“What happened in 2003 is that the Dragon, the real Dragon, had nothing to do with the attempted assassination of the British prime minister. It was someone else.”

The waiter came in with their meals at that point, giving Annja some time to digest what Garin had said. She barely noticed what she was eating as the implications of what he had just told her poured through her mind.

“You think the Dragon is still alive,” she said after a few minutes.

Again the shrug. “For the past year or so there have been rumors that the Dragon has returned. Nothing more solid than that, understand, just rumors. Given what you found at Roux’s, however, I’d say the possibility just grew a little more distinct.”

“Why would the Dragon be after Roux?”

“Who said he was?” Garin shot back, and that brought Annja up short.

“You think the Dragon is after you?” she asked.

“No.”

If not Roux, or Garin, then who?

“No,” she said flatly when she realized what he was suggesting.

He looked at her with a strange gleam in his eye. “Not Roux. Not me, though I must admit to being a bit concerned over that last one for a little while. No, I don’t think the Dragon is after either of us. I think he is after you.” He leaned forward, holding her gaze in his own. “And after what I’ve heard recently about the sword the Dragon always carries, I think I know why.”

Her frown deepened, her lunch all but forgotten. “You aregoing to tell me, right?”

He paused, gathering his thoughts, and Annja had the distinct impression that he was trying to figure out just what to tell her and what to keep close to the chest.

After a moment, he continued. “Everything has an opposite, a dark twin on the cosmic scale of balance, if you will. The world itself is built on duality. How could we recognize white without black? Laughter without sorrow? Goodness without evil?”

He looked at her, as if to gauge whether she was following the argument, and she nodded to show that she was.

“The sword that you now carry is a symbol of truth, of justice, of all that is good in the world. It emulates the moral and emotional qualities of the one who bore it into battle all those years ago. And because you represent those things, as well, the chain continues, like an heirloom passed down through the generations.

“You, me, Roux—we are all bound to that sword in one way or another. For Roux and me, our association with it, and with its original bearer, has resulted in a lifespan measured in centuries rather than decades. In your case, the sword has given you increased agility, speed, strength—even your senses are better than they once were.”

There was little there for her to argue with. It was true; the sword had certainly changed her in ways that she hadn’t thought possible. Knowing that Garin was aware of the changes as well, made her a little uneasy, but she buried the thought as he went on with his explanation.

“You know better than anyone else that the sword comes with a certain set of responsibilities. Defend the weak. Protect the innocent. Stand as a barrier against the evil in the world around you, just as its original bearer strove to do so many years ago.”

He was right again. Her life had become far more complicated since taking possession of the sword. Where she might have turned away from a difficult situation in the past, maybe even told herself that it wasn’t any of her business, now she practically leaped into the fray whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Garin continued. “So it stands to reason that if all things have an opposite, a yin to the yang, then there must be another weapon out there somewhere that represents the side of darkness as much as your weapon stands for the cause of light.”

Biting back her unease, she forced herself to follow his line of thought.

“You’re saying the Dragon has such a sword.”

Her companion shook his head. “No. I’m saying that there are rumors that the Dragon, if he is still alive, has such a weapon. I don’t know for sure.”

Annja thought back to the swordsman she had faced in the display room and the way his sword had suddenly seemed to appear in his hands, a sword she would have sworn he hadn’t had moments before.

Of how it mirrored the way she handled her own so perfectly.

“But you believe it, don’t you?” she pressed.

Garin thought about it for a moment, and then nodded at her. “Yes,” he said, “I do.”

His admission sent Annja’s pulse skyrocketing.

“Why?”

“For the past year or two I have been hearing rumors about a sword, one that is supposed to have considerable power, being carried by a man available for hire. Not just any man, but one with an impressive résumé, full of what has euphemistically been called ‘wetwork.’ At first I thought that the rumors were about you and the weapon you carry, that those who passed it along simply couldn’t imagine that it was a woman in such a role, but it only took a little bit of investigation to learn that the sword in question was not a broadsword, like your own, but a Japanese katana.

“After that, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. I think the Dragon is back. I think somewhere, somehow, he learned about you and the sword that you carry. And I think he is curious to discover whether you are like-minded individuals or incompatible opposites.”

He took a long sip of his drink. “If the former, I suspect he just wants to talk with you. If the latter,” he said rather bluntly, “then I’m quite sure he won’t hesitate to kill you.”

ABOUT THE SAME TIME that Annja and Garin were sharing lunch, Henshaw was walking into a meeting in a pub along the docks by the Seine. It was a far cry from the restaurant that Garin had selected, but then again, the people that Henshaw was meeting were more concerned about anonymity than they were about how many varieties of wine were available to go with their meal.

Marco was already in the booth at the back when he arrived.

“It’s been a while,” Henshaw said when he reached the table.

“That it has, mate, that it has.” The two men eyed each other warily for a moment and then Henshaw abruptly laughed and wrapped the other man in a bear hug. Had Roux seen such a display of emotion from him, Henshaw was certain his employer would have assumed he’d suddenly lost his mind, but he and Marco went back quite a ways and had literally saved each other’s lives more than once over the years.

Of course, Henshaw didn’t talk about those days.

Marco hadn’t changed much since then; his hair was long, but his grip was still as strong as steel and his gaze never stayed in one place too long as he was constantly assessing the situation around him, alert for whatever was to come.

The two sat down at the booth opposite each other and waited a moment while the waitress brought them a couple of pints. Then they got down to business.

“So what’s this gig that you’ve got for us?” Marco asked.

Henshaw had thought long and hard about how to convince his old friend to take the job and had finally settled on playing it as straight as possible. “Executive protection,” he told him, slipping a photograph out of his coat pocket and passing it across the table.

The picture showed Annja striding across the street, her hair flowing back behind her in the slight breeze. The jeans and T-shirt she wore hugged her body in all the right places, which was one of the reasons Henshaw had specifically chosen this one. As he’d hoped, Marco’s eyes lit up at the sight of her.

“Good God, isn’t she gorgeous,” he said, pulling the photo up for a closer look. “Who is she? And what’s she do? Recording artist? Film star?”

“Her name is Annja Creed. And she is an archaeologist, actually.”

Henshaw met his gaze squarely when the other man glanced up to see if he was pulling his leg.

“You’re kidding me, right?”