Ben couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Colts was curious.
“Bee in your bonnet, Mr Colts?” Ben asked.
“Matter of fact, I was just wondering why a mine of this type had the need for iron railway tracks.”
Ben was not at all surprised. “It’s a big operation. Makes perfect sense to me.”
Colts turned, the light shined in Ben’s eyes. “As I told you before, the mine closed in about 1790. Any tracks that existed before then should’ve been wooden, not iron.”
Now he mentioned that, things no longer made sense.
The path by the tracks was narrow, so much so the only way to follow it was to walk along them directly. Some were broken, others uneven, wooden sleepers had rotted away. Ben was feeling distinctly uneasy. He walked with the light directed down at his feet, his concentration solely on negotiating each step safely. All around him he was sensing things. Colts deep in thought, Valeria worried, the sounds and smells of things nearby. He felt the walls closing in on him; at any minute he would become trapped, isolated, marooned. He thought of Chris, then TF, the diary, the man, the boat that was found in St Lide’s, covered in silt, lost, the man himself with a musket ball lodged in his skull.
Was it a hero’s death or a pauper’s? Ben wondered.
Colts had stopped, and Ben noticed. There was something blocking the way. Despite the poor light, he could see things. The cave was at its largest here. The walls were further away, pits built everywhere, equipment scattered in all directions.
“This must have been the heart of the mine.”
Colts was too busy to reply. He shone his torch directly in front of him. His eyes made out strange patterns, the likes of which he had never before seen. It was like looking at a door, only no ordinary door, the kind out of a fantasy novel, or at least a good movie. There were grooves, some several inches deep. They formed part of the patterns. Familiar patterns. Ones he’d seen very recently.
Ben had noticed before Colts pointed them out. “Oh my God.”
Valeria was becoming increasingly nervous. “What is it?”
“Aztec,” Colts said, convinced they were nearing the end of the search. A whole night’s work, the culmination of an entire career, a lifetime.
The treasure was close.
“Care to do the honours, Professor?”
On this occasion, Ben was already halfway there. The wall was smooth, granite once again but unlike the large ones that surrounded them on every side. The cliff was natural: it had formed over many millennia, the angle at times changed by the past blasts of gunpowder and the blows of pickaxes.
The one in front was not natural.
But it was here. Blocking the path.
Studying it in the light, Ben noticed further patterns, inscriptions, ranging from things he had seen before to things he’d only heard of in myth. TF’s final book now made sense, as if it translated an ancient code. There were messages, apparently written in Aztec.
“What’s it say?” Colts asked.
Ben took a while to respond. “Nothing,” Ben said. “Whoever wrote this either didn’t understand the inscriptions or they were faked.”
Nevertheless, other things made sense. He studied the grooves; there were five of them, all of different shapes. He looked at the first.
It was the outline of a bell.
“Hand me the stones.”
Valeria moved forward tentatively, carrying the bag. She brushed her hair back, trying to study the wall.
Ben took the bag and searched for the bell. He found it, removed it and walked toward the wall. “Give me some light.”
Valeria shone her torch in the direction that Ben required while Colts took the other one from Ben. As Ben moved toward the wall, they realised what he was doing. He lined the bell up with the groove, making sure it was a perfect fit.
Then he pushed it.
He heard something click.
The next one was the fish, after that the rose and the cup. The rose went in the dead centre of five, like a sun surrounded by planets. Each had been a perfect fit, made to measure, all for this one purpose, the same purpose that had led them here. All were needed to complete the job. Ben loved it. The idea was foolproof. The stones had three purposes, the last of which they had now established.
Only one problem remained.
“We need the trumpet.”
Colts was standing beside Ben. He had already realised that the door could only be opened with all five of the stones.
And the fifth wasn’t here.
Less than half a mile away, Cortés noticed the tracks. He pointed his torch at the ground and knelt down to inspect the redundant rails.
He looked up at Pizarro, who was looking down, shining the light in his cousin’s eye.
“A little new for such an old mine.”
Cortés got up. “My thoughts exactly.”
They heard noise ahead: a pickaxe on rock, possibly something even more primitive. Busquets and Alvarez were both in a state.
“This mine is haunted.”
Cortés was furious. He waved with a lowered hand, ordering hush. “Listen.”
For several seconds they waited, their ears straining for any sound. The noise had finished, or had it? In the darkness, it was easy to let the mind wander, play tricks…Cortés knew from experience that dangers arose when the mind lost control. In the distance he heard the sound again, a dull banging, not loud but consistent. He thought he heard something else, possibly talking.
“Come. I think we are close behind.”
49
Colts was unimpressed. While admiring a person’s tenacity was one thing, what Ben was doing was just plain stupid.
