The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation
Page 49
Ben had a feeling he knew the answer.
The sound faded, replaced by quiet. As the seconds passed, Ben heard footsteps descending the stairs, the person responsible clearly making no attempt to conceal their whereabouts. Cortés appeared halfway down, his eyes immediately fixed on Maria.
Maria looked at him and prepared to run. “No!”
Cortés hurried to the bottom and grabbed her as she attempted to open the front door. Loud screams filled the room, Juan eventually stifling them with his strong hands. For several seconds Ben watched Maria struggle, her legs kicking wildly as the muscular Spaniard dangled her in mid-air. Her face was panicked, her cheeks puffed like a drowning animal desperate for air.
Cortés, meanwhile, was in complete control. His eyes were angry, his jaw locked in a tight grimace. His face reddened as Maria kicked out; her sharp stilettos dug into his shins. Whispering in her ear in Spanish, he pulled her away from the door and threw her down on to the couch, catching her with a hard slap from the back of his hand.
Maria burst into tears. A purple bruise materialised immediately, scarring just below her right eye. No sooner had Cortés hit her, he raised his hand a second time.
Ben immediately intervened. “Juan, leave her.” He barely heard his own words over the sounds of sobbing. Maria had retreated into the couch, her naked back visible as she buried her face in the soft exterior.
Ben blocked Juan’s path and pushed him away. “What the hell is wrong with you? You just hit her.”
Cortés offered no remorse. “The brethren of the mad emperor are no humans, as you know. They are venom from another world. You, yourself, have seen only too clearly the treachery of which they are capable.”
“That still doesn’t give you the right to go around hitting innocent women.”
“You speak to me of innocent women. You know nothing of her background.”
“Be that as it may, no sister is ever responsible for the sins of her sister.”
“You Americans are always the same, with your New Age gospel. You saw with your own eyes. Her sister is a cold-blooded murderer.”
The words roused Maria. “You dare speak of my sister that way. You are nothing but an arrogant pig.”
She spat; phlegm covered Juan’s face and chin. He looked contemptuously at her, wiped it away and raised his fist.
“Juan.” Ben grabbed him from the side, Danny doing the same from the other. Using the opportunity, Maria crossed the floor and reached for the phone. She made it to the second digit before Juan broke free and snatched the receiver from her hand. He grasped her by the scruff of the neck and raised his voice.
“Tell me where she is.”
Maria’s face again flooded with tears. “I hate you!”
“Where is she?” Cortés tightened his grip on Maria’s dress, raising her so high she was forced to rise to her tiptoes.
Ben lifted himself from the floor, slightly wounded from the punch Cortés had employed to free himself.
“Juan, release her. Come on, that’s enough.”
Cortés felt a new sense of power running through him. Only one precise snap and it would all be over. He looked her in the eye and watched her squirm.
Finally he released her. Her tired body crashed down on the carpet.
Ben bent down on one knee, approaching Maria tentatively. He placed his hands to her cheeks and examined her, seeing nothing but fear in her eyes, her heavy breathing overwhelmed by sobbing.
He looked at Juan. “I hope you’re satisfied.”
Cortés wiped his hands on his jeans. “I won’t be satisfied until we are a long way from here; that way I will no longer have to be haunted by the face of my former wife.”
Ben thought he was hearing things. “Your ex-wife?”
Juan ignored him. “However, I do not expect that to happen soon.”
He looked at Danny, who was standing nervously against the wall. “You. Put the kettle on.”
*
The only liquids in the house were water and sangria. Ben helped Danny arrange things in the kitchen while Maria disappeared into the bathroom. Cortés had also vanished; he returned ten minutes later with two large shopping bags.
“What you got there?” Ben asked, confused.
“I refuse to eat food prepared by people I cannot trust.”
Ben let the comment go. The sandwich he had eaten in Madrid had tided him over, but now he was ravenous. The concierge in the hotel had told him the restaurant closed at nine; he didn’t know the city well enough to know where to go for dinner or tapas.
He had seen enough of the kitchen to know Juan had been right to take on supplies. There were cold meats in the fridge, some bread in one of the cupboards. He guessed from Maria’s physique, she was probably more of a salad eater than a carnivore.
Ben turned to Danny. “Did you know they were married?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“Valeria said she was getting divorced. Didn’t talk about her husband ever.”
“When was this?”
“She came to stay. About three years ago.”
Danny was still nervous; Ben noticed his hands shaking as he poured boiling water from the kettle into the empty mugs.
“Careful.” Ben guided his hand. “Remember. It’s just another morning serving breakfast at the Gibbous Moon.”
“I never did breakfasts. Mr Nicholl put me on nights, as I was too clumsy.”
Ben grinned at him. “In that case, why don’t you fix his lordship a sangria?”
Maria returned five minutes after Juan. Re-entering from the stairway, the impact of her stilettos on the wooden flooring again clearly audible, her newfound calmness turned to fury on seeing Cortés using one of her plates to tuck into a cold meat salad.
