Galleon's Gold

by David Leadbeater

  “He’s right,” Marco said unwillingly. “And if we go at sundown, we’ll find it easier to lie low when we need to.”

  “In that case,” Crouch said, assuming everyone agreed to his plan, “we should prepare.”

  He started to turn away, but Caitlyn stopped him in his tracks.

  “First,” she said, “before we risk everything trekking through a hostile camp, there’s something we need from you.

  Marco realized she was talking to him. “What?”

  “The treasure you stole. What the hell is it?”

  Alicia smiled to herself. This was the $1 billion question. This was the motherlode. What the hell had Marco and his crew stolen from the Santa Azalea?

  “As much as we were able to carry,” Marco said, leaning against a tree stump. “Nowhere near the amount we’d planned on.”

  Caitlyn made a gesture. “And?”

  “Blocks of jade and amber. Diamonds. Vases we think from the Ming dynasty. Ivory statuettes. And gold. The bulk of what we could carry.”

  Caitlyn still waited, but when Marco stayed silent, she frowned. “Is that it?”

  “No. We came away short-handed—”

  “Marco!” Elyse snapped in warning.

  “No. These people are treasure hunters. If anyone would know, they would.”

  “Know what?” Crouch cocked his head with interest.

  “We spent way too long down there searching for the principal treasure. Room after room, despite collecting all the jade and gold we wanted. You see, half of what the Manila galleons shipped across the globe for 250 years was contraband. It was never declared. Smugglers’ delight, the lot of it.”

  “I’m guessing the principal treasure was important then,” Caitlyn said.

  “Four of the biggest, purest diamonds you ever saw. We’re talking millennium class, hundreds of carats. Three of the largest lumps of jade you could transport aboard ship, worth tens of millions. And one special treasure, something the like of which the world has never known.”

  Alicia almost overbalanced as she leaned further and further toward Marco. “What was it?”

  “The Sword of Peter.”

  Crouch shook his head. “I very much doubt—”

  “You should hear me out, pal. I’m sure treasure hunters as experienced as you know that Spanish records concerning the Manila galleons are thorough, except for smuggled items, which often made up a quarter of the total cargo. The manifest is detailed and complete. But the Sword of Peter is written clearly in ink.”

  Caitlyn looked awestruck. Crouch punched the air. “So that’s why—”

  “Yes, that’s why everyone is so crazy about finding the Santa Azalea. That’s why nobody really cares about the other two great galleons that went down. That’s why your Sally Hope and particularly her father spent a vast fortune and so many years searching for it. The Sword of Peter is not only a sword, it is the gateway to the Holy Grail.”

  “Wait, wait, I don’t understand any of this,” Alicia said. “Who the hell is Peter? Are we talking Pan? Rabbit? Cushing?”

  “Saint Peter,” Marco said with a withering glance. “The apostle? Worked occasionally with Jesus?”

  Now, Alicia’s eyes grew big. “Fuuuck.”

  “Indeed. This is the sword that Peter used to cut off the ear of the High Priest’s servant in the Garden of Gethsemane when Jesus was arrested. Of course, you know what happened next.”

  “Just wait.” Crouch held up a hand. “First, how can you be sure it’s the real sword? I seem to recall it’s supposed to be hanging in Poland’s archcathedral basilica.”

  “You know your treasures and your relics,” Marco said with a respectful nod, “and I salute you, but you can’t know how importantly Britain took its role in the sword’s defense. The sword spent many long years in Britain, brought there by none other than Joseph of Arimathea and kept at Glastonbury Abbey under heavy guard. At this time Britain was causing havoc in North America, waging a war against the French, the Americans and George Washington himself. The Americans hatched a secret plan, to hit Britain from within. Thus, they stole the sword and other items and sent them by the only route available to them at the time: Manila to Acapulco and Mexico, to America. From there, they would be able to use Peter’s sword as a crucial bargaining tool.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “From painstaking research. The manifest lists the sword. The sword was supposedly ‘moved and copied’ in the eighteenth century according to Poznan Cathedral’s records. There is no actual record of it ever leaving England or having been stolen.”

