by Alex Archer
And now rest beneath the watchful eyes of those
who came before
In their arms is the truth you seek
The way to all that was and more
Then climb to the place where Tengri and Gazan
meet
It is there that the Batur makes his home
"What the heck is that?" Mason asked, bewildered. "I'm not one hundred percent sure," Annja replied nonchalantly, "but if I had to guess, I'd say it is probably directions to the final resting place of Genghis Khan himself."
10
Annja's announcement was met with renewed excitement from the two men.
"Do you think you can decipher it?" Mason asked.
Annja nodded. "I've worked through the first stanza already, I think. And I've got some ideas about the others. But understand, there's no way to be certain. We could get all the way there only to discover I was wrong about the first part, which would then call the rest of the solution into question, as well. It's a crapshoot."
She didn't miss the look that passed between the two men.
"Let's say, just for the sake of argument, that I can figure it out. What, then?" Annja asked.
Davenport laughed. "What, then? Why, we go after it, of course!" he said. "In fact, we'd better start making plans to do so now. The off-season is coming on quickly over there, so we'll have to wait until spring, of course, but that will give us time to get things organized and allow you a chance to work out the puzzle to your satisfaction before we leave the country. We'll need to get travel and dig permits from the Mongolian authorities, arrange for local guides and transportation, never mind choosing the right individuals to be a part of the dig team." He must have seen something in her face in reaction to that last statement, for he suddenly turned to her with a grin. "You are coming along, right?" he asked.
With a start, Annja realized she did want to go. Very badly, in fact. Working with the map and diary had fired her desire to follow this thing to the end, to see if there was any truth to the words Father Curran had so faithfully recorded all those years ago.
She'd been to a lot of places across the globe, but Mongolia wasn't one of them. And being able to take part in the search to uncover one of the world's greatest mysteries? It was the chance of a lifetime. Doing something like this was why she had become an archaeologist in the first place. There was no way she would pass it up.
Besides, she thought with a sly grin, she'd have her producer at Chasing History's Monsters, Doug Morrell, eating out of her hand for months if they pulled this one off.
"When do we leave?" she asked.
* * *
O UTSIDE IN THE GRASS , one of the dog handlers, Kyle Davis, stirred. He'd come into work that night as a last-minute replacement for a fellow employee who had gotten sick. Davis was a big man, not just tall but heavily muscled, as well; and, as chance, or perhaps fate, would have it, he outweighed the regularly scheduled guard by a good fifty pounds.
That meant the tranquilizer dose that had been prepared for the original guard wasn't strong enough to keep Davis under for long. Certainly not long enough for the intruders to accomplish their goal.
He woke shortly after being shot.
Davis had been trained well. As he slowly came back to consciousness, he stayed where he was, lying facedown in the grass, and didn't try to sit up or attempt to discover what had happened. The details didn't matter; what mattered was letting the rest of the team know that they were under attack.
And he needed to do it without attracting undue attention to himself in case the enemy was out there, watching.
His arms had been flung out over his head when he fell and that proved to be an unexpected godsend. Moving just half an inch or so at a time, he slowly slid his right hand over to his left, until his fingers came in contact with the band of his watch. The military timepiece had a panic button built into its face. Pressing it sent a high-frequency signal to the main security station, letting the man on duty there know that something was amiss.
Davis searched for the button.
* * *
T HE SPOTTER IN THE TREES scanned the grounds with his sighting scope, going through the motions just as he'd been taught in sniper school so many years before. Constant vigilance was his motto and it had never let him down.
Nor did it this time.
"Son of a—! Target! Sector B. From TRP 1, right 50, add 25."
His partner brought his weapon into position, repeating the location information back to the spotter as he did so.
"Roger. Movement on the ground. Second target from the left."
The shooter repeated the target designation and adjusted his grip on the stock of his weapon. Taking a deep breath he held it for a moment, made sure he was on-target, and then fired on the exhale. To an outside observer it would have seemed like one continuous motion, but to the sniper it felt disjointed and rushed.
He hadn't expected to have to use the weapon again once they'd taken down the guards, and it was only the fact that he made a habit of keeping his weapon loaded while in position that let him get the shot off at all.
The tranquilizer dart gun had been set aside just moments before and been replaced with his standard piece, a Parker Hale M85 rifle, and a sharp crack rang out over the estate as the gunman pulled the trigger.
The sniper's shot was true.
It struck Davis in the head, killing him instantly.
But the sniper had been about a quarter of a second too late. Davis had already found the panic button and mashed it down flat.
