God Of Thunder
Call me, Bart, she thought. Bart McGilley could cut through the red tape. She hoped.
“Thinking back on this,” Mario went on, “maybe I shouldn’t have come. Erene didn’t want me to come. She felt it was too dangerous.”
Who is Erene? Annja wondered.
“Anyway, when you get the package, hold on to it until I call you. I’ll keep trying. In the meantime, take care of yourself. These are dangerous men.” The traffic noise in the background shifted again. “There’s one other thing. When you get the package and see what’s in there, just remember what happened to us at Hadrian’s Wall.”
Several things had happened to them at Hadrian’s Wall. A lot of them had been good.
“Goodbye, Annja. I hope to see you soon.”
A NNJA SAT BACK and stared at the television, watching the New York Yankees working out at spring training. They threw and batted and ran bases like they didn’t have a problem in the world. The sports reporters traded quips with them.
Real life wasn’t like that, Annja knew. People struggled every day. Some of them, like Mario now, struggled against deadly and dangerous forces.
In a way, it made sense that Mario had come to her. Annja didn’t think it was just because of the past friendship. She felt certain part of the reason Mario had come was because of the sword she carried.
Roux had told her that dealing with trouble was part of the legacy of the sword. The old man had been with her when she’d found the last broken piece of the sword and there again when she’d touched the sword and it reassembled itself—somehow.
Annja didn’t like thinking in terms that included magic, but she had no explanation for how the sword worked or how Roux and Garin Braden had existed since before Joan of Arc’s execution.
Somehow the sword resided in the otherwhere until Annja needed it.
Thinking about Agent Smith and his friends, Annja took a deep breath and let it out. Okay, she thought. Bring it on. This is part of why I’m here.
All she had to do was find Mario.
A NNJA CALLED Doug back.
“You know,” he said sullenly, “I’m not here just so you can hang up on me every time you get—”
“Doug,” Annja said.
Doug quieted. “Is something wrong?”
When it came down to it, no matter what their difference of opinion, he was a friend. A good one.
“Possibly,” Annja answered.
“Can I help?”
“Could you have my answering service there at the studio switched over so any phone calls coming in there will ring on my cell phone?”
“Sure, but I don’t think you really want that.”
“I’m sure I do.”
“You’re going to listen to a lot of trash.”
“What do you mean?”
“You get phone calls here every day,” Doug said. “People who love the show. People who hate the show. People who want to marry you or just leave obscene suggestions. I gotta warn you, those people can get really creative. It’s hard to listen to sometimes.”
“Why don’t I ever hear any of that?”
“You hear the good stuff. The rest I have wiped off by my assistant.”
“Why do you have an assistant and I don’t?” Annja blocked the thought. “Never mind. We’ll talk about that some other time.”
“She’s not much of an assistant,” Doug said in a low voice.
“I heard that,” a female voice said.
“Hey,” Doug protested, “I meant that in the kindest possible way.”
“Look, you little jerk!” the woman said. “I’ve put up with the menial little tasks you’ve had me doing for almost two weeks! I’ve had it! I’m not going to stand here and be—”
“You creeping into my office and standing behind me is one of the problems,” Doug said. “Eavesdropping on my conversations wasn’t in your job description.”
“I quit! ” the woman shouted.
A door slammed.
“There,” Doug groused. “I no longer have an assistant. We’re even. Are you happy?”
“Switch the phone over for me,” Annja said.
T HE HOTEL DESK CLERK’S name was Sandy. She was blond-haired, blue-eyed and very understanding about Annja’s “problem.”
“Guys can be absolute jerks,” Sandy said. “Especially ex-boyfriends. They just never seem to get out of your life.”
Annja could tell immediately that she’d touched a nerve in the other woman. Usually Annja wasn’t up on all the girl-talk issues. She didn’t like telling someone else about her private life, which was a direct product of being raised by nuns in a New Orleans orphanage, and she didn’t hang out with women who did.
Thankfully, DVD sets of Sex and the City and Gilmore Girls had given her the tools she needed to discuss her “situation” with the desk clerk.
“I know,” Annja said. “This guy isn’t the first.”
