“We’ve got a live one Doc!”
Chapter 32 – July 10
In archeology, it often took just one barely tangible link to unravel a far greater mystery. One tenuous thread, so easily damaged or erased from existence, could be the singular link that led to a series of clues that in turn led to the hidden entrance of the tomb of King Tutankhamen in the Valley of the Kings, or to the buried time capsule of Pompeii in the shadows of Vesuvius, or even to the fossil of Lucy, our oldest human ancestor, in the deserts of Ethiopia. And both Nick and Dr. Storm innately knew it.
“Hey, take a look at this, what do you think?” Nick anxiously asked.
Dr. Storm bent over and squinted, holding the lit magnifier closer, and then farther away. “Hmm, there is definitely something there. But I can’t make it out. The edges of some of the letters are visible, but then it fades. And the coloring is odd, not really black, hard to distinguish.”
“I know, I think it was the ink he was using. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it, but now it makes sense. This low-level priest didn’t have imported ink to use, it was something he probably concocted himself off wherever he was, likely a berry extract,” Nick surmised. “That is why the text of the letter itself is so hard to distinguish too.”
Dr. Storm put the clear plastic sheet the letter came in on top of the folded letter to protect it and grabbed a higher magnification jeweler’s loop out. He then leaned down so close his nose touched the plastic and squinted harder at the text.
“No good, we need an imager,” he said, and dialed up Juan. Within 15 minutes, the same dutiful attendant was back with another cart and an expensive looking device on it, some cables and a remote control. He hooked the device up to a large display on the wall and handed the remote to Dr. Storm.
“Yes, I know my way around one of these pretty well. Thank you son,” he replied as the attendant left.
“We really should get both him and Juan a good bottle of Scotch before we leave, remind me please Nick.” He then placed the folded letter on the high-resolution document imager, and zoomed in. Nick walked over and turned on the display on the wall and stepped back.
“Ahh, let’s have a look at what we can see now,” Dr. Storm said as he zoomed in and sharpened the focus. A large, sharply defined image popped up on the wall display, surprising in its detail. Even the porosity and fabric of the paper itself were clearly visible. A bit more of the lettering could now be distinguished, but it still was mostly faded and illegible. He then flipped it over to the letter side and moved it to the beginning, and then to the end, but to no avail. “Damn, we are so very close.”
“That’s great resolution of something that isn’t there. Too bad we didn’t have a . . .” Nick said, as the doorknob turned.
Someone cracked open the door and backed in, bringing another cart in behind them. Once fully in the room, Juan turned around and with a laugh said, “I saw your first request, thought you might be able to use one of these too.”
“Ha, welcome friend. You read our minds,” Dr. Storm replied in greeting.
Juan had brought down an ESDA, or electrostatic detection apparatus, used to uncover indented writing below the original page, a very sensitive device used in espionage, and in the forensic archeology of ancient documents. Juan was now caught up in the chase too, and eagerly jumped right in. First, he plugged the ESDA in while Nick connected it to the wall display. Juan then put on cotton gloves and carefully placed the open document flat, letter side down, over a porous metal plate, then placed a clear Mylar sheet over it.
“Here we go,” he grinned, and flipped the switch on. A little motor whirled to life, and an internal vacuum pulled the Mylar and letter tightly against the metal plate, creating a perfect, tight seal.
“Your honors señor Nick,” Juan added, and handed a small metal wand to him.
Gingerly taking the wand, Nick slowly waved it back and forth over the area on the back of the letter that appeared to have the indistinguishable name on it. The wand was designed to produce static electricity, which would be greatest over the indentations. Nick then carefully sprayed a type of toner onto the Mylar, which collected where the static charge was strongest. Right along the imperceptibly light scratching of a quill pen 500 years ago.
As Nick stepped back, Juan zoomed the camera in, and everyone looked at the image on the wall display.
“Voilà gentlemen,” Juan said. “I hope this is what you were looking for.”
