Part 5 (1/2)

THE CENTER OF PARIS itself is tiny, and can be walked around in a day, despite the vast and expanding dreary suburbs surrounding it. Walking to her hotel at a more leisurely pace, Annja breathed deeply into her abdomen in a basic meditation technique to soothe her heart rate and metabolism back to normal and bring her thoughts under control.

She lacked the luxury of blanking her mind for any protracted stretch, though. Nor was she sure she wanted to. She had just killed three men. No matter how justified that was, she had vowed she would never take that lightly. She had also seen two more men killed with ruthless efficiency.

Key to her mind was that she had b.u.mped into notorious pot hunter and media personality Easy Ngwenya three times in her life in person. And twice had come in the past thirty-six hours. In that latter span six people had died in close proximity to the two of them. One, Sir Sidney, had been unquestionably and brutally murdered. The others appeared to have been making good-faith efforts to kill, in one case Annja, in the other Ngwenya.

What's going on?

One thing she felt confident dismissing out of hand-those had not been standard street muggings. Annja's had been a hired a.s.sa.s.sination from the get-go. But Easy's?

The fibers of Annja's being seemed to glow like lamp filaments with the desire to blame all this on the errant heiress. Could what Annja had witnessed at ground level below Montmartre have been a falling out among thieves or murderers?

Walking through the lights and the chattering camera-flas.h.i.+ng throngs of the Champs-Elysees as the traffic hissed and beeped beside her in an endless stream, Annja had little doubt all five would-be a.s.sa.s.sins had been cut from the same cloth-hard men but not street-criminal hard. Pro hard. Dressed cheaply but in newish clothes. Flas.h.i.+ng knives but carrying guns. Firearms weren't rare in European crime, and were becoming less rare all the time as social order unraveled. But they were still fairly pricy items for Parisian street toughs.

No. These were hired killers. Something in the way her own attackers moved suggested to Annja they had been ex-military. Such men didn't do such work for cheap.

Well, Easy's rich, isn't she? Annja thought.

It all came back to the Golden Elephant. Was it possible they were after the same thing? When Annja had barely learned of the thing's existence-had yet to verify it really did exist?

”Put it this way,” she said out loud, attracting curious glances from a set of j.a.panese tourists. ”Is it possible we're not?”

She didn't see how. What else could explain all the coincidences, not to mention the sudden attacks?

Wait, a dissenting part of her mind insisted. There're plenty of reasons for Easy to be here. She was a jetsetter, a noted cosmopolitan, although the paparazzi were known to give her wary distance-possibly because of those twin Sphinxes. She had gone to school at Oxford and the Sorbonne, as well as Harvard.

”Right,” Annja said. ”So she just happens to visit two of her almas mater just as I happen to be in the same towns and a bunch of people end up dead. Sorry.” The last was addressed to a young couple with a pair of small kids clinging to their legs, staring at her in mingled horror and fascination.

”I'm a thriller writer,” she said, waving a hand at them. ”Plotting out loud. Don't mind me.” She showed them a smile that probably looked as ghastly to them as it felt to her and walked on up the street, trying to figure out what a distracted novelist would walk like.

Now you're scaring the tourists, she told herself in annoyance. If anything's going to bring down the heat on you it's that.

She sighed. I'm really trying not to leap to conclusions based on prejudice here, she thought. Prejudice as to her rival's primary occupation-Ngwenya's nationality and skin color meant nothing to Annja.

But I keep coming back to the strong suspicion Easy Ngwenya's a conscienceless little multiple murderess.

IN HER HOTEL ROOM, a modest three-star establishment not far from the Tuileries with only moderately ruinous rates, Annja sat back and ran her hands across her face and back through her heavy chestnut hair, which hung over the shoulders of her black Chasing History's Monsters Chasing History's Monsters crew T-s.h.i.+rt. Her notebook computer lay open before her crossed legs, propped on a pillow so the cooling-fan exhaust wouldn't scorch her bare thighs. crew T-s.h.i.+rt. Her notebook computer lay open before her crossed legs, propped on a pillow so the cooling-fan exhaust wouldn't scorch her bare thighs.

She had been doing research not on the Golden Elephant-a quick check of her e-mail accounts showed no helpful responses to a number of guarded queries she'd fired off to contacts across the world-but on the Elephant Calf. Princess Easy herself.

She was a concert pianist, world-cla.s.s gymnast, martial artist, model, scholar. Pot hunter. There was a quote from an interview with the German magazine Spiegel Spiegel that jumped out at Annja: ”To be sure I'm rich and mult.i.talented. But that has nothing to do with me. Those are circ.u.mstances. I prefer to focus on my achievements.” that jumped out at Annja: ”To be sure I'm rich and mult.i.talented. But that has nothing to do with me. Those are circ.u.mstances. I prefer to focus on my achievements.”

