Текст книги "Destiny "

Автор книги: Алекс Арчер

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Chapter 8

THE BISTRO DID carry a very fine selection of wines. Roux insisted on their sampling a variety during dinner. The meal was superb. Annja devoured filet mignon, steamed vegetables, baked potatoes smothered in cheese, salads and rolls as big as her fist and so fresh from the oven they almost burned her fingers.

She hadn't eaten since breakfast, so she didn't strive for modesty. She ate with gusto, and Roux complimented her on her appetite.

As it turned out, Roux didn't know much about Corvin Lesauvage. All he had was a collection of vague rumors. Lesauvage was a murderer several times over. He ran drugs. He peddled archaeological forgeries. If an illegal dollar was made in the Lozère area, ten percent of it belonged to Corvin Lesauvage because he brokered the deal, allowed it to take place or kept quiet about it.

The bistro was quiet and dark. French love songs played softly in the background. A wall of trickling water backlit by aquamarine lights kept the shadows at bay. The wait staff proved almost undetectable.

Warmed by the wine, exhausted by her exertions, Annja found herself relaxing perhaps a little more than she should have. But her curiosity about Roux was rampant.

"Are you French?" she asked after they had finished discovering how little he knew about Lesauvage.

"As French as can be," Roux promised. He refilled her glass, then his own.

"Yet you speak Latin fluently."

Roux gestured magnanimously. "Doesn't everyone?"

"No. What do you do, Mr. Roux?"

"Please," he said, turning up a hand, "just call me Roux. It's a name that's suited me long enough."

"The question's still on the table," Annja pointed out.

"So it is." He sipped his wine. "Truthfully? I do whatever pleases me. If fortune smiles on me, there's a reason to get up in the morning. If I'm truly blessed, there are several reasons."

"Then you must be independently wealthy," Annja said, half in jest.

"Yes," he admitted. "Very. I've had plenty of time to amass a fortune. It's not hard if you live long enough and don't try to be greedy."

"Where do you live?"

"In Paris." Roux smiled. "I've always loved Paris. Even after it's gotten as gaudy and overpopulated and dirty as it has. You open the window in the morning there, you can almost feel the magic in the air."

"How did you make your fortune?"

"Slowly. Investments, mostly. I've been very lucky where investments are concerned. I've always been able to take the long view, I suppose."

Annja eyed him over her glass. "How old are you?"

"Far, far older than I look, I assure you." His blue eyes twinkled merrily.

Santa Claus should have eyes like that, Annja couldn't help thinking.

"You are quite aggressive in your investigative approach," he said gently.

"I've been accused of that before." Annja leaned forward, studying him. "I've made my peace with it. As an archaeologist, you're trained to ask questions. Of the situation. Of the people around you. Of yourself."

"I see."

"What were you doing up in the mountains this afternoon?"

"Taking a constitutional."

Annja smiled. Despite the abrasive nature the old man brought out in her, there was something about him that she liked. He was as openly secretive as the nuns at the orphanage where she'd grown up.

"I don't believe you," she told him.

"I take no offense," he told her. "I wouldn't believe me, either."

"You were looking for something."

Roux shrugged.

"But you're not going to tell me what it is," Annja said.

"Let me ask you something." Roux leaned in close to her and spoke conspiratorially. "You found something in that cave this afternoon, didn't you?"

Annja picked at a bit of leftover bread and used the time to think. "I found La Bête."

"A creature that you believe was once La Bête."

"I showed you the pictures."

"I saw it, too," Roux reminded her.

"You don't believe it was La Bête?" Annja asked.

"Perhaps." Roux lifted his shoulders and dropped them. "The light was uncertain. Things were happening very quickly in there."

"What do you think it was?"

"A fabrication, perhaps."

"It was real." Annja had no doubt about that.

"There's something else I'm interested in," the old man replied. "Something you haven't told me. I saw you in that cave. You had something in your hand."

"A human skull," she replied.

"That isn't all."

The charm was still in Annja's pocket. She'd had it out only once. That was back in the police station bathroom. She'd been afraid the police were going to take charm away from her so she'd made a rubbing of both sides in her journal.

"I saw you with something else in your hand," he said. "Something shiny. Something metallic. It looked old." He paused. "If you found it in the cave, I would think it was very old."

"Not when compared to the Mesozoic period."

Roux laughed. The sound was easy and pleasant.

