Читать книгу God Of Thunder - Alex Archer - Страница 7

Plunging through the emergency door, Annja ran out into the alley behind the theater. Potholes lined the street. Battered Dumpsters filled to overflowing stood resolute as old soldiers against the wall. She spotted some fire escape stairs to her right and headed for them.

Under the retractable ladder leading up to the fire escape, she leaped up and caught the chain, pulling the ladder down. The ladder clanked through the gears, then halted with a clang that echoed through the alley.

The noise drew the attention of the four men exiting the theater. As they turned toward her, Annja dropped the package she’d been carrying and climbed the ladder. She crunched her body from side to side, taking the rungs three and four at a time, one side pulling and pushing while the other reached for new hand-and footholds. Her backpack thumped against her back.

Agent Smith fired at her, and his aim had improved. One of the bullets hit the rung in front of Annja’s face. The round ricocheted with a shrill screech. Two more bullets jackhammered brick splinters that pelted her face and coat.

Annja didn’t look down. She looked up, focusing on where she wanted to go. Looking back or anywhere else would have divided her attention and slowed her.

Reaching the rooftop, Annja heaved herself over as a new salvo of shots chopped into the side of the building. She dropped to a squatting position, keeping her head below the edge of the roof.

The gunfire stopped.

Annja forced herself to wait. She reached into the otherwhere for her sword and felt the familiar hilt against her palm. All she had to do was pull and it would be there with her.

But she didn’t do that. The sword was only an option when she was out of all other options. Even Joan of Arc, who had first carried the sword into battle, hadn’t relied on the sword as anything more than a last resort. Joan’s words and actions had brought countries, kings and churches to heel at different times in her young life. Now that the sword belonged to Annja, she knew it carried with it a heavy responsibility.

Not hearing any sounds on the fire escape, Annja relaxed her hand and the sword faded away. Duckwalking farther down the roof, she cautiously peered over the edge into the alley.

Agent Smith had the package. He used a small knife to slit it open. Reaching inside, he brought out a Star Wars collector plate that featured Yoda.

“Yoda?” Agent Smith held up his captured prize in surprise.

Nikolai had once coerced Annja into accompanying him to a local sci-fi event. As it turned out, Annja had discovered she had a fan base among the convention goers. She was surprised that Nikolai had shoved his prized plate into the package.

One of the other men spoke rapidly in a guttural language that Annja thought was German. She spoke the five Romance languages fluently, a little Russian and even less German, but she could make her wants known in those languages. The man below spoke too quickly and quietly for her to understand what was said, but she gathered that he wasn’t a happy guy.

Agent Smith argued with the man, evidently protective of the plate. That made Annja wonder if they even knew what they had been sent after.

Abruptly, a cell phone chirped for attention. Annja realized it was her phone in the side pocket of the backpack. She pulled her head back just as the men looked up and one of them pointed his weapon at her. The bullet cut through the air where her head had been.

She fished out the phone, hoping it was Bart returning her earlier call. But she didn’t recognize the phone number on Caller ID. The string of digits logged there were too long to be domestic, and she knew it was an international number.

The country prefix was 371. She didn’t recognize that, either. Curious, not hearing anyone running up the fire escape and thinking that the call might be from Mario Fellini, Annja answered the phone.

“Hello.”

“Ms. Creed?” a woman’s voice asked in a professional manner. There was an accent, too, but Annja couldn’t place it.

“Speaking.” Annja crept across the rooftop and took up another position. A siren screamed in the distance. She hoped that Nikolai had gotten hold of the police.

“You don’t know me, Ms. Creed,” the woman said, “and I’m sorry to trouble you. Am I calling at a bad time?”

“If you’re trying to sell me something, yes.” Annja peered over the roof. The four men, satisfied with their ill-gotten gain or not, had elected to leave.

They know who I am, Annja realized. It’s not like they’re going to have trouble finding me again if they want to.

That wasn’t exactly a happy thought. In fact, it made her angry to think she couldn’t go back to her loft. Her work was there. Her life.

I am not going to be afraid of going home, she told herself as she watched the men flag a cab. She took her small digital camera from her backpack, focused on the men and snapped off captures in rapid succession.

“I’m not trying to sell you anything, Ms. Creed,” the woman said. “I’m looking for Mario Fellini.”

“You didn’t say who you were.”

“I’m Erene Skujans.”

Annja tried to place the surname as she watched two of the men climb into the cab. One of the other two crossed the street and flagged down another cab headed in the opposite direction.

A feint at misdirection? Annja wondered. Are they going to separate places, or are they going to meet up somewhere?

She memorized the cab companies and identification numbers on both cabs. Both were medallion cabs fully licensed by the state of New York.

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen Mario,” Annja said.

“It’s important that I speak to him, Ms. Creed.”

Annja felt irritated. The woman acted as if Annja was being deliberately evasive about Mario Fellini.

“You did hear the part about me not seeing him, right?” Annja abandoned her post and jogged across the rooftop to the fire escape.

She started down, taking the steps quickly.

“I’m afraid Mario may be in trouble,” Erene Skujans said.

Me, too, Annja thought. Especially since a package he sent me has got guys shooting at me.

