The Spirit Banner (8 page)

When Annja came to, she found herself lying on the couch in the library where they'd been celebrating shortly before, an ice pack resting across the side of her face and head. The last thing she remembered was her opponent's feet striking her in the chest, knocking her backward and over the balcony railing. After that, there was nothing but darkness.
"You fell off the roof," a voice said, and she turned slightly to see Mason sitting in a chair a short distance away, watching her.
"Not my most graceful moment, apparently," she replied, wincing at the pain as she lifted herself into a sitting position. "Besides, it wasn't the roof, it was just the balcony." All told, she was in pretty good shape. A few bruises, a serious headache, but otherwise she was intact. "I'm guessing they got away?"
"Unfortunately, yes. My fault. I should have anticipated he would try something like this," Mason muttered.
Before she could ask what he meant, John Davenport came through the door, flanked by two of Mason's security team. Despite the fact that Davenport hadn't been the primary target, they were obviously not taking any chances. Annja thought it was a bit like trying to put the horses away after the barn had burned down, but then again, it wasn't her job and so she didn't say anything.
Davenport, it seemed, was far more concerned with her welfare than his own. He hurried over to her side.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine. Just sorry that I couldn't keep them from taking the journal."
He waved his hand in dismissal and turned to face Mason. "Was it Ransom?"
His security chief nodded. "The bastard even left you a note." He handed the other man a small white card, like those used as thank-you notes. Davenport read it and then passed it on to Annja for a look.
There was only a single sentence written on its face.
May the best man win—and we both know who that is.
Sounds like a real fun guy, Annja thought.
Mason went on with his report. "Katter is going to be okay; they hit him with enough trank to put down a rhino, but the doc says the worst of it will be the massive hangover he'll wake up with. Davis, unfortunately, is dead. We think they messed up his trank dose and had no other option but to take him out when they realized that he was going to warn us about the assault."
"And the enemy forces?" Davenport asked.
"Not sure. We found blood trails in the trees and evidence that we might have tagged one or two of them, but we can't be sure. They apparently had vehicles waiting for them a bit farther down the street and hightailed it out of here once they'd gotten what they came for."
"Which was the journal?" Davenport asked angrily.
"Yes, sir. Nothing else seems to be missing."
"That son of a bitch!"
Mason nodded. "My sentiments exactly. Though right about now I'm feeling the same way about you."
Davenport turned to him, surprise flowing across his face. "What?"
Mason shook his finger at his employer. "What were you told to do when the alarm sounded?"
"I—"
"Go to the safe room, right?"
Davenport struggled to find his voice. "But…Annja didn't…"
"This isn't about Annja," Mason said sharply, then turned to her and said, "No offense."
"None taken," she replied, still watching in fascination as this man chewed out Davenport, never mind the fact that not only was Davenport his employer but also the third richest man in the world, according to most sources.
"I told you to go to the safe room. I ordered Watkins to accompany you there and to keep you safe. By ignoring that order, you put not only his but your own life at risk."
"Well, yes, but I didn't think—"
"Exactly," Mason said, overriding him again. "You didn't think. And now Watkins is dead because of it."
Silence fell.
The two men stared at each other, with Annja looking back and forth between them as if watching a tennis match.
At last Davenport mustered his dignity, looked Mason in the eye and said, "I'm sorry. You are entirely correct. It won't happen again."
"Damn right it won't," Mason muttered, but he turned away, his anger spent, and the tension slowly eased out of the room.
To help get things back on track, Annja stepped into the silence with a question she'd been wondering about since waking up.
"Okay," she said. "Time for somebody to bring me up to speed. Who is this guy, Ransom?"
Davenport sighed. "Trevor Ransom is a lowlife thug who happened to strike it rich during the dot-com boom of the 1990s. Unfortunately, he also happens to be my ex-business partner."
He went on to explain how the two of them had been involved in a series of commercial development projects early in their careers that had been extremely lucrative but that had also exposed Ransom's true nature. When Davenport had discovered that Ransom had been using substandard building materials and bilking the clients for the difference, he'd severed the relationship. Ransom, however, hadn't been happy with that result and the two had been bitter competitors ever since. They'd spent the past ten years fighting over everything from mineral rights in Siberia to a chain of grocery stores in Bird's Eye, Pennsylvania. More often than not, Davenport came out on top, which only served to fuel Ransom's rivalry.
