The Spirit Banner (11 page)

As the loading was being finalized and last-minute adjustments were made, the man who had been placed inside Davenport's operations more than three years earlier slipped away from the others. An outdoor bazaar was adjacent to the airport and he took advantage of the general noise and confusion to mask his passage as he threaded his way into its depths. If anyone was following him, he was certain to lose them in the maze of stalls and shouting merchants.
When he was satisfied that there was no one behind him, he stepped out of the main thoroughfare and into a side street. He took a small, satellite phone out of his pocket and dialed a number he knew by heart.
It took a moment for the phone to connect. When it did, he heard Trevor Ransom's deep voice come over the line.
"What do you have for me?"
"Shankh," the informant told him. "They're headed to Shankh."
"Very well. Call me if you learn anything further but do not—I repeat, do not—jeopardize your position on the team."
"Understood."
The informant ended the call and pocketed the phone. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the alley and headed back the way he'd come.

* * *

T
WO HOURS AFTER
their arrival in Ulaanbaatar, the team was almost ready to head out. The trucks had been checked, the supplies divided and loaded on to the appropriate vehicles, and Annja had taken time to review the maps herself just in case something drastic went wrong.
But when it was time to leave, Mason wasn't anywhere to be found.
Davenport was just about ready to send out Williams and Harris to search for him when Mason wandered back inside the door of the hangar, something bright red held in each hand.
"Where'd you go? We've been looking for you," Annja asked as he walked toward her.
Mason grinned and tossed something underhanded in her direction. Annja caught it instinctively and looked down to see she was holding an ice-cold can of Coke.
"Last cold one for a while. After this, it's nothing but yak milk and warm water."
She had to admit, it certainly hit the spot.
Mason finished his own soda in one long swallow, tossed the can in a nearby trash barrel and then shouted so the rest of the team could hear. "All right. Enough lollygagging! Mount up! It's time to get this show on the road."
And, with that, they were off.
They quickly left the airport behind and headed west on the main road out of Ulaanbaatar. Slush lined the roadside and here and there unseen potholes made the driving difficult, forcing them to go slower than planned. At first it seemed as if they would never leave the seemingly endless industrial areas and their thick, coal-fueled smog behind as they followed the track for the Transmongolian Railroad out of the city proper, but eventually the factories slipped behind them and they began to pass small villages and residential areas. Those of a more permanent status were farther back from the road, while the ones that were intended for a night, two at most, lined the immediate edges of the thoroughfare.
On either side of the road, large herds of sheep, goats and cows grazed idly, paying no attention to the cars moving past them, sometimes no more than half a dozen feet away. More than once they were forced to stop or maneuver around an animal that had decided the middle of the road looked like a great spot to stand.
The people they saw were friendly and seemed to be genuinely happy with their lot in life, at least as far as Annja could see. She knew the past few years had been hard for many of the locals. A harsh winter followed by a long drought had killed off a lot of livestock, and those who depended on the herds for their livelihood were still trying to recover what they had lost as a result.
A few hours into the drive, they left even the smaller towns behind and found themselves on the famed Mongolian steppes. High rolling hills covered by a carpet of dry grass stared back at them wherever they looked, an endless sea of tan stretching away in all directions. Even the road took on a brown cast as the pavement had run out long before and the path beneath them was reduced to a large track of hard-packed earth.
Annja knew it would look different in the springtime, full of color and life, but this late in the season only the occasional herd of wild horses, one of Mongolia's national treasures, broke up the sameness of it all.
With nothing to see and time to waste, Annja's thoughts returned to Mason. Seated in the passenger seat, she had plenty of time to watch him without being obvious about it. Her initial impression, that he was a good-looking man with a dangerous side, had certainly been confirmed during the past week, but she didn't have a problem with that. He drove surely, confidently, just as he did everything else. Competence and a clear understanding and acknowledgment of their own abilities were things she prized in a man. It was one of the reasons she was attracted to Garin, in an odd, unresolved way.
