"Sit tight, Annja. There's only one way out, and my pit bull is guarding the exit. I'll return momentarily and we can resume our discussion, yes?"

He didn't wait for a reply. The door slid shut, and the wall appeared to seamlessly rejoin.

Annja turned around. The laptop, still powered up, displayed a view of what looked like a lobby, lined with white overstuffed chairs.

The lobby of BHDC?

She leaned in and touched the mouse.

A secretary walked into camera range and sat down behind a desk, the same blonde who had just announced the visitor's arrival.

Annja hit the back arrow and up popped the image of the map on the monitor. Actual size, her spread hand almost covered it completely. It was an exact copy, even the fleur-de-lis showed at the end of the red line.

But there, along the scanned margin where a black smear showed when the paper must have lifted from the scanner, was a scribble. Not on the actual map, but outside the edge. A notation made by Lambert? He'd wondered about a missing signature from the map's designer, so this could not be it.

Annja tilted her head to read the small, tight letters. "Ma-" She couldn't make out the last letters. Could it be Maquet? As in Auguste Maquet, who cowrote with Alexandre Dumas?

It made sense that Lambert had found a copy in Fouquet's journals. Auguste Maquet, Dumas's collaborator, had discovered that a map existed during his research. And the only way to know that would have been to see see the actual map. Maquet very likely would have been researching Nicolas Fouquet for the actual map. Maquet very likely would have been researching Nicolas Fouquet for The Three Musketeers, The Three Musketeers, as well as for as well as for The Man in the Iron Mask, The Man in the Iron Mask, which, literary scholars conjectured, was based on Fouquet's imprisonment. which, literary scholars conjectured, was based on Fouquet's imprisonment.

That still didn't answer the question of who who had created the map. Someone Lambert obviously felt could provide the method to navigate the map. had created the map. Someone Lambert obviously felt could provide the method to navigate the map.

Moving the mouse, Annja clicked on the Internet browser icon. Checking the history tab, the browser opened up to the Chasing History's Monsters' Chasing History's Monsters' Web site. Another click on the back browser brought her to Google, where her name had been entered in the search box. Web site. Another click on the back browser brought her to Google, where her name had been entered in the search box.

Lambert obviously hadn't known about her until now. That was a good thing. But not for Ascher Vallois.

Quickly clicking the other desktop icons, Annja searched the applications for incriminating files. She bet Lambert wouldn't leave bait like that lying around. On the other hand, he had been very free with details of BHDC's activities.

Cloning historical figures? It seemed too out there. Bizarre. Morally wrong.

Perhaps he'd spilled because he already knew she would not be leaving this building. Not alive anyway.

That realization made her next decision a no-brainer.

Annja stalked over to the door. She opened the fingers of her right hand and closed them over the sword's grip. She swung the door inward, and stepped out.

The thug growled, but before he could connect fingers to gun grip, Annja swung up a roundhouse and clocked him on the jaw.

It wasn't a knockout hit, but it did send him wobbling to splat against the wall. Holding back the urge to slash him across the chest, she turned and bent to deliver another punch, up under his chin to deaden the mandible nerve, then stepped over his slack body.

She stood in a long hallway of black marble. A few framed swords and various medieval weapons, lit by halogen lights, dotted the length of wall both ways. It was impossible to determine which way was out.

Besides, Annja didn't want to leave yet.

14.

Jacques Lambert a.s.sessed the white-haired fellow who nodded as he entered the meeting room. The man was distinguished and calm. He felt no hint of apprehension as he'd suspect a treasure hunter or someone with ulterior motives would possess. A cream linen suit did not disguise a powerful build for an elderly gentleman.

He carried a wooden box secured with two rubber bands.

Jacques approached Roux, curious about the box, but more inquisitive about a stranger who seemed to change as a chameleon. In the security video he had appeared rather hunched-as Sabrina had explained-but now, he seemed to have grown at least a foot. Curious.

