Beneath Still Waters

Although, the life of one of her friends didn’t normally hang in the balance, completely dependent upon her success, and that’s where the dismay came in.

The deadline was the problem. Given enough time and materials, Annja knew that she could probably find the airplane. She didn’t have any doubt about it. If it was there, she would find it. But with only seven days to do it—actually six, now—it was going to be nothing less than a Herculean task. They needed help; it was as simple as that.

Good thing she knew where she could get some.

Normally she’d be worried about the price tag that would come with that help, and she would carefully consider the pros and cons of picking up the phone and getting him involved, but she didn’t have the luxury to worry about such things at this point. Time was too precious a resource to waste. Whatever the price, she was willing to pay it in order to rescue Doug.

Paul looked over at her. “I’ve got be honest, Annja. I don’t know how we could search an area of that size even with an army at our disposal. An army that, I should point out, we don’t have.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m working on it.”

With only a trace of reluctance, Annja picked up the phone and called Garin Braden.

“Hello, Annja,” he said, when he answered the call. “To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

“I hate to say it, Garin, but I really need your help.”

Garin laughed. “The mighty Miss Creed needs my help? You must be joking.”

Annja gritted her teeth. “I’m serious, Garin. I really need your help.”

“Well, in that case let me drop everything I am doing and rush to your aid.”

His sarcastic tone made her wince, but she pushed on anyway. “Please, Garin. A friend’s life is at stake and time is of the essence.”

Garin Braden was over five hundred years old. When she thought about it, that sounded crazy even to her, but she couldn’t deny the fact that it was true. Garin had been squire to a French knight named Roux, who in turn had been assigned to watch over Joan of Arc. Roux and his squire had failed in their mission, and when Joan’s sword was broken in the moments before her execution, the lives of the two men had been mysteriously lengthened. Over the next few centuries Roux searched for the fragments of the blade, intending to bring them back together, while Garin fought to keep that from happening, convinced the fragmentation of the blade was the very thing that assured his extended life span.

Annja was aware Garin had since come to realize that his efforts had likely been wasted, as her custodianship of the blade so far had had no ill effect on him. In fact, he seemed to be growing quite fond of her. Annja had diligently resisted his efforts to flirt, despite her attraction to him. The fact that he was the perfect example of tall, dark and handsome, never mind ridiculously rich, constantly battled with her understanding that Garin cared first and foremost about himself. He was determined, ruthless and used to getting what he wanted, no matter what the effort or cost. It made him dangerous in more ways than one.

She knew it was in her best interest to stay as far away from him as she could and yet here she was, reaching out to him for help in her moment of need.

Apparently my heart and my head aren’t seeing eye to eye again, she thought.

Knowing his nature, Annja expected Garin to ask what was in it for him and, frankly, she didn’t have an answer. The last time she had asked for his help he’d insisted on taking her to dinner and she’d had no choice but to agree. She was afraid of what he would require this time around.

To her great surprise, he didn’t do anything of the sort.

“What do you need?” he asked.

Given the nature of some of the expeditions she’d been on in the past, Annja had learned not to talk about them too much over an open telephone line, for you never knew who might be listening in. Instead she told him that she needed to find a certain object within a certain specified time frame and left it at that, knowing he would read between the lines and understand that she was after an artifact of one kind or another.

That was close enough for what she needed until she could see him.

Garin was silent at first and then asked, “Where are you now?”

“The Hotel Planita in Negril, Jamaica.”

“Okay, stay there. I’ll send a chopper for you.”

Garin hung up before she could thank him. He always did like having the last word.

* * *

JUST UNDER THREE hours later, a massive AW101 VVIP AgustaWestland helicopter settled onto the hotel lawn, inviting stares from more than a few observers. Annja didn’t blame them; this was the same helicopter used to transport the President of the United States under the designation Marine One, and just seeing it up close was pretty awe-inspiring. Given that it was one of Garin’s helicopters, Annja had no doubt that the interior would be even more lavish than she could imagine.

She and Paul watched as the door opened and a set of steps unfolded from inside the aircraft. Seconds later a black man with a shaved head and a soul patch on his chin appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a sharply cut suit and dark sunglasses. He scanned the small crowd assembled on the other side of the lawn before his gaze settled on Annja and her companion. He gestured them forward without hesitation.

Annja crossed the lawn and climbed the stairs. “Hello, Griggs,” she said, as she stepped aboard the aircraft.

Matthew Griggs, head of DragonTech Security and Garin Bradin’s right-hand man, nodded to her. “Miss Creed,” he said, with that lilting British Caribbean accent of his. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

The interior of the helicopter resembled that of a private jet more than any helicopter Annja had ever been in, with mahogany fittings, lush leather seats and even thick carpet underfoot to help absorb the sound of the rotor blades.

Griggs turned just as Paul came up the steps. The DragonTech Security man interposed himself between Paul and the interior of the aircraft. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but this is a private flight.”

“It’s all right, Griggs. He’s with me.”

Griggs spoke over his shoulder to Annja without taking his eyes off Paul. “Is Mr. Braden aware of this?”

He wasn’t, but Annja wasn’t about to admit that to Griggs.

“Of course.”

“Very well.”

Once both guests were settled, Griggs said, “Help yourselves to the refreshments. We’ll be in Miami in about three hours.”

With that, he pulled in the stairs, secured the door and returned to the cockpit. Five minutes later they were airborne.

Glancing around the cabin, Paul gave a low whistle. “You said you were going to get us some help, but this is a bit more than I expected. Dare I ask who it belongs to?”

Annja didn’t see any reason not to tell him, especially considering the fact that Paul was likely to be meeting him in a few hours.

“Garin Braden.”

Paul started in surprise. “Garin Braden?”

“Yes.”

“Garin Braden the industrialist?”

Annja would have been more prone to call him Garin Braden the scoundrel, but that was splitting hairs, in her view.

“Yes.”

An uneasy expression crossed Paul’s face.

Seeing it, Annja asked, “What’s wrong?”