God Of Thunder. Alex Archer
television show, Annja had ended up being known by a lot of strange people around the world. Sometimes they sent her things.
“You remember the shrunken head the Filipino headhunter sent you?” Nikolai asked.
“Yes.” There was no way Annja was going to forget that. It wasn’t the shrunken head. She’d seen those before. The troublesome part was that it turned out to be evidence in a murder case against a serial murderer who had liked the show. That had involved days spent with interviewers from several law-enforcement agencies.
To make matters worse, in the end the investigators found out that the head shrinker had intended to send the head to Kristie Chatham, the other star of the television show. Kristie was known for her physical attributes rather than her intellect. Annja had to admit Kristie’s enormous popularity sometimes bothered her.
“That was a mess,” Nikolai sighed. “I thought I would never get the smell out.”
“I’m sure it’s not another shrunken head,” Annja said.
“I hope you’re right.”
Annja’s mind was racing. She was usually a quick thinker even under pressure. “Can you make a fake package about the same size as the one I was sent?”
“Yes, but why?” Nikolai asked.
“I want you to give it to me when I get inside.”
“Wouldn’t it be smarter to go to the police?”
“The police would drive these guys away,” Annja replied.
“That seems like a desirable thing to me.”
“They’ve made me curious.”
“You know what that did for the cat,” Nikolai pointed out.
“Cats are also great hunters. I intend to be a great hunter. I’ll talk to you in a few minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll get the package ready.”
“Make me wait on it for a few minutes,” Annja said. “I’ve got a phone call I want to make.”
“Sure.”
“Oh, and put something in the box.” It wouldn’t do to lug around an empty box.
“What should I put in it?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Papers?”
“No. Something with some weight.”
“I don’t know—”
“Anything that feels heavy, Nikolai. I just want to fool them for a minute or two.”
“Okay. I’ll find something.”
Annja broke the connection and dialed another number from memory as she went through the door to Mailboxes & Stuff. The reflection in the door glass showed that the four men were close behind her.
They split up into two teams of two. Annja knew then that they were going to try to take the package inside the store.
She was curious and they were impatient. She knew it could prove to be a recipe for disaster.
2
“You’ve reached the desk of Detective Bart McGilley. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. If you need immediate attention, please call Detective Manuel Delgado.” The recording gave Delgado’s number.
Standing at the counter in Mailboxes & Stuff while Nikolai went into the back to “check” for her mail, Annja dialed Delgado’s number.
Two of the men trailing Annja, one of them Agent Smith, entered the store and started looking through racks of mailing supplies. Nikolai kept an assortment of boxes, envelopes and mailing labels. Annja wondered what they would have used for cover if the accessories hadn’t been there.
Both men were intense looking. Their winter clothing could have concealed an arsenal. They never appeared to look at her.
“Detective Delgado.” The voice was smooth and Hispanic.
Annja switched to Spanish to make it harder for the men to listen to the conversation. “Hi. This is Annja Creed. I’m a friend of Detective McGilley’s.”
“I know who you are,” Delgado said. “Didn’t know you were a friend of McGilley’s, though. I catch the show every week.”
Terrific, Annja thought, a fan. She figured that could cost her a big chunk of believability.
“Seems like McGilley would have mentioned he knew you,” Delgado continued.
Maybe he’s not exactly proud of it, she thought. That gave her pause for just an instant. She couldn’t imagine Bart being embarrassed about knowing her. Then again, she couldn’t blame him, either. If Chasing History’s Monsters hadn’t opened so many doors for archaeological exploration for her, she would never have done the show.
Annja chose to ignore Delgado’s statement. “Do you know where I can find Detective McGilley? I called his cell phone number but got his answering service by mistake.”
“That wasn’t a mistake,” Delgado said. “Detective McGilley is in court today. He always switches his cell phone to his answering service when he’s on the stand.”
“Is he in trouble?” Annja thought back to the last conversation she’d had with Bart. They’d caught lunch at Tito’s and chatted briefly. Bart’s fiancée was pressing him to set a date for the wedding.
“No,” Delgado answered. “He’s testifying in a murder case. Should be a slam dunk, but the assistant district attorney wanted McGilley there. The ADA is one of the new batch of wonder kids the law school keeps churning out. She just needed a little hand-holding.”
“Do you know when you expect him back?”
“Soon. More than that, I can’t tell you.”
“All right. Can you give him a message?”
“I can.”
“Ask him to call me as soon as he has a chance.”
Delgado said he would.
Annja pocketed the cell phone. She’d exhausted the number of people she could call for help. In a way, that was sad. But then again, she didn’t usually ask for help.
A moment later, Nikolai came back with a package. It was about the size of a hardbound book. The address on the front was written in Nikolai’s hand, but Annja doubted the two men inside the store would know that.
“Thank you,” Annja said.
“Of course.” Nikolai gave her one of his patented friendly smiles. “Be careful out there.”
“I will.”
“The potato soup at Cheever’s Diner is good today,” Nikolai added as she walked toward the door.
Looking back at Nikolai, Annja couldn’t help thinking that the announcement sounded like some kind of spy code. She couldn’t believe Nikolai had just blurted that out. All that was missing was a big conspiratorial wink.
At the counter, Nikolai shrugged and looked embarrassed. “It’s warm, you know. It’ll take some of the winter chill off. That’s all I mean.”
Annja shoved the package under one arm, then walked toward the door. That was when Agent Smith made his move.
T HE MAN WAS SMOOTH —Annja gave him that. But he was working on the presumption that he was dealing with someone unused to violence. Most people would have frozen when a strange man grabbed them by the arm. An uninvited touch in polite society usually elicited a blistering look of disdain, followed by a command to release the arm or a demand to know what was going on.
By the time all that happened,