Текст книги "Cradle of Solitude"
Автор книги: Алекс Арчер
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
“You don’t care about the value of the treasure itself, do you?” he asked. “You just want to solve the mystery.”
She nodded. Finding the actual treasure would be nice, no doubt about it, as her bank account was looking more than a bit dismal, but for her, the real accomplishment would be discovering exactly what had happened after the treasure had supposedly been “stolen” on that night in 1865. That was the prize she was after.
The door behind them opened and a medium-size black man with a shaved head and a soul patch on his chin stepped inside. His name was Matthew Griggs and he was some kind of senior operative with Dragontech Security. Annja had first met him in the aftermath of the Indian tsunami, when he’d flown in by helicopter to rescue her and the rest of her dig workers.
“Ms. Creed,” he said in that lilting island accent of his, a smile on his face.
She smiled back at him. “Nice to see you, Griggs.”
Griggs crossed the room and handed a manila folder to Garin, who thanked him and began leafing through its thin contents as Griggs left them alone once more.
Annja itched to know what was in the file, but there was no way she was going to give Garin the upper hand by asking. She’d known him long enough to understand that he was constantly turning everything into a competition, vying for dominance with every issue no matter how big or small. He knew she’d want to know what was in the file. He would purposely keep it from her until she asked. But if she asked, she lost face in his eyes, which only reinforced his already monumental ego. Of course, making her play the game at all was considered a win for him as well in his eyes, so it was a losing proposition for her either way.
Instead, she sat back and waited patiently for Garin to finish reviewing the documents in front of him. Several minutes passed. Finally, perhaps realizing that he wasn’t going to get any kind of rise out of Annja, Garin closed the folder and spoke up.
“You might not care about the treasure but it’s clear that someone else does.”
There wasn’t any doubt about that. Whoever they were, they were clearly willing to kill over it, as well.
“Sounds like you’re going to need some help,” Garin said.
She had to admit that was true. She wasgoing to need some help. The question was whether Garin Braden was the best person to provide it.
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Sixty-forty split on the treasure, with the larger portion going to me as I’ll be putting up all the financing and security for the search.”
Annja immediately shook her head. That would give him control over the find and there was no way she was going to allow that. He’d auction it off to the highest bidder and the lost Confederate treasury would disappear into some private collector’s vault, never to be seen again. As far as she was concerned, the treasure was a part of history and deserved to be shared by all. The finder’s fee they’d receive from the government would be more than enough compensation.
She made a counteroffer. “Fifty-one, forty-nine split. I retain control of the expedition and make all decisions regarding whether it goes forward or not. You provide funding and materials, which will be paid back out of my portion of the find if we’re successful.”
Garin opened his mouth to say something, but Annja cut him off.
“Without what’s up here,” she said, tapping her forehead in the process, “you’re dead in the water.”
To her surprise, he grinned. “Done!” he said, and stuck out his hand to shake on it. While doing so, Annja couldn’t help but wonder if she’d outnegotiated him or just fallen victim to some trap she hadn’t seen coming.
It was not a pleasant feeling.
Garin set the file he’d been examining on the coffee table between them, but didn’t offer any comments on its contents. Instead, he asked, “What happened to the note Parker left behind with the puzzle box?”
“They were stolen when the gunmen first attacked the monastery.”
Garin didn’t like hearing that. “So we aredead in the water until we identify the attackers and retrieve the messages?” he asked.
“I didn’t say that. Give me something to write on.” He got up, walked into the next room and returned with a pen and pad of paper in hand. Taking them, Annja quickly reconstructed both the letter that had accompanied the puzzle box, as well as the rather cryptic instructions the box itself had contained, from memory. When she was finished, she passed them over.
He glanced at the note to Sykes briefly and then turned his attention to the riddle. After studying it for several minutes he said, “Seems easy enough. All we have to do is find where Parker’s doppelgänger is buried and we’ll have the treasure, right?”
“Wrong. It’s never that simple.”
“So enlighten me.”
She waved a hand at the pad in general. “Messages like these were never as straightforward as they seemed. Content was important, yes, but it was often what wasn’t being said that was the real key.
