Tear of the Gods (16 page)

As Annja was digging into the beliefs and goals of the Red Hand Defenders, Roux was activating the videoconferencing program on his computer that would connect him to Shaw and the other members of the artifact group. The seventy-two hours were up. It was time for the auction to end.

Shaw wasted no time in getting to business.

“Seventy-two hours ago I placed the Tear of the Gods, a one-of-a-kind Celtic torc once worn by Queen Boudica herself, up for auction among you,” Shaw said with a smile that looked to Roux to be as phony as a three-franc note.

“Despite some furious bidding, we have a winner.”

Having submitted his final bid just moments before, Roux leaned forward in anticipation while on the screen Shaw’s smile grew wider and phonier, if that was at all possible.

“The final bid was for six million dollars and…”

Roux turned away, no longer interested in hearing the rest. His bid had not been that high, which meant the torc was going to one of the other five. He’d have to have Henshaw look into it, see if he could ferret out who had been the final bidder. With that information in hand, he could decide how he wanted to proceed. There were, after all, other ways of acquiring the artifact.

As had become his habit, Roux listened to Shaw prattle on for ten more minutes and then remained on the line after the others disconnected, clandestinely listening in on the events taking place in Shaw’s office, hoping to hear something useful.

This time, his diligence paid off.

When dealing with Vanguard business Shaw would normally have his secretary initiate his calls, so when Roux heard him dialing the phone himself it perked his attention.

“Da?”

The voice that answered was male, with a thick Russian accent.

“Is the package ready?” Shaw asked.

“Of course. You may take delivery whenever you like.”

To Roux, it sounded like Shaw was obviously preparing to take control of the torc from whatever third-party agents he’d hired to seize it.

“Tonight, then. There is a park just south of the Pont Louis-Philippe on the Quai de Bourbon.”

“I know it,” the Russian said.

“Ten o’clock. Use the signal from our previous meeting.”

“Da.”

The conversation over, the two men hung up.

Roux felt his adrenaline rise. By intercepting the delivery he’d have a chance to secure the torc for himself without having to pay the six-million-dollar price tag currently attached to it.

Never mind that he’d be screwing Shaw over in the process. That alone made it worth his while.

Sanctimonious little cockroach, he thought.

His mood soaring at the idea, Roux was about to break the connection when he heard Shaw address someone in the room with him. “You heard?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand how important it is that you finish this now.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it personally.”

“You’d better,” Shaw said, and there was no mistaking the threat in his voice. “She’ll be at this address in the morning.”

The rustle of a piece of paper let Roux know that something had changed hands.

“Recover my property and then get rid of her.”

“What about the geologist?” the other man asked.

“Get rid of him, too.”

“Consider it done.”

Shaw snorted in derision, but didn’t say anything more. After another few seconds the connection went dead, indicating that Shaw had powered down his computer.

Roux didn’t know who they were talking about, but it was clear that good things were not in store for whoever it was.

No matter, he thought, he had other things to worry about. Like how to steal the Tear of the Gods right out from under Shaw’s nose.

He pressed the intercom on his desk.

“Henshaw, a word, please,” he said.

A minute passed, maybe two, and then his majordomo stepped into the room. The former SAS officer had a strained look on his face and he moved directly to the television set in the corner.

As he turned it on, Henshaw said, “I think you should have a look at this, sir.”

On the screen a short man in an ill-fitting suit stood on the steps of New Scotland Yard, an array of television reporters and their ever-present microphones thrust in front of him. Roux was reminded of vultures, waiting for their kill to finally fall over and die before moving in to feast.

Unfortunately for them, this particular police detective still had plenty of fight left in him. He stood there, staring them down, until silence fell and he could hear himself speak without shouting over the clamor.

“I’ll make a statement and answer a few questions,” he told them in a calm and controlled tone of voice. Roux recognized it; it was the voice of command.

Here is a man who is used to getting what he wants, he thought to himself, even as he wondered why on earth Henshaw had him watching a London newscast.