“How dare you use Abuela’s crockery? If only she could see you now.”
Cortés wiped his mouth and looked down at the plate. “I assure you, I would not have touched it had I known.”
Alongside him, Ben was doing much the same. “We’ve been on the road all day,” Ben replied, a half-truth – unwilling to reveal their exact itinerary since leaving Cornwall. “Juan just brought some groceries.”
“I never realised Angel stayed open this late,” Juan said. “He must be over seventy now.”
Maria’s eyes were again on the point of watering. “Why do you come?”
“We came for your sister. Where is she?”
“How did you find me?”
“Valeria said you lived in Madrid,” Ben said. “We visited your old apartment.”
“She told you my address?”
“No. Juan knew.”
She gave Cortés another look of distaste. “You spoke to Javi?”
“Yes.”
She grinned deliberately. “Does he miss me?”
Juan rose to his feet and threw the plate against the wall; it shattered into small pieces. “Do not waste my time with your manipulative games. I have asked you already, where is your sister?”
“I do not know where she is. Look for yourself; she is not here. Why do you bother me?”
“It’s very important we find her.” Ben got to his feet, gesturing Cortés to remain calm. “I’m looking for my cousin. I understand they’re together.”
“They’re romantic?”
Ben doubted it. “It’s really important I find him.”
Maria paused to compose herself. “I’m sorry. I cannot help you. I am not my sister.”
“It is because of your sister we are here,” Ben said.
Cortés pushed Ben aside and approached Maria again, his face inching ever closer. “Show me your phone. Your emails. Show me everything.”
Maria hesitated.
“Search her phone; find her computer.” Juan barked orders at no one in particular.
“Juan,” Ben said.
“Do not be deceived by her actions. The apple never falls far from the tree. She has been searching for it as long as the others.”
Cortés grabbed her tightly around her shoulders. “Show me your phone.”
*
It took over ten minutes for Ben to calm her down. Cortés had disappeared again, while Danny sat nervously on the couch. Juan had found her iPhone and examined the text messages and call register.
None of the numbers included a UK area code.
Maria sat contemptuously, smoking a strong local-brand cigarette, and facing away from everyone.
“I understand you work as a dancer,” Ben said, desperately hoping that he could somehow alleviate the tension. “Valeria said you worked in a club in Madrid.”
Maria inhaled on her cigarette, a red glow lighting up her face as she took a lengthy drag before exhaling. “You know her well?”
“Only a few days.” He glanced at Danny, who said nothing. “You live here permanently?”
Maria centred her gaze on Danny, considered asking him a question, but returned her focus to Ben. “Are you interested in my personal life, or are you just trying to make small talk?”
A wry smile. “Whatever bad blood exists between Juan and your family is none of my business. But what is my business is my own family. And right now, I don’t know where my cousin is, other than that he is with your sister.”
Maria’s expression warmed slightly; her smile inadvertently showing evidence of a bruise beneath what he guessed were several layers of recently applied makeup. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be disturbed. Why spoil his fun?”
“I didn’t know your sister was like that.”
Her expression immediately angered. “Who are you?”
Ben gave her the short answer, centring on his career at Dartmouth.
“Why did you go to St Mary’s?”
He told her about TF, choosing not to elaborate. He remembered the story was public knowledge anyway, not that she was likely to google it anytime soon.
If she was telling the truth, she didn’t even have a computer.
She brushed her hair to one side and turned her attention to Danny. “Why are you here?”
The re-emergence of Juan left the question hanging. Cortés appeared at the top of the stairs, seething. He carried something behind his back.
“When was the last time the slimy eel was here?”
Maria rose to her feet, furious. “How dare you . . .”
“Answer me. When?”
“She has not stepped foot inside this house for ten years.”
“In that case, how can you explain this?”
Juan revealed a dark jacket from behind his back. It was tight and smelled of leather, the size probably small ladies. There were rips on both sides and what appeared to be bloodstains around the collar.
Ben raised an eyebrow, almost speechless. “That’s the jacket she was wearing in the mine.” He rose to his feet, took it and breathed in the scent. Though dusty stains were prevalent, nearer the collar he sensed the peculiar aroma of perfume mixed with sweat.
“It’s her scent.”
“I thought you said she was with your cousin?”
Ben was suddenly angry. “She must have been here recently. Just answer the question. Where the hell are they?”
Maria retreated as Ben closed in on her, stopping as her back came into contact with the wall. Cortés joined from the side and raised his hand to her throat.
Suddenly he stopped.
The sound of Juan’s ringing mobile phone jolted everyone into silence. He removed it from his pocket and slid his finger across the screen to answer.
Ben watched him, noticing a sudden change in his attitude. “What the hell is it?”
Cortés’s face had reached a new level of fury.
“Juan?”
Juan’s gaze remained fixed on the small screen, his jaw so tight Ben thought his face was going to explode. Leaving Maria, Ben walked to Cortés’s left and looked down at the screen.
A video was playing in black and white, clearly some form of surveillance footage. Two figures were moving throughout a peculiar-looking room; the screen wasn’t large enough to make sense of everything.