There, in barely discernible script, were letters interspersed with some still unreadable blanks, ‘A_to_io__e Ci__da_ Rod_ig_.’
Nick walked over to the display screen and touched the letters lightly with his fingertips, deep in thought. Juan raised his eyebrows and looked at Dr. Storm, who was staring at the screen, stroking the point of his beard.
“I wonder . . .” Nick mused and went over to his computer and started typing furiously. He then jumped up and went back to the screen, and slowly spelled out the name with the missing letters, pointing to each in turn.
“A-n-t-o-n-i-o de C-i-u-d-a-d R-o-d-r-i-g-o. Don’t you see? Antonio de Ciudad Rodrigo, one of the original twelve!” he gleefully yelled, dancing a little jig in a circle.
“One of the twelve!” Dr. Storm joined in, and slapped Nick on the back. “We’ve got a real trail!”
Seeing Juan’s perplexed expression, Dr. Storm explained its relevance. “Antonio was one of the original group of twelve Franciscan missionaries to arrive in New Spain. Cortés had requested them to convert the indigenous population, to give himself a degree of legitimacy in the eyes of Charles V.”
Nick, sitting back down at the computer, looked up and added, “Because the Governor of New Spain, seated in Cuba, hadn’t wanted Cortés to go off on this expedition in the first place. He recalled him, but Cortés knew he was about to be stopped and slipped away anyway, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
Juan still wasn’t connecting all the dots and looked to his friend Philip. “This letter, likely written off in the hinterlands somewhere, is from a priest complaining about how hard it is to convert the savages to Christianity. But he makes mention of hearing about things being snuck out of Tenochtitlán. Why pass this information along to his superior Antonio, unless he was being asked to keep his ears open for it,” Dr. Storm patiently explained. “And the time he was there was shortly after the conquest. So if it went to someone as important as Antonio Rodrigo, there is probably more of a paper trail to follow. It may be nothing, or it could be something, or it could be everything. But it’s our first new solid lead that someone else hasn’t already chased to ground and disproven.”
As they talked, Nick flipped the letter over and tested it to see if he could find out who the author was. Even the ESDA couldn’t pick up anything legible, which was unfortunate as his name would have been most useful. Alas, the priest would have to go unnamed.
“This calls for drinks on me. Cava it is, I’ll meet you tonight at eight,” Juan joyfully informed them.
“Drinks on you, this must indeed be a most special occasion,” Dr. Storm joked as he walked Juan out. “I think you bought a round once, but I can’t seem to remember when.”
Nick didn’t even hear them, he was already putting in a request for information on the computerized inventory system. “Materials on Antonio de Ciudad Rodrigo. Everything you’ve got.”
The following day a comprehensive listing of resources came back. Nick and Dr. Storm immediately dove into the electronic documents that weren’t held right there within the General Archive of the Indies to get an immediate start. Late in the afternoon, each was so engrossed in their own private paper chase that they didn’t hear the door open. Two carts arrived this time, overflowing with a variety of original source materials. Sergio, the attendant, had thoughtfully placed slips in each wherever Antonio Rodrigo was mentioned or authored.
“Ah Sergio, you are much too kind to us,” Dr. Storm said. Nick sat up as he remembered something, and reached into his backpack
and produced a bottle, which Dr. Storm in turn passed along. “Muchas gracias our friend. Your diligent work is very much appreciated.”
Sergio bowed slightly and blushed, unused to such a show of gratitude for merely doing his job and left mumbling his thanks.
“I think we made his day Doc,” Nick commented.
Looking at the piles of documents on the carts, Dr. Storm sighed happily. “Yes. Let’s hope he makes ours too.”
No such luck. The days started blending, blurring into one another in the increasingly claustrophobic basement room. Nick and the good doctor even stepped back for a strategy session, objectively wondering if this might be a dead end, or if they should redeploy their limited resources and have one look for entirely different clues while the other continued to pursue the trail of Antonio de Ciudad Rodrigo. But there was only about a half cart of materials left, and they decided to dive in and see this lead through to its end before reevaluating.
