But then, as the hours passed, a curious thing happened.
And the curious thing was that nothing happened.
No execution order. No summons from her superiors. Not even a message requesting Mal to deliver a full account of the arrest and the reasons why it went awry.
She wrote a report anyway, because protocol demanded it, and she filed it with the secretary of the commissioner, and she waited for the fury and derision to rain down from above.
It didn’t that day, and it didn’t the next.
And gradually it dawned on Mal that nobody knew what to do, nobody was sure how matters stood, because there was no new chief superintendent in place yet. The chain of command had a gap in it, and communication channels between upstairs and downstairs were open but for the time being in hiatus. As in any state of interregnum, caution was the watchword. Until the position left vacant by Kellaway was filled and the status quo was restored, it was better not to make any firm decisions or put forward any radical plans of action. Better simply to coast along, keep your head down, and wait for the situation to settle.
For Mal, this was something akin to a reprieve. It was at least a stay of execution, and she resolved to make the most of it.
First thing she did was go with Aaronson to the imposing Thames-side apartment complex Reston called home, with a view to searching his penthouse flat for a suit of Conquistador armour. A rabble of reporters was camped outside the building. At the sight of two Jaguar Warriors, a flurry of questions and camera flashes began. Mal’s response was to swan past, offering no comment beyond a through-the-teeth “Fuck off.”
Ordinarily a Jaguar was obliged to bring along a locksmith to effect non-destructive ingress to a property, and of course obtaining a warrant to search private premises beforehand was considered good manners. Mal wasn’t in the mood for such procedural niceties. In her view, Reston had forfeited his citizen’s rights, such as they were, long, long ago. So she kicked down the rather smart mahogany door — strong wood, weak hinges — and got busy ransacking.
In the event, it was Aaronson who discovered the secret panel at the back of the walk-in wardrobe. He had excellent spatial awareness, and something about the layout of the master bedroom bothered him: unless the flat was a very odd shape, it should have been four or five yards longer. A full-length wardrobe ran alongside the en suite bathroom, and the wall at the rear seemed unusually thin: more a partition than a wall.
His probing fingers triggered the hidden spring catch more by accident than design. When the panel slid open, he was so startled he squealed.
“Not the most manly sound I’ve ever heard,” Mal called out from the kitchen.
“Boss,” Aaronson said, in as gruff a voice as he could manage, “you should take a look at this.”
Mal went straight to the commissioner with her findings. She all but barged into his office, oblivious to the protestations of his secretary. She had come to settle things once and for all. The cloud of execution hung over her, shadowing her every step, and she was fed up. She wanted it gone. Failing that, she wanted it confirmed. She needed to know her fate either way.
Commissioner Brockenhurst was a distinguished-looking man with white hair, grey eyes, and a way of talking that some found kindly and others patronising. He had been a friend of His Very Holiness Seldon Whitaker since boyhood, pursuing parallel paths from Eton and Harrow to Oxford and Cambridge and from there into the priesthood and policing. They maintained a close working relationship and often weekended at each other’s country retreat with their families. To be in the same room as Brockenhurst was to be a heartbeat away from the very highest power in the land.
Brockenhurst, though irritated by Mal’s intrusion, heard her out. He told her he was impressed by her discovery of the armour and weapons cache at Reston’s, and also by her persistence. Most officers, having let a prominent felon slip through their fingers not once but twice, would retreat to a dark corner and await the inevitable disciplining. Her pluck and grit were to be commended.
However…
And it was a deep-breath, long-drawn-out, sighing “however.”
“His Very Holiness,” Brockenhurst said, “has asked for a line to be drawn under the whole Conquistador affair.”
“I’m sorry, sir, what did you just say?”
“You heard, chief inspector. The case goes on the back burner, with a lid on.”
Mal was stunned. “May I ask why?”
