With his body physically rejuvenated, he now had no choice but to confront his demons.
He had left America with his cousin to investigate the passing of his legendary ancestor, a man whose fate had been shrouded in a century of mystery. A week later, the cause of his ancestor’s death was still a mystery and his cousin had disappeared – according to Valeria, also killed. Valeria had been hiding at the pivotal moment; chance alone had allowed her to escape.
It was possible Ben was alive, he reasoned; if she hadn’t seen him dead, he might just have been wounded and later managed to sneak out amidst the chaos. Chris’s mobile phone was missing, which meant calling him was impossible. He was desperate to find the mine and visit it himself, but he knew that wouldn’t be possible unless Valeria revealed the location. Convincing her, he realised, wouldn’t be easy. She had been lucky to escape with her life; it was only a matter of time before the Spaniards found her. A million thoughts were running through his mind, each darker than the last. If Ben didn’t show up soon, a greater problem loomed.
How the hell am I gonna break the news to the family?
Despite the rest, he still felt worn out. Though he remembered everything that had happened since leaving the lighthouse, the visions were hazy. It reminded him of walking home concussed from football training during his sophomore year at the Naval Academy. The world was still turning, only now a little too quickly, like being drunk on an empty stomach. Dark thoughts continued to invade his mind; he still had trouble telling which were real. His body continuously wanted to vomit, but it never quite happened.
He prayed the worst was now over.
He had awoken around sunrise, again disoriented. Valeria and her grandmother had slept in the same room; Valeria smiled at him as he came to. Water was pouring from the shower in the en suite; her grandmother emerged minutes later. Despite her age, she looked younger than he remembered, her face friendlier than the one in his nightmare. She offered him coffee; he accepted, putting the dark thoughts to one side.
It was only a nightmare, he decided.
The hotel had been located in the historic part of the city with panoramic views both of the coast and the full extent of the medieval walls. They checked out before nine; a taxi was waiting to take them to the airport. A private plane landed within two hours.
His journey from the US to England to the Isles of Scilly and recently to France had now taken him to the heart of Spain.
And the former home of the great conquistadors.
Ben would have loved it, Chris thought grimly to himself. Watching the world go by from the rear right window, he couldn’t help think of him doing what he always did best. The last time he had seen him had been in his room at the Gibbous Moon; Ben had been standing by the door while he had been forced to turn away to vomit. He remembered Ben saying something, probably a quip. Ben’s intention had been to return to the graveyard; he had mentioned something about the book by Raleigh, but he couldn’t recall the exact words. If all had gone to plan, Ben would have returned before bedtime.
Valeria confirmed Ben had been present in the Gibbous Moon the next morning.
Exactly what happened next remained a mystery. The treasure had been found in Cornwall, apparently in an old tin mine once used by the Godolphins. They had discovered it using TF’s diary; according to Valeria, Ben had been too enthralled with the uniting of the five stones to wait for him. They both agreed he would be safe at the lighthouse. Chris had been unconscious when they took him to St Agnes. He remembered hearing Ben’s voice, the two of them talking. Arguing. The memory was strange. He was alone, below the ground, his hands attached to the walls.
He feared the nightmare was returning.
As the taxi cruised through the heart of the city, the sun-drenched buildings passing by in a wisp of colour, he found himself thinking about other things. The new nightmare was the worst he had faced since the day his life had changed forever.
It had occurred one late spring evening, when out on special operations in the Persian Gulf. The coastal convoy had consisted of a dozen dinghies, all of which had been nearing land. His had been first in the convoy when the mine exploded. The only part of the incident he recalled clearly was the noise that had preceded the impact. As the shell had fragmented, a rogue piece of metal had knocked him unconscious. Debris had struck hard against his right cheek. The scars healed slowly, the damage beneath the surface slower still. The last thing he wanted to do was to quit, but doctors in the forces had never had a reputation for being argued with.
The physical recovery had been tough, but what followed had been even worse. Though the injury continued to cause him problems, the greatest challenge had been to reinvent himself after so many years of training for one single purpose. His only other goal had been to explore: dive the deepest oceans, conquer the tallest mountains, following in the footsteps of TF. As a kid, he remembered his grandmother had read him excerpts from her grandfather’s expeditions, walking in the footsteps of Livingstone. Living that life was a dream, something he had never been able to fulfil.
Until now.
But just as it had for TF, it had ended in tragedy.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. The taxi had come to a stop on a nice-looking street lined with stone buildings. Valeria was standing by the open door, smiling at him.
“Come inside. There is someone you must meet.”
21
Ben was in his element. He was so enthralled by what was in front of him he had barely taken any notice of the journey.
Thanks to Cortés, he was now familiar with the uncut content of the Díaz book. Reading it had been useful for two reasons. Not only was he now clear on what it included, but he also knew what it didn’t.
The differences between the two versions were more subtle than clinical. Ben had first heard of the original book whilst he was still a senior in high school. At college, it had been compulsory reading for one of his modules. Since graduating, he had revisited it again a dozen times. He considered himself an expert on both the book and the subject.
At least until now.