She rocked back on the bed, frowning. She badly wanted to toss that off as spoiled-little-rich-girl arrogance. Arrogant it was. But at base it made sense.

And Elephant Calf Ngwenya had achievements.

She had even been a celebrity as a little girl. National Geographic National Geographic had done a spread on the official celebration of the birth of a royal first child of one of Africa's most powerful tribes, and again on the party her father had thrown for her fifth birthday. At the latter Easy foreshadowed things to come, wowing the crowd playing Mozart's ”Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” on a concert grand piano, then ruining her pink party dress and shoes in a fistfight with the eight-year-old son of the amba.s.sador from Mali. She won. had done a spread on the official celebration of the birth of a royal first child of one of Africa's most powerful tribes, and again on the party her father had thrown for her fifth birthday. At the latter Easy foreshadowed things to come, wowing the crowd playing Mozart's ”Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” on a concert grand piano, then ruining her pink party dress and shoes in a fistfight with the eight-year-old son of the amba.s.sador from Mali. She won.

Her father was technically the chief of a tribe of South Africa's Zulu nation and an outspoken critic of the ANC-dominated government. He accused them of repression and corruption, of leading the populous, resource-rich country down the same nightmare path to ruin as neighboring Zimbabwe. Repeated attempts had been made on his life. In one the then-fifteen-year-old Princess Elephant Calf had killed two would-be a.s.sa.s.sins with two shots from a colossal colonial-era double-barreled elephant gun. What got widely overlooked in the subsequent furor in the world media was the fact that the recoil from the first shot of the monstrous gun had broken Easy's shooting hand. Yet she had coolly lined up a second shot and blown a hole through the midriff of an adult male wielding a Kalashnikov.

Annja had to nod her head to that. Spoiled little rich girl she might be. But she was the real deal.

Less than a year later Elephant Calf left home for good, propelled halfway around the world by some kind of parental explosion. She had gone on to earn multiple degrees from some of the world's toughest and most esteemed inst.i.tutions.

She'd carved out a reputation as an adventuress. She was outspoken in defending what academic archaeologists dismissed as pot hunting.

”The majority of artifacts recovered go straightaway into the bas.e.m.e.nts of universities and government-run museums,” she had told an interviewer for a rival cable network of Annja's employer. ”Where they lie gathering dust. If they're not mislabeled or lost due to incompetence. Or thrown out as a result of budget cuts. Or stolen by government officials. All of which happens far more than the academic world lets on.”

Annja shook her head. What Easy said was true enough, Annja knew. But it was only part of the story. She failed to mention sites plundered by profit-driven pot hunters, priceless context destroyed and lost forever; provenance muddied and, of course, indigenous peoples robbed of the priceless heritage of their ancestors.

She's one of the bad guys, she told herself determinedly. All her clever rationalizations don't change that. Even if she believes them.

And I'm getting pretty convinced she's behind all these killings-even if they did blow up in her pretty little face.

9.

Annja ran her eyes back up the page of the Italian antiquities journal she was reading. It dated from the spring of 1936, during the heart of Italy's bungled incursion into Ethiopia. Since it was an official academic publication from Axis days, it promoted Germanophilia. Scholarly content had apparently been encouraged to bring in German contributions even when peripheral. Annja's eye had skated disinterestedly over an article on discoveries by the French in the Cambodian sector of their Indochinese empire in which the author felt compelled to mention the infrequent German efforts in the region.

Suddenly her awareness snapped to the phrase, ”German Southeast Asian expedition of 1913-14.”

Her gaze whipped back up the column of the time-yellowed page. She was surprised the old journal hadn't been transcribed to digitized form and the original stored away; perhaps the French library system was showing residual pique at the fascists. And there it was-the phrase that had belatedly snagged in her attention, which continued, ”led by Professor Rudolf von Hoiningen of the University of Berlin.”

She pumped her fist in the air beside her. ”Yes!” And smiled happily at the glares that earned her.

”EXCUSE ME,” A VOICE said. ”Aren't you Annja Creed?”

The voice was young, masculine, smoothly baritone without being oily and spiced with a Latin accent. Annja couldn't place it. That was unusual.

She looked up from her croissant. She blinked. The only thing she could think of were American beer ads, where drinking the advertised brand seemed to guarantee the drinker the company of magazine-cover models.

If women got their own beer commercials, the man standing at her little table in the library's cafeteria would be their reward for imbibing.

He was tall, lean, immaculately dressed without being overdressed. His hair was dark and slicked back on his fine, aristocratic head. His cream-colored jacket was thrown casually over one shoulder. His eyes were dark and long lashed, his features fine yet thoroughly masculine.

”I beg your pardon,” she said.

”I'm a fan of yours. Both your yeoman service on Chasing History's Monsters Chasing History's Monsters and your more serious work,” the man said. and your more serious work,” the man said.