“Four paragraphs, four different clues. Most people would do what you just did—jump to the final clue with the idea that if they can solve that, they can solve the puzzle overall. But that’s incorrect.”
“So you’ve said,” Garin replied dryly.
Ignoring him, Annja continued. “Perhaps incompletewould be a better word than incorrect. The fourth clue will eventually have to be solved so the effort to do so wouldn’t be entirely wasted. But if you look at the wording of each paragraph, you can see that they have to be solved in a specific order.”
Pointing at each of the individual paragraphs in turn, she said, “Each clue is dependent on the one before it. You can’t find the Lady without the key. You can’t find the doppelgänger’s resting place without the rifle. You can’t find the treasure without the resting place.”
Garin nodded to show he understood.
“In this case, it seems to be even more important than usual, because each clue requires you to bring a physical object to the next location. Arrive at the final location without them and the treasure will still elude you.”
He glanced at the paper. “So we start at the top, ‘in the cellars of the wine god.’”
“Right. What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you hear that phrase—‘wine god’?”
“Bacchus.”
It wasn’t the answer Annja was looking for, but it was a correct one nonetheless. Bacchus had been the Roman god of wine and the madness or euphoria it produced. It was from his name the English word bacchanaloriginated.
Should have seen that one coming, she thought. Garin loves wine, women and luxury, so naturally he’d think along those lines.
“Right part of the world but wrong culture,” she told him.
“Well, Dionysius, then,” came his swift reply.
“Correct. So how does someone named Dionysius fit into the story of the missing Confederate treasury?”
Garin scowled. “I don’t have a clue,” he said. “You’re the one with all the answers. Why don’t you tell me?”
Now there was the Garin she was used to. Impatient and not one to take kindly to remarks on his intelligence, oblique as they might be.
“When trying to find information on Captain Parker, I came across several sites that listed some of the common theories regarding the location of the treasure,” Annja said. “As you might guess, the Union Army was particularly interested in locating it. Seize the treasury and you basically eliminate the South’s means of waging war, because no money meant no supply and no pay for the soldiers.
“It was generally thought at the time that Parker and his men had hidden the treasure on the grounds of a plantation owned by Dionysius Chennault, an elderly planter and Methodist minister.”
Garin grinned. “So the cellars of the wine god are most likely…”
“…the wine cellars of the Chennault plantation,” Annja finished for him.
Garin got up from the couch, suddenly energized. “Excellent! We’ll start there first thing in the morning.”
“You might want to leave a little more time than that,” Annja said. “After all, the plantation is in Washington, Georgia.”
16
After Annja had gone to sleep, Garin sat in the living room alone, considering the turn of events that had brought him to this point.
He was not a man who believed in coincidence, not after all he’d seen in the centuries since that fateful day under the hot sun when an innocent woman had been consumed in the flames before him. Fate’s bloody fingerprints were all over his memories of that event and many others since. The fact that he was still alive and well, hundreds of years after his body should have returned to the dust from whence it came, reminded him that there were forces at work in the world that he just did not understand. He’d come to believe that while some things were just the luck of the draw, others happened for a reason.
He thought about the events of that afternoon. He’d been monitoring Annja’s movements for some time; it was just common sense for him to keep track of her, given that the sword she carried was in some way responsible for his continued existence. He’d never planned to be in a position to help her if she ran into difficulty; in fact, if he’d had more time to think about it, he probably wouldn’t have helped. She was constantly courting danger and he was usually content to sit back and watch. But when the word of the current situation had reached him, something in his gut had prompted him to take action.
The results, as they were, only confirmed his sense that the Fates had reached down once more and interfered in his life.
He glanced at the file he held in his lap. His pretense of reviewing the material in front of Annja was just that, a sham. He was intimately aware of the contents of most of his files, for the same mysticism that had kept him alive for so many years had also blessed him with a remarkable memory, and this particular file had been reviewed and added to multiple times over the years. The Friends of the South was simply a front for a small but ruthless organization, and several times during the past two centuries Garin had found his interests and goals in direct opposition to theirs. He’d worked hard, then and now, to be certain that they did not gain the upper hand with regard to such situations.
