by Jillian Dodd
“Okay, but we’re going to need disguises. The man who tried to kill you is still out there somewhere, and he will keep looking until he finds you.”
“I might have a solution for that,” she says with a grin.
T-MINUS:01:08:26
Sophie takes us back to Sister Maria’s office and quickly brings her up to speed.
I’ve spent a lot of time in churches, discovering their beauty, and I’m well studied on different religious beliefs, but my mother didn’t raise me with a specific religion in mind. She thought that what you believed should be personal to you. She wanted me to experience everything before I decided what I believed, and through our travels, I learned so much.
One time, I asked what she thought. Her answer was surprisingly simple for such a complicated subject.
“I believe in good and evil.”
She saw the world as very black and white, which I find interesting for someone who lived in the shadows, for someone who I’m sure killed people in the name of goodness.
But those she killed probably had families. And those families would say she was evil.
I learned this recently myself when I confronted The Priest, the man who I had labeled in my head as the ultimate in evil. It seems that the line between good and evil can be quite subjective, depending which side of the line you are on.
I’m not sure exactly where I would fit into organized religion, but I do believe in something greater. I have felt a spiritual connection and a sense of awe when in places of worship around the world—from the Amida Buddha on the grounds of the Kotokuin Temple in Japan, to St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican, to the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood in St. Petersburg, Russia, to the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, to the Canterbury Cathedral in England, to the Hassan II Mosque in Morocco. All are incredibly and equally impressive.
As is Sister Maria.
I guess I thought of nuns as women who were sheltered from the world, but she does not fall into that category. She’s well versed in both politics and current events.
And she’s dressing us up as nuns. While I’m thankful for the disguise, I feel a little uncomfortable, wearing such a sacred symbol of the church.
Sister Maria, however, insists.
“Putting on my veil means that I belong to God,” she argues. “Borrowing my habits will be a symbol that your journey will be guided by Him.”
Even though the clock is ticking down in my head, I don’t stop her when she takes a moment to hold our hands as she prays for us to rescue the people of the world. She brings tears to my eyes when she kisses both of our cheeks and sends us on our way after making me take medication for my fever.
The thing I liked best about her prayer is that she prayed for everyone regardless of their religion. I wish the world in general were more like her—allowing their beliefs to be sacred and personal and not fighting over who was right.
Sophie and I leave the church. She takes me a different direction than from which we arrived, which is good. After a couple of turns, we’re on the Calle Armiñán, one of the main streets through town. And, even though we’re in a hurry, it’s impossible not to notice the beauty of this place.
We make our way past the Museo Lara, its simple facade belying the private collection of weapons and witchcraft-related items inside. Up to my right is the La Casa del Rey Moro, an impressive fortress of Moorish design that was carved into the cliffs of the El Tajo Gorge. It features multiple levels trailing down the mountain that housed the city’s water mine, which was built back in the fourteenth century.
We are stopped by a group of tourists as we approach the Puente Nuevo, or the newest bridge in Ronda, completed in the late 1700s. They are asking questions in English, but Sophie rushes past them, muttering in Spanish like a native. I’d love to stop on the bridge and take in the stunning view of the cliffs and the gorge below, but there’s no time.
Maybe, if I don’t die, I’ll get back here someday.
The sun is shining in full force now, and the morning is hot. I’m sweating and breathing heavily. It doesn’t help that I’m carrying the portfolio full of research across my body. It’s heavy because, for some reason, I brought the brick with us. I figured maybe Dr. Andersen put it in the bag for a reason.
Once across the bridge, we make our way past the Plaza de España, staying on the sidewalk and moving quickly by the stores filled with touristy goods.
“Let’s go this way,” Sophie says, grabbing my hand and leading me off the main drag and down a side street.
A few blocks later, we’re standing in front of the Plaza de Toros de la Real Maestranza de Caballería de Ronda, which translates to the Bullring of the Royal Cavalry of Ronda.
We start by working our way around the exterior of the coliseum. We check out the memorials of Orson Welles and Ernest Hemingway, me pressing against anywhere with a seam that might be concealing something.
When we don’t discover anything, Sophie suggests we go inside, but the door is locked.
I point out a placard on the wall, noting an opening time of ten this morning.
I walk around the area, searching the ground, because I don’t have the time to wait—not to mention, I’m feeling really lousy.
“What are you looking for?” Sophie asks.
“Something skinny,” I reply, knowing it won’t be that hard to pick the old-fashioned lock on the door if I can find the right tool.
She reaches in her habit pocket and pulls out a hairpin. “Will this work? Are we going to break in?”
“I thought it might be subtler than throwing the brick through a window.”
“Besides, that won’t work anyway.” She laughs. “They’re all covered by iron bars.”
She hands me the pin and stands guard while I make quick work of the lock. We let ourselves in and then carefully close the door. I stick my hand out the small opening to redo the chains, making it look like it’s still locked but allowing a way out.
