The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  “Who?”

  Juan slapped him hard across the cheek. “Don’t do this, Javi.”

  “I swear I do not know.”

  Cortés slammed his face against the arm of the couch, the impact causing further blood to spurt around his mouth and nose. “Javi?”

  “She’s gone. I swear I haven’t seen her.”

  “Lie.”

  “No, I swear I haven’t seen her since she leave.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She leave.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. She just leave.”

  “Javi.”

  Keeping his distance, Ben watched, quietly surprised, as the previously unwelcoming host now stuttered like a coward. Dark cherry blotches blemished his face, sticking messily to his facial hair. As he opened his mouth, Ben saw more blood around his teeth, his choking cough indicating more was pooling in the back of his throat.

  Cortés loosened his grip on the young man and allowed him to catch his breath. Ben and Danny moved to one side, avoiding being hit by blood-soaked phlegm as it flew from his mouth.

  “Speak.”

  The man spoke breathlessly. “She leave. She gone.”

  “Where?”

  “I do not know.”

  Cortés grabbed his T-shirt and pulled him into the air. He carried him to the nearest window and dangled him precariously over the edge. “Fail to answer honestly and you give me no choice but to hurt you.”

  The man’s face blazed with alarm. “I already tell you the truth. I swear I would not lie.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Two months ago.”

  “Why?”

  “She not say.”

  “Why did she leave?” Juan pressed.

  “She tell me it was over.”

  “Why?”

  The man was desperate. “I don’t know; she tell me she needed her space.”

  Ben raised an eyebrow, unsurprised. Observing the apartment from the couch, he made out a dingy kitchen with washing-up still to be done, and a washing machine that was presently unplugged. An inch-wide gap in the door to the bathroom revealed little more than a badly tiled wall decoration surrounding a white tub bathed in sunlight.

  It didn’t take a genius to see why a woman would be unhappy there.

  “You swear you have not seen her since?”

  “No, she go.”

  “What about the club?”

  “She leave. She leave town.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She just leave; I have not seen her.”

  “Why do you protect her?”

  “She did not say, I swear.”

  Cortés pushed his head against the window frame, the man’s constant whimpering drowned out by the noise of distant traffic. Cortés held him down so hard that Ben saw the wooden frame begin to grind against the stranger’s face.

  “Ah, ah, Mérida, Mérida. She return home.”

  Cortés released him and headed immediately for the door, picking up his bag as he left.

  “Come, let us leave our host in peace.”

  *

  “What the hell happened back there?” Ben asked once the bank concierge had safely showed them inside the same lift in which they had descended less than an hour earlier.

  Cortés had refused to talk inside the taxi, choosing instead to pass the time in quiet contemplation. “The man you just met was Javi Grimaldo.” He paused as though ready to vomit. “A most useful man.”

  “It didn’t seem that way at the time,” Danny said.

  “No, if anything, you seemed displeased to see him,” Ben agreed. “Who was he?”

  “The man you saw is the sweetheart of the slimy eel’s younger sister. Or at least he was formerly so.”

  Ben raised an eyebrow. “Valeria has a sister.”

  “Her name’s Maria,” Danny confirmed. “She came to visit her a few years ago. She worked as a dancer in Madrid after her marriage broke up.”

  Cortés nodded. “Your friend is correct. Valeria has an exact double.”

  Ben paused for thought; it was unclear from his words whether he meant attitude or looks. “An exact double?”

  Cortés was contemptuous. “If you are serious about finding your cousin, I suggest you keep your mind focused on the here and now, not what’s down below.” He grabbed softly at Ben’s injured thigh and moved so close their faces were almost touching. “The sisters are cunning – as are all from the line of the former emperor. No man should be so reckless as to trust either of them.”

  “Why are you looking for her?”

  “The woman has her uses, perhaps for us both. Valeria has a seven-hour head start on us. You say she was heading for Brittany; by now she could be anywhere.”

  Ben was fuming. “I thought you said there was only one place she could possibly go. Somewhere near Mérida.”

  “Destination, yes. However, the route she takes to get there will be anything but straightforward. When the original riches of the Americas were hidden from the unworthy diplomats, obstacles were put down along the way. It was a necessary precaution to ensure things that might otherwise be found remained hidden. Keeping them away from the undeserving.”

  “Undeserving. Unworthy diplomats. It’s all just one great fantasy to you, isn’t it? What does she need that prevents her from returning straightaway?”

  The lift door opened and Cortés eyed the helicopter, pleased to find it ready for take-off. He patted the side of his bag with the palm of his hand.

  “This!”

  22

  Mérida, 8 p.m.

  Chris was alone in one of the bedrooms when Valeria returned. With the ladies of the house out, he had chosen the only room he came across that wasn’t feminine in decoration.

  There were three bedrooms in total; the first two, though rich in trinkets and keepsakes that were possibly great in sentimental value, looked tired and run-down, the largest clearly in use. His room was on the south side and felt more modern. Exactly who owned the house was unclear to him.

  Valeria referred to it only as the family home.

