Gabriel's Horn

Garin held up his hands. “It wasn’t me. I know what he would say.”

“He said it. I don’t suppose you have a phone number where he can be reached?”

“No. Where is he?”

“Monte Carlo.”

Garin stroked his chin. “I know where he might be. You and I could—”

“No,” Annja said. Dinner had been far too comfortable for her liking. She didn’t want to spend any more time in Garin’s company because doing so was all too easy. “Whatever’s going on, it’s going to have to go on without me.”

“Where’s that driving curiosity that I’ve noticed is so much a part of you?” Garin taunted her.

“I’m going to turn it in other directions,” Annja said, but she knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

Roux and Garin were never forthcoming about information they had that she lacked. Thankfully, there were institutions all around the world that had more knowledge than both of those men combined.

In fact, when it came to pure history and the science of archaeology, she knew more than they did. Just not on a personal basis.

A few moments later, Mama served a cherry torte topped with homemade ice cream. For a time Annja forgot about the Nephilim.

“DID YOU HAVE a nice time?” Garin asked.

With the heavy meal sitting in her stomach, topped by the rich dessert, Annja felt sleepy. She stared through the limousine’s tinted windows at the streets.

“I did,” Annja said.

“I thought perhaps we might go dancing,” Garin told her. “Unless you’re too tired.”

Annja considered that. She’d worked late on the movie set each night for the past few days and hadn’t really seen much of the local scene. Several of the movie crew had mentioned the clubs throughout the downtown area.

Dancing sounded fun, but it sounded almost too attractive.

Noticing her reticence, Garin said, “I know you have an eclectic taste in music.”

That was true. Annja liked what she liked, and the gamut ran from jazz to R&B to African tribal songs.

“I know a great club,” Garin said. “It’s not far from your hotel.”

Annja wavered. It had been a long time since she’d last been dancing. She wanted to relax and let go. The offer was extremely tempting.

“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” she said.

“So you’ll miss out on some sleep. You’ve done that before.” Garin smiled. “Come on, Annja. A night of revelry and wild abandon. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

It did. It sounded like exactly what Annja needed.

“I’m going,” Garin said, “whether you go with me or not.”

Was that intended as a challenge or a threat? Annja wondered.

“I’m just saying,” Garin continued, “that you’re free to choose. My plans are already set. But I’d love the company and I think you’d have a good time.”

So he isn’t pressuring you, Annja thought. Before she could make up her mind, two cars roared into motion along the street.

Garin saw them, too. He yelled a warning to the driver as he pulled out a pistol and his cell phone.

The lead car slammed into the limousine hard enough to knock it from the street and across the sidewalk. The luxury car struck the corner of the building on the other side of a narrow alley, and the sound from the impact echoed inside the vehicle.

“Get someone up here!” Garin barked in German over the cell phone.

The seat belts had snapped tight and kept Annja from being thrown from her seat. Liquid fire traced her chest as the straps jerked the breath from her lungs.

Men boiled from the car that had rammed the front of the limousine. All of them carried assault weapons and pistols. They darted through the glaring headlights as they raced to surround the limousine. Annja saw at least two green-scimitar tattoos.

“Apparently your friends haven’t given up,” Garin growled.

“They’re not my friends,” Annja shot back. But she couldn’t imagine why Saladin’s men—if they were Saladin’s men—were so driven to get to her. More than that, though, she didn’t know how she and Garin were going to escape.

10

Quiet and composed, contemplative almost, Roux sat at the Texas Hold ’Em table in one of the casino’s private rooms. He smoked a big cigar and watched the other players.

Six men and one woman still remained at the table. Only four of them, including Roux, were still in the hand currently being played out. The other three had thrown their hands onto the felt tabletop in disgust and studied their dwindling pile of chips. The game was all about skill and luck and husbanding the resources on the table.

Roux studied his own stacks of chips. They looked positively anemic.

The dealer politely called Roux’s name. At least, the man called the name Roux was currently employing. The identity was a conceit that could conceivably backfire on him. He tried his best to live in the world without a paper trail. However, in order to qualify for the Texas Hold ’Em tournaments and other games he liked to play, he had to provide an identity that had some depth and texture. That was inherently dangerous.

“In or out, sir?” the dealer asked quietly. He was an older man with a jowly face and short-clipped hair. All night he’d acted as a seasoned veteran with cards.

Roux seethed inside. The cards had been so good to him at first, and now they ran cold. He didn’t know if he could trust what he was seeing, and he hated to take long shots. It was absurd and intolerable.

He kept his frustrations locked in, though. Even so much as a deep breath could have given away crucial knowledge about him to the other players. Those behaviors were called “tells” in the trade, and they were dangerously destructive to a player.

Declan Connelly was an Irish launderer worth millions. He sat solid and imposing on the other side of the table. As if he didn’t have a care in the world, he sipped his whiskey straight up. He could drink for hours—and had been—and still play as though he were stone-cold sober.

He’d also apparently brought the luck of the Irish with him. He’d hit on combinations during the night that had at first appeared all but impossible.

“C’mon, old man,” Connelly taunted. “You’re squeezing onto them chips like they’re the last ones you’re likely to see in your lifetime.” He snickered. “’Course as old as you are, I guess maybe that could be the case.”

Roux ignored the insult and concentrated on his cards. He wasn’t going to let himself be baited.

Two queens—hearts and diamonds—had shown up in the flop, the spill of the initial three community cards across the felt. Roux felt certain Connelly was holding another queen in his two down cards because the river was widely split unless someone was holding a queen. There was nothing really to build on in the river and more than likely winning the hand would depend on pairing up cards. The third card was the jack of spades.

“We really need to get on with this,” Ling Po said. “I’d like to get in another hand before I go for the massage I’ve scheduled.” She was British and from old money. Besides her money, she also possessed her youth. She was in her twenties and was a beautiful porcelain doll of a woman.

“Now, honey,” the big Texas wildcatter, Roy Hudder, drawled, “you ought not rush a man at two things in this life. One’s romance and the other’s poker. Give the old-timer a little breathin’ room.”