He hadn’t thought about them much in the past several months, other matters having occupied his attention, and then Annja showed up out of nowhere, in need of assistance and running from the machinations of his old enemy. Coincidence be damned; that was the hand of fate if ever it had shown itself.
Garin got up and fixed himself a glass of brandy, swirling the liquid in the glass as he considered the opportunities available to him.
As he’d told her earlier, he fully intended to help Annja recover the long-lost Confederate treasure. She thought he had a strictly monetary interest in the adventure, but that was the least of his concerns. He’d accumulated a vast treasure of his own over the years. After all, it wasn’t all that difficult when you had literally centuries in which to do it. Even if they found the treasure intact, it would only be worth a tiny fraction of what he already controlled. The value was certainly not enough to even be worth the effort, really. Sure, there might be some value in offering it intact on the black market to the private collector’s circuit, but the work involved in doing so made it hardly worth the effort.
No, the true value in helping Annja rested in other areas. First, she’d feel some sense of obligation to him as a result, thanks to her do-gooder general nature. That alone made it worthwhile; he could manipulate that at a later time to his advantage, he was sure. Having her beholden to him was a strategic opportunity he just couldn’t pass up.
Never mind it would drive her nuts thinking about it and that would prove to be a source of amusement for him in the future, he had no doubt. Second, beating the Order at its own game was an opportunity that didn’t come around all that often. While Garin was loath to admit it, the Order had gotten the better of him the last time they had clashed and he fully intended to balance the books by making things as difficult as possible for them now. The current head of the Order was not the crafty adversary his ancestor had been, preferring blunt-force tactics over the chesslike precision that had been exhibited in the past, and Garin had no doubt that he was by far the intellectual superior.
17
Blaine Michaels stared at the one-hundred-and-forty-year-old missive and, after two hours of close scrutiny, had to finally admit that he didn’t have a clue as to what it was trying to tell him. The legal pad beside him was full of the notes that he’d taken as he’d tried to work through the puzzle, but he was enough of a realist to know that it all amounted to nothing useful. He just wasn’t wired to think this way.
He understood that William Parker’s instructions were designed to lead the recipient to the location of the missing gold, with each stanza being a separate clue, but that was as far as he could go. He had no idea who the wine god was, never mind the Peacock. And how was a key supposed to lead you anywhere? It just didn’t make any sense.
The day had not gone as well as he had hoped. After spending much of the morning reviewing the material his team had stolen from Professor Reinhardt’s office at the museum, he’d correctly deduced that the only real lead was the scrap of paper naming the monastery. He’d expected to find much more and was frustrated that he didn’t understand how or why the monastery fit into the situation. Things had continued their downward slide when his team ran into that damned Creed woman at the monastery a few hours later. What was supposed to be a simple smash and grab like the one at the museum had turned into a bloodbath. She’d actually attacked several of his men with a sword of all things! His men had managed to corner her on the rooftop, but she’d gotten away by jumping off the edge into the river below.
He’d thought that was the last of her, but then he’d received word that she’d placed a call to emergency services, summoning the police to the scene of the crime, and he’d been forced to order a group of his men back to the monastery in an effort to take her out for good.
Somehow, she’d managed to kill them and escape a second time.
That damned woman has more lives than anyone deserves, he thought.
Just what and how much she actually knew was still unclear, but that no longer mattered. She’d put herself squarely in his sights by interfering in his business. No one did that and got away with it. He was going to have to take care of her—and the sooner, the better.
Right now, though, he needed to make some decisions regarding the missive on the desk in front of him. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew he was going to find someone to decipher Parker’s directions to the gold.
The question was who?
Ironically, he realized, the best option was probably Annja Creed herself. After all, she’d been the one to unearth the connection to the Cradle of Solitude and, if his guess was correct, she had convinced the abbot to hand over the puzzle box. Clearly she knew what she was doing. But the fact that she’d already taken up arms against him precluded him from making use of her services. It would be seen as a weakness in the eyes of his colleagues and he had no intention of giving them any ammunition that might enable them to mount a campaign to remove him from his position as leader of the Order.