The clerk shook her head. “And the sad part is he probably won’t be the last.” She looked at the picture of the man on Annja’s computer screen. “He’s not bad looking.”
“Thanks.” Like I’m supposed to take some kind of pride in that? Annja tried not to let her disbelief show on her face.
“You said he took a necklace from you?” the clerk asked.
“My grandmother gave it to me,” Annja said, touching her neck theatrically. “It’s worth a little bit of money, but I want it back more for sentimental reasons. That was the last thing my grandmother gave me before she died.”
“What a louse.” The clerk looked back at the image, then around the desk. “You know I’m not supposed to do this. It could cost me my job.”
“I just want to know if he’s here,” Annja said. “You don’t even have to tell me the room number. If I can confirm he’s here, I’m going to file a complaint with the police. They can come talk to him.”
“That would be the best.” The clerk looked at Annja and nodded. “You need a break, girlfriend. I can hook you up.”
“Have you met him?”
The clerk shrugged. “If he hadn’t been hitting on me yesterday, I might not have remembered him. He definitely doesn’t have a confidence problem.” She frowned. “Sorry. That’s probably more than you wanted to know.”
“He’s nothing but trouble,” Annja insisted. She wasn’t exactly happy with her method of getting the information, but it was working. Don’t mess with success, she told herself.
“I hear you.” The clerk sighed. “But he is good-looking.” Then she turned her attention to the computer in front of her. “If anybody asks, I didn’t do this.”
Annja mimed turning a key to her lips and throwing it away.
“Dieter is staying in room 616,” the clerk said.
“Dieter?” Annja repeated as if confused.
The clerk nodded. “It says here his name is Dieter Humbrecht.”
“That isn’t the name he gave me,” Annja said.
“What a creep.” The clerk looked back at the computer. “Let me check something.” She typed for a moment, then waited. “Your ex checked in at the same time another guy did. His name is Klaus Kaufmann. Does that sound familiar?”
“No.” Annja added the name to her mental list.
“I thought maybe he was using his buddy’s name,” the clerk said. “Sometimes guys like him do.”
“I appreciate your help.” Annja closed her computer and shoved it back into her backpack.
“I hope it helps,” the clerk said sympathetically.
“Me, too.”
6
Outside, Annja had one of the bellmen flag down a cab for her. She gave her destination as Fulton Mall, at a small bistro near the corner of Flatbush, then settled in the back of the cab to think.
She could have staked out the hotel, but since the men looking for her already knew who she was, she figured that wasn’t a good idea. She needed to know more.
Or she needed Bart to call. Bart could get a lot of answers that she couldn’t. She wouldn’t have had a policeman’s life. As long as she’d known Bart, she’d also known that. Policemen saw too much of the harshness in life.
Then she thought about everything that had happened to her since she’d found the sword.
You’re not exactly leading a sheltered life, she told herself.
She made note of the two men’s names. At least there was a trail to follow. What she needed was the real package that Nikolai had hidden away.
S INCE SHE DIDN’T WANT to leave her phone number or allow someone to track her calls by getting a court order and looking at her records, Annja used the public phone in the bistro. She watched the street, wondering if anyone had followed her.
The bistro was small. A dozen tables were scattered across the black-and-white-tiled floor. Long-bladed ceiling fans stirred the air slowly overhead. Heat from the kitchen fogged the front window against the lingering winter chill.
Annja dialed the number for Mailboxes & Stuff. A woman answered, sounding a little tense.
“Could I speak to Nikolai?” Annja asked.
“Could I tell him who’s calling?”
The strange question pinged Annja’s radar immediately. “This is Nicole.”
“Oh. Well, Nikolai isn’t in right now.”
“I see.” Annja watched the television as a news reporter delivered an update on the violence that had broken out in Brooklyn. Police were still in the area. “I was just calling to make certain Nikolai was all right. I saw there was some trouble in his store a little while ago.”
Not even two hours ago. The short amount of time was unbelievable.
“He’s fine,” the woman said. “He’s with the police now. They’re hoping he can identify the men who came in here. This is really bizarre, isn’t it?”