Annja found herself laughing with him, but thought it was as much because of the wine as of the humor in the situation. She didn't trust him. She was certain his presence in the mountains was no accident.

"Touché," he replied. He sipped more wine. "Still, you have me intrigued, Miss Creed."

She looked at him. "I don't trust you. But don't take that personally. I don't trust most people."

"In your current state of affairs, with a criminal figure pursuing you for some unknown, nefarious reason, I wouldn't be the trusting sort, either."

"I was taught by the best to be slightly paranoid."

Roux lifted his eyebrows. "The Central Intelligence Agency?"

"Worse than that," Annja said. "Catholic nuns."

Roux grinned. "Ah, that explains it."

"The paranoia?"

"The fact that you don't come bursting out of your shirts on the television program." Roux looked at her appraisingly. "You're certainly equipped."

Annja stared at him. "Are you coming on to me?"

"Would it be appropriate?"

"No."

Roux tapped the table with his hand. "Then that settles it. I was notcoming on to you. It's the wine, the candlelight in your hair and the sparkle in those marvelous green eyes. A moment in a beautiful restaurant after a delightful repast."

"I think," Annja said, "that you probably hit on anything that has a heartbeat and stays in one place long enough."

Leaning back in his chair, Roux laughed uproariously. He drew the unwelcome attention of several other diners. Finally, he regained control of himself. "I do like you, Miss Creed. I find you… refreshing."

Annja sipped her wine and considered her options. So far, the origins of the charm had stumped her. She looked at the old man. "I'm going to trust you. A little."

"In what capacity?"

"Something professional."

Anticipation gleamed in his bright blue eyes. "Whatever you found in the cave?"

"Yes. How experienced are you in antiquities?"

Roux shrugged. "I've made more than a few fortunes dabbling in such luxuries. There are a great many forgeries out there, you know."

Annja did know. She had dealt with several of them. In addition to everything else she did, she also consulted on museum acquisitions and for private buyers. Her certificate of authenticity marked many of them.

"This isn't a forgery." She took the piece of metal from her pocket and placed it on the table between them.

A look of pleasant surprise filled Roux's face. "You didn't give it to the inspector?"

"No."

"Why?"

"He didn't possess an archaeologist's mind-set."

"I see." Roux gestured to the medallion. "May I?"

"As long as I can watch you, sure." Annja leaned in and watched carefully.

"You carried this unprotected in your pocket?" His voice carried recrimination.

"I wasn't able to properly store it."

"Perhaps something in your backpack."

"Perhaps the police could have gone through my things."

"Yes. Of course." Roux pushed the medallion around, studying the image stamped onto it.

As he touched the charm, the fiery vision that had filled Annja's head during the earthquake returned to her in full Technicolor.

"Are you all right?" He was looking at her.

"Yes," she said, though she didn't honestly know.

"Do you know what this is?" Roux asked.

"A talisman of some sort. Probably for good luck." Annja described how she had found it tied around the dead man's neck.

"Not very lucky," Roux said.

"He killed the Beast of Gévaudan."

"Even if this nameless warrior had received the glory due him, fame is a poor consolation prize."

"I don't think he was interested in prizes."

"You believe he was slaying a monster."

"Yes," Annja replied. Despite her experience disproving myths, she had always believed in slaying monsters.

"Do you know what this symbol is?" Roux asked.

Moving the flickering candle flame closer to the charm, Annja shook her head. "I've never seen it before."

"Nor have I." Roux reached into his pocket and took out a Leatherman Multitool. He held the charm in his fingers and aimed the point at the grimy buildup surrounding the image of the wolf and the mountain.

"Wait a minute," Annja said.

"Trust me. I'll be careful. I know what I'm doing."

Breathing slowly, Annja watched. She didn't think the old man could hurt the charm, but she didn't like having it out of her possession.

Roux worked gently. The grime fell away in tiny flakes. Beneath it, the metal proved as lustrous and shiny as the day it had been forged.

Given the conditions of the cave, Annja had expected a fair amount of preservation. Ships had spent hundreds of years in caves and were found remarkably intact, as if the pirates who had hidden there had only left days ago instead of centuries.

"Beautiful," Roux whispered when he had finished. He turned the piece of metal in his fingers, catching the candlelight again and again.

Annja silently agreed. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

"A good-luck charm? Of course I have."

"Not just a good-luck charm," Annja said, "but one like this."