No, Creed was unacceptable.
He’d have to go with his second choice, which, in the long run, was probably better than constantly sparring against that annoying woman, anyway.
Michaels reached for the phone, intending to order one of his crews out to do the job, but then he hesitated. Given the days events, he could foresee it ending in disaster and he couldn’t afford another one.
He thought about one of his father’s favorite sayings. “When you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself,” he muttered.
It seemed that now might be a good time to listen to dear old Dad.
He rose from his desk and moved into his bedroom, where he quickly changed into dark jeans and a black sweater, attire more suited for the evening’s activities. He pulled on a pair of dark rubber-soled boots.
When he was satisfied with his appearance, he picked up the phone and called downstairs to the head of his security team. He gave instructions that two of the three men who had handled the museum job the night before were to meet him out front in five minutes. As they were simply added muscle to be certain the job went off the way he intended it to, he didn’t care which two were sent, which simplified things.
Taking the elevator to the lower level, Michaels retrieved an SUV from the garage and drove around front and picked up the two men. They were dressed in dark clothing and the telltale bulge of their shoulder holsters could be seen beneath their jackets. That reminded him to arm himself, as well, so he removed the automatic pistol from the glove box and laid it on the passenger seat beside him, where it would be readily accessible when he got out of the vehicle.
The drive was passed in silence; the two men in the backseat knew better than to strike up a conversation with the boss unless addressed directly. They cruised twice through the neighborhood, coming from different directions each time, getting a feel for the territory.
Their target lived in a community of freestanding town houses, each with its own small yard. Most of them had small fences running across the front of the lot, but they were so low that they could be easily stepped over and wouldn’t cause a problem when it came time to make their move.
On their third pass they found a parking spot a few doors down from their target and pulled in to wait.
The street was quiet.
It was still early, so lights burned in several of the nearby town houses, but Michaels wasn’t concerned. In this day and age, most people knew to keep their heads down and to stay out of business that didn’t concern them.
He gave it fifteen minutes, noting the traffic patterns and watching the parked vehicles nearby to be certain they didn’t contain witnesses. When he felt it was safe to make a move, he turned to the others.
“Our target lives in the town house on the end. If he’s not home, we’ll settle in and wait. We need him intact, so no violence unless I give the word. Questions?”
Both men shook their heads.
“All right, then, let’s go.”
The interior light had already been dismantled, so there was no telltale glow to call attention to them as they slipped out of the vehicle. They jumped over the low fence that fronted the property, and immediately disappeared around the back of the building.
Michaels quickly located the back door of their target’s town house and gestured toward it. One of his companions stepped up and punched out the glass next to the doorknob, then reached in and unlocked the door.
Ten seconds later the three men were moving through the darkened house, searching for their quarry.
They found him in the study upstairs, watching old Star Trekreruns on the television. He started when he saw them enter the room, then recovered his wits enough to reach for the cell phone lying on the table nearby, but the gun Blaine pulled out and pointed at his head quickly disabused him of the notion.
“If you don’t mind, Professor, we’d like the pleasure of your company for a few days.”
Reinhardt had no choice but to agree.
18
Annja spent the night in Garin’s spare bedroom, emerging from the suite to find him standing before the television in the living room, watching a newscast. He heard her come in and said over his shoulder without turning, “The events at Berceau de solitude have made the news.”
The details were sketchy. Armed gunmen had invaded the monastery, killing fourteen residents. Some of the monks must have fought back, it was theorized, because two of the gunmen were found dead on the front lawn beside the burned-out hulk of their vehicle. A female caller had phoned in the tragedy and had then disappeared from the scene. The police were keeping her identity to themselves.
Annja could see Commissaire Laroche’s hand in the fact that the media didn’t have her name yet, but she knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long. They were just too good at their jobs. And the commissaire’s goodwill would only last so long. He wouldn’t be happy that she’d left the scene of the crime but at least she had a good excuse for that. After all, people had been trying to kill her!
