Da Vinci’s greatest and most dangerous legacy…

In the midst of a lovers’ quarrel on a Venetian bridge, a pair of art thieves loses a priceless, stolen Lorraine cross to the canal’s murky waters. Suspecting a connection between the cross, Joan of Arc and da Vinci, Annja Creed’s former mentor, Roux, sends the archaeologist to oversee the search for the missing artifact. But someone else knows about the cross…knows enough to kill for it.

Despite several vicious attacks during their underwater expedition, Annja and Roux’s hired diver recovers the cross. But when the diver’s loyalties are called into question and he disappears—along with the treasure—Annja is certain there’s more to the ancient object than Roux is letting on. She soon discovers the cross is only one piece in an intricate enigma—a key that, when combined with a series of musical notes, may unlock one of Leonardo da Vinci’s most fantastical inventions. But the price Annja must pay to stop this key from falling into the wrong hands may be her life.

“Have you heard of the devil’s chord, Annja?”

Interesting conversation change. But Annja could go with it. “Of course. It was a tritone of musical notes that the church banned from being played or used in musical scores in the Middle Ages. It was thought to be evil because it’s dissonant.”

“Diabolus in musica,” Roux recited.

“The devil in music,” Annja translated. “I’m not a musician, but I do know the chord is played quite a bit nowadays. The heavy metal bands pounced on the forbidden motif, liking the evil connotation, but a lot of other musicians have used it, too.”

“It’s not so evil.”

“It’s certainly not worthy of excommunication or death. So what does a bit of music have to do with

a cross that once belonged to Joan of Arc?”

“Nothing. And everything.”

Intrigued, Annja propped her elbows on the table, ready for the rest of the story.

The Devil’s Chord

Alex Archer

Contents

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 1

Milan, 1488

The night was young and the tavern stank like a hog barn, which was much preferable to the cart of rotting fish parked outside his studio near the park. Leonardo had sought escape from the stench. The tavern’s atmosphere of soused cheer always sharpened his senses. There was so much to take in and to record.

Upon choosing a seat, he’d sketched a study of the tavern keeper’s face as it had segued through the various stages of reception, duty and amiability. He’d just finished the resentful sneer the keeper cast toward the boastful gent adorned in rich velvet and Venetian lace.

When he’d spied the tall, lean man with a tankard in hand casting about for a place to sit, Leonardo had invited him to join him. Pleased by the invitation, the man sat across from him at the rough-hewn wood table. He had an open purse and enjoyed the taste of the local ale. And he was very willing to share that appetite with Leonardo.

Leonardo da Vinci sat back against the beam in the center of the tavern—his usual spot—and produced the notebook he always carried with him

“Do you mind?” he asked the man who had introduced himself as Roux. “I like to record things,” he explained, pointing at the notebook with his red chalk pencil. “Whatever passes before my eyes. People, places, things. Emotions. Designs. Ideas.”

“Don’t mind at all.” Roux tilted back the ale stein. The man had a French accent, but his sun-browned skin suggested Spanish heritage, perhaps. Leonardo had not visited France—or Spain, for that matter—enough to pick out the various dialects. “But how does one record emotions? Is it possible to draw them?”

“Oh, yes.”

Leonardo sketched the beginning lines to the old man’s face. His long Roman nose showed a commanding presence and intelligence. His skin tone promised he rode horses more often than luxuriating idly in a carriage. His eyebrows were darker than his silver-white hair, drawing attention from the lines that creased at the corners of his eyes.

“I like to capture the human face as a person experiences many emotions,” he explained. “Angst. Worry. Joy. Curiosity. Happiness shows first in the eyes. Drunkenness tends to obliterate the finer details of emotion. And worship. Ah, worship.”

“I’ll give you drunkenness after a few more steins.”

The man signaled to the serving wench, and arms loaded with a pitcher and empty tankards, she nodded that she’d return to their table when she was able.

“I write everything down,” Leonardo added as he swept his hand across the paper. “There is no order,” he continued. “But every detail I note engages my thoughts and hopefully inspires me. You see, if I don’t put it down on paper, then I can’t make room for new ideas. It’s so full.” He paused to tap his skull. “My mind. And after I’ve removed one idea, there are always new ones to fill the space.”

“You’ve a restless mind. Always thought an artist would be—I don’t know—serene. Lost in the creation of his next work.”

“But that’s it exactly,” Leonardo said. Enthusiasm had him shifting in his seat and he leaned forward to study the wrinkles that dotted the edges of Roux’s eyes. “I do get lost. If I didn’t have many other notions and interests, I might never take on the next project.”

Of course, sometimes it seemed there were simply too many projects jostling for his attention. It was entirely his own fault. He followed his muse. An erratic muse.

He tugged out his purse, which had a few coins in it but more usually held his red chalk and a lampblack pencil. Inside he also kept the key to his special box and a few cards onto which he’d sketched the Lorraine cross he’d recently finished enhancing. Or rather, altering magnificently.

Leonardo set the cards on the table beside the wilted calfskin purse, and when the wench handed him his refilled stein, he thanked her and then ignored the spirits in favor of his subject.

“I’ve seen a cross like that before,” Roux commented. “May I?” He took the sketch with his long, callus-roughened fingers. The cross featured parallel crossbars placed at equal distance on the single center bar. “Referred to as a Lorraine cross?”

“Yes. It’s a sketch of a piece I own. A gift from René d’Anjou. He was a friend. Another Frenchman,” Leonardo added, since he’d decided Roux’s accent was definitely from France.

“I knew the Count d’Anjou. Died a few years ago at his home in Aix-en-Provence. Good King René—isn’t that what they called him?”

Leonardo nodded.

“And his mother, Yolande of Aragon. She was kind and strong. A fierce woman. One of Jeanne d’Arc’s tutors.”

“Is that so?” Looking up from the sketch, the pencil gripped loosely now, Leonardo granted the man his complete attention. René had never talked much about his family. He was possessed of a mind as busy as Leonardo’s own and always jumped from one topic to the other with frequency. “Tell me more.”

Roux shrugged. “I got to know him when he rode in the siege on Orléans in 1429.”

“He and Jeanne were close,” Leonardo stated.

There were rumors whispered that René d’Anjou and the Maid of Orléans had been lovers.

“The man traveled to places far and wide in his quest for knowledge,” Roux provided. “Did you meet him here in Milan?”

“Yes, we spent some time together. As you’ve said, his quest for knowledge was immense. That man possessed an amazing mind, and I did enjoy listening to one who could speak with such confidence.”

“So this cross—” Roux gestured at the drawing “—it was once René’s?”

Leonardo nodded. “Indeed, but before he owned it, it had belonged to Jeanne d’Arc. She’d gifted it to him. D’Anjou implied it was the very cross she clutched to her breast as she prepared to die in the flames.”

The old man winced and bowed his head. Indeed, it was a terrible scenario to imagine.

“Once I had the cross,” Leonardo said, “I immediately knew I had to fashion it into something more spectacular. As you can see by the notched surface here—” he tapped the card that revealed the back surface of the cross “—it fits a specific lock, of which— That is a secret. Did you know the Maid of Orléans?”

Roux’s fingers traced the edge of the card, as if his focus was elsewhere instead of what was in front of him. Leonardo quickly sketched the change in his irises, softening the surrounding whites with a smudge of his finger.

“I did know her, yes,” Roux muttered.

Had Leonardo not been sitting so close to the man, he would not have heard the quiet admission.

Possessed of an insatiable need to learn and to experience, Leonardo could not resist the unknown. “What can you tell me about her?”

The old man looked thoughtful for several minutes. He was choosing his words with care. His attention seeming to rise from some distant chasm as he met Leonardo’s eyes. “I was one of the soldiers who rode alongside her into battle. I was with her on many occasions. I was there as she was led to the stake.”

Leonardo swallowed hard. To have witnessed such a travesty surely was a cruel burden to have to bear and one that would be difficult for a man to erase from his memory. “So you...”

