Rogue Angel 54: Day of Atonement Read Online Free PDF Page B

cling to his camera even with his balance gone. Annja reacted faster, already looking up at the top of the wall, at a loss to understandhow the huge slab could have fallen, and not seeing anyone on top of the wall who might have thrown it.
    “Are you all right?”
    She turned to see an older man in a wheelchair.
    The woman pushing him had turned an unhealthy shade of white.
    Annja offered a wry smile. “Thanks to you,” she said, dusting herself off.
    “I don’t even know what possessed me to look up,” he said. “I was just enjoying listening to your recounting of our ancient history. I assume it’s for a news bulletin? Has something happened?”
    “Oh no,” she said, realizing his misunderstanding. “I work for an American cable TV show called Chasing History’s Monsters . We’re filming a segment about Bernard Gui, the Inquisitor.”
    The man offered a polite smile that spoke volumes. There was no reason why he should have heard of the show, and despite his cultured English there was a strong trace of Italian in his accent. She noticed that his left hand was trembling, just a slight tremor. He saw the direction of her gaze and offered a rueful smile. “My affliction,” he said, meaning the tremor, but it could equally have been a reference to the macabre history of the place.
    “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “It’s perfectly all right, my dear. I’m just glad my big mouth could save the day and that you and your colleague are in one piece.”
    Before she could thank him, he craned his neck and said something rapidly, in Italian, to the woman behind him. She turned him around without a word, and as she wheeled him away, the old man offered the briefest of waves. Annja watched the woman struggle with the wheelchair in the snow, following the tracks they’dmade a few moments earlier as they returned the way they’d come.
    Philippe was still checking the lens and various attachments on his camera for damage when Annja went to help him back to his feet; she rather liked the fact he’d stayed down on his butt in the snow, more worried about the camera than he was about himself.
    “Did it survive?” she asked.
    “Looks like the spotlight’s broken, meaning we can’t shoot in the dark, but otherwise everything looks good. It could be worse. Still, it means we’re not going to be getting anything else done tonight.”
    “Okay, let’s draw a line under today and start from scratch tomorrow.”

6
    The call was unwelcome when it came, just as most telephone calls were, as far as the old man was concerned.
    Roux sank into a large leather recliner. He had been doing his best to try to enjoy the old black-and-white movie on the huge flat-screen TV, which was the room’s one and only concession to modern living. The buttery leather of the armchair was almost enough to transport him back the two hundred years to the time it had been made. Casablanca was quite possibly the greatest film ever made, and Ingrid Bergman the most beautiful woman ever to grace the silver screen. She was certainly one of the most beautiful women he had ever met, and he had met his share of beautiful women across the centuries. Even as fashions changed what people professed to be beautiful, there was never any mistaking true beauty. Of course, the fair lady had only ever seen him as an old man, but Roux had had the privilege of watching her age with grace and poise, and seen her slowly fade while he had remained the same.
    That was the nature of his existence.
    He’d been forced to drift out of her life before she noticed he wasn’t aging as she had.
    Although she would always be the lovely woman captured on celluloid.
    The temptation to ignore the call was great. He hated to have his privacy invaded. He couldn’t understand the obsession that the modern generation had with always being available. Time alone with one’s thoughts was precious. He had an answering service. It would be easy enough to check any messages once the movie