Alex Archer - The Matador's Crown

Garin eased into traffic and headed toward the ancient defensive walls that had circled the city since Roman times. Gadir, the name the Phoenicians had given the original outpost, meant “walled stronghold.”

They didn’t speak as Annja took in the scenery. Two massive electricity pylons hugged either side of the Bay of Cádiz as they neared La Pepa, the bridge that accessed the mainland. It was one of the longest cable-span bridges in the country. On the pylons, steel framework supported electric power cables. She wondered with amusement how long before Wi-Fi and satellites obliterated the need for such things.

“So tell me what you know,” she said, her attention following the construction crew working on the bridge with pneumatic hammers and drills. “You always know something.”

“I know you stumbled onto a body this morning.”

“Word travels fast. And you rushed to Cádiz to console me?”

He chuckled as he drove off the bridge. “I’ve been in Cádiz a few days. Roux knew that and sent me to see if you needed any assistance.”

“Awful swell of the guy.” Of the two of them, she would have preferred Roux’s assistance. The old man was more like a father to her and she never felt overly threatened by his presence. “Yes, a dead body, placed most conveniently next to the room I had rented.”

“And it’s related to some kind of artifact?”

She wouldn’t question the man’s knowledge. Garin Braden had access to intel that would make the CIA blush. “A bronze totem in the form of a bull, possibly representing Baal. Ceremonial, I assume, or it could have been a commemoration piece. Who knows, it could have been a tourist tchotchke. Did you hear about the other artifact?”

“Just the one. What was the other?”

“I don’t know. It was missing.”

He flicked her a questioning glance. “Stolen?”

“From the dead man. The dead musician.”

“Ah. I sense an adventure coming on.”

“In fact, we’re headed to the first stop right now.” The stretch of road around Puerto Real quickly segued from pavement to gravel. “Turn left. It’s only a few kilometers ahead. So, do you also have information on the dead man? I was given his name, but not by the police.”

“What did you tell the police?”

“I was first on the scene, but I could only tell them what I knew. Which was very little.”

“A little is more than nothing. You hungry?”

“Just ate. We can stop if you are.”

“I’ll do for a bit.” The Jeep navigated the increasingly rough road like a dream. “Looks like you’re taking us into the boonies, your favorite kind of place.”

“Don’t worry, we’re not heading into mountainous terrain.”

“The tires are off-road all-terrain.”

“Yes. Glad you’ve already tested them when it sprinkled yesterday.”

“It was a damn good downpour.”

“Sure, if you say so.” Changing the subject, Annja said, “I’d held that very bronze statue a day ago.”

“Is that so? Now I’m intrigued.”

“It takes a lot to get your interest.”

He lifted one dark eyebrow, which was more a come-on than castigation. She ignored the flirtation.

“I unearthed it on the dig we’re heading to right now. It had been waiting for cataloging to be sent back to the University of Cádiz. I believe it was Spanish. It had a decorative Moorish arabesque circling the bull’s neck. But beyond that, I hadn’t the time to do further research.”

“Spanish artifacts are to be expected when one digs on Spanish soil.”

“Not always. Pieces of history travel all over the world and can be found thousands of miles from their original country of provenance. At the time I found it, we thought it was part of thieves’ booty.”

“So it had once been stolen. You unearthed it. Then it was stolen again? Or do you suspect someone from the dig of handing it over to the dead man?”

“I don’t know. The dig supervisor, Jonathan Crockett, seemed on the up-and-up. I’m a pretty good judge of character. But I have no clue regarding Diego Montera. The dead man,” she added when Garin raised a questioning eyebrow. “He may have been some guy on the dig crew who was handed a valuable artifact and wanted to get some fast cash for it.”

Garin stared at her. “A musician on a dig?”

She shrugged. “Maybe he stole it, but if that was the case, I suspect it wasn’t planned. Although, if he wasn’t crew, someone had to have smuggled the bull off-site. I don’t know. Its value is questionable. It was small, a simple piece.”

“Sounds like a delicious mystery. Too bad you’re not a homicide detective.”

“No, I’m not. Doesn’t mean I don’t have an interest.”

“In the objects a dead man was carrying?”

“Archaeology is all about deciphering the objects people carried, wore, used, lived in. I’m an object detective.”

This area of Spain had been gone over by archaeologists many times in the past century, but a recent chunk of mountain had been dislodged and had changed the landscape, prompting new discoveries.

The dig supervisor, Jonathan Crockett, was a laid-back Englishman who had never aspired to anything but squatting in the sun all day, his hands in the dirt. And he had a trust fund to make it happen. He was a hard-core archaeologist. Quiet, he never bragged about his finds or elaborated overmuch. He measured his words, and Annja had been fine with that. The sun had toasted his skin nicely and enhanced the distinguished lines at the corners of his eyes and temples. His sun-streaked brown hair never did stay in the ponytail he tied at the back of his head, and as dirty as he got, his clothing always looked freshly pressed. A well-seasoned man, he was movie-star fodder, without the ego or need for fame.

That James Harlow had suspected him of underhanded dealings didn’t feel right, but Annja would reserve judgment until after she’d talked to him.

Garin pulled the Jeep outside the main—and only—tent, dirt billowing up from the tires in a cloud. The soil was a fertile mix of gravel, sand and silt in the southern areas of Spain, ideal for viticulture.

Annja jumped out into the dirt cloud. “You stay here,” she told Garin.

“Don’t think so.” He patted the linen jacket over his heart. The man, who now made his home Germany, tended to favor semiautomatic pistols manufactured there or in Austria. “I’ll be your backup.”

“Don’t go all alpha on me, now. The villagers are not going to attack with trowels and buckets.”

“If someone here is selling artifacts to people who apparently kill to obtain them, you want to be safe.”

“I don’t know Crockett is selling artifacts. I highly doubt he is. Ambition is not one of his finer points.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be inconspicuous.”

Garin got out and stood beside the Jeep. With his height, broad shoulders and chiseled square jawline, he looked the medieval warrior trying to masquerade as a regular Joe. The man would never achieve subtlety.

“Inconspicuous. Bang-up job.” Annja stabbed him with a look, then strode toward the tent, leaving the misplaced warrior to guard the battlements.

The dig area was quiet. The excavation unit marked off with stakes and string before she’d arrived days earlier looked like the pit to hell, blackened by the shadows. It was only four feet deep. Crockett had gotten a lot done with the few college students who had occasion to drop in for a day at a time. No one except Crockett stayed on-site overnight, so either they had all taken a day off or had decided to start late. Really late. It was after noon.

She called out, but no one replied. Crockett’s tent door was untied and flapping in the breeze. She peered inside. Empty, except for two tables used to sort out artifacts, and bag and catalog them in a field notebook. Toward the back stood an old army-issue cot and dressing table with water canisters, basin and towels, and a hand-crank radio.