She had to admit that Mason's past intrigued her, which was something she wouldn't have expected. Maybe it was just the mystery and mystique that surrounded the famed SAS regiment or the similarity she found between that and her own unique journey as the bearer of Joan's sword. She wasn't sure; she just knew that she wanted to know more, to understand where he came from and what made him tick.
And when you want something, you usually get it, don't you? she thought to herself with a grin.
Mason must have caught her look for he turned to her and asked, "Something funny?"
"Just imagining you spending your life herding goats like those locals back there," she said lightly, hiding her true thoughts behind the emotional wall she'd learned to erect in the orphanage so many years ago. Don't get close to anyone for they might not be here in the morning was an old mantra that still gave her some comfort.
He laughed. "Me? A goatherd? You've got to be out of your mind." His gaze caught hers. "Then again, a man can be induced to do anything if the reasons are right."
Was he flirting with her? Maybe she hadn't hidden her thoughts as well as she thought she had.
"All I know is with the right clothes and some dirt in your hair, you'd fit right in!" she said.
They continued in that vein, bantering back and forth for a time until Davenport spoke up from the backseat.
"I don't get it," he said.
Annja and Mason stopped their teasing. "Get what?" Mason asked.
"Why in heaven's name anyone would want to live out here?" Davenport said with a frown. "I mean, just look at this place!"
Apparently he hadn't heard a word of their conversation, which struck both Annja and Mason as hysterical. They broke into gales of shared laughter, leaving a bewildered Davenport staring at them from the backseat.
"What? Did I say something funny?"
Annja and Mason laughed even harder.

A loud thrumming sound filled the air, causing the boy to look around nervously. He'd only come to the Shankh Monastery six months ago, on the eve of his eleventh birthday, but he'd heard enough stories of times past to know that the sound of helicopters in the morning air was not a good omen.
Hefting his water bucket, he hurried back along the path toward the main building, intent on telling the master. The thrumming sound grew louder as he drew closer and the boy felt his sense of inner peace begin to fray. A glance told him the brothers working in the field had heard it, too; they had stopped working and one or two were even pointing into the sky behind him.
The wind began to whip and churn at his feet, growing stronger and angrier by the moment, and the boy felt some great presence looming behind him. His heart leaped into his throat and all he wanted to do was run, but he knew if he did he'd end up dropping the water bucket and Master Daratuk would simply send him back out to fill it again. Instead, he turned around to look.
Immediately, he wished he hadn't.
A large black monster hung in the air behind him, gleaming in the morning sunlight, its bulbous eyes staring with unblinking intensity. Its hot breath washed over him like the tide and he could feel its growl of hunger all the way down to the core of his bones.
The water bucket crashed to the ground as the boy recoiled in shock.
Then the illusion washed away as the large military helicopter swung around so he could view it from nose to stern and then settled down right in the middle of the vegetable garden.
When the door on the side of the helicopter slid open and men armed with guns spilled out, the boy decided he'd seen enough.
The water bucket forgotten, he turned and ran for the main sanctuary.

* * *

R
ANSOM KICKED
the flimsy wooden door open with one booted foot and strode inside the main hall, gun in hand. Behind him came Santiago and one of the local Mongolians that they had hired as an interpreter. Hundreds of candles lined the walls, casting a soft light across the room, allowing Ransom to see three rows of monks seated directly opposite the door, their orange robes a stark contrast against the dark wood and stone of the interior.
An older monk in brown robes sat cross-legged in front of the others. His expression was noncommittal, despite Ransom's angry entrance.
We'll see how long you keep that peaceful expression if I don't get what I want, Ransom thought with a grim smile. He knew he was two hours, maybe three at most, ahead of Davenport and his crew and he had no intention of wasting any more time than was necessary. This man was going to give him what he wanted, one way or another.
Ransom strode across the room and stopped directly in front of the older monk. "I've been told that you can provide me with information about the location of the tomb of Genghis Khan," he said.
The monk stared at Ransom's face for a long moment, then smiled. He rattled off something in Mongolian.
Ransom looked back over his shoulder at the thin-faced man who'd agreed to translate for him.
