Rogue Angel - The Spirit Banner Part 5

"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. "Touche, Ms. Creed. Touche. 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?" John Davenport?"

Jones c.o.c.ked 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 protege, 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 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, 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 a.s.sured of having an excellent meal. 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 a.s.sured of having an excellent meal. Sincerely, 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 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 pa.s.senger 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. 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 pa.s.senger 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 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. 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 Chasing History's Monsters wasn't for everyone. The weekly show was focused around the exploration of legends, myths and the possible existence of strange creatures like the Loch Ness Monster and Sasquatch. Every episode featured two or three different stories, presented with a mix of facts and fiction. Being the scientist she was, Annja's role usually involved shooting down the more outrageous claims, especially those of a supernatural sort. Her field of expertise was on the historical basis of even some of the most ridiculous stories and she tried to show how myths and legends grew out of factual events that were often distorted or misunderstood over time. wasn't for everyone. The weekly show was focused around the exploration of legends, myths and the possible existence of strange creatures like the Loch Ness Monster and Sasquatch. Every episode featured two or three different stories, presented with a mix of facts and fiction. Being the scientist she was, Annja's role usually involved shooting down the more outrageous claims, especially those of a supernatural sort. Her field of expertise was on the historical basis of even some of the most ridiculous stories and she tried to show how myths and legends grew out of factual events that were often distorted or misunderstood over time.

Of course, using hard science to prove that things like vampires and werewolves didn't exist only gave the true believers more reason to shout, "Cover-up!" and go on believing all the same.

Luckily, Mason wasn't one of those.

"I'm a regular fan," he said. "In fact, it was because of your work on the show that the boss decided to seek your advice."

"Oh," Annja said, thinking that one of the world's richest men watching her show on a regular basis was just a bit...weird. She couldn't quite wrap her head around it.

That little voice in the back of her head spoke up. Maybe he's watching it for some other reason, it said.

Almost as if he were reading her mind, Mason said, "Gotta tell ya, though. I don't care much for that other host. Kristen? Kathy?"

"Kristie. Kristie Chatham."

"Right. I mean, my Lord, could they hire a bigger bimbo? She can't even string three coherent sentences together and the wardrobe malfunctions became tiring after the first time or two. Do we really need one every other episode?"

Mason was banking the chopper, paying attention to the controls rather than looking her way, and so he missed the expression of shock on her face, shock that quickly turned to delight as he went on.

"Do they think every guy watching the show is a complete moron?"

Yes, Annja thought, but didn't say. She decided right then and there that she and Mason Jones were going to be very good friends.

"Tell me more," she said with a smile.

By the time he set the chopper down on the landing pad at Benito Juarez International Airport in Mexico City about forty minutes later, they were on a first-name basis.

A car was waiting for them when they disembarked, a uniformed chauffeur standing beside the open door.

Mason introduced Annja to the driver, whose name was Jose, and told her that Jose would take her to her hotel so that she could freshen up prior to her dinner with Davenport.

"What about you?" Annja asked.

Mason jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the helicopter behind them. "Someone has to put away the toys," he said.

Satisfied that she was in good hands and things were proceeding the way they were supposed to, something she had learned the hard way not to take for granted, she climbed into the air-conditioned vehicle and let Jose drive her to where she needed to go.

The hotel turned out to be the Four Seasons on the Paseo de la Reforma, or, as the locals called it, Reforma, just a few blocks from Chapultepec Park-the oldest national park in North America-as well as the National Museum of Anthropology and History. The hotel staff was expecting her, Jose obviously having called ahead, and she was quickly whisked away to a luxury suite on one of the hotel's upper floors. The porter who carried her bag upstairs and deposited it in the walk-in closet pa.s.sed on the message that all gratuities had been taken care of and that the car would be back for her at six. He shut the doors softly as he exited the room, leaving Annja to take in her posh surroundings.