"But-" Jacques tapped a finger on his lower lip. She didn't bend to retrieve it. It is almost as if...it appeared from out of nowhere. "Impossible."

She swung again, bringing the sword tip to Theo's throat, and pressing him backward. They left camera range, and Jacques switched to another view.

He did not recognize the weapon she wielded as one from his collection. It was double-edged, utilitarian and looked...medieval, but that was about all he could determine from the grainy security feed.

Would she slay Theo on camera? She must be aware she was being videotaped. Surveillance cameras were mounted in plain sight in the records room.

"Who is this woman? I thought she was a television personality."

The blade slashed. Annja swung up her free left fist, and clocked Theo under the jaw. As the behemoth security guard fell, Jacques saw the delicate line of blood across his throat. She had not cut to kill, but merely to threaten.

He focused on the sword-no, definitely not from his collection. She swung it high, prepared to strike again, but when her victim hit the floor, she lowered her right arm, sword in hand- It was gone.

The weapon had literally vanished from her grasp. It had not fallen to the floor. She had not sheathed it behind her back or at her hip. Nor had she set it aside.

It was gone.

And Annja Creed made her escape.

Too stunned to react quickly, Jacques murmured, "What a remarkable weapon. If it really does come from out of nowhere..."

He swung around the desk and marched to the door. "I must have that sword."

16.

Annja ran through the reception area, giving a frantic wave to the receptionist, who rose, moving around the steel desk, but was yanked abruptly to a stop as her headset was still attached to the telephone.

She noted one woman seated in the reception room on a couch. Young, blond and sporting a big belly. Pushing through the front door, Annja scanned down the street to the left. No traffic, not a single car parked on the street. To the right, the back of a woman in a navy-blue dress swayed in the midday sun.

Veering to the right and slowing to a fast walk, Annja quickly paralleled the woman, turning to offer her a smile. She received a glowing smile in return. The woman rubbed a hand over her generous belly.

Annja continued walking. Two pregnant women?

Where the h.e.l.l was BHDC? Turning and searching the cityscape, she couldn't pick out any familiar landmarks, which was normally easy in Paris.

To her right, the angry rush of traffic revealed the peripherique peripherique circled close by. It was the main freeway that enclosed the city. That meant she was somewhere near the outskirts of the city proper. circled close by. It was the main freeway that enclosed the city. That meant she was somewhere near the outskirts of the city proper.

A cross street ahead offered two cafes and a magazine shop. A man walking a dog paused to buy a newspaper from an outdoor vendor.

Annja slid a look back toward BHDC-no thugs yet. The pregnant woman sent her another smile. Annja made a dash for the magazine shop.

Once inside, she offered a "bonjour" "bonjour" to the man behind the counter, then picked up a glossy copy of to the man behind the counter, then picked up a glossy copy of Vogue Vogue and pretended to read it, while she kept her focus outside. The pregnant woman strolled without a care, and she turned down the street, perhaps to go into one of the cafes. and pretended to read it, while she kept her focus outside. The pregnant woman strolled without a care, and she turned down the street, perhaps to go into one of the cafes.

Now someone did emerge from the BHDC building. Not Jacques Lambert, but a tall man holding a pistol in plain sight. He looked both ways, then headed the opposite direction Annja had taken.

"Idiot," she muttered. Returning the magazine to its stack, Annja decided she was in need of a cup of coffee.

THE PREGNANT WOMAN in the navy dress met a girlfriend in a coffee shop that boasted decadent truffles behind a curved gla.s.s counter. She acknowledged Annja with a bright smile as she entered. Annja gave a little wave as if to say "Ah, such a coincidence, we just saw each other on the street," and then went to the counter and ordered a coffee with three creams.

On interior surveillance of her surroundings she noted the aisle behind the counter stretched back to a door, propped open, most likely to a courtyard where a trash bin was kept. It could be contained, but she was betting money that it opened to an alley. An escape route, should it come to that.

While she waited for the sales clerk to retrieve a fresh carton of cream, Annja read the small placard on the front of the register. It featured a picture of a cathedral she recognized, but couldn't quite name at the moment. Tour Mansart's Greatest Works it advertised.

"Mansart," she muttered. "Why does that...?"

"Mademoiselle?" The clerk handed her a cup. The clerk handed her a cup.

"What cathedral is this?" she asked, pointing to the advertis.e.m.e.nt.

