She didn't need any of them.

Arriving at the door to Lambert's office, Annja lifted a leg and kicked near the biometric lock. Still wearing the rubber boots, she felt the impact keenly. She hadn't expected it to fall inward, thinking surely the lock and steel mechanism would hold firmly-but one good kick did bring the whole thing down.

Inside, Jacques Lambert leaned against a desk, his ankles crossed casually and his palms to the black marble edge of the desk behind him.

"I've been expecting you, Annja Creed."

"Really." She stepped across the threshold and, while keeping her distance, maintained a peripheral view of the doorway. "Where's your fiddle, Nero?"

"You saw? There's no smoke, is there? It's contained. Third floor only. You've forced me to take measures."

"Imagine that, you having to take measures."

"Didn't take you long to find your way out from the dark labyrinths that snake beneath our city. Pity about the treasure hunter."

"He's still alive. Not for lack of your attempts. Your goon was ordered to kill, wasn't he?"

"Of course. I don't do anything halfway, Annja-you should know that by now. But your death was not ordered. You hold great value to me."

"Charmed, I'm sure."

There were no lights on in the room, save the small halogens highlighting the swords on the wall. As it was, they provided enough light to show the maniacal glimmer in Lambert's eyes.

Annja had encountered many a power-crazed villain, most very intelligent and reasonable of mind. A villain could never get far without skill and intelligence. But the truly frightening opponents were those who got sucked in by one small twisted desire, and ran with it.

"Speaking of my goons. Did you leave the body behind to rot?"

Annja wasn't sure how to report the death, or to what authorities. Aboveground police or the cata-cops? She wasn't keen on allowing innocent cataphiles to stumble upon a rotting corpse. "Taken care of." Or would be soon enough, she hoped.

She glanced around Lambert's arm. "Is that the box?"

He reached behind his back and slid a small white box into view. It had been too dark in the tunnels to know more than that it was a box and light colored, possibly metal. But now she saw it was wood, painted white. A beam of light fell across the decorative flourishes carved along the edges and the base. It was ornate, but it struck Annja that the design was not fitting of the period. Something created in the seventeenth century would have been even more elaborate, flourished with the baroque. The style appeared flowing yet spare, perhaps art nouveau, though she knew little about the art style of the time period.

"I was hoping you could explain this to me," Jacques said. "It appears perhaps Dumas put the joke on all of us."

She stepped forward, wary of her periphery, and also not about to forget that the building was on fire. Contained? How did one contain a fire to one floor? Perhaps that's where the goons were. Destroying BHDC's files.

The more time she wasted, the more incriminating files Lambert was able to destroy.

"It's not indicative of the baroque time period," she said. "I would expect gilding, some miniatures painted on the sides. Of course, time might have erased any detail work. May I?"

Lambert nodded eagerly and she picked it up.

It was light. The wood must be walnut, or perhaps mahogany; she couldn't be sure with the white paint. The cover was latched on two opposite sides. Interesting. It wasn't a lock and key, but rather a sliding latch mechanism, and it wasn't gold or silver, but bronze. Again, a surprise.

Wouldn't a gift from a queen, rumored to be worth an untold sum, at the very least, be offered in an elaborate setting?

There were words engraved around the rim of the box cover. Annja traced a finger along the raised carvings as she read, "Tous Pour Un, Un Pour Tous?" "Tous Pour Un, Un Pour Tous?"

Lambert met her wondering stare with a shrug of shoulder and splay of his hands. "Ironic, isn't it? That Dumas was able to dupe so many. I had always wondered if he had based The Count of Monte Cristo The Count of Monte Cristo upon his own treasure findings. This proves it." upon his own treasure findings. This proves it."

"If Dumas found the treasure, then why did he die in debt?" Annja asked.

"Extravagant spending, a childlike lack of understanding for the value of money and goods," Lambert said.

Details Annja knew anyone could know about the writer by reading a simple biography.

She opened the lid. There was nothing inside, save a soft red velvet lining. If it was from d'Artagnan's time it had aged very well. But the condition of the fabric led Annja to believe it was much newer.

"There was nothing inside?" she asked.

Lambert shook his head. "I would tell you if there had been. Honest."

He probably would have. If only to flaunt his find, she knew.

"This could not be the treasure," she said. "It could not have been placed in the tunnels during Queen Anne's time."

"Perceptive, but dull as a horse," Lambert said snidely. "There never was a treasure. It is a hoax designed by Alexandre Dumas, for-I don't know!"

"It couldn't be." She replaced the cover and smiled at the saying that Dumas had made famous: All For One, One For All. The musketeers' call to adventure, their claim to protect the king and each other. "The map was in d'Artagnan's sword. Dumas couldn't possibly have found the sword and planted it outside Chalon to be later dug up by-"

"Treasure hunters?"

He implied she'd stepped from her profession to the dark side. She wasn't about to join ranks with this pirate.

"No, the sword and the map are real. Dumas must have found the treasure during his research-perhaps he found the copy of the map in Fouquet's papers? Or even Mansart's?"

"Possible."

"And when he found the treasure, he then decided to leave behind this box for future treasure hunters." She tilted it and inspected the bottom, which was lined with a disintegrating slash of green velvet. "It looks a trinket box. Maybe something created to go along with the release of The Three Musketeers. The Three Musketeers. 'All for one-'" 'All for one-'"

"None for all," Lambert spit and slapped the side of the box so it went flying out of her hands.

Annja wasn't quick enough. She lunged, but felt the wood as it skimmed the tips of her fingers. It hit the marble floor with a dull crash, but did not shatter as she expected; only the lid cracked in two and clattered across the floor.

"What a waste of time!" Lambert railed. "And at so great an expense."

