The Dragon’s Mark (5 page)

Because Henshaw was still involved in the cleanup at the estate, Roux had one of his other men drive Annja back to her hotel in the city. She was fine with that; if she had seen Henshaw again that night she would have had to tell him just what she thought of his participation in eradicating a crime scene and that wouldn’t have gone over well with either of them.

Once back at the hotel, she checked her messages at the front desk and then rode the elevator to the sixth floor. Not satisfied with anything as simple as a basic hotel room, Garin had booked her into a three-room suite, complete with a spa bath, a comfortable sitting room and a separate bedroom.

As soon as she was safely ensconced inside, Annja fired up her laptop and hooked her digital camera to it, downloading the pictures she’d taken of the origami dragon. Once she was finished she chose four of the best images and then attached them to an e-mail to her friend, Bart McGille.

A Brooklyn detective who was also a dear friend, Bart had helped her in the past when she needed information, and he was as good a source as any to start with.

Her explanation seemed plausible enough to her and she was hopeful Bart would take it at face value and do some digging on her behalf. If he came up with anything, she’d use that to get to the bottom of the attack on Roux’s estate. She knew there was more going on there than met the eye, but with Garin and Roux on the outs with each other it was going to take a crowbar to get either of them to talk more about it.

Finished, she suddenly realized how tired and sore she was. Her body ached from a combination of the effort of hand-to-hand combat and the physical hammering she’d taken from the concussion grenade. Never mind the long flight from New York. A hot bath and a decent night’s sleep would do her some good, she decided.

The hotel had kindly supplied a selection of bath crystals and she selected one jar at random and threw a handful in while the water was running. Soon the sweet scent of jasmine filled the room.

Annja sighed as she slid naked into the hot water and for the next twenty minutes did nothing but bask in its heated embrace.

Once she had managed to soak some of the soreness from her bones, she got out, dried off and wrapped herself in one of the big, fluffy bathrobes the hotel provided. Not wanting to go to sleep with wet hair, she took the time to comb it out and blow it dry. When she finished, she slipped into a pair of comfortable cotton pajamas and climbed into bed.

Sleep came quickly.

T
HE LATCH ON THE
French doors that led to the balcony in the sitting room snapped open with a soft click about an hour later. The door opened silently from the outside. A shadow detached itself from the others that hugged the exterior wall and slid inside the room without making any more noise than the door had.

The intruder stood to one side once inside the room, waiting for eyes to adapt to the level of light and listening for any sound or sense of movement.

There was none.

The guest slept on in the bedroom next door.

The intruder crossed the sitting room with a few quick, sure steps, almost as if passing from shadow to shadow. At the bedroom door the intruder paused, listening again.

The door to the bedroom swung open and a shadow slipped inside the room as swiftly and quietly as it had entered the suite itself.

On the bed, the sleeping form of Annja Creed could be seen in the dim light coming in through the window’s half-drawn curtains.

The intruder carefully walked around the bed until Annja’s face was in sight and stared down at it for several long moments.

Why you?

What makes you so special?

Annja did not reply.

As the intruder looked on, Annja mumbled something in her sleep and flailed about with one arm.

The Dragon watched for a long time, a wraith standing in the darkness beside the bed, eyes alert and ready.

It would be so easy to end it here, the Dragon thought silently. A sudden thrust and it would all be over but the dying. The Dragon could then search the suite in a leisurely manner; no doubt the sword was here somewhere.

But the sensei’s instructions had been clear. The sword must be given voluntarily or it was useless to him. Disappointing the sensei was not something the Dragon wanted to do, ever.

It would seem that the easy solution was off the table for now. The Dragon would have to wait to claim its next victim.

The intruder bent close.

“Until next time, Annja Creed.”

A
SWORD CAME WHISTLING
in toward her unprotected throat and Annja knew that this was it. She was about to die…

She awoke, bolting upright in bed, her heart hammering like a thousand kettledrums all at once, a thunderous booming sound. Her eyes were already searching the interior of the room for her opponent, her hand tight on the hilt of her sword as she called it into existence from the otherwhere.

