by Alex Archer
The driver slowed at an intersection. He conversed quickly with the professor, then made a left-hand turn.
Annja glanced at Klykov, trying to get some measure of the man’s mindset. He had been mostly quiet since they’d gotten into the car, and there were times he had stared at the driver in the rearview mirror.
“Are you feeling all right?” Annja asked Klykov while Ishii gave more directions to the driver.
Klykov shrugged. “We are far from home, Annja. Far from people who may help us if we need it. This is something that concerns me.”
“It concerns me, too.”
“I do not like trusting people I do not know.”
She smiled at him. “I know, but I went looking for you a few days ago and that seems to have turned out all right.”
He gave her a ghost of a grin that revealed some of the tension that he was feeling. “Yes, but you were fortunate in that instance. You chose to trust me.”
She reached over and patted his hand. “Everything went well with the meeting with your friend?” She assumed the transaction for a weapon had gone off without a problem.
“Yes.”
“Then you should be feeling better.”
Klykov shrugged again. “Some better.”
A few minutes later, the driver pulled into the private parking area of a small gray two-story brick building. There was no advertising, no signage of any kind except warnings of security and NO TRESPASSING in a handful of languages.
The driver opened the door and Annja got out, surveying the building. She glanced at Ishii. “This is a museum?”
“A private museum,” Ishii said. “It is owned by a businessman I know who is interested in archaeology and history. The tale of the Elephant of Ishana is something he has been acutely fascinated by.” The professor led her to the front doors, which were opened by a young man in a dark suit.
Annja settled her backpack over her shoulders and entered the building. She couldn’t help noticing the way Klykov and the driver gave each other space like two aggressive male dogs.
* * *
THE INTERIOR OF the museum was quiet and the climate was perfectly controlled, slightly cooler than the outside temperature. A number of exhibits occupied the main room, which stretched two stories tall, but it was the almost complete skeleton of an allosaurus that claimed center stage.
The assembled skeleton stood on a three-foot-high pedestal and towered almost seventeen feet above that. Most of the bones were true fossils, but one leg, parts of the tail, a few of the ribs and part of the skull plate had been created out of resins. The copies were expensively made because it took a second look to see that they weren’t real.
“Impressive, isn’t it Creed-Chan?”
Turning to her right, Annja took in the slim man in an elegant suit who stepped from the hallway there. Handsome and cruel looking, the man held himself with easy confidence. It was hard to place his age. He could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty, depending on whether the coal-black hair was natural or dyed.
“It is impressive,” Annja admitted.
The man advanced across the tiled floor and stopped just out of arm’s reach. Two younger men that looked an awful lot like the driver Ishii had hired flanked him.
“I would have preferred a Tyrannosaurus Rex, but those are hard to get. Still, a full-grown allosaurus is quite a specimen.” The man gazed at the dinosaur with obvious pride. “I got this one from Thailand, from the Muang district of Nakhon Ratchasima Province. It cost me a lot of money, but it is worth it. So far it has been the centerpiece of my museum.”
Annja didn’t say anything. Dinosaur-fossil trafficking remained a booming business. The man’s casual mention of the price automatically let her know he was used to dealing in criminal matters. Some of Klykov’s unease seeped into her and she realized how far from home and help they presently were.
“Not everyone can have a Tyrannosaurus Rex,” the man stated good-naturedly. “And not everyone has an allosaurus.” His eyes gleamed. “I do. I am quite fascinated by monsters, the giants that used to walk the earth. Have you ever been on a dinosaur dig?”
“A few times,” Annja admitted. “I prefer more current history. Shifting fossilized dinosaur poop isn’t work I enjoy. I’d rather learn about people, who they were and how they lived.”
“I understand. You are here on another matter. The Elephant of Ishana.”
“We haven’t confirmed that’s what I’m looking for.”
The easy grin returned. “Professor Ishii tells me he believes you are looking for that very thing.”
“Professor Ishii may be easier to convince than I am.” From the corner of her eye, Annja watched as Klykov took a slow step to her left and remained facing the man and his two companions. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.
“All the more reason to put the professor’s theories to the test.” The man gestured to the rear of the museum. “I have the documents related to the elephant laid out in a study. Shall we adjourn there?”
“Maybe we should have an introduction first,” Annja replied.
The man smiled. “I am just an ardent supporter of historical things, Creed-Chan. No one you need trouble yourself over.”
“His name is Yoichi Shirasaki,” Klykov said. “He is yakuza. A criminal.”
The unease that had been coiling through Annja solidified into a stronger warning. She checked for exits in the building and noticed that other men had joined them in the main room now, all standing in the shadows.
The man’s eyebrows rose slightly. He looked angry, surprised and troubled all at the same time. “Do I know you, old man?”
Klykov shook his head. “No.”
Shirasaki turned to Ishii and spoke rapidly in Japanese. The question was evident from the anger in Shirasaki’s tone.
Klykov spoke before Ishii could reply. “I am Leonid Klykov. I have done business on occasion with Kano Kenzen.”