"What expense? You plunder. It costs you nothing more than time spent stalking your marks until they lead you to the treasure!" Annja shouted.

"It cost me the entire third floor. Because of you. You know too much."

"Most of it was freely given by you when you spilled the beans to me the other day."

"I-! For a pretty young celebrity, you have an obstinate manner about you."

"I've nothing of the sort. You wanted to spill, and you did."

"I am doing this for Toby!"

Annja crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head. "Is this the part where the villain details his evil plan before the hero tries to take him out?"

"A villain?" Lambert scoffed. "In the eyes of a simple woman who has no more knowledge of the workings of the genetic code than a monkey. Do you understand the value to mankind to successfully construct a human clone?"

"No, actually I don't. And I don't need to know that it'll replace lost loved ones, or populate factories with mindless drones. All I know is that your research is playing G.o.d and destroying human lives in the quest for a nonessential science."

"Nonessential? It is our future. It is our means to immortality!"

"It is morally wrong."

"Morality is an invention of the personality," he hissed grandly. "It is something we creatures require to uphold judgment against others. We crave that accusatory judgment, the ability to place ourselves above another, to lift our souls. I am of the light, I judge none and I serve all."

Annja coughed, and glanced aside.

"One man's morality is another man's sin," Lambert said. "Science is always the scapegoat! What you cannot understand, you seek to destroy. And yet, throughout the ages, science has never ceased to open our eyes. We feared the plague, and then science created a microscope so we could study germs and learn and understand that fear. We are but atoms and light, Annja Creed." He pounded his chest fiercely. "These are but borrowed bodies-the soul is the great equalizer."

"You've killed babies!"

"How dare you throw that accusation at me."

"I read the files."

"The subjects died naturally after after successful births." successful births."

"Naturally? They died because of genetic defects you introduced through your incomplete and fallible cloning process. And what of the mothers who gave birth to those unfortunate babies you've doc.u.mented in your files? Where are they?"

Lambert lifted his chin, silent in his crime.

"Dead?" she asked.

"Never."

"Were they aware of what their bodies were being used for? The woman I followed as she left here the other day-she's pregnant. She believes this a fertility clinic. She has no idea, has she?"

"I've had enough of your accusations. You've got the musketeer's sword. Keep it and be happy for your treasure."

Annja blew out a frustrated breath and toed the divided pieces of the box cover.

"It's interesting, one man's notion of treasure, isn't it?" she said. "I hold little value in sparkling gemstones or piles of smartly stacked hundred-dollar bills. I do value an intangible history and verifying its truth. And while I may never consider myself maternal material, I do hold great value in a child. Why do you label such a treasure garbage? Because that's what you do with your research."

Lambert made his move. Annja bent her knees slightly, prepared to defend, but cautious.

The man went for an epee on the wall, brandishing it in a sweeping display before him as he approached her. Emeralds fixed to the hilt captured the minute spotlight and flashed green fire.

Annja backed up until her shoulders. .h.i.t the wall.

"I've got my eye on a new treasure," he announced.

The epee swept the air in a hiss.

"It is another sword. A magical one."

"You believe in magic?" she countered.

"I believe what I saw when I watched you in the file room on the security cameras. You wielded a fine sword, Annja Creed. And you produced it from thin air. Do you deny I've got a recording of you fighting off my man with a sword?"

"Who can deny videotape?" she snapped.

"Where is it?" He approached, the blade held down and to the outside at octave, not threatening, but with a flick of his exposed wrist, it could be. "Bring it out of wherever it is you keep it. I want to see it."

She remained silent. Alert. Ready.

"I know something about you," he said in a singsongy tone. "Your Monsieur Roux wasn't quite so careful as he should have been. Did you know about his visit to BHDC? He was most secretive."

"I know Roux was here," she said.

Well, she did now. Roux had come here? What was the old man up to now? She didn't like what he implied, because Annja could guess at but a few options if it involved Roux and Lambert's knowledge of the sword.

"Monsieur Roux brought along a piece of chain mail which he claimed was once Joan of Arc's. Ah, you find that intriguing, yes, as I did. Threaded within the chain links were four hair strands. Viable DNA evidence. My geneticist was able to extract DNA and sequence the entire genome."

"You're going to clone Joan of Arc?" Annja was stunned.

"We'll certainly give it a shot."

"But if the mind and the personality cannot be re-created, what is the purpose to having a child that resembles someone no one can recognize?" she asked.

"It is the idea idea of having a child with Joan of Arc's DNA. Trust me, there are people who will pay a ridiculous amount to make such a claim." of having a child with Joan of Arc's DNA. Trust me, there are people who will pay a ridiculous amount to make such a claim."

"Doesn't sound like people who have the right to be parents."

"Now you are judging, Annja."

He tilted his wrist and brought up the blade beneath Annja's chin. The tip did not touch flesh, but at the moment she wasn't actually concerned about injury.

"Roux also brought along what he referred to as a modern sample. A strand of hair that one must label-" the blade swept to the side to lift the ends of Annja's hair "-chestnut."

Her heart falling in her chest, Annja struggled to keep her expression neutral.

"He wanted me to match the DNA to markers in the historical sample. Answer the question of maternal relation. My geneticist matched mitochondrial DNA against dozens of genetic markers." Lambert tilted a foul blue gaze upon her. "I have the results, Annja. I will give them to you in exchange for your magical sword."

"You're barking up the wrong tree, Lambert. Why would you-?"

"Because I've done my research on your Roux and Joan. I know, Annja, I know."

"You know nothing."

"I will have the sword." He swung the blade.

Annja reacted, calling up her sword and meeting the oncoming blade with a clang that sent a shudder through her wrist and up her forearm.