But there was no one there.

The room was empty.

Realization came roaring in.

A dream, just a dream, she told herself.

She pushed back the sheets and got out of bed. With the tip of her sword she checked to see if anyone was hidden behind the curtains, then turned to look out the window, expecting at any moment for a face to press itself up against the glass, horror-movie style, and announce that it was coming for her. But the glass remained empty, the space around her silent.

Satisfied that no one was in the room with her, Annja turned, intending to investigate the rest of the hotel suite, only to come up short when she saw the door leading from the bedroom to the living area was open.

Her mind whirled as she tried to remember—had she left it open or closed it behind her?

She was certain that she had closed it before going to bed.

Or, at least, ninety-five percent certain that she had.

She moved toward it with panther-light steps and carefully eased past, taking in the sitting room just beyond.

It, too, was empty.

The hotel room door was securely shut and locked, as were the French doors leading to the balcony outside.

Despite what her gut was telling her, it appeared that no one had been in the room.

Still, just to be safe, she took another few minutes to search the entire suite, including the closets, the bathroom and even under her bed.

Then and only then, satisfied that she was indeed alone, did she release the sword back into the otherwhere and return to bed.

This time she made certain to shut the bedroom door firmly.

Her last thought, as she drifted off to sleep, was that someone was watching.

When she checked her e-mail late the next morning, she discovered a very succinct note from Bart in reply to her.

Call me, was all it said.

A glance at the clock told her that it was early back in the States but she picked up the phone and dialed his number.

A sleepy male voice answered. “McGille.”

“Hi, Bart. It’s Annja.”

“Hey! How’s Europe?”

“Not too bad.” They chatted for a few moments about what they’d been up to recently and then Bart turned the conversation to the reason she had called.

“So what’s this about a robbery?”

Annja gave him the fake story she’d concocted about how her friend’s apartment had been vandalized by a thief who’d left behind the origami figure as “payment” for what he’d stolen.

“Sounds like a job for the Paris police. Why send the pictures to me?”

“My friend is subletting the place from the current tenant without the owner’s permission. If she goes to the police, the owner finds out and that will be that.”

Annja knew that was all she had to say. As a veteran New Yorker, Bart would understand the need to keep the sublet a secret; real-estate prices were so outrageous that subletting rent-controlled apartments had become a thriving black market in the Big Apple and Bart would no doubt believe the same about Paris. For all Annja knew, the situation in Paris might even be the same.

“Say no more,” he said good-naturedly.

On the other end of the line Annja breathed a sigh of relief. “So what did you find out?”

“To tell you the truth,” Bart replied, “not much. I made a few phone calls, had some folks check some records for me, and what they came up with were all negatives. No similar crimes in your area. No record of origami figures being involved in any crime, regardless of the type, in more than seven years. Basically they found nothing to tie this burglary to any other, in France or elsewhere. Maybe your cat burglar just has a sense of humor.”

Annja digested that for a moment, knowing that she was partially hampering Bart’s ability to get her information by not telling him the entire story. Still, it couldn’t be helped.

Something Bart said jumped out at her. “What do you mean you didn’t find any link to crimes committed in the past seven years? Were there some before that with the same M.O.?” she asked.

Bart laughed. “That’s where you nearly gave me a heart attack. Ever hear of the Dragon?”

Annja frowned. “Wasn’t there a Bruce Lee movie with that name?”

“No, that was
Enter the Dragon.
Great movie, too. But that’s not the Dragon I’m thinking of. This one is an international assassin who likes to leave little folded origami figures at the scenes of his kills.”

He said it so matter-of-factly that at first Annja didn’t think she’d heard him correctly.

“Did you just say ‘assassin’?”

“Yeah, an international hit man, if you can believe that. Responsible for more than eighteen deaths in half a dozen countries, including France. Real son of a you know what.”

Annja felt her stomach do a slow roll as she remembered Garin’s words from last night.
Probably could have ambushed any one of us before we even knew they were there.