A moment later he didn’t have to wonder any longer.

“The whereabouts of Annja Creed are still uncertain,” the detective said, and hearing his protégé’s name, Roux immediately gave the man his full attention.

“The investigation into what happened in the West Midlands continues. We have several leads, though I am not at liberty to discuss those with you at this time. Suffice to say that we now believe we understand the motives for the attack and intend on bringing the perpetrators to justice as swiftly as possible.”

Attack? Just what on earth had Annja gotten herself into this time?

“Is Miss Creed still a suspect, Inspector?” a reporter at the back of the pack cried out.

“Not at this time,” the man replied curtly, delivering the line along with a blistering glare of displeasure at being interrupted. “We are still very much interested in speaking with Miss Creed, but as a witness, rather than a suspect. If anyone has information on her whereabouts, we urge you to call the hotline as her life may be at risk.”

A telephone number appeared at the bottom of the screen and Roux absently memorized it.

Having her life in danger was nothing new for Annja, Roux knew, but it bothered him that she was in danger and he hadn’t known anything about it until now.

“Do you know what’s going on?” he asked Henshaw, but the man shook his head.

“Caught it while flipping channels, sir. I had no idea Miss Creed was in trouble or I would have brought it to your attention earlier.”

Roux nodded. Henshaw had been with him for years; his loyalty was unquestionable. That didn’t tell him what was going on, however.

“I wonder why she didn’t call?” Roux said, more to himself than to Henshaw, but the other man heard it and answered, anyway.

“Perhaps she has, sir,” he said, gently chastising his employer in the process.

Roux scowled. He’d lived for more than six hundred years. Was it really his fault that the petty concerns of the world held little interest for him? He’d seen it all, from the Crusades to the launching of the Apollo space program, and through it all he’d walked like a ghost, living out lifetimes in perfect health while those around him grew older and died. Was it any wonder that he could become absorbed in his own activities, as he’d done recently, and forgotten about the world passing by outside his window?

Realizing, as Henshaw knew he would, that he hadn’t checked his cell phone for several days, perhaps even as long as a week, Roux fished it out of his desk and stared at the display.

The icon indicating that he had voice-mail messages stared back at him.

Swearing to himself in French, he tapped the keys and listened to the messages one at a time.

The first was inconsequential—a business matter from one of his many managers that didn’t really need his immediate attention. He’d deal with it later. The second and third messages, however, were from Annja. In the first she sounded mildly harried but otherwise okay. It was the second call that disturbed him; she was clearly stressed and didn’t sound like she was thinking too clearly. The log on his phone said the call had come in the previous day. She sounded…hunted.

His cell phone had failed to capture the number from which her calls had originated, so he called up his address book and tried to reach her. After several rings he received an automated message stating that her voice mail was full and would not accept any more messages.

Roux hung up and considered his next move. His gaze returned to the television screen, where the detective was once again asking those in the audience who had information on the crime to contact New Scotland Yard.

If he was going to help her, he needed to understand what was going on first.

“Get me everything you can on whatever incident it is he’s talking about,” Roux told Henshaw. “I want to know it all—who, what, where, when, you name it.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And while you’re at it, figure out who this joker is, as well,” he told him, pointing at the figure of Detective Inspector Beresford as he turned away from the mikes and the shouted questions left unanswered behind him. “He’s looking for Annja; I want to know what he intends to do if he finds her.”

Henshaw nodded and then slipped out of the room.

Henshaw and Roux arrived at the rendezvous more than an hour early, wanting to be in position long before the primary targets arrived at the scene. Henshaw parked the car several blocks away, in the heart of a local neighborhood, and exited the vehicle, carrying a long leather case in one hand. Roux waited a few minutes and then got out of the car himself, heading off in the other direction. The delay would minimize their chances of being seen and remembered by a nosy resident.

