She had a lot to do tonight. She didn't intend to let Roux get away with what he'd done.
Annja's rented room was small and cozy. Camille Lambert had filled it with sensible curtains and linens. But the bed, desk, chair and trunk all spoke of François's knowing hands.
She opened the windows and stood for just a moment as the night breeze filled the room. She took a deep breath and let go of the anger and frustration she felt. Those emotions were good motivators, but they wouldn't sustain her during a project.
No, for that she'd always relied on curiosity.
This time, there were a number of things to be curious about. Why was a man like Lesauvage interested in her? Why had Roux stolen the charm she'd found in La Bête's lair? Could the hidden cave in the Cévennes Mountains be found again? What did the designs on the charm mean?
And who was Roux?
Annja started with that.
Although the house was wired with electricity, power outages sometimes occurred. The Lamberts had shown her where the candles were kept for emergencies.
She took one of the candles, placed it in a holder on the desk and lit it. Then she held one of her metal notebooks a few inches over the flame. In a short time, a considerable amount of lampblack covered the metal surface.
Using a thin-bladed knife she generally used on dig sites, Annja scraped most of the lampblack into the coffee cup with the rosin. When she was satisfied she had enough of the black residue, she used the knife handle to grind the lampblack into the rosin. The mixture quickly turned dark gray.
She spread Roux's handkerchief on the desk. Using one of the fine brushes from her kit, she dumped some powder onto the euro coin.
Gently, she blew away the powder. When she could remove no more in this manner, she employed the brush, using deft strokes like those she would use on a fragile piece of pottery to reveal the images she was after.
A fingerprint stood out on the coin.
Annja smiled. Roux hadn't been as clever as he'd believed.
Working with meticulous care, which was a necessary skill in archaeology, she trapped the fingerprint on clear tape. She mounted her discovery on a plain white index card.
Taking a brief respite from the backbreaking labor, Annja straightened and placed her notebook computer on the desk. She hooked it to her satellite phone, then used the Web service to log on to the Internet.
Moving mechanically, she brought up alt.archaeology and alt.archaeology.esoterica, her favorite Usenet newsgroups. The former was a format for archaeology and history professors, students and enthusiasts to meet and share ideas. The latter held discourse on more inventive matters.
If she needed hard information, Annja resorted to alt.archaeology. But if she needed something more along the lines for guesswork, she would generally post to alt.archaeology.esoterica.
Since she had no idea where to begin with the images of the charm, she elected to post to both.
Taking her digital camera from her backpack, she changed lenses and switched the function over to manual instead of automatic. She also used a flash separate from the camera rather than mounted on it.
Working quickly, confidently, she took pictures of the rubbings of the charm she'd made in her journal. Then she took pictures of the fingerprint from the coin.
Opening a new topic on the alt.archaeology newsgroup, Annja quickly wrote a short note.
I'm seeking information about the following images found on a charm/talisman/coin? Not sure which. I saw it in France recently, at a small town called Lozère. It caught my attention and now I can't get it out of my mind. Can anyone help? Is it just a tourist geegaw?
She framed her request like that to detract immediate attention. She knew if she sounded like a newbie other wannabe experts wouldn't leave her alone and would try to impress her. Hopefully only someone who knew something about the images would bother to respond.
She attached the images of the charm's rubbings and sent the postings to both newsgroups.
Going to her e-mail service, she opened her account, ignored the latest rash of spam and picked a name from her address book.
Bart McGilley was a Brooklyn cop she occasionally dated when she was home. He was a nice guy, on his way to making detective at the precinct. They had a good time whenever they were together. Thankfully, he shared an interest in some of the city's more historical settings and museums.
She typed a quick note.
Hey Bart,
I'm in France doing a workup on a piece for Monsters. I'm keeping my blouse together, so I'm having to make this good. Points of interest, rather than interesting points.
I ran into a guy who swiped something from me. Nothing big. But I thought if I could give the police his name, it might help.
I know it's a big favor to ask, but could you run this print?
Best,
Annja
She attached the image of the fingerprint and sent it. She also took a moment to send the pictures of La Bête and the cave to Doug Morrell. Then she retreated to her bathroom.
One of the finest things François Lambert had done in creating his retirement business was to add a soaker tub to each guest bathroom. It wasn't something that many bed-and-breakfasts in the area had. But it was one of the selling points that had caught Annja's attention.
Once the tub was filled, she eased in and turned on the jets. In seconds, the heat and the turbulence worked to wash away the stress and tension of the day.
Controlling the excitement that filled him, Roux drove toward the iron gates of his estate outside Paris. The land was wooded and hilly. The large stone manor house and outbuildings couldn't easily be seen even by helicopter.
At a touch of a button on the steering wheel, the iron gates separated and rolled back quietly. An armed guard stepped out from the gatehouse holding an assault rifle.
"Mr. Roux," the man said.
Roux knew another man waited for confirmation inside the bulletproof and bombproof gatehouse. Not only was his landscape well tended, but so was his security. He paid dearly for it and never begrudged the price.
"Yes," Roux said, turning his head so he could be clearly illuminated by the guard's flashlight.
The guard swept the SUV with his beam. "Ran into some trouble?"
"A little," Roux admitted. There was no way to conceal the bullet holes from a trained eye.
"Anything we should know about?"
The guard was American. He was direct and thorough. Those were qualities that Roux loved about the Americans. Of course, they balanced that with obstinacy and contrariness.
"I don't think this will follow me home," Roux said. "But it wouldn't hurt to be a trifle more vigilant for a few days."
"Yes, sir."
Roux drove through. The gates closed behind him. For the first time since he'd left Lozère, he felt safe.
His headlights carved through the night as he followed the winding road to the main house, which butted up against a tall hillside. The location helped hide the house, but also allowed a greater depth than anyone knew of. Another electronic device opened the long door of the five-car garage bay.
He pulled the SUV inside and parked next to a new metallic-red-and-silver Jaguar XKE and a baby-blue vintage Shelby Cobra. He loved cars. That was one of his weaknesses.
Poker and women were others. Of course, he never bothered to make a list.
Henshaw, his majordomo and a British-trained butler, met him at the door to the house.