"He welcomes you and prays that the wisdom and grace of the Buddha will be with you all of your days."
Ransom grunted. So it was going to be like that, was it? He raised his arm slowly and put the barrel of his pistol directly against the gleaming skin of the older man's bald head. Still speaking in English, he said, "I won't ask you again. You have ten seconds to tell me what I want to know."
Ransom began to count. "One. Two."
The old monk closed his eyes and began talking in a slow, unhurried voice.
"What's he saying?" Ransom asked.
The translator hesitated.
Ransom was in no mood for disobedience. Without taking his eyes off the monk, he said over his shoulder, "I asked you what he was saying. If you prefer, I can shoot you instead."
That did the trick. The translator swallowed hard and finally found his voice. "He's praying, asking forgiveness for any sins he has committed and…"
But Ransom had heard enough. He considered the older man sitting in front of him for a moment, decided that threatening his life wasn't going to accomplish much and turned to face the three rows of younger monks sitting behind their leader.
As one they bent their heads over their hands, closed their eyes and began to speak in that same lilting tongue as their leader, no doubt praying for his safety, as well.
It's not his safety you should be worrying about, Ransom thought, and then shot the monk closest to him in the head.
Blood flew, staining the face and robe of the man sitting next to the unfortunate victim in a harsh spray of crimson, eliciting a sharp cry of surprise and fear as the echo of the gunshot bounced around the interior of the room.
"You can either tell me what I want to know, or I will continue to kill your people one by one until you do. Your choice."
The old man didn't move; he didn't say anything to Ransom, didn't acknowledge the death of one of his students, didn't do anything but sit there, head bowed, praying aloud, just like the others.
Ransom shot another monk.
This time, it seemed to take longer for the sound of the shot to stop echoing around the inside of the room, but the results were the same. The dying man splattered those around him in a shower of blood.
He shot three more monks, without learning anything more, before he grew tired of the game.
Turning to Santiago, he said, "Interrogate each and every one of them. If they know something about the tomb, I want to know it, as well. While you are doing that, have the rest of the men search the place. If it's here, I want it found."
He stalked back outdoors and over to the helicopter, ignoring the sudden spate of gunfire occurring behind him. He climbed up into the copilot's seat and then made a call on his satellite phone.
Some seven thousand miles away the phone was answered on the first ring. "Yes, Mr. Ransom?"
"Do we have anything new with regard to the translation?"
He listened to the explanation, then asked, "And nothing with regard to the monastery? You're certain?"
"Yes, sir. I'm certain." There was no hesitation in her voice, no doubt. She was being a truthful as she could be.
"Very well. Keep me informed."
"Of course, sir."
He hung up the phone and leaned his head back against the seat behind him, his thoughts full of unanswered questions. Just what are you up to, Davenport? What had Annja Creed discovered in the text that his people could not? He looked through the windshield at the destruction his men were causing all around him. What did you expect to find here? He wondered.
He stayed like that, thinking, until Santiago came over fifteen minutes later to report that, despite his best efforts, the monks had not given up a single clue to the tomb's location.
Ransom nodded to show that he'd heard, but didn't answer right away. He spent a minute or two looking around him, trying to figure out what he had missed, but there wasn't anything obvious. So be it, he thought. At least I'll know that Davenport and his set of flunkies have no way of finding it.
"Burn it. I don't want anything left for Davenport to search through," he said.
"What about the monks?" Santiago asked
"Kill them all" was Ransom's disinterested reply.

The men in the lead vehicle saw the smoke first. Jeffries radioed the sighting back to Mason in the middle car, and seconds later the rest of them saw it, as well. It drifted up into the sky in a thick column, ominously dark against the clear blue. Knowing there was nothing else in that direction but the monastery left little doubt as to where it was coming from.
Someone had been there before them and it wasn't hard to guess who.
"Damn! How did he know?"
Annja didn't have to ask who Mason was referring to, but she thought it best not to jump to conclusions.
They drove closer, their hearts heavy in their chests, and found no relief from their fears when, fifteen minutes later, they were finally close enough to see what had happened.