* * *
I N THE LIBRARY on the first floor, the celebration continued. Davenport cracked open a bottle of cognac and drinks were passed around.
"A toast, then," he said, raising his glass and waiting until the others followed suit. "To our expedition!"
"Here, here!" Annja and Mason replied with grins.
No sooner had they done so, however, than a loud siren began blaring throughout the house.
Annja cast a questioning look at her companions.
"We've got an intruder," Mason said, by way of reply, as he crossed the room and disappeared through the door.
Davenport and Annja quickly followed.
Out in the hallway they found Mason surrounded by a handful of hard-looking men who had apparently appeared out of thin air. Or at least it seemed that way to Annja, who up until now hadn't seen even a hint that a security team was present, never mind active.
"Sitrep," Mason said to the tall black man who was helping him slip into a ballistic vest.
"We've got a breach along the south wall. Davis's panic button went off just over sixty seconds ago. I tripped the alarm and assembled the team as per SOP."
"Good job, Jeffries. Any idea who or what we're up against?"
The other man shook his head. "The motion sensors never went off, which means the video feed wasn't activated. At this point, all we have is the lack of response from Katter and the active signal from Davis, which doesn't tell us a whole hell of a lot."
Mason turned to face Davenport. "Without knowing what we're facing, I have to suggest that you take cover in the secure room until this is over, sir."
The trusted friend had reverted back into the loyal employee, Annja noted. And it appeared that Davenport was more than willing to listen to him, too. She had long suspected that Mason was more than just Davenport's assistant and she felt some small sense of satisfaction that her hunch had proven correct.
One of the security team members stepped to Davenport's side, gun drawn and eyes on alert. "This way, sir," he said, indicating the hallway to the left.
Curious about what was going on, but not wanting to get in the way of what appeared to be a well-organized response, Annja chose to follow Davenport. Probably gets half a dozen death threats a week, considering how rich he is, she thought. Besides, if he was the target, at least she was there to protect him.
She was halfway down the hall when a sudden thought stopped her dead in her track
s.
The journal.
Whoever they are, they're after the journal, she was sure of it.
She turned it over once or twice in her head, testing it for accuracy, and finally decided that her hunch was right. They were after the journal. She didn't know how she knew it; she just did.
Turning, she charged back down the hall, headed for the staircase in the foyer that would take her to the second floor. She didn't know how someone could have learned of the journal, nor who might be after it. But that didn't matter. Right now all she cared about was imposing herself between the artifact and whoever it was that had come to claim it.
"Annja! Annja, wait!"
Davenport's calls echoed down the hallway after her, but she ignored them, intent on her objective. She hit the staircase and took the steps two at a time, her gaze directed above, watching for intruders, as she rapidly made her way to the top.
When she reached the second-floor landing, she flattened herself against the wall, settled into a crouch and peeked around the corner at knee height. If someone was there, she didn't want to stick her face right in their sights.
The hall was empty, however.
"Annja!"
She spun around to find Davenport coming up the steps, calling her name, his bodyguard a few steps behind and obviously not very happy about the current situation. Annja wasn't, either. She silenced him with a sharp wave of her hand and gestured for him to join her against the wall.
"What are you doing?" he asked in an urgent whisper, once he'd done what she'd asked. "Mason told us to get under cover."
"We need to check on Curran's diary."
Davenport processed that for a second. "You don't think…"
"Yeah, I do think. Now stay here and let me check things out." She turned to look at the bodyguard. "Make sure he listens, understand?"
The security agent nodded.
She straightened up and took a deep breath. Rounding the corner, she headed for the room at the end of the hall at a fast walk, doing her best to be as quiet as possible.
She'd made it about halfway there when the door at the end opened and a man clad in dark clothing stepped out. His back was partially turned as he listened to instructions given by someone still inside the room, but Annja could clearly see the automatic weapon he carried.
The closest door was behind her and to her left. He'd see her long before she could reverse course, get it open and slip inside.
There was nowhere else for her to go but forward.
Annja knew that at any second he was going to turn around and see her coming toward him down the hallway. If that happened she was as good as dead; it wouldn't take much to bring that weapon in line and gun her down in her tracks.
She had to reach him first.
All this flashed through her mind in the space of a heartbeat and then she was rushing down the corridor toward the intruder as fast as she could go move. Picturing her sword in her mind, she reached into the otherwhere, wrapped her hand around its hilt and drew it forth.
Unfortunately for Annja, she didn't make it.