“Yes, I witnessed it all. She was brave to the end. Such a tragic, senseless accusation of heresy.”

“She fought for Charles VII. For all of France. Bravely.” He leaned on his elbows, curiosity making him bold. “If you were there, by her side, did you believe she was hearing messages from God?”

“I never had reason to question her sincerity,” the man answered bluntly.

Leonardo nodded. He longed to explain many things in this world, but some did seem unexplainable.

“If I wanted to do a study, possibly a painting of her, perhaps you could provide me details of the event?”

Roux swiped up his stein. The ale ran down his chin and neck, wetting the silver-trimmed doublet that he’d tied neatly before his throat. “No,” he said and abruptly slammed the stein on the wood table.

“I understand it must be a sensitive event to recall—”

“Paint her as an innocent woman who was wronged by those whom she thought to trust.”

Sensing the man’s ingrained anger for the topic, Leonardo didn’t want to push. If he asked of the woman herself, that might restore the right mood. “She was dark of hair, yes?”

Roux slid the sketch of the cross toward Leonardo. “Do you want more ale or am I to up and leave?”

“No, please don’t leave. I’ll— I’m sorry. Perhaps some other time we can continue this discussion. I do have something else of hers I value. It came from D’Anjou. I traded a sketch for it, a piece. It is one of my prized possessions.”

“A piece?” Roux asked.

“Yes. Of Jeanne d’Arc’s sword.”

* * *

Venice, sixteen months ago

THE GONDOLA GLIDED through gentle waves. Here in the northernmost sestiere of the city, the canals glistened as moonlight added the appropriate silver highlights.

Everything should have been perfect for a romantic cruise through the city before they headed to the mainland to catch a flight home to the States. Once at JFK Airport, they would shake hands, perhaps even share a lingering kiss and then go their separate ways.

“I expected more,” the woman said, pulling away from the embrace her partner assumed she had wanted. “You lied to me.”

“Sweetie.” The man caught the gondolier’s sad look and subtle headshake. Been there, done that, buddy. “I never actually said we’d get married after the heist. I said I’d consider it. And I’ve done that. I have given it as much thought as I have our escape plans. I don’t think it’s the right time.”

“The right time?”

He always worried about her temper—it could flare at a moment’s notice. Now her agitation sent a chilling prickle along the back of his neck. Off-putting and yet so familiar. These days he should have sensed it before it hit him.

“Can we not get into this here?” he tried. “Look around. The city is beautiful. The lights are—”

“I do nothing for you until you apologize.”

He sighed and pushed away from her on the padded bench. Another gondola approached, a red-and-white-striped canopy shading the happy couple who couldn’t seem to take their eyes off one another. The woman was clutching a bunch of roses. Hey, look, a romantic couple, he wanted to point out.

Romance and roses? Hell, he’d forgotten the roses, too. That was the first thing she’d said when they’d boarded the gondola. No flowers? The woman had an exquisite bead on what buttons to push to make him feel lacking.

And when the marriage proposal she was expecting had actually been his suggestion for a two-week vacation apart while he plotted their next robbery? Her upper lip had disappeared and her mouth tightened. Her silence made him worry more than her usual anger.

Bending forward, he cracked open the cooler cover. They’d brought it along with the steel attaché case. The attaché they’d not let out of their sight for two days. The cooler he’d filled with beer, not wine. And he was pretty sure he’d be reprimanded for that oversight, as well. Did it matter anymore? There was no saving this night.

“I want to get off at that landing up there,” she said. “Tell the gondolier. I’ll walk to the hotel.”

“But we have reservations at that fancy restaurant, sweetie. You insisted.”

“Don’t sweetie me. I’m done with you. No more of this.” She shoved the cooler with a foot. “Get another safe cracker. I’m going out on my own.”

“Would you keep your voice down?” He suspected the gondolier could speak English, even though he’d shrugged and shook his head when they’d initially asked him. “Sweetie,” he said in a harsh whisper, “you know you are a terrible planner. You need me to plot the details of the job and manage the getaway. We’re a perfect team.”

The gondola slowed near the landing.

“Not this one,” the man said over his shoulder to the gondolier.

“Yes, this one,” the woman insisted. She stood as they neared the dock. “Ciao, sweetie.”

He reached for her leg as she stepped up onto shore, but it slipped through his grasp. She was an expert at folding her body into tight spots, which came in handy during a heist. And she could glide under a security laser with ease. He always marveled at how she could squeeze those generous breasts under a few inches of clearance.

“Do not call me. Ever,” she said with a definite finality. She marched into the crowded outdoor café half-filled with patrons.

Perfect escape, he thought. With people around, she wouldn’t expect him to cause a scene. Not that he was a scene causer. She didn’t want to work with him? Fine. He had the goods from their recent heist. He didn’t need her.

Bowing his head over the beer bottle, he slapped his hand onto the hard metal surface of the attaché—but his palm landed on the floor of the gondola. He checked under the padded bench seat where he’d told her to stash the case when they’d boarded.

“We go now?” the gondolier asked.

“Uh, wait. Sweetie!” he called. Even in his panic he was considerate of their rule never to use names in public. “What did you do with the case?”

She was already several yards away, walking the path that hugged the historic canal. But she’d heard him. Turning, she smirked and called out to him, “Dumped it!”

“Wh-what?” He scrambled about the floor of the wide-bottomed boat, thinking he might find a little cubby where the case might be, but there were only life vests stuffed under the seat and the cooler. “It’s not here!”

“Because it’s in the canal!”

Laughing that bold, spectacular laugh he’d always loved to listen to because it usually followed some great sex, she strolled off and disappeared into the night.

“The canal?”

He peered over the edge of the boat and frowned at the rippling water. She’d dumped the case over the side of the gondola? When had she— It must have been when he’d been digging around in the cooler for a beer, trying to avoid her disappointed gaze.

“We have to go back that way,” he directed the gondolier. “I know you understand me. North.” He thumbed the direction over his shoulder.

But despite the gondolier’s nodding agreement and his patient navigation over their previous route, the thief spotted nothing floating in the canal. The attaché had been relatively heavy, around six to eight pounds. Hell, it must have sunk the instant it had hit the water.

Taking note of the buildings in the immediate area and where they were in the canal, he directed the gondolier to his hotel.

He left Venice that night because he didn’t want to miss his flight, and by extension his one shot to maybe repair the damage he’d done to his partnership. He was still hopeful even after he’d found his airplane ticket lying on their bed. She’d bought the tickets because she had always managed their finances. Foolish move on his part.

Equally foolish was his thinking that he might have had eight or nine hours on a flight to convince her not to dump him. She hadn’t been in the seat next to him on the plane home. Must have stayed behind?

His bad luck continued when he arrived at the apartment they’d shared in Manhattan, and found his bank account emptied and all the keys and combinations to their secret hiding spots gone or empty.

A knock on the door had been followed by the flash of an NYPD badge. Accompanying the cop had been a man from Interpol.

A woman scorned knew how to inflict revenge on a man’s soul. Maybe he should have proposed after all.

Chapter 2

Annja Creed checked the cell phone’s screen. She had the phone set to vibrate only because she was conducting an interview. A name appeared above the long-distance number. What did that man want with her now? He’d have to wait. She put the phone aside on the laminated table.

The woman sitting across from Annja in the bistro twisted the end of her napkin nervously. She was called Sirena. That was it—no last name. Doug Morrell, Annja’s producer, had made contact with her online. A segment for another episode of Chasing History’s Monsters.

Beside Annja in the booth sat Ian Tate, her cameraman. He worked freelance and was based in Scotland, but was fond of traveling the world. He was short of stature yet filled with the adventurous spirit required for the job, and she had gotten along with him as soon as they’d shaken hands and he’d teased her about this assignment.

