession.

“I’m not trying to sell you anything, Ms. Creed,” the woman said. “I’m looking for Mario Fellini.”

“You didn’t say who you were.”

“I’m Erene Skujans.”

Annja tried to place the surname as she watched two of the men climb into the cab. One of the other two crossed the street and flagged down another cab headed in the opposite direction.

A feint at misdirection? Annja wondered. Are they going to separate places, or are they going to meet up somewhere?

She memorized the cab companies and identification numbers on both cabs. Both were medallion cabs fully licensed by the state of New York.

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen Mario,” Annja said.

“It’s important that I speak to him, Ms. Creed.”

Annja felt irritated. The woman acted as if Annja was being deliberately evasive about Mario Fellini.

“You did hear the part about me not seeing him, right?” Annja abandoned her post and jogged across the rooftop to the fire escape.

She started down, taking the steps quickly.

“I’m afraid Mario may be in trouble,” Erene Skujans said.

Me, too, Annja thought. Especially since a package he sent me has got guys shooting at me.

“What kind of trouble?” Annja asked.

“I don’t know the extent of it.”

Lie or truth? Annja wondered. She had no way of knowing.

In the alley, Annja sprinted for the street. She ran toward a line of cabs in front of the theater. Evidently the cab companies had heard about the shooting and had massed in an effort to pick up extra fares desperate to get out of the area.

“Again,” Annja said, running down the line of cabs, “I haven’t seen Mario. I just got back into New York. I’ve been out of state.”

“Mario said he was going to contact you.”

“Did he say why?” Annja found a cab that belonged to the same company that two of the men had taken. She shoved two twenty-dollar bills up against the window, fanning them so the driver could see them both.

He was young enough that her looks probably captured more of his attention than the money. He waved her in.

“No.”

That, Annja thought as she opened the rear passenger door and slid across the seat, is probably a lie.

The driver peered at her through the security glass and smiled. “Where to?”

“Why didn’t Mario try to call me?” Annja asked.

“He left the country suddenly. He didn’t want anyone to know where he’d gone.”

What country? Annja wanted to ask.

“Hold on,” Annja told the woman. She covered the cell phone’s mouthpiece and looked at the driver. “Another one of your cabs just picked up a fare on this street. Just a couple minutes ago. I got the number of the cab. I missed a meeting and I’m trying to catch up to a client. If I don’t at least try to close this deal, I’m going to be looking for a new job.” She tried to look desperate.

Some of the smile left the driver’s face and he didn’t look so friendly. “Hey, lady—”

Oh, great! Now I’m “Hey, lady,” Annja thought. So long sex appeal.

“I got this thing about hauling around psychotic ex-girlfriends,” the driver said. “No offense.”

“If I was a psychotic girlfriend,” Annja said evenly, “I’d wait for him at his apartment.” She took another sixty dollars from her jeans with her free hand and held the full hundred against the safety glass. “Now the question is, do you want a big tip or should I find another cab?”

The driver eyed the money and shrugged. “You know, psychotic or not, it’s really none of my business. What was the number of the cab?”

Annja gave it and they got under way. The driver called for dispatch and asked about the other cab’s fare destination.

“Okay,” Annja said into the phone, “I’m back.”

The woman was gone.

Thinking the signal had been dropped, Annja called the number back and listened to the double ring tones.

No one answered.

Annja closed her phone, wondering what Mario Fellini could possibly have gotten into that would have involved men with guns and no hesitation about killing. And why would he have brought that to her?

She sat back quietly in the seat and watched the congested traffic around her. They rolled through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel and into Manhattan without stopping because the cab was equipped with an E-ZPass that automatically paid the toll.

“I gotta charge you for the toll,” the driver said, shrugging.

A hundred-dollar tip and you want to be chintzy? Annja bit back the retort and said, “Fine.”

The radio DJ interrupted the music to relay the news about the shooting in Brooklyn at a local theater. The driver eyed Annja suspiciously in the rearview mirror.

Don’t look psychotic, Annja told herself.

“So what kind of business are you in?” the driver asked.

Annja put her smile and conversation on autopilot. The driver wanted reassurance that he wasn’t making a mistake. “What kind of business would you expect?”

The driver eyed her a little more deliberately. “You’re fit. Young. Obviously aggressive or you wouldn’t have me chasing after your client right now. But you’re not dressed like a stockbroker.”

“I’m not a stockbroker. That’s close, though.”

“How close?”

“I work for a guy who’s in business putting talent together.”

“Like rock bands?”

“Not that kind of talent. He’s a corporate headhunter. Raids other companies of their employees. If they’re good enough.”

“So the guy you’re after…”

“Wrote some kind of computer application my boss thinks is mind-blowing. Now he’s not going to rest until I manage to put the two of them together in the same room and he has a chance to pitch him.” The story sounded good to Annja. She’d watched something like it on the Discovery Channel while she’d been in Florida. “If we land him, I get a vacation.”

“Cool.” The driver smiled and nodded.

By the time they’d finished the discussion, the cab rolled to a stop in front of the Sentry Continental Hotel.

“This is it,” the driver said.

Annja peered up at the eight-story structure as a uniformed bellman advanced on the cab.

“You’re sure?” Annja asked.

“Yeah.”

Annja paid him and allowed the bellman to help her out. Settling her backpack straps onto her shoulders, she walked into the hotel, wondering how she was going to find the two men she’d come there looking for. While her mind was occupied with that, her phone rang.

Caller ID showed a number that she was all too familiar with. The number belonged to Doug Morrell.

Annja chose to ignore the call as she entered the hotel’s lobby. The decor was marble the color of old bone and had brass ornamentation. Brass planters held arboricola trees, triangle palms and philodendron plants.

The guest registry was tucked away to the right, quietly blending into the wall. A young woman stood at the desk and watched the action at the bar area a little farther back into the hotel.

Annja’s phone rang again, but this time it was a text message.

Hey Annja.

Some guy named Marty Fenelli keeps calling. If you ask me, the guy sounds desperate. Maybe he’s just a rabid fan?

Anyway, give me a call when you get this.

Doug

4

Crossing over to the hotel bar, Annja slid the backpack off and sat at a table obscured by a palm tree. The bartender’s attention was focused more on the television in the corner than on his clientele. It was almost spring and baseball was starting up again.