Still, she knew she’d better get in touch with him and explain what had happened.
“Can I use your phone?” she asked.
Garin pointed to a table on the other side of the room, where a slim telephone receiver rested. She was mentally rehearsing what she would say to the inspector as she crossed the room when the announcer’s voice on the television behind her caught her attention.
“In other news, Professor Bernard Reinhardt of the Museum of Natural—”
Click. Garin changed the channel.
Annja spun around. “Wait! Go back!”
Garin shrugged, then flipped the television channel back to the news. The announcer was still talking.
“A neighbor stated that she saw Professor Reinhardt being forced into a dark-colored van by three men in their mid-to-late thirties, and when he tried to call for help, he was struck in the face by one of his abductors. Police are asking anyone with information that might help them locate the professor or his abductors to call the hotline. We turn now to our foreign correspondent…”
Garin flipped through several other newscasts. Reinhardt’s abduction was mentioned more than once, but there was no more information on any of the other broadcasts. Nor had any made the connection between the break-in at the museum, the attack on the monastery and the professor’s kidnapping.
It wasn’t lost on Annja and she was furious with herself for not seeing it coming. A simple phone call last night might have saved Bernard from the entire ordeal.
Apparently sensing what she was feeling, Garin said, “It’s not your fault.”
“Of course it is. I should have called him when we arrived last night, no matter what the hour.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Annja. You had no way of knowing they would target Reinhardt next. They got what they were after. Logically that should have been it.”
Annja realized he was right. That should have been it.
So why did they need Bernard if they had the clues to find the treasure?
The answer, when it came to her, was obvious. They had the instructions from Captain Parker, but they didn’t know what to do with them. They must have kidnapped Bernard in order to get him to work it out for them.
When she said as much to Garin, he agreed.
“So now what?” he asked.
“Now we find out who did this, rescue Bernard and make them pay for what they’ve done.”
Garin regarded her soberly. “And just how do you expect to do that? We don’t even know where to begin.”
“There’s got to be something. They didn’t just appear out of thin air.”
But even as she said it, she knew that, for all intents and purposes, that was, indeed, precisely what they had done. She had no idea who was behind the activity or why. Nor did she have any real clue where to start. She supposed the police report from the museum break-in might contain some information, but getting her hands on that…
It seemed hopeless.
“The best bet is to beat them to the treasure.”
Annja stared at Garin. “Is that all you can think about? Your share of the treasure?”
To give him credit, Garin was actually offended by the statement, which was Annja’s first clue that he was actually trying to be helpful.
“Don’t give me that crap. I’m trying to help you rescue your friend. I don’t give a rat’s ass what happens to him, personally.”
No surprise there, Annja thought.
But something about his very truthfulness made her want to hear him out.
“Sorry,” she said, albeit grudgingly. “How will going after the treasure help Bernard?”
“If we’re correct that the professor was taken to help them recover it, then they’ll keep him alive until they do so and that means he’s not in immediate danger.”
“I’m sure he’d be thrilled at how blithely you’re dismissing the danger of his situation.”
“I’m not dismissing anything. I’m simply saying that running off half-cocked isn’t going to help him.”
“Okay, fine. Point taken.”
“They want the treasure,” he went on. “That’s the point of all this. That’s also our bargaining chip. They’re not going to just let him go when they’re through with him. You know that as well as I do. That would be stupid. Since they haven’t done anything that fits that description so far, I think it would be a stretch to think they’d start doing so now.”
“Agreed, but you still haven’t answered my question.”
“I’m getting to that. If the treasure is what they want, then the treasure is our most important bargaining chip. If we control the treasure, we can call the shots. Including forcing them to let the professor go.”
“We have to beat them to the treasure,” Annja finished for him.
“Right.”
It made sense. As much as she hated to admit it.
Find the treasure, then use it to bargain for Bernard’s life. It seemed like their only option.
Before they did anything, she knew she still had to get in touch with the police inspector.
She grabbed Garin’s phone and made a call to Laroche’s office. The operator wasn’t able to locate Laroche, so Annja left a message telling him she was all right and that he could call her back or she would be in to speak with him later that day.