A vast funeral pyre burned in the center of the compound, just in front of the steps leading to the main hall. The bodies of the monastery's former inhabitants could be seen in the midst of the vast flames, the occasional arm or leg jutting from the pile of wood and brush. Behind it, the once-beautiful buildings had been vandalized so badly that in some places they were hardly recognizable. Planks and beams had been torn down to make the pyre. The smoke it gave off had stained the vibrant colors—the brilliant reds, the stately gold, the mossy green—dark with soot.
The place looked dead. Nothing living moved in the ruins.
"Christ…" Davenport said, staring, appalled at the destruction in front of them, through the windshield of their vehicle.
"Wrong savior," Annja quipped sourly, but she knew exactly how he felt. Whoever had done this had intended to get results. As she opened her door and got out, the heavy stench of burning flesh and hair assaulted her nostrils. It was an unmistakable smell; once you've encountered it, you never forgot it, and Annja knew it would be implanted in her memory for years to come.
Whoever had done this was absolutely ruthless.
Mason and Davenport got out of the vehicle and came up to stand beside her.
"Think anyone made it out alive?" Mason asked.
"Only one way to find out," she replied.
Mason turned and signaled to his men in their trucks. The six security personnel quickly got out, drew their weapons and headed into the complex to search for survivors and any trace of whoever had done this.
Annja stood still and let the feel of the place wash over her. Since accepting the sword, and the adventures that came with it, her danger sense seemed to have heightened. Fear, pain and sorrow washed over her, but she didn't get a sense that the killers still lurked in the ruins.
She followed the others into the ruins of the monastery compound. The first few buildings they encountered were small outer buildings that looked as if they had been used as meditation chambers or meeting places. It was hard to tell exactly, since many of them had been torched and only the ruined shells remained. The larger, communal hall that served as the main meeting and meditation area still stood, though its walls were pockmarked with bullet holes and its door was partially smashed from its frame.
It was toward this that Annja headed.
She climbed the steps and went inside.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. Once they had, she could see that the building consisted of one large room with a raised dais at the far end. Candles had once lined the walls, it seemed, but were now scattered across the floor. Blood stained the polished wood flooring in various places and had even splashed across one of the Buddha statues that filled the corners of the room.
Annja walked to the center of the room, trying to piece together what had happened. The presence of so much blood told her that more than one lama had met his end in this room; the idea that blood had been shed in a place that devoted itself to serenity and higher value infuriated her almost as much as the death of the innocent monks did.
She walked over to one bloodstain and reached out to touch it with the tip of her finger. It was still tacky, which meant it wasn't too old. A few hours at best, was her guess, though she wasn't a trained forensic examiner and couldn't be certain.
"Ayyeeeeee!"
The shrill cry came from behind her and Annja whirled in response, her hand already reaching into the otherwhere for her sword.
A small, dark form hurtled at her from across the room. Annja's mind registered the details, which allowed her to react in time to avoid the sudden thrust of the knife as the boy closed in on her. Rather than slashing him with her sword, which had been her first intention, she left the weapon where it was and, instead, caught hold of his arm as the knife slid past her. She used his momentum against him, twisting back in the other direction and taking him with her in a perfectly executed judo throw.
His back hit the floor with an audible thud and Annja moved in quickly, kneeling on his chest and applying a wrist lock to maintain control of his knife hand.
A boy of no more than ten or twelve stared up at her from a face stained with soot and fresh tears. He struggled to free himself, but grimaced in pain when Annja applied a bit more pressure to his wrist.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Annja told him, but the scared expression on his face told her that he didn't understand.
She looked up to call for help, only to see Mason hurrying toward her from the front entrance with Nambai in tow.
"We heard a scream," he said. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Rambo here decided I made a good target."
Mason looked down at the boy she still held securely in the wrist lock. "Does he speak English?"
Annja looked at the boy. "What's your name?"
The youth stared at her with anger in his eyes.
"Come on, we're not going to hurt you. We're here to help."
The boy said nothing.
