The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  “Your sister told me you lived in Madrid. I take it you must have moved recently?”

  She smiled at Ben as she sat down. “You are also very observant. I moved here only a few months ago. The house originally belonged to my grandparents. As you can see, I’m still looking forward to making the place my own.”

  “Would that include the same grandmother who lives on St Agnes?”

  “You have met her?”

  “I briefly had the pleasure.”

  “My family have always had an interest in property. My grandfather owned many houses throughout Extremadura.”

  “Where are you from originally?”

  “I was born here, but grew up in Roturas. It’s a small village near the Sierra de las Villuercas mountains. About an hour away from here.”

  Ben nodded, quietly studying her features. She was definitely like her sister: the eyes, the cheekbones, the silky but delicate nature of her skin; however, this woman seemed different, more streetwise. She had the aura of a dancer. On her left arm there were two tattoos, one close to her wrist, words written in Spanish.

  As far as he had been able to tell, Valeria possessed no such scars.

  “What does it mean?” Ben asked, stalling for time. If Cortés was true to his word, he would arrive imminently.

  She smiled at Ben. “It is a line I heard once – a proverb. It says that ‘She who fights with monsters should look to it that she herself should not become a monster’.”

  “Don’t fight fire with fire, you mean?”

  She looked at him intently. “Sometimes life can be hard; people put on you, demand great things, or treat you unkind. It is in times like these, it is extra important to remain centred. Just because someone is cruel to us, does not give us the right to do the same to others.”

  Ben raised an eyebrow. He thought about her sister in the mine.

  “No truer words were ever spoken.”

  Silence fell, noticeably awkward. Maria looked at her guests from her seat, raised her shoulders and smiled.

  “So . . . what brings you to Mérida?”

  Danny leaned to Ben’s left and whispered, “I can’t do this.”

  Ben turned his head to make sure his words remained out of earshot. “You heard what Juan said; we just have to wait for him to enter.”

  *

  Juan’s only option was the balcony. Due to the layout of the surrounding streets, there was no rear entrance.

  He brought up Maps on his phone and double-checked the locality. The house itself was located on Calle Romero Leal, adjacent to Calle Santa Catalina, which flanked the Roman ruins to the east. Though both were deserted, he knew he couldn’t discount the possibility of being observed. The local smells served as a reminder that human activity was close by, aromas from nearby restaurants whetting the appetite of anyone who might pass by. The temperature was warm, despite the late hour; business as usual, he mused. With the sun disappeared behind the mountains, the artificial lights of the city created a softer atmosphere, one a would-be intruder would find easier to exploit.

  He waited patiently by the ruins, surveying the area from the north side. As Danny and Ben disappeared inside, he left his hiding place in the shadows and passed the front door, pausing briefly beneath the balcony. He could hear voices along the street, an elderly British couple enjoying a late expedition to the ruins. He smiled at them as they passed and moved on, considering his options.

  The balcony was far too high to climb without assistance.

  A tapas bar was open a few doors along from the house. He entered it and smiled at the waitress behind the bar.

  “Estamos cerrando,” the woman fired. We’re closing.

  “Sólo una pequeña Coca-Cola,” he returned. Just a small Coke.

  She opened the fridge behind her and pulled out a glass bottle of Coca-Cola while Juan used the opportunity to take in the interior. The bar was modern and spacious, with clean white walls and a menu written in chalk on a blackboard. Two red doors, located close to the entrance, were marked with the symbols for male and female, while at the opposite end a series of tables and chairs were fixed permanently to the floor.

  He couldn’t see any sign of an upstairs.

  The woman returned with his Coke in a glass and charged him two euros. He handed over the change.

  “Gracias. Una bebida rápida y voy a dejar,” Cortés said, taking a first sip. A quick drink and I’ll leave.

  *

  Lucila had been working since 9 a.m. Normally she only worked the school day hours, as they were the only times the kids didn’t require supervision. That had all changed six weeks earlier when the boss told her redundancies were coming, and those lucky enough to stay would need to make sacrifices. In a way, she knew she was lucky; with the idiot out of work and out of her life, it was a job she couldn’t afford to lose.

  The bar always closed at ten. Tapas would remain available to order till thirty minutes before closing, at which point customers were forewarned they were out of luck. The clock on the wall displayed the time as 9:52. The deadline had passed and the chef had already left.

  Food would have to wait till the morning.

  The last thing she had expected was another customer. Every now and then a tourist, usually from England or America, would head in hoping for a late snack, only to leave disappointed. This man didn’t look like a foreigner. Even if he wasn’t a native of the city, he was clearly a Spaniard.

  She stood quietly behind the bar as the man sipped his drink. Though physically he was appealing, his confident posture and soapbox charm immediately raised a red flag as she remembered the day she had met her ex-husband. In appearance the two men were similar with well-groomed facial hair and an active persona that gave off a sense of natural charisma, but she had soon learned better than to trust appearances.

