Among the city gardens, nature lovers rambled along the designated pathways, many stopping to enjoy a coffee or a quick breakfast before continuing their journey to work. Students crowded the university campus, young adults of every background, confidence, creed and characteristic ambling out of the dorms as they prepared for final exams or enjoyed a few days of end-of-term relaxation before heading home.
Cortés had chosen a small café located on Calle Regalado. Located in the historic district, it was, according to the Spaniard, the perfect place to monitor the exterior of the bank without arousing suspicion.
They had chanced upon an unoccupied outdoor table and ordered coffees and breakfast. Ben had no idea what he had chosen.
Only that Juan recommended it.
Ben sipped his coffee slowly, savouring the rich, smooth flavour as he looked around at the neighbouring area. The street had a quaint intimate feel, enhanced greatly by the present lack of cars. A pleasant aroma of various foods wafted through the doors of various eateries, encouraging hungry customers in off the street. Like the city they had just left, the local façades displayed a somewhat uneasy and unsympathetic amalgamation of the past and present, a development he guessed would have baffled the original architects.
At the top of the street, the great cathedral loomed dominantly beyond a collection of one-way signs, its great white stone drenched in shadow. He remembered from his previous visit that the building had never been completed according to the original design and it was officially regarded as ‘unfinished’.
Ben had passed the journey rereading the book by Díaz. Scanning the pages a second time, he noticed the text ended abruptly, suggesting pages had been torn out.
“Díaz’s uncut account suggests that together there are five stones, and that only together do they point to the true location of the original gold. I assume you were aware of all this?”
“Do you really have nothing better to talk about?”
Ben noticed Cortés was distant. His eyes were focused solely on the historic building located about thirty metres away across the road. The name and logo read Banco Ramírez.
“I take it what they stole was one of the originals?”
“Do you honestly think me so irresponsible to let something so precious out of sight?”
“As a matter of fact, I was actually thinking the opposite. The model was incredible. Only a person acting with near perfect knowledge would have known it was there.”
Ben still had no idea how Chris knew where to look.
“The stolen items will be found. Soon, both of our problems will be solved. And you, at long last, will be reunited with your cousin.”
Ben still doubted Cortés would be willing to forgive Chris so easily. “So who created it? If you don’t mind my asking?”
“The book?”
“No, the model.”
Cortés took a sip from his drink. “Ask yourself a question. What makes a work of art?”
“Is that a philosophical question, or are you merely making conversation?”
“When you visit a great gallery and see a painting, say, of a beautiful landscape. What is it the best ones have in common?”
Ben shrugged. “I guess that their creators painted what they saw and took great pleasure in doing it.”
“Precisely. When the conquest of the New World was over, the old city was left in pieces. When the first paintings were commissioned, the city had already changed beyond recognition.”
“Not exactly your people’s finest hour.”
“A travesty for antiquities, I will concede. But even among the original number there were very few who saw the city for what it was. They called it paradise.”
“Floating on a lake, I’m familiar with the description.”
“It is not the buildings that make the city, any more than a man is defined solely by his looks. It is often what goes on behind the walls that makes a thing beautiful.”
“If you ask me, the whole story contains one of history’s great paradoxes. The city of Tenochtitlán was, if we believe the original accounts, one of the most beautiful ever constructed. Yet, the people who built it also willingly spilt the blood of their own people because they feared the sun would never rise again if they didn’t. How is it possible that people whose lives were frequently surrounded by blood and gore could create something so beautiful; how could it be possible that the same people whose architects and builders were capable of such artistic creativity could also believe it necessary to slaughter over half a million people?”
Cortés smiled. “I read a chronicle once by an Englishman who held a similar view. He posed a great many questions about the legal ramifications of the conquest . . .”
“Legal ramifications?”
“When the conquest of the New World was over, the people of Tenochtitlán needed to be relocated. Before the Spaniards arrived, the people of the city had owned land and been able to support themselves and their families. But what they had possessed was taken away. I remember he posed the question, just who exactly was the real enemy? Were the savages those who sacrificed their own people or those who later took away their land.”
“Spoken by the ancestor of the chief culprit.”
Juan smiled philosophically. “I make no pretence, there are things my ancestor did that I cannot fully support or approve. That he was a man of his time, I can accept, but he would not have been looked down upon even then had he chosen to live the peaceful life of a regular soldier.”
“It sounds as if you don’t like him at all.”
“In life, you tend to find that the greatest people in civilisation often defy generalisation. There is a saying associated with him, ‘I love travelling, but hate arriving.’ I can relate to that.”
“The thrill is in the adventure,” Ben mused. “Sounds like a fair philosophy.”
“I suppose it is the same for many people. Mankind thrives only when it is progressing. When that progress comes to a halt, man loses his purpose.”
“Is hunting for gold a purpose?”
