The Spirit Banner. Alex Archer

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.

      M ASON WAS WAITING when she arrived at the estate, and after a quick hello, he led her upstairs to a room on the second floor where Davenport was waiting. A long table stood in the center of the room, surrounded by a variety of scientific equipment. Annja glanced at them and then made a beeline for the glass case sitting in the middle of the table.

      Inside was a small, leather-bound book, with yellowed pages and a cracked and faded cover.

      “Is this it?” she asked, turning and acknowledging her employer for the first time since entering the room.

      “And a good-morning to you, too, Annja,” Davenport said with a laugh. “And yes, that is it , as you say. That little volume is going to lead us to the treasure of the centuries.”

      She smiled at his enthusiasm. “If it’s authentic,” she said. “What can you tell me about it?”

      Davenport’s tone became a bit more formal, as if he were reciting information he’d just learned and wanted to be sure to get it correct.

      “In 1245, Pope Innocent IV, suspicious of the lingering power of the Mongols, sent a diplomatic party to the court of Guyuk, Genghis Khan’s grandson, at Karakorum. Leading that party was a friar by the name of Giovanni di Plano Carpini.”

      Annja nodded. She was aware of Carpini’s journey and the book he’d written upon his return, The Story of the Mongols Whom We Call the Tartars. It was one of the first European accounts of life in the Mongol Empire, and though it was later relegated to a secondary position when Marco Polo published the accounts of his own journey among the people of the steppes, it was still considered an important historical document.

      “With Carpini went a priest by the name of Father Michael Curran. Curran was a rising star, one of the Vatican’s inner circle, if you will, and was there at the direct order of the pope himself.”

      “To do what?” Annja asked.

      Davenport grinned. “Spy on the Mongols, of course. Remember, it had been less than twenty-five years since Genghis Khan’s army had turned back at the Mohi River rather than continue his conquest of Hungary and the rest of Eastern Europe. I’m sure more than just the pope was wondering when, or if, Guyuk was going to try again.”

      “So this book—?”

      “It is Curran’s personal account of his time among the Mongols,” Davenport said.

      Annja frowned. “If Curran reported what he learned to the pope, why has the tomb remained undiscovered all this time?”

      “That’s just it. Curran never had the chance to tell anyone what he learned, least of all the pope. He never made it out of Mongolia,” Davenport said.

      Mason took up the story from there. “Apparently the group