"My a.s.sistant informs me you give your name only as Roux," Jacques said.

"It is my name."

"No first name?"

"Not lately, no."

The men held each other in regard for a moment. Jacques was expert at sizing up an opponent down the length of a blade. His elder was keen of eye and held himself straight and bold. No attack was imminent. Jacques could not place the man's accent-he wasn't an expert at the many European variations. Whatever it was, his speech was quite formal, almost from another era.

"Why the theatrics?" Jacques asked. "You're not the same man my receptionist decided was a frail, elderly gentleman."

"Perhaps she saw an entirely different side of me," Roux replied.

"Or else you had not wanted her to see you as a threat."

"A man should always put on a considerate face for a woman. They so rarely are given the respect deserved in this patriarchal society."

Hooking a leg up onto the stainless-steel desk, Jacques crossed his arms over his chest. Normally he would not put himself below eye level of an opponent, but he wanted to present a casual front, throw the man off from whatever he was sniffing for.

Knowing the female archaeologist sat in the next room put him on guard. Two unknowns in the same day? That could hardly be coincidence.

"What brings you to my office, Roux? We are a private company. All appointments are by invitation only."

"I realize that."

"As I've said, I cannot guess your reasons for visiting a fertility clinic, sir."

"Fertility? Heavens no. My gentlemen are still quite potent," Roux said.

And yet, he'd been completely unaware of the fact he'd been standing in the waiting room for a fertility clinic, Jacques thought. He tightened his grip on an elbow.

"You see, Mr. Lambert, after recently learning about BHDC, I realized I am in possession of something you might find of particular interest."

Jacques looked at the man straight on. Always meet your opponent's gaze, for there is where the first signal of attack shows. "And you gained your knowledge of BHDC...how?" he asked.

"An anonymous source. Don't ask for names, Lambert-we both know the business you operate treads the borders of lawlessness. I personally care little what you deem moral and just. But I believe I can help you, if you agree to help me."

An offer as such always proved intriguing. But often dangerous.

Jacques was very careful whom he allied himself with. Unfortunately, he hadn't been discerning enough with Ascher Vallois. One would think a knife through the kidney would acquiesce anyone.

The elder gentleman held his head at a tilt, his soft blue eyes unthreatening. Briefly, a flicker of his father's soft yet accusing gaze gripped Jacques with memory.

It's not so simple, Jack. This money is stolen. And even if it was not, it won't help Toby move higher on the donor list. There are rules. We have to wait.

Rules. Ridiculous rules that had allowed an innocent boy to die. Rules had killed his brother.

Ever since, Jack Lambert had made his own rules.

"Mr. Lambert?"

"Hmm? Oh. Go on," Jacques said.

Roux set the box on the conference table and snapped off both rubber bands. "I understand you may have an interest in historical artifacts."

He tilted off the cover and Jacques leaned across the table to inspect. A musty odor combined with an astringent note rose into the air.

"It is the actual chain-mail hauberk from a prominent historical figure," Roux explained. "Fifteenth century."

"Who told you that?"

"No names come to mind. Have you an interest?"

"Depends on which prominent figure you're offering. Is that blood?"

A brown, flaking stain coated three of the mail links. Viable DNA could rarely be retrieved from ancient blood. Due to oxidation, UV light, environment and other variables, it wasn't a reliable method. Bone or teeth would prove a better source.

"There is blood, but here-" Roux lifted the mail. It made a rattling sound.

Jacques struggled inwardly not to grab the mail away and insist the man handle it with more care.

Roux pointed to a section of the artifact. Embedded within the metal rings, almost as if woven in, were fine hairs. "This is what I thought would most interest you. I count four, possibly five hairs total. A few yet have the roots on them, I believe."

Curiosity piqued, Jacques held out his hand and Roux set the lightweight mail onto his palm. The mesh of rings had apparently been well cared for. There was no rust, no grime embedded within the links, as was usual for chain mail. He was cautious not to completely open up the vest for he wanted to keep an eye on the bloodstain, prevent further flaking.