They’d met up yesterday afternoon to film shots of the scenic shoreline here at Isola delle Femmine, a town in Palermo, Italy. The translation of the town’s name was the Island of Women. Annja hadn’t done any research on that before arriving, but she seemed to recall there had once been a women’s prison on a nearby unoccupied island.

Sirena’s hair spilled to her elbows in pale brownish-green waves. Annja wondered if it was a dye job gone wrong or if the woman had purposely chosen the muddy tones. She hoped Serena hadn’t paid for it. It wasn’t well done, and she needed a retouch.

“So you said you’ve been living with a man for three years and he won’t release you?” Annja posited.

The mythology on selkies fascinated Annja, but she didn’t believe in them for a moment. The idea of a seal-like creature coming to shore and shedding its skin to transform into a beautiful woman... Well.

On the other hand, this was exactly the sort of story Chasing History’s Monsters sought. Something her fans would eat up.

“Yes. Matteo has hidden my pelt so I cannot go home,” Sirena said. She toyed with the ends of her seaweed-colored hair. Bright, glossy gray eyes always seemed to be filled with tears, but not a one ever ran down her cheek. “I love him, but...” She glanced out the bistro’s window. Across the street the shore sat close. Seagulls swept down from the blue sky and tourists headed for the beach.

“But your home is in the sea,” Annja finished for her. She glanced to Ian. He gave her a thumbs-up. The guy was good at hiding his smirk. So long as he got this conversation on film, that was all that mattered. “Do you ever go in the water now? Swim in the sea? What would happen if you did?”

“I’d sink,” Sirena said. The waif sighed heavily. “When in this human form I am bulky and unskilled in the water. But I do like to soak in the bathtub for hours. Matteo laughs at me because I insist on remaining even after the water has grown cold.” She shivered and pushed aside her empty coffee cup.

Annja was not a good judge of another couple’s relationship. But something about Sirena seemed wrong. And it wasn’t at all related to the bleak possibility she may have once lived in the water.

She reached across the table and placed a hand over Sirena’s, knowing Doug would whoop when he saw the footage. Whenever she could capture an emotional moment, her producer always rubbed his fingers together in the universal money sign. Ratings gold, he’d say.

But she wasn’t forcing this feeling. She was genuinely concerned for Sirena.

“Are you and Matteo okay, Sirena? Is he...harming you?”

The woman’s head snapped up, and her gaze met Annja’s briefly. She pulled her hand from Annja’s and reached for the macramé purse at her hip and slid out of the booth so quickly, Annja slammed into Ian in an attempt to follow her.

The cameraman shuffled out of the booth, allowing Annja to pursue the escaping interviewee.

“I’m sorry, the interview is over,” Sirena said firmly. “I thought you wanted to know about my kind, not delve into my personal life. I have to leave now. Please don’t follow me. You are not welcome at my home.”

“Sirena, I’ll tell him to turn off the camera.”

Annja nodded to Ian, and he lowered the camera. She rushed after the anxious woman, who hustled outside.

On the sidewalk, Annja grabbed Sirena by the arm, standing so close she got a whiff of salt, as if Sirena had been swimming in the ocean and hadn’t rinsed off. “Wait. You can talk to me, Sirena. Woman to woman.”

Sirena tugged away from Annja’s grasp. “You could never understand the sacrifice I made for love.”

With that, she scampered across the street, and for the first time, Annja noticed that beneath the long skirt dusting her ankles, Serena was barefoot. A bohemian refugee plunked in the middle of a seaside village? Probably not a drastic leap to concoct and believe in her story of waves and woe.

“You think she’s going to be okay?” Ian asked from behind Annja.

“I’m not sure.”

Sirena stopped at a beat-up red pickup truck. A man slid out from behind the wheel and kissed her. When she spoke to him, his eyes darted across the street and targeted Annja.

“I guess that’s the boyfriend.” Annja offered a wave, then, sensing she wasn’t getting a warm stare in return, she nodded to Ian. “Let’s head back to the hotel and look over the footage. See if we have enough for a segment or if we need to entice Sirena to talk some more.”

After an afternoon of going through the footage, Annja determined they did have some great shots. She could cobble together a short segment for the show. Though Doug would still want to see fins slapping the water’s surface or some other bit of silliness. He could add that himself.

During supper Ian suggested they do a follow-up with Sirena, perhaps in a week or two. By then she would have had some time to think about what Annja had said to her today. It sounded like a good idea. Annja was not beyond extending her stay in Italy for a few weeks. If Doug would cover her expenses, she’d dig around for another story idea. She’d start with Rosalia, the patron of Palermo, who had lived during the twelfth century and saved the city from the plague. Her bones were interred here.

After supper, and still waiting for the okay from Doug to stick around in Italy, Annja and Ian headed back to the shore to capture some night shots. Moonlight glimmered across the water’s surface. She stood back, toeing a thatch of ragged grass while Ian strode the rocky shore.

The clatter of stones and footsteps alerted her just as someone grabbed Ian’s camera and shoved him hard enough to make her colleague fall backward and land on the ground.

Recognizing the man who’d pushed Ian, Annja rushed him and prevented him from swinging a fist toward the fallen cameraman.

“Shove off!” Matteo hissed at Annja as he wrestled away from her. “You two get out of town and stop harassing Sirena.”

“We’re filming a story,” Annja defended. “And we were invited by Sirena. Is there something you want to tell us?”

“I just did. Keep away from Sirena. You are not putting footage of her on TV.”

“Why? Because she believes she is a selkie?”

The dark-haired bruiser with a few days’ beard growth stared at her. He seemed overly worked up considering the circumstances. Why was he so uptight about them and what Sirena could tell them? Annja noted the reek of alcohol, which was likely only fortifying his mean streak.

Sirena had been afraid of him.

Matteo lunged for her. Annja bent at the waist, twisting, and kicked low, catching him below the knee. He yelped and toppled forward, but managed to grip her by the hair as he went down. She rolled over his body, landed on the loose shore stones and came up to her feet in a squat.

“Do you hurt her, Matteo?” she asked.

He sneered and pushed off the ground, coming to a stand.

Annja jumped up before him. She could feel the sword hum from within the otherwhere, there if she needed it. But she didn’t want to introduce a weapon to this scuffle. She didn’t suspect Matteo was armed with anything more than fear of exposure.

“She tells lies,” he hissed.

“So you’re not keeping her with you against her will?”

“She...she said that? You’re lying to me!” He swung at Annja, but she dodged him easily. The man wasn’t so drunk. He maintained his footing and, bouncing back and forth, showed her his fists. “Stay away from her!”

Out the corner of her eye, Annja saw Ian fumble to his feet. He didn’t go for his camera. Thankfully, he had the good sense that this would not make for good television.

Matteo dived for her and gripped her about the waist, pushing them both to the hard ground. “You give me what’s on that camera.” He punched, landing a bruising set of knuckles against her throat.

Annja kicked, connecting her boot toe with his gut, but not hard enough to injure. Instead, she flipped him onto his back and crawled on top of him, straddling his hips. A right fist to his jaw spattered blood across the rocks. She’d never backed away from a fight, and admittedly, it adrenalized her. Frankly, it was easy when she fought against a man like this.

“You let her go,” she insisted, landing another punch that served to loosen his tense jaw muscles.

His shoulders dropped and Matteo stopped fighting, though he hadn’t been knocked out.

“Let her do as she wishes. If Sirena wants to leave you, let her go.”

“But...” He fisted the ground at his sides. Growling in frustration, he sputtered, “I don’t know where it is!”

“Where what is?”

Behind her Ian scrambled with his equipment.

“The pelt!” Matteo cried.

Annja frowned and delivered another swift strike up under the man’s jaw. That tilted his head to the side sharply, stealing his consciousness. Blood drooled from his mouth. “He’s out.”

She rose and wiped her hands down her pant legs.

“He believes it, too,” Ian said, the camera pointed toward the ground, the green run light showing he’d filmed Matteo’s confession. “Now what?”