"Ah?" The clerk reached around and peeled the taped notice from the register. "Oh, this expired last week. It is a tour of Francois Mansart's works. This is Val-de-Grace."

"Right, the cathedral that Queen Anne had commissioned so she could baptize her son?" That was about all Annja recalled of the historical monument.

"Exactly. I am an admirer of the architect, so I posted the tour. You have been to Val-de-Grace?"

"No. So he was seventeenth century?"

"Oui. Designed many famous sites and mansions until Mazarin had him publicly ridiculed by declaring him wildly extravagant and to be having an affair with the queen. None of it was correct. But he suffered for it, and never worked again. Pity. So many wonderful things he could have yet created." Designed many famous sites and mansions until Mazarin had him publicly ridiculed by declaring him wildly extravagant and to be having an affair with the queen. None of it was correct. But he suffered for it, and never worked again. Pity. So many wonderful things he could have yet created."

"Mansart and Queen Anne," Annja said under her breath. She took a sip of the coffee, and glanced to check her pregnant woman was still there. "Mansart?" she said.

Instead of Maquet.

Could that have been the word Lambert had scrawled along his copy of the map? Historically, the architect fit into the picture. Too well.

"Do you know anything about the tunnels that run under the city?" she asked, making the query light and not too serious.

The clerk shrugged. "I know that Mansart had to reinforce many of the tunnels beneath Val-de-Grace due to cave-ins during the construction. Paris sits upon a complex network of tunnels. I am surprised the whole city does not collapse!"

"Don't tell that to those who ride the Metro," Annja said with a laugh. She offered a tilt of her coffee cup and a thankful nod. "Very interesting to consider. Merci. Merci."

She took a chair two tables away from the chattering women and placed her back to them to maintain a good view of the street before her. Lambert's thug could double back and check out this end of the street. At least she hoped he did. What kind of thug was he if he didn't?

So. Mansart. This could be a lead. But she couldn't do anything about it until she got back to her car and her laptop.

The coffee served to zap her consciousness sharply. After being knocked out and transported-and then what she'd seen in the BHDC building-Annja wasn't sure it hadn't all been a weird nightmare.

She took another sip of the cream-whitened brew. No, she was thinking clearly. She'd read horrible things in the files back at BHDC. And the woman sitting not ten feet away from her had probably come from the building. Was she being seen by a BHDC doctor? Did they operate an actual fertility clinic?

Annja found it hard to believe biopirates could be so generous. That's what they were-evil men stealing genetic material from unsuspecting women. The fertility clinic was a front. Had to be. It provided a means to their research.

Was the woman chatting in animated glee with her friend a guinea pig?

"It's such a treasure." The pregnant woman's words carried over to Annja. "Michel and I have been trying for years. Such marvels medicine can perform."

Her friend agreed, and the two shared a giggle.

Annja swallowed back a huge rise in her throat. Yes, a baby would be a treasure to an infertile couple. But what kind of baby was she carrying? A clone? A mini-Marie Antoinette?

"Have you picked out names?" the friend asked.

A few more giggles.

If BHDC experimented with cloning they would need stem cells. Stem cells were not easy to come by, and illegal if gained through improper means and methods.

Though it was a guess, and a wild one at that, she scared herself with her thoughts. Did BHDC harvest eggs from infertile mothers, with the promise of fertility treatments? Perhaps a few eggs were set aside and used for cloning research. The mother would never miss them.

That made Annja wonder if BHDC actually did perform fertility treatments. Why bother after they'd gotten the stem cells they sought?

But there were pregnant women coming out of the woodwork around the place. Was that their payment for partic.i.p.ating in a research they could never know was illegal?

"Are they carrying clones?" Annja muttered over her coffee cup.

The files she'd scanned had detailed failed births and infants dying but moments-sixty-eight minutes-after birth. BHDC was a clone factory of sorts. And they hadn't yet mastered their trade.

ANNJA PUT DISTANCE between herself and BHDC. The street where the cafe sat ended at what appeared to be a cathedral. It made perfect sense. There were hundreds of churches and cathedrals in the city.

She walked toward the cathedral, hoping to orient herself from there. The scent of the river carried through the air, so the Seine must be close. Perhaps a few blocks away, though the French didn't call them blocks.

The street veered to the left and right to circle the cathedral. Annja stopped at the corner across from the courtyard. For the first time she spotted a street sign.

