The punks dropped onto the sidewalk like monkeys clambering over a zoo wall.

Ascher made a furious run down the sidewalk beside Annja, and then leaped onto one of the moored boats. He scrambled over a red Smart car tethered to the boat's stern. Timing the moment, Ascher eyed the approaching water bus. With a great leap, he soared and hung in the air for a moment over the curdling white waves that curled out from the boat's bow, then his legs pedaled and he began to descend.

A thunderous roar from the tourists rose as he landed on the boat, clinging to the railing, his legs dangling over the river.

Still racing down the sidewalk, the wall to her left and the river to her right, Annja lured the punks after her. The tour boat veered to the right to go down the left-bank side of the island.

Now she just had to shake the tail.

Or not.

Annja stopped before a stairway that marched up to street level. Walking up the bottom steps, she then turned and faced her pursuers.

The three men, to their credit, didn't so much as pause when Annja produced a sword out of thin air. The first, clad in baggy trousers and a zipped-up sweatshirt, leaped toward her. Annja sliced low, drawing her sword across his knees. He dropped, yelping and collapsing on the bottom step. Blood seeped through the camouflage fabric.

Right behind him, the two remaining men had clasped hands and barreled forward. No weapons in sight. Such dumb determination.

Annja leaped, clearing their heads. She snapped into a roll in midair and landed on the cobbled sidewalk behind them. Since taking possession of Joan's sword, her physical prowess had increased slightly. She could make that run a little faster, hold her breath underwater a little longer and add a few feet to a leap with ease. It wasn't magic. It was something ancient and innate.

Landing solidly, she twisted her shoulder and bent backward to avoid the glimmer of steel that flashed in the air. A stiletto missed her head and pinged the stone wall behind her.

It was never wise to approach a man with a sword-or a woman, for that matter. Yet both thugs again charged her. Her sword sliced the air. Annja felt resistance, blade to bone. She'd cut through the bicep of one of them.

Before she could return the stroke of the blade, the other plowed into her, putting her up against the limestone wall. He actually growled. Annja jammed up her knee, connecting with his side. It wasn't a groin shot, but she'd gotten close to his bladder. Bellowing out a curse, he released her.

Both her ankles were grabbed and she lost balance. The one on the ground had crawled up behind her. Releasing the sword momentarily, she landed the cobblestones on an elbow, but couldn't roll. Pins and needles shot up her arm. He had a tight wrap about her ankles.

The one standing over her muttered something like "Where is the sword?" in French, and wound up for a punch. Annja stretched out her right arm, opening her fingers to receive Joan's sword- And all went dark.

13.

A weird sort of semiconsciousness toyed with her brain. Annja sat upright, but her neck ached for the awkward tilt of her head. Her eyes were not open. She could hear voices. Whispery, but with some real volume to them. Eerie. They were...inside her head?

Had she begun to hear voices such as Joan of Arc had in the fifteenth century? It wasn't entirely ridiculous. Having inherited the martyr's sword, the voices should be a given. Add that to her penchant to talk to herself and she was certifiable.

Get a grip, Annja.

Concentrating, trying to press through the weird fog of her brain, Annja listened keenly.

"I ask for a sword and you bring me a woman. I don't need need a woman," said an angry yet controlled male voice. "I need the sword." a woman," said an angry yet controlled male voice. "I need the sword."

"Boss, I know her. I've seen her on the TV."

"Oh?"

Annja heard metal sliding across a smooth surface. A few clicks across a keyboard. Must be a laptop on a desk.

"Show me," the first voice said.

The keys clattered. Annja distinctly sensed someone paced before her. Every other beat the creak of leather sounded from low, near the floor. Squeaky shoes. That brought her count to three in the room, besides herself. So far.

The last she remembered was shouting for Ascher to escape-with the map. He had, by leaping to the pa.s.sing water bus in a remarkable feat. And yet, here she sat. Obviously chivalry had not survived the centuries.

She'd thought taking on three men would be easy, until it had stopped being easy.

After being knocked out she had been taken somewhere. She didn't feel tied up. In fact, she was not, for a twitch of her left foot did not sense bound ankles. And her hands were free, resting on her lap.

Interesting. It could only mean the thugs who'd kidnapped her were present, and probably held enough firepower to make whoever was in charge believe she was secure.

Use the sword.

If she produced her sword and charged them now, she might never discover the mechanics behind this bizarre scheme. If it was a scheme. Whether to trust Ascher still bothered her. He could very well be in the room.