The cell phone in Annja’s pocket vibrated. She swiped a loose strand of hair from her face and over her ear and strode toward the parking lot, gesturing for Ian to follow. Matteo would be fine.

Annja answered the call in a harsh tone. “Seriously? This had better be good.”

“Sounds like someone needs a nap.”

The French accent had become a familiar voice in her life. Yet it had been a while since she’d talked to the old coot. Usually it was she who contacted him.

“Roux.” She blew out a breath, calming her thundering heartbeat. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. And I think I’ve spent most of it with a selkie.”

“Selkies, eh? A bit fantastical, even for your wild adventures. I thought you preferred kneeling hunched over a pile of dirt?”

“I do, but I do work for a television program that tracks monsters. Selkies are not so fantastical when you think about it. You do know it’s—” she cast her gaze toward the sky, then turned the phone to check the time display “—close to midnight?”

“Not where I am. The sun is shining and I’m, well... What can I say?”

No details. Never any details unless the man considered them salacious or wanted to tease her, which was often. But Annja wasn’t interested. She didn’t want to do the math to calculate what time zone he could be in to be calling her during the day.

“Like you said, I need to get some rest, so make this quick.”

“I’ve a simple question. One I thought would intrigue you.”

She closed her eyes and blew in and released a deep breath. A half-hour shower was the only thing she could think about. Her neck ached. She’d have a bruise there by the time she hit said shower. “What’s that?”

“Very well. Do you know what Leonardo da Vinci and Joan of Arc had in common?”

Any mention of Joan of Arc straightened Annja’s spine. She opened her eyes wide and, seeing Ian’s intent interest, turned her back to him. Some things she only talked about with certain people. And those few people—actually, only two—also had a keen interest in the sainted martyr.

“Bonus points if you can name their common benefactor,” Roux added cheerily.

Well, that narrowed it down to one person. Annja liked a good quiz. But she needn’t the clue.

She’d read a lot on the young woman who had boldly led the French army to war in the fifteenth century, only to be labeled a heretic and burned at the stake by the English forces. Joan interested her because Annja had an inexplicable connection to her. One that she could never completely explain and so had accepted on blind faith. And there was the fact that whenever she was in trouble and needed protection, she could call Joan of Arc’s sword to hand from the otherwhere.

Cool. Weird. Fortuitous when she was in a bind. And she tended to find herself in a bind more often than the average archaeologist. Just call her a jet-setting dirt digger and sometime crime fighter and defender of the innocent.

It worked for her.

“Let’s see...” Annja kicked at the smooth stones that had been turned over and over by high tides and infinite time. “Joan was burned in 1431. Leonardo da Vinci wasn’t born until 1452. So someone who had known Joan and was very young at that time, who then later traveled to Italy, possibly— Aha!

“Good King René,” she answered. “I believe René d’Anjou’s mother, Yolande, tutored Jeanne at a young age. And René and da Vinci were quite possibly known to each other as well, both being men of the Renaissance.”

“Exactly. The Duke d’Anjou, besides being a philanthropist, was literally one of the first men of his age and time who sought to share knowledge instead of suppress it. He wasn’t as close to Jeanne as was his mother, but still, there was a loose connection, we think.”

That he paused now piqued Annja’s interest even more. If ever there existed someone who knew historic details—firsthand—it was Roux. He had lived through the past five hundred years. It meant that Roux had witnessed Joan’s sword being broken beside those very flames that had ended her life. Flames were a recurring nightmare of Annja’s. She hadn’t had any bad dreams lately and wished that would continue forever.

“That’s not the reason for my call,” Roux said, sidestepping what exciting secrets Annja had hoped he would reveal to her. “You guessed right. René d’Anjou was likely associated with both our Joan and Leonardo. Are you familiar with a theft that took place six months ago at the main antiquities museum in Poland?”

Annja glanced over her shoulder. Ian strolled along the waterline, kicking stones here and there, the camera held slack at his side.

“Are we on a new topic now?” she asked. “Renaissance painters, burned saints and add to that the fact my day has been occupied by a possible selkie sighting. My brain is fried, Roux. If you’ve got a point, please get to it.”

“The stolen items from the museum were believed to have been abandoned in a Venetian canal due to a quarrel between the thieves. Both were arrested, one in Milan, the other in the States. Neither has revealed where the items were dropped into which canal. And with little evidence, they were set free.”

“So there are valuable ancient artifacts sitting somewhere at the bottom of a Venetian canal? What’s new?”

“It’s not what is new, Annja, but what was old and possibly dumped in the drink. A Lorraine cross believed to have once belonged to Leonardo da Vinci.”

There were so many styles of crosses. The Lorraine cross was a particular favorite of hers. “Right. A heraldic cross with two horizontal crossbars of the same length. Got it.”

“The Lorraine type of cross was carried into the Crusades by the Knights Templars, and later, the image was adopted by the Duke d’Anjou, but only after receiving such a cross as a gift, reputedly from Joan of Arc.”

“So what you’re saying is...” She strode over to Matteo’s inert body and leaned over him. Still out yet, oddly, smiling in his unconscious slumber. “I’m not following you, Roux.”

“It is speculated that the cross that belonged to Leonardo da Vinci was gifted to him by René d’Anjou.”

“Are you supposing that the cross stolen from the museum was originally a cross that belonged to Joan of Arc?”

“That I am.”

“Huh.” Annja stood, hand to her hip, and paced the clattering stones. Ian now sat on the grassy hillside that inclined toward the parking lot, camera on his lap. A giddy excitement stirred her from exhausted to merely semi-tired. “So, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Absolutely, Annja. What do you say to a diving excursion in Venice?”

He was inviting her to do something together? Suspicion immediately set off Annja’s warning bells. Roux was always in it for himself, and he’d step over others to get what he wanted.

On the other hand, she’d just been invited to go diving for lost treasure. And she now had a reason to stay in Italy, as she and Ian had just been discussing. And if the stay was funded by Roux, she didn’t need to bother Doug Morrell with the expenses.

“Sounds good. When were you planning this adventure?”

“Now. I know you’re in Palermo. I’ll let the other diver know to expect you at the Fondamenta della Sensa tomorrow, probably afternoon, if you allow for travel time. I have a ticket waiting for you at the Palermo Falcone-Borsellino Airport now. Can you make it?”

How Roux almost always seemed to know where she was, was a question Annja had long ago given up attempting to answer.

“Yes, I can make it, but what about the other diver? You already have someone in place?”

The fact that Roux had expected her to say yes didn’t bother Annja. He knew her well enough to realize that any artifact related to Joan of Arc would pique her interest. And she was always up for an adventure, most especially after days of tracking selkies and only coming up with a bad romance plot.

“Generally I like to gather my own team,” she said.

“This is my expedition, Annja, and I am the one gathering the team. Have a problem with that?”

“Not if you’re footing the bill.”

“I am.”

“Great. What’s the diver’s name?”

“All the information has been gathered in a dossier that will be waiting for you along with the plane ticket.”

“I’ll need two tickets. I’ve got a cameraman.”

“Oh, hmm...”

While Roux considered that one, she gave Ian a thumbs-up and asked, “You want to fly to Venice to film underwater for a few days?”

Ian jumped up eagerly. “I’m in!”

“I’d like him along,” Annja said to Roux. “We’re scouting segments for the TV show.”

“A show which has given me a few knowing smiles and a couple of laughs. Very well, two tickets,” Roux said. “I intend to fly out in a few days. I’m tied up at the moment with, er, details. But fear not. I wouldn’t miss this discovery.”

“That’s it? Just a cross?”

Much as she knew artifacts related to Joan were a love of Roux’s, Annja found it hard to believe he’d invest in a mission simply to bring up a little memento that should by rights be returned directly to the museum from which it had been stolen.

“Just a cross,” Roux replied. “Have a good rest on the flight, Annja. See you in a few days.”

He hung up, and it occurred to Annja that he hadn’t told her when the flight departed.

