Gabriel's Horn

Annja knew that Garin had slipped up and had tried to cover his mistake.

“I liked your father very much,” Mama said, “but he was not husband material, that one. He have an eye for the ladies. Like you. You won’t be any good as a husband unless you find a woman strong enough to claim you as her own. That kind of woman doesn’t come along so very much, you know.” She looked a warning at Annja. “Better you should keep this in mind.”

“Oh, believe me,” Annja said, “I won’t forget.”

Garin scowled.

“The problem is,” Mama said quietly to Annja, “that sometimes a woman, she likes the bad boys. At least for a little while, no?”

“Yes,” Annja agreed.

“It is kind of like the sweet tooth. And it give us many problems.” Mama laughed. “Now I go get you plates. You enjoy. I have a special dessert tonight.” She stopped long enough for a final hug from Garin, then yelled at the kitchen crew.

“Quite a woman,” Annja commented.

“An amazing woman,” Garin agreed. Wistfulness stained his words. “You should have seen her when she was young. She was incredible. And it wasn’t just the way she looked, though she was stunning. It was her spirit. She almost seemed like she was on fire.”

It was really weird, Annja thought, to be sitting there discussing an ex-flame with the man she was having dinner with. That had on occasion happened in Annja’s life, but never when forty years had passed.

“So what happened between you two?” she asked.

Garin hesitated. “She got older. I didn’t.”

“You don’t like older women?”

Garin grinned. “I love older women. A woman in her forties can be a tigress under the right conditions.”

Annja felt no inclination to ask what those conditions might me.

“But it’s selfish of me to get so involved with someone.”

“You are a selfish person,” Annja pointed out.

“I am. I’ll admit that. I’ll take a few weeks, a few months, perhaps even a year or two of a woman’s life if I’m truly infatuated. But I won’t ask any more than that.”

“You could marry them.”

Some of the humor went out of Garin’s face. “I made that mistake. A few times.”

“Marriage didn’t agree with you?” Annja taunted.

Despite Garin’s roguish grin, pain glinted in his eyes. “They died, Annja. No matter how fiercely I loved them, they died. They got old and perished and I remained. Alone.” He paused. “Those weren’t experiences I relished. Nor would I ever do something like that again.”

Annja knew what it felt like to be alone. She picked up her fork and turned her attention to her salad.

“Tell me about the men who attacked the movie set today,” Garin requested.

Annja didn’t think Garin was truly interested in what happened earlier, but she couldn’t think of anything else to discuss. Evidently they both realized they were on safer ground with other topics. She gave him the gist of the events. When she got to the matter of the tattoo on the man’s neck, Garin stopped her.

He touched his own neck. “You said this tattoo was of a sword?” He took a handheld device from his jacket and quickly sketched an image on the screen with the stylus.

“I have to admit I’m surprised,” Annja said as he sketched. “I figured you more for a pen-and-cocktail-napkin kind of guy.”

Garin frowned at her. “I love technology. Roux doesn’t care so much for it. But I love it. I own several companies that specialize in software and hardware research and development.” He showed her the screen. The sketch revealed a sword that was heavy bladed and curved. “Was this the sword?”

“Yes. What do you know about this?” Anxiety and suspicion warred within Annja.

Garin studied the image. “A scimitar. You said it was green?”

Annja nodded.

A low curse escaped Garin’s full lips.

“Do you know who these men are?” Annja asked.

“Pawns. If they belong to the man I think they do, they’re very highly trained. You’re lucky to have escaped with your life.”

“Who are they and why would they be interested in me?”

“I think I know who they are, but I don’t know why they would be interested in you. Unless they want to get to Roux. They might know about the connection you have to Roux. And to me.”

“They’re enemies of Roux?”

“Their master is.” Garin took his cell phone from his pocket. “Excuse me for just a moment.” He punched in a number. The phone was answered almost instantly. “We may have a security problem. Make sure my dinner is uninterrupted.”

“Who was that?” Annja asked.

“The security chief of the team watching us.”

“Do you always travel with a security team?”

