the man said. Vietnamese or Laotian, Annja placed him in his early forties. He had a cruel look about him, with fleshy pock-marked cheeks, as if he’d suffered a disease in earlier years. He had intense, unblinking eyes that were hard like river stones. “No,” she said. “I do not wonder. You tortured Zakkarat. He gave you my name.” A thin smile cracked his face. “Zakkarat Tak-sin did not deal well with pain. He called you ‘Annjacreed,’ a name that meant nothing to me until he said you and your companion, Lou Ardo, were archaeologists who wanted to explore some caves. He had a handful of baht in his pocket that you’d given him. He said you wanted to bring a film crew back with you later and put the caves on television. I deduced that you must be the Annja Creed, the famous archaeologist who chases history’s monsters.” His laugh was forced. “Even in my country your silly, worthless program airs.” “And what country is that?” “Actually, I have two. America and Vietnam.