And if any in the room were armed, a thin blade wouldn't do much good when it came to deflecting bullets. Wonder Woman, she was not.

"Ah," the voice that seemed to be the leader said. "I see. Annja Creed."

So much for anonymity.

Now was as good a time as any to let them know she wasn't out. Annja lifted her head groggily. It didn't feel as though she'd been drugged, just clocked a good one, but the pull in her neck muscles forced her to move slowly.

"We have a celebrity in our midst." The leader strode toward her across a highly polished black marble floor.

The entire room, Annja noticed with a glance, was also walled in black marble. Outfitted with a chrome-and-gla.s.s desk and chairs and ultramodern artwork that boasted a few dashes of ink across white canvas.

And then there were the swords, displayed under tiny halogen spotlights. Half a dozen, at least, from her scan. It was difficult to determine their century of make or if they were merely historical reproductions. Probably the real deal.

A man approached, tall, thin and decked out in a gray suit. Diamond cuff links caught a glint of light and flashed violet and red at Annja. Medium-length brown hair waved about his head. It was thick, and though it looked tousled, she wondered did he have to work on it to get it just so? His face was gaunt, not an ounce of fat, every bone a deadly blade. Clear blue eyes were the only spots of color in the entire room, save the diamond flashes. His smile surprised her. It wasn't evil or plotting. He looked normal, like a businessman.

With a million-dollar budget for suits and accessories.

He stalked right up to her, and Annja realized she sat on a sort of love seat with black leather cushions and chrome arms. He put up a shoe on the seat to the left of her thigh and leaned forward over her knees. The spicy scent of his cologne was too appealing for this precarious situation.

Crossing his arms, he looked her over. He smiled the richest smile Annja had ever seen, like whiskey and dark chocolate and cherry pie filling all rolled up together.

Don't fix images of good things to this man. Stay wise. And alert.

"My name is Jacques Lambert," he said.

He didn't sound French. Actually, she wondered if his accent didn't have a touch of Boston to it.

"Chasing History's Monsters, eh?" Though soft, his voice hit a nerve in Annja's neck, which tw.a.n.ged worse than the pulled muscle did. "I've never considered Charles de Castelmore a monster. Tell me why you're pursuing the sword for such a show?" eh?" Though soft, his voice hit a nerve in Annja's neck, which tw.a.n.ged worse than the pulled muscle did. "I've never considered Charles de Castelmore a monster. Tell me why you're pursuing the sword for such a show?"

"Not every moment of my life is concerned with the show, Monsieur Lambert."

"Ah, she speaks. And rather eloquently for a popular television personality." Jewel eyes danced across her face, perceptive and ready for the pounce. Blindingly white teeth amped up the deadly allure. "It isn't every day I send my men on a quest for a rare sword and instead am brought a rare beauty."

"Are you still speaking of the sword?" she asked.

"Unfortunately not. Though I wish I were. My men tell me there was a man with you who got away with the treasure."

"Define 'treasure,'" she said.

"Hmm." He stood and glanced to the wall where a silver-and-gold epee, polished to a glimmer, hung point down. "It is long and pointy and hurts when pressed into a person's flesh."

"Sorry, don't have one of those to hand." Yet.

Lambert smirked, and pushed away from the love seat. "I like you, Annja Creed. But not enough to suffer your ill humor."

His eyes were placed close to his nose. Predatory, that position. Annja had always noticed the position of a person's eyes: close to the center meant predator; farther to the edges of the face signified prey. Hers were somewhere between the two.

"You've not got the sword?" he asked.

"It was obvious we hadn't a sword in hand before that ridiculous chase through the Tuileries began. Inept bunch of thugs." Annja cast a glower at the two hoodlums. One stood over the desk beside the laptop. The other loomed to her immediate right, gun in hand. They were not the same men who had pursued her and Ascher. Suits and ties had replaced camo and running shoes.

"But you have it somewhere safe?" Lambert asked.

"Define 'safe.'"

An open palm across her cheek stung much more than her pride. She hadn't seen it coming. The man moved quickly. He returned to leaning over her, huffing once from the exertion of his violence, and gripping the chair arm.

"Safe or not, you have the sword. You were at the dig site, and you accompanied Ascher Vallois home." A smile returned. "I'll need a location to ensure your safe pa.s.sage out of here."

"And where exactly is here?" She moved her jaw wide open, tonguing her teeth. Nothing loose. "Is this BHDC?"

Lambert straightened. The easy smile tightened, revealing teeth. "You've done your research."

