Destiny (21 page)

“According to the documentation I found, it was for special services to the crown.”

“What services?”

“I'm afraid it doesn't say, my dear.”

“You would think the conferring of a knighthood under George III would have been important enough to record.”

“Indeed,” Smyth-Peabody agreed. “Perhaps it even was. But you have to remember, George III wasn't called the mad king for vacuous reasons. The man had porphyria, a most debilitating affliction that ultimately ruined his health and rendered him mad as a hatter. And there was a lot going on during his reign. He undermined the Whig Party, including Pitt the Elder, fought the French for seven years, then turned around and fought you Americans, not once but twice, staved off another attack at political control by the Whigs under Pitt the Younger, and managed to fight Napoleon's efforts at world domination twice.”

“Those campaigns were managed by the Duke of Wellington.”

“Quite. But they were under George III's reign. Perhaps he wasn't aware of what was going on by that time, but his royal historians were kept busy nonetheless.”

“Point taken.” Annja sighed. History and archaeology were sometimes at odds with each other. Then when a research project brought in other branches of science, things became even more convoluted.

“You are aware he had a daughter?” Smyth-Peabody asked.

“Carolyn,” Annja said.

“Yes. Do tell me there is something I've left to amaze you with?”

“I'll let you know when we get there. Tell me about Carolyn.”

Smyth-Peabody cleared his throat. “Sir Richard's daughter was born to his wife while he was tending the king's holdings in the New World.”

“Richard wasn't in France?”

“No. He was one of the king's primaries during engagements in King George's War. You Americans refer to it as—”

“The French and Indian War,” Annja said. “From 1757 to 1763.”

“Yes. A rather melodramatic name, don't you think?”

Annja's mind flew. “Did Richard see any action in France?”

“No. According to the texts I've been through, Richard spent his whole military career marshaling forces in America. Until his death in 1777 at the Battle of Brandywine Creek when General Howe's troops forced the Continental Congress from Philadelphia.”

“Richard never served in France?”

“I never found mention of it. I didn't know that was an important detail. I suppose I can go back through the research.”

“What about Richard's wife?”

“Victoria, yes. By all accounts, she was rather a handful. She was married at fourteen to Richard, who was twenty years her senior.”

Annja wasn't surprised. Marriages were often arranged for officers in the British military. Poor working-class parents wanted to get rid of a mouth to feed and hoped that a daughter, who wasn't allowed to work, might find a good home.

“Evidently being married to Richard didn't agree with her,” the professor continued.

“What makes you say that?”

“She
did
have the affair behind her husband's back. After she lost the baby, I'm sure things weren't any easier.”

“The baby didn't die.”

Smyth-Peabody was silent for a moment. “Are you quite sure?”

“Yes. I'll forward the documentation on to you.”

“In everything that I read, the child died and was buried in a private cemetery on family land outside London.”

“Was the cause of death mentioned?”

“I inferred there were massive birth defects. There was, in one of the resources I investigated, some reason to believe there were instances of inbreeding within Victoria's family. Perhaps even incest.”

“Where did you get that?”

“From the newspapers. They were little more than gossip sheets at the time.”

The jet hit a downdraft. For a few seconds, Annja felt weightless. Then her stomach flipped and gravity held her in place again.

“What about the lozenge?” Annja asked.

“It never existed. Or, I should say, it never existed in the form that you showed me.” The professor paused and the computer keys clacked. “The wolf design?”

“Yes.”

“That was one that Sir Richard had ordered designed for his wife. She was going to be given her own coat-of-arms on the birth of their first child. The lozenge was never struck.”

“The stag was part of the design?”

“No. The stag belonged to Sir Henry of Falhout.”

“Could he have been Carolyn's father?”

“He died in 1745 while at sea in a tragic accident. It would have been quite impossible.”

“Did he have a son? The coat-of-arms would have descended to him.”

“Sir Henry did have a son, but he was only eight at the time Carolyn was born.”

“What about brothers?” Annja kept trying to make sense of the puzzle. The image of the lozenge wouldn't leave her thoughts. Someone had initially thought to put the inscription on the charm, then had decided—or been told—not to. It had to be important.

“Sir Henry did have two younger brothers. The youngest brother died while fighting the French in 1747.”

