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.
20
“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
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.
20
“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
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