Rogue Angel 54: Day of Atonement (11 page)

He had dreamed of finding the divine among the mundane.

He had dreaded the presence of evil to be lurking in every shadow, but the only evil he ever encountered was man-made, greed and avarice, the allure of fame.

Until now.

Until Annja Creed.

In her, he had found more than he had dared hoped.

Even the sword matched the descriptions he’d been able to find from contemporary accounts.

He was sure of it now. Sure that the proof was his. There could be no doubt.

An agent of the devil possessed Annja Creed and that agent bore the name of Joan.

He had chosen his own name well.

“Are you going to tell me what all this cloak and dagger stuff is about?” Roux asked.

Annja had finally arrived at the hotel.

Time was elastic at the best of times, but at the worst it seemed to stretch into infinity. He had taken the gun from his overnight bag and slipped it under his pillow, not that he expected trouble or that he was particularly comfortable with guns. That was more Garin’s territory. Even so, his hand had reached for it instinctively as she tapped on the door. It was only the sound of her voice, muted by the door between them, that stopped him from drawing it from under the pillow.

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” she said bluntly.

He inclined his head, furrowing his brow. It was hardly the picture of innocence, even when he said, “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, girl.”

“Really? I find that incredibly hard to believe. I know you don’t answer to me. Why would you? But just this once, try telling the truth.”

“Be careful, Annja. What you say can’t be unsaid.
There are no ‘take-backs’ in life. I am not in the habit of lying to you.”

“Then tell me about your last visit to Carcassonne.”

He thought about it for a moment, trying to recall the last time he’d set foot inside the cursed fortress. It had been a long time ago. He had been a different man, almost literally. “My last visit?” He shook his head. “That was more than a hundred years ago. What do you expect me to remember? Not very much.”

Annja said nothing.

She sat on the edge of the bed and looked him straight in the eye.

“I’m going to ask you again,” she said, sounding more like an interrogator than a friend. “Tell me about your last visit. The one you made more recently, not some visit from a century ago. Think in terms of the past month or so.”

“Month or so? I haven’t been here in years and years, girl.”

“So you didn’t visit the museum and fail to return a precious artifact?”

He shook his head.

“Well, someone did, and signed your name.”

“My name?”

She nodded.

“What did they steal?”

“The final chapter of
Practica inquisitionis heretice privitatis
, handwritten by Bernard Gui.”

Roux’s mind was racing, making a logical connection he’d missed when he’d been obsessing over what Garin had stolen. He had a collection of Gui’s writings in his vault. Was that what Garin had taken?

“Garin,” he said.

“What about him?”

“It’s got his sticky fingers all over it,” Roux muttered,
and filled her in on the events of the past twenty-four hours, leaving nothing out, not the call, not Garin’s visit, not the theft from his vault.

She didn’t seem that surprised

“And you think he took Gui’s papers from the museum?”

“Who else? And typical of him to use my name to cover his tracks. I assume he produced some kind of credentials to get away with the theft. And like it or not, Garin does nothing without strong motivation, if not good reason, so to steal multiple documents, I fear we’ll never see them again.”

“Money.”

“It must mean that he has a buyer.”

Annja shook her head. “Surely he wouldn’t steal from you
just
for money.”

“I think that’s the only reason why he’d do it, my dear,” Roux said. “Money is the strongest motivator of all in the mind of Garin Braden. But that means that someone must have offered enough money to make it worth his while. And enough in this instance is a small fortune. That limits the possibilities.”

The old man knew he would forgive him in time, just as he had forgiven him in the past. Garin could no more change his nature than a shark could or a lion. But it would be much harder to forgive him for robbing him of his good name. The last thing Roux wanted was to be constantly looking over his shoulder for the police. Scrutiny by the law was bound to bring up questions he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer.

“We’ve got to find him,” he said. “But first we have to deal with Cauchon.”

“Cauchon?” Annja said.

“What?”

“That name.”