“What about the other brother?”

“I've not found anything out about him. He seems to have disappeared,” the professor said.

“No family fortune to care for?”

“Remember, dear girl,” the professor said, “this is Britain. We had the law of primogeniture here. Only the eldest male issue shall inherit family estates. Once Sir Henry had a son to carry on the family name, the rest of the family got nothing.”

“Then who would use his heraldry?”

“I don't know. I shall keep looking and endeavor to find out. But as it stands at the moment, I'm at a loss to explain it.”

“Thanks, Graham,” Annja said.

“Of course, dear girl. I am yours to command. I have only one request.”

“Yes.”

“Once you decipher this puzzle, come to England and share the story with me. It's been too long since I've seen you.”

“I will,” Annja said, and hoped she survived the encounter with Lesauvage to do that.

“Annja.”

Waking with a start, Annja lifted her hands in front of her in a defensive move. She blinked, focused and saw Roux standing in front of her.

“What?” she asked. Her throat was dry.

“We're descending. We'll land in a few minutes.”

Annja felt the shift in the jet then. “Thanks.” She put her seat belt on again.

Roux looked guilty. “I feel bad for waking you. You've hardly been asleep at all.”

“I'll be fine.” Annja uncapped a bottle of water and drank. The truth was, she didn't know how much longer she could keep going. It seemed as if the past few days had all turned into one exhaustive blur.

“May I?” Roux gestured to the seat next to her.

“Sure.”

Roux sat and belted himself in. “I plan on accompanying you.” He paused. “Unless you have an objection.”

Annja thought about it. She really didn't want to be on her own facing Lesauvage and possibly the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain.

“It's going to be dangerous,” she warned.

Roux favored her with a small smile. “Now that you have the sword, I should wonder if you will ever know peace again.”

Annja lay back in the seat. “I hope you're wrong.”

“You could give up the sword.” He regarded her with idle speculation.

For a quiet moment, Annja thought about it. She could give up the sword, simply lay it down and walk away. But she knew she wouldn't. That wasn't her way, and…the sword had felt entirely too right in her hand.

“No,” she said. “I can't.”

 

“I'
M NOT GOING
.”

Standing at the door of the jet, the noise of the airport loud in her ears, Annja looked at Garin.

Hands clasped behind his head, he lounged, barefoot, on the sofa.

“I thought you couldn't wait to see me get killed,” Annja said.

Mirthlessly, Garin grinned at her. “If I go with you, I might be tempted to help you. If I did, I wouldn't be helping myself, would I?” He shook his head. “No. I'll sit on the sidelines for this one, and wait to see how it turns out.”

Without a word, Annja ducked through the door and went quickly down the steps to the tarmac. Roux followed her, carrying a slim, dark wood walking stick. He exchanged no words with Garin. After more than five hundred years of being mentor and student, then enemies, what was left to say?

A jet screamed through the air overhead. Annja looked up into the night and adjusted her backpack over her shoulder.

Eyes were watching her. She was sure of that. She wondered if she would ever see Garin again.

 

T
HREE MEN WAITED
outside the gates, near the baggage-claim area. They were better dressed than the motorcycle riders but they were the same kind of stock.

“Miss Creed,” one of them said.

Annja stopped. “Who are you?”

“Mr. Lesauvage sent a car for you.”

“I prefer my own car,” Annja said.

“Mr. Lesauvage,” the man said more harshly,
“insists.”

“He can call me and arrange a meeting place.” Annja stared at him. “I insist.”

The man stepped forward and grabbed Annja's upper arm. She reacted without thinking, opening her fist and popping him in the throat.

Buckling, gasping for breath, the man staggered away. The second man reached for her, but she shifted, grabbed his arm and bent it behind him, then lifted his arm high between his shoulders and rammed him into the nearest wall. Senseless, he collapsed.

The third man took one step, then Roux swung the walking stick up between his legs. Mewling with pain and grabbing himself, the man dropped to the floor.

Roux adjusted his collar and tie. Frowning, he gazed at the rapid approach of the security people. “Well, so much for the quiet arrival.”