"I am an archaeologist by trade. Research is my thing."

"Ah, so that explains your partnering with Vallois. Though, how much of an archaeologist he is remains open for debate."

"You know the man. That would lead me to guess that you are the one who decided he didn't need both kidneys. Am I right?"

Lambert rubbed his palms together like a child delighted over a toy. "Oh, I really like you, Annja. Messieurs. Messieurs." He gestured to his henchmen. "You may leave. Manny, keep post outside the door."

He waited for the thugs to trundle out. Annja took a moment to study the swords on the wall to her right. Three of them, each displayed under a halogen light. One was a rapier, sixteenth century, if she was not mistaken. Two closest to her position were epees, single-edged damascened blades, and boasting gorgeous hilts encrusted with jewels and gold.

All appeared sharp and ready for use.

"You appreciate a fine sword?" Lambert walked to the wall and touched a blue double-edged blade. "This one is German made. Not the usual S-shaped quillon quillon indicative of the maker, but instead a straight bar for protecting the knuckles. The blade bears a indicative of the maker, but instead a straight bar for protecting the knuckles. The blade bears a memento mori. memento mori."

"A death promise," Annja said, and Lambert nodded approvingly. "I have trouble believing you took away a man's kidney merely because you wished to display yet another sword on your wall."

"But you discount the intrigue and value of the find, Annja. Most people aren't aware that d'Artagnan was anything but a fictional character in an adventure novel. Find a person who even knows what a musketeer is and I'd be surprised. History is growing thin."

"It's not," she retorted.

"Really? Mention a musketeer nowadays and people look for a candy bar."

He had a point, but a stupid one at that. "History is constantly expanding as we uncover more and more through digs and discoveries. But I can agree that the depth of interest grows shallow," Annja said.

Arms crossed high on his chest, he turned to look over his shoulder at her. "Did I mention I like you?"

"Was that before or after you slapped me?"

Lambert strolled before her. "Can you imagine raising a child now, in these modern times, who resembles the greatest musketeer who ever lived?"

Annja tilted her head forward. He'd been going down an easily followable path, until he got to the child part. What did a child have to do with a stolen sword and her getting the stuffing kicked out of her on the bank of the Seine?

Trying her legs, she realized she could stand and dash out of here. But thugs stood outside the door. She'd sit tight.

"A child?" she asked.

"Doesn't have to be d'Artagnan." Lambert splayed his hands before him as he paced. "Could be Louis XIV or someone more recognizable, like Einstein or George Washington. Those choices would fall to scholars and the educated, I'm sure. The more socially conscious of parents might choose a celebrity, such as Angelina Jolie or George Clooney. The possibilities are endless."

Still not following the man, Annja strained her thoughts. How did Angelina Jolie and Louis XIV fit into the same discussion? And a child who resembled either of the celebrities?

And then it struck her. The research she'd done online. She hadn't been able to fit this quest for a legendary sword to a company that did genetic research. Until now.

"You were were after the DNA evidence on the sword," she concluded. after the DNA evidence on the sword," she concluded.

"There was evidence?" His shoes tapped the floor in quick clicks as he approached her. "What did you do with it? Christ, I imagine the sample was contaminated beyond belief."

"There was a hair wrapped around the hilt, but the root was not intact. And I'll thank you to have a little respect for my profession. I know how to handle an artifact without contaminating it."

Though she hadn't handled it properly at the dig site, nor after the map had been stolen.

"It could still be there. More of it. Something you overlooked." Lambert again placed his foot on the couch. A bead of sweat clung to his forehead. His confidence had fallen a notch. "I must have that sword! Do you realize what a sample of DNA can become?"

"A new kidney?"

"Ha!" He gripped her by the shoulders, and Annja flexed her fingers to prepare. One wrong move, buddy. "A new life!"

Lambert spun away and paced toward his desk.

Annja stood and, though compelled to reach for her sword, she stilled the urge. She was on the verge of discovering something, and she didn't want to push him back under the rock.

"Life?" She remained standing before the love seat so he wouldn't be tempted to call in his thugs. "Are you talking-" if therapeutic cloning could create a human organ, then what was to stop him from "-human cloning?"

Glee danced in his bold eyes. A wicked, maniacal glee that cut into Annja's gut as if a blade. He's not all there. He's not all there. Otherwise he'd be keeping this information close to his vest. She had that thought, and then quickly switched tracks. Otherwise he'd be keeping this information close to his vest. She had that thought, and then quickly switched tracks.

"Human cloning is illegal," she said.