“Would you please cut that out,” he said, grabbing Ben’s outstretched arm, prohibiting him from continuing with his banging of the door. The pickaxe was sturdy, despite its age. By using the side as opposed to the blade, the impact made nothing but a dull clattering sound, barely anything more than someone playing a xylophone.
“Doors like this were created for one single purpose,” Colts said, adjusting his hat. “Making sure the likes of us didn’t proceed too much further.”
Looking at the door, Valeria had another idea. “Maybe we could make something. Fill it with the exact same shape.”
“Wouldn’t work,” Ben said, silently admiring the idea. “It isn’t about size. Every piece has to be the same mass, shape and volume. Any variations and it won’t work.”
“You sound so sure.”
“You remember that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when Indy stole the idol? Same thing could happen.”
“You mean it’s booby-trapped?”
“Of course it isn’t booby-trapped,” Colts said, anger rising. “Clearly the only way in through the door is with the keys. However, there may be another door.”
“Failing that, there may be another passage.”
“Failing that, why not try to fill the lock anyway,” Valeria added, picking up some small rocks.
“I should not be so rash, cousin.”
The voice came from directly behind them. Cortés was standing in front of Pizarro, flanked by his two henchmen. Standing in darkness only moments earlier, the Spaniards’ faces were lit up by small lanterns.
Cortés walked forward. “I could not help overhear your theory on the door,” he said, looking at Ben. “Clearly you are a man of great knowledge and cleverness. Perhaps I was foolish in the way I behaved the night before.”
Ben was incredulous. “What have you done to my cousin?”
“I tell you before, I know nothing of the man.” He turned to Valeria, who was standing nervously. Cortés walked toward her, eyeing her the way only a person of close intimacy could. He sensed she was close to tears.
“Take your friend’s advice, cousin. After all, there is no need for improvising.” He clicked his fingers, and Alvarez brought forward the final piece.
Cortés took it. He examined it in his hands, cleaning it of
excess dirt, like an antique dealer searching for flaws. “Perhaps you, Professor, would care to do the honours?”
“Ben.” Colts’s tone was urgent.
“It would be wise to cooperate, my friend.” Cortés gestured, and Pizarro and Busquets moved in the light. Both were armed, automatic weapons at their sides.
“Professor.” Cortés handed over the trumpet. “Thank you.”
Ben nodded at the Spaniard, not knowing what to make of him. The man was handsome, more than he had first thought: his facial hair was neatly trimmed, a perfect complement to his thick wavy hair and light olive skin. Despite the severity of the situation, Ben felt no hostility toward the man, at least less than he had at the Old Man’s Foot.
Either way they were outnumbered. And out of options.
Ben moved forward to the door, careful to avoid stepping on any loose rock. He adjusted the trumpet stone in his hands and lined it up with the gap.
The fit was perfect; like the other four, it slid in easily. As it did, it made a clicking sound.
That was followed by another noise.
There had only ever been one pub in Godolphin Cross. Over the years it had been given many names. The Godolphin, The Duke of Cornwall, The Godolphin Swan, The Godolphin Arms…
The Godolphin Cross.
These days a different sign hung above the door. It was of a great ship at sea, lit by moonlight. The moon was at the three-quarters stage, shining as brightly as a full moon, but not quite the same in size.
Gibbous, the technical term.
Once upon a time Adrian Nicholl had owned ten pubs in Cornwall. The first had been at St Michael’s Mount, the most recent at Tintagel.
Then there was the one he always wanted: the one that was never for sale. The owner claimed he was mad, making so large an offer. The pub was worth a fraction of the price. It would take three lifetimes to recoup that amount.
It took less than a year.
Nicholl and Danny moved from the office into the cellar. There was a door at the far end; as far as the staff knew, it was always locked.
Nearly always.
Nicholl opened the large padlock, then the door before moving to a second door five metres beyond. Unlike the first door, sturdy, but made of wood, this one was reinforced steel: the kind that could keep out an army and a whole lot more.
It took ten seconds to open.
Beneath the pub beer garden, the tunnel was dark and lonely. Cobwebs formed in the highest reaches, some floating down from above or just passing the face teasingly. Nicholl had walked it many times before, Danny, less so.
Only one person alive knew where it would lead.
50
It opened slowly, as if in a scene from a movie. The movement was loud: before, during, and after. It was as if the whole world was crashing down: the walls were about to cave in, that was the fear. Valeria experienced a fit of panic, so much so that she was cuddling up to Colts. Alvarez and Busquets were lost for words; both looked at each other nervously. The fear of a calamity was great.
Yet the fear of Pizarro’s wrath was arguably greater.