Roux shook his head. "It's a charm. I believe that. Since you found it around the dead man's neck, I'd say it was made to defend him – "

" – against the Beast of Gévaudan," Annja finished. "I got that. But the mark on the obverse looks like it was struck by a die. The wolf and the mountain appeared to have been carved."

"So you believe this to be a unique piece rather than one of many?" Roux asked.

"I do," Annja agreed. "You can see the die mark wasn't struck quite cleanly and two of the edges are slightly blunted."

Peering more closely at the charm, Roux said, "You have very good eyes." He studied the image for a moment. "And, you're exactly right." He looked up at her.

"Have you seen such a die mark before?" Annja asked.

"No."

Studying the old man, Annja tried to figure out if he was lying to her. If he was, she decided, he was very good at it. "I was hoping you had."

"Never. I would be very interested to learn what you find out about it." Roux studied her. "Tell me, in your archaeological travels, have you ever had cause to research the history of Joan of Arc?"

"I'm familiar with her stories, but I've spent no real time with them," Annja said.

"Pity. She was a very tragic figure."

For just a moment, Annja remembered the visions she had experienced. Joan of Arc had burned at the stake not far from where Annja now sat. Had her subconscious summoned that image during the quake?

"She was a very brave young woman," Roux said. "Foolish, certainly, but brave nonetheless. She should not be forgotten."

What are you trying to tell me? Annja wondered.

"One thing you should start doing immediately is taking better care of this charm." Roux said. "After all, it could prove to be a significant find if you discover its history." Roux took a handkerchief from his pocket and dropped the charm into the center of it. Picking up the ends of the handkerchief, he folded the charm inside. Then he handed the makeshift package to Annja with a smile. "There. That should better protect it until you can put it in a proper storage container."

Annja closed her hand over the handkerchief and felt the hard outline of the disk inside. She put the handkerchief into her shorts pocket and closed the Velcro tab.

"Thank you," she said.

Roux looked around, then tapped the table and said, "I'll be back in just a moment. Too much wine."

Comfortable and almost sleepy, Annja settled back in her chair and relaxed. Thoughts of the cozy bed at the bed-and-breakfast where she was staying danced in her head. She tried to marshal her thoughts and figure out her next course of action.

Identification of the charm was paramount. Doug Morrell would love the story and not hesitate at all over the digital pictures she had taken of La Bête. The television producer wasn't like some police inspectors Annja had met.

Thinking of Inspector Richelieu reminded Annja of Corvin Lesauvage. It didn't make sense to think that a well-organized crime figure would send a team after her for the camera equipment and whatever cash she carried.

But that wasn't what they were after, was it? The man had wanted her. Lesauvage had wanted to talk to her.

She started to feel frightened.

Suddenly she realized how much time had passed since Roux had quit the table. He had been gone a long time. Too long.

Glancing around the bistro, Annja discovered that the server and the manager were watching her. She stood and looked outside. Sure enough, the bullet-scarred SUV was no longer parked at the curb.

"Mademoiselle?"

Annja turned and found the young brunette server standing at the table.

"Is something the matter, mademoiselle?" the young woman asked.

"I don't suppose he paid the bill before he ducked out, did he?" Annja asked.

"No, mademoiselle."

Annja sighed and took out the cash she carried. "How much is it?"

The server told her.

"That much?" Annja was surprised. She put her money back and reached for her credit card.

The waitress nodded contritely, obviously still hopeful of a large tip.

"He was supposed to be independently wealthy," Annja said. "Several times over."

"Yes, mademoiselle." The server took Annja's credit card and retreated.

Then Annja remembered how Roux had effortlessly shuffled and cut the deck of cards one-handed at the police station. A sick feeling twisted in her stomach.

She removed the folded handkerchief from her pocket. The disk shape was still there, but the panic within her grew as she opened the cloth package.

Inside the folds she found a two-euro coin. It was two-toned, brass and silvery, bright and shiny new.

Just the right size to make her think Roux had handed her the charm. Not only had he stuck her with the bistro tab, but he had also stolen her find.

Carefully, she folded the coin back in the handkerchief, noting that it was monogrammed with a crimson R.If she got lucky, he'd left her with more than he'd intended.

Chapter 9

"YOU'RE GETTING BACK quite late, Mademoiselle Creed."

