Gabriel's Horn. Alex Archer

      Mama looked at Annja. “His father, he was much the man.” A dreamy expression showed in her eyes and Annja knew that—just for the moment—the woman was no longer in the restaurant. “He was so much the lover.” She sighed.

      “Please,” Garin protested. “Not before we’ve eaten.”

      Playfully, Mama slapped him on the arm. “You. Sit. You should know to leave an old woman her idle passions. All I have these days are memories. The flower of youth is gone far too quickly.”

      “The flower of youth,” Garin replied, “to the uninitiated, is oftentimes a weed.”

      Mama shook a finger at him. “Your father, he say such a thing to me one time.”

      “Father was fond of chiding me about my lackadaisical approach to my life. Perhaps he said that to a lot of people.”

      Annja knew that Garin had slipped up and had tried to cover his mistake.

      “I liked your father very much,” Mama said, “but he was not husband material, that one. He have an eye for the ladies. Like you. You won’t be any good as a husband unless you find a woman strong enough to claim you as her own. That kind of woman doesn’t come along so very much, you know.” She looked a warning at Annja. “Better you should keep this in mind.”

      “Oh, believe me,” Annja said, “I won’t forget.”

      Garin scowled.

      “The problem is,” Mama said quietly to Annja, “that sometimes a woman, she likes the bad boys. At least for a little while, no?”

      “Yes,” Annja agreed.

      “It is kind of like the sweet tooth. And it give us many problems.” Mama laughed. “Now I go get you plates. You enjoy. I have a special dessert tonight.” She stopped long enough for a final hug from Garin, then yelled at the kitchen crew.

      “Quite a woman,” Annja commented.

      “An amazing woman,” Garin agreed. Wistfulness stained his words. “You should have seen her when she was young. She was incredible. And it wasn’t just the way she looked, though she was stunning. It was her spirit. She almost seemed like she was on fire.”

      It was really weird, Annja thought, to be sitting there discussing an ex-flame with the man she was having dinner with. That had on occasion happened in Annja’s life, but never when forty years had passed.

      “So what happened between you two?” she asked.

      Garin hesitated. “She got older. I didn’t.”

      “You don’t like older women?”

      Garin grinned. “I love older women. A woman in her forties can be a tigress under the right conditions.”

      Annja felt no inclination to ask what those conditions might me.

      “But it’s selfish of me to get so involved with someone.”

      “You are a selfish person,” Annja pointed out.

      “I am. I’ll admit that. I’ll take a few weeks, a few months, perhaps even a year or two of a woman’s life if I’m truly infatuated. But I won’t ask any more than that.”

      “You could marry them.”

      Some of the humor went out of Garin’s face. “I made that mistake. A few times.”

      “Marriage didn’t agree with you?” Annja taunted.

      Despite Garin’s roguish grin, pain glinted in his eyes. “They died, Annja. No matter how fiercely I loved them, they died. They got old and perished and I remained. Alone.” He paused. “Those weren’t experiences I relished. Nor would I ever do something like that again.”

      Annja knew what it felt like to be alone. She picked up her fork and turned her attention to her salad.

      “Tell me about the men who attacked the movie set today,” Garin requested.

      Annja didn’t think Garin was truly interested in what happened earlier, but she couldn’t think of anything else to discuss. Evidently they both realized they were on safer ground with other topics. She gave him the gist of the events. When she got to the matter of the tattoo on the man’s neck, Garin stopped her.

      He touched his own neck. “You said this tattoo was of a sword?” He took a handheld device from his jacket and quickly sketched an image on the screen with the stylus.

      “I have to admit I’m surprised,” Annja said as he sketched. “I figured you more for a pen-and-cocktail-napkin kind of guy.”

      Garin frowned at her. “I love technology. Roux doesn’t care so much for it. But I love it. I own several companies that specialize in software and hardware research and development.” He showed her the screen. The sketch revealed a sword that was heavy bladed and curved. “Was this the sword?”

      “Yes. What do you know about this?” Anxiety and suspicion warred within Annja.

      Garin studied the image. “A scimitar. You said it was green?”

      Annja nodded.

      A low curse escaped Garin’s full lips.

      “Do you know who these men are?” Annja asked.

      “Pawns. If they belong to the man I think they do, they’re very highly trained. You’re lucky to have escaped with your life.”

      “Who are they and why would they be interested in me?”

      “I think I know who they are, but I don’t know why they would be interested in you. Unless they want to get to Roux. They might know about the connection you have to Roux. And to me.”

      “They’re enemies of Roux?”

      “Their master is.” Garin took his cell phone from his pocket. “Excuse me for just a moment.” He punched in a number. The phone was answered almost instantly. “We may have a security problem. Make sure my dinner is uninterrupted.”

      “Who was that?” Annja asked.

      “The security chief of the team watching us.”

      “Do you always travel with a security team?”

      “I do. Except for those times I don’t care to live my life in a fishbowl.” Garin shrugged. “And during those times when it’s better if no one knows what I’m doing.”

      Annja picked at her salad. She wasn’t nervous, not really. But the thought of the man with the scimitar tattoo lurking around outside did give her pause.

      “Who are you afraid of?” Annja asked.

      “I’m not afraid of this man,” Garin growled. “But I’d rather err on the side of caution where he’s concerned.”

      “Should we go?”

      Garin blew out a short breath. “No. I’m not going to be chased from my dinner like some timid little mouse. We’re going to have a fine meal, and we’re going to enjoy it.” He looked at her. “Why? Do you wish to leave?”

      Annja thought about it. She knew she should. But she was stubborn, too. Growing up in the orphanage had been hard. She’d never liked quietly going away, either.

      “No,” she answered.

      “You don’t care much for playing the mouse, either, do you?” Garin asked.

      “I’m hungry.”

      Garin chuckled.

      “Who do those men work for?” Annja asked.

      “He calls himself Saladin.”

      “Like the Saladin who fought Richard I during the Crusades?”

      “Yes.” Garin looked pained. “But also like Honest Saladin, the camel