Rogue Angel - Swordsman's Legacy Part 13

"Unless she sent a lackey to do the job," Annja said.

"Trust a lackey with a treasure?"

"I cannot picture Anne of Austria traipsing about some dank, dark tunnel. Why ever hide the treasure? Why not simply present it to d'Artagnan?" she asked.

"Perhaps it is because the treasure was baubles from lovers she wished to dispose of privately. No royal ceremony to hand over illicit love gifts."

They had conjectured during their online chats that the queen had indulged a few lovers in her lifetime. Ascher had suspected d'Artagnan had gifted her the jewels, which made little sense if the man had never had money to hand. Although, the queen could have known of his financial situation and sought to return the man's gifts, purchased in a foolish moment of devotion.

Annja couldn't help but wonder if Cardinal Mazarin-or even Richelieu, his predecessor-had held Anne's heart. They were the most common a.s.sumptions by historians, as well.

"Okay," Annja said. "We're hunting for gifts from indiscreet lovers. So where do you think the royal palace should be on this map if this wide line is the river? Doesn't it appear as though the fleur-de-lis sits right on that line?"

"Perhaps, but I pray the queen did not expect d'Artagnan to dive for the treasure. Certainly the key to the map was placed in the southwest corner as is common with most maps?"

"Not always. It could be the northeast corner. See?" She handed him the laminated copy.

Looking over the tangle of twisting lines, none marked, but merely creeping like snails' trails across the paper, Annja tried to orient it to a specific direction. The thick line that dissected it did so very evenly. The river should curve rather sharply at the west end. And even though the left bank was less dense and smaller in area than the right, it was impossible to determine which was which for the way the lines had been drawn. And there was no island marked on the thick line, which would indicate the ile-de-la-Cite.

They would definitely need a key. The missing corner of the map.

"This map didn't appear to have been removed for centuries," Annja said. "I wonder if d'Artagnan removed the key? But before or after he'd found the treasure?"

"He did not find the treasure," Ascher said with a.s.surance. "We know that, Annja."

"Maybe. The doc.u.ments of his holdings after his death detailed very little in personal or property, but...no, you're right. He couldn't have found it. D'Artagnan strikes me as the sort who would have reveled in a fortune and perhaps have given at least part to his family. So, what's the plan?" She couldn't help but be intrigued.

"We could mark out the map aboveground," Ascher suggested. "Walk along the river to see if this wider line coincides."

"Aren't there like five hundred miles of tunnels beneath the city of Paris? This will be like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack," Annja said.

"Indeed, what else have we but to try?"

She did like his optimism.

"Besides," he added, "there were probably only a quarter so many tunnels two hundred years ago."

"Which will only make navigating three times more difficult. The lines won't match the current system of tunnels," Annja pointed out.

"Just like an American to always see the negative."

"I think I resent that," she said.

"By the way, where is the rapier?" Ascher's voice sounded right near her ear. She twisted and found herself face-to-face with him. His bold blue eyes swept across her face. "In the car?" he asked, looking around.

"I don't have it with me."

"You promised we would trade," he said.

"Not until I know you can be trusted."

"I've told you everything. What more do you want? Blood? I've already sacrificed a kidney! I must have that rapier."

"Not until we've found the treasure and you've given me reason to return it to you."

She tugged the map from his grip and crossed the bridge to the north side of the Seine. She would head toward the Louvre down the quai de Gesvres, figuring that if a queen were to hide a treasure, most likely she would place it close to where she resided.

"ANNJA IS RETURNING for the sword," Roux instructed Henshaw as he strode into the guest room she had slept in that morning.

"I'll tend the room, sir," Henshaw said.

"Right. I want to check she didn't leave anything behind."

Their conversation about DNA and genetic testing had got Roux to thinking. Why hadn't he considered such a thing before? It could answer the one question that occurred to him relentlessly since meeting Annja Creed and watching her take command of Joan's sword.

"There must be something in here," he muttered.

The bed sheets were rumpled and pushed back. Bright sunlight beamed upon the pillow. The impression of her head still dented it. Roux leaned over the bed to inspect. He was looking for something most particular-there!

