Paul just beamed. His wife’s effervescent personality was irrepressible. They knew it was a serious assignment and they’d been well briefed about the Bloodstone Group and the danger it presented. They didn’t expect to find any members of the group in Lerma, but they’d been instructed to be cautious.
And, as Paul knew, none of that would interfere with Gamay Trout enjoying herself.
A small library in the center of town was their first stop. A town newspaper had been printed there for fifty years—little more than a leaflet—which, of course, didn’t go back far enough to account for a plane crash in 1927.
Their second stop was a town courthouse, which was also the post office, the mayor’s office—he wasn’t there—and the archive of various town records. Most of what they found related to land transfers, political appointments and old legal decrees. They found nothing suggesting anyone knew about a plane crash, the Writings of Qsn or the short and fateful visit of Francisco DeMars’s grandfather.
“We’re striking out,” Paul said. “And I’m famished. Time for tapas. Lots of them.”
“This is why I married you,” Gamay said.
They found a small café, but arrived just after noon.
The old woman who ran the place was happy to serve them. And though she didn’t speak English, she listened politely as Gamay attempted to converse in Spanish, using what she remembered from high school mixed with the translation program on her cell phone. Eventually, the woman just nodded and walked away.
Gamay looked at Paul. “What do you think?”
“Either you ordered lunch or you told them you’d like to buy the place in an all-cash offer.”
“Don’t think our expense account is going to cover that,” Gamay replied.
As she looked back at her phone, studying the translation once more, a smaller figure walked up to the table carrying two large glasses of sangria. She was a tiny thing who Gamay estimated could be no more than ten.
“Hello,” the little girl said in well-practiced English. “My name is Sofia. My aunt says you’re Americans. She told me Americans aren’t allowed to learn other languages.”
“That’s not quite true,” Gamay said. “But—”
“It’s okay,” Sofia said. “I’m learning English and American so I can work in Madrid when I grow up and then we can travel to the Big Apple.”
“New York?”
“Yes, I want to go there too.”
Paul had to laugh. “We should really enroll in a language class or two.”
“The minute we get home,” Gamay said.
She gave Sofia their names and requested two plates of croquetas de jamón—ham croquettes—and patatas bravas, a dish translated as fierce potatoes, a name taken from the tabasco sauce covering the fried slices.
As Sofia took their requests to the kitchen, Gamay tasted the sangria. The local fruit was especially ripe by the end of the summer. It gave the beverage a perfect sweetness. “Delicious,” she said. “Now I know why they serve this in such large glasses. I still might finish this before our food arrives.”
Paul took a drink and nodded in agreement.
With their taste buds invigorated and their thirst partially quenched, they planned out their next steps. “We’re batting zero so far. We need to raise our game. How do we find a plane that went down a century ago if there’s no record of where it went down?”
“Even Hiram can’t find it with the satellites,” Paul said. “We’d be better off looking for something that would be marked. Like the grave of the pilot.”
“How’s that going to help us?”
“Kurt said the pilot was buried near where the old men found him. Hopefully, he hadn’t walked too far from where the plane went down.”
“And he did have a broken leg,” Gamay agreed. “So if we find the grave, it will put us in the general vicinity of the plane. I think that sangria has already sharpened up your mind.”
“Not sure about that,” Paul said, “but I’m willing to test the theory.”
“The question is, how do we find the grave?” Gamay asked. “It was 1927. There’s not likely to be anyone around here who was part of the burial crew.”
“No,” Paul said. “But Spain is a very religious country. Back in the twenties it was even more devout. Every small town had a priest and a church, even if it had precious little else. We saw a nice church on the outskirts of town when we drove in. DeMars even mentioned it in his notes. San Sebastián de las Montañas.”
“How will going there help?”
“A dying man in a Catholic region most certainly received last rites before he passed away,” Paul said. “Once word filtered back that a man was dying farther up the river, a priest would have rushed out to administer the sacrament. Record of that, along with some commemoration of the gravesite, might well be kept in the church’s records. They usually recorded births, marriages and deaths.”
“The big three,” she said. “Great idea. Let’s visit the church as soon as we’re done eating.”
Chapter 32
San Sebastián de las Montañas, Villa Ducal de Lerma, Spain
Paul and Gamay arrived at the church accompanied by Sofia and the woman who ran the café. They found it to be an architectural gem. Despite its age, it was well cared for. It had a classic Spanish façade, with a majestic bell tower up high and an arched doorway directly beneath. The walls had been built from local stone, cut and shaped by artisans brought in from Madrid in the seventeenth century. Their fine work had weathered and aged, leaving it gently discolored in places, but it remained sturdy, with the blocks fitting together snugly.
A courtyard in front of the church was shaded by a large almond tree and graced by a trickling fountain filled with water that sparkled in the midafternoon sun. To one side of the building lay a garden with lush trees and vibrant flowering plants. A man in overalls was tending a beautiful red bougainvillea that climbed an arched trellis.
Entering the church, Sofia and her aunt touched their fingers to a bowl of holy water and blessed themselves. They proceeded to the front, where they genuflected and offered silent prayers.