“I’m under no compunction to explain to you if I don’t want to, but I think you deserve it. The Conquistador has fled, who knows where to. I very much doubt he’ll be coming back. How can he? His identity has been compromised. His face is all over the newspapers and TV. As Stuart Reston, he can’t go anywhere, be seen anywhere, for fear of being recognised. He can never show himself in public again. His life as a British citizen is over. Therefore the danger from him as a masked vigilante is also over, at least to us. If he’s abroad, then he’s someone else’s problem.”
“But… but…” Mal stammered. “With all due respect, sir, how do we know that? How do we know he and his Mayan friends aren’t planning some new atrocity even as we speak, here, on British soil? While Reston is at large he remains a threat. You can’t expect him to give up this crusade of his. He’s an obsessive. He has an axe to grind with the Empire, and he won’t rest until it’s ground completely, or whatever it is people are supposed to do with axes.”
“Are you trying to be funny, Vaughn?”
“No, sir. I’m flabbergasted, that’s all. You’re telling me we’re just going to forget about the whole thing? All those priests and Jaguars dead, civilians too, and we’re going to carry on as if nothing happened?”
“The High Priest believes it would be easiest that way, and I’m minded to agree with him. If we keep harping on about Reston, keep worrying at the man and his actions, we run the risk of perpetuating what he did. His deeds will dominate the headlines long after they ought to. Whereas if we quietly let the matter drop, the Conquistador will soon be history. All anyone will remember about him is his ignominious, cowardly departure. His final act wasn’t to go down in a blaze of glory but to skulk away like a whipped dog, helped by others. We feed his reputation, and diminish ours, if we make a big show of continuing to chase him. This way the Conquistador slips quickly and quietly from the limelight, and life can carry on as before.”
“I’m having real trouble with this,” Mal said. “What about the Jaguar oath? ‘Never back down, never pull out.’ That means nothing?”
“I’d advise you not to take that tone with me, chief inspector. Your life already hangs by a very thin thread. What you must consider here, above all, is your own position, precarious as it is. The only reason you’re still breathing at this moment is because you were right about Reston. You fingered him as the Conquistador’s alter ego and you acted on your suspicions and you were damned unfortunate he got away from you. In the event, you achieved the next best result after catching him, and that’s scaring him off and making it impossible for him to return. Which is a win in my book. Don’t now jeopardise it all by pushing any further. Accept what you’re being handed, which amounts to a complete, unconditional pardon and the opportunity to start over with a clean slate. Few get a chance like this, especially after making such a godawful hash of things.”
“In other words, shut up and be grateful.”
“I wouldn’t put it so crudely myself, but yes. Perhaps you should also bear in mind that a senior position lies vacant and in dire need of being filled. The appointment of a new chief superintendent is entirely in my gift, and I would look favourably on a candidate who not only excels as a Jaguar but understands, too, how there are certain unavoidable compromises that must be made on the road to promotion.”
It was quite clear what the commissioner was offering, and just as clear that he was confident his words would mollify and appease.
Instead, Mal’s festering indignation simply grew. She knew she should keep it in
check, but she just couldn’t. In a way she’d have preferred punishment — a good, honest death — to the prize that was being dangled in front of her, with its faint polluting whiff of bribery.
“So this has nothing to do with the fact that Reston’s one of your own?” she said in a steely hiss.
Brockenhurst’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon? Just what are you implying?”
“Posh boy. Society type. Right background. But for a twist of fate, could have been you, or even the High Priest.”
“Vaughn, I would strongly suggest you stop right there.”
“I bet you ran into him from time to time. At those fancy functions your lot go to. Maybe had a nice polite chat about the weather or the stock market while knocking back the champagne and canapes.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve never met Stuart Reston socially even once.”
“Still, he’s like you. Top of the heap. Cream of the crop. One of the cosy, gilded elite. Only, he went wrong, didn’t he? Snapped. Flipped out. And it scares you how easily he did. It makes you fear for your own loyalty to the Empire. His Very Holiness’s too.”
“Another word and I’ll have you on report.”