From beneath the pillow he tugged a long single strand of chestnut-colored hair. Holding it high before his face, he inspected both ends in the sunlight, and found the small root still attached to the end.

"DNA evidence?" he murmured. "Interesting. Very interesting."

12.

They left their cars outside Notre-Dame and decided the best course would be to walk up to the Louvre and then try to figure from there if the map matched any landmarks. Not that landmarks would help if the entire map were of the underground tunnels.

It was nearing 6:00 p.m. and the streets were clear before the dinner rush that would see the rue de Rivoli tight with traffic and the riverside packed with the workforce eager to get home.

The shops were still open, hawking musty books and frayed treasures from the past. Annja found herself straying toward one particular stall with huge green bins of books displayed.

Ascher tugged her back on target.

They pa.s.sed three main intersections where the bridges connected to the island. The Louvre in sight, their pace had decidedly picked up. Ascher grabbed her again.

"What's the problem?" Without waiting for Ascher's answer, Annja tracked their circ.u.mference with a twist of her waist and to each side.

Three young men following them, apparent because they were the only ones beating a determined trail in their wake. Not dressed in thug suits, but instead, running shoes and camouflage trousers and loose sweats.h.i.+rts.

"They look like street punks," Annja commented. "The kind you see skateboarding in herds before the city hall."

"Do you see skateboards?" Ascher slipped a hand into hers. Their pace sped to a slow jog. "They've been following us since Notre-Dame," he said.

"BHDC?"

"Who can know?"

"Well, if you're not sure, that means you've got more enemies than you're letting on to, Frenchman."

"No time to argue." He gave a tug to Annja's hand, and then released it as he took off. "Run!"

While she had never been one to question intuition, the idea of running away from mere-Annja flashed a look over her shoulder. The punks had begun to run.

"Right, then. Run it is."

She took off after Ascher, noting he wasn't in mind to run around the iron fence before him. Instead, he leaped onto the short stone wall the fence poles were anch.o.r.ed into. Climbing the iron hand over hand, his sneaker toes gouging into the iron poles, he pinnacled and levered himself over the top.

"Show-off." Annja went for the same move.

She landed the other side with bent knees and arms out to balance. Instantly, she realized they'd entered the yard behind the Louvre. No doubt, security cameras had spied their illegal entrance. But she didn't give it another thought as their pursuers charged to the fence and began the same climb.

"Time to lose the apprehension," she muttered, taking off at a dash. It was onward and straight forward from here.

"You coming?" Ascher called as he sped across the gra.s.sy lawn outside the medieval structure that had been modified for centuries and was now the preeminent museum of the world.

He darted for a low brick barrier, made the top and then leaped, disappearing in a flying, arms-out balletic move.

"Right behind you," she said.

The man was a traceur, traceur, a pract.i.tioner of a pract.i.tioner of parkour. parkour. Annja was now getting a hands-on session with a master. She'd never done it herself, but it was all about running the landscape-including buildings-taking the shortest route, as fast and safely as possible. Physical agility and quick thinking were required. It was about escape or chase, whichever side you put yourself on. Annja was now getting a hands-on session with a master. She'd never done it herself, but it was all about running the landscape-including buildings-taking the shortest route, as fast and safely as possible. Physical agility and quick thinking were required. It was about escape or chase, whichever side you put yourself on.

In this instance, she had no qualms with escape.

French cries for her to stop barreled out from the three punks. Far more preferable than a policeman wielding a club. She wasn't keen on spending time in jail.

But how would her time be spent if the punks caught up to her?

Annja raced across the gra.s.s. Her hiking boots were not made for high-speed chases, but they were worn enough to allow her ankles flexibility.

The courtyard of the Louvre appeared to her right. The gla.s.s pyramid where visitors entered the museum was lit, and the surrounding pond glimmered gold in the twilight.

Ascher avoided the line that queued from the pyramid and darted across the street to enter the Tuileries. Catherine de Medici, mother of Ascher's favorite king, had commissioned the royal garden in the sixteenth century.

