by James Codlin
Martín had met his brother only once, while attending a meeting of Latin American architects in San Jose, Costa Rica. One evening Martín returned to his hotel room and found Nicolás sitting on Martín’s bed in the darkness. Though they had never met, Martín recognized him instantly. They embraced warmly, and through the night Martín talked at length about the rest of the family and their lives as Americans while Nicolás eagerly soaked in the news about the brothers and sisters he had known as children, but who were now grown.
As dawn broke, the brothers embraced again. “Please give all of my siblings my love,” Nicolás said, “and tell them I miss them desperately. And you, mi hermano menor, I am so very glad that I have finally met you. I hope our paths cross again.”
And then he was gone.
As yesterday’s meeting with Takeshi Ishikawa had ended, the president had asked Martín to stay overnight and then meet with King Carlos VII, who had just arrived from Madrid in preparation for the inauguration ceremonies at the union capital. Adding to Martín’s disquieted mind was the previous evening’s odd sequence involving Dave Broch. Dave had emailed Martín his flight information, presuming that Martín would be able to meet his plane in Miami. Martín, realizing that he had completely forgotten to relay his change of situation to Dave, texted him immediately to tell him he was out of the country and wouldn’t be able to pick him up. So far, there had been no reply. Martín tried calling as well, but Dave’s voicemail didn’t pick up.
Martín drove to the state guesthouse, parked, and went inside. Spanish soldiers checked his documents and admitted him to the royal chamber. The king was sitting with his back to the door and working on a desktop computer, casually but smartly dressed. Martín stood at the door looking at the monitor and saw the Archive of the Indies database that Lenin had shown him. The king, without turning around, raised one hand slightly to indicate to Martín that he knew he was there, but then continued to click and type without regard to the fact that Martín was waiting to be admitted.
After several minutes the king stood and walked quickly toward Martín with a warm smile on his face. Martín bowed from the waist. “Your Majesty.”
“Architect Ibarra, it is a pleasure to meet you at last! I have heard great things about your work, and what I see here in San Juan Diego confirms it.” Carlos VII gripped Martín’s hand, shaking it vigorously while maintaining piercing eye contact. “Thank you for coming so we can get acquainted before the craziness of the formal ceremonies begins.”
The king gestured back to the screen. “Isn’t that database of the archives marvelous? It is one of my proudest achievements.”
Martín regarded the king, who ushered him to a comfortable sofa. Carlos was only 32 years old, a young man who had been invested with the crown when the Bourbon king Felipe VI was felled by a brain aneurysm at the young age of 43. The cardinal of Valladolid heard Felipe’s confession and received the dying man’s last testament, which called for Carlos’s ascension to the throne in place of his son. When the cardinal announced the death of the king and called for the investiture of Carlos that very day, a muffled shock rippled through Spain and all of Europe. Why hadn’t Felipe’s son inherited the throne? There was no explanation.
Martín had read extensively about this man. Carlos was young, well educated, energetic, and married to the beautiful daughter of an Austrian count. This had raised eyebrows in Spain, but she won over the public by speaking both perfect Castilian and Catalonian. She showed a deep knowledge and enthusiastic appreciation for the country for which she was now queen. The European nobility embraced this youthful and vibrant couple, elevating them to the most venerated royals on the continent. The Spanish public, skeptical at first and snubbed for years by the rest of Europe, now basked in the attention lavished on their royal family.
After his inauguration, the king had immediately scheduled a tour of Latin America. He and Queen Isabel were received by presidents looking to benefit politically from the enormous goodwill that the royal couple was receiving. Throughout the tour, Carlos and Isabel repeatedly ordered their motorcades to stop and emerged from their Rolls Royce to walk among the miserable, sewage-strewn favelas of Rio and São Paulo, and the barrios of Caracas, Bogotá, and Mexico City. In those places they openly wept as they embraced ragged, emaciated children. Announcements followed soon after each stop that a portion of the family’s fortune would be donated to causes dedicated to improving living conditions in the area they had just visited.
The king’s most sublime moment had been at the inauguration of Pope Pius XIII just a few days earlier. When the pope returned to Saint Peter’s square to deliver his homily, Carlos rose from his chair and prostrated himself at the feet of the Holy Father. While church bells rang throughout Europe celebrating the new pontiff, the masses were abuzz about the king of Spain’s incredible gesture of humility and obeisance.
Today, in this comfortable room, the most beloved Spanish king in centuries spoke easily to the commoner before him, asking intelligent questions about architecture and life among the Latino community in the United States. “Your sister Carmela certainly did well at Harvard. Her thesis on Spanish colonial capitalism was masterful. And your brother Roberto—I trust his work at Tesla is going well? You know,” Carlos said, gesturing toward the computer, which now displayed a screensaver photograph of a billowing Spanish flag, “I cannot describe the sense of history that website gives me. I tell you Martín, it brings tears to my eyes. Words that flowed from the minds of Cortés, Isabel, Fernando, Carlos V, the Hapsburg kings—they go straight into my heart. I hear their voices across the centuries. I hear their wisdom and strength. I hear their call to serve our mother country.
