The Death Relic

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘What type of claims?’ Jones asked softly.

  She took a deep breath, then tried to brush it off. ‘Nothing I haven’t seen before. Corruption, greed, hypocrisy. You know, the big three.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s OK. I mean, it’s not OK, but I’ve seen this crap so many times it barely registers any more. During the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, the Catholic Church was run by immoral men who used their positions to acquire power, wealth and sex. Not everyone was like that – some priests and bishops were actual saints – but misbehaviour was more common than you’d think. If I had a thousand dollars for every time the Pope got somebody pregnant, I could buy a very nice condo in Rome.’

  Payne was tempted to say that a condo in Rome is probably where the popes got most of the women pregnant, but he decided to heed Jones’s warning and hold his tongue.

  Jones pointed at the packet in her grasp. She was holding it so tightly her fingertips were turning white. ‘You might want to ease up. A tree died for that document.’

  She glanced at her hands and nodded. ‘Sorry. I’m just a little rattled.’

  ‘Why? What does it say?’

  She took another deep breath, trying to calm down. ‘Before I try to explain, what do you know about Landa?’

  ‘Quite a bit, actually. I was filling Jon in while you worked on the translation.’

  Payne rolled his eyes but didn’t contradict the claim. He knew Jones was trying to impress her. ‘That’s right. He told me all about the book burnings and the cruelty and the charges of persecution. It was like having a conversation with an encyclopedia.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, surprised. ‘That’s great to hear, because I need all the help I can get. Maybe you can fill me in on some things. I’m somewhat hazy on his later years.’

  Payne couldn’t help but smile. ‘Yes, David, please enlighten us.’

  Jones played it perfectly. ‘Actually, I doubt I’ll be much help to a historian like you. My knowledge of Landa is pretty superficial. You know, the type of stuff you could find on the Internet. I doubt I’ll be able to tell you anything you don’t already know.’

  She smiled. ‘That’s OK. Most guys wouldn’t know Landa from a hole in the ground. I’m impressed that you know him at all.’

  Jones nodded smugly. ‘That’s the beauty of an Air Force Academy education.’

  ‘What is?’ demanded Payne, who had attended the rival Naval Academy. ‘Your superficial understanding of things, or the fact that you can get the same education on the Internet?’

  Maria tried not to laugh, but she couldn’t help herself. It was a funny line that helped take the edge off the situation. Jones quickly insulted him back, and before long the three of them were engaged in some good-natured teasing. Payne hated to see the laughter end – it was the first time during the trip that he’d felt comfortable with Maria, as if she was a friend rather than a client – but he realized they were wasting precious time.

  ‘So,’ Payne said, ‘I hate to be the bad guy, but I’m really curious about the document. What can you tell us?’

  She nodded in understanding. It was time to get back to work. ‘What do you know about Landa’s appointment as Bishop of Yucatán?’

  ‘Not much, other than the fact that it was controversial.’

  ‘Controversial is an understatement. Not only did the committee find him innocent of his crimes, but he was eventually selected to replace the man who’d brought the charges against him. Needless to say, the Governors of Yucatán were outraged by this decision. Everyone – and I mean everyone – in Mexico was familiar with Diego de Landa and his abusive ways, yet somehow he managed to convince the Church to send him back.’

  ‘Jon and I were just talking about that. We couldn’t figure out how Landa pulled it off, unless there was some kind of conspiracy.’

  She held up the document. ‘According to this, Landa bought his freedom with the promise of a vast treasure. He convinced the Church that he had assembled a massive stockpile of Mayan artefacts – items he had deemed too valuable to burn. In exchange for his release, he was willing to hide these items from the King and smuggle them to the Church instead.’

  ‘Landa admitted to this?’ Payne asked.

  She shook her head. ‘This journal wasn’t written by Landa. It was written by a young priest named Marcos de Mercado. He was assigned by the Church to chronicle Landa’s movements on his return to the Yucatán. Prior to the priesthood, Mercado had trained as a soldier, so they felt he was the perfect choice to spy on Landa in hostile terrain. Not only did he know religion, he knew the ways of the blade.’