“What kind of trouble?” Annja asked.

“I don’t know the extent of it.”

Lie or truth? Annja wondered. She had no way of knowing.

In the alley, Annja sprinted for the street. She ran toward a line of cabs in front of the theater. Evidently the cab companies had heard about the shooting and had massed in an effort to pick up extra fares desperate to get out of the area.

“Again,” Annja said, running down the line of cabs, “I haven’t seen Mario. I just got back into New York. I’ve been out of state.”

“Mario said he was going to contact you.”

“Did he say why?” Annja found a cab that belonged to the same company that two of the men had taken. She shoved two twenty-dollar bills up against the window, fanning them so the driver could see them both.

He was young enough that her looks probably captured more of his attention than the money. He waved her in.

“No.”

That, Annja thought as she opened the rear passenger door and slid across the seat, is probably a lie.

The driver peered at her through the security glass and smiled. “Where to?”

“Why didn’t Mario try to call me?” Annja asked.

“He left the country suddenly. He didn’t want anyone to know where he’d gone.”

What country? Annja wanted to ask.

“Hold on,” Annja told the woman. She covered the cell phone’s mouthpiece and looked at the driver. “Another one of your cabs just picked up a fare on this street. Just a couple minutes ago. I got the number of the cab. I missed a meeting and I’m trying to catch up to a client. If I don’t at least try to close this deal, I’m going to be looking for a new job.” She tried to look desperate.

Some of the smile left the driver’s face and he didn’t look so friendly. “Hey, lady—”

Oh, great! Now I’m “Hey, lady,” Annja thought. So long sex appeal.

“I got this thing about hauling around psychotic ex-girlfriends,” the driver said. “No offense.”

“If I was a psychotic girlfriend,” Annja said evenly, “I’d wait for him at his apartment.” She took another sixty dollars from her jeans with her free hand and held the full hundred against the safety glass. “Now the question is, do you want a big tip or should I find another cab?”

The driver eyed the money and shrugged. “You know, psychotic or not, it’s really none of my business. What was the number of the cab?”

Annja gave it and they got under way. The driver called for dispatch and asked about the other cab’s fare destination.

“Okay,” Annja said into the phone, “I’m back.”

The woman was gone.

Thinking the signal had been dropped, Annja called the number back and listened to the double ring tones.

No one answered.

Annja closed her phone, wondering what Mario Fellini could possibly have gotten into that would have involved men with guns and no hesitation about killing. And why would he have brought that to her?

She sat back quietly in the seat and watched the congested traffic around her. They rolled through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel and into Manhattan without stopping because the cab was equipped with an E-ZPass that automatically paid the toll.

“I gotta charge you for the toll,” the driver said, shrugging.

A hundred-dollar tip and you want to be chintzy? Annja bit back the retort and said, “Fine.”

The radio DJ interrupted the music to relay the news about the shooting in Brooklyn at a local theater. The driver eyed Annja suspiciously in the rearview mirror.

Don’t look psychotic, Annja told herself.

“So what kind of business are you in?” the driver asked.

Annja put her smile and conversation on autopilot. The driver wanted reassurance that he wasn’t making a mistake. “What kind of business would you expect?”

The driver eyed her a little more deliberately. “You’re fit. Young. Obviously aggressive or you wouldn’t have me chasing after your client right now. But you’re not dressed like a stockbroker.”

“I’m not a stockbroker. That’s close, though.”

“How close?”

“I work for a guy who’s in business putting talent together.”

“Like rock bands?”

“Not that kind of talent. He’s a corporate headhunter. Raids other companies of their employees. If they’re good enough.”

“So the guy you’re after…”

“Wrote some kind of computer application my boss thinks is mind-blowing. Now he’s not going to rest until I manage to put the two of them together in the same room and he has a chance to pitch him.” The story sounded good to Annja. She’d watched something like it on the Discovery Channel while she’d been in Florida. “If we land him, I get a vacation.”

“Cool.” The driver smiled and nodded.

By the time they’d finished the discussion, the cab rolled to a stop in front of the Sentry Continental Hotel.

“This is it,” the driver said.

Annja peered up at the eight-story structure as a uniformed bellman advanced on the cab.

“You’re sure?” Annja asked.

“Yeah.”

Annja paid him and allowed the bellman to help her out. Settling her backpack straps onto her shoulders, she walked into the hotel, wondering how she was going to find the two men she’d come there looking for. While her mind was occupied with that, her phone rang.

Caller ID showed a number that she was all too familiar with. The number belonged to Doug Morrell.

Annja chose to ignore the call as she entered the hotel’s lobby. The decor was marble the color of old bone and had brass ornamentation. Brass planters held arboricola trees, triangle palms and philodendron plants.

The guest registry was tucked away to the right, quietly blending into the wall. A young woman stood at the desk and watched the action at the bar area a little farther back into the hotel.

Annja’s phone rang again, but this time it was a text message.

Hey Annja.

Some guy named Marty Fenelli keeps calling. If you ask me, the guy sounds desperate. Maybe he’s just a rabid fan?

Anyway, give me a call when you get this.

Doug