When she hung up, Annja found Garin watching her. He inclined his head in the direction of the phone.
“Do you think that was wise?” he asked.
“I don’t know about wise, but it was certainly necessary. My wet clothes are still at the monastery, as is the car that Bernard loaned to me. Never mind that I identified myself on the emergency call. Not getting in touch would make it seem like I was complicit in some way.”
Garin wasn’t entirely convinced, but agreed to go along with what she thought best for the time being.
It didn’t take long for Laroche to call back. He wasn’t happy that she had left the scene and was far more brusque than usual in dealing with her. They made arrangements for Annja to come in for an interview later that day.
Two hours later Annja presented herself to the desk sergeant at police headquarters, Garin at her side. She was directed to wait off to one side of the crowded lobby for the inspector to come down to get her.
Thankfully, he didn’t take long.
Laroche came out of the elevator a few minutes later and moved directly to her side.
“Miss Creed,” he said, by way of greeting.
I’m getting the official treatment, she thought. “Commissaire.”
The inspector turned to face Garin. “I am Commissaire Laroche. And you are…?”
“Neil Anderson,” Garin said.
Annja had to stifle a laugh.
“A pleasure. If you wouldn’t mind waiting out here, we’ll only be—”
“Sorry. I do mind,” Garin said.
The inspector frowned. “This is a police matter, Mr. Anderson.”
Garin smiled and Annja was instantly reminded of a wolf sizing up its prey. “Of course it is,” he told Laroche. “Which is precisely why I’m here, representing Miss Creed.”
“I see. Very well, then, if you would both follow me,” Laroche said, frowning.
The police officer turned to lead them to the interview room, and as Garin’s gaze caught Annja’s he winked.
She had to hand it to him. He’d given the impression that he was there as her legal representative, ready and able to protect her rights, without actually saying he was an attorney. He’d used familiar phraseology and let Laroche hear what it was he expected to hear. Very smooth and very dangerous, she reminded herself.
Inside the interview room was a table and two chairs. Laroche took one and motioned for Annja to take the other. Garin, apparently, was going to have to stand.
Bet that’s meant to annoy the solicitors, Annja thought. Bet it annoys Garin, too.
The inspector didn’t waste any time.
“Please tell me what you know about the events at the monastery known as the Cradle of Solitude yesterday afternoon.”
Annja had worked out what she wanted to say in advance, so she was prepared for the question. She told the inspector that she was at the monastery to try to find any records that might have been kept by Brother Markum, a former abbot who was also William Parker’s distant cousin. She’d been getting ready to leave when armed gunmen burst through the front door. She and the rest of the occupants had run for their lives when the intruders started shooting. She managed to find her way to the roof, only to be cornered at the edge overlooking the river. With no other option, she’d jumped.
After surviving the fall, she’d returned to the monastery, discovered the bodies of the fallen and had immediately called emergency services. While waiting for their arrival, she’d become concerned that the intruders might still be about the grounds and so she’d escaped while she could.
She had no idea what the intruders were looking for, no more than she’d had with regard to the museum break-in. Perhaps it was something Bernard was involved in?
It was very close to the truth, which reduced the chances that she’d inadvertently give something away. Revealing what the intruders were really after might put Bernard’s life at greater risk and that wasn’t something Annja was willing to do. Since taking up the sword she’d discovered just how evil men could be and she’d lost what little faith she had that the authorities could handle problems like this. She and Garin had agreed that the best way to bring Bernard home safely was to keep the authorities as far away from the situation as possible.
Laroche took notes throughout her statement and when she was finished he began to use them in an effort to pick her story apart.
“You arrived at the monastery about what time?”
“Two-thirty.”
“You went alone?”
“Yes?”
“Why?”
“Why did I go alone?”
“Yes.”
“Who else would I have gone with?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
It went on like that for the better part of two hours, with Laroche asking the same questions several times in different ways, continually circling back to the reasons why she had been at the monastery in the first place and what she thought it was the assailants were after, and what it was that was worth killing over.
