It’s here, Fernando. I finally found it.
*
Standing less than ten metres away, Eduardo was speechless. He knew the moment his uncle had left the underground chamber that something had changed about him. Over the years, he had learned to read the signs, when not to ask too many questions.
There were things that would never be disclosed to the Americans.
Visually, the statue was like others he had seen above ground, but there was something about the way the sculptor had caught the eyes that was particularly alluring. It was the expression of a great leader, one of rare quality.
He kept his distance as his uncle bowed to his knees, his heart flying on wings of joy.
Eventually Juan rose to his feet, daring to approach it. The source of illumination was small by comparison, shining like a lantern from the statue’s hand.
Eduardo watched Juan remove it from the cold, strong fingers and gaze at it for what seemed an eternity.
Mérida, 8 p.m.
The car pulled up in the same place as two days before. Nobody paid any particular attention to its arrival. The city of Mérida was renowned for its fascination for tourists, particularly the Roman sites.
It was the final hour of sunlight, a time popular for sightseeing. The temple ruins were always a favourite with visitors. Unlike the museums, there was no admission charge. The majority who came did so only for a brief stay, a chance for a few holiday snaps before an evening of tapas or a quiet night back at the hotel. It was cooler at night, the light photogenic. If a car should pull up close to the square, its inhabitants step out, a random passer-by would assume the same as always.
Just another sightseer checking out a sight loved by tourists.
By the time the maroon four-by-four pulled up on the south side of the square, most of the day trippers had already gone, the local tapas bar deserted. The locals, on the other hand, were already home. A soft evening breeze was blowing through the upper-storey windows and balconies. There was a calm quietness about the street, familiar for those who knew it well. Should a stranger pass by, unaccustomed to the way of life, they would most likely accept the peacefulness as part of its charm. It was something Maria had always loved about the place.
Tonight she needed its soothing calm.
As the two sisters walked casually along the street, their true feelings masked by a strong façade of calm, there was little evidence that their arrival had caused any great attention. The same impression was given when they stopped outside one of the houses, entering casually. When they emerged again less than thirty minutes later, their appearances had changed and the light had faded further still, the early glow of nearby streetlights replacing the dying sun.
Nobody saw them leave, nor paid attention as the recently parked four-by-four joined the main road and merged into the evening traffic.
*
The last thing Ben had intended to do was to return to Cabañas del Castillo. The journey to the mine had taken two hours; he had already booked two flights from Madrid.
Much had changed since.
It was late evening by the time he pulled up in the car park. He parked in the same place. A cool shadow passed over the unmarked bay from the outline of Cortés’s balcony.
Strangely, there were no lights shining from the room.
He entered and saw the manageress sipping a coffee in the old living room. She smiled at Ben, surprised to see him.
“Hey again,” Ben said, knowing she was fluent in English, “I need to speak to Mr Cortés.”
The woman appeared confused. “Señor Cortés check out. He leave just after you.”
Ben bit his lip, surprised. “He did?”
“Yes. He left saying he was fully refreshed and had urgent business to attend to.”
Chris emerged in the doorway, his face confirming his worst fears. “The helicopter isn’t there.”
The woman passed him a small sheet of paper. “He left this in case you return.”
*
They took the room they had earlier vacated; it was too late for any alternative. Ben looked out over the scenery from the balcony, the full moon casting an ethereal glow across the dehesa.
The note had been written in Cortés’s handwriting, the words in English. The message was cryptic, though spoken in plain words:
A blank wall is a fool’s writing paper.
Ignoring Chris’s offer of a coffee, he crushed the note into a ball and threw it across the room, narrowly missing the bin.
In the distance, the sounds of nature echoed across the wilderness, an unseen cry to an unseen predator. He leaned against the balcony, his warm hands gripping the metal bars, his thoughts focused on the meaningless words. As he did so, thoughts of TF also entered his mind, the gold that never was. TF had already summed it up perfectly, a portent and prediction from beyond the grave. Regardless of the time and place, history repeated itself.
The moving finger had written. And having writ moved on!
*
Colts leaned back in the padded office chair in his study and smiled an uncontrollable smile. It was the smile of a man who had exhausted every possibility, only to discover the solution had been staring him in the face the whole time.
What an idiot I have been!
Gazing at the picture over half a metre in width on the wall beside the large bay window, he thought back to that bygone time when his thoughts about the world had been different. Somehow it seemed almost inevitable the memory of the site would return to haunt him. Over thirty years had passed, yet the images remained clear. The mission had been deadly, far too dangerous for one man. He had seen death. Learned to live with the consequences.
Only an idiot would return.
Swivelling in his chair, he glanced to his right at the photograph on the wall. He was a younger man back then, a complete idiot. The man alongside him had been wiser, albeit not wise enough. He remembered the words he had said before their arrival. Only an idiot would return.
Smiling, he rose to his feet and headed for the telephone.