Not at all winded, but wondering how far her boots would take her, Annja gained Ascher's side.

He signaled they should run the tree-lined avenue down the center of the garden. In two great strides he jumped to a concrete bench, sprang high and cleared a low yew hedge.

"Land on your toes!" he hollered back to Annja.

Taking the jump, she did land on her toes, but briefly, as she rolled her body forward, curling across her right shoulder into a ball and pus.h.i.+ng upward into a run. The impact had been remarkably light. But then the distance of the leap had been less than ten feet.

Crushed gravel spit at her ankles as her pursuers began to land. They were too close.

Annja sped across the manicured lawn that none in the gardens walked on. She didn't see any Keep Off The Gra.s.s signs. Just ahead, Ascher sprinted down the center of the wide gravel-paved main alley.

The garden was alive with children riding the merry-go-round while mothers chatted. It was probably an evening pre-dinner stop for families coming home with schoolkids in tow. A slow-moving donkey cart ferried squealing toddlers beneath the trimmed lime trees that dropped yellow leaves in slow dollops.

Breathing from her chest, Annja focused on keeping the pace. She'd gained some distance from her pursuers. Drawing up her diaphragm and pumping her arms at her sides opened her airway and allowed increased speed.

Ahead, Ascher ran right for the donkey cart. He leaped, toeing a concrete column, and cleared the entire cart with one flying soar through the air. Annja thought it was remarkable that the man virtually flew.

Annja marked her paces, suspecting she couldn't make the same ground-to-air leap. Instead, she was able to step onto the sidebar of the cart, push off and perform a high leap, topped by a snap into a midair roll. She landed on the ground in another roll, and was off with the elation of the chase.

Make that escape.

Was it wrong to be feeling rather proud of her first go at parkour? parkour? She really should only be concerned with the situation. She really should only be concerned with the situation.

"But I so rock." And she sped onward.

Carnival music jittered out from the huge neon-lit ferris wheel to her right. Ahead, the octagonal pond loomed. Ascher dodged to the left, slowing a bit, as Annja caught up to him.

"Take the Concorde," he said in short huffs. "Detour to the Seine. We might lose them there."

He made a jump and landed on the corner of one of the horseshoe ramps that slanted upward to form the end of the gardens. Looking over the highest peak, Annja spied the Eiffel Tower about a mile off in the distance. She followed the leader's example.

The concrete border edging the slanted ground was about eight inches wide with gra.s.s topping the ramp. It was easier to balance the faster she ran. Two of the punks followed, while one ran parallel along the ground, though he had to detour around a statue and a flock of ducks waddling toward the pool.

The end of the gardens landed them at the place de la Concorde, where once revolutionaries decapitated cartloads of royals for the macabre pleasure of the citizens. Sunlight glinted on the gold-capped pink granite obelisk. It stood in the courtyard to their right where a crew of cars honked in echo of the gruesome cheers from centuries past.

To her left, Ascher dashed to the edge of the bridge and leaped to the top of the guard rail. Balance exact, he leaped forward in the direction his body wanted to sway. Airborne two seconds, he then landed on the top of a moored houseboat. A bounce set him into the air like an acrobat, and he landed on the sidewalk with an easy spring.

Annja followed in kind, dropping to the cobblestone sidewalk that hugged the Seine. Houseboats were moored up to the edge, lined all the way to the next bridge.

A water bus motored slowly by, transporting tourists on a lazy river tour of the city. A loudspeaker announced the forthcoming Tuileries to the left.

"Now, that was awesome," Annja huffed out. Bending forward, she pressed her palms to her knees.

"No, stand and stretch back your arms to draw in air," Ascher coached. "And quickly."

The twosome spied the punks as they mounted the bridge. Hasty looks were exchanged. How to fend off the pursuers?

"You take the boat," she said to Ascher. It was key he got to safety. Besides, she could handle a couple of street punks. "We'll split up."

"I cannot leave you, Annja."

"You're not leaving me-you're protecting the map. Now go!"

He understood what she suggested. With a nod, he dashed off, and so did Annja. "Call me when you are safe!" she shouted.