Читать книгу The Spirit Banner - Alex Archer - Страница 12

Davenport’s note had said they would be meeting at his home, but Annja didn’t expect that meant anything casual, so she wasn’t surprised when they pulled up to an estate that looked as if it probably doubled the entire state of Rhode Island. A thick protective wall ran around the entire complex, and entrance to the property was gained through a tall iron gate, complete with a set of armed guards.

Inside it was like entering another world. Wide green lawns stretched out as far as the eye could see, with the grass and the endless variety of bushes and trees all carefully tended and landscaped. In the distance a group of horses grazed and Annja had no doubt that the bloodlines of those beasts were as pure as money could buy. The driveway twisted and turned, occasionally obscuring her view of the horses behind the trunks of age-old oaks, and then they rounded a corner and the house itself was revealed ahead of them, a vast sprawling structure in Saltillo tile and whitewashed stucco, complete with a flower-draped fountain in the center of the driveway.

As José brought the car to a halt, the door opened and Mason Jones appeared at the top of the steps in the company of an older gentleman with silver-gray hair and a long, narrow face. The severity of the man’s features, however, was broken by the deep blue of his eyes and the playful smile that splashed across his face.

Annja recognized him at once.

John Davenport.

The two men descended the steps and waited for José to help her out of the vehicle. Mason performed the introductions.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Annja said, extending her hand.

Davenport’s smile seemed to grow wider, if that was at all possible, as he took her hand. “I assure you, lovely lady, the pleasure is all mine. Thank you for coming and welcome to my humble home.”

Home, maybe, humble, no, Annja thought, but simply smiled at her host.

“I hope you like beef,” Davenport said, as he turned and led her into the house. “I’ve had my chef prepare some fresh steaks from our organically fed Argentinian cattle. It is absolutely fabulous.”

Dinner was excellent and through it all Davenport kept the conversation light and entertaining. It wasn’t until well into the meal that Annja realized he would make an excellent interrogator. Davenport had subtly drawn her out on all manner of subjects, from her taste in music to the difficulties of working a dig in the midst of the jungle. She hadn’t even been aware she’d been letting him direct the conversation for so long. Talking to him felt like the most natural thing in the world and Annja could see why he’d become as wealthy as he had. Anyone who spent five minutes in a room alone with him would come out feeling like they were old friends and it was simply human nature that friends wanted to help each other. She had little doubt that Davenport had built his empire on the strength of that personality.

Once the table was cleared and the servants had left the room, Davenport finally got down to business.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve been wondering why I’ve asked you here. The truth of the matter is that I could use some help with a special project, and after our conversation this evening I’m more convinced than ever that you’re just the person to provide it.”

Annja inclined her head graciously. “I’d be happy to help you in any way I can,” she said honestly.

“Tell me. How familiar are you with Genghis Khan?”

Annja smiled. “Born in Mongolia in 1162. His given name was Temujin and he was named for a warrior slain by his father, one who exhibited bravery in that final confrontation. Declared himself ruler of the Mongol Empire in 1206 and died in 1227. In between, he created an empire four times larger than that of Alexander the Great, stretching from the Chinese coastline in the west to the Black Sea in the east, from the cold of the Arctic Circle in the north to the heat and humidity of India to the south. He was an innovator who assembled a nation out of a handful of warring tribes in perhaps one of the harshest locales on the face of the planet and held them together with nothing more than his iron vision and will. A man to be reckoned with in my view.”

Davenport laughed. “I should have known better than to think I’d catch the host of Chasing History’s Monsters without the facts at her fingertips.” He took a sip of his wine and his voice took on a teasing quality. “Since you’re the expert on monsters, tell me, was Genghis Khan the bloodthirsty conqueror that the media today has made him out to be? A man bent solely on rape, murder and mayhem?”