“The Plaza de Toros is an important place in Spanish history,” Sophie tells me. “It’s home to the Real Maestranza de Caballería de Ronda, which is Spain’s oldest and noblest order of horsemanship. Ronda itself has an interesting history, as you can probably tell by its architecture. For over seven hundred years, it was under Islamic rule. In 1485, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella defeated the Moors and brought back a Christian leadership.”
We step onto the sand floor of the bullring and look around. I can’t help but feel the history here. I can picture the place full of cheering fans.
“It looks like it will hold quite a few people,” I say.
“Five thousand,” Sophie replies.
There are two decks set with pillars and arches. Wooden planks are laid on the stone steps encircling the ring to form seating. Across the way is what looks like a royal box. It has an ornate roof covered in arabesque tiles, the kind of place I would get to sit if I were with Lorenzo.
Lorenzo. Why does he keep popping into my thoughts?
Probably because you still love him.
I sigh, looking at the size of the place, knowing it will take us more than the hour we have left to properly vet it.
“It’s huge,” Sophie says, mirroring my thoughts.
“Did you and your dad spend time here, in the stands?” I ask, hoping to narrow the search.
“Only once during the Feria Goyesca. It is held in the fall and is an event that honors a famous bullfighter named Pedro Romero with a bullfight. The best part for me was the parade. The men wore amazing costumes based off Goya’s famous paintings, and the women dressed in their finest gowns. I wasn’t a fan of the bullfight, however. I find the sport to be quite barbaric. My father and I did often go to the bullfighting museum that sits underneath. He was interested in the history of it all.”
“That’s where we should go then.”
“I’m worried though. Entry is ticketed. I’m not sure we will be able to get in.”
“We’ll worry about that when we get there,�
� I tell her as she leads me to the museum.
Fortunately, it’s still over an hour before opening. I’m hoping that means the people who work here have yet to arrive.
For their sake.
We climb over a rope held in place by stanchions that blocks entrance to the museum.
The tour starts with the bull enclosures, the horse-riding exercise ring, and the pens. There is information about the construction of the building and its architectural features. We move quickly through the spaces, hoping that something will stand out. And I get the feeling Sophie knows intuitively that this isn’t where her father would have put something of value. The spaces are too open, and she keeps going.
We stroll past a lot on the history of bullfighting and then get to a space where there are bullfighting suits behind glass. Sophie slows down here, taking time to point out some of her favorites. While she does that, I’m scouring the displays for anything that has to do with medicine.
You’d think people would often get hurt fighting bulls, so I expected there might be something on the tour regarding their care, but no such luck.
Sophie stops suddenly to show me a beautifully embroidered white bolero jacket with intricate black embroidery. It’s displayed on a wooden chair, the jacket draped over the back and the pants hanging from the seat.
“This is my favorite costume. The colors aren’t bold colors like the others, but I love the pattern and the contrast of the black and white. I imagine the fighter looked quite dashing in this.”
She starts to move on, but I pull her back.
“Wait. What’s that wooden box behind the chair for? Is that what they kept the suit in?” I read the placard in front of the glass and discover nothing of note about it.
“Look at the symbol on the side,” Sophie says, leaning down to get a better look.
“That’s the Caduceus wand with a serpent wrapped around it. More importantly, it’s what your father told you to look for—it’s Asclepius’s symbol.”
“That’s got to be what he left!” she says excitedly. “What do you think could be in it?”
I am not sure, but I’m praying it’s what I hope it is.
Sophie looks around the corner for a way to get into the display. I glance at my watch. Not much time left.
I grab the brick out of the messenger bag.
“Stand back,” I tell her as I throw the brick through the glass, shattering it.
We run inside and grab the box.
It’s heavy, at least fifty pounds.
Fortunately, no one seems to have arrived for work yet, as we’ve yet to be discovered. But I know they will be arriving soon, so we drag the chest into a nearby restroom where I undo the leather strap and open the lid.
Sophie takes a bunch of papers from the top.
“This is it,” I tell her. “The proof that we need.”
T-MINUS:01:01:37
I quickly shed my disguise, folding up the habit and carefully laying it on a shelf in the restroom. I grab my phone out of my bag and call Ares to let him know what we found.
No answer.
I call Intrepid.
No answer.
I try Daniel.
No answer.
I try Juan and Ari.
Next up is Mike Burnes and Royston Bessemer.
No answer.
Most have a fast busy signal.
I try the villa’s landline, hoping that might work.
Nothing.
I try the palace’s main number.
The call doesn’t even go through.
I try the hospital, thinking, if anyone had phone service, it would be them.
Still nothing.
I try texting.
After over a minute, it shows as being sent but not yet delivered, like it’s in some kind of textual limbo.
I send an email.
Get an error message back in response.
“I can’t reach anyone in Montrovia,” I tell her, feeling defeated. “We finally know the truth, and I can’t get ahold of anyone. We’re going to have to physically take it there. Any idea where we could get a helicopter?”