"Rue Jeanne d'Arc," she read the sign. "Who would have thought?"

The utter serendipity of the moment struck her, and she smiled. "I guess I just have to accept the fact that I'll always be where I should be. Cool."

An open-air market edged the courtyard before the cathedral, which she now saw was Notre-Dame-de-la-Gare. Our Lady of the Station. Probably the cathedral had little to do with Joan of Arc, but, compelled, Annja walked forward and took the steps until she found herself standing inside the dark quiet of the grand structure.

The air held an ancient and musty aroma. Looking back outside toward the market, a wistful wonder overcame Annja for what it must have been like to be so young, and so determined to fulfill a holy quest whispered by G.o.d. It had to have been too much for Joan, for one so young. She had faced her destiny fiercely.

"As I should mine," Annja said.

She held out her right hand, opening it to receive the sword, but did not will it to this realm of reality where she stood. There was no need. The knowing was all Annja required to feel the power of it. Immense power hummed in the sword. Ancient wisdom, united with desperate determination. A bold confidence seasoned with the barest desire for the soul's freedom. And always, valor.

"I have not been subjected to half so many horrors and trials of endurance as she must have experienced. I can do this. For as long as I must," she pledged.

Clasping her hand over her heart, Annja looked through to the sanctuary. Vast arches and the vaulted ceiling made her so small. She did not enter. But she did whisper what felt like a prayer for the unborn child in the belly of the woman she had watched in the cafe.

"I pray it's not one of Jacques Lambert's experiments." And then she crossed herself, as she had not done for a long time.

The nuns from her New Orleans orphanage would be so proud.

Stepping back outside, she figured there must be a Metro station close by. Scanning the neighborhood, she saw a familiar site to her right. The library.

Not far from where she stood, the familiar four book-shaped buildings of the Bibliotheque Nationale appeared just over the building tops.

Skipping down the cathedral steps, Annja fixed her path to rue Charcot and headed toward the library. She thought she probably had enough change in her pocket to gain access. And her reader card should be on file. She'd gone through the obligatory interview with a librarian a few years ago to get that. The library was very particular about whom they allowed to access their information.

Keeping a keen eye to her periphery, Annja picked up her pace.

Jacques Lambert would not allow her such an easy escape, she felt sure. The cameras had recorded her rifling through doc.u.ments. And her fighting the thug with a sword that she'd summoned out of thin air.

If only she'd had time to nab some of the paperwork. It was up to her to get evidence into the hands of the proper authorities before the bad guys caught her first.

Yes, bad guys, she thought. BHDC was attempting to clone humans. The doc.u.ments she had read proved that. She couldn't guess how many fetuses had been destroyed or damaged in the process. And what about actual births? The one file spoke of cesarean delivery. She wasn't a medical genius but she knew enough to know that what was going on there was a bad thing.

But where to go? Without evidence, would the French police jump on this and take immediate action? Who was she to decide what was the best option? Would Roux know what to do?

She'd tried his cell phone, but Henshaw said he was out. Her next-best choice, but probably useless considering she wasn't in the States, was Bart McGilly.

Annja dialed his number.

"Hey, Annja, long time no hear. The connection isn't good. Where are you?" Bart asked.

"Paris," she replied.

"City of love. I wish I was there."

And she wished he was, too.

"I have a dilemma and was hoping you might have some words of wisdom." She relayed the entire adventure to him and what she'd seen at the BHDC offices.

To his credit, he didn't tell her she was in over her head. That was Bart. They were friends first, and always. Though she sometimes suspected he considered her more of a little sister. She could never quite place him as a brother. He was too attractive for that.

"I don't know how the European laws operate, Annja, I'm sorry. I'd suggest you go to the police with your suspicions, but without hard evidence, it could be difficult. They're more likely to nod their heads politely and scoot you out the door."

"That's what I thought. But if I can get evidence?"

"Then you go to the police, go directly to the police, do not pa.s.s go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Because I suspect if you find evidence, you'll also find a h.e.l.l of a lot of bad luck. You watch your back, Annja."

"Always do." She hung up, not feeling any more sure of the situation, but also relieved just from talking to a friendly voice.

While she was tucking her phone away, it rang.

She checked caller ID. It wasn't an unidentified number, so it wouldn't be Lambert. Ascher Vallois? Last she'd seen, he'd been hightailing it away from her, map in hand.