Cradle of Solitude (12 page)

She made a counteroffer. “Fifty-one, forty-nine split. I retain control of the expedition and make all decisions regarding whether it goes forward or not. You provide funding and materials, which will be paid back out of my portion of the find if we're successful.”

Garin opened his mouth to say something, but Annja cut him off.

“Without what's up here,” she said, tapping her forehead in the process, “you're dead in the water.”

To her surprise, he grinned. “Done!” he said, and stuck out his hand to shake on it. While doing so, Annja couldn't help but wonder if she'd outnegotiated him or just fallen victim to some trap she hadn't seen coming.

It was not a pleasant feeling.

Garin set the file he'd been examining on the coffee table between them, but didn't offer any comments on its contents. Instead, he asked, “What happened to the note Parker left behind with the puzzle box?”

“They were stolen when the gunmen first attacked the monastery.”

Garin didn't like hearing that. “So we
are
dead in the water until we identify the attackers and retrieve the messages?” he asked.

“I didn't say that. Give me something to write on.” He got up, walked into the next room and returned with a pen and pad of paper in hand. Taking them, Annja
quickly reconstructed both the letter that had accompanied the puzzle box, as well as the rather cryptic instructions the box itself had contained, from memory. When she was finished, she passed them over.

He glanced at the note to Sykes briefly and then turned his attention to the riddle. After studying it for several minutes he said, “Seems easy enough. All we have to do is find where Parker's doppelgänger is buried and we'll have the treasure, right?”

“Wrong. It's never that simple.”

“So enlighten me.”

She waved a hand at the pad in general. “Messages like these were never as straightforward as they seemed. Content was important, yes, but it was often what wasn't being said that was the real key.

“Four paragraphs, four different clues. Most people would do what you just did—jump to the final clue with the idea that if they can solve that, they can solve the puzzle overall. But that's incorrect.”

“So you've said,” Garin replied dryly.

Ignoring him, Annja continued. “Perhaps
incomplete
would be a better word than
incorrect
. The fourth clue will eventually have to be solved so the effort to do so wouldn't be entirely wasted. But if you look at the wording of each paragraph, you can see that they have to be solved in a specific order.”

Pointing at each of the individual paragraphs in turn, she said, “Each clue is dependent on the one before it. You can't find the Lady without the key. You can't find the doppelgänger's resting place without the rifle. You can't find the treasure without the resting place.”

Garin nodded to show he understood.

“In this case, it seems to be even more important than usual, because each clue requires you to bring a
physical object to the next location. Arrive at the final location without them and the treasure will still elude you.”

He glanced at the paper. “So we start at the top, ‘in the cellars of the wine god.'”

“Right. What's the first thing that comes to mind when you hear that phrase—‘wine god'?”

“Bacchus.”

It wasn't the answer Annja was looking for, but it was a correct one nonetheless. Bacchus had been the Roman god of wine and the madness or euphoria it produced. It was from his name the English word
bacchanal
originated.

Should have seen that one coming, she thought. Garin loves wine, women and luxury, so naturally he'd think along those lines.

“Right part of the world but wrong culture,” she told him.

“Well, Dionysius, then,” came his swift reply.

“Correct. So how does someone named Dionysius fit into the story of the missing Confederate treasury?”

Garin scowled. “I don't have a clue,” he said. “You're the one with all the answers. Why don't you tell me?”

Now there was the Garin she was used to. Impatient and not one to take kindly to remarks on his intelligence, oblique as they might be.

“When trying to find information on Captain Parker, I came across several sites that listed some of the common theories regarding the location of the treasure,” Annja said. “As you might guess, the Union Army was particularly interested in locating it. Seize the treasury and you basically eliminate the South's means of waging war, because no money meant no supply and no pay for the soldiers.

“It was generally thought at the time that Parker and his men had hidden the treasure on the grounds of a plantation owned by Dionysius Chennault, an elderly planter and Methodist minister.”

Garin grinned. “So the cellars of the wine god are most likely…”

“…the wine cellars of the Chennault plantation,” Annja finished for him.

Garin got up from the couch, suddenly energized. “Excellent! We'll start there first thing in the morning.”

“You might want to leave a little more time than that,” Annja said. “After all, the plantation is in Washington, Georgia.”

After Annja had gone to sleep, Garin sat in the living room alone, considering the turn of events that had brought him to this point.

