Gabriel's Horn (13 page)

“With a collector,” Roux said. “Here in the city. There was an auction earlier today. We couldn’t make it in time.”

“Pity,” Garin said. “I might have been able to finish my
date.
”

Roux visibly bristled.

“As it was, I believe she was quite upset,” Garin went on.

“She returned to Brooklyn,” Roux countered. “Don’t make her out to be heartbroken.”

Garin smiled. Roux would never had handed out the thought if it hadn’t been in his mind.

“How did you find the painting?” Garin asked. His eyes locked with Jennifer’s.

19

“For the last thirteen years,” Jennifer stated, emphasizing the number of years and flicking a glance at Roux, “I’ve been searching for the painting.”

“Because Roux told you about it?” Garin asked.

“Partly. And partly because it was the only chance I thought I’d ever have of meeting Roux again.”

Garin peered at her over his glass of wine. “The old man must have left you with quite an impression.”

Some of Jennifer’s edgy emotions showed. “This isn’t about then. It’s not even about the future. It doesn’t concern Roux at all. This is about the painting.”

“Nothing like a vindictive woman,” Garin said in German.

Roux ignored him.

“How did you find it?” Garin asked Jennifer.

Jennifer looked at him. “This isn’t a trap.”

Garin shrugged. Just because she said so didn’t mean it wasn’t. And even knowing something
was
a trap didn’t mean the intended victim would be clever enough to stay clear of it.

“I followed up on the painter’s family,” Jennifer said.

“They didn’t have the painting.” Garin flicked his glance at Roux. “We talked with them.”

Jennifer looked startled. “Recently? Because they certainly didn’t mention it.”

“Quite some time ago, actually,” Roux said. “It doesn’t matter.”

All the people they’d asked, Garin knew, had died generations ago.

“They didn’t know what they had.” Jennifer cut off a bite-size piece from a stuffed crepe. “Artists back in those days lived by the grace of a patron. Not from selling their work.”

Garin held his thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. “Condensed version.”

Jennifer flashed him a disdainful look. “Roux told me the two of you had talked to the family once. But you pursued the paternal family. As it turns out, the painter, Josef Tsoklis, was an illegitimate child.”

Even after all the years that had passed, Garin still felt the physical impact of that description. He felt Roux’s eyes on him and didn’t dare look at the old man. Garin would never completely forget his upbringing.

“Josef took the name of his mother’s husband,” Jennifer said, “but he was always closer to his mother and her people.”

“All right, he was really a mama’s boy,” Garin said. “What of it?”

“Josef’s family has been trying to track down the painting. They’ve heard the legend.”

“What legend?” Garin asked.

“That Josef hid most of the gold he earned from patrons and the painting reveals the hiding place.”

“Do you know how little those artists were paid?” Garin shook his head. “I’m telling you now that whatever amount they’ve imagined, it’s either not real or far less than what they believe.”

But that only made Garin wonder all the more why Roux was looking for the painting. He turned his attention to his food.

“There’s also conjecture that Tsoklis stole an immense fortune from one of his benefactors.”

Garin snorted, and knew from the angry look on Jennifer’s face that he’d offended her.

“I don’t believe in those old stories for a minute,” she declared.

But Garin could see that she wasn’t completely telling the truth.

“Finding the painting became a family project for Josef’s cousins on his mother’s side of the family because of their beliefs, not mine. Over the intervening five hundred years, they’ve been looking for the painting, as well. You’re familiar with Cosimo de’ Medici?”

“Yes.”

“Some—those few that knew of the painting’s existence—also knew of Cosimo’s interest in it.”

“Looking for a lost fortune isn’t something Cosimo de’ Medici would have done,” Garin challenged. From the corner of his eye, he watched Roux for a reaction.

The old man blithely ate and seemed content to listen.

“No, he
was
interested in the painting’s ability to bring about the end of the world.”

Garin paused. Now
that
would be something to catch Roux’s interest. During their years together, Roux had hunted such objects and talismans of power. At first, Garin hadn’t believed in any of those things. But he had soon realized that those things—like the sword Annja carried and whatever power had kept him ageless for five hundred years—existed.