  “Not exactly concrete,” Crouch mused.

  “No, but there’s more. George Washington himself made mention of St Peter’s sword in an early speech, probably to taunt the British pre-theft. He would have referred back to it later, is my guess.”

  “So how do you know it wasn’t just lost in the sinking? In the hurricane?” Russo asked.

  “Because there are several old accounts of sailors that survived that hurricane,” Marco said. “It’s what I’ve been doing the last two months. I figured we might still be able to find the principal treasure and, whilst being hunted by Akhon’s goons, I had ample time to do the research. Anyway, it was clear to me there would be old accounts since so few seamen survived that devastating shipwreck. There were over 1,000 dead souls. Acapulco’s residents and clergy committed much of what they saw that night to paper. They speak of the monstrous hurricane, the enormous ships made tiny beneath its fury, the way these galleons—the biggest of the time—were thrown around the sea as if by the hand of God. They speak of so many dead bodies washed up along the shoreline, of cannon and muskets, swords and silks and jars all washed up. Of an entire galleon’s side, still intact and resting on the beach like a dinosaur’s exposed ribcage. And they speak of several sailors that made it to shore. Cutthroats all, it says, riddled with disease and practically dead. Fit only for the grave. Barely clothed, starved, unable to walk or even speak. What terrible god gave them leave to survive that way, it doesn’t say. But it does tell of two strangers in town, one wearing the helmet of a Spanish guard and the other a striking, tall, blue-eyed man carrying a great gray sack. One record describes how both men ran from anyone that showed an interest in that sack. Of how it might be filled with Spanish galleon treasures. Clearly, it was precious to the two strangers.”

  “And you think that sack contained the principal treasures, as you call them?” Crouch asked.

  “Yes. When we dived down, the jade and the diamonds, all clearly listed on the manifest underneath the sword, were missing. The sword is missing. This blue-eyed man was an American agent, tasked with protecting the sword and bringing it to Washington himself. He never did. So where did it go?”

  “If he settled near Acapulco he would have descendants,” Caitlyn said shrewdly.

  “And, around the area, perhaps we may find even more old accounts,” Marco said. “That’s the hope.”

  “But first,” Crouch said, “that goes on hold. We have the same problem we had ten minutes ago. Are you ready to infiltrate this camp?”

  “My specialty,” Marco said.

  “Oh, I know. That’s one of the main reasons I’m suggesting the plan.”

  “So I guess you want my input?”

  “Everything you know.”

  Marco didn’t hold back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Darkness fell slowly. Whilst the sun was still crimson fire on the horizon, spreading its last, dying light, Alicia, her crew and Marco’s crew stood ready. It was a tense moment. Everything from here on in was subject to chance. One mistake could bring the entire camp down on them.

  “Stay close.” Alicia told Caitlyn. “Stare no one in the eye.”

  “Not a problem.”

  She took a final review of the group. If she was being honest they all looked the part, even if they had donned the oldest clothes they had with them and rolled in the mud. They looked unkempt, uncaring. But clothes we
ren’t what would get them through this.

  Swagger would. Attitude. The sense that they were meant to be right there. A face that clearly said: Fuck with me and I will fuck you up.

  They started down the slope at a word from Crouch. As the last rays of the day touched the camp, lights sprung on in countless, random places, some bright enough to illuminate the underworld, others merely crackling campfires. The activity didn’t cease. As Alicia grew closer, she became more aware of the general din—an amalgamation of conversation, shouting and alcohol-fuelled laughter. To add to the tumult was the occasional burst of gunfire, the clamor of many radios that played either sport or music, the thunder of engines, and the falling of trees.

  They’d spotted a useful passage where men came and went. It might have been the way to a toilet or an equipment store. Figures wandered freely along this path which meandered from the outskirts of the camp into the dense forest bordering its western side. Alicia and Russo led them through the woods at a cautious pace until they spotted it.