“Soon,” she guessed.

The airport was a good hour’s drive to the south. The flight to Venice shouldn’t be more than ninety minutes if direct.

In the parking lot behind Ian, a black limo suddenly arrived. The limo driver got out of the expensive vehicle, introduced himself and informed her he was at her beck and call.

“Leave it to Roux to control me like a puppet,” she muttered.

“You were expecting this?” Ian asked.

“Nope. But it’s not a surprise. We’ll head back to the hotel, pack and then on to the airport.”

“But what about the selkies?”

Annja glanced to Matteo. He’d curled onto his side, apparently sleeping off the effects of the alcohol as well as her punch. “We’ll swing by after Venice. But I have a feeling if there is a pelt, it’ll never be found. Too bad for Sirena.”

“Maybe we should call a women’s shelter?”

Annja ran her hands through her hair. She was dirty and tired and yet exhilarated about the new assignment that lay before her.

“Yes, good idea, Ian.”

And then she smiled widely. Sleep? She’d worry about that on the flight like Roux suggested.

“I should let Doug know about our new plans.”

Her producer would probably research every Venetian myth to see if he could come up with a good episode idea for Annja to look into. If she had the time while she was there, she’d be all for it.

The twosome slid into the back of the limo, and the driver offered champagne, which Ian accepted. Annja refused. She was already mentally preparing for the next leg of the trip. It would take five minutes to pack her things because she generally traveled simply, always ready for just such spur-of-the-moment trips.

“On to my next adventure.”

Chapter 3

Roux had purchased her a seat in first class, though Annja wouldn’t award him brownie points. Ian’s seat was back in economy. The cameraman took the news with his usual good-natured attitude, knowing he’d been a last-minute add-on. Besides, economy was not filled to capacity, so he planned to snag a row of seats in the back and lay down to sleep through the flight.

The dossier was handed to Annja in a sealed envelope when she received her ticket. Once the plane was in flight, she pored over the information, which was sparse.

The man she was to dive with, Scout Roberts, was a former archaeologist who’d been stripped of his tenure at his university after he’d been involved in a sketchy dig in Peru. The operation had resulted in the unsolved deaths of two crew members. He’d insisted poisonous gases had leaked from the cave walls, yet a forensic team hadn’t found any trace of poison. He’d disappeared approximately five years ago and apparently hadn’t been seen or heard from since. He’d stopped publishing and there wasn’t a phone number or address for him. He’d turned himself into a ghost.

But ghosts didn’t accept offers to dive for lost treasure. He had to have a reason for accepting the invite from Roux. Unless cash was the motivator?

“Could be,” she muttered, knowing Roux’s pockets were deep.

Even deeper, though, was Roux’s love for Joan and anything associated with her. The cross qualified on that score and was likely enough to spur his interest in the artifact. It would probably only look good under glass or on one of the walls in Roux’s château.

The fact that Roux had brought her in on the job also didn’t make sense if he intended to keep the artifact.

“Very odd...”

Flipping over the single page in the dossier, Annja was surprised that was all the information he had. Apparently, Roux knew little about Scout Roberts. Where had he found him? On a street corner? While strolling a stretch of the French countryside in search of treasure?

Annja smiled remembering how she had first met Roux. It had been on just such a stretch in the French countryside. In the Cévennes mountain area in search of a loup-garou, she had stumbled upon a hiker, who’d told her he was after something that was lost.

She’d thought Roux a curious old man who possessed the strength of many, an agility that belied his age and a charm that had won her over despite his obvious nefarious dealings. Over an initial get-to-know-each-other meal, she recalled thinking how the twinkle in his eyes could mean trouble for her. And she hadn’t been wrong.

When they’d finally found the lost item he’d been looking for, it had been the final piece to Joan of Arc’s sword.

Who would have thought that meeting Roux would have led to her owning a sword that once belonged to Joan of Arc, and to a love-hate friendship with a man who had seen and done so much?

At times Roux was harsh and insistent, in it for himself and yet always on mark and aware. He may look old, but the man was agile and swift and could expertly handle any weapon he got his hands on. After she’d claimed the sword, he had mentored her and taught her how to handle the blade correctly and efficiently. At times, he felt very much like a father to her.

But Annja always cautioned herself against letting her guard down completely around the man. At times, Roux allied with Garin Braden. He’d been tied to Roux since Joan’s burning back in the fifteenth century. Braden was another man who possessed the same in-it-for-himself attitude as the older man. And he was not beyond lying to her to get what he wanted.

So that left Scout Roberts as a possible ally in this new adventure. A ghost working for a person of questionable integrity.

Annja shook her head as she perused the sketchy details she held.

She’d worked with strangers before. The nature of her work—traveling to foreign countries, traveling to the middle of nowhere to dig in the dry, dusty dirt—led to interactions with all sorts. Unwilling to pre-judge someone she had never met, she looked forward to meeting Scout and delving into the mystery of how he’d gotten involved with Roux.

Setting aside the dossier, she settled into the cozy first-class nest and pulled up the blanket to her forehead. She wanted to be in top form when she arrived in Venice.

* * *

UPON DISEMBARKING AT Marco Polo Airport, Annja felt refreshed. It was 6:00 a.m. and the day was bright. Ian was also chipper. He’d had extra bags of peanuts and a couple of free drinks and was currently balancing his equipment on one shoulder, his backpack across both shoulders.

“We’ll eat after checking into a hotel. Deal?” Annja asked.

“Deal.”

Annja strode directly to the cabstand and was greeted by a tall, solemn man in black trousers and black turtleneck who held a placard with her name neatly written in block letters.

“Miss Creed. I am Paulo. Your driver here in Venice.” He spoke English well. “I’ve picked up the diving gear, as was requested by Monsieur Roux. Two sets. I’ve had them delivered directly to the boat docked in the canal.” He nodded to Ian. “Welcome to Venice.”

The men shook hands.

“You’re punctual,” Annja said. “I appreciate that. On to Venice?”

“I’ve a car waiting. There’s a bit of a traffic bind, I’m afraid. Accident as I was coming toward the airport. We may have a wait. And then we’ll travel on a water shuttle to the island. I live in the city, so I’ll be at your service. I do have a car and a boat.”

“Thank you. We’d like to head straight to the hotel. If you could recommend a good place to eat nearby, that would be great.”

“I’ll bring you there myself.”

Three hours later—indeed, the traffic had been backed up for kilometers while a crane worked to clear away lumber from an overturned truck—Annja and Ian dropped their things in their respective rooms at the hotel. Then they accompanied Paulo to a quiet restaurant that seemed lacking in tourists yet had immense personality. The cook sang from the back room, and the waitresses giggled as they delivered plates to the tables. Though they’d both skipped breakfast, Annja cautioned Ian against the full plate of pasta if they planned to dive anytime soon, and he reluctantly ordered the smaller size.

After they’d eaten and Paulo had given them directions, Annja and Ian strolled down the streets in the Cannaregio, where they were to meet Scout Roberts dockside.

“They say the city is sinking nearly a tenth of an inch a year,” she remarked as they passed a wet tiled courtyard sandwiched between two buildings.

“Point zero eight, to be precise,” Ian replied. She gave him a look that said she was impressed. “Two years ago I spent a summer here filming at San Michele.”

Named after the archangel Michael, the Isola di San Michele was located in the Venetian lagoon, northeast of the Cannaregio. It was about half an hour away. One of the first Renaissance churches in Venice, it had been built on the island sometime in the mid-fifteenth century. The same island that had also once served as a prison.

“The team I was traveling with was actually a forensic unit from New York City,” Ian explained. “They were digging up bones in the cemetery. One of the women was full of interesting details about Venice. You know the city is tilting, as well.”

“Yes, I had heard that. But let’s hope it doesn’t topple over while we’re here. I haven’t gone diving in these waters,” Annja said.

“I had the displeasure while at San Michele.”