He was not a man who believed in coincidence, not after all he'd seen in the centuries since that fateful day under the hot sun when an innocent woman had been consumed in the flames before him. Fate's bloody fingerprints were all over his memories of that event and many others since. The fact that he was still alive and well, hundreds of years after his body should have returned to the dust from whence it came, reminded him that there were forces at work in the world that he just did not understand. He'd come to believe that while some things were just the luck of the draw, others happened for a reason.

He thought about the events of that afternoon. He'd been monitoring Annja's movements for some time; it was just common sense for him to keep track of her, given that the sword she carried was in some way responsible for his continued existence. He'd never
planned to be in a position to help her if she ran into difficulty; in fact, if he'd had more time to think about it, he probably wouldn't have helped. She was constantly courting danger and he was usually content to sit back and watch. But when the word of the current situation had reached him, something in his gut had prompted him to take action.

The results, as they were, only confirmed his sense that the Fates had reached down once more and interfered in his life.

He glanced at the file he held in his lap. His pretense of reviewing the material in front of Annja was just that, a sham. He was intimately aware of the contents of most of his files, for the same mysticism that had kept him alive for so many years had also blessed him with a remarkable memory, and this particular file had been reviewed and added to multiple times over the years. The Friends of the South was simply a front for a small but ruthless organization, and several times during the past two centuries Garin had found his interests and goals in direct opposition to theirs. He'd worked hard, then and now, to be certain that they did not gain the upper hand with regard to such situations.

He hadn't thought about them much in the past several months, other matters having occupied his attention, and then Annja showed up out of nowhere, in need of assistance and running from the machinations of his old enemy. Coincidence be damned; that was the hand of fate if ever it had shown itself.

Garin got up and fixed himself a glass of brandy, swirling the liquid in the glass as he considered the opportunities available to him.

As he'd told her earlier, he fully intended to help Annja recover the long-lost Confederate treasure. She
thought he had a strictly monetary interest in the adventure, but that was the least of his concerns. He'd accumulated a vast treasure of his own over the years. After all, it wasn't all that difficult when you had literally centuries in which to do it. Even if they found the treasure intact, it would only be worth a tiny fraction of what he already controlled. The value was certainly not enough to even be worth the effort, really. Sure, there might be some value in offering it intact on the black market to the private collector's circuit, but the work involved in doing so made it hardly worth the effort.

No, the true value in helping Annja rested in other areas. First, she'd feel some sense of obligation to him as a result, thanks to her do-gooder general nature. That alone made it worthwhile; he could manipulate that at a later time to his advantage, he was sure. Having her beholden to him was a strategic opportunity he just couldn't pass up.

Never mind it would drive her nuts thinking about it and that would prove to be a source of amusement for him in the future, he had no doubt. Second, beating the Order at its own game was an opportunity that didn't come around all that often. While Garin was loath to admit it, the Order had gotten the better of him the last time they had clashed and he fully intended to balance the books by making things as difficult as possible for them now. The current head of the Order was not the crafty adversary his ancestor had been, preferring blunt-force tactics over the chesslike precision that had been exhibited in the past, and Garin had no doubt that he was by far the intellectual superior.

Blaine Michaels stared at the one-hundred-and-forty-year-old missive and, after two hours of close scrutiny, had to finally admit that he didn't have a clue as to what it was trying to tell him. The legal pad beside him was full of the notes that he'd taken as he'd tried to work through the puzzle, but he was enough of a realist to know that it all amounted to nothing useful. He just wasn't wired to think this way.

He understood that William Parker's instructions were designed to lead the recipient to the location of the missing gold, with each stanza being a separate clue, but that was as far as he could go. He had no idea who the wine god was, never mind the Peacock. And how was a key supposed to lead you anywhere? It just didn't make any sense.

The day had not gone as well as he had hoped. After spending much of the morning reviewing the material his team had stolen from Professor Reinhardt's office at the museum, he'd correctly deduced that the only real lead was the scrap of paper naming the monastery. He'd
expected to find much more and was frustrated that he didn't understand how or why the monastery fit into the situation. Things had continued their downward slide when his team ran into that damned Creed woman at the monastery a few hours later. What was supposed to be a simple smash and grab like the one at the museum had turned into a bloodbath. She'd actually attacked several of his men with a sword of all things! His men had managed to corner her on the rooftop, but she'd gotten away by jumping off the edge into the river below.