Annja gazed at the screen wistfully and wished she was home instead of in a hotel she had no business being in. A cup of hot chocolate, made from real chocolate and scalded in a pan, sounded like heaven.

Her stomach rumbled at the thought. Some kind of lunch wouldn’t be a bad idea, either. Breakfast had been consumed on the run, a biscuit in the Miami airport that she hadn’t bothered to finish.

She read the text message again, then settled back behind the big plant and called Doug Morrell.

“Annja!” Morrell greeted on the first ring. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Annja shook her head. Morrell was in his early-twenties, working at the first job he’d gotten after graduating college. He’d told her on several occasions that all he’d ever dreamed of was working in television. Annja had asked him once how he felt about producing a syndicated show devoted to legends and lore that were often misrepresented. He’d claimed it was the greatest job in the world, and she hadn’t been able to doubt his sincerity.

The false representation wasn’t done by Annja. She kept her stories concrete, rooted in the bedrock of history and the facts as she found them. Thankfully, the audience for Chasing History’s Monsters seemed devoted as much to real archaeological work as they were to the fantastic.

The fact that Kristie Chatham wore skimpy and tight clothes, then climbed out of them at every opportunity, probably bought a lot of indulgence on the part of the viewer. Although Doug had told Annja on more than one occasion that if she didn’t look the way she did the audience wouldn’t have fallen in love with her, either.

“You’re not surprised,” Annja accused. “You sent that text message knowing I’d call you back.”

“Hoping,” Doug admitted. “I didn’t know. What I do know is that when you choose to ignore your phone, it gets ignored big-time. But I am curious about what Marty Fenelli has that I don’t.”

“Mario Fellini,” Annja said.

“Marty has Mario? Now I’m not so sure I want to hear about this.”

“His name is Mario. Mario Fellini.”

“Great. So what’s he to you?”

“Someone I knew a long time ago.” Annja dug out her camera and notebook computer, placing both on the table. “Did you talk to him?”

“A couple of times, yeah. Seems like a nice guy.”

“He is.” Was, Annja reminded herself. Whatever Mario was, he now had dangerous men after him. “What did he want?”

“To talk to you.”

“Did he offer any hints about what?”

“Not a word.”

Annja connected the camera to the computer by USB cable and uploaded the pictures to the hard drive. “And you didn’t press him for answers? That’s not like you.”

Doug, like Annja, had an insatiable curiosity, but he had no desire to go out into the world beyond New York in general and Manhattan in particular. He claimed that everything he needed was there in the city.

“This guy is good, Annja,” Doug said. “I questioned. He avoided. It’s like he had some fantastic mutant ability.”

Great. The Mario Annja had known hadn’t been secretive. Archaeology was all about getting information and spreading it around. Mario loved sharing theories. “Did he leave a message?”

“Yep.”

Annja flipped through the photos until she found the best shot of the two men she was following.

“I need to talk to you about your last story,” Doug said. “The phantom shark.”

“We can do the postmortem on that one tomorrow morning like we have scheduled.”

Doug hesitated, then cleared his throat. “We’re going to need more than a postmortem on that one. There are some problems.”

That temporarily took Annja’s mind off Mario Fellini and the gun-toting goons. The mystery she was currently tracking could take time to solve, but the piece submitted was going to be put into production in a couple of days. Once it was, she couldn’t touch it.

She was proud of the work she’d done on the Calusa Indians segment. Their history had been relatively new to her and she’d enjoyed exploring it.

“That was a good piece,” she said.

“Sure,” Doug agreed. “The Indian stuff was great. Really interesting. And your presentation was awesome.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“The phantom shark looks fake.”

Annja sighed in exasperation. “The phantom shark was fake. That was mentioned in the piece.”

“I feel like maybe we need to fix the shark.”

“Fix the shark?”

“Yeah. You know. Make it look better. More—I don’t know—sharky?”

“That’s how the shark looked, Doug.” Annja couldn’t believe it. “The shark looked fake. It looked fake because it was fake,” she repeated.

“Fake’s not gonna cut it in the ratings.”

“Like I said in the piece, the phantom shark is a local legend. A lot of people treat it like a joke. It’s there to draw the tourists. The guy who built the shark told me he started pulling the shark around as a prank, and to give the tourists a little excitement. He said not even kids are scared. They know it’s fake, but it’s all done in fun.”

“Our show isn’t about fun,” Doug said. “It’s about creepy. The creepier the better. Marketing loves creepy. And scary is even better.”

“There’s nothing creepy or scary about a phantom shark carved out of driftwood and painted with airplane paint,” Annja said.

“You’re telling me.” Doug sighed. “Look, we can fix this.”

“It doesn’t need to be fixed.”

Doug ignored her and went on. “I talked to a friend of mine who does special effects for music videos and direct-to-DVD horror movies.”

“Terrific.” Annja sighed. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

“He tells me he can fix the shark. He says when he gets done with it, you’ll be afraid to go into the water all over again. According to him, Spielberg would love the shark he’s gonna do for us. Postproduction, it’ll look sixty or eighty feet long.”

“This was a dumb story, Doug.” Annja dug her heels in. “You gave me this story.”

“Marketing gave you this story. I just went along for the ride. They thought they were getting Jaws .”

“What did they think? That I was going to go down there and find a sixty-or eighty-foot shark no one has ever seen before?” Annja asked.

“I think maybe they were hoping. You have to admit, you’ve found some pretty weird stuff before. While you were looking for other weird stuff.” Doug tried to sound upbeat. “Everybody here knows that when it comes to finding weird stuff, nobody delivers like you do. You just naturally attract weirdness.”

Annja didn’t say anything.

“Okay,” Doug said. “Maybe that didn’t come out like I’d intended.”

“The story was stupid. The only reason I went was because of the work being done with the Calusa Indians.”

“I know. That stuff is awesome. We’re not going to touch it.” Doug paused. “Well, except we may have to edit it a little to add the extra shark footage.”

Annja imagined her piece shot through with sightings of the monstrous shark. She fought to keep her voice under control. She was tired from the flight and from being around too many people in the airports and the plane, from being herded through security like an especially stupid bovine.