*
Cortés concentrated on his feet as he walked the causeway that led into the heart of the model room. The ground beneath him was wet from the mini wave effect that his ancestor had artificially created to match the ebb and flow of Lake Texcoco.
He continued on the same route till reaching the Templo Mayor, his attention taken by the Temple of Quetzalcoatl. Even after all these years, he loved the way the architecture of the spire perfectly replicated the drawings brought back by those who had seen it first-hand.
Heading for the spire, he knelt down by the broken wall, silently recalling the moment when he had seen Ben’s cousin remove the stone. Feeling the broken panel, he crouched down and removed his backpack, unzipping the main part. He searched the interior for the five stones and removed the one that Chris and Valeria had taken.
Instead of replacing it in the same area, he moved to the base of the shrine and made out a small alcove.
He lined up the stone and clicked it into place.
The stairway detached as if it were a moving escalator. Cortés moved to one side as the floor beneath him opened up to allow the stairway to descend, revealing a previously unseen passage into the ground below. Switching on his torch, he took the first step and continued until the floor flattened, where the light inexplicably improved.
The layout was very similar to that of the higher level, the differences slight and subtle. The decorations were primarily green and brown, replicating jungle life from the distant past. Encased in the dense greenery was evidence of stonework, easily recognisable as ruined walls of a former palace or temple.
Lining them on every side was more gold than he had ever seen in the real world.
For Juan, the sights possessed no mystery. At the heart of the chamber, a large stone altar overlooked the floor, its flat top intercepted by five niches of varying shapes and sizes. Whilst four of the five were empty, a solitary green glow shone from the fi
fth, the symbol in the shape of a trumpet.
Smiling, Cortés opened his rucksack for a second time and pulled out an object of similar colour. Unlike the one already in place, the new item was shaped like a bell, its bright green hue reminiscent of a fine emerald.
Placing it into the groove, he looked back and smiled, his eyes reflecting the sparkling lights of the surrounding riches.
If the stories were true, only with the five stones together could the greatest of the legendary treasures finally be found.
The Cortés Revelation
John Paul Davis
Prologue
Seville Cathedral, 1904
The hooded figure moved silently along the central aisle of the nave and then stopped to ensure he was still alone. The evening mass had ended over an hour ago, yet the light of nearby candles still flickered, revealing a ghostly path between the choir and the high altar. He could hear singing in the distance, possibly from one of the side chapels, of which there were many. Though it was getting dark outside, he knew the cathedral would remain open for worship for some time yet.
He turned left prior to reaching the chancel, and right on leaving the nave to head towards the Giralda. There was a small side chapel adjacent to the cloisters on the left-hand side: a tall rectangular room with thick, bare stone walls almost completely devoid of any form of decoration. There were reliquaries kept safely behind glass opposite the doorway, liturgical objects contained in barred niches beneath the raised altar to the right, and a golden statuette of the Virgin Mary in a display case to his left. A bookcase was located in the far left corner, its contents protected by heavy oak doors with glass windows that reflected the small flame of his own candle. The curator had been true to his word, he concluded.
Locating the book would have been almost impossible without prior knowledge.
The hooded figure stopped before the bookcase and inserted the key, careful to avoid creating any unnecessary noise as he placed his gloved hand to the heavy bolt. As the doors opened, he raised his candle, allowing the dim light to illuminate the covers of the hardback tomes that, rumour had it, dated back to the days of the conquistadors. Scanning the covers, he selected one in particular: a short, brown-cased manuscript that appeared to be untitled.
He held it softly and turned to the first page.
Present day
Juan Cortés folded his arms on seeing the bookcase, knowing instantly that he had come to the right place. The bolt was stiff and reverberated loudly as it moved, the antique metal bar creating a hard snapping sound as it scraped against the wooden doors.
He counted six shelves in total; according to the curator, they housed over one hundred books, most of which dated from the 1500s. If the information he had was correct, the most important would be found on the bottom shelf, tucked away in the right corner.
Logically, it had no reason to have been placed there.
The doors opened outwards, the hinges creaking. A strong smell of paper and leather escaped from the airless seal. Juan moved to one side as the suited grey-haired curator stepped forward, examining the hardback covers with an air of authority. It was bright in the chapel, despite the late hour; the strong glare of lights in the nearby nave a clear reminder that evening mass was imminent. There were voices in the distance, soft and angelic.
The curator had already informed him that choir practice usually took place before mass.
Cortés waited patiently as the curator studied the titles, finally removing something from the bottom shelf. It was smaller than the majority, brown-cased and torn along the spine.
Unlike the others, the cover was bare with no sign of a title.
The curator took a moment to clean the exterior before examining the early pages. Reading over his shoulder, Cortés saw that the text was handwritten, illegible to his untrained eye. Whatever language it had been written in, it clearly wasn’t Spanish.