She was still a dozen or so steps away when the intruder closed the door and turned in her direction. His surprise at seeing someone charging down the hall toward him brandishing a sword didn't stop his training from taking over. The look of shock was still on his face when he swung his gun around and fired from the hip.
11
Faced with certain death, Annja did the only thing she could. Like a runner going for second base, she dropped into a slide, legs extended, sword held in a striking position, using her own momentum and the highly polished wooden floor to carry her closer to her target.
The move took her opponent by surprise and she slid under his line of fire, bullets streaming past over her head, and then she was up close, right there at his feet, surging to her knees, her sword thrust upward with all the momentum gained in her rush down the hall.
The gunman never stood a chance.
The blade caught him low in the gut, just under the edge of the Kevlar vest he was wearing, and rammed him back against the door, pinning him in place.
He stared at her in disbelief, looked down at the two feet of steel sticking out of his gut, then died without saying a word.
Rather than trying to pull her sword free, Annja simply released it into the otherwhere.
The gunman's body dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.
In the silence that followed, a voice called her name softly.
Annja turned.
The bullets had missed her, but that didn't mean that they hadn't found a target. John Davenport was kneeling in the middle of the hallway, cradling the badly wounded body of his security agent, the other man's neck stained a deep crimson hue.
Annja met Davenport's gaze. The slight shake of his head said it all; there was nothing they could do. The man in Davenport's arms sucked in a last breath, stared beseechingly at Annja and then joined his killer in death.
A loud crash from the other side of the door pulled Annja's gaze away from the duo.
Get the journal. At least make his death count for something, she thought.
She had to get inside that room.
As far as tactical situations go, it wasn't the best. She had no idea how many men were waiting for her on the other side of the door, nor how they were armed. She was going to have to trust that her instincts and her speed were going to be enough.
She pictured the room in her mind, noting the position of the furniture as it had stood when she'd been working there earlier, paying attention to what might provide adequate cover and what would not. When she was ready, she took a couple deep breaths to draw as much oxygen into her bloodstream as possible, drew back her right leg and kicked out with all her strength.
The door swung open. As it did she dove through the gap, tucking herself into a roll the second her hands touched the floor and letting her momentum carry her several feet to the left where a large island work area was built into the floor.
Gunfire filled the room, bullets chasing her across the floor and slamming into the island, sending chips of wood and metal flying, but the structure was thick enough to protect her and she made it through unscathed.
She peeked around the opposite side, looking for the gunman. The table where she'd worked all day was directly across from her and she could see the shattered remains of the glass case that had held the diary littering the floor at its base, but there was no sign of the intruder.
Nor was there any sign of the diary.
She scuttled over to the other side and peeked around that edge, ready to jerk her head back at the slightest sign of movement. The gunfire had come from somewhere. The door she'd come through was the only exit from the room and she knew that no one had gotten past her to go through it.
Where on earth did they go?
She heard a grunt from above and looked up just in time to see a dark-clad form disappear through a hole cut in the ceiling.
Annja stood, intending to chase after them, only to be forced to take cover on her knees behind the work area again as the intruder stuck his weapon back down through the hole and sprayed the room with a full clip of ammunition.
She waited several seconds after the firing stopped to be certain the shooter wasn't just changing clips. When the shooting failed to resume, she rose to her feet and raced over to the rope that still hung down through the hole.
She was betting that the intruders would be more concerned with getting out of there as quickly as possible and wouldn't have posted anyone to stand guard at the top. She grabbed the rope and shimmied up as quickly as she could, knowing that if she'd guessed wrong she was a sitting duck.
Luckily, she hadn't. When she poked her head out through the hole in the roof, she saw three figures running away from her across the rooftop, headed for the wing closest to the outer wall of the property.
Annja pulled herself onto the roof and gave chase.
* * *
M ASON LED HIS MEN throug
h the house and gathered them together in the underground garage, where they assembled into two squads, one to be led by him and the other to be led by his second in command, Jeffries. He'd chosen the garage as a staging area for two reasons. First, because it provided immediate access to the side of the estate where Katter and Davis were on duty and was therefore the closest point of egress to that location, and second, because of what it contained. There were two emergency evacuation vehicles standing ready at all times in the garage in case Davenport had to be taken to safety on a moment's notice, and Mason intended to put them to good use. The SUVs were armor plated and came equipped with reinforced steering, puncture-resistant tires and bulletproof glass throughout. They were adequate protection against just about anything short of a rocket-propelled grenade and would provide good cover while they crossed the estate grounds and tried to get a look at whoever it was that had breached their security.