It was agreed that Henshaw would settle into the coffee house on the corner and wait a bit before taking up position on the bridge over the Seine. In the meantime, Roux would use the pedestrian walkway along the water’s edge to approach the park itself and observe the exchange from there. The two men would stay in contact via radio.

The plan was simple enough: observe the exchange and then, when the chance presented itself, move in and take the torc from whichever party had it at that time. Adapt to the situation at hand and then use it your advantage. It was the kind of loose strategic thinking that had served Roux well for all these centuries and he had no intention of changing it now.

The walkway was dark, but the lights of the apartment buildings lining the river were reflected in its waters and he had no trouble making his way toward the park. As he walked, he glanced frequently at the waters beside him, his thoughts on another place and time. Local legend claimed that after she had been burned at the stake, Joan of Arc’s ashes had been collected by a former supporter and cast into the Seine, bringing God’s favor down upon both the river and the city through which it ran.

Roux knew this to be untrue. Her ashes had been collected, and by a former supporter no less. That much was a fact, for he had been the one to do it. But rather than cast them into the river, he’d secretly interred them on holy ground, allowing her to rest in the arms of the God in which she’d believed so fervently.

Perhaps he’d made a mistake, he mused as he neared his target. Perhaps his long life and continued existence today was due to the fact that the Almighty was angry with him for his irreverent act. After all, if heresy was a sin, then burying a heretic on holy ground was certainly worse, was it not?

He’d find out eventually, he supposed. For now, he had to concentrate on the issue at hand.

Reaching the steps that led up into the parking lot, he settled himself into place and began to wait.

After all these years, Roux was good at waiting.

D
AVID
S
HAW ARRIVED
at the designated meeting area shortly before ten that night. The park was empty; there were no other cars in sight. He pulled to the very end of the lot and turned his vehicle around, facing back toward the entrance in case he needed to make a quick departure.

He’d done business with Perchenko several times in the past and had no reason to suspect the man might double-cross him, but it never hurt to be prepared. The device itself was valuable, as were the codes to the accounts Shaw would be using to transfer the purchase price directly to Perchenko. And there were the Libyans to consider. If they had convinced Perchenko that their patronage was more important than his own…

It simply meant that Shaw hoped the handover would go smoothly, but if it did not, he was prepared to deal with it. After all, he hadn’t reached his current position through brilliance alone. He’d done his time on the streets, had more than enough blood on his hands to hold his own, even against the former Russian commando.

Still, it would be better if the problem never arose and he simply took his package and left after the transfer.

His thoughts turned to Jackson and the events set to play out in the morning. The torc was the key. Without it, the package he was planning to pay Perchenko so handsomely for would be about as useful as a eunuch in a brothel. He didn’t understand why Jackson was having such difficulty with the task. How formidable could the woman be, for heaven’s sake? Perhaps she’d simply been lucky so far.

Well, no longer. He’d instructed Jackson to use as many resources as necessary to ensure that the operation went down without a problem. He didn’t care how many men died in the process. All that mattered was taking control of the torc before that Creed woman disappeared with it again.

A car turned into the parking lot.

Shaw tensed, waiting for the signal, but it never came. The other car simply used the space to pull a U-turn, its lights washing over Shaw’s vehicle at the back of the lot but not really seeing him at all. Seconds later the car was gone.

Relaxing once more, Shaw’s thoughts turned to what would happen once he had both Perchenko’s device and the torc in hand. The goals of the Red Hand Defenders were simple—to throw off the yoke of British rule and to set up a free Irish republic across the entire breadth of Ireland constituted under Irish rule. They were the same goals that the Provisional Irish Republican Army had fought to achieve, the same goals that had been swept aside for political expediency in the wake of the Belfast Agreement in 1998. Shaw, a young solider in the Cause at the time, had been appalled by the agreement and privately vowed that he would never accept such conditions. When the PIRA had announced an end to the armed conflict and had gone so far as to decommission their weapons in 2005, Shaw had made good on that vow.

