Alex Archer - The Devil's Chord

“On to my next adventure.”

Chapter 3

Roux had purchased her a seat in first class, though Annja wouldn’t award him brownie points. Ian’s seat was back in economy. The cameraman took the news with his usual good-natured attitude, knowing he’d been a last-minute add-on. Besides, economy was not filled to capacity, so he planned to snag a row of seats in the back and lay down to sleep through the flight.

The dossier was handed to Annja in a sealed envelope when she received her ticket. Once the plane was in flight, she pored over the information, which was sparse.

The man she was to dive with, Scout Roberts, was a former archaeologist who’d been stripped of his tenure at his university after he’d been involved in a sketchy dig in Peru. The operation had resulted in the unsolved deaths of two crew members. He’d insisted poisonous gases had leaked from the cave walls, yet a forensic team hadn’t found any trace of poison. He’d disappeared approximately five years ago and apparently hadn’t been seen or heard from since. He’d stopped publishing and there wasn’t a phone number or address for him. He’d turned himself into a ghost.

But ghosts didn’t accept offers to dive for lost treasure. He had to have a reason for accepting the invite from Roux. Unless cash was the motivator?

“Could be,” she muttered, knowing Roux’s pockets were deep.

Even deeper, though, was Roux’s love for Joan and anything associated with her. The cross qualified on that score and was likely enough to spur his interest in the artifact. It would probably only look good under glass or on one of the walls in Roux’s château.

The fact that Roux had brought her in on the job also didn’t make sense if he intended to keep the artifact.

“Very odd...”

Flipping over the single page in the dossier, Annja was surprised that was all the information he had. Apparently, Roux knew little about Scout Roberts. Where had he found him? On a street corner? While strolling a stretch of the French countryside in search of treasure?

Annja smiled remembering how she had first met Roux. It had been on just such a stretch in the French countryside. In the Cévennes mountain area in search of a loup-garou, she had stumbled upon a hiker, who’d told her he was after something that was lost.

She’d thought Roux a curious old man who possessed the strength of many, an agility that belied his age and a charm that had won her over despite his obvious nefarious dealings. Over an initial get-to-know-each-other meal, she recalled thinking how the twinkle in his eyes could mean trouble for her. And she hadn’t been wrong.

When they’d finally found the lost item he’d been looking for, it had been the final piece to Joan of Arc’s sword.

Who would have thought that meeting Roux would have led to her owning a sword that once belonged to Joan of Arc, and to a love-hate friendship with a man who had seen and done so much?

At times Roux was harsh and insistent, in it for himself and yet always on mark and aware. He may look old, but the man was agile and swift and could expertly handle any weapon he got his hands on. After she’d claimed the sword, he had mentored her and taught her how to handle the blade correctly and efficiently. At times, he felt very much like a father to her.

But Annja always cautioned herself against letting her guard down completely around the man. At times, Roux allied with Garin Braden. He’d been tied to Roux since Joan’s burning back in the fifteenth century. Braden was another man who possessed the same in-it-for-himself attitude as the older man. And he was not beyond lying to her to get what he wanted.

So that left Scout Roberts as a possible ally in this new adventure. A ghost working for a person of questionable integrity.

Annja shook her head as she perused the sketchy details she held.

She’d worked with strangers before. The nature of her work—traveling to foreign countries, traveling to the middle of nowhere to dig in the dry, dusty dirt—led to interactions with all sorts. Unwilling to pre-judge someone she had never met, she looked forward to meeting Scout and delving into the mystery of how he’d gotten involved with Roux.

Setting aside the dossier, she settled into the cozy first-class nest and pulled up the blanket to her forehead. She wanted to be in top form when she arrived in Venice.

* * *

UPON DISEMBARKING AT Marco Polo Airport, Annja felt refreshed. It was 6:00 a.m. and the day was bright. Ian was also chipper. He’d had extra bags of peanuts and a couple of free drinks and was currently balancing his equipment on one shoulder, his backpack across both shoulders.

“We’ll eat after checking into a hotel. Deal?” Annja asked.

“Deal.”

Annja strode directly to the cabstand and was greeted by a tall, solemn man in black trousers and black turtleneck who held a placard with her name neatly written in block letters.

“Miss Creed. I am Paulo. Your driver here in Venice.” He spoke English well. “I’ve picked up the diving gear, as was requested by Monsieur Roux. Two sets. I’ve had them delivered directly to the boat docked in the canal.” He nodded to Ian. “Welcome to Venice.”

The men shook hands.

“You’re punctual,” Annja said. “I appreciate that. On to Venice?”

“I’ve a car waiting. There’s a bit of a traffic bind, I’m afraid. Accident as I was coming toward the airport. We may have a wait. And then we’ll travel on a water shuttle to the island. I live in the city, so I’ll be at your service. I do have a car and a boat.”

“Thank you. We’d like to head straight to the hotel. If you could recommend a good place to eat nearby, that would be great.”

“I’ll bring you there myself.”

Three hours later—indeed, the traffic had been backed up for kilometers while a crane worked to clear away lumber from an overturned truck—Annja and Ian dropped their things in their respective rooms at the hotel. Then they accompanied Paulo to a quiet restaurant that seemed lacking in tourists yet had immense personality. The cook sang from the back room, and the waitresses giggled as they delivered plates to the tables. Though they’d both skipped breakfast, Annja cautioned Ian against the full plate of pasta if they planned to dive anytime soon, and he reluctantly ordered the smaller size.

After they’d eaten and Paulo had given them directions, Annja and Ian strolled down the streets in the Cannaregio, where they were to meet Scout Roberts dockside.

“They say the city is sinking nearly a tenth of an inch a year,” she remarked as they passed a wet tiled courtyard sandwiched between two buildings.

“Point zero eight, to be precise,” Ian replied. She gave him a look that said she was impressed. “Two years ago I spent a summer here filming at San Michele.”

Named after the archangel Michael, the Isola di San Michele was located in the Venetian lagoon, northeast of the Cannaregio. It was about half an hour away. One of the first Renaissance churches in Venice, it had been built on the island sometime in the mid-fifteenth century. The same island that had also once served as a prison.

“The team I was traveling with was actually a forensic unit from New York City,” Ian explained. “They were digging up bones in the cemetery. One of the women was full of interesting details about Venice. You know the city is tilting, as well.”

“Yes, I had heard that. But let’s hope it doesn’t topple over while we’re here. I haven’t gone diving in these waters,” Annja said.

“I had the displeasure while at San Michele.”

“Displeasure?”

“The waters around the island were not bad at all. That’s fresh seawater. It’s the canals in the city proper. They’re not really fit for leisurely dives, especially during the hot summer months.”