Authors: Alex Archer
Now
Concerned that Roux wasn’t taking things seriously enough, Annja woke the next day determined to get some answers. She knew there was more going on than met the eye. If Roux didn’t want to talk, there was still one other person who might be able to tell her what she needed to know.
Garin Braden.
She had his cell number—or one of them, at least—and used it to call him that morning.
“I need to see you,” she told him when he answered the phone.
He laughed, a low, throaty chuckle. “Just how much of me would you like to see?”
He sounded like the cat who’d just eaten the canary, positively delighted that she’d chosen to call him and propose such an unusual request. She, however, didn’t have time for his antics.
“Cut the crap, Garin. Roux is in trouble and I need to talk to you about it immediately.”
As she snarled at him she did her best to ignore the mental image his response had called to mind. Seeing more of Garin wouldn’t be such a bad thing, at least in an aesthetic sense….
But Garin apparently didn’t hear her reprimand or he simply chose to ignore it. He was still laughing when he said, “I’m free for lunch, if that will suffice.”
It was good enough. They agreed on a place and time, with Garin suggesting he send a car and Annja firmly stating she’d get there on her own.
She had the concierge arrange a cab and she settled into the back, prepared to enjoy the ride. Paris had always been one of her favorite cities and it was particularly lovely on a spring day like this one. The streets and open-air cafes were full of Parisians enjoying the day, and the ride, short though it was, cheered her in a way that she hadn’t expected.
As it turned out, the restaurant Garin had chosen was only a few blocks from her hotel. It was also one of the most popular luncheon spots in all of Paris, judging by the line that waited at the door to get inside. She began scanning the crowd for a sign of her host even as she exited the cab.
“Ms. Creed?”
She turned to find a good-looking, curly haired man dressed in a sharply pressed gray suit standing nearby.
“I am Michel, the maître de’” he said. “If you would be so kind…” He indicated the entrance with the sweep of his hand.
Ignoring the daggerlike looks she received from those waiting in line, particularly the women, Annja walked to the front doors, stepped inside and then allowed Michel to take the lead.
“This way, please,” he said, and then headed across the dining room floor. He led her to a small, private dining room in the far corner of the building, opened the door and ushered her inside.
Garin was waiting for her at the room’s only table. He stood, a smile on his face, as she entered and took her seat, then he sat across from her.
“It’s good to see you again, Annja,” he said, after Michel left the room.
“The dining room would have been perfectly fine,” she replied, uncomfortable with the situation. This wasn’t a date, for heaven’s sake.
“Nonsense,” Garin replied. “You wanted to talk about Roux and this way we are free to do so without fear of being overheard.” He poured her a glass of wine from the bottle on the table, the red liquid a sharp contrast against the perfectly pressed white linen tablecloth.
“Now what’s on your mind?” he asked.
Annja looked at him over the top of her glass and spoke without preamble. “I’m worried about him.”
“Oh?” he said, leaning back and enjoying a sip from his own glass.
She told him everything she had told Roux the night before, from the discovery of the origami figure to her belief that the intruder at Roux’s estate had been none other than the Dragon himself. She brought it back to Roux, saying, “He’s acting like the attack on his estate was an afternoon lark, rather than a possible attempt on his life. He refuses to involve the authorities and ignores me when I try to discuss it with him.”
Garin laughed. “I’m surprised at you, Annja. The man’s home has been invaded, and with it his pride, and you act as if he should be happy to chat about it. With a woman, no less! That is not the Roux we know and love.”
He had a point; she knew that. But given the possibility that the intruder actually was the Dragon, Roux should’ve been able to set aside such things in favor of protecting himself and, by extension, those around him.
She said as much to Garin. “For an old soldier, he’s not acting with much tactical sense. If the intruder
was
the Dragon, Roux could be putting himself, and those around him, in serious danger,” she concluded.