She should have heeded the warning, but she couldn’t, just couldn’t. Brockenhurst had asked her to do the one thing she was unable to: be less than the perfect Jaguar Warrior. It had cost her so much, in personal terms, to buy into the Jaguar ethos. The life of her own brother, indeed. If she doubted even for one second that the price had not been worth paying, then everything was lost. Ix’s death had been in vain.
“So let’s just sweep it under the carpet. Pretend it doesn’t matter. So what if Reston’s a mass murderer? If he’d been part of the hoi polloi, like me, then we’d stop at nothing to exterminate him like the scum he is. But because he’s establishment, he deserves special treatment.”
“How dare you — ”
“He deserves leniency, like all prodigals.”
“Out!” Brockenhurst roared. “Get out!”
“Don’t worry, I’m going,” Mal said.
“You are suspended,” the commissioner said, bent across his desk, finger jabbing as though he was trying to poke a hole in the fabric of space. “Effective immediately. And that is me being lenient on you, chief inspector. Very lenient. By every right, a subordinate who spoke to me like you just have ought at least to be sacked, if not worse. Go home, stay there, and come back only when I say so. Your pay will be suspended, of course. And the chief superintendent’s job? I think we can safely say you’ve kissed that goodbye.”
Downstairs, Aaronson enquired how the meeting had gone.
“Better than anticipated,” Mal replied, and what was odd was that she meant it. She felt an incredible sense of release. Brockenhurst had cut her loose. She was at liberty to do as she wished.
And what she wished, more than anything, was to hunt Reston down.
Aaronson consented to act as her man on the inside at the Yard, and it was he who informed her, two days later, that the Mayans’ van had been located in Woolwich, near the docks. The vehicle had been rolled into a side alley and abandoned. Scavengers had relieved it of everything of resale value, tyres and engine parts mostly, but it was still unmistakably the van used in the Reston rescue. The radiator grille was stove in and the front bumper bore scrapings of paint that matched paint from a paddy wagon.
So Reston had been smuggled out of the country by boat. That was the only conclusion Mal could draw. And where would he go? France was the logical answer. Not only was it closest to hand but it had a longstanding tradition of resistance and subversion. The Louisiens would have clasped someone like the Conquistador to their bosom. He was one of them, as overt in his actions as they were covert in theirs, but no less opposed to Imperial rule.
Mal had neither the jurisdiction nor the resources to go haring round all of France looking for Reston. But she didn’t believe she needed to. He wouldn’t be there for long. It was the Mayans. The Mayans were key to all this. She had Aaronson do some digging, and made a few transatlantic calls herself, and soon she knew everything there was to know about a group of Mayan nationalists who painted skulls on their faces and whose preferred weapons were blowpipes and bolases.
Reston was in Anahuac. Had to be. In the company of the separatist guerrilla faction known as Xibalba.
Aaronson claimed he had a backlog of paid leave due which he would lose if he didn’t use, and he’d always had a hankering to visit the birthplace of the Empire. Call it a pilgrimage, if you will. Mal pointed out that she was currently persona non grata at work. It might hurt Aaronson’s career prospects if he continued to be associated with her, not least when she was busy doing that which Commissioner Brockenhurst had expressly forbidden.
In answer, all Aaronson said was, “What can I tell you, boss? I’m your bitch, and I always have been.”
Mal owned a few gilt-edged Empire bonds, a nest egg for her retirement, which she cashed in. That, along with money in a savings account amounted to just enough to secure two return flights to the Land Between The Seas and cover two or three weeks’ worth of travel and accommodation expenses.
They flew to Teotihuacan and made that city their base of operations. Then next few days all followed the same pattern. They drove out in their hire car to some other city or major town and introduced themselves at the Jaguar Warrior HQ there. They showed pictures of Reston, both in and out of armour, and explained who he was and what he’d done. A few of the Anahuac Jaguars had heard of the Conquistador’s exploits. The majority hadn’t. As far as they were concerned it had been a domestic matter in a small, far-flung outpost of the Empire, no business of theirs. However, they promised to keep an eye out for Reston, in the event that he really was over here and consorting with local rebels.