The first half of the narrative seemed to be identical to the shorter version. Díaz had been a soldier in Cortés’s army; the author had witnessed everything first-hand and written about it years later. As far as Ben could tell, the only differences between the famous and the uncut versions concerned the Noche Triste and what followed.
For the first time, he felt as though he were learning new things.
Leaving Colts’s mansion, the journey to Spain had been completed in two stages.
The first had been to leave the hamlet. They set off at 10 p.m. and touched down again at 3 a.m. Juan had chosen to land in the French city of Brest, as it was the only place on the coast where he knew they would receive a warm welcome.
Stage two was to head to Madrid, which meant refuelling the helicopter. By the time they departed, it had already been approaching 6 a.m. It was now 12 p.m.
Tuesday.
Ben knew Madrid well from two previous visits; at the time, he had still been a postgrad on a research trip for his doctorate. He recognised the Palacio Real and the famous cathedral below them as they flew overhead; its famous bells tolled on the wind.
Ben was still unaware of Cortés’s intentions. Juan insisted he needed to visit the city briefly to take care of a business matter, and landed the helicopter on a private rooftop helipad in the heart of the city’s central business district. Seconds later, two suited men appeared at the doors, wide smiles covering their clean-shaven faces as they escorted them inside the building. The lift stopped on the ground floor, where Ben and Danny were offered a coffee and a seat in the lobby. Cortés disappeared.
Twenty minutes later he was still absent.
The lobby was deserted except for Ben and Danny. Internally it felt like any corporate bank; the plush white walls and flooring reflected the midday sun as it seeped in through the undraped windows, creating a light and airy feel that made the room ap
pear larger and cleaner than it actually was. A duo of well-built suited men in their mid-thirties chatted away in their native tongue on headsets behind the reception desk, their wide smiles shining at the unseen callers.
Ben returned to the book by Díaz, scanning the pages rapidly. The author’s account of the Noche Triste was the most detailed he had ever read: Díaz confirmed the exact number dead as 707, which was lower than most accounts, and described Cortés’s despair as momentary. The weeping beneath the tree was real, but lasted less than ten minutes. The account made sense, Ben thought.
He had always found it impossible to believe the great conquistador could have mourned for over a night with so many enemies hot on his tail.
The Noche Triste Treasure had comprised mostly gold; the majority had been brought from outside Tenochtitlán, donated by Montezuma’s followers to help pay the ransom of their imprisoned leader. The looting of the city came later – after the riots broke out. Díaz blamed the Aztecs. As the conquistadors took flight, they departed with whatever they could find. Colts was correct; Díaz had counted fifty chests.
The author didn’t elaborate on their size.
Not for the first time, Ben was confused. If treasure was buried in Extremadura, he reasoned Cortés himself might have brought some of it to Europe after conquering the city, though according to Díaz, three Spanish galleons made it out of Mexico prior to that time, within days of the Noche Triste. If he understood things correctly, Catalina later discovered the riches in Mexico using directions left behind by her grandfather, the majority of the looted treasure hidden by fleeing conquistadors on the way to the coast. Logically, it would not have been possible for the original explorers to salvage the entire hoard whilst being pursued.
Díaz suggested the total treasure available was as large as the city itself.
*
Danny was staring at him from across the lobby, seated with his legs crossed on a black leather couch. He grinned at Ben.
“What?” Ben asked.
Danny looked around, assessing the surroundings. “I’m amazed anyone can stay so calm.”
Ben allowed himself a smile. “I guess being a night manager in a historic inn on an island of almost twenty people, you don’t really get much call for Spanish cut-throats.”
Danny laughed and shrugged. “Aside from filling in the odd daybook entry, ain’t really had much call for anything.”
“Well, you might wanna brace yourself, kid. I have no idea what we’re getting ourselves into.” He surveyed the nearby atrium, wondering where Cortés was.
Instinct still warned Ben not to trust him.
“Interesting book you got there?”
“Yeah.” Ben recalled his conversation with Hammitt and wondered briefly whether the police officer was even making inquiries. “At least now I know what Juan knows.”
Moments later, the lift doors parted and Cortés returned, his arrival heralded by a soft bell-like peal that reverberated throughout the lobby. He carried the same small shoulder bag Ben had first seen back in England and walked with clear purpose.
“You got what you came for?” Ben rose to his feet. His thigh was throbbing, a good sign, he decided. Feeling was returning; the body was mending. The latest stitches were still clean and dry.
Standing no longer carried the same pain.
“Unfortunately I have another urgent appointment I must not fail to keep. I shall return within one hour.”
Ben remained standing. “I have a better idea. We’ll escort you.”
“Please yourself.”
*
The bank was located on a busy street in the heart of the city. Though Ben had never visited it before, he recognised enough of the main sights to make sense of their general position.
Crowds had gathered on the Plaza Mayor, where citizens and tourists lapped up the early afternoon sunshine, some congregating around the famous statue of Philip III to pose for photographs while others occupied tables in preparation for tapas. Crowds of visitors ventured in and out of its various entrances, some heading for the famous Puerta del Sol or west in the direction of the Palacio Real or the Catedral de la Almudena to soak up the sun on the adjoining greenery.
