Curse of the Painted Lady (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 3) by K. Patrick Donoghue

Author:K. Patrick Donoghue [Donoghue, K. Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thrillers, action adventure, fantasy, Mysteries
Publisher: Leaping Leopard Enterprises, LLC
Published: 2018-03-30T04:00:00+00:00

Pézenas, France

Klaus Navarro strolled around the chateau parlor with a smile on his face and gloved hands clasped behind his back. As he approached the fireplace, he stopped to admire the array of Egyptian figurines lining the mantel. Picking up a statuette of a woman, he closely examined the carved features. “What dynasty is this?”

“Eighteenth,” Foucault said, kneeling in the room’s center under the watchful eyes of Navarro’s bodyguards. The two men, dressed in all black, aimed semiautomatic pistols at Foucault and Christian Hunte, who knelt beside him.

“The gold leaf is in excellent condition. Who is the woman?” Navarro casually asked.

“Queen Tiye, wife of Amenhotep the Fourth,” Foucault said.

“Did you acquire it through Van der Berg?”

“Non. It was a gift.”

“A gift? Is it a reproduction?”

“Non.”

“A three-thousand-year-old statue in near-original condition? It must be worth a great deal. Who would give such a gift?”

“An old friend,” Foucault said. The sight of Navarro handling the priceless statuette disgusted him. Other than Foucault, the last person to touch it had been Napoleone di Buonaparte. The renowned French general had presented it to Foucault as tribute for his service during Napoleone’s Egyptian campaign.

“Well, it will be a beautiful addition to my collection. In fact, all of these pieces will look splendid in my gallery,” Navarro said, sweeping his arm the length of the mantel.

Over my dead body, thought Foucault, as Navarro replaced the figurine and sashayed his way around a gold, scroll-backed sofa. When the smarmy Argentinian reached his kneeling prisoners, he briefly hovered over Foucault before taking a seat on an armchair facing the two men. He crossed one leg over the other and brushed lint from his olive Armani slacks. Then, from the pocket of his matching suit jacket, he removed a thin, black-bladed knife. He held it up for Foucault and Hunte to see. “A nasty little devil, this one. It nearly decapitated my poor cousin, Nicolás. Where did you get it? I’ve never seen one like it. Another old friend?”

Foucault glared at him. The fool didn’t know it, but his arrogance only served to strengthen Foucault. Dehydrated and weary from his earlier visit with Mereau, Foucault had been in no position to put up a fight against Navarro’s armed men as they stormed toward him outside the chateau. He offered no resistance as they dragged him inside the house and dropped him next to Christian. Dizzy and confused by the surprise intrusion, Foucault had leaned against Christian and asked for water. Navarro’s men had laughed and mocked him. Foucault had lolled, nearly fainting. But then Navarro had entered the room, and Foucault’s ire began to stir. And the more Navarro gloated, the angrier Foucault grew, melting away his weariness. To see Mereau’s blade in the snake’s hand was too much. Foucault answered Navarro’s question by imploring him to kiss his ass. “Va te faire foutre!”

The outburst caused Navarro to titter with laughter. When he quieted down, he wiped faux tears from his eyes and said, “How rude. But I guess I should expect as much from the man who sent a whore to assassinate me.

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