He'd thought that was the last of her, but then he'd received word that she'd placed a call to emergency services, summoning the police to the scene of the crime, and he'd been forced to order a group of his men back to the monastery in an effort to take her out for good.

Somehow, she'd managed to kill them and escape a second time.

That damned woman has more lives than anyone deserves, he thought.

Just what and how much she actually knew was still unclear, but that no longer mattered. She'd put herself squarely in his sights by interfering in his business. No one did that and got away with it. He was going to have to take care of her—and the sooner, the better.

Right now, though, he needed to make some decisions regarding the missive on the desk in front of him. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew he was going to find someone to decipher Parker's directions to the gold.

The question was who?

Ironically, he realized, the best option was probably Annja Creed herself. After all, she'd been the one to unearth the connection to the Cradle of Solitude and, if his guess was correct, she had convinced the abbot
to hand over the puzzle box. Clearly she knew what she was doing. But the fact that she'd already taken up arms against him precluded him from making use of her services. It would be seen as a weakness in the eyes of his colleagues and he had no intention of giving them any ammunition that might enable them to mount a campaign to remove him from his position as leader of the Order.

No, Creed was unacceptable.

He'd have to go with his second choice, which, in the long run, was probably better than constantly sparring against that annoying woman, anyway.

Michaels reached for the phone, intending to order one of his crews out to do the job, but then he hesitated. Given the days events, he could foresee it ending in disaster and he couldn't afford another one.

He thought about one of his father's favorite sayings. “When you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself,” he muttered.

It seemed that now might be a good time to listen to dear old Dad.

He rose from his desk and moved into his bedroom, where he quickly changed into dark jeans and a black sweater, attire more suited for the evening's activities. He pulled on a pair of dark rubber-soled boots.

When he was satisfied with his appearance, he picked up the phone and called downstairs to the head of his security team. He gave instructions that two of the three men who had handled the museum job the night before were to meet him out front in five minutes. As they were simply added muscle to be certain the job went off the way he intended it to, he didn't care which two were sent, which simplified things.

Taking the elevator to the lower level, Michaels re
trieved an SUV from the garage and drove around front and picked up the two men. They were dressed in dark clothing and the telltale bulge of their shoulder holsters could be seen beneath their jackets. That reminded him to arm himself, as well, so he removed the automatic pistol from the glove box and laid it on the passenger seat beside him, where it would be readily accessible when he got out of the vehicle.

The drive was passed in silence; the two men in the backseat knew better than to strike up a conversation with the boss unless addressed directly. They cruised twice through the neighborhood, coming from different directions each time, getting a feel for the territory.

Their target lived in a community of freestanding town houses, each with its own small yard. Most of them had small fences running across the front of the lot, but they were so low that they could be easily stepped over and wouldn't cause a problem when it came time to make their move.

On their third pass they found a parking spot a few doors down from their target and pulled in to wait.

The street was quiet.

It was still early, so lights burned in several of the nearby town houses, but Michaels wasn't concerned. In this day and age, most people knew to keep their heads down and to stay out of business that didn't concern them.

He gave it fifteen minutes, noting the traffic patterns and watching the parked vehicles nearby to be certain they didn't contain witnesses. When he felt it was safe to make a move, he turned to the others.

“Our target lives in the town house on the end. If he's not home, we'll settle in and wait. We need him intact, so no violence unless I give the word. Questions?”

Both men shook their heads.

“All right, then, let's go.”

The interior light had already been dismantled, so there was no telltale glow to call attention to them as they slipped out of the vehicle. They jumped over the low fence that fronted the property, and immediately disappeared around the back of the building.

Michaels quickly located the back door of their target's town house and gestured toward it. One of his companions stepped up and punched out the glass next to the doorknob, then reached in and unlocked the door.

Ten seconds later the three men were moving through the darkened house, searching for their quarry.

They found him in the study upstairs, watching old
Star Trek
reruns on the television. He started when he saw them enter the room, then recovered his wits enough to reach for the cell phone lying on the table nearby, but the gun Blaine pulled out and pointed at his head quickly disabused him of the notion.

“If you don't mind, Professor, we'd like the pleasure of your company for a few days.”

Reinhardt had no choice but to agree.