“I do. Except for those times I don’t care to live my life in a fishbowl.” Garin shrugged. “And during those times when it’s better if no one knows what I’m doing.”

Annja picked at her salad. She wasn’t nervous, not really. But the thought of the man with the scimitar tattoo lurking around outside did give her pause.

“Who are you afraid of?” Annja asked.

“I’m not afraid of this man,” Garin growled. “But I’d rather err on the side of caution where he’s concerned.”

“Should we go?”

Garin blew out a short breath. “No. I’m not going to be chased from my dinner like some timid little mouse. We’re going to have a fine meal, and we’re going to enjoy it.” He looked at her. “Why? Do you wish to leave?”

Annja thought about it. She knew she should. But she was stubborn, too. Growing up in the orphanage had been hard. She’d never liked quietly going away, either.

“No,” she answered.

“You don’t care much for playing the mouse, either, do you?” Garin asked.

“I’m hungry.”

Garin chuckled.

“Who do those men work for?” Annja asked.

“He calls himself Saladin.”

“Like the Saladin who fought Richard I during the Crusades?”

“Yes.” Garin looked pained. “But also like Honest Saladin, the camel dealer I met in Cairo when I was tomb hunting with Howard Carter.”

Annja stared at Garin. Curiosity filled her like a tidal wave. “You were in Egypt with Carter?”

Garin shook his head. “Focus, Annja. What I’m telling you now may save your life if Saladin truly is after you.”

“Why would he be after me?”

“Weren’t you paying attention? Saladin would take you to get to Roux.”

“What does he have against Roux?”

“He wants the Nephilim.”

Annja had to think a moment. “The child of a fallen angel?”

“A painting of one.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Roux never told me. That old man has been keeping secrets for hundreds of years.”

Annja’s mind spun with questions.

“What was the importance of the painting?” Annja asked.

Garin shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Roux never offered any hints?”

“Roux,” Garin stated, “never offers hints, and he never slips up. If you think he has, he’s merely setting you up. Trust me on that.”

9

“What do you know about the Nephilim?” Annja asked.

“I never found out much. It was supposed to be a painting that at one time hung in a church in Constantinople. The painting, if it truly ever existed, disappeared when the city fell.”

“That was 560 years ago,” Annja said.

“I know.”

“How do you know those men belong to Saladin?”

Garin touched his throat. “I know Saladin’s mark. The green scimitar you saw on that man’s neck.”

Annja thought about that as she pushed her empty plate away. The food had been superb, but she had a lot on her mind.

“And they want the painting of the Nephilim?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“But why?” Annja shook her head in frustration.

“I don’t know. That, so far, has remained one of Roux’s secrets.”

Annja took out her phone and glanced at the number she’d stored in memory.

“What are you doing?” Garin asked.

“I’m calling Roux.” Annja punched the button and held the phone up to her ear as she listened for the rings.

“He’s not going to tell you anything.”

Annja ignored the negative response. The phone rang six times before it was answered in French.

“Hello,” she said, speaking French.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a man named—” Annja stopped because she had no idea what name Roux was using.

“Yes?” the man inquired.

“I’m looking for the owner of this phone,” Annja said.

“That would be me, of course.”

“And who are you?”

“Jean-Paul.” The man’s voice lowered. “You know, you sound very sexy. Perhaps you and I—”

“Do you know a man named Roux?”

“No, but if you like men named Roux, you may call me Roux.”

“He called me from this phone.”

Jean-Paul laughed. “Then this man Roux has very good taste. This is a very expensive phone. I can afford expensive things. Tell me, do you like the ride in a BMW?”

“Where are you?”

“Monte Carlo. I came here to gamble.”

Okay, Annja thought, at least that made sense. The old man loved playing Texas Hold ’Em and other games of chance.

“Have you let anyone borrow your phone?” she asked.

“No.”

Annja knew Roux was quite the magician, though. It would have been easy for him to pick someone’s pocket, use the phone and replace it. But why go to all the trouble?

So you couldn’t call him.

That realization made her angry. She told Jean-Paul goodbye and hung up despite his protests.