  Chris heard a knock at the door and saw Valeria standing in the doorway. “How are you?”

  “Good.” He forced a smile. “I figured this was probably my room.”

  She smiled as she entered. “This house has changed so much since I was young.” She walked around the double bed and past the wardrobes. Unlike the other bedrooms, the walls were clean and smelled of fresh paint. “When I was very young, there were fewer houses outside this window. On a clear day I could see all the way to the mountains.”

  She sat down tentatively on the edge of the bed and cleared her throat. She seemed more nervous than Chris was used to.

  “There is something important we need to discuss.” She took Chris by the hand and moved closer to him. “Something delicate.”

  Chris took a deep breath as he felt her long fingers run delicately along his hand, the sensation causing his heart rate to quicken. “Look, if this is about Ben . . .”

  “No,” she moved away, hesitating. “Ever since I was a child, the man who bears the name of the great conquistador has stalked my family like a shadow. Should he have had his way, I and the rest of my family would no longer be alive.”

  Chris wetted his lips and bit down firmly. “He killed Ben?”

  “You should not torture yourself thinking such things. He is dead now. Along with his friends.” Again she hesitated. “There is a castle not far from here. When Hernán Cortés returned from the New World, he was able to afford great things; before he left he was very poor, like all in the village.”

  She edged closer again, looking at him. “There is a great favour I must ask of you.”

  Chris watched her quietly, savouring the touch of her soft skin on his. As he looked her over, he remembered the first time he had seen her, a pretty waitress emerging from the kitchen in a white blouse and black skirt, her hands full with mugs of hot coffee. She had smi
led at him then as she did now, her bright lips soft and poised. He focused on them, found comfort in them. He knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do.

  “What is it?”

  *

  The journey took less than an hour. Valeria had arranged to borrow the owner’s car and drove east through the expansive countryside.

  It was getting dark on the roads; the smooth tarmac of the N-430 glowed in the familiar brightness of the oncoming headlights. Tall bushes and trees partitioned the road regularly on both sides, shielding the landscape from view. Unlike the journey Chris had anticipated, a drive into nature with endless woodland and grasslands, he saw little beyond the headlights that illuminated short stretches of the road and shrubbery. After thirty minutes of monotony, he saw a collection of lights in the distance, the only lights.

  The road clearly had only one possible destination.

  The village was smaller than Chris had expected. From a distance, the buildings reminded him of the mountain towns of South America, where even the most modern construction could look thirty years out of date. On entering the village, Valeria negotiated a series of narrow streets that led to the main square, empty at this time, where a combination of patterned stonework and well-maintained hedging surrounded an imposing statue of an historical figure dressed in military garb. Even before Valeria pointed it out, Chris knew precisely what he was looking at. For the first time since leaving America, he felt he understood a little of the great Hernán Cortés. The village was a conundrum: a picturesque hive of little prominence, but great significance. There was a longstanding supposition in history that a great explorer only leaves home because he has nothing to leave behind. Despite its beauty, the village fitted that mould. The sights, even five centuries later, were largely forgettable. He sighed as grim reality dawned.

  He had entered a village whose only claim to fame was that famous people had left it.

  Even from a distance, the castle had been impossible to miss. Like most of its type, large stone walls had been constructed to keep outsiders out. The entrance was grand and ornately Spanish. Close to the walls, work was in progress and would remain so. According to Valeria, it had been so throughout history. Where once upon a time a man named Cortés had lived, today lived another of the same name.

  Following in the footsteps.

  23

  Mérida from Madrid was approximately 350km by road, over three hours even in light traffic.

  Ben was grateful the journey had been by helicopter.

  Valeria had a sister; Ben couldn’t erase the thought from his mind. The only other family member of hers he had met so far was her grandmother, the knife-wielding maniac who only three days earlier had posed a significant threat to his safety. Physically, the resemblance was undeniable, the silver hair and suspicious eyes providing a stark reminder that looks don’t last forever. He wondered what her sister looked like, whether she really was an exact double. Danny’s descriptions were vague, but enough to stimulate his imagination. Cortés wasn’t in the mood for talking.

  Ben decided not to ask questions.

  The helicopter landed among the deserted grasslands that bordered the city. A car was waiting for them, parked off road, its driver a forty-something man with greasy brown hair and dressed as though he were ready for golf. Cortés shook the man’s hand and embraced him as they met, the spirit of their conversation confirming to Ben the pair were well known to one another. A second man took over the helicopter; Ben sensed from the facial similarities that they were all related.

  Again Cortés didn’t elaborate.

  The car was an inauspicious black hatchback. Ben sat in the back alongside Danny, the smell of leather upholstery creating an unappealing mix with the driver’s strong scent and tendency to smoke. As the vehicle sped west along the quiet E-903, he looked silently out at the passing landscape. After ten minutes of gazing across barren fields, signs of civilisation became more apparent. Grand villa-like houses flanked the road on both sides, their driveways littered with bulldozers and unopened bags of cement, confirming the area was undergoing major construction. Seeing the sights for himself, Ben realised his ignorance had left him unprepared for what awaited him; unlike the run-down streets of the Mexican town of the same name, the Extremaduran capital was a tourist’s paradise. A sea of white houses spanned the horizon, topped off with soft shades of orange.