“Of course,” Jennifer said quickly, “I don’t believe in any of that.”

“Of course,” Garin replied. He glanced at Roux, but the old man wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Then what do you believe in?”

“That painting has a lot of history. Whatever secret it’s been hiding has been there for hundreds of years. People are willing to kill to get it.”

“What people?” Garin asked.

“Salome,” Roux said. “She’s chasing the painting, as well.”

The name resonated inside Garin’s skull. “Now, there’s as pretty a viper as you’d ever want to meet.”

“Yes,” Roux said.

“I see now why you called me.”

The old man shrugged.

“Salome?” Jennifer looked confused. “I don’t know the name.”

“You weren’t the only one Roux has used to bird-dog his little artifacts,” Garin said. “Salome was a few years ago.” He smiled mirthlessly. “She’s a particularly nasty piece of work. I’m surprised she’s still alive.” He glanced at Roux and spoke in German. “You must be getting soft if you let her live.”

“You’re still alive,” Roux replied.

“I’ve had a long time to learn how to survive. And I never betrayed you the way that woman did.”

“No.” Roux sighed. “You didn’t.”

“Then we kill her this time?”

Roux thought about that for a moment. “If circumstances permit.”

“We’re not committing murder,” Jennifer said in flawless German.

Surprised, Garin turned to her. “You speak German?”

“I’d heard Roux speak in German during the years we were together.”

It wasn’t any great leap of logic on Garin’s part to realize that Roux had probably been talking to him. They’d always kept in touch—even when they’d been trying to kill each other.

“After he left,” Jennifer went on, “I thought I’d learn the language.”

Garin switched to Latin. It was the first language Roux had taught him that wasn’t his own. “This woman is going to be trouble. We should get rid of her.”

“No,” Roux replied. “She’s resourceful. And more in tune with this world than you or I. Annja would be better to have, but this one will serve.”

Although neither of them spoke of it, Garin knew that Roux didn’t want Annja there because Roux wasn’t certain how to deal with her yet. Their date behind his back had thrown their relationship into a murky state of affairs.

Not only that, but Roux wouldn’t have wanted to bring Annja anywhere near Salome, who was pure poison. And she was as deadly as any woman Garin had ever met.

“This is stupid,” Jennifer said in English. “I’m not going to learn every language in the world just to talk to the two of you.”

“All right,” Roux said.

“No more…whatever it was you were speaking.”

Roux inclined his head.

“And you.” Jennifer pointed her fork at Garin.

With a smile, Garin spread his hands and said, “Of course.” But if he got the chance to kill Salome, he intended to.

And he’d drive a stake through her heart to make certain she stayed dead.

* * * *

Drake took Salome into the estate shortly after darkness consumed the tree-lined grounds along Koningskade Quay. She was dressed all in black, had her hair pulled back, and wore a Beretta 93-R at her hip. She carried a cut-down shotgun tucked in a scabbard that ran down her back.

“All right,” Drake said as he studied the BlackBerry in his hand. “Byron and his lads have taken out the security system. We’re good to go.” Cosmetic blackface disguised his features.

Salome wore the paint, as well. She hated it because it was so hard to clean off, and it was hard on her skin. Her beauty meant a lot to her. Her features were the most potent weapon in her arsenal.

Drake carried a silenced H&K MP-5 in both gloved hands as he broke into a trot. Salome knew weapons because she often dealt in them. No product translated into cash as readily in so many countries as weapons. The same couldn’t be said of drugs. She knew because she’d dealt in those, too.

As they neared the security gatehouse, a black-clad warrior stepped from within. He gave Drake a thumbs-up. Salome glanced briefly through the darkened window and saw the men slumped over inside. Blood dripped down the inside of the bulletproof glass and offered mute testimony that the men inside hadn’t gone down easily.

Their deaths didn’t bother Salome. She was prepared to kill everyone inside the large house within the security walls.

“Do you really think this painting has magical properties, love?” Drake asked.

