The Other Crowd. Alex Archer

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ a nice gift for our Annja.”

      Our Annja. It always startled Garin when Roux referred to her in that manner. It was too possessive.

      “Why?”

      “Garin, there are more things in life than fast cars, million-dollar acquisitions and women. You know what month it is?”

      “I’m not keen on the late-night quiz show, old man. I’ll have you know I was engaged in something far better—”

      “Blonde or redhead?”

      “Blonde.”

      “Common. There’s always another one around the corner.”

      True. Garin turned and cast a wink over his shoulder at the pouting female. She got up and lazily wandered into the bathroom. “Why don’t you simply call in your bid?” he asked.

      “I want you to look at the thing before bidding. I can’t be sure this is the actual painting. It’s merely attributed to Fouquet and listed as ‘in the style of the fifteenth century master.’”

      “So why don’t you go after the bloody thing?”

      “Because you’re closer.”

      “Closer? I’m in Berlin, Roux. And let me guess—you’re in…Monaco, reclining under the moonlight on the roof of the yacht surrounded by a blonde, a redhead and a brunette.”

      “You don’t get points for being obvious.”

      “Technically, you’re closer to New York. You go after the thing.”

      “At the moment, I’m not near any major airport. And there is a time issue. I found out about this just moments ago. And I know you have a collection of private jets and planes and, who knows, maybe even a submarine or two.”

      “Sold the sub last month.”

      “I hope it wasn’t to the enemy.”

      “Your definition of enemy is vastly different from mine, old man.”

      Roux huffed out a breath. Garin loved to tweak at his presumed morals. “No matter. You can get there faster than I, Garin. So you’ll do it?”

      Garin sighed and shrugged, rubbing a palm over his face. “For Annja?”

      “Indeed.”

      “Fine. Send details, an address and get me set up with a bid number so all I have to do is stroll in and take the thing.”

      “Done.”

      3

      Rangy and easy in his skin, Daniel Collins was, from outer appearances, quite the character. Long skinny jeans clung to his legs as if glued to the skin. The pants certainly didn’t require the white suspenders that hung loosely over a black shirt decorated with gold appliqués across the chest. A red-and-black plaid coat, the sleeves rolled to expose his veiny forearms, hung on his lithe frame. Gold hoop earrings clung to both earlobes and were small enough not to be garish, but added an interesting glint to his narrow face, which was mastered by bushy black brows.

      A black fedora capped his head, and he tilted it to Annja as she approached to shake his hand.

      “You must be the television host Mr. Morrell asked me to drop everything to come and fetch.”

      “Sorry about that. Doug tends to think the world moves on his time. So I assume you’re as surprised about this assignment as I am?”

      “Surprised, but willing. It’s not every day I’m given the opportunity to show a lovely American lady around my neck of the woods.” He looked beyond Annja. “Eric?”

      “You remember Eric Kritz. He’s my cameraman,” Annja said.

      Eric looked up from his iPod long enough to nod at Daniel. He didn’t have the earbuds in. He’d explained to Annja during the flight that he used the music player as a backup hard drive to store still photographs. He must be paging through the aerial photos he’d taken from the plane as they’d landed she thought.

      “You’re all grown up, Mr. Kritz,” Daniel said in acknowledgment. “So, the two of you, have you got some ID so I can be sure you are who you say you are?”

      Taken aback by that request, Annja laughed. She was often introduced and accepted merely for her fame and the fact she was associated with the TV show. But a wise man should ask for ID.

      She tugged her passport out from her backpack and flashed it for him. “I don’t have ID from the show. But I am who I say I am.”

      Eric did have press credentials for Chasing History’s Monsters, which he flashed. How he managed a press pass—and she had never been given one—was something Annja intended to discuss with Doug when she returned to the States.

      Eric shuffled around in his duffel bag and pulled out a small cigar box. “Mr. Collins,” he said, “a gift from my father.” He handed over the box.

      Daniel sniffed the box, his eyes closing briefly in olfactory satisfaction. “Cigars. Thanks to your father, boy. I do love a Montecristo.”

      “Inspired by Dumas’s story,” Annja tossed out. She was an Alexandre Dumas fan.

      “Indeed. The Count of Monte Cristo. A fine story, if not a wee bit far-fetched.” With a wink to her, Daniel tucked the box under an arm without opening it to inspect. He gestured that they follow him to the parking lot outside the airport terminal.

      “Doug said you know the dig director and can get us clearance to film on-site?” Annja asked.

      “Already done. His name is Wesley Pierce and he expects you. Let’s hop in the Jeep and get you settled first. There’s a cozy little B and B a few jogs from the dig site at the edge of Ballybeag, and I know the proprietress, Mrs. Riley. Already told her you’d be needing rooms.” He winced, noting Eric’s general disinterest. “Be sure and take advantage of the breakfast every morning, but with a warning to avoid the black pudding.”

      “Avoid the black pudding,” Annja affirmed as she climbed into the passenger seat of the Jeep. Eric shuffled his equipment into the back and scrambled in. “Would it be all right if we head straight to the dig? After the flight delays and layovers it’s late afternoon and I’d hate to lose a day. I want to take a look around, familiarize myself with the area. I may find an opportunity to talk to someone who knew those who disappeared.”

      “Doug was right about you being focused,” Daniel said. “To the dig it is.”

      Once out of city limits, the regional roads in County Cork—all of Ireland, for that matter—weren’t so much roads as pathways carved out of necessity for getting from one place to the other. They weren’t well marked, and if so, Annja noticed, the signs sometimes displayed kilometers, and other times mileage—on the same road.

      “You have to learn the county quirks,” Daniel commented when Annja remarked about the mileage markers. “I’ve decided it’s always best to go by kilometers. But no matter which method of measure you choose, you’ll always end up СКАЧАТЬ