Mason nodded. "Right! And without that, Ransom will have to find and then translate the coded message buried in the text in order to avoid going on a wild-goose chase, which I don't think he's smart enough to do."

But they all decided that they weren't going to bet on it.

Afraid that Ransom might somehow uncover the secret of the journal if they waited several more months before setting out as originally planned, Davenport ordered the preparations to begin immediately. Annja would continue her examination of the code while Mason made all the necessary travel arrangements to get them overseas and in country. He would a.s.semble the team on the other end and arrange for local support once they arrived on-site. The accelerated time frame meant they would be arriving in Mongolia at the tail end of autumn, necessitating that they travel fast and light if they hoped to achieve anything of value before winter set in.

There was a lot to get organized and little time to do it. Despite the exertion of the afternoon, their conversation went long into the night.

14.

In a secure location on the other side of town, Trevor Ransom paced impatiently back and forth in front of the fireplace, waiting for his operative to arrive. The s.n.a.t.c.h-and-grab had gone smoothly enough, he'd heard; the loss of two of his men was a small price to pay for the artifact that they recovered from Davenport's estate, especially if it contained what he suspected it might. h.e.l.l, he'd gladly trade several more lives if that's what it took to secure what he was after. It was simply a question of economics-which side of the equation was more valuable-and he came down on the side of the artifact every single time. Men were expendable. The artifact was not.

He'd known Davenport was on to something, but he hadn't realized just how important until he'd discovered that his old partner had hired that Creed woman. His research had shown that despite her job working as the host of that ridiculous television show-Monster Chaser, Monster Hunter, whatever it was called-she'd been involved in some of the most astonishing finds in recent years and was regarded as one of the top up-and-coming authorities on the intersection of ancient legend and archaeological fact. Her presence in Davenport's home could only mean one thing-Davenport had found Curran's journal. whatever it was called-she'd been involved in some of the most astonishing finds in recent years and was regarded as one of the top up-and-coming authorities on the intersection of ancient legend and archaeological fact. Her presence in Davenport's home could only mean one thing-Davenport had found Curran's journal.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had actually achieved the goal he'd set all those years ago!

Which, of course, meant that Ransom had no choice but to take it from him.

There was a quiet knock on the door of his study.

"Come in," Ransom called out impatiently and turned to face the door as Santiago, the head of his security team, entered the room, a leather attache case in one hand.

"We have it, sir," Santiago said, extending the case.

Ransom s.n.a.t.c.hed it from Santiago's outstretched hand and moved immediately to his desk where he opened it and drew out the small, leather-bound book it contained. He felt a strange thrill of excitement course through him as he held the object of Davenport's decades-long obsession in his hands.

Ransom opened the journal and sat down at his desk, bending close to the page to be able to read the fine script. He knew his Italian was far from perfect, but it should be good enough to get the gist of what the journal contained. He would have the whole work translated later to be certain they hadn't missed anything vital but for now he'd just take a quick look for himself.

After a moment, he sat back and stared at Santiago in anger.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

Santiago stared at him, bewildered. "Is something wrong, sir?"

"Wrong? Of course there is something wrong, you b.l.o.o.d.y idiot! The freakin' thing is written in Latin."

"Sir?"

"The book, you fool, the book. Curran's journal is written in Latin!"

"I...see," Santiago said, though Ransom seriously doubted he did.

Unlike his former partner Davenport, Ransom hadn't gone to Oxford. He was a product of the streets and his own hard work, and there wasn't much use for Latin when you're struggling to expand your territory and keep the sc.u.m around you from taking what you had fought so hard to gain for yourself. The idiot should have known that...

Ransom took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself. It wasn't his lieutenant's fault. Santiago was a good man. He did what he was told without questioning everything, and that was hard to find in a man with his particular set of skills. No sense in taking it out on him.

He waved a hand at Santiago, indicating that he wanted to be alone, and the other man lost no time in removing himself from the room. When he was gone, Ransom picked up the phone and dialed his secretary in his office downtown.

"Marissa? I need you to find me someone who can translate Medieval Latin, late thirteenth century or so and I need them immediately. Standard nondisclosure agreement and the like. Call me when you have someone, please."

Hanging up, Ransom sat back and stared at the book on the desk in front of him.

"Just what secrets are you hiding?" he asked into the silence of the room, but of course there was no answer.

At least, not yet.

But there would be, he vowed, there would be.

Frustrated with how the day's events had turned out, Ransom got up and began to move about the room, pacing in order to try and burn off some of his nervous energy. He stopped in front of the unlit fireplace that dominated one wall of his office. There, on the mantelpiece, was a small framed picture.

It was a photograph of the two of them, he and Davenport, taken on the day they had signed their mutual partnership agreement. Things had gone pretty well until a day a few years later when Davenport had discovered his little side operation. Every instance of that conversation was etched indelibly on his memory.

T HE DOOR TO HIS OFFICE HE DOOR TO HIS OFFICE slammed open and Davenport stalked in, the anger naked on his face for all to see. slammed open and Davenport stalked in, the anger naked on his face for all to see.

"Just what the h.e.l.l have you been doing, Ransom?" Davenport roared, over the protests of Ransom's executive a.s.sistant, who was still trying to prevent the other man from barging in on her boss.

Ransom spoke quietly into the phone, telling the individual on the other end that he had an emergency and would call him right back, and then hung up before Davenport could say anything else that might hamper the deal he'd been trying to close in Singapore.

Only when the phone was back in its cradle did he turn and address his a.s.sistant, his eyes never leaving Davenport's face.

"Thank you, Elizabeth. That will be all. Apparently my partner has something he wishes to discuss with me."

"You're d.a.m.n right I do, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Just what on earth do you think you are doing? Trying to ruin us both?"

Ransom stared back at him with disdain, not bothering to conceal his feelings now that the two of them were alone. He'd had enough of Davenport's self-righteous att.i.tude over the past several months. "I'm making us money, you idiot. Or can't you see that?"

"Making us money? By using faulty workmanship and substandard building materials? Are you crazy?"

Ransom turned to the bar behind his desk and fixed himself a drink, stalling for time. How on earth had Davenport found out about that? And now that he had, just what was the best way to play it?

Davenport was visibly fuming when Ransom turned back to him, drink in hand. "Every single contractor I've utilized is licensed with the state in which they are operating and all of our materials purchases have met federal minimums," he said as way of answering the charge from his partner.

"Federal minimums?" Davenport asked incredulously. "I'm not talking about meeting specifications, you fool, I'm talking about people's lives! If you build these buildings with these materials, something will go wrong eventually."

Ransom waved his hand as if shooing away a minor issue. "Who gives a d.a.m.n? If it happens, and I repeat, if, we'll already have sold the building by that point and it will be someone else's problem by then, not ours. In the meantime, we'll have pocketed the difference we save in using my selected materials over those you suggested. Isn't that why you brought me onboard in the first place, Davenport? To expand your operations?"

"Not in this way, I didn't." The older man said it calmly, his fury apparently having spent itself.

But what he said next surprised Ransom to the core.

"That's it. I'm dissolving our partnership immediately. I'll not have my name and reputation a.s.sociated with the likes of you for another moment longer."

Ransom stood there for a moment, stunned, and then he exploded. "What? You can't do that!"

"I just did, Ransom. You're done. Get the h.e.l.l out of my building and don't show your face back here again."

Davenport stood his ground as Ransom came around the desk and stared up into his face, his fury evident. "Be ready for a fight, you jacka.s.s, because by this time tomorrow I'll have half a dozen lawsuits slapped on your back over this."