Alex Archer - The Matador's Crown

“There are likely many operations in town. This is a seaport.”

“True. I’ve got to call Jonathan Crockett. Or rather, I think I’m going to head out there after we’ve eaten.”

“You’ve more work at the museum. You think you have time to do that?”

Annja tilted her head at the man. “Professor, I’m surprised. This reeks of everything I thought you abhorred. I thought the museum took a hard stance against acquiring items without provenance?”

“Damn it,” he said softly. Clasping the mug, he stared out the window at passing tourists. After a few moments, he swung a look at her. “Annja, forgive me. I’m being absolutely rude. You must be in a state to have found a body. Are you okay?”

“Sure. Nothing I haven’t—” She cleared her throat and took a long swig of the cool lemon water. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen things,” he said. “But as archaeologists we usually find the bodies long after death, and that involves little blood or gore.” He reached across the table and laid a hand over hers. “If you need to talk, I can take the rest of the afternoon off.”

She appreciated his kindness. His reputation as being a hardnose had never been apparent to her. “Thank you, James. But I really am fine. And I am going to drive out to Crockett’s site, so I won’t be at the museum this afternoon. Is it all right if I stop in tomorrow to finish my work with the coins?”

“Of course.” He rubbed a hand along his thigh, the wounded leg, she assumed. He’d mentioned he felt constant pain, yet was able to bypass painkillers by using visual relaxation. “Yes, you’re right. Spain’s cultural heritage is not a renewable resource. If illicit trade is going on in the city, it’s our responsibility to put a stop to it. Now that I think on it...perhaps you’ll want to take a closer look at Jonathan Crockett. He’s a retired college professor who can’t find funding for a big-time dig so he’s taken what he can to keep his fingers in the dirt. A man like that...you never know what he’d do for cash.”

Annja didn’t know Crockett well, but the few days she had worked alongside him, she hadn’t gotten the murderer vibe from him. Or the I-will-sell-potsherds-for-cash vibe, either. But she wouldn’t assume anything right now.

“You worked with him?”

“It’s been over a decade, but we headed a dig together in Egypt along the Nile valley. I had to keep an eye on him. Finds went missing that I couldn’t prove.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

The waitress arrived with two steaming-hot plates. Annja dug into the thin omelet stuffed with onions and tiny prawns.

The professor studied her intense enjoyment for a few moments, smiling before diving in himself. So she was a hearty eater. It was always wise to eat her fill whenever she was around food, because there were long times when she wasn’t able to eat. Either because of her work schedule, travel or, more often, because of mysterious dealings that involved her stowing away in a ship’s hull or battling gunrunners or falling into a pit in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

After they’d eaten, with a promise to stay in contact with Harlow regarding details of the case, Annja stepped out of the tapas bar into the searing summer sun, courtesy of the god Mot. Glancing to the left, she spied the sea and a beautiful white-sand beach littered with bikini-clad women and children. Out on the water a windsurfer cut through the silver waves.

And then she saw the tall, broad-shouldered man leaning against a metal street pole pasted with posters for flamenco dance concerts. Arms crossed high over his broad chest, and a smirk softening his square face from its usual steel to the lesser iron, his presence wasn’t as much of a surprise as it should’ve been.

“Garin Braden,” she muttered, not in an altogether welcoming tone. She’d decide soon enough if she was pleased, indifferent or just plain offended to see the man.

3

“Surprised?” Garin asked in Spanish, waiting for her to approach, which Annja did with forced disinterest. He looked abnormally vacationy in his pale cream linen suit and straw fedora. Garin presented her with a different side of himself each time she ran into him.

Annja replied, using the local dialect, “I’m never surprised that you always seem to know exactly where I am at any given time. It’s your innate Annja radar, right?”

“Something like that.” His dark eyes, shaded by the hat, held hers. Annja didn’t flinch. “Also not a surprise to learn you were in a building of authority earlier.”

“That would be what most people call a police station.”

Likely, it wasn’t innate radar but rather GPS coordinates Roux had gotten from her earlier call. And he’d already let Garin know about it? Interesting. The two men didn’t work together unless there was something in it for both of them.

“Is that so? And here I thought my Spanish was so good.” He switched to English. “So what adventures have you been up to? Slaying bad guys? Leaping tall buildings in a single bound? Chasing after dusty old pots?”

She walked along the stretch of stucco and brick buildings fronting the beach and he paralleled her. “I have a feeling I don’t need to answer that one. You already know why I’m in Cádiz. Actually, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“I confess I do know the reason you were at the police station. That sort of information just comes to me, you understand. My people keep a keen eye out for threats, danger and—”

“I’m a threat?”

“No, you fall squarely in the Persons of Interest category.”

“Of course.” He did, too. Sort of like an ancient Grecian urn was interesting to her. “So Roux is one of your people?”

“When it serves me.”

The sidewalk narrowed and the big man’s arm brushed hers as they walked. He was a good head higher than her five foot ten inches—probably pushing six-four—and his shoulders were as broad as the toro bravo they bred for the bullfight here in Spain. Annja mused that he even possessed all the qualities matadors looked for in a bull: aggression, strength, stamina and intelligence. He was also several centuries old, which made him irresistible to her. And that offended her moral need to remain aloof toward the man.

“Headed anywhere in particular?” he asked.

“Off this sandspit to Puerto Real, to a little dig tucked on the edge of town.”

“Ferdinand and Isabella’s town,” he commented.

Annja searched historical dates in her head. Puerto Real had been founded by King Ferdinand II of Aragon and Isabella I of Castile near the end of the fifteenth century. Garin had been walking this earth since the early fifteenth century.

Okay, she’d give him that one.

“The town has been around since before the Romans,” she said. “Ferdinand made it a royal port to lure trade from North Africa his way.”

“He was not a stupid king. And his wife was hot.” He gestured to the black Jeep parked ahead. “I’ll give you a ride. It’ll give us an opportunity to catch up.”

Blinking into the sun, Annja agreed she did want to catch up—and learn what Braden knew about her latest adventure. Even if she didn’t trust the man as far as she could toss him. And with his bulk, that was more like a drop down her body before she sprained a wrist.

Sliding into the Jeep’s passenger seat, she buckled up and tossed her backpack into the open truck bed. She hadn’t missed the dried mud on the wheel rims and quarter panels. “You doing some off-roading in the area?”

“Rained yesterday.”

“Sure. And that pitiful sprinkle managed to splatter your rearview mirror with mud.”

“You got it.”

Garin probably fancied himself an international man of mystery—which he was—but Annja knew he used the persona around her only when he wanted to tease her. On the other hand, he had secrets. Lots of them. And sometimes it was better to let things slide than to question them.