Salome walked behind the man, two steps back and one step to the right to give herself a proper field of fire. “It’s supposed to,” she replied.

“According to this old duffer you’ve talked about? Roux?” Drake sounded as if he spit every time he said Roux’s name.

Salome answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

Although Drake didn’t make a reply, she knew he was somewhat disappointed in her. When they’d first met, while he’d been providing security for a man who’d owned one of the artifacts she’d been after, they’d been enemies. But only professionally. As Drake had insisted, he hadn’t known her well enough to dislike her.

That night she’d killed two of his best men. One of them had been a good friend. He’d almost been unable to forgive her for that. But he had. When it came to the bottom line, they were both professionals.

He just didn’t like the fact that she believed in magic.

It would be better, Salome thought, as she often did, if I could show him the things I’ve seen. The problem was, of course, that she couldn’t. She’d only seen those things while she’d been with Roux. Talking about those times always left Drake in a foul mood.

The one drawback she’d found in him was that he was insanely jealous. Other than that, he was perfect. He was a talented and generous lover. And he was a flawless killing machine when he was in action.

She followed him through the darkness that filled the estate’s inner courtyard. Her hands firmly gripped the pistol.

* * * *

Ilse Danseker snored softly. She was in her late forties. Strands of her henna-colored hair lay across her slack face. She’d had plastic surgery done to preserve her looks. Without makeup, the scars under her chin were just barely visible.

She lay cuddled in the arms of a man who was not her husband. Salome had seen a picture of Edward Danseker. The shipping magnate was in his early seventies, a quiet and distinguished man from his appearance. He was also rich enough and selfish enough to overlook a wayward wife nearly half his age while he was out of town.

The bedroom looked as though it had been transported from a child’s book of fantasy stories. The huge four-poster bed was the centerpiece. One wall contained electronic entertainment equipment. The blue glow of the television washed over the woman and her lover.

Drake looked at Salome. They weren’t really on a timetable, but he’d trained her to recognize that any moment spent in hostile territory was a risk.

Salome held the Beretta in one hand while she reached out to tap Ilse on the cheek with the other. The woman stirred but didn’t wake. Salome patted her more firmly.

This time the woman’s eyes fluttered open. Then they locked open and she started to scream. Salome clapped a gloved hand over the woman’s mouth.

“No,” Salome said firmly but quietly. “No screaming. We’re going to handle this like civilized adults.”

The man shifted. Salome knew he was awake from his posture beneath the silk sheets. He sprang up and tried to grab Salome’s wrist. She thought it was possible that his eyes hadn’t adjusted and he didn’t see Drake and the others standing in the room’s shadows.

“Let her go! Get out of here!” the man shouted. “Who are you?” Obviously he didn’t see the pistol in her fist, either.

Without hesitation, Salome shifted the Beretta slightly and squeezed the trigger. A trio of bullets sang free of the sound suppressor and thudded into the man’s face. His hands on her arm relaxed, and he slumped back onto the bed. Blood stained the sheets.

The woman opened her mouth to scream.

Salome shoved the Beretta’s suppressor between the woman’s lips and shushed her as if she were a child.

“Well,” Salome whispered as she stared into the woman’s wide, frightened eyes, “perhaps this will be a little less than civilized.”

20

“Is that man your father, Ms. Creed?”

Annja knew, without turning around, that the homeless man was back. He’d been watching her for almost two hours. Frankly, she was surprised it had taken this long for the museum’s assistant curator to notice the old man standing there.

“No.” Annja didn’t look up from the exhibit she was working on. The museum had recently received acquisitions from a benefactor who had died, and she’d been hired to catalog and certify the artifacts.

Since most museums existed more or less by the sufferance of their patrons—especially so in the case of a small museum like this one—she knew they would have rather continued the man’s yearly donations than accept his collection after his death. After all, the collection acquisition only came in once.

The pieces were good, but by no means spectacular. They were worth putting on display. Most visitors to the museum wouldn’t recognize their significance, though.

“Oh, he’s not your father.”