"I am, François. I'm sorry. I should have called." Annja stood in the doorway of the bed-and-breakfast. She'd come in feeling inept and foolish, and angry with the local police because they didn't know Roux and hadn't even bothered to ask his name. No one had even taken down his license plate. She'd wasted an hour and a half discovering that.

She hated feeling guilty on top of it.

The clock on the mantel above the fireplace showed that it was almost eleven p.m.

François Lambert was a retired carpenter who had thought ahead. While building homes for others, François had also built for his own retirement years. The bed-and-breakfast was located a few miles north of Lozère, far enough out of the town to afford privacy and a good view of the Cévennes Mountains.

One of the things that Annja loved most about her vocation was the endless possibility of meeting people. They hailed from all walks of life, and were driven by all kinds of dreams and desires.

Over seventy years old, François was long and lanky, a whipcord man used to a life filled with hard work. He had a headful of white hair brushed back and touching his collar. His white mustache looked elegant and aristocratic. He wore slacks and a white shirt.

François waved away her apology. "I was worried about you, that's all. Lozère can be dangerous sometimes when it is dark." He studied her. "But you are all right, yes?"

"I am. Thank you."

He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook one out. He lit up with a lighter. "I heard the police were involved."

Small towns, Annja thought, you have to love them. She did, too. They were usually quaint and exotic and moved to their own rhythm.

But gossip spread as aggressively as running bamboo.

"I was attacked," Annja said. "Up in the mountains."

François shook his leonine head. "A beautiful woman such as yourself shouldn't be out alone. I told you that."

"I know. I promise I'll be more careful in the future." Annja started up the stairs.

"Were you injured?"

"No. I was lucky."

"I heard Corvin Lesauvage was involved."

Annja froze halfway up the stairs. "Do you know anything about him?"

A pensive frown tightened her host's lined face. "Very little. I'm told that is the best thing to know about him. Lesauvage is a bad man."

"Inspector Richelieu told me that, as well."

"You went to him for help?" François looked concerned.

"He was assigned to the investigation."

"He is not a good man, either, that one. He tends to take care of things his way."

Annja hesitated a moment. "I was told he shot Avery Moreau's father."

"Yes." François looked sad. "It is a bad way for a boy to lose his father. Avery, he struggles with right and wrong, you see. At least when his father was around, knowing that his father was a thief, he had an idea of what he didn't want to be when he grew up."

"You didn't mention this when I hired him to help me," Annja said.

François's face colored a little. "If I had, would you have hired him?"

Annja answered honestly. "I don't know."

"I was only looking out for the boy. Someone needs to. But I should have told you."

"This," she said, wanting to let the old man off the hook, "had nothing to do with that."

"I hope not."

"I'm sure it doesn't."

François nodded. "Camille wanted to know if you would be joining us for breakfast."

"Yes," Annja said. "I've got a lot to do tomorrow. There is one thing you could help me with."

"If I may," he agreed.

She asked for some rosin from his violin kit and was quickly supplied with a small portion in a coffee cup. After thanking François, Annja said good night and went up to the room she'd rented.

She had a lot to do tonight. She didn't intend to let Roux get away with what he'd done.

Annja's rented room was small and cozy. Camille Lambert had filled it with sensible curtains and linens. But the bed, desk, chair and trunk all spoke of François's knowing hands.

She opened the windows and stood for just a moment as the night breeze filled the room. She took a deep breath and let go of the anger and frustration she felt. Those emotions were good motivators, but they wouldn't sustain her during a project.

No, for that she'd always relied on curiosity.

This time, there were a number of things to be curious about. Why was a man like Lesauvage interested in her? Why had Roux stolen the charm she'd found in La Bête's lair? Could the hidden cave in the Cévennes Mountains be found again? What did the designs on the charm mean?

And who was Roux?

Annja started with that.

Although the house was wired with electricity, power outages sometimes occurred. The Lamberts had shown her where the candles were kept for emergencies.

She took one of the candles, placed it in a holder on the desk and lit it. Then she held one of her metal notebooks a few inches over the flame. In a short time, a considerable amount of lampblack covered the metal surface.

Using a thin-bladed knife she generally used on dig sites, Annja scraped most of the lampblack into the coffee cup with the rosin. When she was satisfied she had enough of the black residue, she used the knife handle to grind the lampblack into the rosin. The mixture quickly turned dark gray.

She spread Roux's handkerchief on the desk. Using one of the fine brushes from her kit, she dumped some powder onto the euro coin.

