Gabriel's Horn (22 page)

The man, Anil Patel, had left a phone number. Annja called at once, hoping to catch him before he left for the day.

“Until the murders at the Hague yesterday,” Patel told Annja in a clipped Indian accent, “I’d thought the Nephilim painting was merely a legend. Or a rumor.”

“I wasn’t sure.” Annja paced the large hotel room. She wanted to go out, get away from the room and simply be in the wind. Usually she could take days and weeks of being alone, but now she wanted to see, hear and feel other people around her. “It would have been a shame if it were, of course. But for the purpose of the movie, it doesn’t really matter.”

“The murders were a very strange thing,” Patel said.

Annja massaged a shoulder. Her eyes burned and she felt the stiffness in her legs and back. She missed being physical. She needed a session at the gym, some time with the heavy bag and the speed bag.

She also needed to know how Charlie was. The homeless man hadn’t been far from her thoughts.

“It was a waste of life,” Patel said. “And it was made even more wasteful when the painting turned out to be a forgery.”

“I know.” Annja turned away from the window. A glance at the time in the lower right corner of her computer revealed that it was eight minutes to ten—almost five o’clock in Istanbul. Patel would be going home soon. “Do you know if any of Thomopoulos’s journals of sketches or his personal life remain?”

“One of the other museums has a small collection of his works,” Patel said.

“Collected or original?” Annja asked.

“Does it matter?”

“The closer to original, the better. The director on the film is insisting on as much authenticity as we can fake.” Annja was sticking with the movie cover story. “Authenticity, especially in a film like this, is everything to the director.” She’d heard that a lot in Prague.

“I understand. I believe one of the smaller museums, the Holy Constantinople Museum of the Apostles, has a collection of Thomopoulos’s journals.”

Annja could barely contain her excitement.

“You won’t find much in the way of helpful research in Thomopoulos’s journals, though. Primarily they’re just sketchbooks. Thomopoulos was largely illiterate. He was self-taught in art, but he never learned to read or write.”

“He was a craftsman,” Annja said.

“I’m afraid so. However, there are several other artists from the same time period that I could recommend. If you’d like.”

“I would,” Annja replied.

32

The Peaceful Meadows Mental Health Clinic was located in Brooklyn not far from where Annja lived. She’d been surprised at how close it was, and she’d wondered if Bart had chosen to send Charlie there for that very reason.

The clinic consisted of six buildings, all of them constructed of ancient gray stone. Annja stared at the squat structures. They looked like stunted gargoyles heaped on the green grass that surrounded them.

Annja decided that she wouldn’t ever want to be in a place like Peaceful Meadows. The landscaping inside the high fence was lovely, but she noted that few of the residents were out in the sunshine and the breeze.

She waited in the main office for over an hour before a young man came out to speak with her. He quickly explained that Charlie—they still hadn’t identified him, but the young man seemed certain that would happen at any moment—didn’t need company.

“We’re still adjusting his meds to get him to calm down,” Dr. Paul Davis said. He was young enough to have just finished med school. He also didn’t seem to have any particular affinity for his patients. “Outside stimulus is going to be a problem for him.”

“When do you think I could see him?” Annja asked.

Davis steepled his fingers in a manner that he wouldn’t be able to properly pull off for another fifteen years. Annja almost laughed at him but stopped only because she knew it would only cause problems.

“Are you family, Miss Creed?” the doctor asked officiously.

“No.”

“Then I’m afraid you really don’t have any rights where Charlie is concerned.”

“I’m his friend.”

The doctor grinned smugly. “Trust me, Miss Creed, in the state that old man’s in, he doesn’t know what world he’s in, much less who else might inhabit it. Friends aren’t much help there.”

“He wasn’t that bad,” Annja said. “When I spoke with him, he was coherent.”

“Really?” Davis flipped through a thin file folder in front of him. “Since he’s been here, all he’s done is ramble about saving the world.” He took out a ballpoint pen, clicked it open, made a few notations on the papers and closed the folder.

Annja sat quietly in the straight-backed chair even though she wanted to scream in frustration. She hated administrative apathy.

