She had the concierge arrange a cab and she settled into the back, prepared to enjoy the ride. Paris had always been one of her favorite cities and it was particularly lovely on a spring day like this one. The streets and open-air cafes were full of Parisians enjoying the day, and the ride, short though it was, cheered her in a way that she hadn’t expected.

As it turned out, the restaurant Garin had chosen was only a few blocks from her hotel. It was also one of the most popular luncheon spots in all of Paris, judging by the line that waited at the door to get inside. She began scanning the crowd for a sign of her host even as she exited the cab.

“Ms. Creed?”

She turned to find a good-looking, curly haired man dressed in a sharply pressed gray suit standing nearby.

“I am Michel, the maître de’” he said. “If you would be so kind…” He indicated the entrance with the sweep of his hand.

Ignoring the daggerlike looks she received from those waiting in line, particularly the women, Annja walked to the front doors, stepped inside and then allowed Michel to take the lead.

“This way, please,” he said, and then headed across the dining room floor. He led her to a small, private dining room in the far corner of the building, opened the door and ushered her inside.

Garin was waiting for her at the room’s only table. He stood, a smile on his face, as she entered and took her seat, then he sat across from her.

“It’s good to see you again, Annja,” he said, after Michel left the room.

“The dining room would have been perfectly fine,” she replied, uncomfortable with the situation. This wasn’t a date, for heaven’s sake.

“Nonsense,” Garin replied. “You wanted to talk about Roux and this way we are free to do so without fear of being overheard.” He poured her a glass of wine from the bottle on the table, the red liquid a sharp contrast against the perfectly pressed white linen tablecloth.

“Now what’s on your mind?” he asked.

Annja looked at him over the top of her glass and spoke without preamble. “I’m worried about him.”

“Oh?” he said, leaning back and enjoying a sip from his own glass.

She told him everything she had told Roux the night before, from the discovery of the origami figure to her belief that the intruder at Roux’s estate had been none other than the Dragon himself. She brought it back to Roux, saying, “He’s acting like the attack on his estate was an afternoon lark, rather than a possible attempt on his life. He refuses to involve the authorities and ignores me when I try to discuss it with him.”

Garin laughed. “I’m surprised at you, Annja. The man’s home has been invaded, and with it his pride, and you act as if he should be happy to chat about it. With a woman, no less! That is not the Roux we know and love.”

He had a point; she knew that. But given the possibility that the intruder actually was the Dragon, Roux should’ve been able to set aside such things in favor of protecting himself and, by extension, those around him.

She said as much to Garin. “For an old soldier, he’s not acting with much tactical sense. If the intruder wasthe Dragon, Roux could be putting himself, and those around him, in serious danger,” she concluded.

Garin waved one hand in dismissal. “One does not need tactics to deal with a pack of common thieves,” he said, but Annja saw it for what it was—a poor attempt to distract her from the truth.

She’d seen him stiffen when she’d mentioned the Dragon, just as Roux had. They knew something, something she did not. This time she wouldn’t be distracted so easily.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

He tried to brush it off with a laugh. “I don’t have any idea what you are talking about, Annja.”

She wasn’t buying it. She had a sudden suspicion that Garin knew far more about what was going on than he wanted to admit. “That’s a load of bull and you know it. Spit it out, Garin, or so help me, I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” he teased, still smiling. “Skewer me in a public restaurant?”

Without a second thought she called forth her sword and poked him with it beneath the table. “Damn right, I will. Now talk!”

He glanced down to where the tip of the blade rested against his thigh and shook his head at what she assumed was her audacity. She didn’t care, as long as he told her what she needed to know.

“All right, all right. Calm down and put away the pig-sticker. No need to get unfriendly.”

With a quick thought the sword was back in the otherwhere, where it would be ready when she needed it again. “What do you know about the Dragon?” she asked again.

Garin leaned back, staring at the wineglass in his hand, as if the answers they sought might be found in the depths of that ruby liquid.

“What do I know?” he repeated. “Nothing. I knownothing. But I do have certain suspicions that I am willing to share.”

The waiter came in at that moment and their talk was put on hold as Garin ordered for both of them. Normally this would have annoyed Annja to no end—she could order her own lunch, thank you very much—but she cared more about what Garin had to say than eating at this point and so she let it go.

When the waiter left the room, Garin continued. “A man in my position, a man with business interests as diverse as my own, is always conscious of security to one degree or another. Political leaders are not the only ones who get assassinated, you know.”

Annja rolled her eyes.

“Given that, I employ people to keep me abreast of developments in certain areas. And it was through them that I first learned of the Dragon.

“No one seems to know who he was or where he came from. He just announced his availability for hire by assassinating the French Deputy Minister of Defense one evening in Paris, killing the man so quietly that his sleeping wife never even stirred in her sleep. The Dragon departed as silently as he had arrived, leaving the wife to wake up next to her dead husband several hours too late to save him.

“From that point, he seemed to be everywhere at once. The next decade was like the rest of us had stumbled onto his personal playing field. Diplomats. Ambassadors. Bankers and lawyers. Powerful people create powerful enemies and there is always someone willing to pay an exorbitant sum to keep others down. The Dragon didn’t care about their political affiliations or issues. He killed them all—every race, color, creed and political party—provided those hiring him could pay his price.”

Annja frowned. “You seem to know a lot about him,” she said.

He shrugged, unconcerned with her suspicions. “No more than anyone else in my position. For all I knew I could have been next on his list, as my unflinching approach to business has earned me more than a few enemies along the way.”

Unflinching, Annja thought, try bloodthirsty. And the idea that you’ve generated a “few” enemies has to be the understatement of the century.

“What made the Dragon so unusual was that he always killed his targets by hand, usually with a Japanese katana,and if the sword wasn’t strange enough he would also leave behind a token of his presence at every murder scene.”

“Let me guess,” Annja said. “An origami dragon.”

“Always said you were as intelligent as you are beautiful, Annja.”

She ignored his comment and took a moment to think over what he’d just told her. Something didn’t make sense. Why would an assassin renowned for killing with a sword suddenly decide to use explosives? “So what happened in 2003?”

Garin grinned. “I see I’m not the only one who knows a little something about the Dragon.”

Ignoring her scowl, he went on. “I’ve heard a hundred different theories over the years as to what happened that day and I don’t agree with any of them. Killing is an art form, particularly for a man like we’re talking about. For him to resort to a suitcase full of plastic explosives when every single one of his victims before that date were killed by his own hand is simply ludicrous.