Dark Eye of the Jaguar

by Robert Mitchell

  “It was one of our most precious vestments,” Father Angelo said quietly, sadness in his voice. “It is the very same one worn by the Bishop in the painting recovered from Christie’s in 1956.” He looked up. There was a tear falling down his left cheek. “We have a photograph of the painting here. I will show it to you later. The painting itself is now in Rome.”

  He kissed the garment, or what was left of it, and placed it reverently on the table alongside the chest. The level in the chest had sunk by a further quarter, and there was more cloth still to be removed, more rotten, now worthless, church vestments.

  By the time he had finished emptying the chest I felt nothing but a hollowness inside my own. There were two small paintings. The canvass of both of them had crumbled at Angelo’s touch. Even the frames looked as though they would fall apart at the slightest jolt. And there was another of the vestments. The gold and silver threads might have a commercial value, but not enough to justify us making a claim against them. The only other items of interest to the Jesuits were another jewelled cross, much smaller than the one taken by Captain Monty, but the stones more precious in their own right; two intricately worked chalices, both in gold; and a cameo portrait on ivory, probably of Mary, the mother of Jesus. I had expected so much more, but I was certain that Angelo had not been disappointed. He was distraught at the condition of the contents, but not at their number. I felt certain that there had been another paper with those he had found in their library, a paper that had told him exactly what had been removed by the Boxers on that terrible day of slaughter.

  Even though the vestments were rotten and falling apart, their religious significance was still there. To Angelo they were still holy, still of the utmost importance.

  The Buddhists were pleased. There were four more pieces of jade, and even I could tell that these were much older than the ones Captain Monty had taken, and much larger. And there was what appeared to be a miniature of an incense burner, fashioned in gold, and intricately carved. There was serious money in that one small item, but the Buddhists were only paying us fifteen per cent of its value. It was the Jesuits that I had been relying upon.

  “There wasn’t much of your gear, was there,” I said to Angelo.

  “No, my son,” he replied. “But we must be thankful for small mercies. The good Lord has seen fit to restore some of our treasures to us. The fact that some others are still lost to us will make us appreciate these even the more.”

  Was there perhaps another chest, another one that had been stolen from one of the other Jesuit churches during the rebellion? Were there more precious antiquities still to be found somewhere in Beijing?

  “Ben?”

  Somehow Sue always knew what was going on in my mind. I turned to my wife, the wife who had given in and allowed me to buy the writing box, and who had allowed me to follow my dream to China, and who had nearly lost her life because of that dream.

  We didn’t need any more chests.

  “Is it okay for Sue to take a few pictures now?” I asked, shaking off visions of other chests brimming with gold and silver, and no more rotten vestments.

  Angelo turned to the Master and rattled off a few sentences, and then turned back to me and nodded. Sue took her small digital camera from her pocket.

  “What about the jade pieces that we found in Brother James’ room?” Angelo asked as Sue arranged the miniature incense burner in the middle of the low table.

  “Give them to the Master,” Sue said, concentrating on the picture she was taking.

  “And payment?” he asked.

  She looked at me and I knew what she was thinking. The monks had saved our lives. Without their assistance we would have been overwhelmed at the temple. We probably wouldn’t even have got as far as the temple. The Bishop would have given up the location of the chest in order to have Father Joseph released. Either way, we would have lost the chest, or our lives. We probably owed them everything. The pieces of jade had a high value, much higher than we had been paid by Jackson Lee. But then again, what value did I put on my life, and on Sue’s?

  “No payment,” I said. “We’ve already been paid by Jackson Lee.”

  “And by John Jenkinson-Smythe,” Sue added, smiling.

  I wondered for the moment whether we should send some money to Jenkinson-Smythe, but then decided against it. His greed had cost him the piece of jade. We had encouraged him to sell to Jackson Lee, but he had wanted more.

  There were smiles from each of the monks as this was translated to them. I hurriedly asked Angelo to confirm that we still required payment for the gold pieces that we had back home, and for the other pieces that had been in the chest. There were smiles to this as well, although nowhere near as wide.

  After the pictures had been taken, and the various pieces were gathered up by both faiths, and the handshakes, bows, and nods had finished, there was not much else to be done. Angelo said that we were welcome to stay on for a few nights if we wished, but we both had tired of the austerity of the accommodation provided, and the blandness of the food. And in any case, we only had a few more days left until our flight home was due to depart. But then again, with the fortune that was now at our fingertips we could afford to cancel that flight and fly home later, first class.

  But home was beckoning.

  We met again the day before we were due to fly out, just to make some final arrangements for valuations. It all seemed to be in order, and I couldn’t detect any sign of either party backing out of our arrangements.

  Over the next two months certain of the items that had been recovered were submitted to selected international auctioneers for their appraisal. The original cross came in at the highest, and then one of the chalices. As each item was valued, and the value agreed, we would be paid. It wasn’t the multi millions that I had dreamed of, but two million, three hundred and forty two thousand dollars would be enough to keep us in happy retirement for the rest of our days.

  Two weeks after our return from China, Sue returned home from a shopping trip to the mall.

  “You’ll never guess what,” she said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I bumped into Martin.”

  “Martin who?”

  “Martin Jones.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. Martin was the friend who lived next door to the old guy whose name and details we had used for the fake email address, the old guy whose house had been trashed. I waited for her to continue, visions of Jackson Lee’s Hong Kong connections chasing us again.

  “Another house in his street got ransacked!” she said with a smile.

  “Another one?” I asked, totally perplexed at her smile.

  “Yes, number forty-two!” she replied. And when I didn’t say anything, she said it again: “Number forty-two?”

  “So?” I said.

  “The old guy’s house was number twenty-four. They caught the thieves in the act. They were looking for drugs. They were the same people who had robbed the old guy’s house. They got the numbers mixed up. It had nothing to do with us!”