“He’s even built you into the architecture of his fantasy. So you see, your visit to him would only be detrimental to what we’re trying to accomplish with him.” Davis pushed Charlie’s folder to one side and reached for another. “Now, if you’ll allow me, I’ve got a ton of work to sign off on.”

Summarily dismissed, Annja left.

A few minutes later, she stood out by the curb and searched for a cab. She felt agitated and frustrated. It was never a good combination. Then she felt a presence beside her.

Automatically, she dropped into a self-defense stance on the balls of her feet as she spun around. Her hands came up to frame her face and head.

Charlie looked down at her and smiled. “Hello, Annja.”

Stunned, Annja could only stare at the man. He wore a hospital gown and looked clean and happy.

“What are you doing out here?” Annja asked.

“You came for me, didn’t you?” Charlie nodded and waved to passing pedestrians. Most of them just ignored him, or they glared at Annja as if she was somehow responsible for his presence.

Annja lowered her hands and smiled, feeling better almost instantly. “Yes. I did come for you.”

“And they didn’t allow you to see me.”

“No.”

“That being the case, since you weren’t going to be able to work within the system to free me, I decided it was best to free myself.”

“How did you do that?”

With a grin, Charlie leaned down and whispered conspiratorially, “I waited till no one was looking, then I sneaked out.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Annja couldn’t help laughing in delight. She couldn’t believe it had been that easy.

Charlie laughed, too, but his voice was slightly off, a little too loud and a little too forced.

“You’re drugged,” Annja said, understanding then.

Grinning, Charlie said, “I have to admit, the medicines are quite entertaining.” He looked around. “I seem to see brighter colors. And if I stare just right, it seems as though I can see things from the corner of my eye that I couldn’t normally see.”

“What things?”

“Strange things, I assure you. I’m pretty sure they’re not real. You don’t see that, do you?” Charlie pointed across the street.

Annja looked but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Pedestrians walked in front of small businesses and shops. “What?”

“The griffin.”

Annja looked again, searching for a statue or an image painted on a window for a creature with head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. It wasn’t there.

“No,” she said.

“Ah, well, it’s probably better that it’s not real.” Charlie looked back at the entrance to the hospital grounds.

At that moment two burly men in hospital scrubs bounded out of the gate. They looked around, then one of them pointed in Charlie’s direction.

“Oops,” Charlie said. “We’d better make haste. My escape attempt no longer possesses stealth, I’m afraid.” He threw up a hand.

Annja stepped between Charlie and the approaching men. She knew it wasn’t going to do her relationship with Bart much good for her to help Charlie escape, but she couldn’t just leave him again.

Brakes squealed at the curb.

When Annja looked back over her shoulder, she saw that a cab had braked to a halt.

“Your carriage awaits, my lady.” Charlie opened the cab door and bowed.

Despite the desperate nature of their circumstances, Annja grinned and slid into the backseat of the cab. Charlie followed her with alacrity and managed to slam and lock the door before the two orderlies reached the vehicle.

One of the orderlies beat on the top of the cab and demanded that the driver unlock the door.

“Sheesh,” the driver said as he pulled away from the curb and merged with traffic. “What’s the problem with those guys?”

Annja couldn’t believe it. They were in front of a mental-health facility, in front of a sign that even offered a traffic advisory about mental patients, and Charlie wore a hospital gown. Maybe it was just New York and maybe it was the jaded nature of the city’s cabbies.

“Where are we going?” the driver asked.

Annja gave the name of her hotel.

“Sure thing. Have you there in a couple shakes.”

“Well,” Charlie said, relaxing in the back of the cab, “that was certainly exhilarating. Do you think we can get something to eat when we get to the hotel? I’m famished.”

“Yes.”

Charlie eyed her speculatively. “And you need to get some rest if you’re going to save the world.”

Annja started to ask him if he really believed she was going to do that. Then she stopped herself. Of course he did. But she didn’t. All she was trying to do was find a painting, and maybe the secrets it held.

“There’s going to be a lot of danger,” Charlie said thoughtfully. His rheumy eyes glanced around the cityscape. “So many things are different these days. And we have a number of powerful enemies arrayed against us.”

