The Spirit Banner (4 page)

Davenport's note had said they would be meeting at his home, but Annja didn't expect that meant anything casual, so she wasn't surprised when they pulled up to an estate that looked as if it probably doubled the entire state of Rhode Island. A thick protective wall ran around the entire complex, and entrance to the property was gained through a tall iron gate, complete with a set of armed guards.
Inside it was like entering another world. Wide green lawns stretched out as far as the eye could see, with the grass and the endless variety of bushes and trees all carefully tended and landscaped. In the distance a group of horses grazed and Annja had no doubt that the bloodlines of those beasts were as pure as money could buy. The driveway twisted and turned, occasionally obscuring her view of the horses behind the trunks of age-old oaks, and then they rounded a corner and the house itself was revealed ahead of them, a vast sprawling structure in Saltillo tile and whitewashed stucco, complete with a flower-draped fountain in the center of the driveway.
As José brought the car to a halt, the door opened and Mason Jones appeared at the top of the steps in the company of an older gentleman with silver-gray hair and a long, narrow face. The severity of the man's features, however, was broken by the deep blue of his eyes and the playful smile that splashed across his face.
Annja recognized him at once.
John Davenport.
The two men descended the steps and waited for José to help her out of the vehicle. Mason performed the introductions.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Annja said, extending her hand.
Davenport's smile seemed to grow wider, if that was at all possible, as he took her hand. "I assure you, lovely lady, the pleasure is all mine. Thank you for coming and welcome to my humble home."
Home, maybe, humble, no, Annja thought, but simply smiled at her host.
"I hope you like beef," Davenport said, as he turned and led her into the house. "I've had my chef prepare some fresh steaks from our organically fed Argentinian cattle. It is absolutely fabulous."
Dinner was excellent and through it all Davenport kept the conversation light and entertaining. It wasn't until well into the meal that Annja realized he would make an excellent interrogator. Davenport had subtly drawn her out on all manner of subjects, from her taste in music to the difficulties of working a dig in the midst of the jungle. She hadn't even been aware she'd been letting him direct the conversation for so long. Talking to him felt like the most natural thing in the world and Annja could see why he'd become as wealthy as he had. Anyone who spent five minutes in a room alone with him would come out feeling like they were old friends and it was simply human nature that friends wanted to help each other. She had little doubt that Davenport had built his empire on the strength of that personality.
Once the table was cleared and the servants had left the room, Davenport finally got down to business.
"Thank you for coming tonight," he said. "I'm sure you've been wondering why I've asked you here. The truth of the matter is that I could use some help with a special project, and after our conversation this evening I'm more convinced than ever that you're just the person to provide it."
Annja inclined her head graciously. "I'd be happy to help you in any way I can," she said honestly.
"Tell me. How familiar are you with Genghis Khan?"
Annja smiled. "Born in Mongolia in 1162. His given name was Temujin and he was named for a warrior slain by his father, one who exhibited bravery in that final confrontation. Declared himself ruler of the Mongol Empire in 1206 and died in 1227. In between, he created an empire four times larger than that of Alexander the Great, stretching from the Chinese coastline in the west to the Black Sea in the east, from the cold of the Arctic Circle in the north to the heat and humidity of India to the south. He was an innovator who assembled a nation out of a handful of warring tribes in perhaps one of the harshest locales on the face of the planet and held them together with nothing more than his iron vision and will. A man to be reckoned with in my view."
Davenport laughed. "I should have known better than to think I'd catch the host of
Chasing History's Monsters
without the facts at her fingertips." He took a sip of his wine and his voice took on a teasing quality. "Since you're the expert on monsters, tell me, was Genghis Khan the bloodthirsty conqueror that the media today has made him out to be? A man bent solely on rape, murder and mayhem?"
