The Matador's Crown

“Of course.” He did, too. Sort of like an ancient Grecian urn was interesting to her. “So Roux is one of your people?”

“When it serves me.”

The sidewalk narrowed and the big man’s arm brushed hers as they walked. He was a good head higher than her five foot ten inches—probably pushing six-four—and his shoulders were as broad as the toro bravo they bred for the bullfight here in Spain. Annja mused that he even possessed all the qualities matadors looked for in a bull: aggression, strength, stamina and intelligence. He was also several centuries old, which made him irresistible to her. And that offended her moral need to remain aloof toward the man.

“Headed anywhere in particular?” he asked.

“Off this sandspit to Puerto Real, to a little dig tucked on the edge of town.”

“Ferdinand and Isabella’s town,” he commented.

Annja searched historical dates in her head. Puerto Real had been founded by King Ferdinand II of Aragon and Isabella I of Castile near the end of the fifteenth century. Garin had been walking this earth since the early fifteenth century.

Okay, she’d give him that one.

“The town has been around since before the Romans,” she said. “Ferdinand made it a royal port to lure trade from North Africa his way.”

“He was not a stupid king. And his wife was hot.” He gestured to the black Jeep parked ahead. “I’ll give you a ride. It’ll give us an opportunity to catch up.”

Blinking into the sun, Annja agreed she did want to catch up—and learn what Braden knew about her latest adventure. Even if she didn’t trust the man as far as she could toss him. And with his bulk, that was more like a drop down her body before she sprained a wrist.

Sliding into the Jeep’s passenger seat, she buckled up and tossed her backpack into the open truck bed. She hadn’t missed the dried mud on the wheel rims and quarter panels. “You doing some off-roading in the area?”

“Rained yesterday.”

“Sure. And that pitiful sprinkle managed to splatter your rearview mirror with mud.”

“You got it.”

Garin probably fancied himself an international man of mystery—which he was—but Annja knew he used the persona around her only when he wanted to tease her. On the other hand, he had secrets. Lots of them. And sometimes it was better to let things slide than to question them.

Garin eased into traffic and headed toward the ancient defensive walls that had circled the city since Roman times. Gadir, the name the Phoenicians had given the original outpost, meant “walled stronghold.”

They didn’t speak as Annja took in the scenery. Two massive electricity pylons hugged either side of the Bay of Cádiz as they neared La Pepa, the bridge that accessed the mainland. It was one of the longest cable-span bridges in the country. On the pylons, steel framework supported electric power cables. She wondered with amusement how long before Wi-Fi and satellites obliterated the need for such things.

“So tell me what you know,” she said, her attention following the construction crew working on the bridge with pneumatic hammers and drills. “You always know something.”

“I know you stumbled onto a body this morning.”

“Word travels fast. And you rushed to Cádiz to console me?”

He chuckled as he drove off the bridge. “I’ve been in Cádiz a few days. Roux knew that and sent me to see if you needed any assistance.”

“Awful swell of the guy.” Of the two of them, she would have preferred Roux’s assistance. The old man was more like a father to her and she never felt overly threatened by his presence. “Yes, a dead body, placed most conveniently next to the room I had rented.”

“And it’s related to some kind of artifact?”

She wouldn’t question the man’s knowledge. Garin Braden had access to intel that would make the CIA blush. “A bronze totem in the form of a bull, possibly representing Baal. Ceremonial, I assume, or it could have been a commemoration piece. Who knows, it could have been a tourist tchotchke. Did you hear about the other artifact?”

“Just the one. What was the other?”

“I don’t know. It was missing.”

He flicked her a questioning glance. “Stolen?”

“From the dead man. The dead musician.”

“Ah. I sense an adventure coming on.”

“In fact, we’re headed to the first stop right now.” The stretch of road around Puerto Real quickly segued from pavement to gravel. “Turn left. It’s only a few kilometers ahead. So, do you also have information on the dead man? I was given his name, but not by the police.”

“What did you tell the police?”

“I was first on the scene, but I could only tell them what I knew. Which was very little.”

“A little is more than nothing. You hungry?”

“Just ate. We can stop if you are.”

“I’ll do for a bit.” The Jeep navigated the increasingly rough road like a dream. “Looks like you’re taking us into the boonies, your favorite kind of place.”

“Don’t worry, we’re not heading into mountainous terrain.”

“The tires are off-road all-terrain.”

“Yes. Glad you’ve already tested them when it sprinkled yesterday.”

“It was a damn good downpour.”

“Sure, if you say so.” Changing the subject, Annja said, “I’d held that very bronze statue a day ago.”

“Is that so? Now I’m intrigued.”

“It takes a lot to get your interest.”

He lifted one dark eyebrow, which was more a come-on than castigation. She ignored the flirtation.

“I unearthed it on the dig we’re heading to right now. It had been waiting for cataloging to be sent back to the University of Cádiz. I believe it was Spanish. It had a decorative Moorish arabesque circling the bull’s neck. But beyond that, I hadn’t the time to do further research.”

“Spanish artifacts are to be expected when one digs on Spanish soil.”

“Not always. Pieces of history travel all over the world and can be found thousands of miles from their original country of provenance. At the time I found it, we thought it was part of thieves’ booty.”

“So it had once been stolen. You unearthed it. Then it was stolen again? Or do you suspect someone from the dig of handing it over to the dead man?”

“I don’t know. The dig supervisor, Jonathan Crockett, seemed on the up-and-up. I’m a pretty good judge of character. But I have no clue regarding Diego Montera. The dead man,” she added when Garin raised a questioning eyebrow. “He may have been some guy on the dig crew who was handed a valuable artifact and wanted to get some fast cash for it.”

Garin stared at her. “A musician on a dig?”