Paul and Gamay stood quietly in the back, turning as the man in the overalls came in from the garden.
Sofia saw him first. “Father Torres,” she said, running back.
He crouched down and picked her up and gave her a hug and then spoke briefly to her aunt in Spanish.
As he put Sofia down, she introduced Paul and Gamay.
“These are my friends from America,” Sofia said.
“Glad to be counted as friends,” Gamay said, giving the priest their names.
Fortunately for them, Father Torres spoke excellent English. “It is always good to have visitors,” he said. “Welcome to San Sebastián de las Montañas.”
“Thank you,” Paul said.
“Since we’re in a church,” Gamay added, “I want to make it clear for the record that we’ve only just met Sofia and her aunt. We don’t want to proceed under false pretenses.”
Father Torres laughed. “You have nothing to worry about,” he said. “In truth, Sofia has never met someone who was not a friend.”
Gamay laughed. “Good to know. It’s a beautiful church.”
“Not to mention a beautiful garden,” Paul added.
“I am only responsible for the upkeep of the church,” Father Torres said. “But at the risk of sinning, the garden is something I take great pride in. I find working with the soil most satisfying. If we can coax something to life from the earth, we are doing our best to imitate our Holy Father . . . Now, what may I do for you?”
Paul looked to Gamay. She was far better with words than he.
“We’re looking for the records of someone who may have been buried in the area.”
“We keep meticulous records,” the priest said. “Thankfully, we have per
formed few burials in my time.”
“Well,” Gamay said, “this one wouldn’t be a recent. We’re looking for information on a man who died in 1927.”
“That is a long time ago,” Father Torres said, “but the records go back centuries. What was his name?”
“We don’t know,” Gamay said.
“How about the date of his passing?”
“We’re not sure of that either,” she said. “It would have been sometime during May of 1927.”
Father Torres nodded. “There were more people living here in those days than there are now. The silver mine was still open. That said, there couldn’t have been too many burials in a single month. Let’s take a look and see what turns up.”
“The thing is,” Gamay added, “he was a pilot. His plane crashed nearby. And he wasn’t buried here in town. He was buried somewhere upriver.”
Father Torres nodded thoughtfully. “Very interesting,” he said. “May I ask what you seek in regard to this man?”
Gamay hesitated. “Honestly, we’re not looking for the man himself. It’s his airplane we’d like to find. We believe there may be something of great historical interest in the wreckage.”
“Ah,” Father Torres said. “And when you say great historical interest, you really mean great monetary value.”
Gamay blushed. “I wasn’t trying to mislead you, I just . . .”
Paul had to look away or he’d have burst out laughing. Never had he seen Gamay so mortified. Meanwhile, Father Torres gazed at her with a stern face. He was young, no older than Gamay, but he pulled it off quite well. Still, there was something in the look that suggested it was too practiced, too over-the-top, to be serious.
A smile broke the façade. “Forgive me,” he said. “I listen to many confessions. The story always starts with the mildest version of what happened. And so I’ve gotten used to the code words people use and the ways in which we all try to skirt the truth. It’s become a game of mine to let the people know that I know what they’re trying so hard not to say.”
“It is of great historical interest,” Gamay insisted. “And while it could be worth an enormous amount of money, that’s not why we’re looking for it.”
“Tell the truth,” Paul added. “Confession is good for the soul.”
He tried to put his arm around Gamay, but she shrugged him off. “If you don’t watch out, I’m going to have something more serious to confess soon.”
This time Paul couldn’t help but laugh. Gamay was at her most beautiful during the rare times when she was flustered.
Father Torres laughed as well. “Please, come this way. I’ll show you what I showed the others.”
Gamay took a step to follow and then froze as the word hit her. “Others?”
“Yes,” the priest said. “Two men from an English university came here this morning. They asked the very same questions. They also did not admit to seeking anything of monetary value. But they had a feverish gleam in their eyes.”
Paul and Gamay exchanged concerned glances.
Father Torres noticed. “You seem worried.”
“I don’t think you have anything to fear here in the village,” Gamay suggested. “But it’s safe to say those men weren’t from any university.”
Chapter 33
Villa Ducal de Lerma, Spain
Kurt, Joe and Morgan reached Lerma by midafternoon and quickly found their way to the church. They discovered Paul and Gamay waiting with five saddled horses.
After introducing Morgan, Kurt pointed at the horses. “Have you two become caballeros in your free time?”
“Around here they’re called yegüerizos,” Gamay corrected. “And, yes, since horses are the only way to get to the crash site.”
“You know where it is?” Morgan said excitedly.
“We’ve got a pretty good idea,” Paul said.
“How’d you find it?” Joe asked.
Gamay explained the discovery. “While you three were entertaining the French National Police, we spent our time learning from the local historians. Turns out the church records noted the burial of an unknown pilot whose plane crashed in the riverbed. The wreck is still out there. Some of the older citizens of the town recall seeing it, though it’s mostly buried in the sand now.”