"Conqueror? Yes. Bloodthirsty? That depends on your viewpoint, I guess," Annja said, answering his question seriously. "Legend says that he once slaughtered an entire city—men, women, children and livestock—in retaliation for the death of his grandson. It also said that he made a habit of using the bodies of captured enemy soldiers to fill the siege trenches dug to keep his troops from reaching the walls of the cities he assaulted. But was that any different from what the Crusaders did at the siege of Jerusalem or at the slaughter at Béziers?"
"I guess not. But we don't generally think of the Crusaders as savage marauders hell-bent on ruining civilization," Davenport said.
"No, but perhaps we should. They did more damage and far less good than Genghis Khan did, and yet his people have come down through the ages being referred to as the Mongol horde. How's that for an epitaph?" Annja asked.
"Not one I'd choose for myself, that's for sure." Davenport paused as the servants came back into the room to serve coffee.
Accepting a cup, Annja inhaled the heady aroma and took a sip, then sighed in contentment. It was strong enough to knock your socks off, which was just the way she liked it.
Once the help had withdrawn, Davenport continued. "I'm considering putting together an expedition to find the Khan's lost tomb."
"Don't bother," Annja said, without even glancing up from her drink. Because she didn't do so, she missed the quick flicker of surprise that flashed across Davenport's face.
"Why not?" he asked.
"Because he more than likely didn't have one."
Davenport laughed, but when Annja glanced at him without joining in, he looked at her expression more closely. "You seem pretty sure of yourself."
"I am."
"Why is that?"
"Because, in the first place, the Mongol people didn't believe in tombs." Annja paused to gather her thoughts and to figure out the best way of passing on what she knew without seeming to preach at him. "Remember that the Mongols were a nomadic people, both before and after Genghis Khan united them as a single political body. They had few cities and those they did have were oriented toward storage of war booty rather than for any community-minded purpose."
Davenport nodded. "Go on."
"Because the Mongols moved from place to place, their religious beliefs evolved very much along similar lines. They considered the natural world to be full of spirits, much like the animists of feudal Japan. For instance, they were forbidden from bathing in rivers or streams because such places were considered the life blood of the earth itself and doing so would have been a horrible affront to the land.
"A Mongol warrior's greatest possession was his spirit banner. It was made by tying strands of hair from his best horses to the shaft of a spear. Whenever he made camp, the warrior would place the spirit banner outside the entrance to his tent to show his presence and to stand as a perpetual guardian. Over time, the union between the warrior and the banner became so strong that, upon the warrior's death, his soul was considered to reside in the banner and not the body."
"But Genghis Khan was not just any warrior," Davenport protested. "He was the spiritual father and warlord of the Mongol people. Just like people today, they would have wanted a place to remember him."
Annja shook her head. "They had one—the spirit banner. It rode with the Khan's descendants until 1647 when it was placed in the Shankh Monastery for safekeeping."
Davenport seemed fascinated with her story. "So you're saying the Mongol people didn't need a tomb because Genghis Khan's very soul rode alongside them wherever they went?"
While it wasn't a perfect explanation of Mongol religious beliefs, it was close enough that she nodded in agreement.
"Interesting," Davenport said, sitting back and watching her for a moment before continuing. "What if I told you that the legends were true, that the Mongols did build a secret tomb for their Great Khan? That they filled it with an amazingly diverse treasure trove, loot from the hundreds of cultures he conquered? And what if I said I had in my possession the journal of a man who had intimate details of the burial process itself, a journal that contained a map to the location of the tomb?"
Annja couldn't help but smile. "I'd say you'd better hire someone to authenticate the map and the writings pretty darn quick, because whatever you paid for it, it was too much. You've been had. Hell, I'd be happy to do it for you myself, just to prove to you the ridiculousness of the very idea."
Davenport smiled. "Good. Then that's settled," he said with a laugh. "You can start first thing in the morning."
Annja stared at him blankly for a moment, and then it dawned her that she had been neatly led right where Davenport had wanted her to go.
Well, she'd just have to take the job and show him how wrong he was. After what had happened she knew the dig was all but finished for the season; she'd simply give them a call and let them know she was going home early.
A map to the tomb of Genghis Khan? Ridiculous!