The next morning, before he had even finished his cup of coffee, Dr. Storm abruptly stood up and walked a loosely bound manuscript over to Nick. He pointed to a passage written in Antonio’s own hand and read it out verbatim as he translated.
“As you instructed, all our laymen have been listening most eagerly for tales of efforts by the Aztecas to hide their sacrilegious and precious objects. It is my fervent desire to turn their evil and heathen idol worship into that which may aide our most holy Charles V in his quest against the infidels who would oppose the sacred teachings of our Lord.”
He paused and swiveled over a magnifier to better read the faded text. Nick sat motionless, now hanging on every word.
“I have received a second communication from Fray Garcia, who is converting the simple savages down in Chiapas. There he witnessed the forced confession of a native who said he was on a caravan from Tenochtitlán before the city was subdued by Cortés through the many blessings of our Lord. Before he died from the rigors of the queries put to him, he said this had been a false caravan, like several others. It was filled only with sand and rocks and sculpture to make the weight appear real. When they reached their destination, the worthless items were buried and the porters sacrificed to their heathen gods.”
Nick and Dr. Storm’s eyes met for a moment, the implications sinking in. The unknown priest in the hinterlands who provided the original letter to Antonio Rodrigo had to have been this Fray Garcia.
“Before leaving they had been blessed by their own priests, who said they were going on a pilgrimage, and making a holy sacrifice. He said he had wanted to go on the one true journey but wasn’t chosen because he had never killed a Spaniard.” Concluding, Dr. Storm set the document down.
Nick sat dumbstruck, the myths and rumors of all the years suddenly coalescing into proven fact. Slowly gathering himself, he looked at the document and let out a long, slow breath.
“Whew Doc, this is written in Antonio Rodrigo’s own hand. This is irrefutable proof that there had been an actual expedition mounted before the fall of Tenochtitlán, the one true journey! And that the Aztecs sent out other caravans to throw the Spaniards off the scent. To have done that at this time of catastrophe, when their world was completely crumbling around them, meant it was absolutely vital to them as a people to pull it off. Think of the resources they must have poured into it, the commitment they made, they staked everything on this, one final roll of the dice!”
Dr. Storm had sat down, with a look of contentment Nick had seen only once or twice before on his face, and only after unlocking an exceedingly difficult and timeless puzzle.
“Just ponder it,” Dr. Storm said. “How those other false expeditions may have given rise to other myths over time. Picture it, all the gold crazed Spaniards and treasure seekers down through the ages, who have been lost chasing ghosts on unnamed rivers and in impassable jungles, in terra incognito. Even real, well-funded scientific men were swallowed whole by their lust. It beggars belief, yet now all makes perfect sense.”
Nick rummaged through his backpack again and proudly produced another bottle and poured a generous amount of bourbon into their empty coffee cups. “Well, now we have an official name for our quest. The next piece to unravel is not just what route this one true caravan took, but where it ultimately ended. Because that is where all my questions will be answered.”
Dr. Storm took the offered cup and stared into it, swirling the brown liquid. “There is no denying one thing, that your father was onto something, and it was something very real. He started this quest, and I suspect you’ll finish it young man. He would have been proud of you Nick.”
Raising his cup he looked Nick in the eye, then toasted, “To the one true journey!”
As Charlie took his usual drive in to work from his home in the suburbs, Nick was on his mind. He hadn’t heard from him at all in quite some time, and it was making him nervous. Usually he was good at keeping in touch or was at least accessible. But his calls and emails to Nick had lately gone unanswered. He was worried enough that he even reached out to Soba, but no reply from her either. That either meant Nick was off grid investigating a lead, or perhaps something more sinister was afoot. It didn’t sit well with him.
When Charlie arrived at his office on the 59th floor of the Willis Tower in downtown Chicago, he noticed there were several voice mail messages. He distractedly listened to them in turn, and immediately perked up when he recognized Nick’s voice on the last one. Finally.