“My grandfather once told me that after the Second World War, he came across a group of people whose sole purpose had been the successful recovery of stolen artwork. In total, twelve men were assigned to risk their lives for its recovery. Let me ask you another question, Ben. Look at that cathedral in front of you. Is it worth saving?”
“Of course.”
“Yet what if in order to save it, you were required to sacrifice every person who will visit it today?”
“That’s hardly likely, is it?”
“But if it was?”
Ben sipped his coffee and licked the frothy liquid away with his tongue. “Personally I would say yes.”
“Because you value the building more greatly than human life?”
“No. Because without that legacy, how can we remember how humanity has evolved?”
Juan nodded in agreement. “Precisely.”
A waitress emerged through the main door, carrying a tray with two plates. Her long brown hair had a glossy shine as it caught the sunlight, matching the vibrancy of her cheeks and shade of her lipstick.
She smiled at Ben as she placed his plate down before doing the same for Juan as she left.
Ben noticed Cortés’s gaze follow her back to the door.
“They are not all like her, you know,” Cortés said, unfolding his napkin and preparing to make a start. On examining the plates, Ben realised they had both been served with omelettes.
“What are you talking about?”
“Girls are a lot different in Spain when compared to America. They like men to be men, where they can sit back and enjoy a pleasant way of life.”
“Sounds like anywhere else in the world to me.”
“They do not share the materialistic traits of some of your Western friends. If a shiny necklace is placed around her pretty neck, she might accept it because it is a gesture of generosity from the man she loves. If a man tries to please her with bribes for affecti
on, she will never walk with him to the altar. That is why Spain has a great history of trailblazing. A man knows his position is greatly enhanced when he strives for greatness.”
“So what you’re saying is that the fall of the Aztecs was all your great-great-great-great-grandmother’s fault.” Ben took the first bite of his omelette, which was heavily seasoned in a strong peppery coating that overpowered his taste buds.
He washed it down with orange juice.
“So what about you?” Ben moved on. “Do you have a señorita of your own? Since your divorce, that is.”
Cortés grinned wryly. “A man should never let want and fear guide his life. If a man is strong, he will allow his chosen mate to arrive in her own time. It is only when a man loses his centre he becomes fearful. Fearful men are weak. It is the weak man who must watch himself. If he is not careful, he will become the target of a gold-digger.” He smiled at Ben. “So what about you? If indeed I need ask.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Ah.” The Spaniard sipped his drink. “Remember, it is only the foolish man that allows life to become complicated.”
“What are you, a therapist now?”
Cortés took that as a compliment. “All women dream of being in love – and to be in a love story. Even if her man is not perfect, it is only in the courtship she can experience the true bliss of being truly desired. Think about this: if a woman goes about her daily life – be it in the city, the town, or a small village in the mountains – what has she to do but dream? When an opportunity to live that dream arises, would you really blame her should she take action?”
“Are you sympathising with your ex-wife now?” Ben glanced at the middle finger of his left hand. “I notice you kept the ring.”
Juan turned his hand over, revealing the ring’s features as it caught the sun. Unlike a typical wedding ring, the body was deeply cut and seemingly engraved. “This was actually once the property of my great ancestor; tradition has it he was given it as a gift by his famous host. For over four hundred years it has remained in my family, despite the attempts of others to displace it.” A wry smile. “Both my former wife and her sister have spent much of their lives until now living in isolation. They may have been born in Mérida, but much of their childhoods were spent in a small village surrounded by the great steppes and dehesas.”
“Are all the people in her village greedy manipulators?”
“Valeria was not always like she is now. Ever since her move to that wretched island, her grandmother has been poisoning her mind with tales of hidden treasure. If the true descendant of Montezuma spends her lonely days in a decrepit lighthouse surrounded by sea, she either takes inspiration or allows herself to become crushed. When a relative or loved one adds colour to the dream, is it not natural she should be distracted and allow her imagination to wander?”
“You talk as if she didn’t know Elena beforehand.”
“That is true. Her mother died about eight years ago; I have heard conflicting reports of the exact nature of her illness. Until that time, Elena had been absent from her granddaughters’ lives. She had flown the nest when her husband passed. Rumour had it, he had a helping hand.”
Ben raised his eyebrows, slightly unsettled. He recalled that his own escape from the lighthouse had been narrow.
“They weren’t close?”
“Not before. But recently.” He nodded. “With her father also dead, Elena is the only other family the two sisters have.”
Ben wiped his mouth with a serviette. He still couldn’t get over the fact Maria had once been Cortés’s wife.
“You feel sorry for them now?”
“It was once said of the great Gandhi that his greatest strength was that he knew the actions of his enemy before they did.”
“Today I must meditate twice as hard.”
Juan nodded. “A man owes a lot in life to his circumstances, but that alone will only go so far in determining his level of success. For a woman, particularly in Spain, it is easy to be unfairly sceptical. Tell me, on meeting her, would you have guessed such a lowly waitress would be capable of so much?”