The smile flickered across Shirasaki’s lips again, but it quickly died. “Kenzen is no longer involved in this business.”
“I had heard that. Kenzen’s son holds you responsible for his father’s death.” Klykov’s words were flat, uninflected.
“Is that going to be a problem?” Shirasaki asked.
“Not as long as you deal with us in good faith. Kenzen and I did business only occasionally.”
The driver started to step forward but Shirasaki held the man up with a look, then focused his gaze on Klykov. “Careful, old man. You would do well not to insult me.”
“It’s not an insult,” Klykov replied. “Just something that needs to be addressed.”
“We are all interested parties in this endeavor,” Shirasaki said.
“Annja and I came here looking for answers, not partners,” Klykov said.
Shirasaki’s eyes narrowed and his voice turned harder. “The information I have grants me an interest in the outcome of this treasure hunt.”
The words burrowed into Annja’s mind and she regretted accepting Ishii’s offer of help so quickly. She should have vetted the man more completely before jumping in. But time, ironically, wasn’t always on an archaeologist’s side when pursuing an artifact or a story.
Klykov said nothing.
“Maybe I could look at those documents now,” Annja suggested.
Shirasaki smiled again, once more the host, but the cold ruthlessness never left his eyes. “This way, please.”
* * *
THE WORKROOM WAS twelve-foot square, an eight-tatami room, and it seemed cramped with the long table that held the documents Shirasaki had laid out for Annja’s inspection. The inclusion of Klykov, Professor Ishii, Shirasaki and five of the bodyguards made the room seem even smaller.
The documents were kept in a thick, oversize, leather-bo
und book and dated back hundreds of years. Unfortunately, that also meant they were in Hanyu logograms, graphemes that represented words or morphemes, which were helper words and didn’t exist on their own.
Annja didn’t read Hanyu. She gazed at the pages in silent frustration.
“If you will permit me, Creed-Chan.” Ishii acted contrite and polite as he stepped closer to Annja. “I will provide the translations.”
In a calm, steady voice, Ishii read from the documents, more or less relating the story he had already told Annja. Judging from the bored and impatient look on Shirasaki’s features, the Japanese crime lord had heard the story before.
Only as Ishii finished up this time, there was an added layer to the story.
“It wasn’t until the Elephant of Ishana was sent as a gift to the Queen of Russia that the Emperor’s advisors realized they had made a mistake about the worth of the statue,” Ishii continued. “When monks from the Temple of the Dreaming Rumdul came to Dejima Island pursuing the Elephant, they were captured and tortured. Gradually, the story of the Elephant and the Maze came out.”
The Maze? Annja leaned over the page Ishii slowly moved his finger along. In addition to the Hanyu logograms, this page also featured a drawing of a box. Markings outside this box might have listed the dimensions, but Annja didn’t know how big the construction was.
“In addition to the information of the Elephant and the lost temple,” Ishii continued, “the monks also carried with them the Maze, which is the second part of the map to the Temple of the Dreaming Rumdul.”
Annja moved to the other side of the table and peered at the drawing of the Maze. Even though the image was upside down, she made out the three-dimensional representation of what had to be a map. Rivers ran between broken countryside and trails cut through the jungle. Bridges spanned the river, paths throughout.
“Do you know where this is?” Annja blurted out, consumed with the new piece of the mystery.
“We have not been able to narrow it down.” Ishii peered at her through his glasses. “The temple was lost hundreds of years ago. Rivers change their courses.”
“Mountains don’t move,” Annja countered. “Have you searched for this location using satellite imaging?”
“Yes.” Shirasaki stepped toward the table and peered down at the book. “No expense has been spared. I have searched for the Elephant of Ishana for eight years, since I learned of it. Until the Elephant turned up in New York, I had thought it destroyed or lost forever.”
“It might still be a tall tale,” Klykov said, “and you’ve wasted your time and money for nothing more than a fabrication.”
Shirasaki shot Klykov a withering glare, then snapped his fingers. One of his men came forward carrying a small protective case. Without a word, the man opened the box and poured out pieces of carved teak inlaid with ivory. Age had darkened the wood and yellowed the ivory, but the carved images on the wood remained beautiful works of art.
Quietly, the man began assembling the pieces, clicking the wooden sections together with obvious familiarity. They fit together so well the seams vanished, making it seem like the entire thing had been carved from one piece of wood. Within minutes, the Maze sat on the table, covering a two-foot square. Sections created the mountains and the river and the bridges. Other sections created clumps of trees and valleys.
“Part of the legend of the lost temple refers to the Elephant’s memory,” Shirasaki said. “The monks believed that the Elephant would always know its way home.”
Annja leaned over the wooden construction and ran her fingers along the smooth grain and the ivory. “This is beautiful.”
“It is a map.” Shirasaki’s grating response betrayed his irritation. “One that we have not been able to read. Now, Creed-Chan, let us see the Elephant. Let us see if it does remember the way home.”
Annja was intrigued, but hesitant about revealing the location of the temple to Shirasaki. Not only because she felt certain the man would no longer need her or Klykov, but because she didn’t want to allow whatever had been left behind to be picked over by a grave robber.
