The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  Ben noticed his side bag on the table. There was a book-shaped object concealed behind the main flap; he looked inside and found the diary.

  Opening it, he examined the pages, satisfied no harm had been done. “Next time I suggest you ask before you take things that don’t belong to you.”

  Cortés had returned from the mine with a second rucksack now filled to the brim with coins. He dropped it on the bed; the excess hoard overflowed on to the duvet.

  “Your great-great-grandfather was a man of considerable talent. Had it not been for his learned ways, I fear the legacy of my own ancestor would have been destined to be lost forever.”

  “At least your friends would still be alive.”

  “We all have demons that haunt our past, things that guide us, spur us on, make us risk what would otherwise be safe. Fernando himself used to say to me, ‘If you’re worried about the future, always remember the past.’”

  Ben eyed him sceptically. “You think that was what he meant?”

  “Ask yourself this: when your great-great-grandfather’s boat was discovered, what motivated you to seek him out? Was it really just to honour a family member or because you were inspired by the man’s own sense of adventure?”

  “Neither. I went because my cousin wanted to come. My nana worries about him. Doesn’t like him going alone to faraway places.”

  “A grandmother’s love is unequivocal – sometimes even more so than a mother’s.”

  “Yeah, well, she had good reason. Back in the navy he had an accident involving a mine explosion. Though physically he was okay, he took some damage to his face. He struggles with depth perception.”

  “A grown man who can’t take care of himself?”

  “Well, I guess she was proved right. I haven’t seen him in three days.”

  Cortés zipped up his rucksack, throwing it across his back. “Where will you go now?”

  “To find him.”

  “I hope for his sake you have more patience looking for him than you’ve shown with your injury.”

  Ben let the insult slide. “Well, last time I saw him, he was still on St Mary’s. If he wasn’t taken by you or your men, and he wasn’t taken by the man who owns the mine” – he spoke of Nicholl – “I think that leaves only one candidate.”

  Cortés’s expression became bitter. “If she is responsible, then do not expect her to await your arrival with welcoming arms. A slimy eel is most elusive when wet.”

  “What do you know about her? And her grandmother, for that matter?”

  Cortés laughed without humour. “Elena was once the darling of her village. She may look old and disgusting now, but even when she was fifty, the children of Roturas would easily fall victim to her charms. The family is descended of the same Cortés line, only on a different side. Only one branch still bears the original name.”

  “Presumably that would be you?”

  “My elder brother was killed before reaching twenty-five. He is survived by my nephew.” His face tightened. “There are certain things that are better left unsaid.”

  “What about Valeria? She told me her descent was of Montezuma and Isabelle.”

  “That is true – at least so her grandmother likes to claim. Like I said to you before, the slimy eel is most deceptive. In the old days, the family frequently managed to marry into the dominant line. In the past, my ancestors believed this to be mutually beneficial. The creation of a pure line. I know what you are thinking. It sounds like something out of the Third Reich.”

  “Either that or Harry Potter. You mind if I ask you something? What’s the big deal? I mean, it’s not like any of you have a legal right in a court of law. Particularly a British one.”

  Cortés smiled. “In families such as mine, you must be careful who you trust. Ever since there have been legends, there has been mistrust. For over four centuries the treasure has been considered our birthright, while others simply wish to claim what was never theirs.”

  “Never theirs?”

  “Imagine growing up in a household where you are surrounded by history. Where the things of tradition are your background, legends of your ancestors your bedtime stories.”

  “Sounds exactly like my nana’s place.”

  Cortés’s expression softened. “So you, too, can understand the great paradox that must await any descendant of past fame.”

  “Paradox?”

  “That to walk in the footsteps is something no outsider can possibly understand. But to succeed where they failed often requires asking for the assistance of outsiders.”

  Ben bit his lip. “I never cared about finding buried treasure.” He checked his watch, which was still set to Eastern Time. He deduced from the five-hour time difference that 11:30 a.m. in Hanover indicated it was now 4:30 p.m.

  He offered Cortés his hand. “I’m sorry I can’t stick around, but time is of the essence. If I hurry, I can still catch the last flight to St Mary’s from Penzance.”

  “By the time you arrive at the airport, you will be forced to remain on land for a further day, by which time the slimy eel will have slipped back into the ocean. Any chance you may have of catching her in time will depend solely on your own efficiency.”

  Ben had checked the flights and knew time was limited. “If I hurry, I can still make it.”

  “And what of your transport? Your friend’s van is missing.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to call a cab.”

  “My helicopter is parked in one of the fields of the estate. Coming down and hiding it among the trees proved surprisingly easy.”

  Ben ignored the rebuke. “I think I can manage on my own, thanks.”

  “In times of crisis, one can never be too choosy when selecting one’s bedfellows.”

  Further echoes of Colts. “Why should I trust you?”

  “Whether you do or not is up to you. However, the lighthouse of St Agnes is also my intended destination.”

  “You’re looking for her? Why?”

  Cortés pressed his face close to Ben’s. “Because she took the Stone of Fire from the statue’s hand.”

