The Spirit Banner. Alex Archer
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 Juárez 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 José, and told her that José 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 José 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, José 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 passed 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.
The suite consisted of a spacious living room area, complete with a wet bar, a flat-screen TV, a stereo and DVD player, all carefully arranged amid the couch and several armchairs. The bedroom contained a king-size bed and another television artfully mounted on the wall, as well as a walk-in closet and private dressing area. But it was the master bath, with its oversize soaking tub, that did it for her. Annja wasted no time in filling it with hot water and scented bath oil, then stripped off her dust-covered clothing and settled in to enjoy a long soak.
When she had scrubbed away the last of the dirt and grime of the jungle and her muscles had unknotted enough that she was again feeling human, she rose from the water and slipped into the thick terry-cloth robe the hotel provided its guests. She sat in the dressing area and brushed out her long hair, then, noting it was almost five-thirty, decided she had just enough time to get dressed for her meeting with Davenport.
But when she stepped into the closet to retrieve her bag, she found a selection of quality clothing of different colors and styles hanging on the racks.
She whistled long and low.
A peek confirmed her suspicions—all of them were in her size. How Davenport had known that was beyond her. While she appreciated the thought and attention he had obviously put into this meeting, it also made her feel uneasy. Just what did the man want? And why the show? She didn’t know, but there was one way to find out.
She ran her fingers over the fabrics of the dresses hanging in the closet, admiring their cut and the feel of each garment, then turned away and pulled some clothes from her own bag. By the time the porter called up to tell her that her car was waiting, she was comfortably dressed in a pair of tan cargo pants, a white linen blouse and her sturdy hiking shoes. She wasn’t here to play dress up for Davenport and she hoped her choice of clothing would convey that message without making her seem ungrateful. She added a native bead necklace that highlighted her amber-green eyes and decided it would have to do.
With a last glance in the mirror she headed for the elevator, her curiosity over being summoned to dinner by one of the richest men in the world nearly overwhelming her.
6
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