“Now,” Shirasaki demanded. “I have waited for this moment for a very long time.”
Before Annja could reach into her backpack, assault rifles opened fire out in the main lobby of the museum. Then a section of the back wall blew out in a fist-sized chunk. One of the guards beside Annja suddenly dropped and rolled, revealing that from the nose up, nothing remained of the man’s head except crimson ruin and shattered bone.
Chapter 36
Standing outside the museum on Dejima Island, Fernando Sequeira held the AK-47 rifle and took cover beside the door. He wore a protective vest and helmet with a bullet-resistant faceplate.
Three of his men had charged into the room and the gunfire had started immediately.
Brisa had provided information about the man who owned the museum. Judging from Shirasaki’s criminal background and his interest in history, Sequeira had known immediately that the Yakuza warlord wouldn’t have been interested in any kind of a deal.
That had left only force as a means of acquiring the elephant. Sequeira had planned on ambushing Shirasaki and his people when they came out of the building. Then this mysterious Maze had been brought up. Sequeira hadn’t expected that, and he didn’t want anyone else to know where the temple lay. That prize belonged to him and he intended to claim it.
When the shooting slowed, Sequeira risked a glance around the door frame. All three of his men walked forward in crouches. Two Japanese guards lay prone on the floor amid a shambles of dinosaur bones. Shattered glass from display cases lay strewn across the tiles.
“Espallargas, where is Annja Creed?” Sequeira demanded. Espallargas was the sniper Brisa had assigned to the team after the debacles at Seventh-Kilometer Market and in Moscow. The Portuguese mercenary had a reputation and he’d come at once when Brisa had called.
“She is still in the back room.” Espallargas’s response was quiet and controlled.
The distinct sound of the .50-caliber sniper rifle carried over the comm.
“Two of Shirasaki’s people are no longer a threat.” Another rifle shot punctuated the response.
“No one escapes,” Sequeira stated.
“Understood.”
Sequeira plunged into the building, leading the second wave of mercenaries.
* * *
NO SOONER HAD the dead man hit the floor than Klykov pulled his pistol and fired at the driver, who had already drawn his weapon and took aim at the Russian. Both men started firing at what seemed to be the same time. The driver got off two shots. Klykov staggered back a moment but never stopped shooting. Annja believed all of Klykov’s rounds struck the driver in the chest, and at least one of the bullets hit the man in the face, snapping his head back.
Another heavy-caliber round punched through the wall, creating another fist-size hole, then caught another of Shirasaki’s guards in the chest.
The man who had assembled the Maze hurriedly worked to take the artifact apart. Annja went to him, placing the pieces into the protective case, like they were engaged in some macabre board game.
Ishii turned to run, but another round from the heavy-caliber weapon blasted through the rear wall of the building and caught him in midstride. He dropped, his forward momentum slowed but unchecked.
Shirasaki fired at Klykov as he retreated from the room through the doorway. The other guard tried to follow him, but Klykov cut him down. Gunfire from the outer room drove Shirasaki into hiding amid displays of samurai armor, reducing all the artifacts to ruin in seconds.
When the final piece of the Maze was in the protective case and the latches were snapped closed, the man went for the pistol holstered at his hip. Annja placed both hands on the table and vaulted across, swinging her leg around in a roundhouse kick that caught the man on the
jaw. He staggered and tried to recover, but Annja landed on her feet, swept his pistol from his grip with one hand, and snap-kicked him in the face hard enough to bounce him off the nearest wall.
He shook his head and pushed himself at her as blood streamed down his face. Annja raised the pistol to back him down, then another heavy-caliber round exploded through the wall and smashed into him, sprawling him dead before her.
Grabbing the case containing the pieces of the Maze, Annja ducked, knowing that wherever the sniper was, he could somehow see into the room. They weren’t safe there, and the bullets exchanged outside the back room let her know they weren’t safe out there either.
Desperate, Annja glanced at the walls, realizing then that three of the walls were prefabricated. She looked over to Klykov, who had dropped down into a crouch in the corner.
Staying low, Annja slipped a multi-tool knife from her backpack. She slashed a large X across the wall, slicing deeply into the Sheetrock to score it. Balancing on one foot and her hands, she kicked the wall, shattering it. On her knees, she battered the broken surface and yanked the pieces away, exposing the studs and the opposite wall.
The cratered opening let out into another room, this one an office with a window.
The wall studs were sixteen inches apart. Annja shimmied out of her backpack and shoved it into the office, following it quickly with the case that held the Maze. She slipped through, then turned back for Klykov.
“Come on.”
Klykov looked at the wall studs doubtfully, but took off his coat and tossed it through. Then he followed, getting stuck only for an instant.
“Smart,” he said as the din of gunfire echoed around them.
“Lucky,” Annja replied. “But unless we find a way out of here, we’ve just gone from one mousetrap to another.”
Klykov took up a position beside the hole. Blood leaked from his left shoulder.
“How badly are you wounded?” Annja asked.