Annja continued the conversation for a moment longer, then managed a graceful exit. She felt frustrated. But since she was hungry and there was no sign of anyone following her, there was only one place to go—Tito’s, her favorite restaurant.
There was no sense in going to her loft. Agent Smith, or Dieter and Klaus or their buddies might be there by now. She was certain someone would be.
She used the pay phone again, this time calling Wally, her building super. Wally was sixty-seven years old, a retired semipro baseball player who had bought the building with his wife while he’d still been playing ball. Tough and intelligent, Wally was a crusty guy who tended to follow his own line of thinking.
The answering machine picked up.
Annja debated leaving a message, and decided to because she wanted to know about her loft. “Wally, it’s Annja. If it’s not too much trouble—”
The phone clattered as it was lifted from the cradle.
“Hiya, little lady,” Wally said boisterously.
Annja smiled. It was nice hearing a genuinely friendly voice. “Hi, Wally.”
Wally’s voice quieted, but since he normally talked like Foghorn Leghorn, he was still loud. “Got yourself in some trouble again, do you?”
“I didn’t do this,” Annja said.
“You shoulda stayed down in Florida with the rest of the snowbirds.”
“I can always go back.”
“Getting out of the city could be tricky,” Wally said. “First of all, you got these unidentified types that have been watching your loft for the last three days.”
“Unidentified?”
“I don’t know them.”
“Okay.” Annja smiled a little at the man’s protective nature.
“And now you got cops,” Wally said.
“The police are there?”
“Oh, yeah. I spotted a couple of plainclothes guys in the neighborhood. After I rousted one and he identified himself, he asked me to let him into your place. I didn’t, of course. He had no legal right there, and I told him that. You ask me, he needs to watch a few more Law & Order episodes so he knows more about what he can and can’t do.”
“What are the police doing there?”
“Said they want to make sure you’re all right.”
“Did you tell them about the unidentified types?”
“I did, but after the police arrived, those guys were gone.”
“How did the police find out I might be in trouble?”
“Beats me. The only person giving out less information than the cops was me.”
Annja smiled at that.
“You called for a reason, little lady?”
“I’m worried about my home.” The loft was the first true home Annja had ever had.
Growing up in the orphanage always meant sharing space, bathrooms, everything. College and her early years in the field had been more of the same. She’d dreamed of having a place of her own ever since she was little. A place with plenty of space.
When she’d locked the deal with Chasing History’s Monsters, she’d signed a lease agreement with the option to buy with Wally. She hadn’t regretted a minute of it.
“Your home’s gonna be fine, little lady,” Wally replied. “Don’t you fret none about that. I’ll see to it.”
“Thanks,” Annja said. She hung up the phone, then walked over to the counter to get a cup of coffee to go.
Her cell phone rang.
Excited, Annja took the phone from her pocket and checked the Caller ID, hoping it was Nikolai or Bart or Mario. The number was blocked.
Annja answered anyway.
“Hello,” an excited male voice said. “Is this Annja Creed?”
“Yes.” Annja paid for the coffee and left the bistro, heading for Tito’s.
“Cool! I never thought I’d ever get to speak to you! I’ve been calling and calling!”
“Is there something I can do for you?” Annja asked.
“Oh, no,” the man said. “But there is something I can do for you.”
When the man proceeded to tell her what it was, Annja closed the phone and put it away. Creep! She suddenly felt unclean. More than anything, she wanted a bath in her own apartment.
The phone rang again. It was another blocked number.
Annja cringed. The possibility existed that the call was from someone she was waiting for. She opened the phone.
“We got cut off,” the man said. “I didn’t get to finish telling you—”
Annja closed the phone and kept walking.
T HE LUNCH RUSH WAS over at Tito’s, but there were several regulars who deliberately waited until those people had left so they could have a more leisurely lunch. The fare was Cuban, served fresh and hot, with all the love Maria Ruiz could put on the platter.
She stood at the counter that served as her throne, ruling over her kingdom with a benevolent eye. Everyone who came through the door was taken care of, and those who tried to take advantage of the staff or act in a rude manner were tossed.
