She relayed the tale as quickly as possible—how she’d gone back to the display room looking for something, she didn’t know what; how she’d found the paper dragon and what she’d done afterward to try and understand just what the simple figure might mean. She told him of her suspicion that it had been left there intentionally, as a type of calling card, to let them know that this wasn’t yet over and that they were up against a foe who made your typical hired gunman look like a schoolboy compared to the skills the other could bring to bear.

“I think your life is in great danger,” she told him finally, and then sat back to await his reaction.

Roux had been silent throughout, had let her get her facts on the table and had patiently waited through her explanation as she pointed out the things she’d done and the thought process she’d used to arrive at her conclusion.

When she was finished, he sat quietly for a moment before speaking.

“You can’t be serious,” he said at last.

It was not the reaction Annja was hoping for.

“Of course I’m serious! Did you think I would drive all the way out here to talk to you just for the heck of it?”

“But, Annja, seriously. Do you really think an international assassin, this mysterious Dragon, a hired gun who specialized in political killings, is really trying to kill me? Whatever for? What possible reason could he have? And let’s not forget the fact that this Dragon is supposed to be dead.”

“I don’t know what reason he might have. That’s what I was hoping you could tell me,” she answered.

Roux scowled and waved his hand in dismissal. “Now you sound like Garin, for heaven’s sake. ‘Pissed anyone off lately, Roux?’” he mimicked, in a passable imitation of the other man’s voice. “I’m the least likely man ever to be involved in politics, Annja.”

“I know that, Roux. But what if it’s something more? What if the Dragon is no longer interested in political killing but has decided to branch out, handle contract work, for instance?”

Rather than convince him of her sincerity, her plea only made him laugh. “Now you sound like something out of a spy novel, Annja. Political killing? Contract work? It was a simple robbery, nothing more.”

“If that’s the case, then what were they after?” she asked hotly.

For just a second she thought she saw a triumphant gleam in Roux’s eye. It was there and gone again in less than a second, so she couldn’t be sure, but something deep down inside said she’d just played into his trap.

“While you were gone we were doing our homework, too, Annja. And we think we’ve found the answer to that very question.”

The older man rose and walked over to his desk. From behind its massive bulk, he lifted a sword box and carried it back to Annja. Handing it to her, he said, “Go on, open it.”

Annja did so, revealing the long curved blade of a U.S. cavalry saber, circa the late eighteen hundreds, with a leather-wrapped hilt and brass guard. It was pitted in a few places, but she could still make out the initials GACetched into the blade just above the guard.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The saber worn by General George Armstrong Custer the day he fell in battle at the Little Bighorn,” Roux answered proudly.

Annja winced. “I wouldn’t be so quick to defend that claim.”

“Nonsense,” Roux said, taking the box back from her and closing it up tight. “I can assure you that the provenance of this blade is without blemish. Custer carried this sword the day he died and it has hung on my wall in that display room ever since I acquired it at a very private auction. It was the only item of any serious value in that room last night.”

Roux’s idea of “serious value” was enough to bankroll a small country, but that didn’t mean he was right. Annja would have bet her left arm that no one had come looking for that sword, namely because it wasn’t worth the steel from which it was made. She knew Custer hadn’t worn a saber at the Battle of the Little Bighorn and neither had any of the other officers in the Seventh Cavalry. Popular art showed him holding his cutlass aloft as the Indians surrounded him, but eyewitness accounts from that terrible day told a different story.

She tried to point this out to Roux, but he wanted nothing to do with it. Nor did he accept her arguments that a single experienced thief would have had an easier time breaking into the display room to steal the sword than a group the size of the one she’d encountered there. He had convinced himself that there wasn’t any real danger and it seemed that nothing she said would sway him from that conclusion.

When she finally left, hours later, she had gotten exactly nowhere. Her instincts were telling her that Roux was in danger, but he refused to see it.

As she climbed into her rental car, she was already trying to figure out what to do next. One thing was for sure, she wouldn’t leave one of her friends in danger.

ROUX WATCHED THROUGH THE window as Annja descended the front steps, climbed into her rental car and drove off toward the gates. He heard someone enter the room behind him and without turning, he said, “You heard?”

“Yes, sir,” Henshaw said. He never would have dreamed of listening in on his own accord, but Roux had ordered him to do just that.

“And?”

“I’m not sure, sir. I don’t think we have enough information.”

“Even with the rumors we’ve been hearing about the Dragon’s interest in a certain sword?”

“Even so, sir. After all, as you say, they are just rumors. The Dragon, if that indeed was who it was, could have been here for an entirely different reason.”

Roux thought about that for a moment and then shook his head. “I don’t see how. If the Dragon had been hired to kill me he wouldn’t have gone about it the way he had. The assault was staged and I think we both know why.”

“If you say so, sir.”

After a moment, Roux made up his mind and said, “I want her kept under surveillance twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Here and in the States, until I say otherwise. And she isn’t to know that you are there unless there is trouble.”

Henshaw nodded. “Understood—24/7, no interference unless her life is threatened.”

As Annja’s car finally disappeared from sight around a bend in the road, Roux turned to face his employee. “I want you to find me everything you can on the Dragon’s movements in the past two months. Use whatever resources are necessary. If he’s after Annja, I want to know how and why. In the meantime your people have authorization to do whatever needs to be done to keep her safe.”

“And you, sir?” Henshaw asked.

“Me?” Roux replied. “I’ll be perfectly fine, Henshaw. I’m not the target.”

Henshaw hoped those words wouldn’t come back to haunt either of them.

9

Kyoto, Japan

1993

Those who knew better disappeared like rats from a burning ship the moment the two men appeared at the mouth of the alley. Seen with the naked eye, there wasn’t anything noticeably strange about them, but those who had been on the street long enough developed senses different than the usual and something about the pair screamed danger like an air-raid siren.

It was a feeling that spread quickly, like a virus passed from one street hustler or teen runaway to another, and those who encountered it made themselves scarce if they knew what was good for them. Those who were too sick or stoned or weak to move on their own were grabbed, swiftly examined and then either tossed aside like garbage or trussed up like turkeys headed for slaughter and left where they lay for collection once the men were finished.