  Guys who came alone usually came with one purpose.

  She watched him discreetly in the shiny surface of the rear counter as she restacked glasses, waiting for 10 p.m. to pass. She glanced across the counter as the customer replaced his glass, unclear from the small amount of liquid that remained whether he was finished or not.

  “El baño?” he asked. The toilets.

  Just what I need, she thought. “La puerta a su derecha.” The door on your right. She neglected to add, the one you passed on your way in.

  The man smiled as he left his seat and followed her directions. Two minutes later he returned.

  “Yo creo que hay una fuga,” the man told her on exiting the gents’. I think there is a leak.

  What? Lucila thought. Though personally she had not entered the male toilets since the beginning of her shift, he was the first to mention a problem.

  She smiled at Cortés and left the counter, pleased to see him leave as she did so. She entered the toilets and discovered a small puddle on the floor. One of the sinks was partially full, the plughole jammed with tissue paper. She turned the taps to make sure all were off and checked the plumbing.

  The blockage aside, all appeared well.

  Returning, she waited for the clock to hit 10 p.m. before locking the main doors. With no further mishaps, she departed through the rear entrance, hoping she would return to find the kids already tucked up in bed.

  *

  Juan waited for the woman to enter the toilets before re-entering the bar. He hated anything that even remotely resembled vandalism, but today, he decided, it had been a necessary evil.

  The door to the kitchen was behind the counter. The stairs to the second floor were close by, the area designated staff only. Climbing the stairs to the top, he entered the first room he saw on the rear side of the building and found himself in a cluttered office with views over a small courtyard. Being on the top floor, the window opened out on to the roof area.

  He eased it open and carefully climbed out on to the roof of the adjoining building.

  28

  The first thing Valeria saw was a stairway, just as her grandmother had described. The narrow s
tone blocks descended clockwise into a dark, cold void; the recesses were dusty and coated in spider webs. After carefully feeling along the wall without luck for a light switch, they switched on their torches and proceeded cautiously.

  The stairwell ended after forty-two steps. The air seemed cleaner at the bottom, the surroundings less enclosed. The walls were foreboding, like those of the castle above; the ceiling descended at the same angle as the stairwell before levelling out at a stone archway.

  Valeria followed Chris through the archway, discovering a series of switches on the other side. She flicked them in sequence, sudden illumination revealing a busy room with a varied array of furniture. The setting was old, but she sensed probably not contemporary to the original structure; more likely it had been built as a cellar or dungeon, later refurbished. The décor was luxurious; the oak panelling appeared fresh, recently varnished, its impressive brown casing reflecting the light and smelling somewhat regal. The layout was difficult to define: the walls seemed to expand on both sides like a widening tunnel before ending abruptly at a far wall.

  Valeria moved cautiously, keeping close to Chris initially before curiosity led her to the right side of the room where the panelled walls were decorated with portraits. Examining them, she noticed a pattern: each was oil on canvas, of identical size – approximately four feet by two – and of gallery-like quality. Unlike those she had seen on the higher floors whose elegant figures were adorned in the garb of later centuries, the clothing of these was older and more prominent. All of the subjects were male, their rugged faces covered with rough facial hair and wearing white ruffs around their necks.

  Though she didn’t recognise the majority, two faces at the far end needed no introduction.

  The one on the left was looking left of the artist, his famous dark hair partially hidden by a stylish round hat with a brace of feathers sticking out the far end. A vivid red, tightly fitted cloak covered his armoured torso, while strong, serious eyes completed a face that seemed to convey a deep inner thoughtfulness, an impression enhanced by distinguished flecks of grey hair within the black of the man’s beard.

  The figure on the right was of similar prominence, his ornately noble attire topped off with the feather-adorned headwear of a Spanish officer. His beard, though rugged, was refined, as if trimmed specifically for the occasion, the length complementing that of his hair. Strong brown eyes matched his hair and garb, and were looking straight ahead with an ambiguous stare that appeared neither evil nor welcoming. Both were the expressions of men painted at the height of their power and confidence. They were men whose legacy consisted only of two things: war and victory. Neither was ranked higher than the other. Just as in life, they stood side by side. Independent. Dignified. Their names were engraved into the panels in bold lettering.

  Francisco Pizarro and Hernán Cortés.

  Valeria felt her entire body go numb. Rather than seek to find logic or understanding in her surroundings, she allowed herself time to fully take in what she was seeing. Both compositions were superb, the sixteenth-century canvases in excellent condition thanks to their positioning away from damp and sunlight. If the colours had faded at any point, they had since been touched up. Their existence was no mystery. They were the legacy of a great family.

  One from which she claimed descent.

  Her gaze lingered on the portrait of Cortés. As she studied his eyes, she found herself remembering where she was, what great things had recently been uncovered. At least part of his great treasure had now been found, a mission that had begun in secret and ended in total isolation. When Catalina’s story was discovered, it wasn’t by great soldiers but an antiquarian, a bespectacled man from London, whose own life was destined to end in similar circumstances. The treasure would not be found again for over a century.