Kurt glanced off to the north and the rising terrain. “How far?”
“About fifteen miles from here,” Gamay said. “It’s in a side canyon near an area called Falcon Point.”
“We’re told it’s a rough hike,” Paul added. “Not one you’d want to make on foot.”
“What about ATVs?” Joe asked, eyeing the horses suspiciously.
Paul shook his head. “I already checked. This horsepower is the only form of all-terrain transport that will get us through. However,” he added, “saddle sores won’t be our only worry. According to Father Torres, a pair of men arrived here this morning asking him the exact same questions we did.”
Kurt cocked his head to the side. “Did I hear you right?”
Paul nodded.
“Who were these men?” Morgan asked.
“They only gave Father Torres first names,” Gamay said. “They claimed to be from Oxford, but Father Torres thought they looked more like military men. They had buzz cuts and bodies that looked like they spent plenty of time in the gym.”
“Barlow’s men,” Morgan suggested. “Might even be the same crew that hit us in France.”
Kurt agreed with that assessment. They certainly sounded more like the intruders from the château than the scruffy-looking hoods who’d attacked them at Cambridge.
Joe spoke next. “What I don’t get is, how do they know about this place at all? We just found out about it last night.”
“They must have found something in the château,” Kurt replied. He turned back to Gamay. “How much of a lead do they have?”
“Four or five hours,” she replied. “We don’t know exactly when they left, but a rancher who lives at the edge of town came by this morning to warn everyone about the men who took several horses and a mule from his property. The description of the men matches up.”
“He’s lucky to be alive,” Morgan said. “Barlow’s people don’t leave a lot of witnesses around.”
Kurt summed things up. “Five hours is a long lead,” he said, “but they still have to find the plane, excavate it, recover what they’re looking for and then come back down the riverbed. If we hurry, we can surprise them.”
With no time to waste, they mounted up and rode off, traveling into the winding bed of the river as it ran north from Lerma. For two hours they moved without a break. The first part of the journey was easy as the horses walked alongside the river, but halfway to Falcon Point the ground began to rise. The horses took the grade easily, managing to carry their riders up rocky slopes that no wheeled vehicle could possibly scale.
Beyond the steep sections they came to flatter ground once again. Here and there, the trickling waters of the stream became trapped behind natural dams in the landscape. As the water backed up, it formed a series of ponds and lakes, each of them surrounded by tall green grasses. The lakes were still, their surfaces reflecting the sky in mirror-like fashion, each of them a Spanish-style oasis.
An hour beyond the last lake, they finally came to a section of river with vertical cliffs on either side and a towering rock that had split off from the rest of the canyon. Beyond it lay a branch in the riverbed.
“This is Falcon Point,” Paul said. He was navigating from a map they’d been given, double-checking their progress on a handheld GPS display. “Father Torres said the crash site is near here, in that side canyon.”
A hundred yards ahead of them, a gap on the left led away from the river. It cut into the higher terrain and was surrounded by cliffs.
“Looks like a great place for an ambush,” Joe said. He looked awkward on his hor
se.
“We know they’re ahead of us,” Kurt pointed out, “but they don’t know we’re coming. All the same, let’s keep out of sight.”
“Who would land a plane back there?” Gamay asked.
“Only someone who didn’t have much choice,” Kurt replied. “How far back to the crash site?”
“No more than a mile,” Paul said.
Kurt looked at Joe and Morgan. Things were about to get interesting. He pointed to a shaded area fifty yards back. “Paul,” he said. “You and Gamay tie the horses up over there and stand by. Joe, Morgan and I will go on foot. Watch the horses and be alert to any trouble.”
If Kurt expected a protest, he didn’t get one. “I don’t mind staying behind,” Gamay said. “But what, exactly, are you going to do?”
“Clearly, you haven’t seen enough Westerns,” Kurt said. “We’re going to sneak up on them, pull our guns and tell them to reach for the sky.”
Chapter 34
There they are,” Kurt said, looking through a pair of compact binoculars.
Kurt, Joe and Morgan had hiked past Falcon Point and into the side canyon. They’d kept to the shadows until they reached a boulder field, where the canyon’s wall on one side had collapsed sometime in the last century. Kurt imagined it calving from the rock behind it like an iceberg from a glacier, shattering into a thousand pieces as it crashed to the ground.
The mammoth chunks now sat jumbled and piled on one another. Using this terrain as cover, they crept within a hundred yards of the wreck site before halting.
They lay there, flat atop a truck-sized boulder, peering over the edge, studying the men who’d already found the plane and begun excavating it.
“I count four of them,” Kurt said. He saw shovels and plastic water bottles strewn about. He saw rifles propped against a rock. Most importantly, he saw that the old aircraft was almost completely unearthed. “They’ve made good use of their time.”
A deep trench had been dug alongside the fuselage, while another, like a sand trap on a golf course, had been dug underneath the tail. Smaller depressions had been excavated beneath each wing, exposing the engines and the stubs of the propellers, which had broken off in the crash.
Journey of the Pharaohs Page 17