  Alicia crouched amid the trees, a tangle of branches and leaves in front of her. Ahead, they saw the path winding through the woods. Two men were following it at present, laughing uproariously. Both carried old AK 47s. They wore bandannas, jeans and boots and were dark skinned. Alicia waited for them to pass.

  “Now.”

  She didn’t look around. Russo went first, his ragged camo trousers now torn in several places and looking like he’d slept in them for days. Alicia went next, followed by Caitlyn. The earth was soft and loamy until they reached the path, which was baked hard due to limited tree cover. Alicia drew a Glock and held it easily at her side.

  “Game faces,” she whispered to those around her. “One fuck up and we’re all dead.”

  Alicia found a half-empty beer bottle at the side of the path and carried it in her free hand. Her face—indeed all the women’s faces—were as well hidden as they could possibly be. Everyone was aware of the caliber of men they were dealing with and didn’t want to fuel any unnecessary violence. Alicia wore a tattered, black baseball cap that belonged to Ralston with the Under Armor insignia emblazoned across the front. Her hair was hidden, her cheeks dark with dirt. Caitlyn and Elyse were similarly concealed. All carried guns and knives.

  Ahead, a gap appeared in the forest. Beyond that, the path continued into the vast camp. Alicia didn’t slow. If anything, she sped up to allow their group to straggle. Soon, the path ran out and she was entering the enemy camp, picking her own way. She slowed down, passing behind a wide shed and a bored-looking guard. Her gun arm hung easily but stayed in constant readiness.

  Caitlyn stayed on her blind-side as much as she could. By mutual agreement, they were just walking straight through with their heads down. They were strolling, doubling back a little, stopping and conversing. Alicia caught the eye of a young drug runner and flipped him off. Crouch half fell, bottle in hand, and dragged himself up, wandering in a different direction for a time. Marco followed suit.

  But still, they watched each other’s progress. Alicia stopped behind Russo as the big man paused to get a look at the football match playing on a small TV. Crouch watched and cheered as eight scarred men started a football match of their own. Marco passed among the shadows as best he could, stopping nowhere until he was a good way ahead.

  When they reached him, he whispered: “Scouted the next few hundred yards. It’s pretty quiet as a whole.”

  Alicia nodded. They continued on with the pervading menace all around them. Not a second passed when they weren’t close to extreme danger.

  Russo stopped ahead. Alicia came alongside him. “All right?”

  “No.”

  It was a blunt statement and Alicia soon saw why. Piled ahead, were the slaughtered carcasses of animals. First, it appeared as if they’d been randomly executed, but then Alicia saw certain parts were missing.

  “Fucking poachers.”

  Caitlyn held her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

  The carcasses were being loaded onto pickups and driven away, but the poachers had amassed so many it was going to take them the rest of the night. Alicia saw men with bloodied hands and trousers. Some still carried machetes. Others sat smoking on top of the dead animals. Alicia had seen her fair share of appalling sights in her time—she’d been to hell and back with Matt Drake and his team—but there was something so utterly dreadful and sad and inhuman about this scene that she felt a tiny prickle in her eyes.

  She blinked it away. “How many can you see?” she asked, her voice guttural.

  “Poachers? Five.”

  Alicia surveyed the area. The poacher site was largely isolated, probably due to the stench of blood soaking into the ground and the restless spirits of the animals that had died there. Two wooden storage sheds bordered it to one side, whilst it lay open to the other. A narrow dirt track led to the entrance of the camp several hundred yards back the way they’d come.

  “Can’t stop,” Crouch said. “We can’t risk this.”

  “Can’t risk?” Alicia whirled on their boss. “Look at this, Michael. It’s an abomination of life.”

  Crouch grimaced, clearly wracked with pain and guilt. “I know. But Duggan’s life comes first.”

  Russo turned. “For once, I agree with Alicia.”

  “We’re surrounded by criminals,” Marco pointed out. “All kinds. Some, I wager, worse than poachers. Are we gonna kill them all?”