He’d spent the years since the Belfast Agreement doing everything he could to be certain that any decision he made with regard to the cause would be well-funded. To that end he’d created the Vanguard Group and built it into a multi-million-dollar conglomerate of companies whose primary mission was to simply make money for the cause. By the time the decommissioning was announced, Shaw had both the connections and the funding to continue the fight on his own terms.

The Red Hand Defenders were born.

In the years since, his agency had been responsible for taking the fight to the enemy in a way that would have made his old mates proud. They’d been responsible for eight successful bombings, including the deaths of three high-profile targets, as well as two shooting sprees that had forced the British and Irish governments to sit up and take notice.

Still, all that was nothing compared to what he intended to carry out next. This time it wouldn’t be just the British government that was paying attention. This time, he would capture the eye of the entire world.

And when he had it, he would make his demands.

The Red Hand Defenders would no longer be considered a second-class organization and the demands of the true loyalist amid the Irish people would finally be heard.

It was going to be a glorious day indeed!

His reverie was broken by the arrival of another vehicle. He watched as it stopped only a few feet into the parking lot, facing in his direction. The lights flashed twice, quickly, and then once more.

Shaw exhaled and repeated the signal.

Perchenko had arrived.

He waited as the other vehicle, a Land Rover, approached, watching it come to a stop just a few feet away. When it had, he got out of the car.

Across from him, the Russians did the same.

Perchenko had a bodyguard with him, which wasn’t unexpected. He’d brought one along at the last meet, as well. Shaw remembered the Russian joking that the man’s name was Insurance; after all, that was his purpose.

Shaw hadn’t found it all that amusing.

This one seemed to have been cut from the same cloth. He stood several inches over six feet and had shoulders that would have made an American football player proud. His hair was cut short, military-style, and Shaw had no doubt that’s where Perchenko had recruited him from.

He waited for the two men to join him.

“Good to see you again,” Shaw began, a smile on his face.

Perchenko’s expression was noncommittal. “You have the money?”

“Of course,” he said smoothly, never letting the smile falter from his face despite the Russian’s rudeness. “You have my package?”

Perchenko grunted and flicked a hand at his companion. As the other man led the way to the back of the vehicle, Perchenko and Shaw followed.

The bodyguard opened up the rear of the vehicle, revealing what was stored there.

It was a dark gray metallic case, about the size of a typical footlocker. The designation RA-115 was stamped on the top of the case in white letters. At a nod from Perchenko, the other man stepped forward, unlocked the two clasps that held the container closed and then lifted the lid before stepping back out of the way.

Shaw moved forward, looking at but not touching the device. What looked to him to be a large artillery shell rested in the center of the case, with two square objects on either side that he assumed were the neutron generators. A fourth item, a rectangular device about the size of a hardcover book, sat in the upper right-hand corner of the case and had several wires running out of it and over to the rear of the artillery shell.

“It is operational?” Shaw asked.

“Da,”
Perchenko replied.

Shaw knew the other man had to be lying. Smuggling the shell of a Soviet-era tactical nuclear device out of the Ukraine was one thing. Doing so with an accompanying load of weapons-grade plutonium was something else entirely.

As far as he was concerned, the shell was good enough. He would get the necessary plutonium from a different source.

He gave no indication that he knew the truth about the device.

Instead, he said, “Very good. You have the account number?”

Perchenko handed him a slip of paper with an account number comprised of eighteen letters and numbers. Shaw knew without asking that it was the number of a Swiss bank account. With the other two men watching, Shaw took out his phone and used a mobile banking application to initiate a transfer of funds from an account he’d set up under a false name for just this purpose into the account Perchenko had given him.

The transfer took five minutes.

No one said anything while they waited.

When it was finished, Perchenko gave his companion another signal and the big man moved the tactical nuclear device Shaw had just purchased from the back of the Land Rover to the trunk of Shaw’s Mercedes.

Just like that the exchange was done.