“Conqueror? Yes. Bloodthirsty? That depends on your viewpoint, I guess,” Annja said, answering his question seriously. “Legend says that he once slaughtered an entire city—men, women, children and livestock—in retaliation for the death of his grandson. It also said that he made a habit of using the bodies of captured enemy soldiers to fill the siege trenches dug to keep his troops from reaching the walls of the cities he assaulted. But was that any different from what the Crusaders did at the siege of Jerusalem or at the slaughter at Béziers?”

“I guess not. But we don’t generally think of the Crusaders as savage marauders hell-bent on ruining civilization,” Davenport said.

“No, but perhaps we should. They did more damage and far less good than Genghis Khan did, and yet his people have come down through the ages being referred to as the Mongol horde. How’s that for an epitaph?” Annja asked.

“Not one I’d choose for myself, that’s for sure.” Davenport paused as the servants came back into the room to serve coffee.

Accepting a cup, Annja inhaled the heady aroma and took a sip, then sighed in contentment. It was strong enough to knock your socks off, which was just the way she liked it.

Once the help had withdrawn, Davenport continued. “I’m considering putting together an expedition to find the Khan’s lost tomb.”

“Don’t bother,” Annja said, without even glancing up from her drink. Because she didn’t do so, she missed the quick flicker of surprise that flashed across Davenport’s face.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because he more than likely didn’t have one.”

Davenport laughed, but when Annja glanced at him without joining in, he looked at her expression more closely. “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

“I am.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, in the first place, the Mongol people didn’t believe in tombs.” Annja paused to gather her thoughts and to figure out the best way of passing on what she knew without seeming to preach at him. “Remember that the Mongols were a nomadic people, both before and after Genghis Khan united them as a single political body. They had few cities and those they did have were oriented toward storage of war booty rather than for any community-minded purpose.”

Davenport nodded. “Go on.”

“Because the Mongols moved from place to place, their religious beliefs evolved very much along similar lines. They considered the natural world to be full of spirits, much like the animists of feudal Japan. For instance, they were forbidden from bathing in rivers or streams because such places were considered the life blood of the earth itself and doing so would have been a horrible affront to the land.

“A Mongol warrior’s greatest possession was his spirit banner. It was made by tying strands of hair from his best horses to the shaft of a spear. Whenever he made camp, the warrior would place the spirit banner outside the entrance to his tent to show his presence and to stand as a perpetual guardian. Over time, the union between the warrior and the banner became so strong that, upon the warrior’s death, his soul was considered to reside in the banner and not the body.”

“But Genghis Khan was not just any warrior,” Davenport protested. “He was the spiritual father and warlord of the Mongol people. Just like people today, they would have wanted a place to remember him.”

Annja shook her head. “They had one—the spirit banner. It rode with the Khan’s descendants until 1647 when it was placed in the Shankh Monastery for safekeeping.”

Davenport seemed fascinated with her story. “So you’re saying the Mongol people didn’t need a tomb because Genghis Khan’s very soul rode alongside them wherever they went?”

While it wasn’t a perfect explanation of Mongol religious beliefs, it was close enough that she nodded in agreement.

“Interesting,” Davenport said, sitting back and watching her for a moment before continuing. “What if I told you that the legends were true, that the Mongols did build a secret tomb for their Great Khan? That they filled it with an amazingly diverse treasure trove, loot from the hundreds of cultures he conquered? And what if I said I had in my possession the journal of a man who had intimate details of the burial process itself, a journal that contained a map to the location of the tomb?”

Annja couldn’t help but smile. “I’d say you’d better hire someone to authenticate the map and the writings pretty darn quick, because whatever you paid for it, it was too much. You’ve been had. Hell, I’d be happy to do it for you myself, just to prove to you the ridiculousness of the very idea.”

Davenport smiled. “Good. Then that’s settled,” he said with a laugh. “You can start first thing in the morning.”

Annja stared at him blankly for a moment, and then it dawned her that she had been neatly led right where Davenport had wanted her to go.

Well, she’d just have to take the job and show him how wrong he was. After what had happened she knew the dig was all but finished for the season; she’d simply give them a call and let them know she was going home early.

A map to the tomb of Genghis Khan? Ridiculous!