 

I
T TOOK
almost an hour to straighten out the mess with airport security. In the end, one of Lesauvage's men claimed to have staggered drunkenly into Annja and caused the misunderstanding. Annja had supported that by saying she might have overreacted. The security chief let them go with a stern warning, and probably because he didn't want any further paperwork than he already had.

“Have you always been this way?” Roux asked while they stood at the car-rental desk.

Annja was quiet for a moment. Then she looked at him. “I grew up in an orphanage. You learn not to let people push you around in there. If circumstances were different, if I didn't already know that Lesauvage was slime, maybe I would handle this a different way.”

The agent brought a set of keys to a Nissan Terrano 4X4. The cost was extra, but Annja wanted the off-road capability.

“But Lesauvage is a criminal,” Annja went on, “and circumstances aren't different. I'm preparing for war.”

Roux smiled and shook his head. “You remind me so much of her at times. So focused. So deliberate. So convinced of your own righteousness.”

“Of who?” Annja signed the agreement and left the desk. She knew whom Roux meant, but for some reason she wanted him to say it. That way maybe he'd remember that he'd been too late last time and would put forth greater effort.

Roux fell into step beside her. “Of Joan.”

For a moment, the image of the burning pyre filled Annja's head. “Joan's dead.”

“I know,” Roux said. “I was going to remind you of that.”

 

A
NNJA WAS KEYING
the ignition when her cell phone rang. Fumbling it from her backpack, she answered.

“Miss Creed,” Lesauvage said.

Annja paused with the Terrano in gear. All around her, people arrived and departed the busy airport even this late in the evening. All of them had places to go, were starting journeys or ending them.

And what are you doing? she wondered. Starting one or ending one? She didn't know.

“We'll meet outside Mende,” Annja said with cold deliberation. She tried to sound as though she weren't about to throw up.

“I sent a car for you,” Lesauvage stated.

“I declined. Move on to your next point.” Annja couldn't believe how forceful she was being. Maybe it was from watching all those adventure movies with Sister Mary Annabelle when the other nuns were away. Or maybe it was just that in this situation a whole lot of dialogue wasn't needed.

“I could kill Avery Moreau,” Lesauvage threatened.

“And I could get on the next plane out of here.” Glancing back over her shoulder, Annja spotted the three men moving toward her. “Call your men off.”

“We're going to do this my way,” Lesauvage said.

“No,” Annja said, “we're not.” She broke the connection, tossed the phone onto the dashboard and looked at Roux. “Buckle up.”

Without a word, the old man did. But a faint grin pulled his lips.

Annja shoved the transmission into reverse and backed toward Lesauvage's three men. Trapped in the ruby-and-white glow of her taillights, they tried to run. She managed to clip one of them with her rear bumper and send him sprawling into a parked car. The alarm roared to life and lights flashed.

The other two men ran to help their companion to his feet. They tried to run to their car, but public parking was a long way from rental parking.

Annja switched on her lights and merged with the departing traffic.

The phone rang again.

Grabbing the phone, Annja said, “Be polite.”

“Where,” Lesauvage asked, “do you want to meet?”

Annja named a kilometer marker a short distance from the city. Then she hung up again.

For a short time, Roux let her drive in silence, long enough to get onto the loop around Paris so they could head south. Finally he said, “You realize, of course, that Lesauvage and his men will outnumber you when you reach that destination.”

“Yes.” Annja made herself try to believe that she wasn't sleepy and that driving was taking all of her attention.

“What do you plan to do?”

“I don't know,” she replied, “exactly.” She paused. “Yet. This is still a work in progress.”

“You're trusting that Lesauvage won't kill you.”

“He won't.” Annja thought that through. “He can't. He wants the charm and whatever secrets it possesses.”

“Once he has it, he may well kill you. Us.”

Annja looked at him and smiled. “Are you worried about us? Or
you?
”

“Both, actually.” Roux regarded her. “I'm fascinated by you. I'd like very much to see what you do with Joan's sword.”

Me, too, Annja thought. Then she turned her attention back to her driving. The rendezvous was hours away.

 

“I
T APPEARS
we have a tail,” Roux announced when they were three kilometers north of their destination.

“We've had one for the past half hour,” Annja said.

“We'll not be arriving unannounced,” Roux stated.

Annja looked at him. “I could let you out.”

Roux gave her a crooked smile. “No. I've seen myself through worse than Corvin Lesauvage.”