“I take it the old fox didn’t call on his phone,” Garin said.

“No.”

Garin laughed. “He’s worth millions and he stints on a long-distance bill.”

Annja slipped her phone back into her purse.

Garin sipped wine. “Why did he call you?”

“Someone,” Annja said, pinning Garin with her gaze, “told him I was having dinner with you.”

Garin held up his hands. “It wasn’t me. I know what he would say.”

“He said it. I don’t suppose you have a phone number where he can be reached?”

“No. Where is he?”

“Monte Carlo.”

Garin stroked his chin. “I know where he might be. You and I could—”

“No,” Annja said. Dinner had been far too comfortable for her liking. She didn’t want to spend any more time in Garin’s company because doing so was all too easy. “Whatever’s going on, it’s going to have to go on without me.”

“Where’s that driving curiosity that I’ve noticed is so much a part of you?” Garin taunted her.

“I’m going to turn it in other directions,” Annja said, but she knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

Roux and Garin were never forthcoming about information they had that she lacked. Thankfully, there were institutions all around the world that had more knowledge than both of those men combined.

In fact, when it came to pure history and the science of archaeology, she knew more than they did. Just not on a personal basis.

A few moments later, Mama served a cherry torte topped with homemade ice cream. For a time Annja forgot about the Nephilim.

“DID YOU HAVE a nice time?” Garin asked.

With the heavy meal sitting in her stomach, topped by the rich dessert, Annja felt sleepy. She stared through the limousine’s tinted windows at the streets.

“I did,” Annja said.

“I thought perhaps we might go dancing,” Garin told her. “Unless you’re too tired.”

Annja considered that. She’d worked late on the movie set each night for the past few days and hadn’t really seen much of the local scene. Several of the movie crew had mentioned the clubs throughout the downtown area.

Dancing sounded fun, but it sounded almost too attractive.

Noticing her reticence, Garin said, “I know you have an eclectic taste in music.”

That was true. Annja liked what she liked, and the gamut ran from jazz to R&B to African tribal songs.

“I know a great club,” Garin said. “It’s not far from your hotel.”

Annja wavered. It had been a long time since she’d last been dancing. She wanted to relax and let go. The offer was extremely tempting.

“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” she said.

“So you’ll miss out on some sleep. You’ve done that before.” Garin smiled. “Come on, Annja. A night of revelry and wild abandon. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

It did. It sounded like exactly what Annja needed.

“I’m going,” Garin said, “whether you go with me or not.”

Was that intended as a challenge or a threat? Annja wondered.

“I’m just saying,” Garin continued, “that you’re free to choose. My plans are already set. But I’d love the company and I think you’d have a good time.”

So he isn’t pressuring you, Annja thought. Before she could make up her mind, two cars roared into motion along the street.

Garin saw them, too. He yelled a warning to the driver as he pulled out a pistol and his cell phone.

The lead car slammed into the limousine hard enough to knock it from the street and across the sidewalk. The luxury car struck the corner of the building on the other side of a narrow alley, and the sound from the impact echoed inside the vehicle.

“Get someone up here!” Garin barked in German over the cell phone.

The seat belts had snapped tight and kept Annja from being thrown from her seat. Liquid fire traced her chest as the straps jerked the breath from her lungs.

Men boiled from the car that had rammed the front of the limousine. All of them carried assault weapons and pistols. They darted through the glaring headlights as they raced to surround the limousine. Annja saw at least two green-scimitar tattoos.

“Apparently your friends haven’t given up,” Garin growled.

“They’re not my friends,” Annja shot back. But she couldn’t imagine why Saladin’s men—if they were Saladin’s men—were so driven to get to her. More than that, though, she didn’t know how she and Garin were going to escape.

10

Quiet and composed, contemplative almost, Roux sat at the Texas Hold ’Em table in one of the casino’s private rooms. He smoked a big cigar and watched the other players.

Six men and one woman still remained at the table. Only four of them, including Roux, were still in the hand currently being played out. The other three had thrown their hands onto the felt tabletop in disgust and studied their dwindling pile of chips. The game was all about skill and luck and husbanding the resources on the table.

