Whatever the secret artefact was, it clearly did not stay in Portugal. If the author was correct, its location was more startling than any she could have imagined.
Somewhere in the New World.
The door to the storage room opened. Nicole closed the book as a reflex, expecting Mills, and turned her head to the door. Amanda had entered, carrying a large piece of paper.
Nicole smiled in relief. ‘I thought you were Mills.’
Amanda’s expression was dire. ‘You might wanna see this.’
‘What is it?’
Amanda passed Nicole the paper without further words. It was a printout of a news website in Prague.
Nicole’s jaw dropped. Suddenly the air felt hotter still and her stomach close to turning. The news story coming out of Prague was chilling, so much so that it seemed to somehow penetrate throughout her very being.
Esoteric journalist Jerome Belroc had been killed in Prague, further details omitted.
Estimated time of death was 8-9pm two days ago.
Within an hour of her leaving the apartment.
In a dark chamber in Switzerland, the flickering of a desk lamp offered the only light.
Behind the desk, Wilfred Mansell sat with his eyes on the nearest window. A large moon dominated the landscape, its bright glow deflected intermittently by wisps of passing cloud crossing the Sea of Tranquillity. Below the sky, the mountainous area was enclosed in blackness and rising fog from the water. Through the gap in the window, the sound of animals in the distance could be heard, their noises distorted by the landscape.
To the Lebanese-born magnate, the sound was strangely comforting. Passers-by often complained that the area was so secluded that it made them feel anxious, as if it was something out of a horror film. He particularly liked the way the cloud crossing the moon was not unknown to make shifty shapes across the mountainside, particularly on the brighter nights. It was not difficult to imagine where the folktales came from.
The ringing of the nearby telephone interrupted the sound of the animals. He removed a cigarette from his mouth and exhaled smoke before answering.
‘Hello?’
‘It is done.’
‘And the book?’
The caller paused. To Mansell, the delay was obvious.
‘Well?’
The pause continued. ‘The book was not among his possessions.’
‘Listen to me carefully, Degen. I want it found.’
Mansell hung up furiously and got to his feet. Suddenly the cool night air felt stifling, as if an invisible heater had been turned on, but inside him.
The book written by Ulric von Gostel had been published into the hundreds, but most, he knew, had since been destroyed. Obtaining a copy was something achievable only by knowing where to look. He knew that a small number of investigative journalists and ambitious authors had succeeded in the last four decades, but their progress up to this point had been cut short.
Evidently, the Frenchman had succeeded when researching his content.
Mansell placed his cigarette to his mouth and exhaled in the direction of the window.
He had long been aware of the capability of the author. Von Gostel was the only writer to know the clues to the location of their headquarters.
40
Matt walked slowly past the second of the monuments, stopping briefly to take in the sight. After seeing the real thing in Tomar, it somehow looked different to him. His mind was taking note of the little things: the number of pillars around the outside, the angle of the roof, the way the light caught the tomb. Most importantly, what was supposed to have been inside. Unlike Tomar, this was no tomb – nor was it marble.
The stone structure was a replica and nothing else.
He continued in the direction of the third monument, keeping to the path where possible as an alternative to the grass. Although the sun was still shining, the fall of recent rain was evident. Puddles had formed on the grass, which was soaking up the water, giving it a healthy green look. The stone on the path and the monuments were bathed in a dreary, darker colour. Water trickled from the branches of trees, falling intermittently on the ground below. It was late evening in Scotland, and the sky a mixture of red, white and blue. The sun danced, a bright orange and red colour, as it faded beyond the mountains, casting the sky in a dense fiery light.
Sandra followed, allowing herself to take in the sights. The garden was strange, almost unique. While the vegetation was not unlike something out of the Alan Titchmarsh portfolio, the location of the monuments was strange. None were located near to one another, and none seemed to be connected. Various items of greenery, ranging from simple lawns and hedges, to herb or tomato gardens, were placed in the spaces between them. A long winding stream, dissecting the garden at several points, continued throughout, leading to the small loch before continuing again to the north.
That was also strange. It was evident even to the least observant that it was man made.
The third monument was located nearly half a kilometre from the second, on the west side of the loch. This was the smallest of the three and also the most rudimentary. Its appearance was forlorn, though, to Sandra, that was interesting. She lowered herself to her knees and immediately started to investigate.
Matt couldn’t read it, but Sandra could. The signs were there. She could barely describe her delight.
‘Oh my.’
Matt looked confused. ‘Care to elaborate.’
‘I’m sorry, yes.’ She started at the left side. ‘The Dighton Stone in America is more worn – exposed to the weather. But the symbols are clearly man made.’
Matt nodded, still unconvinced. ‘What’s it say?’
‘Well, according to the American academic one hundred years ago, the symbols were made by Miguel Corte-Real. Now, I can only speculate, but based on the letter, the one that disappeared, I think I see the resemblance.’