Getting jumped by Agent Smith and his buddies might have been a lark on any other day. Maybe I am weird, Annja thought. Then she concentrated on defending her work.

“I already edited the piece,” Annja said. “We don’t need any more footage of the shark. It was just one little piece of the whole story I was telling.”

“Marketing thinks the shark is the story.”

“They’re wrong,” Annja said.

“Annja, look, without people buying commercial time on Chasing History’s Monsters, there is no Chasing History’s Monsters. You and I will be chasing unemployment checks.”

“Not me,” Annja said stubbornly. “I’ve had a few other offers.”

“I’m sure you have,” Doug said good-naturedly. “But we both know that if you had someone else who would give you the budget this show does you’d have departed with a smile on your face that day.”

Annja sighed. It was true.

“Look, I know this stinks. I’ll be the first to agree with you. But, like it or not, we’re stuck with the shark.”

“But we’re not stuck with the wooden shark carved out of driftwood and painted with airplane paint,” Annja said.

“Right. We’re not stuck with that one. Annja, I’m asking you to come in tomorrow so we can recut the segment. I need some voice-overs for the new shark segments.”

“Oohs and aahs and a bloodcurdling scream or two?”

“I thought that was too much to ask for, but if you’re willing to—”

“Doug,” Annja interrupted.

“Yeah?”

“It’s not going to happen.”

“I figured you were just leading me on. That’s okay. You’ve got a few shots coming. I don’t hold it against you.” Doug cleared his throat. “We’re gonna have to deal with the computer-generated shark. It’s going to happen. But I’d like to save as much as we can of what you want to show.”

“This really stinks.”

“It’s a fact of life. Gigantic killer sharks are a lot more interesting than Caboosa Indians.”

“Calusa.”

“That proves my point. People will remember the shark. I remember the shark more than I remember the Indians.”

“You know,” Annja said sarcastically, “maybe you should tell the marketing guys the shark was really an alien robot that disguised itself as a shark.”

“And it can take other forms? Like a Transformer?” Doug perked up and Annja knew she’d made a mistake. “That’s totally cool. Man, they’d go crazy over that.”

“Doug?”

“Yeah?”

“No Transformers.”

“I’m telling you, you should rethink that.”

“No.”

“All right. Are you coming in tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you don’t, Editing will do the cuts without you.”

Annja didn’t want to deal with that. It would just be an exercise in frustration. She focused on Mario Fellini. “Did Mario leave a number where he could be reached?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I couldn’t understand his message.”

“He sent you a message? I thought you talked to him.”

“I did talk to him. He spoke English when he talked to me. When he left a message on your answering service here at the—”

Annja broke the connection and dialed the studio number, quickly going through the electronic filters to get to her voice mail. She should have remembered it, but she never used it.

Only occasionally did she even go through the messages. Usually they were spam. Most of the people she had contact with, including fans of the show, used her e-mail addresses.

A few exchanges later, she had the message and triggered the playback.

5

“Hey, Annja. This is Mario Fellini. Don’t know if you remember me, but we worked Hadrian’s Wall together a few years ago.” Fellini spoke his native Italian.

Despite the tension of the situation, Annja couldn’t help smiling as she thought of him. Mario had always carried boyish charm with him and he wasn’t forgettable.

Then Annja remembered the woman who had called. She wondered who Erene Skujans was to Mario.

“I got your number from a professional list,” Mario went on. “Seems you aren’t listed in the White Pages anymore.” He laughed at that.

There was a reason for that, Annja thought. Her life had been crazy dealing with the television show even before she’d inherited Joan of Arc’s sword.

“You’ve gone off and gotten famous.”

Despite the good-natured and relaxed tone Mario had in his voice, Annja also detected tension. It sounded as if he was calling from a street pay phone. She heard traffic in the background.

That meant that even if the studio had Caller ID on her line or kept track of the incoming calls, the number she got wouldn’t help.

But calling from a public pay phone didn’t make sense unless Mario was trying to hide.

From Agent Smith and his fun boys? Annja wondered. Or was someone else involved? Maybe a woman with a sexy voice?

“I see you all the time,” Mario said. “I ordered the Chasing History’s Monsters DVDs and I’ve started recording the show. It’s good stuff. I don’t know how you work under those conditions, though. And I have to admit, that other woman gets on my nerves.”

But do you have one of her posters? Annja wondered. She’d met professors of archaeology who had Kristie Chatham posters on their office walls. A few museum curators in Florida had them as screen savers on their computers.

“You’re probably surprised to hear from me,” Mario continued. “Or maybe now that you’re famous, you’re getting calls all the time from old associates.”

The traffic noise in the background shifted, and Annja imagined Mario looking around for anyone who might be watching him.

“I hate to bother you with this, but I think I’ve gotten myself in a bit of trouble.” Mario’s voice took on a more somber tone. “In this business of digging up the past, sometimes you find things other people would do anything to possess. But sometimes you find things that you aren’t supposed to find, and there are people who don’t want that, either.” He paused. “I’m afraid that’s what I’ve done.”

Remembering the men with the guns, Annja knew whatever it was had turned deadly. But where was Mario?

“Anyway, I mailed you something that I’d like you to take a look at. It got here a few days ago, ahead of me. I’ve been here two days, but I haven’t heard from you. I can’t give you a phone number, I’m afraid. I’m changing hotels every night. And I don’t have a cell phone with me. I’ve been told people can track you through those if they get hold of your records.” Mario took a breath. “The people involved in this, they can do things like that.”

Annja looked around the bar, feeling momentarily vulnerable. Following the two men to the hotel probably wasn’t the brightest thing she could have done. But it had felt right. If she’d called the police, she’d have been stuck answering questions for hours.

Call me, Bart, she thought. Bart McGilley could cut through the red tape. She hoped.

“Thinking back on this,” Mario went on, “maybe I shouldn’t have come. Erene didn’t want me to come. She felt it was too dangerous.”

Who is Erene? Annja wondered.

“Anyway, when you get the package, hold on to it until I call you. I’ll keep trying. In the meantime, take care of yourself. These are dangerous men.” The traffic noise in the background shifted again. “There’s one other thing. When you get the package and see what’s in there, just remember what happened to us at Hadrian’s Wall.”

Several things had happened to them at Hadrian’s Wall. A lot of them had been good.

