The Dragon’s Mark by Alex Archer Page B

fine,” she replied, uncomfortable with the situation. This wasn’t a date, for heaven’s sake.
    “Nonsense,” Garin replied. “You wanted to talk about Roux and this way we are free to do so without fear of being overheard.” He poured her a glass of wine from the bottle on the table, the red liquid a sharp contrast against the perfectly pressed white linen tablecloth.
    “Now what’s on your mind?” he asked.
    Annja looked at him over the top of her glass and spoke without preamble. “I’m worried about him.”
    “Oh?” he said, leaning back and enjoying a sip from his own glass.
    She told him everything she had told Roux the night before, from the discovery of the origami figure to her belief that the intruder at Roux’s estate had been none other than the Dragon himself. She brought it back to Roux, saying, “He’s acting like the attack on his estate was an afternoon lark, rather than a possible attempt on his life. He refuses to involve the authorities and ignores me when I try to discuss it with him.”
    Garin laughed. “I’m surprised at you, Annja. The man’s home has been invaded, and with it his pride, and you act as if he should be happy to chat about it. With a woman, no less! That is not the Roux we know and love.”
    He had a point; she knew that. But given the possibility that the intruder actually was the Dragon, Roux should’ve been able to set aside such things in favor of protecting himself and, by extension, those around him.
    She said as much to Garin. “For an old soldier, he’s not acting with much tactical sense. If the intruder was the Dragon, Roux could be putting himself, and those around him, in serious danger,” she concluded.
    Garin waved one hand in dismissal. “One does not need tactics to deal with a pack of common thieves,” he said, but Annja saw it for what it was—a poor attempt to distract her from the truth.
    She’d seen him stiffen when she’d mentioned the Dragon, just as Roux had. They knew something, something she did not. This time she wouldn’t be distracted so easily.
    “What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.
    He tried to brush it off with a laugh. “I don’t have any idea what you are talking about, Annja.”
    She wasn’t buying it. She had a sudden suspicion that Garin knew far more about what was going on than he wanted to admit. “That’s a load of bull and you know it. Spit it out, Garin, or so help me, I’ll…”
    “You’ll what?” he teased, still smiling. “Skewer me in a public restaurant?”
    Without a second thought she called forth her sword and poked him with it beneath the table. “Damn right, I will. Now talk!”
    He glanced down to where the tip of the blade rested against his thigh and shook his head at what she assumed was her audacity. She didn’t care, as long as he told her what she needed to know.
    “All right, all right. Calm down and put away the pig-sticker. No need to get unfriendly.”
    With a quick thought the sword was back in the otherwhere, where it would be ready when she needed it again. “What do you know about the Dragon?” she asked again.
    Garin leaned back, staring at the wineglass in his hand, as if the answers they sought might be found in the depths of that ruby liquid.
    “What do I know?” he repeated. “Nothing. I know nothing. But I do have certain suspicions that I am willing to share.”
    The waiter came in at that moment and their talk was put on hold as Garin ordered for both of them. Normally this would have annoyed Annja to no end—she could order her own lunch, thank you very much—but she cared more about what Garin had to say than eating at this point and so she let it go.
    When the waiter left the room, Garin continued. “A man in my position, a man with business interests as diverse as my own, is always conscious of security to one degree or another. Political leaders are not the only ones who get assassinated, you know.”
    Annja rolled her eyes.
    “Given that, I