  *

  Moments later, the large helicopter rose slowly from its previously concealed position in sparse woodland. Cortés sat at the controls, Ben and Danny in seats behind, each carrying their bags.

  Ben still rued the theft of the books. “What the hell can she possibly be looking for?” he asked, not wishing to elaborate on the thefts. While her interest in the Raleigh book and the Aztec one was understandable, her interest in the second diary left him baffled.

  Cortés turned to face him. “When Catalina Cortés was shipwrecked, she carried only some of the great treasure. For a ship that size, it would have taken at least fifty journeys to collect everything the conquistadors had seen.”

  “So what are you saying? She intends to head to Mexico?”

  Cortés delayed giving a response. “Perhaps, but first there may be other things on her mind. Closer to home.”

  *

  Less than forty miles away, a black limousine exited the driveway of a large estate and headed west along a private road. Whilst the exterior of the house was largely hidden, the thick blend of oak and beech trees and heavy gateways providing a soft camouflage of the grounds, the estate itself was highly regarded and well known.

  On reaching the main road, the driver programmed the address into the satnav and waited for the route to be plotted. Seconds later, the details appeared on the screen. The majority of the journey would be by main road, the remainder along country roads.

  Though he was familiar with the location, the address still came as something of a surprise. The house, famed over two centuries earlier as the grandest estate in the county, had since become something of a forgotten landmark. He had visited it before, even with the man in question.

  The last thing he had expected was to be called there again.

  Sitting behind the driver in the back seat, the smartly dressed gentleman with thinning grey hair was a model of
calm and patience. His face, as ever, was completely spotless, any hint of facial hair perfectly dispatched by his regular wet shave. His features, though famously angular, were even more famously noble, the handsomeness of youth blended with the dignity of experience. Both came from being part of a unique family, a position of rare prestige. He was the latest of many and had faced similar challenges to those of his predecessors.

  One of which, he sensed, was at last nearing an end.

  14

  Isles of Scilly, 5:15 p.m.

  St Agnes had always been the least crowded of the populated islands. Located southwest of St Mary’s and to the south of Tresco, St Martin’s and Bryher, it was officially the fourth largest island in terms of area, and the home of the Scillies’ first lighthouse.

  Like most of the islands, its shape was not sharply defined. Centuries of erosion had left it elongated along the south-east tip, giving it a unique ‘cross’ shape when viewed from above. To the east, a thin tombolo that became visible at low tide connected it to the islet Gugh, a similarly isolated stretch famous for its exotic flora and fauna.

  The helicopter completed a full pass of the island before Cortés began his descent. He identified a safe landing point in an unused field to the north, approximately midway between the lighthouse and the island’s only pub.

  Ben watched from the window as they came in to land. From directly above, the scenery was similar in every direction: long stretches of greenery that continued all the way to the coast. Waves pounded the shoreline to the east; even above the noise of the rotor blades, he could hear the sounds of the sea accompanied by the echoing shrieks of the gulls. Though several isolated dwellings dotted the landscape, he was still to see any sign of life. There was no major harbour, no cars or roads; even bicycles seemed scarce. Smoke rose slowly from the chimney of the pub; according to Danny, the place was renowned for its roasts.

  Another local delicacy Ben knew he would probably never experience first-hand.

  The lighthouse was the main focal point. Though Ben had seen it before, the first thing he picked up on was how lonely it was, how the nearest neighbour was at least three hundred metres away. He saw a long pathway cross the greenery from east to west and noticed that it eventually joined with the one he had walked two nights earlier.

  Though the time of day was similar, the sky above was still bright with sunshine.

  The front door was closed, clearly locked. The doorbell wasn’t working; his steady knocks echoed against the wooden exterior. From the outside, it wasn’t obvious whether anyone was at home, whether Valeria had returned. The wind was louder near the coast, drowning out any possible sound made from within. There were no vehicles nearby, nor any lights coming from the windows of the house or the lighthouse.

  Danny was standing to his right, whereas Cortés had disappeared. Incredibly the door opened and Cortés let them in.

  “You seem a little forgetful today, Professor.”

  Ben stood in the doorway, arms folded. He suddenly remembered Busquets and Alvarez had entered the house from the back while Cortés and Pizarro had stormed the front.

  The door had been partially repaired; an open toolbox sat by the stairs, alongside a line of paint cans. The hallway was unchanged since his visit. Seeing it again prompted a flood of vivid memories. He had come to the lighthouse looking for Chris.

  Little had changed.

  He started shouting, “Chris! Chris! Valeria!”

  “Even if she was here, do you honestly think she would be likely to respond?” asked Cortés.

  Ignoring him, Ben proceeded into the dining room, silently recalling the memory of Pizarro’s final blow and his incarceration. The chairs had been repositioned, the dining table returned to its previous position. He could smell burning coming from below the chimney, but the fireplace was presently not in use. He noticed a poker and scattered fragments of wood nearby.

  Clearly the fire had been lit recently.

  “Ben.”

