Gabriel's Horn by Alex Archer Page A

years ago,” Annja said.
    “I know.”
    “How do you know those men belong to Saladin?”
    Garin touched his throat. “I know Saladin’s mark. The green scimitar you saw on that man’s neck.”
    Annja thought about that as she pushed her empty plate away. The food had been superb, but she had a lot on her mind.
    “And they want the painting of the Nephilim?” she asked.
    “Yes.”
    “But why?” Annja shook her head in frustration.
    “I don’t know. That, so far, has remained one of Roux’s secrets.”
    Annja took out her phone and glanced at the number she’d stored in memory.
    “What are you doing?” Garin asked.
    “I’m calling Roux.” Annja punched the button and held the phone up to her ear as she listened for the rings.
    “He’s not going to tell you anything.”
    Annja ignored the negative response. The phone rang six times before it was answered in French.
    “Hello,” she said, speaking French.
    “How can I help you?”
    “I’m looking for a man named—” Annja stopped because she had no idea what name Roux was using.
    “Yes?” the man inquired.
    “I’m looking for the owner of this phone,” Annja said.
    “That would be me, of course.”
    “And who are you?”
    “Jean-Paul.” The man’s voice lowered. “You know, you sound very sexy. Perhaps you and I—”
    “Do you know a man named Roux?”
    “No, but if you like men named Roux, you may call me Roux.”
    “He called me from this phone.”
    Jean-Paul laughed. “Then this man Roux has very good taste. This is a very expensive phone. I can afford expensive things. Tell me, do you like the ride in a BMW?”
    “Where are you?”
    “Monte Carlo. I came here to gamble.”
    Okay, Annja thought, at least that made sense. The old man loved playing Texas Hold ‘Em and other games of chance.
    “Have you let anyone borrow your phone?” she asked.
    “No.”
    Annja knew Roux was quite the magician, though. It would have been easy for him to pick someone’s pocket, use the phone and replace it. But why go to all the trouble?
    So you couldn’t call him.
    That realization made her angry. She told Jean-Paul goodbye and hung up despite his protests.
    “I take it the old fox didn’t call on his phone,” Garin said.
    “No.”
    Garin laughed. “He’s worth millions and he stints on a long-distance bill.”
    Annja slipped her phone back into her purse.
    Garin sipped wine. “Why did he call you?”
    “Someone,” Annja said, pinning Garin with her gaze, “told him I was having dinner with you.”
    Garin held up his hands. “It wasn’t me. I know what he would say.”
    “He said it. I don’t suppose you have a phone number where he can be reached?”
    “No. Where is he?”
    “Monte Carlo.”
    Garin stroked his chin. “I know where he might be. You and I could—”
    “No,” Annja said. Dinner had been far too comfortable for her liking. She didn’t want to spend any more time in Garin’s company because doing so was all too easy. “Whatever’s going on, it’s going to have to go on without me.”
    “Where’s that driving curiosity that I’ve noticed is so much a part of you?” Garin taunted her.
    “I’m going to turn it in other directions,” Annja said, but she knew it wasn’t going to be easy.
    Roux and Garin were never forthcoming about information they had that she lacked. Thankfully, there were institutions all around the world that had more knowledge than both of those men combined.
    In fact, when it came to pure history and the science of archaeology, she knew more than they did. Just not on a personal basis.
    A few moments later, Mama served a cherry torte topped with homemade ice cream. For a time Annja forgot about the Nephilim.
    * * * *
    “Did you have a nice time?” Garin asked.
    With the heavy meal sitting in her stomach, topped by the rich dessert, Annja felt sleepy. She stared through the limousine’s tinted windows at the streets.
    “I did,” Annja said.
    “I thought perhaps we might go