“There is a company in town that does rides for tourists, run by Tommy Langdon. Unfortunately, his grandmother in Ireland recently passed, and he’s out of town for the next few days. I saw his daughter at the pub last night—gosh, that seems like so long ago. Anyway, she was saying she gets to take a few days off and was going out again tonight.”
I take a deep breath. “If we drive, it will take at least two hours. They start giving the vaccines in less than an hour. I wonder how many people they can inoculate during that time.”
“Quite a few,” she says.
“I don’t think we have any other choice. No planes are allowed. And, even if we could get someone to take us, there was talk of shooting down any plane trying to enter or leave Montrovian airspace. I was thinking maybe a helicopter might be able to fly low enough to avoid the radar.”
“We’ll have to drive then,” she says. “All I know is that, when this is over, I’m going to my little flat overlooking the Nyhavn Harbor in Copenhagen and sleeping for days.”
“Oh my gosh. That’s it. Sophie, you’re brilliant.” I smile at her as I realize who I can call for help, quickly entering his number.
“Kresten,” I say when he answers.
“Huntley, where are you? All communications have gone down in Montrovia.”
“I know. I tried calling, texting, and emailing. Listen, I’m in Ronda, Spain, with Sophie Andersen, the daughter of the scientist who actually discovered the disease, not the guy PureGen is blaming everything on. We have proof that the vaccines will kill everyone who takes them, but we don’t have much time. There is a local helicopter tour operator that I was hoping could fly us there, but he’s out of town. We can drive, but we won’t make it in time to stop them from giving the vaccines.”
“I’m running through the palace to my father’s office,” he says breathlessly. “Let me see what I can do. What is your exact location?”
“We’re at the Plaza de Toros bullring.”
“Perfect. Hang on.”
“I’m on hold,” I tell Sophie.
“Did you just call the incredibly sexy crown prince of my home country?” she asks in awe.
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Someday, maybe—” Her swooning is interrupted by Kresten’s voice.
“Your chariot is on its way. We were lucky that they were already airborne. ETA: ten minutes. Are you safe where you currently are?”
“For the time being. We kind of broke into one of the museum exhibits to get to the information her father left. There is also a man in town who tried to kill Sophie this morning by blowing up her house, but we escaped, and I shot him with a tranquilizer dart. Right now, we are hiding in a restroom.”
“Okay, hold for nine minutes and forty-five seconds then proceed to the center of the bullring. The helicopter will land there, which should provide you with a fair amount of cover from the authorities or anyone else. And I’ll radio the men and let them know your status.”
“Who’s coming to get us?”
“Just some guys I know,” he says cryptically. “They’ll make sure you get there in time.”
“Thank you, Kresten. I owe you one.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says in a flirtatious tone.
“Oh, and please don’t announce anything to the public until I get things taken care of in Montrovia. No other country is set to start giving the vaccine until later today, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“You probably also know by now that I’m not just an heiress.”
“I’ve suspected that for quite some time. But don’t worry, Huntley. Your secret is safe with me.”
T-MINUS:00:52:55
I’m watching the time click down on my watch when I hear noises outside the restroom. Someone has probably discovered the broken glass and is calling the authorities, which could cause u
s issues—especially when we try to stroll out of the restroom, carrying an antique trunk.
I tell Sophie to stay put and then walk nonchalantly out the door. The moment I do, I see the man who I shot with a dart earlier, only he’s changed from his black uniform into jeans and a Hemingway souvenir tee.
He spots me, does a double take, and then launches himself in my direction.
I dodge his advance, but he reaches out his arm at the last moment. He grips my leg, brings me to my knees, and follows it up by grabbing my hair and smashing my face into the wall.
I’m fortunate that it’s new construction made of drywall and not stone, or I would have been knocked unconscious.
A swift donkey kick to his groin causes him to fall back. He doesn’t let go of my hair though, so I’m pulled backward, landing on top of him. An elbow to his face breaks his nose and allows me to get free.
I leap up and turn around.
Sophie has peeked her head out the door.
“Take the proof out to the meeting point!” I whisper to her and then turn my attention back to the man.
His nose is bleeding, and he looks quite angry with me, which can be a blessing or a curse. Sometimes, the outrage can cause stupid reactions. Other times, it can bring clarity and more force.
In his case, it’s the latter. He throws himself toward me, sending both of us back through the restroom door.
His eyes fall on Sophie, who’s dragging the trunk out of the stall.
“Now, I’ve got you both,” he says, pulling a gun and taking aim at her.
I lunge toward him, knocking him down as he fires, the bullet lodging itself in the ceiling as the gun skitters across the tiled floor.
At the sound of the gun, Sophie ducks, but I have to give her points for bravery. She keeps dragging the box toward the door.
I just need to keep this man occupied long enough for her to get the proof safely out of here.