No, the true value in helping Annja rested in other areas. First, she’d feel some sense of obligation to him as a result, thanks to her do-gooder general nature. That alone made it worthwhile; he could manipulate that at a later time to his advantage, he was sure. Having her beholden to him was a strategic opportunity he just couldn’t pass up.

Never mind it would drive her nuts thinking about it and that would prove to be a source of amusement for him in the future, he had no doubt. Second, beating the Order at its own game was an opportunity that didn’t come around all that often. While Garin was loath to admit it, the Order had gotten the better of him the last time they had clashed and he fully intended to balance the books by making things as difficult as possible for them now. The current head of the Order was not the crafty adversary his ancestor had been, preferring blunt-force tactics over the chesslike precision that had been exhibited in the past, and Garin had no doubt that he was by far the intellectual superior.

17

Blaine Michaels stared at the one-hundred-and-forty-year-old missive and, after two hours of close scrutiny, had to finally admit that he didn’t have a clue as to what it was trying to tell him. The legal pad beside him was full of the notes that he’d taken as he’d tried to work through the puzzle, but he was enough of a realist to know that it all amounted to nothing useful. He just wasn’t wired to think this way.

He understood that William Parker’s instructions were designed to lead the recipient to the location of the missing gold, with each stanza being a separate clue, but that was as far as he could go. He had no idea who the wine god was, never mind the Peacock. And how was a key supposed to lead you anywhere? It just didn’t make any sense.

The day had not gone as well as he had hoped. After spending much of the morning reviewing the material his team had stolen from Professor Reinhardt’s office at the museum, he’d correctly deduced that the only real lead was the scrap of paper naming the monastery. He’d expected to find much more and was frustrated that he didn’t understand how or why the monastery fit into the situation. Things had continued their downward slide when his team ran into that damned Creed woman at the monastery a few hours later. What was supposed to be a simple smash and grab like the one at the museum had turned into a bloodbath. She’d actually attacked several of his men with a sword of all things! His men had managed to corner her on the rooftop, but she’d gotten away by jumping off the edge into the river below.

He’d thought that was the last of her, but then he’d received word that she’d placed a call to emergency services, summoning the police to the scene of the crime, and he’d been forced to order a group of his men back to the monastery in an effort to take her out for good.

Somehow, she’d managed to kill them and escape a second time.

That damned woman has more lives than anyone deserves, he thought.

Just what and how much she actually knew was still unclear, but that no longer mattered. She’d put herself squarely in his sights by interfering in his business. No one did that and got away with it. He was going to have to take care of her—and the sooner, the better.

Right now, though, he needed to make some decisions regarding the missive on the desk in front of him. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew he was going to find someone to decipher Parker’s directions to the gold.

The question was who?

Ironically, he realized, the best option was probably Annja Creed herself. After all, she’d been the one to unearth the connection to the Cradle of Solitude and, if his guess was correct, she had convinced the abbot to hand over the puzzle box. Clearly she knew what she was doing. But the fact that she’d already taken up arms against him precluded him from making use of her services. It would be seen as a weakness in the eyes of his colleagues and he had no intention of giving them any ammunition that might enable them to mount a campaign to remove him from his position as leader of the Order.

No, Creed was unacceptable.

He’d have to go with his second choice, which, in the long run, was probably better than constantly sparring against that annoying woman, anyway.

Michaels reached for the phone, intending to order one of his crews out to do the job, but then he hesitated. Given the days events, he could foresee it ending in disaster and he couldn’t afford another one.

He thought about one of his father’s favorite sayings. “When you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself,” he muttered.

It seemed that now might be a good time to listen to dear old Dad.

He rose from his desk and moved into his bedroom, where he quickly changed into dark jeans and a black sweater, attire more suited for the evening’s activities. He pulled on a pair of dark rubber-soled boots.

When he was satisfied with his appearance, he picked up the phone and called downstairs to the head of his security team. He gave instructions that two of the three men who had handled the museum job the night before were to meet him out front in five minutes. As they were simply added muscle to be certain the job went off the way he intended it to, he didn’t care which two were sent, which simplified things.

Taking the elevator to the lower level, Michaels retrieved an SUV from the garage and drove around front and picked up the two men. They were dressed in dark clothing and the telltale bulge of their shoulder holsters could be seen beneath their jackets. That reminded him to arm himself, as well, so he removed the automatic pistol from the glove box and laid it on the passenger seat beside him, where it would be readily accessible when he got out of the vehicle.

The drive was passed in silence; the two men in the backseat knew better than to strike up a conversation with the boss unless addressed directly. They cruised twice through the neighborhood, coming from different directions each time, getting a feel for the territory.

Their target lived in a community of freestanding town houses, each with its own small yard. Most of them had small fences running across the front of the lot, but they were so low that they could be easily stepped over and wouldn’t cause a problem when it came time to make their move.

On their third pass they found a parking spot a few doors down from their target and pulled in to wait.

The street was quiet.

It was still early, so lights burned in several of the nearby town houses, but Michaels wasn’t concerned. In this day and age, most people knew to keep their heads down and to stay out of business that didn’t concern them.

He gave it fifteen minutes, noting the traffic patterns and watching the parked vehicles nearby to be certain they didn’t contain witnesses. When he felt it was safe to make a move, he turned to the others.

“Our target lives in the town house on the end. If he’s not home, we’ll settle in and wait. We need him intact, so no violence unless I give the word. Questions?”

Both men shook their heads.

“All right, then, let’s go.”

The interior light had already been dismantled, so there was no telltale glow to call attention to them as they slipped out of the vehicle. They jumped over the low fence that fronted the property, and immediately disappeared around the back of the building.

Michaels quickly located the back door of their target’s town house and gestured toward it. One of his companions stepped up and punched out the glass next to the doorknob, then reached in and unlocked the door.

Ten seconds later the three men were moving through the darkened house, searching for their quarry.