“What about it? I know I should know it. But…” He held up his hands helplessly.

“You should know it. It should be burned onto your soul.”

And he remembered it then.

Cauchon.

It was the name of the man who had signed Joan of Arc’s death warrant.

The call came through as he had been about to land.

The temptation was to answer it straightaway, despite the need to keep his wits about him, but that would have made him seem desperate. Desperation in negotiation was weakness. So he would let the phone ring, make the man wait. He was going to do this on his own terms. Garin patted the bundle on the copilot’s seat to reassure himself that the papers were still there.

The flight hadn’t been long enough for him to give them more than a cursory glance, but it was enough to realize that there was far more hidden in those few pages of writing than he could decipher. To a certain kind of collector this account was priceless, which added a few zeroes to any transaction as far as Garin was concerned.

Once the plane had come to a standstill, he made the call.

It was answered on the third ring.

“I’ve got the first thing on your list,” he said.

“Where are you?”

Garin read the instruments, and just for the hell of it
gave his location in longitude and latitude. He glanced out of the windshield at the plowed runway and the banks of snow on either side of the black line that stretched all the way to the airport’s small terminal. Men moved across the apron, working hard to clear more of the snow. None were heading in his direction.

“I’ll arrange for someone to meet you within the hour,” the man said. “Stay where you are.”

“Not so hasty, my wealthy friend,” Garin replied, enjoying this part of the conversation. “The price has gone up. I am thinking in the region of an extra fifteen percent in relation to the finder’s fee, then half a mil bonus for the speed of the operation.”

“I’m not in the habit of bargaining, Mr. Braden. I am a man of my word.”

“I have what you want. It’s called supply and demand. I control the line of supply, so I can demand whatever price the market will stand. In other words, take it or leave it. I’m sure that I can find another buyer for the papers.” If he squeezed an extra five percent out of the deal, he would feel like he had pulled one over on the other man. That made the whole exercise that little bit sweeter. Ten percent and he would have been robbing him blind.

Which made the man’s response all the more surprising.

“Fine,” he said. “But I will send a car to pick you up. I am going to have to inspect the merchandise myself before I transfer the cash.”

“That’s reasonable,” Garin said, patting the bundle again. “Believe me, you won’t be disappointed. The package is in mint condition.” His thinking was that he’d just opened the door to a cash cow, and now was the time to negotiate on some of the other documents to satisfy the collector’s fetish.

“I am not a man who enjoys disappointment, Mr. Braden, so let us both hope that I am not.”

With that, the call ended.

Garin felt a cold shiver chase up the ladder of his spine one vertebrae at a time.

His red Ferrari was parked a few hundred yards from the hangar where he kept the Gulfstream, and a couple of mechanics who’d be in place to check her as he taxied her in. It wouldn’t take him long to get anywhere in the immediate vicinity—or technically in Europe, should the caller demand it.

He jabbed at the phone again, trying to reconnect with his mysterious buyer, but the call went straight to voice mail. Garin assumed he was on a call to his proxy, making arrangements for the inspection. Garin had no choice but to wait it out. The driver would appear eventually, and there were worse places to wait than in a luxury jet.

He didn’t have to wait long.

A black limousine swept into view, executed a wide turn, then drove quickly toward the open doors of the hangar, pulling up to a stop right across the doorway. A woman clambered out of the driver’s seat. Even from this distance he liked what he saw as she came walking toward the Gulfstream. He lowered the steps, ready to allow her to board. She was dressed in a tailored suit, designer, Italian and probably worth as much as the car she was driving. It clung tantalizingly to every inch of her body.

He watched her all the way to the stairs. The closer she came, the better she looked. His buyer at least had exquisite taste in companions. Good to know.

She boarded, knocking on the frame of the Gulfstream’s door before setting foot inside, calling out, “Mr. Braden?” as she did.

She had a smile that lit up her sun-kissed skin.

“That’s me.” He smiled back, rising to shake her hand.