As the camera zoomed in on the two figures, he recognised them.
30
It was a feeling Valeria had never experienced before; to describe it as a dream become reality was still too great a leap. The stories she had been told during her childhood, repeated again during adulthood, began to replay over in her mind as though she were watching a film in her subconscious. She recognised nothing of what she saw; until moments earlier she had never known the room existed.
Yet, somehow, she knew that fate had guided her there like a moth to a flame.
The present room was smaller than the previous two, but still large enough to make her feel insignificant. Replacing the frescoed forests and wildlife, she found herself once again surrounded by oak panelling in a warm and inviting space.
She found a light switch close to the door; the light flickered before providing full illumination. Visually, the room was like a gentleman’s study, the decorations dating from all of the previous five centuries. At its centre were four rows of bookcases, each filled with historic manuscripts, the majority protected by some form of animal skin.
Close to the wall in front of her was an antique desk, its wooden surface cluttered by a strange mix of oil lamps, candelabra and more modern equipment, as if depicting a historical timeline of devices used throughout the last four centuries. Despite being located below the great hall, the room had one window, of chamfered ecclesiastical design, filled with leaded glass that reminded her of those salvaged from the church on St Lide’s. On the glass was a brightly coloured figure of a conquistador.
His identity, she guessed, self-explanatory.
Around the window, the oak panelling continued, covering once again the austere stonework of the walls. Again, the room contained artwork, but what she saw had little in common with either of the previous rooms. Two large tapestries draped the left wall, both displaying scenes of warring armies. It was a room that could have served any number of purposes. While the décor suggested a religious pedigree, she sensed from the furnishings that its use had been more academic. Though an outsider could have branded its furnishings miscellaneous, she sensed that the eclectic assortment was in its own way special. It was both a study and a hideaway. A place of refuge for a man of purpose.
Used to help fulfil that purpose.
“This is Cortés’s study.” Valeria barely believed her own words.
Standing a few feet behind her, Chris bore the expression of a man still waiting to be impressed. Though he had never met Juan Cortés personally, Valeria’s descriptions during the past two days had helped create a vivid picture in his mind of a man devoid of noble qualities and obsessed by greed. Rather than witnessing the study of a modern man of business, he saw only a dark room rich in historic value and the legacy of a long-dead architect. Despite the museum-like quality, he felt no great sense of awe or mystery.
If the room was still in use, it had been kept in the style of its past.
“This is his study?” Chris was confused. “Where’s the equipment? His computer? Printer? Fax machine?”
Valeria looked at him and shook her head. “No. This was the study of Hernán Cortés.”
*
Ben felt his heart leap in his chest. The sight of Chris walking confidently, almost strutting, across the hazy screen, arms by his side, his eyes vigilant, was like a rerun from the past when his previously unscarred self had travelled the world, taking on great dangers like a true seafarer. He could tell from the footage that Chris was uninjured, any jerkiness in movement instead caused by the quality of the broadband. Chris was in control, even if not in command.
Another had taken that position.
Standing alongside him, Cortés was seething; even compared to a few minutes ear
lier, Ben had never seen him so angry. His jaw was tight, his breathing loud, his eyes fixed on the screen.
“Where the hell is that?” Ben asked. It was clear from the screen he was watching footage set up via some form of instant communications network, almost certainly live. “Juan?”
Cortés tossed the phone to the couch, slapped Maria hard across the face and picked her up by her dress. “How did they get into my vaults?”
On this occasion, Ben ignored Maria’s incessant screams, choosing instead to retrieve Cortés’s phone from the couch. The video was still playing; there was a timer located in the bottom right corner, which confirmed it was showing in real time. The location was clearly indoors, the furnishings curiously regal. Ben sensed they were inside a castle or possibly a church or museum.
Chris was keeping his distance from Valeria, intrigued by two large tapestries that hung from the nearby wall. He was armed, which was a surprise; on closer inspection he realised it was the same gun Colts had lost in the mine.
Ben couldn’t put into words how happy he was to see him.
Yet suddenly the question arose.
Where were they and what were they doing?
*
The tapestries were interesting. The first was located midway along the left wall and appeared to be a two-dimensional representation of a primitive city located on a lake and surrounded by mountains and jungle. Its features compared with what he had seen in the previous room; Chris recognised it immediately as Tenochtitlán.
An even greater clue was the inclusion of humans of varying skin colours, the white men in the minority. He recognised other sights in the background, in particular the famous Templo Mayor; he had seen it once before, ironically with Ben. While his real-life experience had been as a tourist, surrounded by the modern noises and pollution of the world’s largest city, the tapestry in front of him was more clinical. A series of bodies lay decapitated at the top of the great stairway, their blood staining the steps and running down into the lake. Lower down, he noticed the greatest of the natives being carried on a litter, his face partially hidden by leaves. He was addressing the leader of the white men, whose appearance was unmistakably Spanish. Cortés’s group was small, thirteen in total.