Roux studied his own stacks of chips. They looked positively anemic.

The dealer politely called Roux’s name. At least, the man called the name Roux was currently employing. The identity was a conceit that could conceivably backfire on him. He tried his best to live in the world without a paper trail. However, in order to qualify for the Texas Hold ’Em tournaments and other games he liked to play, he had to provide an identity that had some depth and texture. That was inherently dangerous.

“In or out, sir?” the dealer asked quietly. He was an older man with a jowly face and short-clipped hair. All night he’d acted as a seasoned veteran with cards.

Roux seethed inside. The cards had been so good to him at first, and now they ran cold. He didn’t know if he could trust what he was seeing, and he hated to take long shots. It was absurd and intolerable.

He kept his frustrations locked in, though. Even so much as a deep breath could have given away crucial knowledge about him to the other players. Those behaviors were called “tells” in the trade, and they were dangerously destructive to a player.

Declan Connelly was an Irish launderer worth millions. He sat solid and imposing on the other side of the table. As if he didn’t have a care in the world, he sipped his whiskey straight up. He could drink for hours—and had been—and still play as though he were stone-cold sober.

He’d also apparently brought the luck of the Irish with him. He’d hit on combinations during the night that had at first appeared all but impossible.

“C’mon, old man,” Connelly taunted. “You’re squeezing onto them chips like they’re the last ones you’re likely to see in your lifetime.” He snickered. “’Course as old as you are, I guess maybe that could be the case.”

Roux ignored the insult and concentrated on his cards. He wasn’t going to let himself be baited.

Two queens—hearts and diamonds—had shown up in the flop, the spill of the initial three community cards across the felt. Roux felt certain Connelly was holding another queen in his two down cards because the river was widely split unless someone was holding a queen. There was nothing really to build on in the river and more than likely winning the hand would depend on pairing up cards. The third card was the jack of spades.

“We really need to get on with this,” Ling Po said. “I’d like to get in another hand before I go for the massage I’ve scheduled.” She was British and from old money. Besides her money, she also possessed her youth. She was in her twenties and was a beautiful porcelain doll of a woman.

“Now, honey,” the big Texas wildcatter, Roy Hudder, drawled, “you ought not rush a man at two things in this life. One’s romance and the other’s poker. Give the old-timer a little breathin’ room.”

Roux hated being called old-timer by the Texan. Hudder was in his sixties and dressed like a television cowboy in a rhinestone-studded suit. Eyes flicking over the cards showing on the table, Roux knew that he still had a chance to put his hand together.

He held the ten and the king of spades as his hole cards. Together with the jack of spades showing, he had a chance at a royal flush. Provided that the next two cards dealt were the right ones.

Roux knew that his luck hadn’t been running like that. It was just that he couldn’t let go of Connelly’s constant heckling.

“It takes nerve to play this game, boyo,” Connelly said. He bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Maybe you’ve already spent yours, eh?”

Roux called, matching the bets that had been made on the table.

The dealer burned a card and slid the turn card onto the felt. The ace of spades stood neatly beside the two queens and the jack.

Now a potential straight lay in waiting. Some of the betting picked up pace.

Roux reluctantly parted with his chips. One card in his favor didn’t mean much. And he hated bidding on luck, but he couldn’t walk away from the table.

“Growing a spine, old man?” Connelly taunted.

Roux ignored him.

The dealer dealt the river, the final community card that finished the seven cards the players had to make a hand from.

It was the queen of spades. Roux couldn’t believe his luck. He kept his face neutral and didn’t move.

Connelly’s left nostril twitched. It was a tell Roux had spotted hours ago. The man definitely had a queen among his hold cards. He now had four of a kind.

The bet went to Ling Po. She raised the stakes a little.

Roux pushed the rest of his chips into the pot. “I’m all in,” he said.

Ling Po tossed her cards onto the table and Hudder did, as well.

