Death Mask

by Alex Archer

  Roux crouched down, covering his ears a moment too late for it to make any difference. His ears rang. Daylight streamed in where the window had been seconds before, and two men dressed in black stood in the opening. He had a choice to make and he had to make it fast. He let the two men raise hell and hurled himself over the railing, rolling and scrambling across the floor as the smoke and dust thickened. Chaos was his friend. He ran toward the main doors while the guards yelled behind him. By the window the men in black opened fire, shooting not to kill but to add to the confusion.

  Roux’s attorney came charging after him.

  Together, they emerged from the courtroom into the foyer. The security gates had been abandoned, guards trying desperately to help with the wounded and fallen. Roux walked straight out of the courthouse, his attorney two steps behind him.

  An unmarked van was parked at the bottom of the steps, the side panel open and waiting for them. Both men clambered inside. The doors slammed behind them, plunging them into darkness. The engine gunned, and the van peeled away from the curbside.

  “This is it, old man, quits,” the attorney said. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re even now. Agreed?”

  “I’m not sure it’ll ever be even, my friend. But for now, if there’s a debt, I think it’s from me to you. I expect you to call it in at some point. I’m grateful.”

  “Whatever you say,” his companion said.

  For the next minute they sat in silence, the van slowing, stopping, accelerating with the traffic lights, turning quickly through the city streets. They could hear sirens seemingly in every direction, but the driver didn’t increase his speed. There was no need to. It would be a while before the law-enforcement guys coordinated resources and even figured out what kind of vehicle they were looking for. Right now, he doubted they even realized he was gone. The courthouse had been transformed into a bloody war zone in a matter of seconds, and those two gunmen had made it seem like a terror attack. It would take considerably longer for anyone to find out his attorney wasn’t qualified to do much except blow things up.

  The man held out a hand and Roux reached out to shake it, before seeing he was being offered his watch, wallet and phone.

  “I thought you might want these.”

  “I owe you.”

  “You do. I’ll send you the bill.”

  It wasn’t easy to hold back the smile. Roux returned his wallet to his jacket pocket and slipped the watch back onto his wrist. The timepiece held sentimental value. It had been a gift from the inventor of the seconds chronograph, Nicolas Mathieu Rieussec, watchmaker to the king of France, what felt like a long, long time ago. He hadn’t felt dressed without it. He was glad to have it back. Roux turned the phone on and waited for it to connect to the network.

  He needed to get out of the city—and ideally, the country—as quickly as possible, but right now he was at the mercy of the man who had extricated him from that courtroom drama. Roux could only trust he’d thought of everything.

  The van kept turning left, left and left, and Roux could sense they were climbing an incline. Not mountains, he realized. A high-rise parking lot. They came to a halt. He heard the driver’s-side door open and close. A hand thumped on the side of the van before the doors were flung open to let in the light and a familiar, unmistakable, sound.

  The driver held a hand out to help him out of the van.

  “We ready to roll?”

  Roux stepped out into the light, appreciating his man’s thoroughness. A helicopter waited for him, blades turning slowly in readiness. All things considered, he couldn’t have hoped for much more. “All set,” Roux said.

  “Then we’ll leave you to it. Good luck.”

  Even before he was in the air, the white van had started its descent toward street level.

  By the end of the day it would be resprayed, fitted with new plates or burned somewhere out of town. Either-or, didn’t matter. There would be no evidence left to tie him to the van or the bombing. That was what did matter.

  “Where to, boss?” the pilot asked as the helicopter rose steadily into the air.

  “As far away from here as possible. I need to make a call, so don’t go too high. Don’t want to risk losing cell reception.” The phone displayed four bars. That was more than enough. It didn’t seem to be the wisest course of action to call someone in the police when he was on the run from them, but he’d never been one for playing it safe. There was someone in Europol he needed to talk to. She answered on the second ring.

  “Roux? It’s been a while.”

  “Too long, Elise.”

  “Are you in town?”

  “Alas, no. I’m not even in the same country.”

  “That’s a shame,” she said. “For a minute I thought you were going to try to make it up to me.” He didn’t need to ask what he was supposed to be making amends for. No doubt she’d written him up on her list of heartbreakers.

  “Next time,” he promised.

  “So if it’s not my body you want me for, it’s got to be my connections.”

  She knew him too well.

  “The Brotherhood of the Burning, what can you tell me about them?”

  He heard a sharp intake of breath down the long-distance line. “Nasty, racist bunch, Spanish neo-Fascists, anti-Muslim, anti-Jewish. Until a couple years ago, they were contained within two or three cities, but their influence is starting to spread. They’re attracting the worst elements of society, giving them something to focus their anger on.”

  “And the name? Mean anything?”

  “Most certainly does. They identify with the Spanish Inquisition like it’s something to be proud of. They think that the Jews and the Muslims should be driven out of their country or, better still, burned alive.”