Mal could tell she wasn’t being taken seriously; she was being patronised. It peeved her but she didn’t let it get to her. She stayed polite. They’d take her even less seriously if she lost her cool. She had to be the consummate professional. Were she to give them the slightest reason to doubt or distrust her they might be seized by the desire to check up on her back home.
Evening after evening, she and Aaronson returned to their hotel in the centre of Teotihuacan. Mal would be despondent, Aaronson would do his best to keep her spirits up. Then she would find some bar and would drown her sorrows in pulque while her sergeant cruised the neighbourhood, looking for some action. There wasn’t a thriving gay scene in Teotihuacan, but through instinct and a little bit of luck Aaronson could usually find someone to hook up with. Mal herself got propositioned a few times and was often drunk enough to be tempted but not so drunk as to succumb. It didn’t help that almost every adult male in Anahuac was shorter than her, sometimes by as much as a head. She had a problem with smaller men. Try as she might, she could never bring herself to fancy one. They made her feel gangly and uncomfortable. She preferred a lover she could literally look up to. Someone around Stuart Reston’s height, a shade over six feet, was just right. Although not Reston himself, obviously. Sleep with him? Hideous thought. She’d rather stick a macuahitl up her snatch.
Two weeks in, just as Mal’s funds were beginning to run out, came some good news. Good-ish. There’d been a sighting of a man matching Reston’s description in the general vicinity of Lake Texcoco. A few days earlier a Jaguar patrol, visiting rainforest villages on a routine stop-and-search expedition, had come across a Caucasian male in a canoe. He was a botanist apparently, hailing from France. Name of Rene Jolicoeur. He’d shown a valid passport, and there had been someone with him, an Anahuac national acting as his guide, who had vouched for him.
The patrol leader had thought nothing of it at the time. Later, however, having learned that a British Jaguar was over here trying to track down an absconded criminal, he decided to consult the Jaguars in France about Monsieur le Professeur. It didn’t take him long to establish that the person he’d met was an impostor. The impostor and Rene Jolicoeur were roughly the same age, bu
t there the similarities ended. The real Rene Jolicoeur had a receding hairline, wore thick bifocals to counteract profound myopia, and was about thirty pounds overweight. In addition, he suffered from chronic-progressive multiple sclerosis, which was not disabling but which discouraged him from overseas travel and fieldwork, and meant he was largely restricted to the laboratory and the library. In short, the fine physical specimen of a man who’d pitched up in that canoe that day was not — emphatically not — Rene Jolicoeur.
The sighting of Reston was too old to be of any immediate practical use to Mal. He wouldn’t be anywhere near that river now, not if he had any sense. The trail there would be stone cold.
It was, all the same, encouraging. It confirmed that Reston was in Anahuac and also that he had, as she suspected, come there via France — hence the passport, furnished by Louisiens no doubt. It suggested, too, that he was up to something. Why else would he be hiding under an alias and venturing along the rivers?
That the river in question fed into Lake Texcoco was also suggestive. After all, what lay at the middle of said lake but Tenochtitlan itself?
Could that be Reston’s objective? Could he really have something so audacious in mind? An attempt on the life of the Great Speaker himself?
It beggared belief. Mal knew the man was arrogant but this took arrogance to a whole new level. This was hubris in the extreme. Almost a kind of insanity.
She didn’t share her suspicions with the local Jaguars, but then she didn’t need to. They were quite capable of drawing the same inferences themselves. Rogue British terrorist spotted at large in Anahuac, not a million miles from the capital? It was cause for concern, at least. So the search for Reston was escalated to a higher priority status. His picture was more widely circulated among the various regional HQs. His name was added to the national Most Wanted list. The word went out. A small reward was being offered for information leading to the capture of this known fugitive from justice. By the same token, anyone found to have been harbouring Stuart Reston or giving him succour or assistance of any kind would be subject to the harshest of penalties. Apprehending him became a matter of relative urgency.
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