  The call came from Danny; Ben detected urgency in his tone. Leaving the dining room, he returned to the hall and headed for the kitchen. A door was open, revealing a wooden stairway that descended into a cellar.

  He heard Danny’s voice at the bottom.

  Ben followed him down, using both the bannister and his walking stick for support. A strong smell pervaded: faeces, possibly urine, damp and saltwater. After failing to find any sign of a light switch, he switched on the torch setting on his Android phone and shone the light all around.

  There were puddles on the floor, soaking the wood; he decided against investigating them further. In the centre of the far wall he saw something dangling, a strange outline in the torchlight.

  “Oh my God.” Danny recoiled in shock.

  Ben stared at it in disbelief. Enveloped in shadow, the room’s layout had been difficult to make out, but viewed in the torchlight, the setting told a peculiar story. Two large chunks of iron hung from the wall, creating a dull clanging sound as he moved them from side to side. The chains felt cold, rusty, a long-forgotten relic of the island’s past. As his eyes continued to adjust to the lack of light, he realised that he was standing in what had once been a storeroom, perhaps used to keep wood or coal. The air was stale and difficult to breathe freely. There were stains on the wall where fresh oil had been applied. Whatever had occurred had perhaps happened only once before.

  He feared recently.

  He heard footsteps coming from the kitchen. Seconds later Cortés appeared in the doorway.

  “Their boat is gone. A vessel that small cannot have got further than the nearby isles.”

  Ben was unconvinced. “You’ve checked everywhere?”

  “The upstairs is empty, there is nobody here.”

  Ben turned away from the peculiar objects in front of him and shone his light up the stairs. In the Spaniard’s hand, he saw a white T-shirt with a Boston Red Sox logo in the centre. He still remembered the day Chris bought it; more recently he had entered into the habit of wearing it at night.

  He hurried up the stairs, nearly falling. “Where did you find it?”

  “Second room on the left.”

  Ben ventured up the main stairway, ignoring the sounds of the unbalanced floorboards creaking heavily beneath his feet. The door was open, the bedroom white and airy, with a large single bed set up against the far wall. Although it had been made, its condition made him think it had recently been used. Suddenly he was confused.

  Was Chris a willing houseguest?

  Cortés appeared in the doorway. “We should not linger here too long. They cannot have gone far. Most likely they took the boat to St Mary’s to charter something larger or catch a flight to England. Come, if we leave now, we might still find them.”

  Ben gazed through the nearby window and took a deep breath. The view included a large jetty, currently unoccupied. If the boat was gone, he reasoned Juan was right. St Mary’s was the most likely destination.

  “In that case, what are we waiting for?”

  15

  Valeria was below deck in the main cabin, lying on her bed. She felt herself move from side to side as the bow of the boat cut through the waves. Though she felt their full force, their ferocity was a gentle breeze compared to her experience two nights earlier.

  She counted her blessings as each wave hit the ship, remembering how dark her world had been, how she feared the journey might be her last. In some ways, she knew that might not have been a bad thing.

  Never in her worst nightmares had she imagined the hell that followed.

  She awoke abruptly, disturbed by a presence nearby. Chris was asleep in the next bed, his scruffy blond hair the only thing visible above the covers. She remembered her grandmother had taken the wheel; she said she wanted to feel the sea air on her face.

  Chris was talking in his sleep, the words mumbled; she sensed he was in anguish, perhaps reliving a past nightmare. It sounded distant, emotional but vague. Beads of sweat had built steadily across his forehead
, accompanied by stains visible on the sheets. She recalled Ben had told her he had lost his career as a result of a freak accident, apparently involving some form of explosion. His face still bore the scars, though parts had healed through surgery. His body had recovered as, largely, had his mind.

  She dreaded the moment she would have to reveal what really happened in the mine.

  The clock on the wall displayed the time as 4:40 p.m. She realised she had slept for over an hour. A large hardback book lay closed on her lap; she remembered getting as far as page seven.

  She picked it up and familiarised herself with the cover. Like the diary she had photocopied two days earlier, the brown leather cover had seen better days and the handwriting was scribbled and scholarly. A strange smell permeated it: she put it down to a combination of the age of the paper and whatever brand of tobacco the author had been exhaling as he scribed. She sensed something else too, a smell she attributed more to the whole collection than just that one book alone. This smell was more familiar, appealing even. Ben had told her the books had been kept in a box in his grandmother’s attic. That was it, she decided.

  The books smelled of family.

  The book was a diary. According to Ben, it had been the work of the same author, concerning different expeditions and time periods. The first entry was dated 1870 and described an outing somewhere in Africa. She noted TF kept referring to someone named David as though he were a personal hero. The last thing that dawned on her before falling asleep was that he was referring to Dr Livingstone. A sobering thought hit her.

  TF had learned from the best of the best.

  She returned to the diary and studied the content, recalling different dates. The second entry was dated over two years after Zambia, a summer expedition to the Highlands of Scotland. The events had taken place in the Cairngorms; several more journeys to Scotland followed.