Stars of Fortune
Page 79

Annika touched his hand lightly. “Are you from now?”
“Yeah. Born twenty-nine years ago. And listen, if I knew how to get back to the when and where all this started, maybe I’d risk it. But that’s more than I’ve been able to do. And if I could, I don’t know if there’s anything I could do anyway.”
“Can you take anyone with you?”
“Yeah. I took my brother back to Dodger Stadium to see Jackie Robinson play. It was his birthday—my brother’s—and my grandfather okayed it. But I’ve only tried it with one person. Theoretically, I could take more. We don’t talk about this outside the family,” he continued. “It’s like your deal, Riley, sort of. I went over this with my grandfather and I was going to bring it up last night. But you had to wolf out.”
“Huh.”
“Something like this gets out and you’ve got all kinds of crap to deal with. This asshole got wind of it, and he’s been on my ass for five years now. Son of a bitch tried to ambush me last year in Morocco where I was following a lead. Gave up trying to buy it, and tried to shoot me instead. Fucking Malmon.”
“Wait a minute. Wait.” Teeth bared, Riley leaned forward. “Andre Malmon?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“I know him. Likes to bill himself as a rescuer of artifacts, as an expert on mythology, a consultant, adventurer, whatever suits his needs. He’s a thief, a cheat, and I can’t prove it, but I know he killed an associate of mine. He’s onto you—to this?” she added, tapping the compass.
“Yeah, he is. I lost him after Morocco.”
“He won’t give up easy. I’ll make some calls, see if I can find out where he is. If he’s anywhere close, we need to defend against him as much as Nerezza.”
“Does he know about the stars?” Bran asked her.
“Malmon knows something about everything.” She picked up her drink, scowled into it. “Son of a bitch Malmon. If he gets wind you’re here, Sawyer, that I am, that we are—unless he’s hot on somebody else’s ass, he’ll be all over us. He’d slit your throat for that compass.”
“Yeah, I got that loud and clear in Morocco.”
“For the stars?” She drained the rest of her drink. “He’d gut every single one of us.”
“Then we’d better find them first.” Doyle rose. “I’m getting a beer.”
“Bring some for the rest of the class.” Bran turned to Riley. “Tell us about Malmon.”
“Smart—plenty of letters after his name. But more, he’s ruthless. He’s got plenty of scratch.”
“He had a . . .” Annika scratched her fingers along her arm.
“No—it’s another word for money, and he’s got piles of it. Big load of family money, then whatever he can steal. He’ll take any contract if it pays enough. My sources say he’s the one who arranged to abduct the white rhino—northern species, critically endangered—out of the conservancy in Kenya. Left two people dead. Nobody could prove it, and they’ve never found the rhino.”
“Why would anyone steal a rhinoceros?” Sasha wondered.
“Because somebody paid him, a whole bunch of a lot. Most likely somebody just as rich and just as vicious as he is who wanted to hunt it. A lot of sick bastards get off hunting rare and endangereds.”
She shook her head at the beer Doyle brought back. “If he knew what I was, he wouldn’t rest until he’d locked me in a cage and sold me to the highest bidder. Anyway.”
She pushed that away. “He’s mid-forties, has bases in New York, Paris, Dubai, an estate in Devon. Probably more. French father, Brit mother, raised primarily in England, from what I know again. If I had to label him, I’d go with narcissistic sociopath. He’s got mercs and a couple ex–Special Forces on his regular payroll, and picks up freelancers for specific jobs. But he doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, or bloody. My take is he enjoys it.
“My friend had contacted me, way juiced. Told me he was dead sure he’d found Carnwennan, asked me to head to Cornwall, help him verify.”
She changed her mind on the beer, took one after all.
“What’s Carnwennan?” Sasha asked her.
“King Arthur’s dagger. Plenty in my line believe it pure myth. I don’t happen to agree, and Westle—Dr. Westle—dedicated most of his professional career to Arthurian pursuits. When he said he’d found it, I believed him. It took me a couple of days to wrap up what I was doing and get to him. When I did, he was dead. Garroted—but not before he’d been tortured, not before his lab was trashed and torched—and him with it. No sign of Carnwennan, of course, or any of his notes, any of the other artifacts he’d found. Malmon was spotted in Falmouth, and that’s not coincidence.”
She got up. “I’m going to make those calls, see if I can find out where he is and what he’s up to.”
“And we’ll deal with him, if and when,” Bran said when Riley walked off.
“Him, his mercenaries, and hired guns,” Doyle added with a glance at Annika.
As if she’d waited for a cue, she sprang up into a series of flips across the table, and ended braced on her hands with the heel of her left foot a bare inch from Doyle’s face.
He laughed, so quick, deep, appreciative, that Riley—from several feet away, glanced back in his direction.