  I wrote to John Jenkinson-Smythe, telling him that the pieces found by his illustrious ancestor had belonged to two religious orders, one western, the other eastern, and that they had been returned to those orders. I told him that we had received a reward, and that I was prepared to share in our good fortune by repurchasing the writing box from him for the same amount that he had paid to me, four thousand dollars. I never heard back from him, but two months after I had written to him, I found the box listed on eBay. It went for just over nine hundred dollars.

  It sits on top of the campaign chest left to me by my grandfather.

  Author’s Note

  The make-up of the Society of Jesus both in Beijing and elsewhere as portrayed in this novel is my own imagination, reworked to fit the story. It is not intended be any reflection of the actual society. I have used and misused positions and descriptions and, if anyone is offended, then I apologise. This is a work of fiction and intended to be trea
ted as such.

  There is no treasure buried in the grounds of the Temple of Agriculture, at least, not any more.

  Oh, and by the way, if you enjoyed Dark Eye of the Jaguar, then please go to www.amazon.com and leave a review. I would really appreciate the gesture. Now, turn the page for details of my other books.

  If you enjoyed Dark Eye of the Jaguar, then why not read one or more of my other seven books:

  The Emperor’s Jade

  For over two thousand years the secret hiding place of the jade dragon seal of Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of China, has been just that - a secret. But the accidental destruction of a small ancient porcelain pillow reveals that secret, and leads the young Australian teacher and his Scottish friend away from their peaceful college at Nandaihe on the shore of the Bo Sea, drawing them up into the freezing bleakness of the jagged mountains of Huangshan, as they try to outwit and elude those who would steal their secret, the jade seal, and their lives.

  Golden Eagles

  Are the iron chests, chests filled with Golden Eagles – gold coins issued by the United States of America in the 1930’s and coveted the world over for their rarity – still on board the USS President Coolidge as she lies in her watery grave off the island of Espiritu Santo in Vanuatu? Or were they removed soon after she sank in October 1942?

  Three people set sail from Townville, Australia, to seek those eagles out, to dive, to cut and force their way deep into the bowels of that once mighty passenger liner, but are they alone?

  Their yacht, the Belle, is tracked to the island by others determined to hijack the coins, regardless of the cost.

  The Coolidge lay quiet beneath the waves, and at peace. But that peace would never again be the same.

  The Khilioi

  For almost ten thousand years the Khilioi have lived in their city beneath the remote Australian desert, undisturbed and unknown. A small aircraft flying overhead loses power and lands nearby. The Deka, the lords of the Khilioi, rescue the pilot and his girlfriend and take them to the city, a city they will never be allowed to leave, not even after their purpose has been served - new bloodlines for the Khilioi. Their time is finite. There is no option but escape. But what of the Scroll of the Ancestors, and the gold, and the blue brilliance of the Khilioi’s diamonds?

  The Stone Dog

  20th September 1917 – Wakaya, Fiji.

  The Count Felix von Luckner, Master of the German raider Seeadler, lowers a sealed iron chest into the waters of a small unnamed bay under cover of darkness.

  17th December 1971 – Cairns, Australia.

  The chance mention of von Luckner’s name revives memories of boyhood tales of the secrets of that far-off night, and of the iron chest watched over by the stone dog.

  But were the tales, told by Uncle Max, bosun on the Seeadler those fifty-four years ago, true, or were they merely that, yarns, nothing more?

  And if true – would the chest still be there?

  And if true – will it be worth the bloodshed?

  The Lucinda Legacy

  Diamonds

  Eight million dollars' worth.

  The Lucinda, the pearl lugger that led the fathers of the sons to the sparkling stones. The lugger which bequeathed the legacy of that fateful day in March 1942 to those sons. A legacy kept hidden until.....

  But are they still waiting in their secret place? Do they still wail for the dead and those soon to be dead?

  The sons of the fathers, urged on by that legacy forty-four years further on. Mistrust fighting hate, anger curbed by greed, as the sons race across the great continent of Australia towards destiny, towards the once booming town of Broome, towards...

  Eight million dollars.

  Beneath Yellow Clay

  For fifteen hundred years the tomb of a general buried during the Three Kingdoms dynasty has remained hidden beneath the pale yellow clay of Shanxi Province; guarding the secret to the mysterious tomb of the first great emperor of China – Qin Shi Huang. Two young Melbourne University tutors believe they can break into the general’s tomb, believe they can loot the tomb of its ancient artefacts, the jade, the porcelain, and whatever else is there for the tomb raider to take. But are they naïve or just foolish in their simple belief that they can enter China and steal its treasures and smuggle them away without running afoul of those who also want those beautiful things? Did they not realise that there are those who will take whatever measures may be needed to seize and sell the looted objects for the millions of dollars which they will fetch? Did they really believe they could steal these priceless antiques from an ancient time without the danger and death which would follow such wealth?

  Thursday’s Orchid

  “Marijuana!” he burst out as soon as the others had moved away. “We move fifty tonnes of marijuana out of Australia!”

  I sat up with a jolt.

  “Good God, Nick!” I gasped. “Fifty tonnes! There’s not that much in the whole bloody country.”

  “I can get it,” he replied quietly.

  “Where do we move it to?” I asked.

  “Singapore.”

  “How?”

  He leaned back into the armchair, smiling like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland.

  It was weeks later that I was to question that grin, but not until after the killing had started, not until the waves had begun crashing into the stern of the ship, the salt spray covering the decks, the hull grinding, tearing itself upon the coral.

  Not until terror had taken hold!

  Table of Contents

  All rights to the novel are reserved.

  Other books by Robert Mitchell:

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Author’s Note

  Other Stories