Maria was plump and gray haired, dressed in black slacks and a lime-green top under an apron. In her sixties, Maria had transplanted from Cuba as a young woman, then raised a family in Brooklyn. Her oldest son ran the kitchen.
The booths and tables were a festive green and yellow. Strings of glowing red jalapeño-shaped lights framed the windows. Servers wore black slacks, white shirts and smiles. Most of them greeted Annja by name.
As soon as the scent of spices, fajita meat and beer filled her nose, the ball of tension in Annja’s stomach relaxed somewhat. Inside the walls of Tito’s, she was home.
Maria spotted her. “Señorita Annja!” She held her arms open wide and came toward her.
Annja met the woman halfway, accepting the offered hug and giving one in return. There was nothing like one of Maria’s hugs. It was almost as substantial as one of the meals that Tito’s served.
“Hello, Maria,” Annja said, grinning. After all the confusion and worry of the morning, it was nice to be welcomed.
Stepping back quickly and looking concerned, Maria placed her hands on Annja’s jawline. “You’re freezing.”
“It’s cold outside,” Annja agreed.
“We’ve got to get you warm again. Have you eaten?”
“Not since Miami this morning.”
“Foolishness. You must eat to keep your strength up. I have told you this many times.”
“I know.”
“You should listen.”
“I know.”
Only a few minutes later in a private booth, Annja nursed a large hot chocolate and a huge platter of food Maria had assembled.
Annja watched the television mounted on the wall. The story about the shooting in Brooklyn had lost out to an apartment fire that had gutted a building. The scenes on the television were grim, and Annja’s heart went out to the people who’d lost their homes.
She didn’t know what she’d do if something like that occurred to her loft. It worried her even more that the men who’d tried to kill her wouldn’t hesitate about setting fire to her home. The unpleasant thoughts took some of the enjoyment from the meal.
She wanted to know what was going on, and she wanted to know what she had to do to get her life back in order. She wished Bart would call.
Maria bustled about her, keeping Annja company only briefly because she was keeping watch over the restaurant and training two new servers. The restaurant opened six days a week, closed on Sundays because that was God’s day, and Maria worked every one of them.
The other television was set to ESPN, covering the baseball spring-training camps. Maria wasn’t a baseball fan, but she knew Annja was.
“So how come you’re eating alone?” Maria asked. “You should have a nice man for lunch.”
At that announcement, Annja nearly choked and had to get a sip of hot chocolate, which had just been refilled and was too hot for drinking. She burned her tongue.
Maria looked at her with concern. She was always trying to play matchmaker for Annja.
“All the nice men I know are busy,” Annja replied. There weren’t many of them. She took another bite of beef enchilada covered in sour cream sauce. The portion melted in her mouth.
“Hmph,” Maria said. “You waited too long. A woman who wants a man, she has to move quickly to take what she wants.”
Annja just smiled. Her line of work didn’t lend itself to long-lasting relationships. There was too much separation while she was out on dig sites for a long-term relationship. Unless she found someone who had the same interests she had. So far, that hadn’t happened.
“I’m doing too many things in my life right now,” Annja replied. “I don’t want a man I’ll be tripping over, or one that I’m going to feel guilty about leaving every time I have work to do.”
Still, it would be nice to have someone to share her successes and the things she learned. That kind of thinking led her to think about Bart McGilley again. Bart wanted someone in his life who would be there. That was why he was engaged to someone else.
But he was her friend, as he’d always been. She wished he would call.
As she ate, Annja divided her time between the television sets and the magazines she’d picked up at the newsstand earlier. She wanted to be home working on some of the material she’d gathered about the Calusa Indians. Maybe Chasing History’s Monsters intended to insert a digital shark in her segment, but there were other publications that had already responded favorably to her queries about doing articles. And she was supposed to write three chapters for a book on the Calusa Indians.
The phone rang several times during her meal. Most of the calls were congratulatory in nature, thanking her for one episode or another on the television show. It was almost enough to take the sting out of thinking about the phantom shark.
Then Nikolai called.