“Goodbye, Annja. I hope to see you soon.”

A NNJA SAT BACK and stared at the television, watching the New York Yankees working out at spring training. They threw and batted and ran bases like they didn’t have a problem in the world. The sports reporters traded quips with them.

Real life wasn’t like that, Annja knew. People struggled every day. Some of them, like Mario now, struggled against deadly and dangerous forces.

In a way, it made sense that Mario had come to her. Annja didn’t think it was just because of the past friendship. She felt certain part of the reason Mario had come was because of the sword she carried.

Roux had told her that dealing with trouble was part of the legacy of the sword. The old man had been with her when she’d found the last broken piece of the sword and there again when she’d touched the sword and it reassembled itself—somehow.

Annja didn’t like thinking in terms that included magic, but she had no explanation for how the sword worked or how Roux and Garin Braden had existed since before Joan of Arc’s execution.

Somehow the sword resided in the otherwhere until Annja needed it.

Thinking about Agent Smith and his friends, Annja took a deep breath and let it out. Okay, she thought. Bring it on. This is part of why I’m here.

All she had to do was find Mario.

A NNJA CALLED Doug back.

“You know,” he said sullenly, “I’m not here just so you can hang up on me every time you get—”

“Doug,” Annja said.

Doug quieted. “Is something wrong?”

When it came down to it, no matter what their difference of opinion, he was a friend. A good one.

“Possibly,” Annja answered.

“Can I help?”

“Could you have my answering service there at the studio switched over so any phone calls coming in there will ring on my cell phone?”

“Sure, but I don’t think you really want that.”

“I’m sure I do.”

“You’re going to listen to a lot of trash.”

“What do you mean?”

“You get phone calls here every day,” Doug said. “People who love the show. People who hate the show. People who want to marry you or just leave obscene suggestions. I gotta warn you, those people can get really creative. It’s hard to listen to sometimes.”

“Why don’t I ever hear any of that?”

“You hear the good stuff. The rest I have wiped off by my assistant.”

“Why do you have an assistant and I don’t?” Annja blocked the thought. “Never mind. We’ll talk about that some other time.”

“She’s not much of an assistant,” Doug said in a low voice.

“I heard that,” a female voice said.

“Hey,” Doug protested, “I meant that in the kindest possible way.”

“Look, you little jerk!” the woman said. “I’ve put up with the menial little tasks you’ve had me doing for almost two weeks! I’ve had it! I’m not going to stand here and be—”

“You creeping into my office and standing behind me is one of the problems,” Doug said. “Eavesdropping on my conversations wasn’t in your job description.”

“I quit! ” the woman shouted.

A door slammed.

“There,” Doug groused. “I no longer have an assistant. We’re even. Are you happy?”

“Switch the phone over for me,” Annja said.

T HE HOTEL DESK CLERK’S name was Sandy. She was blond-haired, blue-eyed and very understanding about Annja’s “problem.”

“Guys can be absolute jerks,” Sandy said. “Especially ex-boyfriends. They just never seem to get out of your life.”

Annja could tell immediately that she’d touched a nerve in the other woman. Usually Annja wasn’t up on all the girl-talk issues. She didn’t like telling someone else about her private life, which was a direct product of being raised by nuns in a New Orleans orphanage, and she didn’t hang out with women who did.

Thankfully, DVD sets of Sex and the City and Gilmore Girls had given her the tools she needed to discuss her “situation” with the desk clerk.

“I know,” Annja said. “This guy isn’t the first.”

The clerk shook her head. “And the sad part is he probably won’t be the last.” She looked at the picture of the man on Annja’s computer screen. “He’s not bad looking.”

“Thanks.” Like I’m supposed to take some kind of pride in that? Annja tried not to let her disbelief show on her face.

“You said he took a necklace from you?” the clerk asked.

“My grandmother gave it to me,” Annja said, touching her neck theatrically. “It’s worth a little bit of money, but I want it back more for sentimental reasons. That was the last thing my grandmother gave me before she died.”

“What a louse.” The clerk looked back at the image, then around the desk. “You know I’m not supposed to do this. It could cost me my job.”

“I just want to know if he’s here,” Annja said. “You don’t even have to tell me the room number. If I can confirm he’s here, I’m going to file a complaint with the police. They can come talk to him.”

“That would be the best.” The clerk looked at Annja and nodded. “You need a break, girlfriend. I can hook you up.”

“Have you met him?”

The clerk shrugged. “If he hadn’t been hitting on me yesterday, I might not have remembered him. He definitely doesn’t have a confidence problem.” She frowned. “Sorry. That’s probably more than you wanted to know.”

“He’s nothing but trouble,” Annja insisted. She wasn’t exactly happy with her method of getting the information, but it was working. Don’t mess with success, she told herself.

“I hear you.” The clerk sighed. “But he is good-looking.” Then she turned her attention to the computer in front of her. “If anybody asks, I didn’t do this.”

Annja mimed turning a key to her lips and throwing it away.

“Dieter is staying in room 616,” the clerk said.

“Dieter?” Annja repeated as if confused.

The clerk nodded. “It says here his name is Dieter Humbrecht.”

“That isn’t the name he gave me,” Annja said.

“What a creep.” The clerk looked back at the computer. “Let me check something.” She typed for a moment, then waited. “Your ex checked in at the same time another guy did. His name is Klaus Kaufmann. Does that sound familiar?”

“No.” Annja added the name to her mental list.

“I thought maybe he was using his buddy’s name,” the clerk said. “Sometimes guys like him do.”

“I appreciate your help.” Annja closed her computer and shoved it back into her backpack.

“I hope it helps,” the clerk said sympathetically.

“Me, too.”

6

Outside, Annja had one of the bellmen flag down a cab for her. She gave her destination as Fulton Mall, at a small bistro near the corner of Flatbush, then settled in the back of the cab to think.

She could have staked out the hotel, but since the men looking for her already knew who she was, she figured that wasn’t a good idea. She needed to know more.

Or she needed Bart to call. Bart could get a lot of answers that she couldn’t. She wouldn’t have had a policeman’s life. As long as she’d known Bart, she’d also known that. Policemen saw too much of the harshness in life.

Then she thought about everything that had happened to her since she’d found the sword.

