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“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.
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.
Wandering around the south side of the tent, she caught sight of Garin’s bulky figure out of the corner of her eye. He leaned against the Jeep’s hood, ankles crossed, head tilted back to take in the sun.
“Some backup.”
Not that she expected anyone to jump out from behind a rocky outcrop with guns blazing. On the other hand, experience had taught her to never presume any situation was safe.
Where had Crockett gone? He wouldn’t abandon the site without leaving an assistant to watch over the supplies and finds.
Her instincts suddenly flared. Tensing, she slowly tracked along the side of the tent. The smell of dirt-dusted canvas material was like perfume to Annja’s soul, but the buzz of flies nearby made her suspicious. Odd. Crockett kept a tidy site.
A rancid odor grew as she turned the back corner of the tent and stepped into a pool of congealed blood. She quickly took in the blood spatter that had dried to brown across the tent canvas.
“Garin!”
She tracked the path of blood until she came to the edge of the pitoned-off dig square. A body had been rolled into the four-foot-deep area, which measured about sixteen by twenty feet. Earth had been hastily shoveled over it, but the booted feet, hands and the back of a dark-haired head showed.
“That is not good,” Garin said as he sidled up to her and looked over the scene. “You think it’s the dig supervisor you wanted to talk to?”
“Someone looking for me?”
They turned in unison, Garin with pistol extended, to find Jonathan Crockett standing behind them. Holding an AK-47.
4
“I believe my Kalashnikov trumps your Glock,” Crockett said to Garin.
Annja felt Garin’s elbow twitch against her arm. He was the last man Crockett—any man—should issue a challenge like that to.
“You think so?” Garin held the pistol barrel skyward and finger off the trigger.
Crockett gestured with the machine gun for Garin to toss the pistol aside. Annja knew that wasn’t going to happen.
Before Garin could react, Annja reached into the otherwhere, felt the sword’s power tingle in her fingers and clasped the grip. She swung out, sweeping the blade across Crockett’s wrist and taking him by surprise. The man yelped. The machine gun dropped to the dusty ground. In an agile move, Garin bent to claim it.
Crockett clutched his bleeding wrist. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he winced with the pain. He looked to Annja, but she’d released Joan of Arc’s sword back to where she’d found it.
“Nice,” Garin said. He hooked the Kalashnikov under his arm and held both guns on the whimpering professor. “She’s my backup,” he said with a nod toward her. “Who would have thought I’d need her in such an innocuous place? Pothunters shouldn’t play with guns.”
“Pothunter is a derogatory term,” Annja corrected him. Had Crockett turned into a merciless pothunter? Had he killed the man in the pit for his own gain?
James Harlow had intimated he didn’t trust Crockett, yet she’d brushed if off as all-too-common collegiate rivalry.
“I was trying to protect myself.” Crockett sank to his knees, clutching his wrist against his chest. Blood soaked into his white shirt. “They came so quickly. Yesterday evening. Hours after you left, Annja.” He gasped. “Took everything. When I heard the vehicle drive up just now I thought they’d returned to finish me off, so I hid in the gorse.”
“You didn’t kill this man,” Annja stated.
Crockett shook his head. “No, they did. Yesterday.”
And the body was still lying out in the open? Annja winced. Why hadn’t Crockett contacted the authorities? And for that matter, why was he still here?
“Who are they?” Garin demanded. “Did they take your field phone with them, too?”
“Let’s move him inside the tent for some first aid. We need to bandage your wrist before you lose too much blood,” she said to Crockett, then with a glance in the direction they had come from, added, “We should take him to the hospital.”
She met Garin’s fierce stare, leaving her in no doubt that he thought her suggestion a bad one. Cleaning up the mess by taking out the professor with a bullet to his heart would probably be his suggestion. Joan of Arc wasn’t into vigilante justice. Neither was she.
“No hospitals,” Crockett said as Annja led him into the tent.
“Why? You got something against hospitals?”
“My sister died five years ago when she caught an infection following surgery.”