  Jones grimaced. ‘Sounds like a bad movie. Marcos de Mercado: Warrior Priest.’

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I think you would have liked the guy. He had a quiet, intellectual side that came across in his writing. Underneath, he had the heart of a fighter.’

  ‘Tell me more about the document,’ Payne said to Maria. ‘Now that you’ve read it, do you have a better understanding of your role in things?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she admitted. ‘If anything, I’m even more confused about my invitation. Obviously, Landa was involved with the Church in some type of scheme, but you don’t have to be an expert in Christian history to know that. All I needed was the ability to read Spanish, which is a skill that Hamilton possesses.’

  ‘What about Landa’s treasure? Are you familiar with that?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s news to me. But …’

  ‘But what?’ Jones asked.

  ‘If there was a treasure – and that’s still a big if in my mind – it would certainly explain some of Hamilton’s comments during our meeting. He kept bragging about something they had found. He hinted at its historical ramifications and said it would “blow my mind”. There was something about his tone that led me to believe they were close to a major discovery. Really close.’

  Payne considered her words. ‘Hamilton was bragging?’

  She nodded. ‘He could barely keep the grin off his face.’

  ‘Crap. That’s not good. I didn’t know he was a braggart.’

  ‘Not to everyone. Just to me. I think he was trying to impress me so I would take the job.’

  ‘Still,’ Payne said, ‘you’d be surprised how many plans fall apart because of bragging. What if someone at the hotel overheard his boasts? They might have grabbed him in the parking lot to get a big payday.’

  She dismissed his claim. ‘No, way. He was careful. We sat far away from everyone else. There’s no way anyone overheard us.’

  ‘Which way was the wind blowing?’ Payne wondered.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Was it blowing towards the bar or towards the beach? You’d be surprised how far sound can travel. Believe it or not, sound is louder and more intense downwind.’

  Jones nodded. ‘He’s right.’

  ‘I’m telling you, no one overheard us.’

  Payne let it slide. ‘Fine. Maybe you’re right. But that’s just a single conversation. What if you weren’t the first person contacted by Hamilton? Maybe he bragged to someone else and they decided to make a play for the treasure. You said this guy was a drinker, right? What if he threw back too many tequilas one night and ended up spilling the news? There’s no telling who knows about the treasure, or what they would do to find it.’

  Maria nodded and brushed the hair from her eyes. Until that moment, she had been shouldering a lot of guilt about Hamilton’s disappearance, figuring that if he hadn’t driven to Cancún to meet with her, then he wouldn’t have been abducted. But now, thanks to Payne’s comment, she realized that Hamilton might have screwed up on his own. Somehow that made her feel slightly better about the situation. ‘If that’s the case, what should we do now? Do we try to figure out who he talked to? Or is there some other angle to pursue?’

  Payne looked at Jones. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Personally, I don’t think there’s any way we can figure out wh
o Hamilton talked to or if anyone overheard his conversation, not without a lot of legwork. For the time being, I think the best thing to do is concentrate on what we know – and what we don’t know.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘We need to talk to our expert about Landa’s treasure. If it possibly exists, then there’s a damn good chance it’s connected to Hamilton’s disappearance. If not, then we need to focus our attention on other motives.’

  Maria held up the document. ‘That sounds great and all, but I told you this isn’t my area of expertise. This is the first time I’ve read anything about a treasure.’

  Jones smiled and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about our other expert.’

  42

  The Ulster Archives,

  Küsendorf, Switzerland

  (82 miles southeast of Bern)

  Petr Ulster, a round man with a thick brown beard, soaked in a marble tub filled with warm water and scented oils from Singapore. With bubbles up to his chin, he hummed softly to one of his favourite symphonies as he conducted an imaginary orchestra, flailing his arms to the rhythmic beat of the strings. Water sloshed back and forth with such ferocity that it exceeded the constraints of the tub and spilled onto the floor of his private bathroom. Not that he really cared. He was a man who lived for the moment, someone who relished the simple things in life, such as a gourmet meal, a vintage bottle of wine and the company of friends. Besides, he had a staff of servants who would clean up his mess when he was done with his performance.