You’re not exactly leading a sheltered life, she told herself.

She made note of the two men’s names. At least there was a trail to follow. What she needed was the real package that Nikolai had hidden away.

S INCE SHE DIDN’T WANT to leave her phone number or allow someone to track her calls by getting a court order and looking at her records, Annja used the public phone in the bistro. She watched the street, wondering if anyone had followed her.

The bistro was small. A dozen tables were scattered across the black-and-white-tiled floor. Long-bladed ceiling fans stirred the air slowly overhead. Heat from the kitchen fogged the front window against the lingering winter chill.

Annja dialed the number for Mailboxes & Stuff. A woman answered, sounding a little tense.

“Could I speak to Nikolai?” Annja asked.

“Could I tell him who’s calling?”

The strange question pinged Annja’s radar immediately. “This is Nicole.”

“Oh. Well, Nikolai isn’t in right now.”

“I see.” Annja watched the television as a news reporter delivered an update on the violence that had broken out in Brooklyn. Police were still in the area. “I was just calling to make certain Nikolai was all right. I saw there was some trouble in his store a little while ago.”

Not even two hours ago. The short amount of time was unbelievable.

“He’s fine,” the woman said. “He’s with the police now. They’re hoping he can identify the men who came in here. This is really bizarre, isn’t it?”

Annja continued the conversation for a moment longer, then managed a graceful exit. She felt frustrated. But since she was hungry and there was no sign of anyone following her, there was only one place to go—Tito’s, her favorite restaurant.

There was no sense in going to her loft. Agent Smith, or Dieter and Klaus or their buddies might be there by now. She was certain someone would be.

She used the pay phone again, this time calling Wally, her building super. Wally was sixty-seven years old, a retired semipro baseball player who had bought the building with his wife while he’d still been playing ball. Tough and intelligent, Wally was a crusty guy who tended to follow his own line of thinking.

The answering machine picked up.

Annja debated leaving a message, and decided to because she wanted to know about her loft. “Wally, it’s Annja. If it’s not too much trouble—”

The phone clattered as it was lifted from the cradle.

“Hiya, little lady,” Wally said boisterously.

Annja smiled. It was nice hearing a genuinely friendly voice. “Hi, Wally.”

Wally’s voice quieted, but since he normally talked like Foghorn Leghorn, he was still loud. “Got yourself in some trouble again, do you?”

“I didn’t do this,” Annja said.

“You shoulda stayed down in Florida with the rest of the snowbirds.”

“I can always go back.”

“Getting out of the city could be tricky,” Wally said. “First of all, you got these unidentified types that have been watching your loft for the last three days.”

“Unidentified?”

“I don’t know them.”

“Okay.” Annja smiled a little at the man’s protective nature.

“And now you got cops,” Wally said.

“The police are there?”

“Oh, yeah. I spotted a couple of plainclothes guys in the neighborhood. After I rousted one and he identified himself, he asked me to let him into your place. I didn’t, of course. He had no legal right there, and I told him that. You ask me, he needs to watch a few more Law & Order episodes so he knows more about what he can and can’t do.”

“What are the police doing there?”

“Said they want to make sure you’re all right.”

“Did you tell them about the unidentified types?”

“I did, but after the police arrived, those guys were gone.”

“How did the police find out I might be in trouble?”

“Beats me. The only person giving out less information than the cops was me.”

Annja smiled at that.

“You called for a reason, little lady?”

“I’m worried about my home.” The loft was the first true home Annja had ever had.

Growing up in the orphanage always meant sharing space, bathrooms, everything. College and her early years in the field had been more of the same. She’d dreamed of having a place of her own ever since she was little. A place with plenty of space.

When she’d locked the deal with Chasing History’s Monsters, she’d signed a lease agreement with the option to buy with Wally. She hadn’t regretted a minute of it.

“Your home’s gonna be fine, little lady,” Wally replied. “Don’t you fret none about that. I’ll see to it.”

“Thanks,” Annja said. She hung up the phone, then walked over to the counter to get a cup of coffee to go.

Her cell phone rang.

Excited, Annja took the phone from her pocket and checked the Caller ID, hoping it was Nikolai or Bart or Mario. The number was blocked.

Annja answered anyway.

“Hello,” an excited male voice said. “Is this Annja Creed?”

“Yes.” Annja paid for the coffee and left the bistro, heading for Tito’s.

“Cool! I never thought I’d ever get to speak to you! I’ve been calling and calling!”

“Is there something I can do for you?” Annja asked.

“Oh, no,” the man said. “But there is something I can do for you.”

When the man proceeded to tell her what it was, Annja closed the phone and put it away. Creep! She suddenly felt unclean. More than anything, she wanted a bath in her own apartment.

The phone rang again. It was another blocked number.

Annja cringed. The possibility existed that the call was from someone she was waiting for. She opened the phone.

“We got cut off,” the man said. “I didn’t get to finish telling you—”

Annja closed the phone and kept walking.

T HE LUNCH RUSH WAS over at Tito’s, but there were several regulars who deliberately waited until those people had left so they could have a more leisurely lunch. The fare was Cuban, served fresh and hot, with all the love Maria Ruiz could put on the platter.

She stood at the counter that served as her throne, ruling over her kingdom with a benevolent eye. Everyone who came through the door was taken care of, and those who tried to take advantage of the staff or act in a rude manner were tossed.

Maria was plump and gray haired, dressed in black slacks and a lime-green top under an apron. In her sixties, Maria had transplanted from Cuba as a young woman, then raised a family in Brooklyn. Her oldest son ran the kitchen.

The booths and tables were a festive green and yellow. Strings of glowing red jalapeño-shaped lights framed the windows. Servers wore black slacks, white shirts and smiles. Most of them greeted Annja by name.

As soon as the scent of spices, fajita meat and beer filled her nose, the ball of tension in Annja’s stomach relaxed somewhat. Inside the walls of Tito’s, she was home.

Maria spotted her. “Señorita Annja!” She held her arms open wide and came toward her.

Annja met the woman halfway, accepting the offered hug and giving one in return. There was nothing like one of Maria’s hugs. It was almost as substantial as one of the meals that Tito’s served.

“Hello, Maria,” Annja said, grinning. After all the confusion and worry of the morning, it was nice to be welcomed.