  Roux said nothing for a moment. He should have seen the connection himself; it had been staring him in the face. But for some reason, he hadn’t joined the dots. “So they’re interested in some kind of ethnic cleansing?”

  “That’s all that most of them are interested in, yes. It’s what attracts most of their membership to the cause.”

  “Most? But not all of them? What motivates the rest, any ideas?” He knew she was holding back on something, a piece of the jigsaw that he still wasn’t seeing.

  “There are a few who are just as interested in the Inquisition itself as they are in the violence.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got a watch list? Names? Something that might give me somewhere to start?”

  “You really are pushing your luck, aren’t you, sweetheart? Is there something you should be telling me?”

  “I would if I could.”

  “Everything I’ve told you so far has come off the top of my head. If you want more than that, I’m going to have to go into the system. Going into the system is going to leave a trail. So I’d want to know what I’m getting myself into.”

  “I’m sorry, Elise. Really. But I can’t say.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  “Quite.”

  “There’s a guy who seems to be one of those who calls the shots. We’ve never been able to pin anything on him, but he’s guilty. We know that absolutely. The guy is scum. Dangerous scum.”

  “Who?”

  “His name is Enrique Martínez.”

  “Okay. Martínez. Got it. Last known whereabouts?”

  “He’s not an easy man to keep tabs on, but there’s no report of him having left the country, so he should be there somewhere.”

  “Thanks,” Roux said. “I owe you.”

  “Yes, you do,” she said. “And I won’t let you forget about it.”

  She gave the briefest of goodbyes, then hung up.

  He had another call to make.

  The pilot kept looking across at him, waiting for instructions. He still didn�
��t have a destination. “Don’t worry, whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it, just keep circling the city for now.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  He called up another number and listened to it ring.

  “Hey, Roux,” Oscar said, picking up.

  “What have you got for me?” No small talk.

  “Well, I’m not sure I’ve got anything... It’s a dead zone. Nothing from any scans, no infrared, nothing.”

  “Then maybe that’s our boy. Where?”

  “The Alhambra.”

  He repeated the name to the pilot, who adjusted his heading, banking low over the rooftops of the city before speeding away.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not a lot. I’ve got a list of the places around the world where the feed was being rerouted, but that’s not important. I’m still looking for the source.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Roux said. “A favor.”

  “Another one?” The hacker laughed.

  “I need you to find out whatever you can about an outfit called the Brotherhood of the Burning.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  Roux filled him in, realizing how little he actually knew about them. With luck, Oscar would be able to dig up a lot more.

  “Sounds like a fun little club,” the man said.

  “I’ve got a name, too,” Roux said. “Enrique Martínez. It might be nothing, but maybe it’s a case of find him, find the source of the signal.”

  “Leave it with me.”

  Roux hung up and pressed himself back into his seat, content to take in the view for a few hours.

  Next stop, the Alhambra.

  13

  14:45—Valladolid

  Annja clutched the oilskin-wrapped book as she reemerged into the chapel.

  The panel had remained tantalizingly open while she’d undertaken the search for secrets beneath its ancient protection. She pushed it back into place now and used the key to lock it. Within a few seconds, it was as though she’d never been there. The only difference between the old chapel an hour ago and now was that there was nothing she could do to disguise the keyhole. Someone would discover it, sooner rather than later, but now there was nothing remarkable down there waiting to be found, save for a statue of the Savior.

  By that time, though, she would be long gone.

  In the meantime, she didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to herself.

  She dusted herself down, brushing away dirt and cobwebs, before making her way back into the body of the great church.

  The cleric who had been standing near the roped-off entrance to the crypt gave her the briefest of glances, without seeming to register the book in her hand. He offered her a slight smile. Annja inclined her head in acknowledgment. It was a dance of silent communication. Anything else would have been memorable, but a smile and a nod between strangers? Was there anything more everyday than that?

  A child who had escaped from her mother and grandmother tested the acoustics of the great ceiling by squealing with laughter. It drew every eye in the place to her and was more than enough of a distraction for the priest, who sent the mother a disapproving look that suggested a dozen Hail Marys wouldn’t square it away with the Boss.

  Annja left them to it.

  Outside, in the sunlight, she breathed deeply, sucking in the air and relishing its freshness. Ticktock. Ticktock. She wanted a look at the book in the light, so she set it down on the bike’s seat and unwrapped it. It truly was a thing of exquisite beauty. A real treasure. But she didn’t know how to decode its secrets. She fished out her phone. It was time she touched base with Roux.

  “Where are you?” Roux asked.

  “Valladolid,” Annja said.

  “What have you got?”

  “A book. A ledger, actually. I found it in a chamber behind a Morisco mosaic in the church. The key opened the way.”

  “A ledger?”

