“Look, whoever you are—” She stopped when she heard the cry of some large bird passing low over the river, followed by the noise of a siren, which quickly receded. What sounded like a boat behind her on the river... She doubted anyone on board could see into the shadows under the bridge, but maybe she could do something to get their attention.
“We don’t want your money, American.” The tall one spat again, as if the notion of cash left a bad taste in his mouth, and drew the knife down Rembert’s throat. The pressure was enough to produce a line of blood, but not enough to cause the photographer serious harm.
“Annja!” Rembert howled. “Give them what they want.”
“I do not think you worry about your friend, American archaeologist. I do not think you consider us serious. I can promise you, we are serious. We will kill if we have to.”
His companion laughed and jabbed Rembert in the stomach, again enough to draw blood. “She should take us serious, eh, Dimitru?”
The tall one scowled.
So she had one piece of information, a name: Dimitru. Definitely Romany.
“Dimitru!” Annja had the thug’s complete attention. “You say you want a sword. I could—”
“No. Not a sword. Your sword. The one you flashed in Paris, that night so late. Before the police came and took my brothers.”
“I’ll have to go get it for you.” She extended her arms to her sides and opened her hands as wide as her fingers would stretch. “I’m not carrying a sword.” She turned slowly, taking a deep breath, glad for the opportunity to look behind her. She saw the ship, a barge. Not yet close enough. It didn’t look as if anyone was on deck. She hadn’t heard anyone come up behind her. Other than the threats of the Romanies, she’d heard only the sounds of traffic across the bridge and past the embankment. Finished her circle, she faced the Romany again. They’d pulled Rembert a little deeper into the shadows under the bridge. “It won’t take me long.”
“You think me simple,” the tall one hissed. “You have the sword, Annja Creed. You have it with you. Maybe it is invisible. Maybe it is a ghost thing. But I know you have it.”
“We are done talking to her, right, Dimitru?” The other guy poked Rembert again. “A boat is coming. Someone might see us.”
“They see nothing,” Dimitru said softly. “This rain.”
“Annja,” Rembert pleaded. “What do they want? We can give them money, can’t we? My camera...I dropped it there. They can have that. Annja, tell them they can—”
“We do not want your money,” Dimitru said in English. “We want the woman’s sword. I am done with this.”
“Stop!” Annja cried. “Leave him alone. Let Rembert out of here, let him leave, and you can have the sword. Let—”
“Rembert is our insurance, Annja Creed. Is the sword worth more than his life?”
“Of course not.” She nodded. “Let him go.”
“The ghostly sword for the photographer, then,” Dimitru said. “Now. Make it appear now. Like before.”
Annja felt the pommel touch her palm, and she wrapped her fingers around it.
“What the hell?” Rembert said.
“This what you want?” she asked.
“Drop it and back away,” Dimitru ordered her.
Annja set it gently at her feet in the scrubby weeds and the remains of someone’s fast-food dinner that had been tossed off the bridge. From the Romanies’ vantage point, they wouldn’t be able to see the sword. Annja stepped back and sent it into the otherwhere. Dimitru’s expression didn’t change.
“Let him go. Rembert is not a part of this,” she said. “There’s the sword. We had a bargain.”
Dimitru hurled Rembert behind him, and the shorter Romany kicked the photographer in the back of the legs, dropping him to the gravel. At the same time, Dimitru shot toward Annja, knife slashing to keep her at bay.
“Get back!” he hollered to her. “Get back and no one has to be hurt!”
A dozen steps and he was at the spot where she’d dropped the sword.
“Trick!” he screamed. “Where is it? Petre...she tricked us. Kill the man! Kill him—” The Romany’s voice caught in his throat.
Chapter 10
Instantly, the sword was in Annja’s hands again and she was bringing it around, aiming to strike him in the arm with the flat of the blade. She’d hadn’t meant her blow to be a killing one, but she’d put all her strength behind it, and Dimitru somehow turned into it and rushed her in a crouch. She tried to pull her swing in that last second, but he was too fast and caught himself across the throat. At the same time he managed to stab her in the thigh, but his knife didn’t sink deep.
The knife wound hurt, but worse was the sting of death she thought she could have avoided. Dwell on that later, Annja told herself. She kept hold of the sword with her left hand, and with her right tugged out the knife and dropped it next to the body.
Annja stepped around Dimitru and headed toward the other man. Petre. The wiry Romany emitted a high-pitched wail. He’d been bending over Rembert, one hand grasping the back of his head, the other readying to slice his throat. But at the sight of Annja advancing on him, he bolted, angling up the steep, slick embankment.
The photographer stayed down, wrapping his arms over his head.
Annja glanced at him as she charged after the Romany, dismissing the sword and pumping her fists to speed her feet. Rembert didn’t appear to be badly hurt.
And she desperately needed to find out why they wanted her sword. How they knew about it.
She followed the youth up the bank, sliding once and hitting a chunk of concrete that sent daggers of pain into her knees, almost as bad as the knife wound in her leg. She picked herself up, catching sight of him cresting the top and sprinting into traffic.
Horns blared, tires squealed and someone rolled down his window to spew a stream of curses. Annja dodged the cars, taking only a little more care than her quarry had, which cost her precious seconds.
The rain made the city a blend of blue-grays that caused the buildings and people to look almost surreal—a muted watercolor painting dripping all around her. The storm had increased in intensity in the minutes since she and Rembert had slipped down the bank for the ill-fated interview. Fat drops hammered the pavement and splashed back up like ricocheting bullets.
Her quarry was easy to make out from the other pedestrians braving the weather. None of them were running and pushing people out of their way, and nearly all of them had umbrellas or hats. She was about a block and a half behind him, gaining a little.
“Hé! Que faites-vous?” a pedestrian shouted at her as she nearly tipped him over.
“Sorry,” Annja called over her shoulder.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fous là, toi?” This from a young man not quite as polite as the first.
She tromped through a puddle, sending a spray of water at a stooped woman with a large blue umbrella.
“Appellez la police!” the offended woman hollered. “Appellez les flics! Elle m’a poussé, c’te vache!”
Annja grimaced. She hadn’t pushed the woman. No doubt the police would be arriving soon, anyway, especially if Rembert had called. Lord, what would he tell the cops? Would he mention her sword?
The buildings she thundered past were dirty from age and darkened by the storm. Everything seemed ancient compared to her neighborhood in