Annja silently agreed with that.

Charlie looked at her. “You’re a very special young woman, Annja Creed.”

“Because of the sword?” Annja whispered.

Charlie laughed and shook his head. “No. Of course not. The sword was drawn to you because
you
are special. You were marked for your destiny the day you were born.”

What he said sounded crazy, but so had several of the conversations Annja had had with Roux and Garin. Yet at the same time his words held the timbre of truth.

* * * *

Annja woke thinking that her travel alarm went off. Her hand shot out and silenced it only to discover it was 10:37 p.m. She’d set the alarm for midnight, hoping to get an early start tracking down the museum curator in Istanbul.

Then she became aware of voices in the outer room of the hotel suite.

She’d left Charlie there watching movies after they’d had room service delivered. That had been the first time either of them had eaten since dinner the previous night. Once the meal had been finished, she hadn’t been able to keep her eyes open.

Charlie had told her to go to bed, that he’d slept enough the previous night, thanks to the drugs. He’d settled into the plush couch with a banana split, and Annja went to bed.

But someone was with Charlie now.

Annja didn’t know who it was, but she couldn’t imagine anyone who would be there who would have their well-being in mind. She listened for a moment, but she only heard Charlie speaking.

“The battle at Roncevaux Pass was the worst of it,” Charlie was saying. “I fought at Roland’s side at that one. But as much as we wanted to triumph, the Basques wanted it more. I’d never seen Roland so crushed in defeat. It took him a long time to get over that.”

“I brought the army in across Vasconia,” Charlie went on.

Charlemagne, Annja remembered, the king of the Franks, had been in charge of that army. Charlie, whoever he truly was, knew his history.

Quietly, without making a sound, Annja rose from the bed. She wore only a football jersey and had her hair pulled back out of her face. She reached into the otherwhere and pulled the sword to her as she walked to the door. Her senses fired to full life and her blood sang in her veins.

33

Garin caught sight of Annja as she edged up to the door. Her eyes met his, then recognition—and maybe a little irritation—flared. She regarded him with undisguised wariness. Then, as she stepped into the room with the sword in her fist, he also noted the football jersey was short and her legs were long and supple.

Although he didn’t think it was going to work, Garin tried a smile. “Hello, Annja.”

“How did you find me?” she demanded. She kept her distance with her sword at the ready. Her stance was automatic, bladed so the sword could easily come between them.

Garin remained seated on the couch with the old man who had introduced himself as Charlie. The old man’s presence had been a complete surprise. When he’d knocked, Garin hadn’t expected to find Annja. The man wore baggy gray pants, a dark blue golf shirt and loafers. He looked like someone’s great uncle. Except for the hint of insanity in his eyes and the hospital band still around one wrist.

She referred to the fact that she wasn’t signed in at the hotel under her name.

“I tried your loft first,” Garin answered. “I let myself in and saw that you’d packed. I also noticed that someone had broken in, by the way. It was a professional job. Very good.”

“Burglars? Is my loft—”

“Everything is fine,” Garin told her. “This was a professional job. Nothing was out of place. But I could tell someone had been there.”

Annja didn’t look relieved.

“I had one of my people check to see if your passport had been used. It hadn’t. So I checked around your neighborhood—you’re quite popular, you know—and found out about the attack in the restaurant. I knew you’d go into hiding. Since you haven’t used your credit cards or hit any kind of financial records, I knew you probably hadn’t left the city.”

Annja held up her hand. “Enough with the Veronica Mars summary.”

“Who?” The name was lost on Garin.

“Never mind. You checked around and figured that I hadn’t left the city. How did you know I was here?”

Garin smiled. “You don’t have a whole lot of friends capable of hiding you, Annja. I knew you wouldn’t stay with friends for fear of endangering them. Especially after the attack at the restaurant. So you had to have money, and someone’s ID, to vanish. Whoever it was had to have money and be able to protect himself.” He held up three fingers. “That left three people that I know of that you would know and would—perhaps—ask a favor of. Roux. Myself. And Stanley Younts. It took me only a few minutes to find out Younts was registered in the city, but when I called him, he was at home.”