The Spirit Banner. Alex Archer

of dangerous situations and even deadlier enemies. She’d been forced to fight for her life in more than a dozen places around the world, from the jungles of the Amazon to the sands of New Mexico, from the snows of Siberia to the waters of Indochina. She’d quickly learned to recognize the wolves moving among the sheep, and the man standing before her was definitely not one of the latter.

      Given the close relationship between Mexico and the U.S., Annja pegged him for some kind of government adviser who had come in with the troops. Probably CIA or Department of Defense. It had to be something like that. His complete indifference to the police troops moving about the camp was a dead giveaway.

      Having sized him up, she turned away, no longer interested.

      “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” she said dismissively, as she continued to hose herself down in an effort to get the blood and muck off her clothing. When she straightened back up, she found him still standing there, watching her, in turn.

      “Can I help you with something?” she asked, with more than a bit of frustrated exasperation in her voice. The last thing she needed was some government flunky ogling her.

      “That would depend. Are you, by chance, Annja Creed?”

      Annja frowned. Aside from her producer, Doug Morrell, she hadn’t told anyone where she was going when she’d left Brooklyn three weeks before. And while it wasn’t unusual for fans of the television show she worked for— Chasing History’s Monsters —to recognize her in public, it was strange to find a fan in the middle of the Mexican jungle at a dig site that only a handful of people were even aware of.

      She used his words back at him. “That would depend. Who’s asking?”

      He chuckled. “Touché, Ms. Creed. Touché. Forgive me. My name is Mason Jones, though my friends call me Mason. I’m here with an invitation from my employer, John Davenport.”

      Annja wasn’t certain if she’d heard him correctly.

      “John Davenport?”

      “Yes.”

      “ The John Davenport?”

      Jones cocked his head to one side and looked at her as if he were examining some fascinating new species of insect. “Is there some other John Davenport I should be aware of?”

      “No. No, of course not,” Annja said quickly, caught more than a little off balance by the way the situation was unfolding. So much for the government adviser theory. And Jones was right. There was only one John Davenport worth talking about. Davenport was to Britain what Gates was to America or Murdoch to Australia. All three were incredibly wealthy, but only Davenport had an active interest in ancient cultures and used his immense wealth to regularly sponsor major archaeological expeditions to all kinds of unusual locales.

      Of course, none of them had the kind of wealth her mentor, Roux, or even his former protégé, Garin Braden, had acquired during their long existence, but that was neither here nor there. It wasn’t actually a fair comparison for one thing. Both Roux and Garin were tied to the mysticism surrounding the sword of Joan of Arc, just as she was. She had met them both during that fateful excursion in the mountains of France, when she had been hunting the Beast of Gevaudan. She’d found the beast, but she also found something else—the final missing piece of Joan’s sword, shattered by her English captors before they burned her at the stake. It was only later, after the sword had mysteriously reforged itself as if by magic, that she had discovered both men had been contemporaries of Joan. Roux had been one of Joan’s protectors. Garin, in turn, had been his squire. Something mystical had happened when Joan’s sword was shattered, something that had kept them from aging or dying for hundreds of years. Comparing Davenport’s wealth, obtained over a single lifetime, to theirs was like comparing apples and watermelons. Still, the fact that Davenport even knew she existed was frankly astounding to Annja, never mind that he had sent someone to find her in the middle of nowhere.

      With nothing else looming on the horizon, she had gladly accepted when the dig’s director had come calling. Several weeks in the jungle unearthing the treasures of the past had sounded like just the thing to escape the hustle and bustle of Brooklyn and the pop culture version of archaeology she was often forced to serve up in the name of ratings or Chasing History’s Monsters .

      Now, it seemed, the world had come looking for her again.

      “What can I do for Mr. Davenport?” Annja asked. She was suddenly acutely aware of how she must look—her hair still full of the muck from the bottom of the cenote and her T-shirt and pants now wet from the hose.

      Jones reached inside his suit jacket and came out with a cream-colored envelope. He handed it to her. The envelope was sealed with a dollop of red wax, in the middle of which had been pressed the Davenport company logo. The seal was unbroken, but Annja didn’t leave it that way for long. Inside was a note on a small white card. It was handwritten in a smooth, flowing script that spoke of the confidence inherent in the man who’d penned it.

      Dear Ms. Creed,

      It would please me greatly if you would accept my invitation to dinner this evening at my home outside Mexico City in order to discuss a particular business proposal. Mason is authorized to provide anything you require, including transportation to and from the estate, and I am willing to pay you a consulting fee of $5,000 just to hear me out, no strings attached. At the very least, you can be assured of having an excellent meal.

      Sincerely,

       John Davenport

      Annja looked up from the note to find Mason waiting patiently for her answer.

      She thought about it for less than a minute and then shrugged, “Sure. Why not?” she said.

      A FTER CHECKING IN with the site coordinator to let him know that she would be leaving, Annja changed into clean clothing, gathered what little gear she had from her tent and returned to the main encampment to find Mason standing next to a newer model Land Rover. The black exterior seemed to soak up the tropical sun, but Annja had little doubt the air-conditioned interior would provide a cool refuge from the heat. Jones opened the passenger door for her, stowed her bag in back and then climbed in behind the wheel. Mexico City was at the other end of a three-hour drive down a poorly maintained dirt track and Annja settled in for the trip, only to be surprised when Mason pulled off the main drag onto a side road that amounted to little more than a goat trail.

      “Mexico City is that way,” Annja said, pointing back in the direction they’d just come from, thinking he might have gotten turned around in the dense jungle.

      Jones nodded. “You are correct, Ms. Creed,” he said, glancing at her, his expression noncommittal. He turned his attention back to the road before him.

      Annja gave him a moment to explain further, but when it was clear he wasn’t going to do so, she asked, “Then why on earth are we going this way?”

      “Because this is where I left the helicopter,” he said.

      “Oh,” Annja replied.

      They bounded over a few potholes, skirted a fallen tree trunk and emerged suddenly into a small clearing recently cut from the undergrowth.

      In the middle of the clearing sat a Bell JetRanger helicopter, its sleek black frame looking like some kind of giant insect in the midst of that primeval landscape.

      “Right. The helicopter. How silly of me,” she said.

      This time, Jones couldn’t keep a straight face and actually grinned.

      T HE FLIGHT DIDN’T TAKE LONG and her companion turned out to be enjoyable company. They talked for a time and then Mason asked the one question that inevitably came up.

      “How do you like working in television?”

      Annja hesitated. “You’ve seen the show?” she asked cautiously, trying to feel him out to see what he thought. Chasing History’s Monsters wasn’t for everyone. The weekly show was focused around the exploration of legends, myths and the