He looked out at Lake Michigan, digesting the lengthy message Nick had left him. Shaking his head in disbelief, he listened to it one more time, jotted down bulleted notes from it, and then erased the recording as instructed. The global hedge fund he worked for was cutting edge and hyper vigilant, security across voice and data networks here was bulletproof, it had to be. His brother wasn’t one to be spooked easily, but if it made him feel safer, so be it.
Nick had brought him up to date on a burner phone he had picked up, which he used once and discarded. Come to think of it, Nick had never even mentioned where he was calling from. He said Soba was safely hidden somewhere else that even he didn’t know, just as a precaution. He was making progress, had a solid lead and was hoping for a breakthrough soon, more to follow later. But most importantly, he wanted to leverage the investigative resources Charlie had at his disposal with the hedge fund.
There had to be a direct connection between the missing journal, the death of their father, and now the tracking mechanism he found hidden under his truck, Nick explained. He also mentioned the conversation with the Mexican cop who leaned on him in Cuernavaca, and meeting Francisco ‘Chico’ Martinez from the Mexican Department of Antiquities in a bar, who turned up dead just after.
“I just don’t believe in coincidences,” Nick had said. “But I do believe it means I’m getting close to something very valuable to someone. Maybe too close.”
Well, we can either keep dancing to someone else’s tune or try to get in front of it, Charlie thought. They obviously know a lot about us. Time to see what we can find out about them. He tapped his pen on the pad and underlined the last bullet he had just written down.
Find the SOB that killed Dad.
Things started progressing more quickly now, at least in terms of how deep archival research typically unfolded. Refining their search parameters, Nick and Dr. Storm started looking for mentions of the name of the lonely priest far off in the jungle, who was the original source that heard the tortured utterings of an Aztec mentioning a false expedition he had been on. And the one true journey he wished he had been on. That a priest was there to witness it and not just the treasure blinded conquistadors, and that his letter documenting it even survived. Serendipity indeed, as the fates finally seemed to be smiling upon them.
They refined their search algorithms to pick up any mention of Fray Garcia, Friar Garcia, Padre Garcia, false caravan, true journey, etc., and within a few days uncovered several documents that mentioned him, and one that also used the phrase the one true journey. A cheerful Sergio brough
t that and several other documents down to the research room, where Nick anxiously greeted him.
“Ah, it’s our good luck charm Sergio, let’s see what possible discoveries he has brought to us today,” Nick said in greeting. Again Sergio blushed, but he was getting used to good natured kidding and now actually looked forward to it.
The number of documents were so few and so specific that Nick and Dr. Storm examined each of them together. The first documents that mentioned Garcia contained questions he posed about matters such as if there should be single or mass conversions of the heathens, how much work they were required to do, who would be free or slave, and how to collect taxes. Insightful information to have gleaned, but not what they were ultimately looking for.
Then Dr. Storm placed the last letter, carefully preserved in a plastic envelope, out on the document imager. It was the single surviving document that had the words ‘Fray Garcia’ and ‘one true journey’ within it. They had purposely kept it for last. He fiddled with the positioning of the salutation until it was under the lens and came into focus on the display on the wall. They hesitantly looked at each other before turning to look up to see if it was legible.
When they read silently to themselves and grasped the significance, they both let out an audible gasp.
Nick took a photo on his phone of the letter, and without saying a word they excitedly shook hands and headed upstairs, to the office of Juan Ramirez.
When Dr. Storm rapped on the door frame, Juan looked up and immediately waved them in. “Welcome gentlemen, what fair tidings do you bring?” Juan inquired in his deep baritone voice.
Closing the door behind them, Dr. Storm and Nick seated themselves, mentally exhausted and yet elated, a strange juxtaposition of the senses. Juan sat behind his desk, waited a moment, then opened his palms questioningly. “Well?”
Aztec Odyssey Page 29