Gabriel's Horn. Alex Archer

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      Despite Garin’s roguish grin, pain glinted in his eyes. “They died, Annja. No matter how fiercely I loved them, they died. They got old and perished and I remained. Alone.” He paused. “Those weren’t experiences I relished. Nor would I ever do something like that again.”

      Annja knew what it felt like to be alone. She picked up her fork and turned her attention to her salad.

      “Tell me about the men who attacked the movie set today,” Garin requested.

      Annja didn’t think Garin was truly interested in what happened earlier, but she couldn’t think of anything else to discuss. Evidently they both realized they were on safer ground with other topics. She gave him the gist of the events. When she got to the matter of the tattoo on the man’s neck, Garin stopped her.

      He touched his own neck. “You said this tattoo was of a sword?” He took a handheld device from his jacket and quickly sketched an image on the screen with the stylus.

      “I have to admit I’m surprised,” Annja said as he sketched. “I figured you more for a pen-and-cocktail-napkin kind of guy.”

      Garin frowned at her. “I love technology. Roux doesn’t care so much for it. But I love it. I own several companies that specialize in software and hardware research and development.” He showed her the screen. The sketch revealed a sword that was heavy bladed and curved. “Was this the sword?”

      “Yes. What do you know about this?” Anxiety and suspicion warred within Annja.

      Garin studied the image. “A scimitar. You said it was green?”

      Annja nodded.

      A low curse escaped Garin’s full lips.

      “Do you know who these men are?” Annja asked.

      “Pawns. If they belong to the man I think they do, they’re very highly trained. You’re lucky to have escaped with your life.”

      “Who are they and why would they be interested in me?”

      “I think I know who they are, but I don’t know why they would be interested in you. Unless they want to get to Roux. They might know about the connection you have to Roux. And to me.”

      “They’re enemies of Roux?”

      “Their master is.” Garin took his cell phone from his pocket. “Excuse me for just a moment.” He punched in a number. The phone was answered almost instantly. “We may have a security problem. Make sure my dinner is uninterrupted.”

      “Who was that?” Annja asked.

      “The security chief of the team watching us.”

      “Do you always travel with a security team?”

      “I do. Except for those times I don’t care to live my life in a fishbowl.” Garin shrugged. “And during those times when it’s better if no one knows what I’m doing.”

      Annja picked at her salad. She wasn’t nervous, not really. But the thought of the man with the scimitar tattoo lurking around outside did give her pause.

      “Who are you afraid of?” Annja asked.

      “I’m not afraid of this man,” Garin growled. “But I’d rather err on the side of caution where he’s concerned.”

      “Should we go?”

      Garin blew out a short breath. “No. I’m not going to be chased from my dinner like some timid little mouse. We’re going to have a fine meal, and we’re going to enjoy it.” He looked at her. “Why? Do you wish to leave?”

      Annja thought about it. She knew she should. But she was stubborn, too. Growing up in the orphanage had been hard. She’d never liked quietly going away, either.

      “No,” she answered.

      “You don’t care much for playing the mouse, either, do you?” Garin asked.

      “I’m hungry.”

      Garin chuckled.

      “Who do those men work for?” Annja asked.

      “He calls himself Saladin.”

      “Like the Saladin who fought Richard I during the Crusades?”

      “Yes.” Garin looked pained. “But also like Honest Saladin, the camel dealer I met in Cairo when I was tomb hunting with Howard Carter.”

      Annja stared at Garin. Curiosity filled her like a tidal wave. “You were in Egypt with Carter?”

      Garin shook his head. “Focus, Annja. What I’m telling you now may save your life if Saladin truly is after you.”

      “Why would he be after me?”

      “Weren’t you paying attention? Saladin would take you to get to Roux.”

      “What does he have against Roux?”

      “He wants the Nephilim.”

      Annja had to think a moment. “The child of a fallen angel?”

      “A painting of one.”

      “Why?”

      “I don’t know. Roux never told me. That old man has been keeping secrets for hundreds of years.”

      Annja’s mind spun with questions.

      “What was the importance of the painting?” Annja asked.

      Garin shook his head. “I don’t know.”

      “Roux never offered any hints?”

      “Roux,” Garin stated, “never offers hints, and he never slips up. If you think he has, he’s merely setting you up. Trust me on that.”

      9

      “What do you know about the Nephilim?” Annja asked.

      “I never found out much. It was supposed to be a painting that at one time hung in a church in Constantinople. The painting, if it truly ever existed, disappeared when the city fell.”

      “That was 560 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.”

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