Cortés heralded a taxi and seconds later a modern hatchback pulled up, its white coat decorated with a radiant red stripe across the driver’s door. The driver was a young man in his late twenties with smart designer clothes, a clear departure from the common stereotype. He offered Cortés a hand with the bag, but Juan declined.
“I need to get to this address.” He handed him a small piece of paper and entered the taxi in silence.
*
The taxi headed north, away from the main sights. Ben looked back with a mildly forlorn expression, sad that the elegant buildings of history were being left behind and replaced by a semi-modern metropolis similar to that in any other city in Spain. As the driver headed through the Salamanca district, he watched quietly as the sights of the city passed by. He remembered reading once that the area was one of the region’s wealthiest, the place where the city’s big shots would congregate to do business or return home for a night away from the rat race.
Further north, the outlook changed again, the trappings of wealth replaced by the faces of age. A lone siren reverberated through the open window on the driver’s side, a stark indicator they were entering a different part of town. The faces on the pavement were mostly of darker skin. It was an area where the locals and the immigrants lived side by side in awkward alliance, where an immigrant from South America could find himself a neighbour to a young banker from Bilbao or a pimp from south of the Sahara. Groups of young Muslims congregated outside a mosque on the side of one street, its run-down walls a stark contrast to the nearby futuristic skyscrapers that dominated the skyline like a scene from one of the Star Wars films.
Cortés mumbled something to the driver, who pulled over outside an old building whose once elegant façade now looked in danger of succumbing to even a bee sting. Cortés passed the driver a twenty-euro note and spoke again as he departed.
Ben understood it as being Spanish for, “Keep the meter running.”
Ben exited quickly, Danny following close behind. Cortés had already reached the main doorway, his shoulder bag held firmly between his tanned fingers.
There was an intercom by the door, a white button with the numbers of over fifty apartments listed alongside it. He pressed for one on the third floor, white noise the initial response.
Then a voice.
“Hola?”
Cortés spoke too quickly for Ben to understand. He caught only what he understood to be the name Javi.
A stuttered pause preceded the man’s response, “Lo sentimos, pero nadie de ese nombre vive aquí. No puedo ayudarte.”
The line went dead. Danny asked, “What happened?”
Ben replied, “He said, ‘Sorry, but no one of that name lives here. I cannot help you.’”
Cortés glanced at Ben, neither correcting him nor clarifying. “Perhaps if we are patient, somebody will allow us inside.”
Cortés used his right hand to shield his gaze from the bright reflection against the glass. After a minute of waiting, he saw movement from within, a smart-looking white lady with mixed-coloured hair; she was too busy talking on her mobile phone to pay them close attention.
Cortés caught the door as she left and smiled, entering casually as though he had a right of ownership. He held the door open for Ben, who eyed the nearby walls as he did the same for Danny. The interior was in keeping with the outside, a character Spanish building that he guessed dated from the early 1950s. A lift and stairway connected the ground floor to those above; Cortés had already chosen the stairs.
Ben followed close behind, his footsteps echoing on the uncarpeted steps. A wooden bannister flanked the stairway to his left, decorated in a classical Spanish style. There was a strange smell in the air, besides the obvious tobacco and cannabis. It was in the décor, the fabric; he associated it with hi
story. He knew that many villages that had originally existed on the outskirts of the city had become swallowed by urban sprawl in the Franco era and were now areas of the city itself.
Cortés left the stairway on the third floor and followed the landing to the right. Though the sun was still beating down strongly on the outside concrete, the corridor was shrouded in a dirty gloom that reminded Ben of his grandmother’s attic. He saw Cortés knock on one of the doors, the gentle tapping sound far calmer than his expression. A voice called out from inside, the same voice, enquiring who was knocking.
Cortés turned to Ben.
Ben hesitated and improvised an answer, “Hola, tengo una entrega para . . . uh.”
“Señor Grimaldo,” Cortés said.
“Señor Grimaldo,” Ben continued. I have a delivery for Mr Grimaldo.
“Dejarlo en la puerta.” Leave it by the door.
Ben said the first thing that came into his head, “Mi jefe me matará si lo dejo entre los negros.”
Cortés threw him a shocked stare. Ben looked at Danny and grimaced. “Sorry.”
Danny was confused. “What did he say?”
Ben heard laughter from inside. “Si, si.” A chain moved from side to side, following which the door opened. A man appeared, about six feet two, toned arms and wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. The smell of tequila was evident on his breath while thin facial hair circled his lips, scarring his otherwise clean face like tyre grease on asphalt. Ben placed him in his late twenties.
The man took one look at Cortés and recoiled.
Cortés pushed hard against the door and entered without an invitation. The man in white stumbled backwards, making a beeline beyond the couch. Cortés came down on him and pushed the man’s head against the dirty upholstery. The man shouted in Spanish, a weak and submissive tone.
“Where is she?” Cortés demanded in Spanish, releasing his bag and pulling the man to his feet. Closing the door behind him, Ben saw blood pouring from the man’s head.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 44
