“Valeria,” he said resolutely. “They have the five pieces. They took the Devil’s Cup.”
48
The ladder was grounded into solid earth approximately forty feet below the opening. Less than twenty metres away was a stairway, stone, solid, at least a hundred years old.
The stairway continued for exactly 363 steps; Valeria knew because she counted. Placing her slender size five feet safely on to each step was no mean feat. Though easy by size, it was difficult by nature. Everything was pitch black, every last source of light extinguished. Even the torches penetrated no more than a few metres ahead. The cave absorbed the light as opposed to reflecting it; the small things that were lit up offered no unexpected features. They were surrounded by rock and darkness.
And there was only one way out.
As the stairway ended, the ground became flatter: at first smooth and then much rougher. As the seconds passed, the light improved; their eyes adjusted slowly to the new conditions. It was like being in a cavern or, better yet, an enormous trench. Thick granite walls flanked them on either side. Their footsteps echoed, as did other sounds: water dripping, rocks dropping, bats flying, if not bats then something even smaller. Even Colts could feel the tension. His heart was racing, his lungs were tight; sweat poured from his forehead across his brow. Even in the darkness, one thing was clear.
This was unlike any tin mine he had ever seen.
About five hundred metres in, they noticed something different.
“Is that what I think it is?” Ben asked.
On this occasion Colts spared Ben any sarcasm. “Railway tracks – iron,” he agreed, noticing the ancient rails directly below him. There were other items as well: tools, pickaxes, used barrels of gunpowder, broken lanterns. The smell of the powder lingered in the air, its fragrance mixed with the natural odour of the rock, and possibly something else.
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; that at any minute he would become trapped, isolated, marooned. He thought of Chris, then TF: the diary, 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 make out certain features. The cavern was larger than it had been. The walls were further away, pits dug 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 seen before. 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 dug horizontally across the central area, some several inches deep. They formed part of the patterns. Familiar patterns. Ones he had 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 lifelong endeavour.
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 enclosed them on every side. The surrounding rock 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 of them, however, was not natural. But it was there.
Blocking the path.
Studying it in the light, Ben noticed further patterns, inscriptions, ranging from things he had seen before to things he had only heard of in mythology. TF’s final book, he believed, now made sense – his grandmother had once told him, its purpose had been to translate an ancient code. There were messages engraved into the exterior, apparently written in Nahuatl – the language of the Aztecs.
“What’s it say?” Colts asked.
Ben took a while to respond. “Nothing,” he finally said. “Whoever wrote this either didn’t understand the inscriptions or they were faked.”
Nevertheless, other things did now make 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. Ben took it and searched for the bell. Finding it, he walked towards the wall. “Give me some light.”
Valeria shone her torch on the grooves while Colts took the other one from Ben. As Ben moved towards the wall, Valeria and Colts both realised what he was doing. He lined the bell up with the relevant 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 the five, like a sun surrounded by planets. Each had been a perfect fit, made to measure, all for one purpose, the same purpose that had led them there. 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 now 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 there.
*
Less than half a mile away, Cortés noticed the railway 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 his own light in his cousin’s eye.
“A little new for such an old mine.”
Cortés got up. “My thoughts exactly.”
They heard noises up 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 noises had faded, or had they? 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 clatter
ing sound, barely anything more than someone trying to play a xylophone.
“Doors like this were created for one single purpose,” Colts said, adjusting his hat. “Making sure the likes of us don’t proceed too much further.”
Looking at the door, Valeria had another idea. “Maybe we could make something. Fill it with something 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,” Ben countered.
“Failing that, why not try to fill the void 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 now 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 told you before, I know nothing of the man.” He turned to Valeria, who was standing nervously. Cortés drew closer to her, eyeing her the way only a person of close intimacy could. Ben 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 into the light. Both were armed, semi-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 so 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 for the man, at least less than he had at the Old Man’s Foot.
Either way he knew they were outnumbered. And out of options.
Ben moved to the door, careful to avoid stepping on any loose rocks. 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 so, it made a clicking sound.
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 had 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 him less than a week.
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 door before moving to a second door five metres beyond it. 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.
He knew for a fact only one person alive knew where it would lead.
50
It opened slowly, as if in a scene from a movie. The noise was deafening: it was as if the whole world were crashing down; that the walls were about to cave in. Valeria was in 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 doors Ben had seen inside the mausoleum and beneath the Star Castle, this one also opened in the centre. Light radiated through the opening, becoming brighter as the two halves parted completely. The light was distant, glowing rather than strong. The passageway they had followed continued on the other side of the door, winding left to right, up and down. The railway tracks also 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 avoided the temptation to look.
The ground was uneven, just like before. The tracks continued; they seemed in better condition: not modern, but usable. The surface was shiny, reflecting the light of the collection of torches like a mirror or clear water. The torchlight wasn’t the only thing it reflected. The surrounding rock seemed 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 had 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. 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, 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 torchlight, 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, he knew. Ben feared what would happen.
If Cortés was consistent, he knew he would leave no trace of their intrusion.
Up ahead the pathway became wider, leading to a large opening, still part of the main mine. The tracks were in better condition at this point. Several railway carts had been parked at the far end, all surrounded by various pieces of equipment, only this time more modern. Each had logos marking their sides, trademarks of some description. There were also boxes and crates, all wooden, beech, exactly the same size. Some had been stacked up within the carts, others left scattered across the ground. There were more located further away, hidden in crevices, and piled up one above the other.
Ben was speechless. Was this a mine or a warehouse?
High above the clearing, finally the source of the glow became obvious. Whatever was causing it had been placed together, hidden among the rocks, behind the rocks, spanning the mine like a natural creation. There were stairways, natural pathways, that seemed to be leading up towards it. 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 crossing a ridge and descending on the other side.
That was when he saw it. The treasure 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 as well as gold: emeralds, bright green; sapphires, dazzling blue; rubies, red the colour of a sunset or blood . . . other things his 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 reel 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 Ben’s eyes looked up, drawn away from the gold, he saw something he had missed at first. The pathway went around the treasure as if circumnavigating a lake. It continued, winding from right to left and then upward, reaching what appeared to be 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 unmistakably Aztec.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 29