  Alicia saw his point. There would be time to send in the authorities later, assuming they reached the other side of the camp. It made sense to bypass this area. Alicia knew it did. Every sensible thought in her head told her to walk on.

  “Russo,” she said. “With me.”

  She sensed Crouch reaching out to grab her but knew he’d never go through with it. She slipped her knife out of its sheath and bent low, creeping around a flatbed truck. Several animal carcasses were piled in front of her. She stepped lightly on the hard earth, clinging to the dark, creeping up on the man seated atop one of the dead bodies.

  He smoked blissfully, blowing plumes up into the air as if trying to reach the distant stars. Something he’d never do, Alicia knew. This man was about to head in the opposite direction. Alicia set herself below him, then rose fast, reaching around and clamping his throat with her arm. He struggled, spitting the cigarette out, clawing at the arm and then the body at his back, but Alicia was easily his equal and twice as angry. She pulled him down off the dead animal, turned and slit his throat in one easy movement.

  His own blood drained out onto the ground.

  Russo had already taken another poacher out. Alicia saw him pop back up. Marco had succumbed to the general sentiment and joined them. Two poachers stood atop the flatbed truck whilst a third lugged carcasses along the blood-soaked ground toward them. Russo waited for the latest delivery before stalking the man back to another carcass. Alicia and Marco crept up to the truck.

  Staying low, they prepared to creep around the sides. As they moved out another figure walked up to the rear of the truck.

  “Hey!” he cried. “Are you coming to watch the game?”

  “The man... he told us to finish,” said a disappointed voice in broken English. “He is the boss.”

  “He’s an asshole. Where is he? I’ll talk to him.”

  “... he’s there...” the voice began, then stopped. “He was sitting right there.”

  “Another shipment coming in?”

  “Not for two more days.”

  “Ah, well, enjoy your night.” The stranger walked off with a burp and a howl of laughter. Alicia counted to ten. She looked over at Marco.

  “Now,” he mouthed. “You go first.”

  Alicia crept along the side of the pickup, passing the cab and reaching the flatbed. Above her she could see the torso and head of a filthy man, a sweaty, bloodstained pig. She gripped the hilt of her knife and waited.

  Marco would be waiting for her. She checked her footing then jumped up to the side of the truck, balan
cing lightly. Her target turned in surprise. Alicia stuck her knife right through his throat. On the other side Marco had used the back tire as a platform from which to leap, land on his opponent, and punch him several times through the ribcage with his military blade.

  Russo walked up to the back of the flatbed and wiped his own knife on the ground. “Job done.”

  “Done,” Alicia said.

  They rejoined the others, making some small effort to rearrange the bodies. If they were noticed tonight and the inspection was casual it would look as they’d had a fall out and killed each other. But when tomorrow came it might be different.

  They pushed on together. They knelt at untended campfires to throw any watchers off. They paused in shadows for twenty minutes at a time. Midnight passed and still they walked, living on their wits. Once, Crouch engaged in conversation with a drug dealer, ending up having to buy three packets of blue pills from the man which he later discarded.

  “Halfway, I guess,” Russo told them.

  Alicia’s hands were bloody and so was her thick jacket. She didn’t mind. It was righteous blood. They passed a stockade of vehicles that was well guarded, and avoided the low perimeter fence. They crossed a wide area where tents covered the ground. Through open flaps they saw men of all shapes and sizes engaged in all manner of activities, from sleeping to washing, jabbing at their cellphones and more.

  The tents formed a natural dam, slowing their progress. Every step had to be carefully considered. As they reached a clearing, they heard shouting and hunkered down.

  In shadows, they watched.

  About twenty men sat ahead. A campfire crackled in their midst. As other men sauntered past, the seated men called out to them drunkenly and bade them sit down. There was little choice. Two bare-chested men met near the campfire and began to fight. Those seated around started yelling and bidding on the winner. More men joined the group, and Alicia noticed several women.

  Everyone was alcohol-fuelled and belligerent. Guns lay everywhere, within easy reach. Alicia caught Crouch’s eye.