“Displeasure?”

“The waters around the island were not bad at all. That’s fresh seawater. It’s the canals in the city proper. They’re not really fit for leisurely dives, especially during the hot summer months.”

“Right. Like now.”

Since the canals were the Venetians’ principal method of travel, cars in the city were rare and the water became unhealthy and murky. She wasn’t even going to think about it. On the other hand, the tidal flushes should remove much of the sewage. She’d think positive—only way to go.

Though, now that she’d begun to think about it, she picked up the salty wet-wood scent in the air. The sun was high today, and she sensed it wouldn’t be long before the obnoxious odors would really blossom.

“I understand there’s a crew of volunteer divers who have made it their goal to do an underwater version of street sweeping through the Grand Canal,” Ian added. “They’ve collected quite a bit of rubbish.”

“Good for them. You’ve got to hand it to grassroots efforts. They will improve our world one project at a time.”

“Most of the canals are only about three meters deep. I’ve a headlamp on my camera. I certainly hope there are lamps included with the diving gear. We’ll need them. You didn’t say exactly what artifact you are diving for. Something about Leonardo da Vinci? I can’t imagine we’ll find one of the master’s paintings lying at the bottom of a canal, surely.”

“It’s a cross that once belonged to Leonardo. It was stolen from a museum six months ago.”

“Fascinating. I’m not much for old stuff myself.”

She shifted her backpack, which held a few personal things and her laptop, higher on her shoulder.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You like the unknown.”

“Actually, I’m all about finding the truth. That’s why I’ve partnered with your television show on occasion. Legends and myths fascinate me. Their origins and how they grow and take on a life of their own, becoming real to some, is intriguing.”

“For a guy who doesn’t like old stuff, you must run into a lot of history searching for truths.”

“I do. Like it or not.” Ian chuckled. “It’ll be a good adventure, as you’ve said. I just wish I could get Sirena out of my head.”

Annja offered, “I made sure she got the number for a women’s shelter. And she has my number, of course. I told her if she wants to talk, she can call me any time.”

“Guys like Matteo don’t deserve anyone. And a girl so vulnerable and...beautiful like Sirena should be with someone who can appreciate her for whoever she is.”

Annja smiled. Her cameraman seemed smitten.

“I gave Doug a call, as well,” she said. “He’s psyched about this dive, even though I told him not to get his hopes up. I can only see this being of interest to the show if we run into sea monsters.”

“Always a possibility,” Ian suggested a little too cheerfully.

She and Ian walked on, taking their time as they followed Paulo’s directions to the dive site, as specified in Roux’s dossier. The spot they were heading toward was in the Cannaregio, a central neighborhood that was one of the largest of Venice’s six boroughs or, as the Italians called them, sestieres. Annja noted that Canal Regio was Italian for Royal Canal and that this district had once been the main route into the city before a railway from the mainland had been constructed.

“The Ca’ d’Oro,” Ian announced with reverence from behind her.

Annja swept her gaze up the Gothic facade of the fifteenth-century palace that had been heavily adorned with gilt. It had been built with a garden and courtyard. And it housed Giorgio Franchetti’s private art collection. She’d have to make a point to visit the gallery if she could find some free time while in the city.

She loved Venice. No matter what time of day, the city always seemed to glow as if the sun were constantly setting upon the ancient buildings and water. So few cars made it a joy to wander about, and even the constant barrage of tourists in the major piazzas didn’t bother her. So much history surrounded her, she was a bit awestruck.

“Off to find the treasure,” she murmured as they turned down a narrow passageway.

Could Scout have become a treasure hunter after he’d been ousted from the University of Columbia? It was what tended to happen to archaeologists who couldn’t stay away from the dig and the thrill of the find, yet who needed to subsidize their income to survive. She’d gotten a sense from the sparse details in the dossier that she may be dealing with a treasure hunter. In which case, he may not specialize in diving but rather be a jack-of-all-trades. A necessity when country hopping across the world in search of hidden wealth.

Speaking of hidden wealth, if and when the Lorraine cross was found, would Roux add it to his private collection of amazing artifacts, some of questionable provenance? Annja felt sure he would. They would have to come to terms about the ownership of the item if, and when, it was found.

Having dressed for a cool day, she was pleased to peel off her windbreaker to reveal a T-shirt because the sun promised a warm afternoon. Cargo pants and hiking boots were de rigueur, and generally a hat when digging under the hot sun. She’d gone with a ponytail today and left the hat behind. If she were heading underwater, a different sort of hat and gear would be required. She hoped the diving equipment was in good condition.

Making a right turn down an alleyway, she and Ian emerged onto a wide sidewalk edging a canal. Spying the boat named Piuttosto, their destination, she took a bridge across the Fondamenta della Sensa and went west until she arrived at the appropriate dock. Only one man stood on deck. He waved to her, but didn’t act as though he expected her. When she stepped onto the boat, he raised a brow.

Annja offered her hand. “Annja Creed. Scout Roberts is expecting me.”

“Oh, right. The babysitter,” the man said. “Name’s Kard. Not like the game, but with a K.”

“You work with Roberts often?” she asked.

“Nope. This is the first time. But when a guy offers me a stack of bills, I’m on the team.”

Great. So this guy hadn’t been vetted, apparently. But if he owned the boat, then he must have experience with diving crews. She’d cross her fingers for that outcome. It occurred to Annja that they didn’t even need a boat. They could have dived from the dock or sidewalk. But privacy was a concern, so having the boat would allow them to set themselves apart from anyone on land.

“So how am I a babysitter?” Annja asked, leaning against the steel railing. Ian passed her and set down his camera equipment on a bench and began to unpack it.

Kard shrugged. “Roberts said he was hired by an old dude who intended to send in another diver to keep an eye on him, seeing as how they hadn’t worked together before.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Scout?” she prompted him for a reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Again, I’ll reserve judgment.”

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

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

Chapter 4

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

But the cameraman?

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

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

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

“You want a beer?” he asked Ian.

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

Scout shrugged. It had been worth a try.

* * *

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

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

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

“Always.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scout circled the map where the boat was currently docked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For starters? Stop calling me sweetie.”

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kard!” she hollered.

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

“Trouble?” Kard called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You see anything?” Ian called.

“Followed him but he escaped through a tunnel. Closed an iron gate on me and locked it. I’m positive it’s below this building. I need to investigate further.”

“Why?” Scout leaned over to offer her his hand as boarding assistance. “You want a smackdown with some angry dude carrying a harpoon?”

She jumped onto the boat.

“Don’t you want to find the guy who could have killed you?”

“I’m still alive. I don’t think he was going for the kill. He was close enough to make a kill shot if he’d wanted to.”

“At the very least, we need to report this to the authorities.”

“Creed.” Scout placed a hand on her shoulder. “I admit it, I’m a treasure hunter. Trouble follows me wherever I go. This is nothing new.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. Most people wouldn’t be so casual about being attacked. Shrugging off her air tank, she bent to remove her flippers. “What do you have against my reporting this to the police?”

“Nothing. Go for it.” Scout’s indifference only made her more suspicious. “I’m just saying encounters with idiots wielding harpoons are to be expected. I go after a treasure, the bottom-feeders follow in hordes.”

“Nice.” Not. She unzipped the wet suit to reveal her skintight tank top beneath. “Let’s call it a day.”

“Swell. You go to the authorities and explain to them we almost saw the guy who did it—did you get a good look at his face? Didn’t think so. Meanwhile, I’ll mark out the map for tomorrow’s dive.”

She glanced at Ian. He shrugged, evidently as baffled by Scout’s disregard as she was.

“You want to get something to eat?” Scout asked.

“I think I’ll head back to the hotel after I’ve been to the police station.” Scout’s comment about her not getting a look at the attacker’s face annoyed her. She didn’t need his attitude. And really, she should have paid closer attention to the bad guy’s features. “Reconvene in the morning? Same canal, same boat?”