Somehow, Ransom had learned about the journal and decided to take matters into his own hands.
Literally.
The information put a whole new light on what had happened to Annja that morning and provided one possible way for Ransom to have known about the journal. She told them about the feeling she'd had that morning, that certain sense that someone had been in her room while she was out on her run. At the time, she'd written if off as just having been the hotel staff, but now she wasn't so sure. If Ransom's men had bugged her room, or even put a listening device on her clothing, all they would have had to do was eavesdrop on her conversations all day to discover what she and Davenport were up to.
Apparently Ransom hadn't wasted a moment in planning to secure the find for himself once he had known what it truly was.
"So what do we do now? Wait for the cops to get the journal back?" Annja asked.
Mason shook his head. "The cops are next to useless around here. Ransom bought them all off years ago. Why do you think we maintain our own security force? We'll just have to handle this problem ourselves."
Annja frowned. "You can't be serious. What are you going to do? Stage a raid of your own and try to take it back again?"
Davenport smiled, and this time there was definitely something predatory about it. "Actually, we don't need the journal at all. Ransom can have it, for all I care. We already have everything we need right here."
Annja must still have been groggy from her fall, for it took her a moment or two to figure out what he meant. Then her eyes lit up with understanding.
"We don't need the actual journal. We've got the whole thing imaged on my laptop!"
Mason nodded. "Right! And without that, Ransom will have to find and then translate the coded message buried in the text in order to avoid going on a wild-goose chase, which I don't think he's smart enough to do."
But they all decided that they weren't going to bet on it.
Afraid that Ransom might somehow uncover the secret of the journal if they waited several more months before setting out as originally planned, Davenport ordered the preparations to begin immediately. Annja would continue her examination of the code while Mason made all the necessary travel arrangements to get them overseas and in country. He would assemble the team on the other end and arrange for local support once they arrived on-site. The accelerated time frame meant they would be arriving in Mongolia at the tail end of autumn, necessitating that they travel fast and light if they hoped to achieve anything of value before winter set in.
There was a lot to get organized and little time to do it. Despite the exertion of the afternoon, their conversation went long into the night.

In a secure location on the other side of town, Trevor Ransom paced impatiently back and forth in front of the fireplace, waiting for his operative to arrive. The snatch-and-grab had gone smoothly enough, he'd heard; the loss of two of his men was a small price to pay for the artifact that they recovered from Davenport's estate, especially if it contained what he suspected it might. Hell, he'd gladly trade several more lives if that's what it took to secure what he was after. It was simply a question of economics—which side of the equation was more valuable—and he came down on the side of the artifact every single time. Men were expendable. The artifact was not.
He'd known Davenport was on to something, but he hadn't realized just how important until he'd discovered that his old partner had hired that Creed woman. His research had shown that despite her job working as the host of that ridiculous television show—
Monster Chaser, Monster Hunter,
whatever it was called—she'd been involved in some of the most astonishing finds in recent years and was regarded as one of the top up-and-coming authorities on the intersection of ancient legend and archaeological fact. Her presence in Davenport's home could only mean one thing—Davenport had found Curran's journal.
The bastard had actually achieved the goal he'd set all those years ago!
Which, of course, meant that Ransom had no choice but to take it from him.
There was a quiet knock on the door of his study.
"Come in," Ransom called out impatiently and turned to face the door as Santiago, the head of his security team, entered the room, a leather attaché case in one hand.
"We have it, sir," Santiago said, extending the case.
Ransom snatched it from Santiago's outstretched hand and moved immediately to his desk where he opened it and drew out the small, leather-bound book it contained. He felt a strange thrill of excitement course through him as he held the object of Davenport's decades-long obsession in his hands.
Ransom opened the journal and sat down at his desk, bending close to the page to be able to read the fine script. He knew his Italian was far from perfect, but it should be good enough to get the gist of what the journal contained. He would have the whole work translated later to be certain they hadn't missed anything vital but for now he'd just take a quick look for himself.
After a moment, he sat back and stared at Santiago in anger.
"Is this some kind of joke?"
Santiago stared at him, bewildered. "Is something wrong, sir?"
"Wrong? Of course there is something wrong, you bloody idiot! The freakin' thing is written in Latin."
"Sir?"
"The book, you fool, the book. Curran's journal is written in Latin!"