He waited in silence until the academic finished his preliminary checks. “Well?”
The curator closed the book and eyed him seriously. “It appears you might have been correct after all.”
*
The tomb was located in the nave, close to the west door. Unlike the one that supposedly contained the remains of the man’s father, there were no grand effigies of armoured figures holding the coffin; instead, a solitary bronze slab intercepted the main floor, the figure’s identity confirmed by a lengthy epitaph that included the family coat of arms. In addition to the writing, the upper portion of the slab was engraved with an image of two Portuguese carracks situated either side of a medieval castle.
As the descendant of a great sailor, Juan knew he was looking at the tomb of a man whose legacy was connected with the sea.
The mass had ended over thirty minutes earlier, the last lingering members of the clergy and congregation had now, finally, departed. The curator double-checked that the cathedral was empty before he gave the go-ahead for work to begin.
Two burly men emerged from the cloisters, carrying two shovels and wheeling in a high-powered drill. Juan stood aside as he watched them put the drill in place, lined up with the top-right corner of the tomb.
“Careful.” The curator scrutinised their every move with studied and concerned attention. “The slab is over four hundred years old. It is irreplaceable.”
Silently Juan concurred. Despite the potential significance of what lay beneath, the last thing he wanted was for something of historical importance to be damaged or destroyed. He retreated from the tomb as the bit of the high-speed drill began to penetrate the stone casing, causing debris to fly across the floor. After almost a minute of intense waiting, Juan watched with a sense of relief as the slab came safely free.
The curator nodded at Juan. “Turn on the lights.”
Cortés picked up the two nearby halogen lamps and held them over the grave. The feeling of anticipation was now at fever pitch; even compared to his experiences of recent days, he could barely contain his excitement. Breathing in deeply, he peered into the grave expectantly. The air was predictably foul, the pervading debris causing a choking sensation at the back of his throat. Thick layers of dust, suspended in the light, restricted his view to no more than a few feet. As the dust settled, features slowly began to take shape.
Through the remaining mist, he made out a deep, rectangular void.
Cortés’s eyes narrowed. “I do not understand. Where is the coffin?”
The curator folded his arms and put his right hand through his long, distinguished grey hair. Over sixteen years as the curator of the world’s largest cathedral, he had acquired an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of its history.
Yet today he was learning something new.
He looked at Juan with a serious expression. “It appears somebody has beaten us to it.”
Juan knelt down close to the edge. The impact of the drill had been perfect, creating four straight lines around the verge that felt smooth to his fingers. Lowering one of the lamps further into the void, he saw that the hole continued to a depth of six feet, indicating that a coffin had once been buried there. At the far end, he noticed there was padding and evidence of reshaping work, possibly to insert a small square box.
Whatever had once been located there had since vanished.
He rose to his feet and nodded at the curator. “Thank you. Make sure no word of this gets out.”
1
St Lide’s, 12 April 1905
The cave had a wild and windy feel about it that after three hours was beginning to make him feel sick. It was dark inside; any glimpse of daylight was restricted by the layout of the surrounding walls. The air was foul but, in a strange way, made worse because of the darkness. Since the moment of his arrival, the explorer’s senses had been constantly plagued by the stench of sediment; the same wet yet crusty material felt dirty on his hands as he gripped the wooden bow of his schooner. The excessive quantities of silt were starting to become a problem.
He feared one poorly planned manoeuvr
e would cause the boat to become grounded in it.
TF Maloney stared at the view in front of him, trying to make sense of what he saw. The light of three large lanterns bounced off the nearby walls like small stars from across the bow. The decorations they illuminated were strange; he had seen similar things many times before, but never in Britain. The symbols reminded him of his experience that first day on the island: exploring the deserted graveyard and the discovery of its peculiar headstones. The markings he saw now seemed older and more mysterious. They were the writings of an old language – one he had learned to read as if it were his mother tongue. Together they told a unique, and inexplicably vivid, story.
Never before had he believed such things to be possible.
He removed his diary from his overcoat pocket and attempted to copy down what he saw. In total he counted fifty-two symbols; even from a distance, he was able to read them clearly. After three weeks of searching, he was satisfied.
The final piece of the puzzle had at last been solved.
New light appeared suddenly in the distance. He squinted as the yellow hue shone brightly from beyond the stern, prompting him to raise his arm in defence. As his eyes adjusted, he made out the outline of a second, smaller boat: wooden, compact but sturdy, not unlike his own. A figure of ample girth stood alone at the helm; he called out to him, receiving no response. As the seconds passed, the boat came nearer, not stopping until the two vessels were practically touching.
Calling out again, there was still no response.
Cautiously, TF moved to the port side, guided by the new lights. For the first time he was able to make out features: the boat was also a schooner, privately owned – the name the George hung from just below the bow. The helmsman was gruff and bearded, his rugged body protected by a large overcoat that he recognised from his time on the island.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 64