“Fine,” Scout said. “Give me your cell number?”

She gave it to him, and he promised to text her his number so she would have it, as well.

Ian packed up his gear, and Annja hung the wet suit in the closet provided belowdecks.

Kard offered Annja and then Ian a beer for the walk to the police station and both refused.

“You think they’re a couple cards short of a full deck?” Ian asked as they strolled down the street.

“Possibly.”

“Nice crew, Annja. I’ll count myself lucky if I come out of this unscathed.”

She winced because she took seriously the safety of those around her. She’d have a proper talk with Kard tomorrow. And she’d keep a much closer eye on Scout. The man could be too adventurous for her own good.

Chapter 5

At the police station in San Marco, Tomaso Damiani greeted Annja with a warm smile and welcomed her into his office. The small room held only his desk, two chairs and on the wall a map of the canals. No family photos. No knickknacks.

A new hire? Or was the man so regimented that he couldn’t bother with clutter?

She explained she was in the city on a dive for stolen artifacts. Tomaso was aware of that. The city had forwarded the dive permit Scout Roberts had applied for just this morning.

Pleased that the city was in close contact with the police, Annja detailed the encounter with the mysterious diver in the Fondamenta della Sensa.

“You are sure you did not surprise another who was merely diving?” Tomaso asked as he jotted down the information on a yellow notepad. “Perhaps the harpoon went off during the surprise?”

“Then why would he swim off? Wouldn’t he want to make sure he hadn’t wounded anyone?”

“Yes, of course. That is what we would hope for.” Tomaso ran a hand over his close-cropped dark hair. His narrow face fit with his tall, tight frame. He was young. A wedding ring shone on his sun-tanned hand, but there was no visible tan line beneath. New job, new wife? “Perhaps he was shocked that he had done such a thing. Perhaps not.”

“Who dives beneath Venice with a harpoon in hand?” Annja asked. “It’s not as if the canals are populated with edible fish. Are they?”

“We have much flora and fauna in the canals, Signorina Creed. But the fish are smaller, such as mullets and bullheads. Still, some are edible. We even get the occasional shark in from the sea. Perhaps your harpoon man was pursuing bigger game?”

“Like humans?”

She hadn’t meant it as a joke, but Tomaso chuckled. Then, noticing she didn’t share his humor, he abruptly stopped.

“I take your report very seriously, signorina. There are drainage pipes and tunnels beneath much of our beautiful city. Some are registered. Others lead into private homes and still others may no longer be used.”

“Which is why I didn’t try to break through the gate—I didn’t know if this was a residence.”

Annja realized there really wasn’t a lot the police could do. Might it have been an accident? Possibly. And the man could have been frightened or even ashamed, so he’d fled.

“I appreciate you taking the time to listen to my complaint. I know there’s likely nothing you can do without a description of the man.”

“Unfortunately, that is so. But I am personally eager for you to discover the missing treasure you’ve described. A cross with a possible connection to Leonardo da Vinci?”

“It was likely a gift to him from René d’Anjou.”

“Ah. Our beloved Leonardo. I am so taken with the man. He did so much. And has inspired so many.”

Surprised the man was such an enthusiast of Leonardo’s and of René’s, Annja perked up.

“Details linking Leonardo da Vinci with such a cross and so many other artifacts causes much interest. And sometimes from dangerous people,” he went on.

“I find I’m more of a Leonardo purist myself,” she said. “Though there are academics and art historians who think there was more to his works. But I’m not inclined to search over his paintings or drawings for symbols and clues he may or may not have left in them. His output was so vast. I can only imagine how many European castles and manors are hiding a forgotten da Vinci in the attic or dungeon.”

“Yes, it is an intriguing thing to wonder about. The Renaissance artist was a great genius and I wonder what it might have been like for him if he could have possibly traveled through time.”

“Da Vinci a time traveler?” Now Annja chuckled.

“I know,” Tomaso agreed, “I have a tendency toward the fantastical—it has to be with the books I read. I like the science-fiction novels.” He gave her a warm smile. “Signorina Creed, have you been to Il Genio di Leonardo da Vinci Museo? They’ve re-created dozens of the inventions Leonardo designed. Quite a fascinating study.”

“No, I haven’t been able to do any sightseeing since arriving in Venice, but it sounds like a stop I’ll have to make while I’m here.”

Tomaso stood and shook Annja’s hand. “If there is anything you need from me, do let me know.” He offered her his business card. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Signorina Creed.”

* * *

ANNJA BOUGHT A sandwich on her way to the hotel. Glad she’d gone with the panino instead of the soft-crusted tramezinni, she wondered now if she could eat it all. Calling the huge chunk of bread, cheese and meat a sandwich was like calling the Canal Grande a stream. The prosciutto was so thin she could read through it, and stacked thickly within pillows of fresh mozzarella. She ate half before forcing herself to sit at the desk in her hotel room and power up the laptop for a little research.

She started with the antiquities museum located in Kraków, Poland. It featured artifacts she’d label as sentimentally significant. Annja assumed the Lorraine cross must have fit right in with their collection.

The museum had a history similar to a number of others in Europe during the turbulence of the 1800s. Items had been looted and recovered a number of times during this age. And it was all repeated again in the early part of the twentieth century when the Nazis eventually got their hands on the museum’s pieces and there they stayed until the place was restored and reopened to the public after the Second World War. Though it housed many important relics and documents, a lot of the most valued pieces had been lost as they changed locations over the decades and centuries.

The recent burglary was a bold and well-planned heist that had taken place just after the museum had closed its doors. The one employee who had locked up for the day had only been in the parking lot for minutes, the online newspaper account reported, before the theft had occurred. Suspicion fell on two suspects, but neither was captured by security cameras.

Annja speculated about the thieves who were arrested in the Milan and NYC airports. Why had they not been detained if they were known to be related to the theft? Or had the gondolier’s report merely alerted the police to the pair, and after questioning them, the police hadn’t obtained the details required to charge them with the crime?

Most likely. But still odd.

There wasn’t anything else online regarding the theft, and she couldn’t get access to the police reports. Although, she might be able to get something on the thief who had been questioned in New York from her friend on the NYPD, Detective Bart McGilly.

“Good idea.”

She sent Bart an email with the details, and the situation surrounding her dive, and asked if he could find anything on the thief who had been arrested.

Satisfied she had done what she could to follow up on that angle, Annja switched to the history associated with the stolen items. She already knew quite a bit about Leonardo da Vinci and Joan of Arc, so she looked up the third party.

She was familiar with René d’Anjou as an integral force behind the Renaissance, but she was also aware d’Anjou was sometimes glanced over or even excluded from the history books. Could it be because of his rumored associations with the Priory of Sion and Order of the Crescent?

Annja shook her head.

René d’Anjou had held ties to royal houses in France, England and Spain. His sister had married Charles VII of France. His daughter married Henry VI of England. He had control of three duchies, Anjou, Bar and Lorraine, as well as being king of Jerusalem and Aragon, including Corsica, Majorca and Sicily. He had been duke of many places, yet his most common title was Good King René.

His involvement in Joan of Arc’s life may have been orchestrated by his mother, Yolande, who had been a supporter of Charles VII of France. There were rumors René had traveled with Joan to Orléans, possibly disguised as the king’s messenger. Evidently, he was also along when Joan had escorted the dauphin to Reims for the coronation. Once there, René had been knighted by the Count of Clermont.

René had been with Joan in a few more battles that followed, including the siege on Paris. But soon after that, family deaths turned René’s attention away from Joan. He had been detained during a battle against the Duke of Burgundy and subsequently imprisoned. While imprisoned, Joan had been branded a heretic and...

“So René d’Anjou wasn’t able to speak up for Joan of Arc because he had been possibly held captive at the time,” Annja muttered, leaning back in her chair.