Like the two on St Mary’s, the door opened in the centre. Light radiated through the opening, becoming brighter as the door parted completely. The light was distant, glowing rather than strong. A similar passageway to the one they had followed existed on the other side of the door, winding left to right, up and down. The railway tracks continued; again a collection of elderly looking tools was scattered along the tunnel.
Cortés was stunned, Pizarro even more so. Ben, Colts and Valeria looked at the sight, open mouthed. The glow was yellow and profoundly angelic, like a halo hidden behind the rock.
Ben felt a nudge in the back, coming from Cortés.
“After you.”
Ben led the way. He guessed at least two guns were being pointed at him, though he wasn’t looking.
The ground was uneven, just like before. The tracks continued; they seemed in better condition, not modern, but usable. The metal was shiny, reflecting the light of the torch like a mirror or clear water. That wasn’t the only thing it reflected. The rock was also shinier, practically silver, though Ben reasoned that was impossible. Not for the first time, he could hear the sound of running water, but this time there was also another sound, different to the one he’d just heard. It was like an avalanche, though not of rock.
It sounded like coins.
The pathway twisted and turned for over four hundred metres, one way then the other. Up ahead it led to a clearing of sorts, not quite a pit, but similar. The glow was becoming brighter and larger, shining from every direction as if something was surrounding them.
“Jesus,” Colts said, arching his neck and feeling something hard poke him in the back.
“Keep moving.”
The order came from Pizarro, which irritated Cortés. Unlike his cousin, he was captivated, almost speechless. The source of the light was still hard to pinpoint; whatever it was, they were still to reach it. It was not just yellow, but green, red, blue, like walking through a rainbow. Again the sound of something sliding was evident. Ben could hear it, but not see it. His heart was thumping in his chest and his throat felt constricted, making it harder to breathe, to swallow, to speak. Instinct told him to keep his eyes in front of him, following the torch, the pathway, anything to avoid getting on the wrong side of his captors.
Valeria was behind him, how far back, he was unsure. He hadn’t seen her, heard her, smelled her fragrance since the door opened. He looked to his right, seeing Colts, then Cortés. He saw her almost five metres behind, walking distractedly, escorted by the largest of the brutes, who was holding a gun to her back. She didn’t speak, barely even acknowledged him – at least she was being sensible. Ben feared what would happen.
If Cortés was consistent, he would eliminate all trace of today’s events.
Up ahead the path became wider, leading to a large opening, still part of the main mine. The tracks were in better condition at this point. There were several trucks at the far end, all surrounded by equipment, only this time more modern. There were logos on the sides, trademarks of some description. There were boxes and crates, all wooden, beech, exactly the same size. Some had been lifted onto the trucks, others left scattered around. There were more located along the sides, hidden in crevices, behind them, piled up one above the other.
Ben was speechless. Was this a mine or a warehouse?
Then there were the things that were not in boxes or crates, but lying loose. Finally the source of the glow became obvious. Much of the treasure was stacked up in piles; it had been hidden in the rocks, behind the rocks, spanning the mine like a natural creation. There were stairways, natural paths, some leading down, others up. Ben walked to where the light seemed brightest; it guided him upwards on a path that again wound from left to right, reaching a pinnacle some twenty metres up before coming down again on the other side.
That was when he saw it. The gold consisted of a mixture of coins and bars, some of which were neatly shaped and cut, others uncut and irregular in shape. There were other things, emeralds, bright green; sapphires, dazzling blue; rubies, red the colour of a sunset or blood…other things his American eyes had never seen before.
Cortés walked alongside him, looking down into the colours below. The patterns danced in his dark Spanish eyes, like a movie being played on a continuous loop. His mouth watered; his cheeks puffed. It was like the realisation of a dream, a quest, the very reason for his life.
As his eyes looked up, drawn away from the gold, he saw something he had missed at first. The pathway went around the gold as if circumnavigating a lake. It continued, winding and then upwards, reaching what appeared almost like a summit of a small mount.
That was when he saw it, perched atop the mount. The statue was unlike the one that preceded the entrance. The structure itself was also gold, the depiction unmistakeably Aztec.
Cortés’s reactions were immediate. Leaving Ben, he jogged, almost sprinting, al
ong the path, oblivious to the possibility of losing his footing. He followed it all the way to the statue.
There he examined it, his eyes taken with this and this alone. The male figure was a warrior carrying a large spear in his right hand, pointing down rather than up. In his left hand was a rounded shield, patterned with three circles, each layer slightly thicker toward the centre. He wore robes around his shoulders and waist, leaving his torso, legs and stomach visible – from all outward appearances the statue was made of solid gold.
The Cortés Enigma Page 31