Bart wasn’t finished, though. “And talk about someone who loves their job, this guy managed to get up close and personal to each and every one of his victims. They say he took it as a personal challenge. He’d get in, do the deed and vanish before anyone even knew he’d been there. The police had nothing on him for years, except for those stupid little paper dragons he would leave behind with the bodies in his wake.”

Bart laughed. “You sure there wasn’t a dead body lying next to that origami, Annja?

Anger flared. “Jeez, Bart, that’s not funny!”

“What? Okay, come on, Annja, lighten up a little. Do you think I’d still be yammering away on this end of the phone if I thought you and your friend were being targeted by some crazed international assassin?”

That was the problem. He thought they were still talking about some harmless burglary.

She couldn’t tell him the truth now; he’d be worried sick. “No, I guess you wouldn’t,” she said instead, laughing it off, while inside she was burning to know more.

Luckily Bart was a talker. “And talk about old-fashioned. Guy manages to pull off eighteen major hits and not once does he use a gun? Come on! What is he, stupid?”

A shiver ran up Annja’s spine. Hesitantly she asked, “If he didn’t use a gun, what did he use?”

“A big-ass sword apparently. One of those curved Japanese blades, like the one Sean Connery carried in
Highlander.
”

Annja hadn’t seen the movie, but there was no mistaking what Bart was talking about. “A
katana?
” she asked, dreading the answer but needing to know, anyway.

“Yep, that’s it. A
katana.
Can you imagine getting close enough to a major political figure to try and take him out with a freakin’ sword? When everybody else has guns? What a maniac!”

This was getting worse by the minute.

“Did they ever catch him?”

“Of course they did. Why do you think I’m not worried about you, given the kind of trouble you get yourself into?”

She had to admit he was right; ever since taking possession of the sword, she had a knack for getting herself into the biggest messes possible.

Like now.

“So what happened to him?”

Bart snorted. “Got blown up when he tried to take out the British prime minister at a summit in Madrid back in 2003. There wasn’t enough left of him to fill a Baggie.”

Just when she started to feel better about the situation Bart had go and ruin things again.

“So they never found a body?”

“What did I just say? There wasn’t anything left of him to bury, Annja. But trust me, you and your friend can rest easy. Whoever it was that broke into your friend’s flat was probably just trying to be funny.”

“Some sense of humor,” she said, and laughed along with him while inside she was getting more and more nervous by the minute.

She made small talk for a couple of moments more, thanked Bart for what he had dug up and then got off the phone as quickly and as gracefully as she could without raising his suspicions.

As soon as she had, she headed for her laptop.

A quick search online turned up a decent number of feature stories and news reports from the eighties through the nineties that talked about the mysterious Dragon. All of them told the same basic story Bart had—assassin for hire, no one knew his background or what he looked like, or even if the Dragon was a man or a woman, only that he always killed with his weapon of choice, a
katana,
and would leave a piece of rice paper folded into the shape of a dragon at the scene of every killing. The press had given him the moniker “the Dragon” when word of the origami figures leaked out, and to this day it was the only name they had for him. The Dragon’s identity vanished in the same explosion that had claimed his physical body.

She sat back, staring off into space, as she pondered the similarities. An international assassin who killed with a Japanese
katana
and left origami figures in his wake, and an unknown intruder who broke into a rich man’s home, carried a
katana
and left an origami figure in his wake. They were too alike to be just a coincidence. Either someone had decided to take up the killer’s mantle or the killer himself had never actually died.

After all, there hadn’t been a body, she reminded herself.

Maybe the Dragon had spent the past few years in hiding, recovering from injuries sustained from his last assassination attempt, and had only recently chosen to come out of hiding.

But why would a political assassin be after Roux? she wondered.

The most logical answer would be that he wasn’t. After all, Roux took considerable effort to stay out of the limelight and something like politics was anathema to a man like him. But what if the Dragon had decided to forgo political assassinations in favor of a mercenary lifestyle? Killing for hire, perhaps? That was a different story entirely.

Garin had been right; Roux had angered enough people over the years that a list of those who held a grudge strong enough to try and kill him would be very long indeed.

More than a few of them had the means to do it, too.

This was not good—not good at all.