  A postcard view of a near-perfect metropolis under the shadow of distant mountains.

  Eight p.m. had already passed by the time they entered the city. Though the sun was still up, its dying rays flickering beyond the distant hills, the city basked in the glow of soft street lighting. As the unnamed driver gave them the tour, infrequently explaining the sights in broken English, Ben saw a large area of greenery surrounding what appeared to be a Roman amphitheatre, its pathways frequented by carefree locals taking the night air. The driver parked on the left side of the road and spoke enthusiastically to Cortés.

  He saw Cortés pass him a handful of euros before opening the door.

  Ben left the car slowly, allowing his body a moment to readjust to the evening heat. The thermostat in the car confirmed the outside temperature was twenty-seven degrees, far higher than the air-conditioned car.

  Cortés led the way into an elegant building with low archways, its style clearly inspired by the area’s Moorish past. The hotel was located off the main square, with views of the Roman ruins.

  Suddenly Ben was living his dream holiday.

  “Come. We will rest here a while.”

  *

  Twenty minutes later, Ben found Cortés sitting alone in the bar, enjoying a pitcher of sangria. The barman smiled at Ben as he took a seat on a vacant barstool.

  Ben ordered a San Miguel and looked around.

  The bar area was quaint but deserted. A closed set of double doors led out on to a private veranda, where a handful of couples were enjoying a quiet drink. A large electronic fan knocked out its rhythmic beat in the centre of a freshly painted white ceiling that complemented the walls and tiled flooring and reflected the overhead lights. The temperature was cooler than it had been outside; the air-conditioning hummed away gently, the sound partially drowned out by the gentle strums of a classical guitar from the speaker system.

  Ben sipped his beer, satisfied by his choice. “I think you need to start filling in a few gaps.” He turned to Cortés, edging the barstool closer. “What was your business in Madrid? Why are we here? Who is Valeria’s sister, and why is she important?”

  Cortés knocked back another glass of sangria and closed his eyes, either savouring the taste or recovering from it. “You seem to make a habit of asking questions that do not concern you.”

  Ben looked over his shoulder, momentarily wary of their conversation being overheard. The nearest person was a grey-haired man seated close to the open doors that led out on to the veranda. The barman had disappeared. Over the sound of the guitar, Ben could hear somebody speaking in English on the telephone; he remembered the main desk was situated less than fifteen metres from the doors.

  “All right. Be that way if you want. But as you said back in Cornwall, both of us want the same thing. If Valeria has my cousin, the only way I can find him is by finding her. Whether I work with you or alone is of no concern to me. Now I sure do appreciate the lift and all, but I ain’t sticking around another goddamn day just to follow you and do nothing.”

  Ben saw a response was not forthcoming. “If the stone from Cornwall wasn’t the Stone of Fire, what was it? I’m guessing from your reaction on seeing it, it wasn’t exactly a trinket.”

  Cortés took a deep breath, exhaling so hard it caused the hair above his fringe to move. “It’s a very long story.”

  “Well, that suits me just perfect. I assume we’re going to be here all night, so I can honestly say I have nothing better to do. You can’t seriously believe the stone to be one of the Tollan Stones?”

  “Twenty-four hours ago, you were unaware that the stones even exist
ed.” He looked at Ben, equally wary of being overheard. He lowered his voice and said, “Do not make the mistake of concerning yourself with things you know nothing about.”

  Ben continued to sip his beer, maintaining a neutral expression. Quietly, he agreed, at least in some ways. The worst mistake a person could make was to assume knowledge of a subject they knew little about.

  Particularly as the book by Díaz had proven revealing.

  “Be that as it may, I’ve been studying Mesoamerican history since I was eighteen, taught it since I was twenty-six, and during that whole time, I reckon I’ve never heard of anything like the stories you’ve been telling. Even if the city of Tollan did exist, you have no idea what you’re looking for. Assuming it’s Teotihuacán is a guess you can’t possibly hope to validate.”

  “It may surprise you to know that even the great explorers of the New World did not discover everything that was there to be found. Think of all the great things that have more lately been discovered: the sundial beneath Mexico City, the four codices, Popol Vuh.”

  “Okay, you can quit with the name-dropping,” Ben said, familiar with the various items and books. “Be that as it may, you still have two problems:

  “Firstly, as I’ve already told you, almost all of our knowledge of early Aztec history comes from scholars who had been approved by Spanish schools; everything that had existed before that time had been burned by your countrymen because it was considered heretical. The young scholars had a motive to lie; they wrote to entertain, to justify their lives to the Spanish.

  “Secondly, every place of importance that has already been discovered has also been investigated thoroughly. Even if Teotihuacán was the legendary city of Tollan, we know the name Tollan was also given to an area surrounding the Toltec city of Tula. In fact, it’s partially down to the mistakes of your countrymen that the word Tollan has even been used to describe any great capital.”