  The ringing of his telephone brought it to an early end.

  Known for his brilliant mind and boyish enthusiasm, he groused about the interruption while reaching for the phone, which was just beyond his grasp. While stretching for it, he pushed so much water onto the floor that it looked like a tropical storm had struck his bathroom. Thankfully, the only victim was a novelty toy he’d been given as a joke by David Jones. Instead of a rubber ducky, it was a swan named Ludwig with a gold crown on its head. It had been knocked off the edge of the tub by the tidal wave. Only then did Ulster realize how much of a mess he had made.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Winston will be peeved.’

  Worried about his butler’s reaction, Ulster leapt from the tub with reckless abandon, grabbed the lone towel from the heated rail and threw it onto the flood to stop the spread of water before it reached the carpeted floor of his dressing room. This, of course, left him soaking wet, shivering, flustered and bare-ass naked when he answered the phone.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, out of breath. ‘This is Petr.’

  ‘Petr? It’s Jonathon Payne. Are you all right?’

  A smile burst across his face. ‘I am now, my boy!’

  ‘Are you sure? Because you sound, um, dishevelled.’

  Ulster laughed as he turned down the music on the overhead speakers. ‘Though English is my fourth language, I’m not quite sure one can sound dishevelled. I believe that’s more of a visual condition than an auditory one.’

  ‘And yet you sound dishevelled. Trust you to break new ground.’

  ‘If you say so. Who am I to argue with the great Jonathon Payne?’

  Payne grinned. ‘Actually, I can think of quite a few times when we’ve argued, but I’m glad you have selective memory. It’ll be easier to stay on your good side.’

  ‘No worries there, my friend, and you know it!’

  Built in the mid-1960s by Austrian philanthropist Conrad Ulster, the Ulster Archives was the most extensive private collection of documents and antiquities in the world. Unlike most private collections, the main goal of the Archives wasn’t to hoard artefacts. Instead, it attempted to bridge the ever-growing gap between scholars and connoisseurs. Typical big-city museums displayed 15 per cent of their accumulated artefacts, meaning 85 per cent of the world’s finest relics were currently off-limits to the public. That number climbed even higher – closer to 90 per cent – when personal collections were factored into the equation.

  Thankfully, the Ulster Foundation had vowed to correct the problem. Ever since the Archives had opened, it had promoted the radical concept of sharing. In order to gain admittance, a visitor had to bring something of value, such as an ancient object or unpublished research, or be willing to donate his time and expertise to the facility. Whatever it was, it had to be approved in advance by the Archives’ staff. If for some reason they deemed it unworthy, then admission to the facility was denied until a suitable arrangement could be made.

  It was their way of encouraging sharing.

  For more than a decade, the Archives had been run by Petr Ulster, Conrad’s grandson. He had befriended Payne and Jones a few years earlier when they had escorted two frightened academics, Dr Charles Boyd and Maria Pelati, to the facility to conduct research on Tiberius. While they were there, a group of religious zealots had tried to burn the Archives to the ground. Their goal had been to kill Boyd and Pelati, and to destroy a collection of ancient documents that threatened the foundation of the Catholic Church. Fortunately, Payne and Jones had intervened, thwarting the attack and saving the facility from irreparable damage.

  Ever since that day, Ulster had considered them family.

  Payne, who was aware of the time difference, felt the need to apologize despite their closeness. ‘Sorry to bother you on a Saturday night. I hope I didn’t interrupt your dinner plans. I know how you like to entertain at the weekend.’

  Ulster stared at his naked form in the bathroom mirror. His round belly made him look like Buddha. He patted it a few times before answering. ‘Actually, I’m trying to curtail my gluttonous ways. I tend to pack on the pounds during the winter months.’