Indeed, there were hairs twisted about the links. Whoever might have worn this had given a part of his or her very being. And the hair was coiled tight about the rings, ruling out the possibility that Roux had simply woven his own hair into the mail.

"Who did it belong to?" Jacques asked. "A valiant yet nameless knight? One of Charles VII's foot guards? Is there a certificate of provenance? Sir, I only deal with legitimate-"

Roux pressed his knuckles to the desk and leaned forward. His imposing bearing shadowed Jacques. "It was Jeanne d'Arc's coat of mail."

"Jeanne d'Arc?" Jacques stifled his laugh because he did feel a certain amount of respect was owed this enigmatic yet deluded man.

He knew, as most casual historians did, that the only remaining articles believed to belong to the ill-fated martyr were but a few letters she had signed. Her ashes had been burned twice over and then cast into the Seine, though there were some who would claim to possess her charred bones. DNA testing had proved one such bone to be a cat femur.

"You don't believe me?" Roux scooped up the mail and, plucking the box in his other hand, turned for the door.

"Wait!"

The odd man continued all the way to the door before stopping, and he didn't turn around. Not like the usual snake-eyed con artist who would sell a replica to make a fast buck, this man. There was something utterly intense and solid about him. He truly believed what he held was authentic, Jacques realized.

"Have you any proof?" Jacques asked.

Roux swung around and held up the box on a palm. "Only my word."

The compulsion to simply trust struck Jacques at his heart. The child inside him craved the appearance of a nameless yet valiant knight come to rescue him from his annihilated dreams. To bring back Toby.

It's not that simple, Jack. You just can't steal money and expect it to cure your brother!

And here stood a powerful presence that seemed to grasp out and wrap that strange fantasy into Jacques's soul. A protector he and his brother had never had. A man who would vanquish all pirates and stand boldly the victor for all just causes.

"I understand that you do not know me from Moses," Roux stated, "but you'll have to trust me, Mr. Lambert. This mail has never seen a museum or an archaeologist's curiosity, so papers, or whatever you require, have never existed."

"Then how can you you know it is authentic?" know it is authentic?"

The elder man summoned a mischievous grin. "It's been handed down through the generations."

That was about the only way around a written provenance. Yet even inherited treasures and artifacts were often validated with a letter or family diary. And who could ever truly know if Great Uncle Charlie was playing a joke on the entire family by claiming ownership of the genuine article?

"This would be quite a feather. The DNA of the Maid of Orleans?"

He realized Roux could have learned about BHDC's genetic research with an Internet search, as had the Creed woman.

Jacques glanced to the wall where the sliding marble door was cleverly concealed. It had been a good fifteen minutes. Did he trust she would sit tight? With Manny guarding the door, she wouldn't get far.

"What do you say, Mr. Lambert? Have you interest?" Roux asked.

"If we can extract a viable sample."

"The hairs?"

"Possible."

"More than possible." Roux crossed the room and again leaned over the desk. "Your breathing has increased and your palms sweat," he stated. "You want this."

Jacques curled his fingers into his moist palms. "I do," he whispered.

"Excellent. I'll leave the chain mail with you. But I must have it back. Will a week prove long enough?"

"Yes. But what do you ask in exchange, Mr. Roux?"

"I'm glad you asked."

He again set the box on the desk, top open, so the chain mail revealed its mystery. Reaching inside his suit coat, he withdrew a plain white envelope. Roux held the envelope up to the fluorescent lights, which did not illuminate the white paper well, although it was enough to see a few curved lines from inside.

"I've also brought along a more recent sample," he said. "This is what I want, Lambert. You may borrow the contents of this box and use it as fits your needs, no small sacrifice on my part, I'll have you know. You will also check this modern sample and verify genetic relation."

"You're saying you think the newer sample is also related to the saint?"

"I'm really not sure. But I trust that if anyone can tell me, it would be you."