Nambai stepped forward and spoke softly in Mongolian. The boy looked between them for a moment, then answered his countryman in a voice sharp with anger. The two talked for a few minutes more. The sound of a friendly voice speaking his language must have helped, for the boy quit struggling and Annja was able to let go of his arm and help him sit up.
Nambai turned to the others. "He says his name is Chingbak and he only recently came here as an apprentice to Master Daratuk."
"Ask him what happened here," Annja told Nambai.
The boy's reply was a bit longer this time.
"He says men came in a helicopter, questioned the lamas and then tore apart the buildings looking for something. When they didn't find it they questioned the lamas again, shooting them when they didn't like the answers."
"Is Master Daratuk dead?" Annja asked, watching the boy's eyes carefully while Nambai translated her question.
The split second hesitation before Chingbak nodded his head told her he was lying. Obviously, he didn't trust them, not after what he had seen the other strangers do.
"Tell him that if Master Daratuk isn't dead, we have a doctor and medicine with us, that we might be able to save his life if we get to him soon enough."
The boy stared at Annja after Nambai finished speaking, clearly weighing his options, then made up his mind. Getting to his feet, he led them off to one side of the compound, where he'd set up a makeshift shelter of partially burned timber and spare blankets. A solitary figure lay beneath it.
At first Annja thought the old monk was dead. He lay so still that it was almost impossible to see that he was breathing. The condition of his body didn't make it easy to look at him, either; the material of his once-brown robe seemed to have become part of his flesh, so badly was he burned. He moved his head slightly when she knelt beside him, however, and she knew he was hanging tentatively to life. Looking at the extent of his injuries, Annja was amazed that he could do so; she knew bigger and stronger men who would have succumbed to wounds like that.
She turned to call for the medical kit, but the Mason laid his hand on her shoulder and she understood the unspoken signal. As much as she hated to admit it to herself, there was nothing they could do for the old man, something Mason had understood immediately upon seeing his condition. The small medical kit in the truck wouldn't even come close to dealing with his visible wounds and they were more than two hundred miles from the nearest hospital. He would never live long enough to cross its threshold.
The boy must have seen something in her face for he turned away abruptly probably not wanting a woman to see his tears.
As Annja turned back to the old man on the ground before her, his hand came up suddenly, grabbing hers, and she could feel the hard tautness of the tendons in his palm where the fire had burned away his flesh. If the action caused him pain, he didn't give any sign of it. Instead, he pulled her downward toward his face.
Realizing what he wanted, Annja turned her head so that her ear came to rest less than a half inch from his lips when he stopped pulling. He began to whisper to her, in a strange, lilting, singsong voice, in a language she didn't understand.
But as he spoke, a picture began to form in her mind, an image of a long, slender object wrapped carefully in a red
tangka
which was tied shut with silk cords. She could see it there, hanging before her mind's eye, and as he continued to speak it began to grow more detailed, more solid, until she was almost convinced that she could reach out and take it from the thin air, just as she did with her sword.
Through it all, he never let go of her hand.
Eventually the monk's voice faded away into silence. Annja pulled her head back so she could see his face. He stared up at her with a surreal expression of peace and serenity on his face, given what he had just suffered through only a short while before, and then in clear and unaccented English, he said, "Go to the Buddha. Protect it."
His grip went slack and he died without another sound.
She let his hand slip out of her own and placed it gently on his chest.
"What was that all—" Mason started to say, but trailed off when she held up her hand in a gesture for silence.
She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge something from it, then stood and walked away.
Leaving the shelter and its grisly contents behind, she returned to the main hall and entered through the shattered front door. Once inside, she walked over to one of the four identical statues of the Buddha that stood in each corner of the room. This one had been defaced and riddled with bullets by Ransom's men, but they had apparently thought it was too heavy to move for it still stood upright in its intended location. As if in a daze, Annja reached out and twisted its left arm just so.
With a soft hiss, the statue tilted backward on the hinge built into the rear portion of its large, rectangular base, revealing the dark square of an opening beneath its ponderous bulk.
Annja grabbed one of the nearby candles and held it over the opening, revealing the set of well-worn steps leading downward into darkness.
Without hesitation, she started down.