  ‘Petr, you live on top of the Alps. They’re all winter months.’

  Ulster laughed. ‘I think that’s part of the problem!’

  Payne knew that if he wasn’t careful, Ulster would chew his ear off about his diet, the snowfall in Küsendorf, or whatever else was on his mind. He had the ability to turn a two-second response into a ten-minute lecture. With that in mind, Payne decided to get aggressive. He knew if he didn’t define the terms of the conversation, he was asking for trouble.

  ‘If you have a moment,’ Payne said, ‘I was hoping to ask you a question or two about the Maya. I’m currently in Mexico, and—’

  ‘Did you say the Maya? I love the Maya. They’re one of my ten favourite civilizations of all time. Obviously, you’d have the Greeks and the Romans. I think most people would have them on their lists. Then there are the Egyptians and the Mongols—’

  ‘Petr!’ he shouted to cut him off. ‘Did you hear what I said? I’m actually in Mexico right now, and I need some information about the Maya. Time is not my friend.’

  Ulster, who was familiar with Payne’s military background, lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Are you on a mission?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Ulster stomped his foot and whooped with glee. Regrettably, it wasn’t the smartest thing to do while standing in a puddle. The force of his stomp shot water in every direction like a cannonball in a community pool. ‘Oh goodness. I shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘Done what? Petr, are you all right?’

  ‘One moment, my boy. I need to fetch a towel. I’m feeling a tad moist.’

  ‘Hold up! Were you exercising?’

  Ulster grinned as he grabbed his bathrobe from the back of the door. He was far too embarrassed to tell him what he had actually been doing. ‘Yes. Something like that.’

  Payne covered the phone and whispered to Jones. ‘You’re not going to believe this, but Petr was exercising.’

  Jones winced. ‘Are you sure you called the right Petr?’

  ‘I’m positive. He just tried to tell me his top-ten civilizations of all time.’

  Jones laughed. ‘Yep. That’s the right Petr.’

  Freshly wrapped in a designer robe, Ulster grabbed the phone and collapsed into his favourite chair. It was tucked a
way in the corner of his master bedroom. ‘There we go. Much better. Sorry for the delay. The walls and floors are literally dripping because of me.’

  ‘Don’t overdo it, Petr. You need to ease into your workouts.’

  Feeling guilty about the deception, Ulster changed the topic. ‘Enough of that. Let’s focus on you. What are you doing in Mexico?’

  ‘DJ and I are helping a friend. Do you remember Maria Pelati?’

  ‘Of course I remember Maria. She spent several weeks here after the fire, doing research and pitching in. What a lovely girl.’ Ulster paused in thought. ‘Wait a moment! Are David and Maria together again? They were such a cute couple. Their babies would be adorable!’

  Payne nearly gagged. ‘Petr, how about we make a deal? I’ll stop asking you questions about your workouts, and you stop mentioning things like that.’

  Ulster laughed. ‘That sounds fair to me.’

  ‘Anyway, as I was saying, we’re here to help Maria. She was hired by a team of historians who are looking for a Mayan treasure, and most of the information is over her head.’

  ‘I bet it is. Not to be rude, but why would they hire Maria? That doesn’t make any sense. Her specialty is Christianity, not Mesoamerican cultures.’

  Jesus, Payne thought, am I the only one who didn’t know that?

  ‘Apparently, this has something to do with a bishop named Diego de Landa. I guess they thought her background would be useful regarding him.’

  ‘Diego de Landa,’ he repeated with venom. ‘You know how I feel about violence, but that’s a man I wish you’d had a crack at. Actually, calling him a man is an insult to men everywhere. That, um, bishop was the devil incarnate.’

  Payne smiled. In all their time together, he had never heard Ulster curse. ‘For a moment there, I thought you were going to say “bastard”.’

  ‘For a moment there, I was tempted. But in the end, decorum won out.’

  ‘Anyway, the team leader gave Maria a document to translate. It describes a treasure and several other things she isn’t familiar with. We were hoping you could fill us in.’