She concentrated her attention on the left side. ‘Here, 1511, nine years after he disappeared.’
Matt looked closely. The imprint of 1511 was visible.
‘And here,’ she said. ‘Miguel Corte-Real.’
Matt followed her fingers. He couldn’t deny that she had a point.
‘Look here. The symbol of the Order of Christ.’
This was less convincing. ‘It’s not all there.’
‘Neither’s the one on the Dighton Rock.’
Matt put his hand to his stubble, the hair burned slightly as he rubbed it. He looked directly ahead of him. Across the stream was another monument, the last of the four.
Sandra rose to her feet. ‘What is it?’
She looked at Matt and then where he was looking. ‘Is that the last?’
He nodded, re-establishing eye contact with Sandra. He watched her pause before heading in the direction of the fourth monument. This was the most remote of the four. A small footbridge crossed that part of the stream, culminating in a long, narrow segment of grass leading to a large monument.
This monument was unlike the others. Rather than being a stone with symbols, or a ruin or replica of a location, it was tall, reaching a height of perhaps eighteen feet.
But that was not its main feature. In the centre was a sculpture, divided in two, its images jutting out from the background, typical relief technique. On the right, two people were standing before a tomb. Both were men, both shepherds. They appeared to be looking at a skull atop the tomb. The title of the monument was written across the tomb:
Et In Arcadia Ego
Sandra looked at the sculpture, evidently surprised. ‘Guercino.’
Matt looked at her. ‘Come again?’
‘The picture, it’s famous,’ she said. ‘It’s a stone version of a painting by Guercino.’
Matt put his hand to his lips. Suddenly he realised that the monument was the same as the painting that was taken.
Then he realised. One thing was different.
The image had been flipped.
Matt examined it, awestruck. ‘
My father had that painting in his safe. The same as the one on the right.’
Sandra nodded. Clearly unsurprised. ‘It’s been lost for centuries.’
‘It’s mirrored.’
‘They often are.’
He looked at her and nodded. His attention returned to the picture. ‘Et In Arcadia Ego.’
She nodded, smiling. ‘I am also in Arcadia.’
‘Arcadia. Was Guercino a Knight of Arcadia?’
The idea was intriguing. ‘I honestly don’t know. Guercino wasn’t the most straightforward of individuals.’
Matt nodded, his attention on the shepherds. ‘What does it mean? Arcadia.’
‘Heaven,’ she said. ‘Though I suppose it could be an area of Greece.’
‘Could they have taken it to Greece?’
‘I suppose, but why go all the way across the Atlantic, just to return?’
Sandra walked closer. There was a second image, separated from the first by what looked to be a gigantic cross. On the right, the two shepherds were looking at the tomb. On the left, a man was standing above another man. The second man’s hands were bound. It looked as if the man was about to be stabbed.
‘This was also a Guercino. The Flaying of Marsyas by Apollo.’
Matt felt himself freeze. ‘The flaying?’
Immediately Sandra understood his point.
He looked at her, mesmerised.
Apollo has returned to Arcadia.
‘What is it?’
‘The Flaying of Marsyas by Apollo. It’s part of the same collection.’
For several seconds he struggled to spit out the words. The more he looked at it, the more other things hit him.
Why had Apollo returned to Arcadia?
‘What’s it mean?’
‘It’s a story from antiquity. In a challenge between Apollo and Marsyas, it was written that the winner could treat the loser as he wished. Apollo won, and Marsyas was flayed alive.’
Matt felt his jaw drop. Surely this could not be possible. ‘Who was Marsyas?’
‘In Greek mythology he was the son of Olympus. According to one version, he challenged Apollo to a flute-playing contest, while another says it was the other way round.’
She paused. ‘Marsyas was admired for his wisdom.’
Matt looked at her, then at the monument. His face had turned slightly pale.
Sandra, meanwhile, continued to take in the features. The monument was strange. There were three layers surrounding the sculpture, one clearly an arch, one a door, the other something else – perhaps castle walls.
She walked closer, her attention on the area directly beneath the sculpture. Moss covered the stone, sickly and slimy in the poor weather. She bit her lip, trying to remove the moss.
Clearly it had not been visited lately.
Sandra rubbed her fingers vigorously against the moss. Slowly it came free, unveiling the monument in its entirety.
Matt moved forward, looking at the area that was previously covered. Where the moss had once been, there were several letters.
Together they formed an inscription.
O.U.O.S.V.A.V.V
D. M.
Sandra looked at the letters, then at Matt. He looked back at her and then at the sky. As he did, he remembered the words on the back of the painting.
When the inscription D.M. is found
In the ancient cave, revealed by a lamp,
Law, the King and Prince Ulpian tried,
The Queen and Duke in the pavilion undercover.
Nicole was exhausted when she went to bed, but despite the heaviness in her eyes, sleep refused to come. For the third night in a row, her mind continued to follow the strange array of patterns found in the first two books.