Garin waved one hand in dismissal. “One does not need tactics to deal with a pack of common thieves,” he said, but Annja saw it for what it was—a poor attempt to distract her from the truth.
She’d seen him stiffen when she’d mentioned the Dragon, just as Roux had. They knew something, something she did not. This time she wouldn’t be distracted so easily.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.
He tried to brush it off with a laugh. “I don’t have any idea what you are talking about, Annja.”
She wasn’t buying it. She had a sudden suspicion that Garin knew far more about what was going on than he wanted to admit. “That’s a load of bull and you know it. Spit it out, Garin, or so help me, I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” he teased, still smiling. “Skewer me in a public restaurant?”
Without a second thought she called forth her sword and poked him with it beneath the table. “Damn right, I will. Now talk!”
He glanced down to where the tip of the blade rested against his thigh and shook his head at what she assumed was her audacity. She didn’t care, as long as he told her what she needed to know.
“All right, all right. Calm down and put away the pig-sticker. No need to get unfriendly.”
With a quick thought the sword was back in the otherwhere, where it would be ready when she needed it again. “What do you know about the Dragon?” she asked again.
Garin leaned back, staring at the wineglass in his hand, as if the answers they sought might be found in the depths of that ruby liquid.
“What do I know?” he repeated. “Nothing. I
know
nothing. But I do have certain suspicions that I am willing to share.”
The waiter came in at that moment and their talk was put on hold as Garin ordered for both of them. Normally this would have annoyed Annja to no end—she could order her own lunch, thank you very much—but she cared more about what Garin had to say than eating at this point and so she let it go.
When the waiter left the room, Garin continued. “A man in my position, a man with business interests as diverse as my own, is always conscious of security to one degree or another. Political leaders are not the only ones who get assassinated, you know.”
Annja rolled her eyes.
“Given that, I employ people to keep me abreast of developments in certain areas. And it was through them that I first learned of the Dragon.
“No one seems to know who he was or where he came from. He just announced his availability for hire by assassinating the French Deputy Minister of Defense one evening in Paris, killing the man so quietly that his sleeping wife never even stirred in her sleep. The Dragon departed as silently as he had arrived, leaving the wife to wake up next to her dead husband several hours too late to save him.
“From that point, he seemed to be everywhere at once. The next decade was like the rest of us had stumbled onto his personal playing field. Diplomats. Ambassadors. Bankers and lawyers. Powerful people create powerful enemies and there is always someone willing to pay an exorbitant sum to keep others down. The Dragon didn’t care about their political affiliations or issues. He killed them all—every race, color, creed and political party—provided those hiring him could pay his price.”
Annja frowned. “You seem to know a lot about him,” she said.
He shrugged, unconcerned with her suspicions. “No more than anyone else in my position. For all I knew I could have been next on his list, as my unflinching approach to business has earned me more than a few enemies along the way.”
Unflinching, Annja thought, try bloodthirsty. And the idea that you’ve generated a “few” enemies has to be the understatement of the century.
“What made the Dragon so unusual was that he always killed his targets by hand, usually with a Japanese
katana,
and if the sword wasn’t strange enough he would also leave behind a token of his presence at every murder scene.”
“Let me guess,” Annja said. “An origami dragon.”
“Always said you were as intelligent as you are beautiful, Annja.”
She ignored his comment and took a moment to think over what he’d just told her. Something didn’t make sense. Why would an assassin renowned for killing with a sword suddenly decide to use explosives? “So what happened in 2003?”
Garin grinned. “I see I’m not the only one who knows a little something about the Dragon.”
Ignoring her scowl, he went on. “I’ve heard a hundred different theories over the years as to what happened that day and I don’t agree with any of them. Killing is an art form, particularly for a man like we’re talking about. For him to resort to a suitcase full of plastic explosives when every single one of his victims before that date were killed by his own hand is simply ludicrous.
“What happened in 2003 is that the Dragon, the real Dragon, had nothing to do with the attempted assassination of the British prime minister. It was someone else.”