“You mean Garin?”

Roux studied his hands. “I mean much worse than Lesauvage or Garin.” He wouldn't say any more.

Annja glanced in the rearview mirror again and watched the car holding steady at the same speed it had for the past thirty minutes. She still hadn't been able to tell how many men were in the car.

It didn't matter, though. There would be a lot more waiting with Lesauvage.

A roadside sign announced the rest stop she'd chosen was only two kilometers distant.

 

P
ULLING OFF
the highway, Annja drove into the rest stop. The building was off to the right with a small park behind it. Security lights marked the parking area in front of the building and at the north side.

Lesauvage waited on the north side. A sleek black BMW looked like a predatory cat hunkered down between two stalwart Renault Alpines. Only a short distance behind them, a cargo van sat solid and silent. A dozen motorcycles were spread around the cars. They had the whole end of the parking area to themselves.

Annja's cell phone rang.

“Yes,” she said.

“I see you, Miss Creed,” Lesauvage announced. “Do come in. There is no need for further game play. You will not leave this area unless I allow it. And I will kill Avery Moreau just to show you that I mean what I say.”

The tail car, flanked by two others, pulled in behind Annja. One came alongside on the left and blocked the exit lane. The other two remained behind her. Their lights shone through the Terrano's back glass.

Annja remained where she was. As she stared at the cars and motorcycles ahead of her, Lesauvage got out of the BMW and stood in front of the vehicles. He held his cell phone to his ear and smiled broadly. His sandy hair caught gold fire in the light.

“At this point, Miss Creed,” Lesauvage said, “you truly have no choice.”

Without replying, Annja closed the cell phone and shoved the device into her backpack. She drove the SUV toward the BMW.

Roux gripped the suicide handle above his head. “You purchased the optional insurance, didn't you?”

“I never go anywhere without it,” Annja said as she put her foot down harder on the accelerator. She drove straight for the BMW. The cell phone shrilled for her attention but she ignored it.

Lesauvage turned abruptly and waved to the BMW's driver. The man engaged the transmission and squealed backward, sliding out of the protective custody of the two Renaults. In his haste, the driver ran over one of the motorcycles.

Annja braked and skidded to a halt between the two Renaults.

“Well,” Roux said in a calm voice as he released his hold, “I'm sure we wouldn't have enjoyed a more welcome response before this anyway.”

Quivering a little inside, knowing that she was laying her life—and Roux's—on the line, Annja nodded.

One of the men wearing motorcycle leathers ran and jumped onto the Terrano's hood. He landed in a kneeling position with a deadly machine pistol in his hands. Annja didn't recognize the weapon, but she knew it for what it was.

“Don't move!” he shouted in accented English. “Keep your hands on the steering wheel!”

Annja did.

“And you, old man,” the thug went on, “you put your hands on the dash!”

“Impertinent twit,” Roux growled.

For a moment fear ran rampant in Annja's stomach. She felt certain Roux was not going to do as he'd been ordered. Then, thankfully, he put his hands on the dash.

Lesauvage stepped to the Terrano's side and gazed into the vehicle with a hot-eyed glare. A tense moment passed. Annja returned the man's gaze without batting an eye.

“Get them out of the car,” Lesauvage ordered.

 

M
INUTES LATER
, Annja sat on the floor in the back of the cargo van. Her hands were cuffed behind her. Roux sat near the double doors at the back. His hands were also cuffed. He sat impassively, watching the exchange between Annja and Lesauvage.

You have no business being here, Annja told herself again. The statement was now a litany that spawned over and over again in her head like a video-game monster.

But every time she looked at Avery Moreau, sitting shaking and frightened across from her, she knew she couldn't have stayed away.

“You did not bring the charm, Miss Creed.” Corvin Lesauvage paced the carpeted rear deck of the van.

Annja made no reply.

“What did you hope to accomplish?” Lesauvage demanded.

“You would have killed Avery Moreau if I hadn't come,” she said.

“Yes.”

Avery looked up at Lesauvage. The young man held his injured hand cradled in his lap. Red streaks along his forearm showed the onset of infection. Even though Lesauvage had wounded him, Avery still looked surprised by the man's quick admission.

“So here I am,” Annja said.