"I…see," Santiago said, though Ransom seriously doubted he did.
Unlike his former partner Davenport, Ransom hadn't gone to Oxford. He was a product of the streets and his own hard work, and there wasn't much use for Latin when you're struggling to expand your territory and keep the scum around you from taking what you had fought so hard to gain for yourself. The idiot should have known that…
Ransom took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself. It wasn't his lieutenant's fault. Santiago was a good man. He did what he was told without questioning everything, and that was hard to find in a man with his particular set of skills. No sense in taking it out on him.
He waved a hand at Santiago, indicating that he wanted to be alone, and the other man lost no time in removing himself from the room. When he was gone, Ransom picked up the phone and dialed his secretary in his office downtown.
"Marissa? I need you to find me someone who can translate Medieval Latin, late thirteenth century or so and I need them immediately. Standard nondisclosure agreement and the like. Call me when you have someone, please."
Hanging up, Ransom sat back and stared at the book on the desk in front of him.
"Just what secrets are you hiding?" he asked into the silence of the room, but of course there was no answer.
At least, not yet.
But there would be, he vowed, there would be.
Frustrated with how the day's events had turned out, Ransom got up and began to move about the room, pacing in order to try and burn off some of his nervous energy. He stopped in front of the unlit fireplace that dominated one wall of his office. There, on the mantelpiece, was a small framed picture.
It was a photograph of the two of them, he and Davenport, taken on the day they had signed their mutual partnership agreement. Things had gone pretty well until a day a few years later when Davenport had discovered his little side operation. Every instance of that conversation was etched indelibly on his memory.

* * *

T
HE DOOR TO HIS OFFICE
slammed open and Davenport stalked in, the anger naked on his face for all to see.
"Just what the hell have you been doing, Ransom?" Davenport roared, over the protests of Ransom's executive assistant, who was still trying to prevent the other man from barging in on her boss.
Ransom spoke quietly into the phone, telling the individual on the other end that he had an emergency and would call him right back, and then hung up before Davenport could say anything else that might hamper the deal he'd been trying to close in Singapore.
Only when the phone was back in its cradle did he turn and address his assistant, his eyes never leaving Davenport's face.
"Thank you, Elizabeth. That will be all. Apparently my partner has something he wishes to discuss with me."
"You're damn right I do, you bastard. Just what on earth do you think you are doing? Trying to ruin us both?"
Ransom stared back at him with disdain, not bothering to conceal his feelings now that the two of them were alone. He'd had enough of Davenport's self-righteous attitude over the past several months. "I'm making us money, you idiot. Or can't you see that?"
"Making us money? By using faulty workmanship and substandard building materials? Are you crazy?"
Ransom turned to the bar behind his desk and fixed himself a drink, stalling for time. How on earth had Davenport found out about that? And now that he had, just what was the best way to play it?
Davenport was visibly fuming when Ransom turned back to him, drink in hand. "Every single contractor I've utilized is licensed with the state in which they are operating and all of our materials purchases have met federal minimums," he said as way of answering the charge from his partner.
"Federal minimums?" Davenport asked incredulously. "I'm not talking about meeting specifications, you fool, I'm talking about people's lives! If you build these buildings with these materials, something will go wrong eventually."
Ransom waved his hand as if shooing away a minor issue. "Who gives a damn? If it happens, and I repeat, if, we'll already have sold the building by that point and it will be someone else's problem by then, not ours. In the meantime, we'll have pocketed the difference we save in using my selected materials over those you suggested. Isn't that why you brought me onboard in the first place, Davenport? To expand your operations?"
"Not in this way, I didn't." The older man said it calmly, his fury apparently having spent itself.
But what he said next surprised Ransom to the core.
"That's it. I'm dissolving our partnership immediately. I'll not have my name and reputation associated with the likes of you for another moment longer."
Ransom stood there for a moment, stunned, and then he exploded. "What? You can't do that!"
"I just did, Ransom. You're done. Get the hell out of my building and don't show your face back here again."
Davenport stood his ground as Ransom came around the desk and stared up into his face, his fury evident. "Be ready for a fight, you jackass, because by this time tomorrow I'll have half a dozen lawsuits slapped on your back over this."
But the other man didn't even flinch. "Give it your best," he said with fire in his eyes. "Now get out, before I call security and have them throw you out."