Read Online Sunken Pyramid (Rogue Angel) by Alex Archer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alex Archer
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decent; the kind of place boring people could raise boring families, could grow old and die and decay beneath the earth.
He watched the little girl. She’d scooped up a long green beetle and studied it, smiling and letting it walk from one of her fingers to the next. A burst of giggles, and she squeezed it between her thumb and forefinger, and brushed the pieces away.
“Over there.” A man who’d crossed from the hotel strode past Garin, indicating a bench under a sad-looking honey locust.
Garin waited a few beats before following him.
The mother called to the little girl, took her hand and left the lawn to follow the sidewalk deeper into the city. A cloud overhead brightened with a sliver of lightning, followed by a quiet rumble of thunder.
“Willamar,” Garin said as he joined the man on the bench, a comfortable space between them. The other benches were occupied, these with capitol employees who had brought their lunches outside.
The man’s name tag read W. Aeschelman, marking him as a participant at the archaeology conference. He saw Garin looking at the badge and unclipped it and put it in his pocket. “I don’t suppose I need this here.”
“No,” Garin agreed, taking his own off and palming it.
“I recognized you immediately from the description they sent me,” Aeschelman said. “You stand out in this crowd, Gary Knight. My associates said you have attended our gatherings in New York and overseas.”
“I’ve been to a few.” Garin had not signed up for the conference with his real name, nor had he given it to Keiko. “Aeschelman.” Garin drew out the surname. “Your family is from the Aeschel Valley at the Swiss–German border.”
“My grandfather,” Aeschelman admitted. “How would you know that?”
“I know Germany.” Garin pinched the bridge of his nose hard, as if that twinge of pain might push away a memory. Garin was born in Germany, bastard son of a knight who had little to do with him. He found more of a father figure in the company of an old man who sometimes claimed to be a wizard. “Wir Deutschen tun unsere arbeit im schatten hell Wisconsin sonne, ja?”
“I don’t really know Germany,” Aeschelman returned. “And I don’t speak German.”
“Pity. Though some consider the tongue guttural, I think it the most beautiful language.” And a beautiful country, though Garin thought it better five centuries ago.
They sat quietly as a woman leading a dozen teenagers walked past. She pointed at the capitol building. It was probably one of those tours students were forced to take at the tail end of the school year, Garin mused.
“The capitol’s architect, George Browne Post, graduated in 1858 from New York University.” Her delivery was monotone, as if she’d spoken it too many times. “It remains the tallest building in the city.”
Garin thought of Keiko, who would have called the tour guide boring.
“Many pieces are being exchanged this weekend, most of them small and easy to transport. Several of them quite rare and exceptional. I’m looking forward to this auction,” Aeschelman said after the tour group was well beyond them. “Some very rare things, actually.”
“I’m looking for one item in particular. I emailed you about it.”
“And I am assured it is among what has already been secured.”
Garin’s palms itched with anticipation.
“What you want is likely not the most costly of the offerings this time, but pricey nonetheless, I’m sure.”
Money didn’t matter to Garin. It came and went. He’d lost and gained fortunes and was currently flush. “I want to see it first, a private viewing before it’s up for auction.”
“The pieces are coming in tomorrow. Though hopefully, what I am looking for will be acquired today.”
“How many buyers?”
“Only eight besides yourself and myself, so ten in all. Two of them are attending the conference as we are. One is acting as a broker, doesn’t have the resources himself. But his patron is
He watched the little girl. She’d scooped up a long green beetle and studied it, smiling and letting it walk from one of her fingers to the next. A burst of giggles, and she squeezed it between her thumb and forefinger, and brushed the pieces away.
“Over there.” A man who’d crossed from the hotel strode past Garin, indicating a bench under a sad-looking honey locust.
Garin waited a few beats before following him.
The mother called to the little girl, took her hand and left the lawn to follow the sidewalk deeper into the city. A cloud overhead brightened with a sliver of lightning, followed by a quiet rumble of thunder.
“Willamar,” Garin said as he joined the man on the bench, a comfortable space between them. The other benches were occupied, these with capitol employees who had brought their lunches outside.
The man’s name tag read W. Aeschelman, marking him as a participant at the archaeology conference. He saw Garin looking at the badge and unclipped it and put it in his pocket. “I don’t suppose I need this here.”
“No,” Garin agreed, taking his own off and palming it.
“I recognized you immediately from the description they sent me,” Aeschelman said. “You stand out in this crowd, Gary Knight. My associates said you have attended our gatherings in New York and overseas.”
“I’ve been to a few.” Garin had not signed up for the conference with his real name, nor had he given it to Keiko. “Aeschelman.” Garin drew out the surname. “Your family is from the Aeschel Valley at the Swiss–German border.”
“My grandfather,” Aeschelman admitted. “How would you know that?”
“I know Germany.” Garin pinched the bridge of his nose hard, as if that twinge of pain might push away a memory. Garin was born in Germany, bastard son of a knight who had little to do with him. He found more of a father figure in the company of an old man who sometimes claimed to be a wizard. “Wir Deutschen tun unsere arbeit im schatten hell Wisconsin sonne, ja?”
“I don’t really know Germany,” Aeschelman returned. “And I don’t speak German.”
“Pity. Though some consider the tongue guttural, I think it the most beautiful language.” And a beautiful country, though Garin thought it better five centuries ago.
They sat quietly as a woman leading a dozen teenagers walked past. She pointed at the capitol building. It was probably one of those tours students were forced to take at the tail end of the school year, Garin mused.
“The capitol’s architect, George Browne Post, graduated in 1858 from New York University.” Her delivery was monotone, as if she’d spoken it too many times. “It remains the tallest building in the city.”
Garin thought of Keiko, who would have called the tour guide boring.
“Many pieces are being exchanged this weekend, most of them small and easy to transport. Several of them quite rare and exceptional. I’m looking forward to this auction,” Aeschelman said after the tour group was well beyond them. “Some very rare things, actually.”
“I’m looking for one item in particular. I emailed you about it.”
“And I am assured it is among what has already been secured.”
Garin’s palms itched with anticipation.
“What you want is likely not the most costly of the offerings this time, but pricey nonetheless, I’m sure.”
Money didn’t matter to Garin. It came and went. He’d lost and gained fortunes and was currently flush. “I want to see it first, a private viewing before it’s up for auction.”
“The pieces are coming in tomorrow. Though hopefully, what I am looking for will be acquired today.”
“How many buyers?”
“Only eight besides yourself and myself, so ten in all. Two of them are attending the conference as we are. One is acting as a broker, doesn’t have the resources himself. But his patron is
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