God Of Thunder. Alex Archer

needed it.

      Thinking about Agent Smith and his friends, Annja took a deep breath and let it out. Okay, she thought. Bring it on. This is part of why I’m here.

      All she had to do was find Mario.

      A NNJA CALLED Doug back.

      “You know,” he said sullenly, “I’m not here just so you can hang up on me every time you get—”

      “Doug,” Annja said.

      Doug quieted. “Is something wrong?”

      When it came down to it, no matter what their difference of opinion, he was a friend. A good one.

      “Possibly,” Annja answered.

      “Can I help?”

      “Could you have my answering service there at the studio switched over so any phone calls coming in there will ring on my cell phone?”

      “Sure, but I don’t think you really want that.”

      “I’m sure I do.”

      “You’re going to listen to a lot of trash.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “You get phone calls here every day,” Doug said. “People who love the show. People who hate the show. People who want to marry you or just leave obscene suggestions. I gotta warn you, those people can get really creative. It’s hard to listen to sometimes.”

      “Why don’t I ever hear any of that?”

      “You hear the good stuff. The rest I have wiped off by my assistant.”

      “Why do you have an assistant and I don’t?” Annja blocked the thought. “Never mind. We’ll talk about that some other time.”

      “She’s not much of an assistant,” Doug said in a low voice.

      “I heard that,” a female voice said.

      “Hey,” Doug protested, “I meant that in the kindest possible way.”

      “Look, you little jerk!” the woman said. “I’ve put up with the menial little tasks you’ve had me doing for almost two weeks! I’ve had it! I’m not going to stand here and be—”

      “You creeping into my office and standing behind me is one of the problems,” Doug said. “Eavesdropping on my conversations wasn’t in your job description.”

      “I quit! ” the woman shouted.

      A door slammed.

      “There,” Doug groused. “I no longer have an assistant. We’re even. Are you happy?”

      “Switch the phone over for me,” Annja said.

      T HE HOTEL DESK CLERK’S name was Sandy. She was blond-haired, blue-eyed and very understanding about Annja’s “problem.”

      “Guys can be absolute jerks,” Sandy said. “Especially ex-boyfriends. They just never seem to get out of your life.”

      Annja could tell immediately that she’d touched a nerve in the other woman. Usually Annja wasn’t up on all the girl-talk issues. She didn’t like telling someone else about her private life, which was a direct product of being raised by nuns in a New Orleans orphanage, and she didn’t hang out with women who did.

      Thankfully, DVD sets of Sex and the City and Gilmore Girls had given her the tools she needed to discuss her “situation” with the desk clerk.

      “I know,” Annja said. “This guy isn’t the first.”

      The clerk shook her head. “And the sad part is he probably won’t be the last.” She looked at the picture of the man on Annja’s computer screen. “He’s not bad looking.”

      “Thanks.” Like I’m supposed to take some kind of pride in that? Annja tried not to let her disbelief show on her face.

      “You said he took a necklace from you?” the clerk asked.

      “My grandmother gave it to me,” Annja said, touching her neck theatrically. “It’s worth a little bit of money, but I want it back more for sentimental reasons. That was the last thing my grandmother gave me before she died.”

      “What a louse.” The clerk looked back at the image, then around the desk. “You know I’m not supposed to do this. It could cost me my job.”

      “I just want to know if he’s here,” Annja said. “You don’t even have to tell me the room number. If I can confirm he’s here, I’m going to file a complaint with the police. They can come talk to him.”

      “That would be the best.” The clerk looked at Annja and nodded. “You need a break, girlfriend. I can hook you up.”

      “Have you met him?”

      The clerk shrugged. “If he hadn’t been hitting on me yesterday, I might not have remembered him. He definitely doesn’t have a confidence problem.” She frowned. “Sorry. That’s probably more than you wanted to know.”

      “He’s nothing but trouble,” Annja insisted. She wasn’t exactly happy with her method of getting the information, but it was working. Don’t mess with success, she told herself.

      “I hear you.” The clerk sighed. “But he is good-looking.” Then she turned her attention to the computer in front of her. “If anybody asks, I didn’t do this.”

      Annja mimed turning a key to her lips and throwing it away.

      “Dieter is staying in room 616,” the clerk said.

      “Dieter?” Annja repeated as if confused.

      The clerk nodded. “It says here his name is Dieter Humbrecht.”

      “That isn’t the name he gave me,” Annja said.

      “What a creep.” The clerk looked back at the computer. “Let me check something.” She typed for a moment, then waited. “Your ex checked in at the same time another guy did. His name is Klaus Kaufmann. Does that sound familiar?”

      “No.” Annja added the name to her mental list.

      “I thought maybe he was using his buddy’s name,” the clerk said. “Sometimes guys like him do.”

      “I appreciate your help.” Annja closed her computer and shoved it back into her backpack.

      “I hope it helps,” the clerk said sympathetically.

      “Me, too.”

       6

      Outside, Annja had one of the bellmen flag down a cab for her. She gave her destination as Fulton Mall, at a small bistro near the corner of Flatbush, then settled in the back of the cab to think.

      She could have staked out the hotel, but since the men looking for her already knew who she was, she figured that wasn’t a good idea. She needed to know more.

      Or she needed Bart to call. Bart could get a lot of answers that she couldn’t. She wouldn’t have had a policeman’s life. As long as she’d known Bart, she’d also known that. Policemen saw too much of the harshness in life.

      Then she thought about everything that had happened to her since she’d found the sword.

      You’re not exactly leading a sheltered life, she told herself.

      She made note of the two men’s names. At least there was a trail to follow. What she needed was the real package that Nikolai had hidden away.

      S INCE SHE DIDN’T WANT to leave her phone number or allow someone to track her calls by getting a court order and looking at her records, Annja used the public phone in the bistro. She watched the street, wondering if anyone had followed her.

      The bistro was small. A dozen tables were