“What a noble language we have! What a culture, from the Visigoths through an empire the likes of which the world has never seen before or since. Our philosophy, our sense of pueblo, worldwide. These are great times, Martín, and the future demands a realization of our destiny.”
The king crossed the room and drew a book from the bookshelves. “Don Quixote de la Mancha, Miguel de Cervantes. What a treasure are the works of this man. And those after him in the siglo de oro, Martín. We are a people of arts and letters of the highest order.”
“I also am a great reader of the generation of ’98,” Martín said. “Their expression of the pain of coming to grips with the reality of Spain’s new world order in 1898 is stunning to me.”
The expression of ecstasy faded from Carlos’s young face. “Ninety-eight?” he asked quietly. “A time of decay and defeat for our country.”
“But also a time of great introspection and realization—and acceptance of responsibility.”
“Don’t you find that period an aberration in the march of our history?”
“No, Your Majesty. I find it to be a shining moment of truth and redemption. I—”
“On another subject, Martín, I see you pulled off a little deception and got away with it.” Carlos had a conspiratorial smile.
Martín looked back at him blankly. “Your Majesty?”
The king reached for the coffee table and turned over a copy of Vanity Fair. Martín looked down at his own face. Carlos nudged him in the ribs with his elbow.
“You know, that little sleight of hand that Francisco Ibarra pulled off in the 16th century. Having himself and his wife and children designated ‘buenos cristianos.’”
Martín laughed nervously. “Oh, yes, Your Majesty, that.”
“And now, after all those years of hiding your Judaism, your family is once again living up to its covenant with the House of David.” The king winked. “Well done, young Ibarra, well done.”
There was a somewhat uncomfortable silence as Martín searched for a response. After a few moments, Carlos conspicuously looked at his watch.
Martín sprang to his feet. “Your Majesty, I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time. I know how busy you are.”
“I am glad we have had this talk, and I am sure I can count on you as we fulfill our S
panish destiny.”
Martín was puzzled by this repeated sentiment, but dutifully bowed. The king gave him a casual wave as he sat back down at his computer.
As Martín walked, he thought back to the king’s screensaver. At first glance, Martín had merely registered the Spanish flag, with its horizontal red stripes at the top and bottom and gold field in the middle. But as he processed the photo he realized that under the flag’s traditional Pillars of Hercules was written “S.C.C.R. Magestad.”
Martín had not seen that phrase since his days at the University of Miami, when it had been a focus of his relentless history professor, Doctor Teodoro Lenin. It stood for Sacra, Cesárea, Católica, Real Magestad—Sacred, Caesar, Catholic, Royal Majesty.
It was the title conferred upon Carlos I in 1519 when the king of Spain had gained the additional moniker and title of Carlos V, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Madrid, Spain—1700
“Why are you here?” Brother Mateo Velasco demanded. “We are never to meet in person.”
Cardinal Álvaro Fonseca, seated on a bench in the monastery’s orchard and watching his agitated colleague pace back and forth in front of him, replied evenly, “Yes, but there are imperatives.”
“Tell me! What are the reasons! How can you betray more than two hundred years of secrecy?”
“You forget yourself, brother. You are speaking to a cardinal and the confessor to the king.”
“And you forget that I am also one of the three Guardians of the Fourth Angel, so I am equal to you in this responsibility!” Velasco’s eyes darted around the orchard from time to time, looking for peering eyes or listening ears. He wrung his hands.
“The Hapsburg line of succession is in danger of being broken. As will be made public shortly, Carlos II is dead. Once I knew the end was imminent, I sent for you. Since he has no living heirs, and he did not designate a successor in his final confession, we are in a very delicate situation.”
“And what was His Majesty’s… competence… toward the end?”
Fonseca snorted. “You’re asking about the state of mind of a man who had his father’s body exhumed, and spent time with the rotting remains, because an astrologist told him it would help produce an heir.”
Velasco grimaced, and said, “I was afraid of that. People are referring to him as Carlos el hechizado.”
“Bewitched is accurate, but charitable. Lately, Carlos had been nearly an idiot. Several years ago I tried to discuss the Fourth Angel knowledge with him, but I am sure he never understood it. Fortunately, I am equally sure that he never communicated it to anyone else. And even if he had, they likely would have taken it as the ramblings of an imbecile.”
“What about Carlos’s will?” Velasco asked.
“His will designates Felipe of Anjou.”
“A Bourbon? And a boy of only 16 years!”
“It gets worse,” Fonseca said. “The Holy Roman Emperor also plans to claim the Spanish throne.”
Velasco paused in his pacing. “Well, at least he’s a Hapsburg.”
“Yes. And Carlos’s father had stipulated in his will that the Spanish throne should be retained by the Hapsburgs by passing it to the Austrian branch. Torquemada assumed that the House of Hapsburgs would always rule Spain, but I am sure he intended for only men of the Flanders branch to do so.”
Brother Velasco sat on the bench and exhaled. “So both men have a legal basis for their claims. Do we pass on the knowledge to both of them? Surely Torquemada’s plans cannot die because an inbred dynasty collapsed due to lack of offspring!”
