Mystic Warrior. Alex Archer

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      “It’s mine.”

      “Not until I’m done with it,” Annja said. “We agreed.”

      Glaring at her, Krauzer backed away. “Hurry.”

      Annja nodded to Orta. “Ready?”

      Breathing out slowly, Orta picked up the flashlight and manuscript page to return to their joint task. It took him only a moment to find the hidden writing.

      Peering intently at the handwriting, Annja said, “Looks like calligraphy that was made with some kind of tool.”

      “Probably jeweler’s instruments,” Orta replied. “The Portuguese were constantly looking for treasures. Gold, silver and gems. For the message to be rendered so small, I’d say the writer used a jeweler’s loupe, too, though I’m not certain those had been invented at the time this was made. Some type of magnifying glass at the very least.”

      Adjusting the magnification of the image on her camera viewscreen, Annja tilted it toward Orta. “This looks like Latin.”

      He peered more closely. “Yes, it is. But see the name?”

      “Julio Gris.”

      “Yes.”

      “And unless I’m mistaken, this says it is the last will and testament of Gris.”

      “Let’s see what’s on the next page.”

      * * *

      IN LESS THAN an hour, Annja and Orta had the hidden messages from the manuscript pages shot and mostly decoded. She loaded the images onto her tablet PC and enlarged them. She’d shot them so they could be enhanced. Compiling the images into a single file she could flip through with the touch of a button took only a few minutes.

      The person who had written the message had a fine hand at calligraphy. The whorls and loops looked as though a machine had punched them out.

      “Well?” Krauzer sat on a stool on the other side of the large table. His arms were folded across his chest and his lips were pursed into a petulant frown.

      “What?” Annja asked.

      “Isn’t somebody going to read the message?”

      “I thought you weren’t interested.”

      Krauzer shook his head in irritation. “You know, you might want to borrow my crystal again at some point.”

      That was true. Annja focused on the message. “‘This is the last will and testament of Julio Gris, second mate of the good ship San Salvador. 1542.

      “‘In my life, I have been many things before I took my post on Captain Juan Cabrillo’s ship, may God rest his unfortunate soul. If I had been caught for many of the things I did, I would have been shot by jealous husbands or hanged for thievery or murder.

      “‘Captain Cabrillo only knew me as a mate aboard his ship, and I worked hard for him because I have always loved the sea. Even more than I loved the sea, though, I have loved the idea of treasure.

      “‘God knows of the larceny in my darkest thoughts, and He has taken pains to see that I am properly punished, for it seems I may never claim this prize. I heard the story about the lost treasure of the Merovingian kings from a man who knew György Dózsa, a warrior from the Kingdom of Hungary. According to the man who gave me the story, Dózsa read the pages from the Bibliotheca Corviniana himself.’”

      “Wait.” Krauzer held his hands up. “Just hold on. You’re throwing too much information out too fast. Who are the Merovingian kings?”

      Before Annja could answer, the room’s main door opened and two armed men strode inside. They wore black clothing with abbreviated Kevlar armor and carried H&K MP5 machine pistols with thick sound suppressors. Dark eyed, the men looked related, but one of them was easily ten years older than the other. He was clean shaven with a well-kept mustache, while the other man had deliberate scruff. Both moved economically, spacing themselves out so they commanded the room.

      “Put your hands in the air,” the older man commanded. His accent echoed faintly of French.

      Not having any options, Annja did as she was told.

6

      “Fox Leader, this is Fox Six.”

      Moving quickly through the dim college hallways, Ligier de Cerceau carried his machine pistol in both hands. Adrenaline surged through him as he waited for his companion to unlock the classroom door they stood in front of.

      “You have Fox Leader.”

      “I have the packages in sight.”

      De Cerceau stepped into the empty classroom, flicked on the bright light attached to the machine pistol and surveyed the space. Only tables and chairs occupied the space other than a lectern at the front of the room.

      “Are the packages in good shape?” De Cerceau pulled back out into the hallway and took his smartphone from inside his jacket. The Kevlar body armor made the task more difficult, but he managed. He pressed the friend app and watched as the red pins popped up onto the screen to mark the locations of his men.

      Twelve of his men roamed through the college of history, and all of them were dangerous, hard men. He’d handpicked each man for his core unit.

      “The packages are in excellent shape,” Georges Dipre answered.

      “Keep them that way.” De Cerceau gestured to the man beside him to proceed. “I’m on my way to your location now.”

      He followed the other man, both of them as quiet as shadows as they drifted through the silent halls.

      * * *

      STANDING BESIDE ORTA, Annja watched the two men who were holding them prisoner. Their movements were precise and methodical. Professional soldiers, she realized.

      “What do they want?” Krauzer whispered.

      “The crystal,” Orta answered. Either he spoke French, too, or his native language was close enough that he had no problem following the rapid-fire conversations between the men and the person they were talking to at the other end of their communication units.

      Annja had already discerned their interest and hated her helplessness.

      “You can’t have the crystal!” Krauzer took a step toward the men. “I need that in my movie.”

      “Stay back,” the older man commanded. He squeezed a quick burst from his machine pistol and, while the thick suppressor on the end of the weapon kept the noise quieted, the bullets ripped into the wall at the other end of the room, tearing divots and smashing through framed pictures.

      “Okay, okay!” Krauzer dropped to his knees on the floor and held his hands up in surrender.

      “Deal with that idiot,” the older man said in French.

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