Connelly stared at Roux from across the table. “So now it’s just you and me, old man.” His grin grew wider. “You’re so desperate you’re trying to buy this pot, aren’t you?”

Roux said nothing.

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Connelly asked. “A big bluff at the end to show everybody you’re not afraid to lose your money.”

Roux returned the man’s gaze without comment.

Connelly cursed. “Bit of theatrical nonsense is what it is.” He tapped the table with a forefinger. “For you to beat me, you’d have to have the ten and king of spades. But you don’t have them, do you?”

“The bet is to you, Mr. Connelly,” the dealer informed the big Irishman politely.

With an impatient wave, Connelly quieted the dealer. “You’re just smoke and mirrors, old man. I still remember that bluff you tried to run when we opened this game.”

Roux had done that purposefully because the pot had been small enough that getting busted running a bluff wouldn’t cost much. And he’d gotten caught doing it, as he had intended.

“I hate bluffers,” Connelly said. “Either you have the cards you need to win, or you need to go home. This game’s about luck and skill, not about drama.”

“Actually,” Ling Po said, “I prefer a man who knows how to make a production of things. Otherwise this game becomes tedious. Except for the winning and losing, of course.” She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “That’s what we’re all here for, right, Irish? The winning and losing? So are you going to talk and try to figure out if our friend is bluffing, or are you going to play cards?”

The red in Connelly’s face deepened.

Roux knew the woman’s words had seared Connelly, and they had sealed the deal. Although Roux had fewer chips, by going all in he’d shoved enough into the pot that losing a matching amount would seriously impact Connelly’s game. Roux was counting on the hand playing out and doing that very thing.

“You don’t have it,” Connelly said.

Roux kept silent as the Sphinx. Anything he said would potentially tell Connelly something.

“Mr. Connelly,” the dealer said quietly.

Like an impatient child, Connelly blew out his breath. It was the most out of control Roux had seen the man all evening. He also knew he’d never have a better chance to break Connelly’s confidence.

“You don’t have it,” Connelly repeated. Angrily, he pushed in stacks of chips to match Roux’s wager. As if delivering the death stroke, the Irishman flipped over his hole cards and exposed the queen of clubs. “I’ve got four ladies, boyo. Unless you can come up with three kings or three aces in those two hole cards, you’re beaten.”

“I can’t do that, I’m afraid.” Without fanfare, Roux flipped his cards over to reveal his royal flush.

Connelly screamed a curse and pushed back from the table.

“We have a scheduled break at this point,” the dealer said smoothly.

Roux got up from the table and walked out into the main casino.

Standing on the second-floor landing overlooking the main pit, Roux took in a deep breath and let it out. There wasn’t anything that felt as good as victory. If he ever lost that feeling, if he ever grew jaded with it, he honestly didn’t know what he would do with himself. Living a long life could be incredibly boring and repetitious.

Especially in modern times.

In the past, when the world had been wide open and a man had been free to fight wars and love women indiscriminately, when there had been so many things to discover, Roux had felt better about his long years.

He had dined with kings, helped them slay their enemies and aided them in seizing their crowns. He’d raised armies and fought tremendous battles. Every day, those stakes had been for his life or the lives of those around him.

Now, though, he couldn’t do those things. Warmongers tended to draw too much attention and the enmity of the world. World conquerors, he feared, were a thing of the past when all it took was one man with a satellite and a long-range missile to put that would-be world conqueror in the grave.

The times were so different these days, and he had started to fear sometimes that if he lived too much longer he wouldn’t be able to blend in.

Thankfully he had gambling, though the money was never an issue. He had more than he could ever spend in his long life, and there was more to be had if he needed it.

One of the reasons he loved Annja Creed as he did was that she had that fire in her that he could barely remember. Still, she had Joan’s sword, and that thing had never proved helpful in living a long life.

He took out a hand-rolled cigar. It was a blend that he specially ordered. Cigars were one thing he’d never grown bored with.

Action was heating up at a craps table. Whoever was rolling the bones had evidently been inordinately lucky. The crowd was two and three deep, all of them cheering the shooter on as she threw the dice again. Another cheer rose.