Cardinal Fonseca shook his head. “Too many would have the secret. Felipe is related to the king of France, and so England would not stand for his ascension. Carlos’s claim would also be opposed—the great powers don’t want all of Europe to be subject to the Holy Roman Emperor.”
“What is the answer, then?” Velasco asked.
“We wait, and we temporize. I believe we must keep the knowledge among the three of us until someone emerges clearly victorious. We must continue to communicate by letter frequently, and yes, we may have to meet in person periodically.”
“And the gold?”
“We leave it in the Fugger bank in Augsburg,” Fonseca said. The cardinal paused to let his nervous counterpart absorb all the information that he had imparted. “Do I have your agreement on the handling of the knowledge and the funds?”
Brother Velasco mulled it over, then nodded. “I see no alternative if we are to carry out the Fourth Angel imperatives.”
“There is another thing the three of us must do to prepare for either the Bourbons or the Hapsburg Austrians winning the throne. We must lay the groundwork to win it back. We must research every man, woman, and child in the Flanders-based Hapsburg branch lineage—rich or poor, legitimate issue and bastards, living and dead—every one of them in Flanders and Spain dating back to the time of Carlos I. And we must make certain that the Guardians continue documenting this information so they will be able to act when the time is right.”
Velasco let out a long breath. “That will require extensive travel. How do I explain my absence to the abbot?”
“Leave that to me. I can truthfully tell him it is official business of the Holy Office of the Inquisition. No one would dare probe further into that explanation.”
“You have convinced me. I will travel on to Toribio, seek Ribera’s agreement, and have him conduct the same research so we can compare information.”
Cardinal Fonseca stood. “Go with God, and safe travels.”
Velasco gripped the cardinal’s hands in his, and they recited together, “This we do for one, ten, a hundred, or a thousand years, whatever is required to bring on the Millennium.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gina took the escalator steps two at a time, rushing from the customs and immigration area of the Miami airport to the main terminal. While waiting in line for a taxi she tapped Martín’s number on her phone. When the call went to voicemail she hung up and dashed off a quick text to Martín—“Please call me ASAP”—and then placed another call.
“Gina!” Lenin exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm. “How good to hear from you. Are you here in Miami?”
“Yes, I just arrived. Professor, I… well… I’m not sure—”
“Something’s wrong, Gina. I can hear it in your voice.”
The young woman smiled at the genuine kindness and concern of her former professor. Doctor Lenin had dismissed most of the people taking his classes as uselessly occupying precious scholastic space. But he also identified the few who had a passion for learning and admitted them into his world. Gina and Martín were still part of this inner circle.
“Doctor…” She looked around and lowered her voice. “I can’t talk about it. May I—”
“Come over.”
She took a taxi and when the professor opened his front door he gave her an affectionate hug. “Where is your suitcase?” he asked.
“I don’t have one—just this carry-on bag. I had to leave Europe in a hurry.”
Lenin led her into his study. Gina looked around the familiar room that smelled of leather and lemon oil. The Spanish trestle desk was stacked with papers and books, but somehow still gave the impression of being neat and orderly. She pictured the room as she had always known it—filled with students sitting on the floor and sprawled on the sofa and chairs, sipping wine and debating points of history.
Gina realized Lenin was watching her closely but waiting patiently, allowing her privacy in her own thoughts. She gave him a tired smile and said, “Thanks for taking me in.”
He waved his hand in dismissal.
She sank into a leather chair and Lenin sat on the sofa, leaning toward her. “I tried to call Martín,” Gina said, “but he didn’t take my call.”
“He just went to San Juan Diego. Your father asked him to come.”
“He did?” she asked, confused.
“I don’t know what it was about. Are y
ou going there to cover the arrival of the pope?”
“I was, but something else happened. Has Dave Broch called you?”
Dave had also been in their circle of “history groupies,” as Lenin had called them.
“No,” Lenin said. “Why do you ask?”
Gina took a deep breath and began the story.
After hearing Gina’s tale, Lenin had brooded for several minutes. He had reached the same conclusion that she had—even though all of it was circumstantial, there were too many coincidences. And now Dave Broch was not responding to communications. He could have opted to stay in Spain for any number of reasons—Dave tended to do things impulsively—but they needed more information. He tried Martín’s phone, but there was no answer.
*
Martín walked out of the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and got into his rented car. He put his hands on the steering wheel and took a deep breath. At President Ishikawa’s request and with approval from the American president, the CIA had briefed Martín on the latest intelligence regarding the movement and possible intentions of the terrorists and guerrillas.
Martín had read through four white papers containing background materials on the various groups, each setting forth much of the same things that Ishikawa had told him in San Juan Diego. They showed him satellite photos of ships from various world registries discharging passengers and freight. There was a series of pictures of encampments masked by dense jungle canopy and covered with camouflage netting, but not quite well-hidden enough to escape the photo analysts employed to find such things.
When the contact points were superimposed over a map, they confirmed what Ishikawa had said: Central American groups were now in South America and starting to turn east, and groups from the south had moved north of the Amazon River. Nicolás Ibarra was likely in Venezuela, south of Maracaibo.