Stepping back quickly and looking concerned, Maria placed her hands on Annja’s jawline. “You’re freezing.”

“It’s cold outside,” Annja agreed.

“We’ve got to get you warm again. Have you eaten?”

“Not since Miami this morning.”

“Foolishness. You must eat to keep your strength up. I have told you this many times.”

“I know.”

“You should listen.”

“I know.”

Only a few minutes later in a private booth, Annja nursed a large hot chocolate and a huge platter of food Maria had assembled.

Annja watched the television mounted on the wall. The story about the shooting in Brooklyn had lost out to an apartment fire that had gutted a building. The scenes on the television were grim, and Annja’s heart went out to the people who’d lost their homes.

She didn’t know what she’d do if something like that occurred to her loft. It worried her even more that the men who’d tried to kill her wouldn’t hesitate about setting fire to her home. The unpleasant thoughts took some of the enjoyment from the meal.

She wanted to know what was going on, and she wanted to know what she had to do to get her life back in order. She wished Bart would call.

Maria bustled about her, keeping Annja company only briefly because she was keeping watch over the restaurant and training two new servers. The restaurant opened six days a week, closed on Sundays because that was God’s day, and Maria worked every one of them.

The other television was set to ESPN, covering the baseball spring-training camps. Maria wasn’t a baseball fan, but she knew Annja was.

“So how come you’re eating alone?” Maria asked. “You should have a nice man for lunch.”

At that announcement, Annja nearly choked and had to get a sip of hot chocolate, which had just been refilled and was too hot for drinking. She burned her tongue.

Maria looked at her with concern. She was always trying to play matchmaker for Annja.

“All the nice men I know are busy,” Annja replied. There weren’t many of them. She took another bite of beef enchilada covered in sour cream sauce. The portion melted in her mouth.

“Hmph,” Maria said. “You waited too long. A woman who wants a man, she has to move quickly to take what she wants.”

Annja just smiled. Her line of work didn’t lend itself to long-lasting relationships. There was too much separation while she was out on dig sites for a long-term relationship. Unless she found someone who had the same interests she had. So far, that hadn’t happened.

“I’m doing too many things in my life right now,” Annja replied. “I don’t want a man I’ll be tripping over, or one that I’m going to feel guilty about leaving every time I have work to do.”

Still, it would be nice to have someone to share her successes and the things she learned. That kind of thinking led her to think about Bart McGilley again. Bart wanted someone in his life who would be there. That was why he was engaged to someone else.

But he was her friend, as he’d always been. She wished he would call.

As she ate, Annja divided her time between the television sets and the magazines she’d picked up at the newsstand earlier. She wanted to be home working on some of the material she’d gathered about the Calusa Indians. Maybe Chasing History’s Monsters intended to insert a digital shark in her segment, but there were other publications that had already responded favorably to her queries about doing articles. And she was supposed to write three chapters for a book on the Calusa Indians.

The phone rang several times during her meal. Most of the calls were congratulatory in nature, thanking her for one episode or another on the television show. It was almost enough to take the sting out of thinking about the phantom shark.

Then Nikolai called.

7

“Annja,” Nikolai said dramatically, “you would not believe the day I’ve been having. First, these hoodlums started stalking the shop. Then they are shooting in the streets. My God, it is almost too much.”

“I know,” Annja said. “I was the one they were shooting at.”

That brought Nikolai up short. “Oh. That’s right. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Where have you been?”

“At the police station. Looking at mug shots. You know, in the detective shows, the police bring a man in, give him a coffee and sit him in a chair, then give him this enormous book to go through and—voilà!—he puts his finger on the face of the man the police are looking for.”

Annja couldn’t help herself. She liked Nikolai, but his fake Russian accent got on her nerves when he got it wrong. “That’s the wrong word,” she pointed out.

“What word?”

“Voilà. That’s French, not Russian.”

“Ah, borscht.” Nikolai gave up the pretense. “I used it with the cops.”

“Maybe they’ll think you’re a Russian who spent some time in France.”

“Probably not. They called my mom. She doesn’t speak like a Russian. I swear, Annja, people just don’t realize how much fun an accent can be. I love getting away with saying inappropriate things. You wouldn’t believe the looks, or the help, that I get.”

“I take it you’re not at the police station anymore?”

“No. I was getting bored. I told them I’d come back tomorrow and look some more. I don’t think they really cared. I got the impression they think these guys have left town.”

“They haven’t,” Annja said.

“How do you know?”

“I found two of them.”

“Jeez, Annja, you need to tell the cops.”

“I’m waiting for Bart McGilley to call me.”

“He’s your cop friend?”

“Yes. If I try to talk to anyone else, things are going to get too confusing.” Given her past history with situations involving police agencies, Annja didn’t want to deal with anyone else. After being raised by nuns, Annja didn’t like dealing with authority figures if she could help it.

“The police are looking for you,” Nikolai said in a quiet voice.

“Why?”

“Because I had to tell them about you. Someone got a picture of you when you ran into the bus with the Letterman ad. This detective—a real jerk, I tell you—told me if I didn’t tell him the truth he was going to put me in jail.”

“He couldn’t do that.”

“He sounded like he could.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Nikolai. The police can only arrest you if you’ve done something wrong. The only way they can get you to offer testimony about something is to get you in court and have a judge order you to answer questions.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Most people don’t. So you told them about me?” Now Annja knew why the police were at her loft. At least it wasn’t anything that had to do with Mario.

“They already knew about you,” Nikolai said. “Someone identified you from the television show.”

Annja took a deep breath and let it out. “Did you tell them about the package?”

“No.”

“Do you still have it?”

“I can get it.”

“ We’ll get it. I need you to meet me. Do you know where Digital Paradise is?”

“Of course I do.”

“Meet me there.”

“When?”

“Now. I’ll be there before you are. Be careful.”

“Why?” Nikolai sounded nervous. “Do you think I’m still in danger?”

“Those guys haven’t got what they came for,” Annja said. “Right now it’s better to be a little paranoid.” She shoved the magazines into her backpack. “I’ll see you there.”

D IGITAL P ARADISE WAS located in the middle of the block. Neon tubes glowed in the windows, announcing the presence of Internet, Games, Sandwiches, Beer and Fun.