  By herself.

  And his descendant.

  A man destined to meet the same end.

  The wall ended inches to the left of the Pizarro portrait and a new line of pictures began directly adjacent, these solely of female subjects. Valeria looked at the first and felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest. Within an elegant oval frame, the woman wore a timeless expression: firm and unflustered. Alongside her, another woman with almost identical features bore the same expression: dark brown eyes displayed unbreakable concentration that even five centuries later instilled Valeria with confidence and trust.

  Their fearsomeness aside, the first thing that struck her about both subjects was their beauty, particularly the younger of the two; from her strong features radiated a steely inner belief that brought a devilish curl to her lips and charismatic aura to her cheeks. Their hair, like the majority, was dark and worn long with a flowing appearance that gave the impression that it had been caught for all time in a gentle breeze. Even before Valeria saw the labels, she knew exactly who they were. The family resemblance, both to those of the present and the past, was clear.

  Both captions read Catalina Cortés.

  The mother and the daughter.

  The daughter and the granddaughter.

  “Hey, come over here.”

  Valeria had been so engrossed with the portraits she had forgotten she wasn’t alone.

  Chris was standing at the opposite side of the room, pointing towards the far wall. Like those she had already passed, it was clad in rich oak panelling, the wood well varnished but without any noticeable decoration.

  Crossing the room, her leather hiking boots echoing against the wooden flooring, she realised he was pointing at a narrow passageway that led somewhere beyond the room. After ten metres the layout changed again, the cramped surroundings giving way to something more open.

  She looked around, breathless, as though waking up from a dream. While the previous chamber had been like a subterranean long gallery, what followed was unlike anything she had ever seen, either in Spain or further afield. Though the walls appeared to be solid, the oak panelling had been replaced by frescos of lush forest and mountains. The floor, initially a continuation of the wooden boarding from the previous room, was now covered with strange, soft tiles painted to replicate a grassy meadow that ended several metres ahead at water. A set of switches controlled overhead lighting; it wasn’t until she pressed every one of them that she realised the room’s greatest secrets still awaited her. Everything about it was symmetrical, from the way the floor ahead split, to the way two stairways spiralled upward to what appeared to be a viewing gallery.

  She climbed the left stairwell quickly, her heart pounding as she prepared to gaze across the strange location for the first time.

  What she saw left her speechless. From her new position, she noticed that the perfectly symmetrical layout was not only a clever feat of design and construction but almost certainly a close replica of something that had previously existed.

  Where the tiling ended, the floor took the shape of what could only be described as a model city floating in the middle of a lake. The water glowed a bright azure as countless gallons passed through impeccably carved channels that were lined with a thick blue brick. With the lights on, the water created a unique rainbow effect, like sunlight passing through rain. The city was accessible from three points: three metre-wide passageways at the south, west and north.

  The significance of the room was clear, even without further explanation. She had entered a place unlike any other in the known world. A room inspired by history.

  A model representation of the greatest city of the New World.

  As it had existed at its zenith.

  “Hey, check this out.”

  Chris was standing several metres behind her, his face again a picture of excitement. Among the make-believe foliage, she noticed a further passageway leading to a small chamber.

  She stopped immediately and placed her hand to her mouth.

  “Oh my God.”

  29

  “What do you mean, my sister is missing?” Maria asked. Her previously welcoming smile had faded somewhat.

  Ben
smiled awkwardly and glanced at Danny, allowing himself a moment to gather his thoughts. Telling her everything would be impossible. Even if Maria somehow managed to even remotely understand what had happened during the past week, he knew that disclosing to her their every secret would be completely to his disadvantage.

  “I mean exactly what I just told you. Valeria has been missing for two days. So has your grandmother.”

  Maria threw Ben a scornful look, rose to her feet and began to pace around the room. Though the floor was carpeted, her stilettos still echoed as they made contact with the well-worn surface.

  “I don’t understand.” She looked at Ben, clearly disturbed. “How can you know this?”

  The question was where to start. “Well, that’s kinda a long story, but suffice it to say, one that both of us can validate. Two days ago, I was with your sister and another man in Cornwall. The next day she disappeared.” He studied her reaction. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Maria replied in a hesitant tone. “These days we don’t talk so much.”

  “When was the last time?”

  She delayed giving a response. “I cannot say. A week maybe, perhaps two. Oh my God. Poor Abuela.” She shifted her attention to Danny. “What were you doing in Cornwall?”

  Ben bit his lip and glanced at Danny, hoping the boy would finally add to the conversation. The only plan Ben had was to make things up as they went along; Cortés had been vague about the exact timing of his entry. An awkward thought entered Ben’s mind.

  What do we do if he can’t get in?

  A loud series of thuds reverberated from the floor above. He saw Maria jump frantically before moving fearfully towards the foot of the stairs. In the absence of prior knowledge, the sound could have been caused by almost anything.