Secret of the Slaves (24 page)

Xia caught her eye. She winked.

Patrizinho's body, Annja thought.

She turned to look her tormentor in the face. “Torture's a lousy way to get actual information, Publico,” she said. “Surely your intel pals have told you that.”

“Well, field research has confirmed what common sense told me,” he admitted, “that a subject being tortured either says nothing or tells her torturers anything she thinks they want to hear in hopes of making the pain stop. But when I torture this exquisite creature before your helpless eyes—cause her to suffer unendurably, not just for hours, but for days, for weeks—how long will you be able to bear
her
agony, Annja Creed?”

Patrizinho's body burst into flames.

Publico looked at the sudden conflagration. The guard holding Xia's left arm gaped in astonishment. Then, glancing down, he saw that the left leg of his armor had caught fire. Blue flames raced up his side. He let go of Xia and began to beat at himself, screaming in terror.

Annja was already in violent, decisive action. No sooner had Publico's eyes flicked from her than she called the sword back to her hand. As he stared, utterly dumbfounded, at the fiercely burning corpse of his foe, she leaped to her feet. Holding the sword with both hands, she brought it up beneath the two wire leads of the Taser.

They parted with no more resistance than cobwebs.

She spun in a circle. Sir Iain turned back toward her.

She whirled into a lunge and rammed the sword through his belly to the hilt.

He doubled over. His handsome face clenched like a fist in agony.

Annja looked down into the blue eyes of Sir Iain Moran. They looked very surprised, staring up at her from the floor where he lay dying.

Annja Creed sat back in bed with her knees propped up, tapping contentedly on her laptop. She felt as if she could lie in the air-conditioned comfort of the Belém hotel room forever. The television rattled away in the background, unheeded—electronic wallpaper, synthetic companionship.

It had been a wild ride.

The television suddenly drew Annja's attention. With a start she realized she was seeing an aerial shot of the camp near the old plantation.

“Just days ago rogue elements of the Brazilian armed forces,” an announcer was saying, “apparently bribed by renegade billionaire masquerading as philanthropist Sir Iain Moran, attempted genocide against a tribe of peaceful Indians of the upper Amazon. This crime against humanity was foiled when the aggressors fell to fighting among themselves. They killed their officers and Moran before surrendering to the indigenous defenders. High civilian and military officials are under arrest this hour in Manaus and Brasilia, and the U.S. has joined Germany and Russia in an emergency session of the UN Security Council in calling for a worldwide investigation into the so-called humanitarian empire of the man who called himself Publico….”

Annja sat up. With the remote she turned up the volume. The Brazilian news went on to report on the latest disappointments involving the national soccer team.

Intrigued, Annja clicked around the channels. In short order she turned up a broadcast from a North American news network.

“—back to talk about how the late rock star Publico's bizarre New Age beliefs led him to madness and mass murder. And how, ironically, he might have done a final humanitarian work greater than all the previous ones for which he had become so famous. Here to tell us about it is Dr. Frederick Mobutu of the World Health Organization.”

From the host with the wild hair and heavy-framed glasses the camera switched to his guest, a stern, dark man wearing an embroidered cap like a fez.

“Thank you, Charlie,” Dr. Mobutu said. “The Yaraíma tribe, whom Sir Iain nearly succeeded in wiping out, has just entered UN-mediated negotiations with the government of Brazil, along with a consortium of pharmaceutical companies. All access to their lands will be most strictly forbidden, but they will happily share the cornucopia of hitherto unknown and fantastically potent medicinal plants Sir Iain Moran sought to take from them by force.”

“For a price, I'm guessing,” the host said.

“To be sure,” the doctor said. “Royalties, it is predicted, will run to hundreds of billions of dollars within a very few years.”

“And I'm guessing that, even before a penny is paid or a deal is fully in place, waves of lawyers have rushed forward to assist the victimized tribe,” the host said.

“That is also true. We might perceive a silver lining even in that, though, Charlie. Between the lawyers and all the media attention there will surely be no further attempts, legal or otherwise, to steal the land and its treasures from its rightful owners.”

Annja laughed even as tears rose in her eyes. They did it! she thought. The Promessans finally found a way to get more of their secrets out to a needy world.

It shouldn't surprise her, she realized. These were the same people, after all—or their descendants, anyway—who had hidden combat training from their masters in a dance.

She closed out the file she was working on, anthropological notes she was never, ever going to be able to publish, and shut her laptop. Laying it aside, she clicked off the television and the light and lay down to sleep. Her thoughts were jumbled. She knew she'd agreed to have her memory altered by the Promessans. She wasn't sure anymore what had been real or what she'd imagined. She was content to know she'd helped to accomplish something good.

T
HE PHONE SHOOK
her rudely out of sleep.

“Hello?” Usually she snapped straight to full wakefulness. Maybe I still haven't healed as much as I thought.

“Annja sweetie honey?”

“Doug?”

“The network wants extra shows,” Doug Morrell, irrepressible producer for
Chasing History's Monsters,
warbled in her ear. “We're starting back up early. I've been calling you for days and days and days. What, did you fall off the edge of the Earth?”

“Something like that,” Annja said.