Annja purchased time on a card, then retreated to the back of the large room where she could keep an eye on the door. She took a seat in the ergonomic chair, flexed her fingers and started typing.

All around her, players sat at banks of computers, playing video games around the world. Most of them were guys in their teens and early twenties, but there were a few women and older people, as well.

Negotiating the Digital Paradise interface, Annja opened her e-mail in one window and let it start cycling through, thinking there was a chance Mario had sent her an e-mail after everything that had happened.

She also accessed her e-mail at Chasing History’s Monsters, thinking that if Mario had tried contacting her through her answering service there he might also have used the show’s e-mail address.

Normally she didn’t get the mail from the television show. She’d discovered early on that it was as bad as the phone calls were proving to be. The cell phone vibrated from time to time, diverting her attention and causing no end of frustration.

A quick check through alt.archaeology and alt.archaeology.esoterica sites showed a few promising developments on stories she was planning to do, but nothing that pertained to Mario Fellini.

She Googled a page that dealt with international phone numbers and searched for the 371 listing. She learned 371 belonged to Latvia, one of the Eastern European Baltic countries that had broken away from Russia in the 1990s.

A quick, cursory search on Latvia revealed a history replete with Vikings, amber, German crusaders and world trade. The Hanseatic League, the first trade union made up of merchantmen instead of nobility, included Latvia. From beginning to end, the Latvian people had been subjected to a long string of invasions. World War I had left permanent scars on the country, then the Russians had crushed continued efforts for the country to become independent.

It was all interesting. Annja had read into the history somewhat, particularly fascinated by the formation of the Hanseatic League in the fourteenth century, which had opened the floodgates on international commerce.

In its own way, the Hanseatic League had been as world changing as the Internet. For the first time, the middle class was free to trade, invest and speculate in goods that would be imported and exported.

Before that, royalty had controlled those shipments, only allowing what they saw fit to be bought or sold. Vikings had taken ships with ease. By banding together, the merchants spread their shipments over more than one vessel and provided adequate protection in the form of mercenaries.

But whom did Mario know in Latvia? That was the question.

Annja pursued it.

M ARIO KEPT a home page.

Annja found it easily enough after a quick search. She stared at Mario’s picture. If it was recent, he hadn’t changed much.

He was a handsome man, lean and fit. His coloration was Mediterranean, and his hair was black and crept down past his neckline. The scar he’d gotten over his left eye while they’d worked at the Hadrian’s Wall dig was still visible.

Annja smiled at that, remembering how they’d been involved in a bar fight in Haltwhistle.

A local had been selling “genuine” Roman artifacts he’d claimed to have found at Hadrian’s Wall. Mario, with maybe a beer or two too many, had taken umbrage with the man and challenged the authenticity of the artifacts.

The man had come up swinging. Mario wasn’t trained in self-defense, though, and had gotten the worst of it. Annja had stepped in and made short work of the guy and two of his friends with her martial-arts skills.

At the time, it had been scary, but even then something had seemed to come alive in Annja. Okay, so even before you got the sword you sometimes walked on the wild side, she reminded herself.

Annja read through information, learning that Mario had left his position in Vatican City fourteen months earlier. She hadn’t even known he’d worked there.

It made her sad to think that such a prestigious thing had happened to someone she considered a friend and she hadn’t even known about it. You’re not much on friends, she chided herself.

She knew it was her own fault. Most people she met tended to slip through her fingers. She let them. Friends were hard to manage because they often wanted more time than she had to give.

In truth, most of the time she didn’t notice the lack of friends because she was busy pursuing new interests that took her out of Brooklyn and away from her home. She loved being able to come and go as she pleased, and liked that she didn’t have many regrets about being gone for weeks and months at a time.

The page didn’t say why Mario had left Vatican City, but Annja suspected it was because he hadn’t been given free rein to choose his own subjects to research. Mario had always been extremely independent.

He was currently employed as a curator at a small museum in Riga, Latvia. Annja couldn’t read the Latvian language. According to Mario’s Web site, the language was also called Lettish. The name of the museum roughly translated into Peering Through Time and was funded by an independent financial source.

None of that explained what Mario was doing in New York, what he’d sent to her or why someone would be chasing after it.

Nor was there any mention of Erene Skujans.

Annja felt frustrated. Deciding to let that line of inquiry rest for a moment, she turned her attention to the two names she’d gotten from the desk clerk at the Sentry Continental Hotel.

She had more luck finding out who Dieter Humbrecht and Klaus Kaufmann were. But that led to even more questions and confusion.

Her research had turned up three articles with Humbrecht’s name in them, and two of them mentioned Kaufmann. The first was a news article out of South Africa a few years earlier that listed the men as mercenaries. The second was on the Web site of a man whose personal museum collection had been stolen. The third mention was of an arrest of Humbrecht for attempting to break into an archive in Vatican City. He’d received jail time for his efforts.

Annja looked at the notes she’d taken. The break-in attempt had occurred while Mario was employed at Vatican City. Shortly after that, Mario had left.

The timing bothered Annja and made her suspicious. She’d always liked Mario and would never have thought badly of him. But Mario always did like going after the story, she reminded herself. His curiosity drove him. That, and the desire to become famous for a find that would be recognized throughout the world.

Would a find that promised something that big be enough temptation to make Mario cross the line? Annja didn’t know.

At that moment, Nikolai entered the café. The problem was, he hadn’t come alone.

8

Dieter Humbrecht and one of the other men flanked Nikolai. Looking despondent and afraid, Nikolai glanced around the cybercafe, then locked eyes with Annja.

The two men spotted her, too. Humbrecht shoved Nikolai forward, causing him to stumble. A few of the gamers noticed the action and swapped anxious looks. One of them reached for a cell phone.

Okay, Annja told herself, this is going to have to happen fast because the police are going to be involved soon.

She pushed her things into the backpack and zipped it closed. Then she stood and walked toward the men.

Up close, Annja had to admit that Dieter was a handsome man. Unfortunately, according to the newspaper reports out of South Africa, he was also a killer. He’d been acting to save an employer’s life at the time, though.

“Ah, Ms. Creed,” Humbrecht greeted with an English accent. “We meet at last.”