Gently, she blew away the powder. When she could remove no more in this manner, she employed the brush, using deft strokes like those she would use on a fragile piece of pottery to reveal the images she was after.

A fingerprint stood out on the coin.

Annja smiled. Roux hadn't been as clever as he'd believed.

Working with meticulous care, which was a necessary skill in archaeology, she trapped the fingerprint on clear tape. She mounted her discovery on a plain white index card.

Taking a brief respite from the backbreaking labor, Annja straightened and placed her notebook computer on the desk. She hooked it to her satellite phone, then used the Web service to log on to the Internet.

Moving mechanically, she brought up alt.archaeology and alt.archaeology.esoterica, her favorite Usenet newsgroups. The former was a format for archaeology and history professors, students and enthusiasts to meet and share ideas. The latter held discourse on more inventive matters.

If she needed hard information, Annja resorted to alt.archaeology. But if she needed something more along the lines for guesswork, she would generally post to alt.archaeology.esoterica.

Since she had no idea where to begin with the images of the charm, she elected to post to both.

Taking her digital camera from her backpack, she changed lenses and switched the function over to manual instead of automatic. She also used a flash separate from the camera rather than mounted on it.

Working quickly, confidently, she took pictures of the rubbings of the charm she'd made in her journal. Then she took pictures of the fingerprint from the coin.

Opening a new topic on the alt.archaeology newsgroup, Annja quickly wrote a short note.

I'm seeking information about the following images found on a charm/talisman/coin? Not sure which. I saw it in France recently, at a small town called Lozère. It caught my attention and now I can't get it out of my mind. Can anyone help? Is it just a tourist geegaw?

She framed her request like that to detract immediate attention. She knew if she sounded like a newbie other wannabe experts wouldn't leave her alone and would try to impress her. Hopefully only someone who knew something about the images would bother to respond.

She attached the images of the charm's rubbings and sent the postings to both newsgroups.

Going to her e-mail service, she opened her account, ignored the latest rash of spam and picked a name from her address book.

Bart McGilley was a Brooklyn cop she occasionally dated when she was home. He was a nice guy, on his way to making detective at the precinct. They had a good time whenever they were together. Thankfully, he shared an interest in some of the city's more historical settings and museums.

She typed a quick note.

Hey Bart,

I'm in France doing a workup on a piece for Monsters. I'm keeping my blouse together, so I'm having to make this good. Points of interest, rather than interesting points.

I ran into a guy who swiped something from me. Nothing big. But I thought if I could give the police his name, it might help.

I know it's a big favor to ask, but could you run this print?

Best,

Annja

She attached the image of the fingerprint and sent it. She also took a moment to send the pictures of La Bête and the cave to Doug Morrell. Then she retreated to her bathroom.

One of the finest things François Lambert had done in creating his retirement business was to add a soaker tub to each guest bathroom. It wasn't something that many bed-and-breakfasts in the area had. But it was one of the selling points that had caught Annja's attention.

Once the tub was filled, she eased in and turned on the jets. In seconds, the heat and the turbulence worked to wash away the stress and tension of the day.

Controlling the excitement that filled him, Roux drove toward the iron gates of his estate outside Paris. The land was wooded and hilly. The large stone manor house and outbuildings couldn't easily be seen even by helicopter.

At a touch of a button on the steering wheel, the iron gates separated and rolled back quietly. An armed guard stepped out from the gatehouse holding an assault rifle.

"Mr. Roux," the man said.

Roux knew another man waited for confirmation inside the bulletproof and bombproof gatehouse. Not only was his landscape well tended, but so was his security. He paid dearly for it and never begrudged the price.

"Yes," Roux said, turning his head so he could be clearly illuminated by the guard's flashlight.

The guard swept the SUV with his beam. "Ran into some trouble?"

"A little," Roux admitted. There was no way to conceal the bullet holes from a trained eye.

"Anything we should know about?"

The guard was American. He was direct and thorough. Those were qualities that Roux loved about the Americans. Of course, they balanced that with obstinacy and contrariness.

"I don't think this will follow me home," Roux said. "But it wouldn't hurt to be a trifle more vigilant for a few days."

"Yes, sir."

Roux drove through. The gates closed behind him. For the first time since he'd left Lozère, he felt safe.