The waiter came in with their meals at that point, giving Annja some time to digest what Garin had said. She barely noticed what she was eating as the implications of what he had just told her poured through her mind.
“You think the Dragon is still alive,” she said after a few minutes.
Again the shrug. “For the past year or so there have been rumors that the Dragon has returned. Nothing more solid than that, understand, just rumors. Given what you found at Roux’s, however, I’d say the possibility just grew a little more distinct.”
“Why would the Dragon be after Roux?”
“Who said he was?” Garin shot back, and that brought Annja up short.
“You think the Dragon is after you?” she asked.
“No.”
If not Roux, or Garin, then who?
“No,” she said flatly when she realized what he was suggesting.
He looked at her with a strange gleam in his eye. “Not Roux. Not me, though I must admit to being a bit concerned over that last one for a little while. No, I don’t think the Dragon is after either of us. I think he is after you.” He leaned forward, holding her gaze in his own. “And after what I’ve heard recently about the sword the Dragon always carries, I think I know why.”
Her frown deepened, her lunch all but forgotten. “You
are
going to tell me, right?”
He paused, gathering his thoughts, and Annja had the distinct impression that he was trying to figure out just what to tell her and what to keep close to the chest.
After a moment, he continued. “Everything has an opposite, a dark twin on the cosmic scale of balance, if you will. The world itself is built on duality. How could we recognize white without black? Laughter without sorrow? Goodness without evil?”
He looked at her, as if to gauge whether she was following the argument, and she nodded to show that she was.
“The sword that you now carry is a symbol of truth, of justice, of all that is good in the world. It emulates the moral and emotional qualities of the one who bore it into battle all those years ago. And because you represent those things, as well, the chain continues, like an heirloom passed down through the generations.
“You, me, Roux—we are all bound to that sword in one way or another. For Roux and me, our association with it, and with its original bearer, has resulted in a lifespan measured in centuries rather than decades. In your case, the sword has given you increased agility, speed, strength—even your senses are better than they once were.”
There was little there for her to argue with. It was true; the sword had certainly changed her in ways that she hadn’t thought possible. Knowing that Garin was aware of the changes as well, made her a little uneasy, but she buried the thought as he went on with his explanation.
“You know better than anyone else that the sword comes with a certain set of responsibilities. Defend the weak. Protect the innocent. Stand as a barrier against the evil in the world around you, just as its original bearer strove to do so many years ago.”
He was right again. Her life had become far more complicated since taking possession of the sword. Where she might have turned away from a difficult situation in the past, maybe even told herself that it wasn’t any of her business, now she practically leaped into the fray whenever the opportunity presented itself.
Garin continued. “So it stands to reason that if all things have an opposite, a yin to the yang, then there must be another weapon out there somewhere that represents the side of darkness as much as your weapon stands for the cause of light.”
Biting back her unease, she forced herself to follow his line of thought.
“You’re saying the Dragon has such a sword.”
Her companion shook his head. “No. I’m saying that there are rumors that the Dragon, if he is still alive, has such a weapon. I don’t know for sure.”
Annja thought back to the swordsman she had faced in the display room and the way his sword had suddenly seemed to appear in his hands, a sword she would have sworn he hadn’t had moments before.
Of how it mirrored the way she handled her own so perfectly.
“But you believe it, don’t you?” she pressed.
Garin thought about it for a moment, and then nodded at her. “Yes,” he said, “I do.”
His admission sent Annja’s pulse skyrocketing.
“Why?”
“For the past year or two I have been hearing rumors about a sword, one that is supposed to have considerable power, being carried by a man available for hire. Not just any man, but one with an impressive résumé, full of what has euphemistically been called ‘wetwork.’ At first I thought that the rumors were about you and the weapon you carry, that those who passed it along simply couldn’t imagine that it was a woman in such a role, but it only took a little bit of investigation to learn that the sword in question was not a broadsword, like your own, but a Japanese
katana.