The next morning Annja rose shortly after sunrise and decided to get some exercise before she returned to Davenport's estate to view the artifact he claimed showed the way to Genghis Khan's tomb. Digging a pair of shorts and a T-shirt out of her bag, she threw on her sneakers and headed out to Chapultepec Park for a run.
Maybe it was the early hour, or possibly the anticipation of the work she was going to do that afternoon to prove Davenport wrong, but whatever the reason, Annja failed to spot the tail she picked up the moment she walked out of the hotel.
The man assigned to watch her was good; he stayed out of her visual area, sticking to the blind spots to the sides and the rear, and hung back enough that were she to stop suddenly he'd have plenty of time to react to the change of pace and act accordingly.
He needn't have worried, however, for the woman was too distracted to even notice him.
When she wandered into the park and began a series of stretches intended to loosen up her muscles for a run, the man knew it was now or never. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number.

* * *

B
ACK IN THE LOBBY
of the hotel, a second individual answered the call, listened briefly, then hung up and headed for the elevator.
It took the operative less than ten seconds to pick the lock on the woman's hotel room door and slip inside, closing the door gently behind him. He stood with his back to it for a moment, listening. His partner had said the woman was alone, but it still paid to be careful.
He hated these rush jobs; too little information meant too many potential ways that things could go wrong. You didn't argue with the boss, though. When he wanted something done, you did it, no questions asked. Simple as that. He'd seen what happened to people who questioned orders, and once was all it took to convince him never to do anything so foolish.
The suite was quiet; the only sounds were the faint hum of the air conditioner and the drip of a faucet that hadn't been turned off fully. Satisfied that the woman was staying alone and he wouldn't be interrupted, the operative threw caution to the wind and went to work, quickly and efficiently tossing the place, searching for the objects he'd been instructed to find.
He was an old hand at this kind of work and he took his time, methodically moving from room to room, mentally noting the position of every object before he moved it and putting it back in the exact same spot when he was finished. He'd come in like a ghost and he intended to go out again, as well, leaving nothing behind, not even the slightest clue, to indicate anything out of the ordinary had happened.
By the time his partner called, letting him know the woman had finished her run and was getting ready to leave the park, he had covered every square inch of the suite and was confident that he'd missed nothing.
The trouble was, he hadn't found what he was looking for, either.
Reluctantly, he withdrew his cell phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and dialed a number.
The phone rang several times before his employer's deep baritone voice came down the line.
"Yes?"
"They're not here."
"You're certain?"
The operative didn't need to be told what would happen to him if he turned out to be wrong; the implied threat in the man's tone was somehow more frightening than if he'd come right out and said something.
Swallowing hard to clear his throat, the operative said, "Yes. I'm certain."
He listened for a moment, nodding in agreement with what was said even though there was no one there to see him do it, and then lifted the business card he'd found among the woman's personal effects.
"Creed," he said into the phone in answer to his employer's question. "Annja.
A-n-n-j-a
. Annja Creed."
He listened for another moment and then closed the phone. There was no need to say goodbye; his employer had already hung up.
The operative took one last look around to make certain he hadn't left anything out of place and then slipped out of the room as quietly as he had entered.

* * *

A
NNJA ENTERED HER HOTEL ROOM
in a rush, knowing she had very little time left to get cleaned up before Davenport's car arrived to take her to the estate. She'd only gotten halfway across the living room, however, when she stopped abruptly, her senses screaming.
Someone had been in her room.
Nothing was disturbed; everything looked as if it was right where it had been when she'd left for her run half an hour earlier.
Yet she had the definite sense that someone had been there in her absence. Call it a gut hunch, a sixth sense, whatever. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.
She stood still and listened, trying to determine if anyone was hiding in the bedroom just beyond, but all she could hear was the low hum of the air conditioner she'd left running earlier.
She reached out with her right hand and drew her sword out of the otherwhere. Having the weapon in hand made her feel more confident to face whoever might have invaded her space.
Cautiously, she walked forward and peeked around the door frame into the bedroom, ready to pull her head back at a moment's notice if there was anyone there.
The room was empty.
You're getting paranoid, she told herself. No one even knows you're in Mexico City.
Still, she checked the bathroom and the closets, just to be safe. When they turned out to be as empty as the bedroom, she at last allowed herself to relax and released the sword back into the otherwhere. Probably just the maid, she told herself, and turned her attention to getting out of her sweaty clothes and into something more suitable for a long afternoon of doing what she loved best.