She grabbed the panino and took another bite. Heaven. She’d left Ian to do his own thing, and he’d gone in search of pizza. Normally, she’d invite him to eat with her, but her mind was still reeling from the harpoon attack. It had been so bizarre and out of place. It didn’t make sense to her.

And Scout claimed it was the norm, him being a treasure hunter? He’d acted as if the attack was to be expected. Could he have hired the man to take out Ian, whom he hadn’t wanted there in the first place?

“No.” He had only found out about Ian just before the dive.

“Something not right with that guy.”

She focused again on René d’Anjou. He headed to Naples in 1438 and later returned to France amid further political turmoil and controversy.

D’Anjou had also been a painter and a poet. He set up court at Aix-en-Provence, although she guessed that René must have interacted with Leonardo on his own turf in Italy. D’Anjou had died in 1480. Leonardo had been born in 1452. Annja knew Leonardo had traveled with his father to Florence and had received an apprenticeship when he was fourteen. Possibly, René d’Anjou had met Leonardo between 1470 and 1480, which was around the time Leonardo’s father had been employed under d’Anjou.

And if Roux had said he’d met Leonardo at the end of the 1480s, that made sense to her and would fit the timeline of when d’Anjou had supposedly gifted Leonardo with the Lorraine cross.

“Amazing.”

Annja experienced the same adrenaline rush she felt when uncovering a valuable historical treasure. The thrill of the find, or knowing that with further research a discovery could be made, was something she never tired of.

And now, before her, was the idea of a significant connection of three incredible historical figures: René d’Anjou, Leonardo da Vinci, and Joan of Arc.

She was deeply involved, too, more so than on a usual archaeological dig, because she was inexplicably tied to Joan herself. And Roux had known all three?

Thinking of him, she dialed Roux’s number. She wanted to check when he planned to arrive. Voice mail. She didn’t leave a message, didn’t want to reveal her irritation. He’d get a real kick out of that.

Finishing off the panino, Annja then scanned through the local television news stations. Nothing of interest. The night had grown long while she’d been hunting for information. She’d save the check on Scout’s story for the morning.

Stripping off her clothes and pulling her long chestnut hair out from the tangled ponytail, she padded into the bathroom and made good use of the hot water for the next twenty minutes.

* * *

Milan, 1488

“YOU SAID...” Roux leaned forward across the table, knowing he could not possibly have heard the artist correctly. The tavern was noisy, and the hissing back-and-forth sweep of a sword blade across a whetstone nearby didn’t help matters. “Something about a sword piece?”

“Indeed. From Jeanne d’Arc’s sword. The one she wielded in the siege on Paris,” Leonardo explained. “Though it’s malformed. Melted, I believe. I was to understand they had burned her ashes twice to be sure nothing remained. The English army didn’t want to leave anything that could be sifted from the ashes and later passed on. Obviously they missed the sword.”

Roux rubbed his chin, thinking back to that moment when the flames had wrecked Joan’s life forever. And his. The sword had been held aside, along with the few items of clothing she’d worn while imprisoned. How the sword had made it out into the crowd, and then had been broken before all, was beyond him.

It felt surreal to place himself back at that heinous event. He’d never felt helpless before that moment and never had since. But the sense of anguish returned now, made him uncomfortable.

Leonardo was unaware of his distress. And he wished to keep it that way.

“If you guarded Jeanne— She was burned in 1431, wasn’t it?” he asked. “That was sixty-seven years ago. You must have been quite young. You’ve certainly aged well.”

“I’ve been living well,” Roux boasted, smiling.

“Ha!” Leonardo cried and took a hearty swallow of his ale.

Roux tried to act relaxed and purposely pitched his voice low, so that only da Vinci would hear him. “Tell me about this piece from the sword?”

“Ah, you are one with the eager questions?”

Leonardo sketched a few more lines on the drawing he’d tended since Roux had sat down and, seeming happy with the composition, closed his leather-bound book. Placing both palms about the beer stein, Leonardo spoke quietly. “Her sword was broken after they burned her.”

“I know that.”

“Ah? A confirmation of what I had only, until now, known to be rumor. Excellent.”

Yes, yes, so he’d tricked the truth out of him? It wasn’t as though it had been a great secret to begin with. Roux wanted to wrench the man up by the back of his tunic and hustle him outside, where they could speak privately, but he dismissed the idea.

“René d’Anjou had the pieces.”

“All of them?” Roux had thought they’d eventually been scattered to the far parts of the world, and indeed, his quest to locate them was proving nearly impossible.

“No, only so many as he was able to grab among the crowd, who were hungry for a piece of the Maid of Orléans. Can you imagine that calamity? Dreadful. The human soul has insatiable curiosity for the macabre when compassion is what is needed most.”

Losing his patience, Roux gripped the edges of the table. “I was there. I did witness the horror.”

“Yes. Right. Forgive my callousness. But you didn’t manage a piece of the sword?”

“No,” Roux said tightly. “And yet you possess a piece?”

“Yes, yes. When I was so elated by the Lorraine cross, René d’Anjou showed me the few sword pieces he had remaining.”

Roux tapped the table with a finger. “I’d like to take a look at the piece you have, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“I do mind. It’s locked away.” Leonardo took the sketch of the cross, waved it in demonstration and then tucked it in his purse. “Prized possessions, the cross and the sword piece. I don’t have many. Now, sir, it’s time I bought you a drink.”

Chapter 6

Annja met Ian in the hotel lobby, and they arrived at the boat before Scout. Both suited up and were checking the equipment when Scout sauntered aboard with a beaming smile on his face.

He made a show of looking over Annja appreciatively.

She dismissed him and turned to study the marked-up map. “You’re late.”

“I can’t begin the day without my orange juice and coffee. The fresh-squeezed stuff is hard to come by here on the island. Had to order it from the mainland.”

“Seriously? Your budget allows for such luxury?”

“Hey,” Scout said, tugging off his jacket, “take it up with the old man.”

Annja hadn’t thought Roux would offer such an expense account. On the other hand, Scout probably wasn’t aware that he didn’t have carte blanche with his employer, and so was testing the waters.

“I think we should head northwest,” Annja suggested as Scout descended belowdecks to change into his dive suit. “The general direction of traffic in this canal may have pushed the case downstream. And depending on what the treasure was in...”

“A silver hard-wall attaché with digital lock!”

“Really? I thought you said it was a nondescript case. How do you know that?”

“Come on, Creed, do a little research. You always just leap into things for your television show?”

Day two, Annja decided, was when Scout had succeeded in getting on her nerves. Generally, she was pretty accepting of people and the attitudes that came with them. “Difficult to casually toss over the side of a gondola during a lover’s spat without the other noticing, wouldn’t you say?”

Scout emerged, tugging up the zipper on his suit. “Who said the spat was casual? Did you read the incarceration report for the pair? Wait. Right. You didn’t.”

“I don’t have access to it.” Which reminded her, she hadn’t heard back from Bart McGilly yet. Blame it on the time-zone difference. “But apparently you do. So enlighten me.”

“There was a heated argument. And I guess when the guy wasn’t paying attention, the woman ditched the case.”

He guessed? That wasn’t going to help her until she got the chance to look over the reports.

“All right, then,” Annja said. “We’re looking for a metal attaché case. Let’s hope it’s waterproof.”

“It is. I mean, I’m sure it is. They make those cases to be almost indestructible nowadays.”

Having little hope that indeed the attaché would be intact, Annja conceded and directed Kard to the spot she had chosen down the canal.

“How’s the arm?” she asked Scout, remembering yesterday’s close call.

“Doesn’t hurt a bit. A scratch.” He slapped the biceps where he’d been hurt.

“You should have at least had it looked at. What if the harpoon had been rusty?”

“I’m tough, Creed. Let’s dock here, Kard.” He scanned the buildings and seemed to be noting a familiar site. “Everyone in!”

Ian went in first, and Annja handed him his camera. The cameraman switched on the lamp and tested it underwater, giving her a thumbs-up. She tossed out the red and white dive flags.

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