His headlights carved through the night as he followed the winding road to the main house, which butted up against a tall hillside. The location helped hide the house, but also allowed a greater depth than anyone knew of. Another electronic device opened the long door of the five-car garage bay.

He pulled the SUV inside and parked next to a new metallic-red-and-silver Jaguar XKE and a baby-blue vintage Shelby Cobra. He loved cars. That was one of his weaknesses.

Poker and women were others. Of course, he never bothered to make a list.

Henshaw, his majordomo and a British-trained butler, met him at the door to the house.

"Good evening, sir." Henshaw was tall and thin, thirty-eight but acting at least forty years older.

"Good evening, Henshaw."

Roux's good-natured greeting must have taken the man by surprise. Henshaw's eyebrows climbed.

"There's been a problem with the SUV?" Henshaw asked. In his capacity during the past six years, he was well aware of some of the problems Roux dealt with.

"Yes." Roux tossed the man the keys. "Take it. Dispose of it. Destroy all of the paperwork that ever tied me to such a vehicle."

Henshaw caught the keys effortlessly. He wasn't surprised by the request. He'd done it before. "Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"A drink. Cognac, I think. The Napoleon."

"A celebration, sir?"

"Yes. In the study, if you please."

"Of course, sir."

Roux walked through the house, across the marble floor of the great room with its sweeping staircase and private elevator, to his personal study.

The study was huge, very nearly the largest room in the house. It was two stories tall, filled with shelves of books and artifacts, scrolls and pottery, statues and paintings. Even a sarcophagus, canopic jars and the stuffed and mounted corpse of an American West gunslinger that had been so gaudy he just hadn't been able to resist acquiring it.

At the back of the room, Roux took out his key chain and pressed a sequence of buttons on the fob.

Immediately, the back wall separated into sections and slid back to reveal a huge vault. It was built into the hillside. The only access was through the heavy vault door.

As Roux pressed more buttons, the vault's door tumblers clacked and turned. When it finished, the door slid open on great hinges.

Lights flared on. Shelves held money and gems and bearer's bonds. Roux didn't care much for banks. He'd found them greedy and unscrupulous, and entirely too curious about where his wealth had come from.

He had other such hiding places around the globe. When he'd told the young American woman he was independently wealthy, he hadn't been lying.

A sealed case five feet long occupied a pedestal at the back of the vault. He pressed his hand against the handprint scanner. Ten seconds later, the locks clicked open.

The excitement thrummed within him as he flipped open the lid. He gazed down at the weapon protected within the case.

The hilt was plain and unadorned. The blade, when it had been whole, had been nearly four feet long. Now it lay in pieces but appeared almost intact.

Over the years, Roux had scoured the world in search of the fragments. He couldn't believe how far and wide the pieces had been scattered.

Or how quickly. After the sword was shattered, they had seemed to disappear overnight.

Only a small piece, no bigger than a large coin, remained to be found.

Surprised at the way his fingers trembled, Roux took from his pocket the charm the young American woman had found in the cave. He still wondered about the way she had found it. In all the times he had visited the Cévennes Mountains, he had never known an earthquake to take place.

Hesitantly, almost reverently, Roux held the charm in his fingers and positioned it the best way to fit with the sword. He dropped it onto the velvet bedding.

Nothing happened.

Roux noticed he wasn't breathing and thought it might be better if he were. He frowned.

Looking at the piece, he had no doubt that it was the one he'd been seeking. But why wasn't anything happening?

"Bollocks," Roux snarled. "After five-hundred-plus years, somethingshould bloody well happen."

Steeling himself, he nudged the missing piece in closer to its mates.

Still, nothing happened.

"Oh, bollocks!" Roux roared, unable to restrain himself. He glared at the broken sword and wondered what the hell was wrong.

"Sir."

Turning, Roux stared at Henshaw standing in the study. He held the brandy and a snifter.

Angrily, Roux stormed out of the vault. He thumbed the remote control and heard the vault hiss shut behind him. A heartbeat later, the wall reassembled.

"Something wrong?" Henshaw inquired politely.

"Yes," Roux growled as he snatched the brandy and snifter from Henshaw's hands.

He dropped into the large leather chair behind the ornate mahogany desk and poured a copious amount of brandy into the snifter. Then he drank it like water. It wasn't the most refined way to enjoy two-hundred-year-old brandy.

"Will you need anything else, sir?" Henshaw asked.

"A miracle, obviously," Roux grumbled. He filled the snifter again.