“I’m Monique,” she said.

“Do you want to do it here?” Garin asked, enjoying the deliberately provocative double entendre.

“No, Mr. Braden. Your chariot awaits.” She nodded in the general direction of the hangar doors and the waiting limo.

He gathered together the bundle of papers, tying the ribbon, and followed her back down the stairs. He liked to walk a few steps behind beautiful women for the view. A person could always learn a lot about a woman from the way she walked when she knew she was being watched. Monique descended with her shoulders back and head held high. In control. Strong. Not unlike Annja. He thought about offering a cheesy line, just for the amusement factor. Sometimes it was fun to play, but without knowing just how far they had to drive, or how tight she was with the buyer, mixing business with pleasure would be stupid.

But that didn’t stop him from enjoying the view.

“So, tell me, how long do I get to enjoy the pleasure of your company?”

She held the rear door open for him. It was a nice reversal of the gender stereotype, the gallant lady and all that, even if he would have preferred to ride up front with her.

“Around thirty minutes at this time of day, so sit back and make yourself at home. We have an excellent bar. Feel free to help yourself to anything that takes your fancy.”

“Thanks,” he said, sure she was playing the game and flirting right back at him. As tempting as it was, he didn’t rise to the bait and kept things strictly professional. Playing it straight was positively boring.

She closed the door. The mechanism was almost silent, save for a reassuring click. Precision engineering. He reevaluated the cost of the car against her suit.

Garin sank back into the leather seat. The windows were tinted and, he suspected, armored. Interesting. He gazed out of the window as they pulled away from the hangar and followed the parking lot around to the road that would take them out of the airfield, past the parking lot and a hollowed-out 747 that had been converted into an overnight hostel for travelers.

He felt like celebrating even though the business was far from concluded.

He’d played the game perfectly so far.

Even so, he resisted the temptation to help himself to a drink.

Maybe on the ride home.

“We should reach the hotel before my employer,” she said. “But he is en route.”

“Hotel?” For some reason Garin had been expecting a clandestine meeting somewhere far away from prying eyes. But a hotel was practical, even if it was disappointing. Hotels also kept records, which meant he had another way of finding out exactly who he was dealing with. He smiled to himself.

“That’s correct. I take it you weren’t informed of your destination? He maintains a suite there.”

“Not a word. All very hush-hush.”

She smiled at him through the rearview mirror. “I just do what I’m told to do,” she said, and he caught a glimpse of her eyes watching him in the rearview mirror. “And in your case, I was told to make sure that you were kept entertained.”

“What a hardship,” Garin said. The thought of spending a little time with a beautiful woman was never a bad thing. Well, almost never. He just wanted this business concluded, then he’d think about blowing off some steam,
maybe a visit to the racetrack with some paid companions to dip into his new wealth.

The car cruised to a sedate halt outside the plushest hotel in the city—exclusive, expensive, home to the beautiful people.

Monique entrusted the keys to a doorman who looked down at the tip she’d crumpled into his hand as if all of his Christmases had come at once.

Garin followed her inside.

They took the elevator straight to the penthouse suite where she produced a swipe card that allowed them to gain access.

“Hello,” Monique called. There was no reply. “Looks like we’re on our own for a little while. I can check in with him to see how long he’ll be if you like?”

“There’s no need,” Garin said as he took a look around the room. If there had been any lingering doubts as to the depth of his buyer’s pockets, they were banished by the room. If he could afford to maintain a place like this, which had to have run upward of three or four grand a night, then the man had a good line of credit, at the very least.

“We can have that drink while we wait,” Garin offered. She hesitated. “Remember, you’re meant to entertain me, and I really hate to drink alone.”

“I really shouldn’t,” she said.

“I would consider myself unentertained if you forced me to drink alone. I’m not sure that your employer would be too happy about that, would he?” Garin offered a cheeky grin.

“Just one, then,” she said. “But only because I wouldn’t want to think you were unentertained.”