“I have to admit that this wasn’t something I was looking forward to, Dieter.” Annja enjoyed the momentary glint of caution that showed on the man’s handsome face.

“You know who I am,” he said.

“It wasn’t hard,” Annja replied, hoping it would shake some of the man’s arrogant confidence.

“I suppose Fellini told you.”

Annja didn’t say anything. At this point, the best thing she could do was keep them guessing.

“Actually, that doesn’t matter,” Dieter said. “Our business here is about finished.”

“It is,” Annja promised him. She reached for the sword, feeling it grow more solid against her palm.

“I’m sorry, Annja,” Nikolai said. “They followed me from the police station. I didn’t know.”

That explains where the other two went, Annja thought. You should have thought of that.

But she was an archaeologist, not a master sleuth. However, she was also quite capable of taking care of herself.

“It’s okay, Nikolai,” Annja said.

Nikolai’s hands trembled and his pinched expression showed that he might be sick. “They want the package, but they wanted you, too.”

Annja looked at Dieter. “Why?”

“Because there are things my employer would like to know.”

“What things?”

Dieter shrugged. “This matter is a bit of a puzzle, Ms. Creed. My employer feels that your expertise could be useful.”

“Hasn’t Mario told you what you need to know?”

Grinning, Dieter said, “Mario was reluctant to tell us much of anything.”

No honor among thieves? Annja wondered.

Dieter slid a pistol from a shoulder holster, showing her just enough to let her know he had it. “We need to be going. My men are picking up the package Mario sent you.”

Annja looked at Nikolai. “You told them where the package was?”

“Sort of.” Nikolai shrugged helplessly.

Dieter looked at Nikolai and grabbed him by his coat collar. “If you’ve lied to me—”

Taking advantage of the distraction, Annja pulled the sword to her, holding it beside her leg. It was three feet of razor-sharp, double-bladed steel. Whatever beauty the sword had was savage, but there was no denying its presence. The blade gleamed as it splintered the light.

She spoke to Nikolai in Klingon and ordered him to get down. Since the artificial language was severely limited, as was her knowledge of it, she’d ordered him to “put shields up.”

Nikolai dived to the ground at once.

Dieter pulled the pistol from inside his coat and brought it around toward Annja. Sidestepping, dropping her right foot behind her left, Annja swung the sword in a blinding arc. The sword connected with the pistol and sent the weapon flying from Dieter’s hand.

Shock spread across the man’s face, then he kicked at Annja’s head before she could bring the sword back. Dropping back a step, Annja let her opponent’s kick sail past her head. Spinning, she launched a back-fist at Dieter’s head.

He dropped and slid backward. Holding his hands out and twisting them, he freed two ASP batons and caught them. He triggered them and they elongated with metallic snaps.

“Well,” Dieter said, smiling, “I don’t know how you managed that trick. Maybe I’ll beat it out of you later.” Armed with nearly two feet of gleaming reinforced steel, he stepped to the attack.

He swung the batons rapidly, aiming for her head, then her knees, then her head again in a convoluted figure-eight pattern. Annja was certain if any of the blows had landed they would have crushed bone.

The computer users abandoned their posts, heading for the back of the café. The attention of most of them was riveted on the fight.

They’ve been playing way too many video games, Annja thought as she parried Dieter’s attacks and gave more ground. The mercenary was incredible with the batons. She’d definitely figured him to favor guns.

“Irwin,” Dieter growled, blocking Annja’s attack with crossed batons. He held the sword only inches from the crown of his head. His arms shook with the strain. “Shoot her.”

Okay, he does favor guns, Annja told herself grimly.

Irwin leveled his pistol and fired.

Twisting and throwing herself back, Annja barely avoided the bullet. It cut through her coat over her midsection. She dropped and rolled toward Irwin, coming up on her left hand as she drove both of her feet up.

Her left foot knocked the pistol from Irwin’s hand, and her right foot caught him under the chin, lifting him from his feet and sending him sailing backward. He crashed into a computer terminal and sank down.

By that time, Dieter was nearly on top of her. A baton streaked for her head. She blocked it with the sword, then she rolled to the side and got to her feet. Irwin was out cold, slumped on top of the wrecked computer terminal.

Dieter didn’t offer any more taunts. His face was cold and deadly. She could see he intended to kill her as fast as he could.

Annja parried and blocked, then thrust the sword at Dieter’s face. As expected, Dieter dodged back, pushing the sword away with his left-hand baton. Reaching forward, Annja plucked the other baton from Dieter’s right hand.

“You’re good,” Annja told him as she backed away with her captured prize. “Just not good enough.”

Dieter launched himself at her, swinging his remaining baton. Annja countered with the sword, then swung the baton into Dieter’s forehead. The man collapsed.

Annja glanced around. Everyone had run out of the café. She willed the sword to disappear, then reached down for Nikolai.

“That was incredible!” Nikolai crowed. He was shaking so much he could barely stand. “I didn’t know you were Xena quality.”

“I’m not Xena,” Annja assured him. “Are you all right?” she asked Nikolai.

“You have a sword!” Nikolai said. “I didn’t know you had a sword!” Then he looked at her and frowned. “What did you do with it?”

“There was no sword.”

“I saw a sword.”

“Do you see a sword now?”

“No.” Nikolai looked confused. “Where did it go?”

“Nikolai.”

He looked at her.

“Focus,” Annja said. “They came after the package. I need the package. Where is the package?”

Nikolai blinked at her. For a minute she didn’t think her words had penetrated. Then he said, “The package.”

“That’s right. What did you do with it?”

Shrugging, Nikolai said, “I work in a shipping business. I shipped it.”

Annja shook her head. She hadn’t been thinking. No wonder Nikolai had gotten the package out from under the men’s noses so easily. The easiest answers were always the best ones.

“Where?” she asked.

“To a mail place over on Flatbush Avenue. I take classes at the college and it’s near my mom’s house.”

“I’m going to go get it,” Annja said. “You need to get somewhere safe.”

“You can’t get it,” Nikolai said.

“Why?”

“The guy who works there? Tom? He’s only going to give it to me.”

“You do realize that they could shoot Tom if he doesn’t give it to them, don’t you? He might change his mind about protecting your package. Unless you’re really good friends.”

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