  “I’m convinced that it’s a record of confiscated wealth.”

  “Interesting. And it would make sense,” Roux said. “If I were a gambling man, I’d say it was a pointer toward the Alhambra. Or rather another one.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “That video file you were sent seems to be streaming from there.”

  “You think Garin is there?”

  “It’s possible, but at the very least, the people I suspect are behind his kidnapping are located there.”

  “You’ve made inroads?”

  “Butted heads might be closer to the truth. They call themselves the Brotherhood of the Burning. The police think they’re a bunch of dangerous racists, while Europol suspect they’re more extreme than that. Given my run-in with them, I’m inclined to side with Europol on this one. They draw some kind of inspiration from the Inquisition. It’s all about religious and racial purity, keeping Spain for the Spanish and all that. No Jews or Muslims allowed.”

  “Sound like a charming bunch.”

  “Indeed. Thankfully, they’re arrogant enough to ink themselves with their precious gang tattoo. Keep your eyes peeled for anyone with a tattoo of flames on the back of their hand.”

  “Roger that. And you think these are the people who have Garin.”

  “I’m not at the point of staking my life on it, but I’d risk Garin’s.” She heard the grin in the old man’s voice.

  “Well, that almost sounds positive,” Annja said, trying to work out how far away she was and how long a journey to the Alhambra was likely to be. Time was being eaten up quickly, and running from one end of the country to the other wasn’t an option. Or at least not a good one. “So what makes you think the ledger is pointing that way, too?”

  “The Alhambra was one of the last strongholds of the Moors in Spain, and yet, curiously, it was given up without the fortress and palace coming under attack. The last Moorish sultan of Granada was driven out in 1492, so we are talking about the right kind of date again. How much of the sultan’s wealth remained when his family fled is impossible to say,” Roux continued, “but if the Inquisition were holding on to some Moorish treasures, then his would have been their greatest cache. Much of his palace was vandalized, of course, rubbing defeat in his face. Another case of destruction in the name of religion. It may lead us to the mask. It may not. If I’m wrong and it doesn’t, but Garin is there, then finding the mask is no longer imperative.”

  It was logical, of course. Annja felt a pang of guilt. For a moment, she’d completely forgotten that Garin was the reason they had been caught up in this. In her head, finding the Mask of Torquemada had started to become an end in itself. But now, reminded of its position in the scheme of things, she was painfully reminded of the stakes.

  “Okay, let’s think about this. Is there anything that links this Brotherhood of the Burning to the Alhambra?” she asked.

  “As I said, some of their leadership appears to be obsessed with the Inquisition. Remember more Moors were executed at the Alhambra than at any other single place.”

  “Which would make it interesting in and of itself to people like that. Especially if they were looking to re-create something like the Inquisition. Where better to stage a modern-day auto-da-fé?”

  “Now you’re using your head, girl,” Roux said approvingly.

  “It will take me a few hours to get there,” Annja said.

  “I can be there sooner. Be sure you’ve explored absolutely every avenue there before you head south. We don’t have time to turn back once we’re committed to a course of action.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ll call you if I find anything that points to a different destination.”

  Annja slipped the phone back into her pocket as a car drove past. The turbulent air turned over a couple of the ledger’s pages. The script seemed
to dance as the pages moved. She spotted something she hadn’t noticed before. Nine or ten pages of entries clearly related to wealthy men, and the list of items beneath each name was long and detailed, some going over more than one page. She carefully counted the number of people this covered. Six men. Even though she had no idea what the items meant, there was no doubt that each of the six had been worth a substantial amount. It wasn’t the wealth that drew her attention, though, but rather the fact that all six men came from the same place: Calahorra.

  Now she had a decision to make. Roux had basically said to leave no stone unturned, but even a few minutes’ delay could be the minutes that cost Garin his life. Was Calahorra the answer or just another question? She needed to consider and reassess. That was better than charging on blindly, hoping she was going to miraculously find the answers she needed. Roux was going to get to the Alhambra long before she would. If it was a bust, they were both in the same place, whether she was with him or not. If all he found there was another clue that pointed elsewhere, then it was better she was mobile.

  She looked at the list of names again.

  One entry stood out from the others: Abdul bin Soor. There were far fewer entries beneath his name than the other five. The three words that sent a shiver up her spine were printed beneath his name: Faber Argentarius Persona. The first two were words she had come across before, meaning silversmith. The third stumped her for a moment, but then her pulse sped up as she realized that it referred to a mask, not the modern-day persona. Surely that meant she’d found the man who had made Torquemada’s mask.

  In the absence of anything else, it was always a good move to follow the money.

  Or in this case, the silver.

  There was nothing to say she’d find any record of Abdul bin Soor outside of the ledger, but that didn’t matter; this felt like the first bit of proof of the mask’s existence, and it was linked to a physical place. Calahorra.