It all took place in a microsecond and was followed by a gargantuan implosion, a violent reassertion of the proper order of things. The fragments of the aerodisc and the nebulised remains of the people in it were collapsed back together into a tight ball some three metres in diameter. The vacuum thus created sucked up debris from all around: dirt, leaves, blades of grass, bits of shredded tent, splinters of the cabin. A hurricane-holocaust of particles filled the air.
Through this the ball that had been the aerodisc plummeted, hitting the ground with an almighty whump and shattering into a million pieces on impact. Granules of wreckage were strewn across the entire floor of the clearing and into the muddy wallow that had been the pool.
It took minutes for the fog of debris to clear, and when it finally did, a scene of utter devastation stood revealed. A rainforest glade was now, almost literally, scorched earth. Nothing was left that lived or grew. The surrounding trees were scarred and battered; some had toppled, their roots yawning like giant mouths. The waterfall oozed grey sludge.
Within Quetzalcoatl’s protective bubble of light Stuart had seen everything and felt nothing. He’d not been buffeted even slightly by the colossal destructive power being unleashed around him. Not so much as a hair on his head had been disturbed. It was an eerie experience, like being in a car crash, that same sense of disembodiment, as though the disaster were happening to someone else, somewhere else.
The bubble vanished as it had appeared, abruptly and without a sound. Dazed, Stuart watched the snow-like settling of the last few floating flakes of detritus. He breathed in smells of ash and ozone.
He looked behind him. He looked up.
Both Quetzalcoatl and Huitzilopochtli were gone.
He was alone.
Silent, the wounded rainforest swayed and grieved.
PART THREE
TENOCHTITLAN
TWENTY-TWO
3 Rain 1 Movement 1 House
(Thursday 20th December 2012)
MAL VAUGHN GOT the call at 4am. The phone next to her hotel bed rang shrilly and insistently. In the adjacent bed, fast asleep, Aaronson moaned and swore. Mal herself had been only drowsing. She groped for the phone in the dark and pressed the receiver to her ear.
“Vaughn.”
As the voice on the other end of the line spoke, Mal slowly sat up. Then she lunged for the bedside lamp switch.
“Really? You’re absolutely certain?”
“Whassat?” said Aaronson.
She shushed him. “Hold on,” she said into the phone. “Wait just a second.” She rummaged in the bedside table drawer for a pad of hotel stationery and a pen. “Give me the name of the town again.” She jotted it down. “And your name?” She jotted that down too. “You’re the arresting officer? The duty officer. Okay. Well, if he is who you say he is, Mr Necalli, then I reckon you and your whole station are in line for some kind of citation. I’ll be there as soon as I can. How far are you from Teotihuacan? What’s that in miles, about seventy? Give me an hour and a half, then. And don’t, whatever you do, let the slippery bastard out of your sight.”
She planted the receiver back down in its cradle. There was a look of something like elation on her face.
Aaronson propped himself up on his elbows. Beneath the bedcovers he was sporting a prominent morning glory that he did little to hide. Aaronson being who and what he was, an erection on him meant nothing to Mal, just a biological function. Besides, she’d already seen every bit of him, in every conceivable state, during the fortnight he and she had been travelling together to and fro across Anahuac. He was a remarkably immodest hotel room sharer.
“Look at you, boss. The cat that got the cream.”
“Ten fucking bowls of cream, with a mouse on top.”
“Another person’s seen him?”
“Better yet, he’s only gone and got himself arrested.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“In a town called Mixquiahuala. It’s north of here. Local Jaguars have him in the nick. Picked him up yesterday. Charge of vagrancy.”
“How are they sure it’s him?”
“Armour. Smug idiot had his armour on. Came wandering out of the rainforest, dressed as the Conquistador. Even carrying his sword.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Well, I do, so let’s get dressed and on the road.”
“What, no breakfast?”
“It’s four in the ruddy morning. Nowhere’ll be open.”
Grumbling, and now beginning to wilt, Aaronson climbed out of bed and grabbed his clothes.
AS SHE DROVE the hire car out of Teotihuacan, through prosperous adobe-built suburbs slumbering beneath a pearly grey pre-dawn sky, Mal reflected on the two and a half weeks gone by and the fragile trail of clues that had brought her and her sergeant all the way from London to the Land Between The Seas.
After the unmitigated farce that was her second attempt to bring Stuart Reston to book, Mal had been certain that summary execution lay just around the corner. No way was she going to be allowed to live, not after she’d had Reston in her grasp – chained up in the back of a paddy wagon, no less – and still managed to lose him. Never mind that it hadn’t been her fault. Never mind that she had been blindsided by Reston’s Mayan cronies. She’d had the man, had him, and he’d got away. No self-respecting Jaguar could screw up on so grand a scale and not expect to pay the penalty for it.
The two days she spent in hospital recuperating from a mild concussion were, she was sure, destined to be the last two days of her life. As soon as she was discharged and she reported back in for work, she would get the word from on high. Be in the quadrangle at midday sharp. Full dress uniform not compulsory but preferable. Serve her right, too. She had masterminded what she’d thought would be a textbook takedown, and it had degenerated into a total shambles, first with Reston leaping into the Thames, then with the Mayans ramming the paddy wagon side-on with their van. Net result for all her efforts? Eight Jaguars injured, including herself, most with cuts and contusions but a couple with broken bones. One paddy wagon written off. No villain in custody.
Oh, and she’d picked up a gruesome eye infection from the river water as well, which was going to take a while to fix with antibiotics.
All in all, execution was going to come as a relief. She wouldn’t have to live with her shame for long, or for that matter her sore, pus-gummed eyes.
When she tipped up at Scotland Yard on the morning of 13 House 1 Monkey, everyone shunned her. It was predictable, only to be expected. She was a pariah. Dead woman walking. Aaronson alone met her gaze and spoke to her more or less as normal. Even with him, though, there was awkwardness. He was too cheery, making too many forced jokes and studiously sidestepping any mention of the events of the previous Sunday.
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.
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 canapés.”
“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.
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