7
“Annja,” Nikolai said dramatically, “you would not believe the day I’ve been having. First, these hoodlums started stalking the shop. Then they are shooting in the streets. My God, it is almost too much.”
“I know,” Annja said. “I was the one they were shooting at.”
That brought Nikolai up short. “Oh. That’s right. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Where have you been?”
“At the police station. Looking at mug shots. You know, in the detective shows, the police bring a man in, give him a coffee and sit him in a chair, then give him this enormous book to go through and—voilà!—he puts his finger on the face of the man the police are looking for.”
Annja couldn’t help herself. She liked Nikolai, but his fake Russian accent got on her nerves when he got it wrong. “That’s the wrong word,” she pointed out.
“What word?”
“Voilà. That’s French, not Russian.”
“Ah, borscht.” Nikolai gave up the pretense. “I used it with the cops.”
“Maybe they’ll think you’re a Russian who spent some time in France.”
“Probably not. They called my mom. She doesn’t speak like a Russian. I swear, Annja, people just don’t realize how much fun an accent can be. I love getting away with saying inappropriate things. You wouldn’t believe the looks, or the help, that I get.”
“I take it you’re not at the police station anymore?”
“No. I was getting bored. I told them I’d come back tomorrow and look some more. I don’t think they really cared. I got the impression they think these guys have left town.”
“They haven’t,” Annja said.
“How do you know?”
“I found two of them.”
“Jeez, Annja, you need to tell the cops.”
“I’m waiting for Bart McGilley to call me.”
“He’s your cop friend?”
“Yes. If I try to talk to anyone else, things are going to get too confusing.” Given her past history with situations involving police agencies, Annja didn’t want to deal with anyone else. After being raised by nuns, Annja didn’t like dealing with authority figures if she could help it.
“The police are looking for you,” Nikolai said in a quiet voice.
“Why?”
“Because I had to tell them about you. Someone got a picture of you when you ran into the bus with the Letterman ad. This detective—a real jerk, I tell you—told me if I didn’t tell him the truth he was going to put me in jail.”
“He couldn’t do that.”
“He sounded like he could.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Nikolai. The police can only arrest you if you’ve done something wrong. The only way they can get you to offer testimony about something is to get you in court and have a judge order you to answer questions.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t. So you told them about me?” Now Annja knew why the police were at her loft. At least it wasn’t anything that had to do with Mario.
“They already knew about you,” Nikolai said. “Someone identified you from the television show.”
Annja took a deep breath and let it out. “Did you tell them about the package?”
“No.”
“Do you still have it?”
“I can get it.”
“ We’ll get it. I need you to meet me. Do you know where Digital Paradise is?”
“Of course I do.”
“Meet me there.”
“When?”
“Now. I’ll be there before you are. Be careful.”
“Why?” Nikolai sounded nervous. “Do you think I’m still in danger?”
“Those guys haven’t got what they came for,” Annja said. “Right now it’s better to be a little paranoid.” She shoved the magazines into her backpack. “I’ll see you there.”
D IGITAL P ARADISE WAS located in the middle of the block. Neon tubes glowed in the windows, announcing the presence of Internet, Games, Sandwiches, Beer and Fun.
Annja purchased time on a card, then retreated to the back of the large room where she could keep an eye on the door. She took a seat in the ergonomic chair, flexed her fingers and started typing.
All around her, players sat at banks of computers, playing video games around the world. Most of them were guys in their teens and early twenties, but there were a few women and older people, as well.
Negotiating the Digital Paradise interface, Annja opened her e-mail in one window and let it start cycling through, thinking there was a chance Mario had sent her an e-mail after everything that had happened.
She also accessed her e-mail at Chasing History’s Monsters, thinking that if Mario had tried contacting her through her answering service there he might also have used the show’s e-mail address.
Normally she didn’t get the mail from the television show. She’d discovered early on that it was as bad as the phone calls were proving to be. The cell phone vibrated from time to time, diverting her attention and causing no end of frustration.
A quick check through alt.archaeology and alt.archaeology.esoterica sites showed a few promising developments on stories she was planning to do, but nothing that pertained to Mario Fellini.