The story of the Frenchman’s death was still to be mentioned in detail. A local paper had been the first to pick up the story, but they neglected to pursue the manner of the murder itself. Instead, the journalist downplayed the murder as a burglary gone wrong. Nicole had followed the news on the internet that the man had been repeatedly stabbed, but evidently no one went into further detail. No British paper had reported on it, and photos of the body were still to be released to the public. The signs pointed to the same trail.
How did they know they were there?
Nicole got out of bed at just before midnight and for over ten minutes just stared at her PC screen. As usual, the screensaver was on, passing by with photographs of her family and friends. At uni she had got used to sleeping with the computer on, and these days she always kept it on, just in case.
Despite the tiredness, she felt inspired. She walked in her dressing gown toward the computer and immediately started writing in a new Word document. The journalist was wrong. Anson, Bowden, Tomlin, and now Belroc, the signs were there. The connections stemmed back to the others,
Bell, Gray, Denison…
The article was written in less than thirty minutes. Nicole left the room for coffee and returned to check it. Instinct told her she was part of something huge, and that the world needed to know. She silently wondered whether the repercussions could be great, but her resolve had not only strengthened, it had numbed her senses. Whoever was responsible for the deaths was capable of so much. The question that remained was still unanswerable. Who were they, and what did they want?
She guessed Mills wouldn’t go for it.
Sandra placed her hands over the previously folded map and concentrated her attention on the area surrounding New England. She was aware that the Dighton Rock had been uncovered in the nearby river in Berkley, Massachusetts. The lost letter suggested the voyage continued north from Berkley, but it was difficult to ascertain the precise direction of the subsequent voyage. In theory, the voyage could have been to anywhere from Newfoundland to Vancouver. Clearly the knowledge was meant only for those who had a right to know.
She rose to her feet and sat down beside Matt on a couch, coming down with a thump.
‘Sorry.’
He smiled, his attention on his father’s co-author. Although he was starting to get to know her quite well, moments in her presence were still uncomfortable. He still had no idea of her past. Instinct told him she knew his father well.
Perhaps too well.
‘What do you know about the Corte-Reals?’
She smiled at him. ‘The historical Gaspar and Miguel were adventurers. Without question, they were two of the first to travel the Atlantic. Gaspar was born in about 1450, two years after Miguel; no one knows the exact date. Gaspar was appointed servant to the Duke of Beja, the future King Manuel I, and later moved to the Azores to administer land given to him by his father.’
She paused briefly.
‘Following the voyages of Columbus and Cabot, King Manuel decided to follow up with voyages across the Atlantic. Until that time, most of the discoveries had been in places such as Africa and off their own coast.’
Matt nodded. He was aware that it was mainly the Spanish who explored South America.
‘In 1500, he set out with one ship from Portugal and discovered a cold snow-covered land in the North Atlantic. Now this could have been Nova Scotia or Greenland. A year later, he embarked on a second voyage, this time with his brother and at least one other ship. They’re recorded as finding Greenland, a land already known by the Vikings. They continued west, and he discovered Newfoundland, again probably second to the Vikings. At that point, the ships separated, and Gaspar continued south. Two of the ships, including the one belonging to Miguel, returned home. Among their bounty was fifty-seven Beothuks, later sold as slaves.’
Matt bowed his head. ‘Thugs.’
She smiled. ‘Miguel Corte-Real was later sent to look for his brother, but he, like Gaspar, never returned. A year later, a third brother, Vasco Anes Corte-Real, requested he be granted permission to lead a search for his brothers, but the king refused, stating his desire that the brother should not lose his life. Shortly after, Vasco Anes Corte-Real was given suzerainty over Newfoundland, and two search ships w
ere sent to locate Miguel and Gaspar. Needless to say, Matthew, they were never seen again.’
Matt nodded. ‘But you definitely think that rock is a clue?’
‘The inscriptions of Dighton Rock are historically a nightmare. However, because they were discovered so long ago, historians generally have little choice but to believe in them. Some state them to be of Viking origin, others Norse, one even suggested the Chinese.’ She smiled. ‘But reference to Miguel Corte-Real and evidence of the Knights of Christ symbol on the stone is interesting. As is the date.’
‘You think whatever the Templars had was taken with them?’
‘A few days ago I would have said that Gaspar disappeared, Miguel tried to find him, end of story…Now I’m not so sure.’
She sat up slightly.
‘Who says Gaspar really did disappear?’
‘You think he survived?’
‘If the Templar treasure was taken on the second trip, it would make sense that the first trip was merely a reconnaissance voyage. Perhaps the story that they disappeared was a cover-up. The letter and the rock claim that Miguel Corte-Real was still alive in 1511. That’s nine years later. It took less than six months to return from sea.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, Gaspar and Miguel never did go missing. The story was a plant to take the spotlight away from their real mission. To take whatever the Templars had to America.’
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 28