“What exactly are we doing here?”
Cortés leaned forward, balancing his chin on his clenched fists. “Soon we will have the answers we are both looking for. But first we must let her come to us.”
36
The hotel was located off the Plaza del Poniente in the heart of the city, closer to the river than the cathedral. Valeria remembered staying there years ago and clearly recalled the lovely, uninterrupted views across the riverside gardens from the higher floors.
She chose it because it was the only hotel she knew in Valladolid that was located in the ideal location.
The bank’s website confirmed its address, along with its opening hours. The address corresponded more or less with the writing on the original papers, which suggested the building would be in the historic district. The website referred to it as a corporate and retail bank dating back to 1723, their products and services ranging from current accounts to travel insurance.
A little research was enough to confirm they offered safe deposit boxes with their high-profile accounts.
Valeria left the hotel within moments of confirming the room, agreeing to pay double rate for an immediate check-in. She called into a delicatessen on the way for a bagel and bought a dark pair of Chanel sunglasses from a retailer as she walked casually in the direction of the cathedral.
The way from the Plaza del Poniente to Calle Regalado was a straightforward ten-minute walk. After heading east to where the road became Calle Especería, she headed south along a series of densely populated streets and then east again on Calle Regalado, within sight of the cathedral.
The bank was located on the left side of the road, a modest four-storey building with classical features. Entering through the automatic outer doors, she stepped into an airy, modern atrium.
A blonde woman smiled at her from behind the reception desk. Valeria removed her sunglasses and addressed her in fluent Spanish.
“Hello, I am here about . . .” She waved the heavy iron key in the air.
“Of course.” The receptionist passed over a biro and a blank form. “Please enter your account number here, and someone will show you to your deposit box.”
Valeria smiled and began filling in the numbers she had spent the morning memorising. There were ten digits in total and no other characters.
She handed over the completed form, which the woman checked before picking up the phone. Seconds later she hung up, and a smartly dressed man in his late thirties approached the desk.
“Sergio will show you to the vault.”
*
The vault was located below the ground floor, accessible only by a lift from the atrium. Valeria tried to force herself to relax as the lift began its descent, knowing that one mistake could result in her looking at twenty years in prison. Her grandmother had already warned her that certain accounts incorporated additional safety measures, such as the box being accessible only to a person of a certain height and description.
Judging by the date of the original record and the Cortés tradition of heirlooms being passed on in wills, Valeria guessed that would be unlikely.
The doors opened slowly, revealing a dimly lit corridor lined with what appeared to be filing cabinets. She stopped on reaching a security point, where she was asked to insert her account number electronically.
Once finished, the man named Sergio asked her for further authentication.
Valeria removed the iron key from her pocket and showed it to him. The touch pad included a palm reader and retina scanner but also two keyholes of various sizes that confirmed security had adapted with the times. Cautiously, she placed the two-hundred-year-old key into the hole and pushed it forward.
“Other way,” the man directed.
She laughed. “Forgive me, this is my first visit.”
“Many of our visitors have been left keys in wills. It is surprising ho
w often the old keys turn up.”
Reassured, she followed his instructions and held her breath as she waited.
She exhaled calmly as a green light confirmed authentication had been granted.
The concierge led her to a discreet room just off the main corridor and informed her that he would return within moments. He did so with a large metallic box of indeterminate age.
“Thank you.”
*
Eduardo checked his watch as he stood on the corner of the plaza, waiting for the family to re-emerge. He saw the dark-haired woman exit through the main doors of the hotel within five minutes of their arrival and head quickly east, possibly towards the cathedral.
He counted to ten in his mind, allowing a small gap to form in front of him. He checked his watch a second time and passed the time pretending to concentrate on the nearby greenery that surrounded the plaza.
Once he was satisfied he had not attracted attention, he began his pursuit.
The practicalities of tailing the thieves from Medellín to Valladolid had been achieved with surprisingly little difficulty. On confirming their initial base in Mérida, he had taken a leaf from his uncle’s book and used the cover of darkness to his advantage. Pizarro’s brother had once served in the Spanish marines; Juan had learned much from him. As the intruders disappeared inside, Eduardo passed the house on foot, breaking his stride very slightly to insert a small microchip behind the metal number plate.
After just ten minutes of waiting, he watched from a safe distance as the car departed the city and began the journey north.
Eduardo picked up his pace as the woman increased hers, his mind quietly recalling the events that had followed. Thanks to the technology, it wasn’t necessary for him to tail them too closely. He refuelled his motorbike at a service station and continued to monitor their position on a portable electronic tablet. As he left the familiar sights of Salamanca behind him, he realised where they were heading. As dawn broke in the distance, he caught up with them as they entered the suburbs of Valladolid.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 53
