by Alex Archer
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.
14
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'v
e 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."
* * *
R ANSOM HAD LEFT WITHOUT further comment, but that hadn't been the end of the fight. It had simply moved on to a different battlefield after that. While their lawyers fought it out in court, he and Davenport had taken it to the arena they knew best, doing everything they could to ruin the other's business plans wherever and whenever possible.
Ransom stared at the photo of the two of them together for some time, and then smiled.
"I've got you this time, you arrogant ass. And when I discover the location of the tomb before you, the world will remember Trevor Ransom's name forever. You'll end up being nothing more than a footnote while I bask in all the glory."
15
It took a day to make all the preparations, but once completed they wasted no time in getting under way. The plan was to travel aboard Davenport's private jet to Moscow, at which point they would transfer to a local charter service that would fly them into Ulaanbaatar, the Mongolian capital. From there they would travel by convoy into the interior, following the directions Annja had decoded from Curran's hidden message.
After the raid, Mason had insisted that she either remain at the estate or, at the very least, change hotels and register under a different name. Annja had decided on the latter option. After doing so, she got a good night's sleep and was up early, ready for what the day would bring. She had a couple of hours before she had to meet Mason at the airport and she spent part of that time reviewing her analysis of Curran's hidden message. The entire expedition depended on a proper interpretation and she was feeling unusually concerned that she get it right.
After an hour's work, she still couldn't find anything wrong with her interpretation. Only one way to find out, she thought. If we don't find anything at that first location, we'll know we're way off. Simple as that.
Annja next turned her attention to a less interesting but equally necessary task—researching Trevor Ransom's background. If he was going to be interfering in their expedition, she wanted to know what he was capable of.
It didn't take her long to discover that he was capable of just about anything. By using a variety of online media databases, she was able to get a bird's-eye view of how the media had covered him over the past few years, and they certainly hadn't cast him in a favorable light. Ruthless was a word used fairly often. As was uncaring. Vain, determined, arrogant, unkind and visionary were all up there in the top ten, as well, the last from a Chicago columnist who'd reportedly been trying to curry favor for a job opening.
Ransom had flirted with legal trouble over half a dozen of his development projects, but nothing ever came from any of it. Witnesses disappeared or were bought off, documents vanished, a judge dismissed a case only to have his oceanfront property renovated by a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a subsidiary of one of Ransom's companies a year later.
The pattern was clear. Ransom usually got what he wanted and not always by the most ethical means. She'd only known Davenport a short time, but from what she knew of him she couldn't imagine him doing business with a man like that. Their rivalry certainly seemed real enough, though, and Annja decided it wouldn't hurt to watch her back during the next few weeks as the search got under way.
She put the laptop away and set about packing for the trip, laying her gear out on the bed first so that she could be sure she had everything she needed. While doing so, Annja picked up the phone and dialed her producer at Chasing History's Monsters, Doug Morrell.
"Hi, Doug," she said when he answered.
Morrell, however, pretended not to know who was calling.
"Who is this?" he asked, suspiciously.
"You know damn well who it is, Doug."
"I know that it sounds like Annja Creed, but it can't be Annja because she's down in the Yucatán getting me this incredibly awesome story on Incan sacrifices to the moon god, right?"
Annja sighed. "It's Mexico, Doug. I'm in Mexico. You know, that big country right below Texas? And it was the Aztecs who sacrificed people to the sun god, not the Incas."
"Whatever. As long the special-effects department gets to reenact those sacrifices, I really don't care if they were carried out by aliens."
She heard him suck in a breath suddenly, the way he did when a brilliant idea occurred to him, and she knew whatever was coming next was not going to be good.
She was right.
"Wait a minute!" he cried. "That's it! We can do a story about how the Aztecs were visited by aliens who taught them…" His enthusiasm audibly deflated. "Damn!" he said. "Forget it. I just remembered that we did that one back in season two."
"Good thing, too," Annja said, with a laugh. "Because there's no way you were going to get me to do a story like that. Besides, I've got something better for you. I'm headed to Mongolia."
"Mongolia? Don't tell me you're finally going to do that story on the abominable snowman I've been begging you for?" His voice practically dripped with excitement.
"Not a chance, Doug. Besides, I said Mongolia, not Tibet."
"Mongolia, Tibet, whatever. I can never keep all those Chinese provinces apart."
Sometimes talking to Doug was an adventure in and of itself, Annja decided. Knowing it wasn't worth the time or the energy that would be needed to explain that Mongolia and Tibet were actually two separate countries, never mind the fact that they weren't part of China at all, Annja simply ignored the statement. Instead, she explained she was on the hunt for the lost tomb of Genghis Khan.
"Genghis Khan? Isn't he the guy who impaled all those Turks on stakes?
"No, that was Vlad Tepes."
"You're killing me here, Annja."
"I'm sure you'll survive," she said dryly. "Besides, did I mention the curse?"
She could almost hear him sitting up straighter. "Curse?"
Okay, so it wasn't really a curse, per se, but she knew she could spin it well enough that he wouldn't notice the difference. "Legend has it that anyone who lays eyes on the Khan's tomb will die quickly and violently. Just like the burial party."
She knew she'd hooked him when he came back with a breathless "What happened to the burial party?"
"They were ambushed after the burial and slaughtered to the last man. Sixty trained Mongol warriors, part of Genghis Khan's elite honor guard. And then those who did the deed paid the same pr
ice, so that no one would know just where the Khan was buried."
She told him about the journal and the clues it contained, but didn't mention anything about Davenport or the events at his villa in Mexico City. If she had, she'd never get Doug to pay for anything.
It turned out to be a good strategy. By the time she hung up, she had Doug's approval for the trip, which meant Chasing History's Monsters would pay her for the time she put in on the project provided she came home with enough of a story to let them stitch together a solid show about the leader of the Mongol horde and the terrible curse attached to his tomb.
Not too shabby, Annja thought. Now all she had to do was find the tomb. Piece of cake, right?
She finished packing and then caught a cab to the airport. She met Mason at the entrance to the private terminal and they walked out on the tarmac together to where the plane waited.