He looked at Chris, concerned. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
*
Valeria’s path had taken her more to the central area of the chamber than she had anticipated. A large statue of the Virgin Mary had been erected at the meeting point of four pathways; she knew the original Cortés had once built something similar in the Templo Mayor. The images on the walls contained similar depictions of Christian saints uniquely merged with those of Aztec iconography.
Summing it up would be impossible.
Her intuition was warning her of impending danger. She heard footsteps nearby, loud then muffled, running then walking. Shadows moved around her like puppets dancing in the light.
Someone was approaching.
She cocked the gun and fired, hearing no evidence of success. Firing again, she heard a clicking noise. She quickly opened the gun and found nothing in the bullet chambers.
She was down to her last six bullets, the last of Colts’s supply. She felt desperately in her pocket, hoping for further replacements.
Before her hand could leave her pocket, she heard the sound of a gun being cocked close to her ear.
50
Valeria heard the clicking noise only inches from her head and immediately thought of death. She had seen it happen a thousand times on the big screen: how a moment of recklessness left the cornered prisoner staring death in the face, their hopes hanging on a miracle.
Footsteps followed, heavy and decisive. A large shadow loomed above her in the light, unnaturally elongated. She sensed the person responsible was now less than a few feet behind her. She felt hot breath down the back of her neck.
“I warned you before about playing games.” Cortés circled her slowly, his gun aimed at her head. “Now that time is over. Relinquish the bag and everything you stole from me.”
She looked up at him with unflinching determination. “I did not steal a thing. I only reclaimed.”
Juan took a step forward and slapped her hard with the back of his hand, knocking her to the ground. Her face smashed against the floor, drawing blood instantly. She returned his gaze, but for now stood firm, holding her rucksack tightly with her free hand.
“I shall not ask again.” He pushed the gun against the bridge of her nose.
A thousand thoughts were running through Valeria’s mind, each one of importance to the past. She remembered the story her grandmother had told her of Pedro, their ancestors, Montezuma and his daughter. For more than twenty generations the descendants of the last emperors of the Aztec empire had sought to reclaim what had been lost. Clues had revealed themselves in the strangest places: artwork, ancient manuscripts, woodcarvings, stories. The most reliable had always been passed on by word of mouth; knowledge restricted to a select few. She remembered what her mother had told her as a child, the story of the gold in the mountain. She had accepted it merely as a metaphor.
Only now did she realise that it might have been true.
She gazed upwards, looking Cortés in the eye. That steely determination was still there, his concentration unwavering.
She relaxed her arms and relinquished her rucksack; he didn’t bother to check the contents. Even when he started to retrace his steps, his eyes never left her.
He had taken what he had come for.
*
Danny guided Maria to the top of the main stairway.
“Stay here. I’ll be back for you.”
He headed off immediately towards the left side of the chamber, keeping low in case the gunfire restarted.
He stumbled on taking a corner, nearly bumping into someone. As he fell to the ground, he saw a gun pointing down at him, Eduardo’s young face a picture of nerves. They stared at one another for what seemed like a lifetime.
Finally Eduardo helped him to his feet.
“You see anything?” Danny asked.
The young Spaniard shook his head. “My uncle’s only interest is in the bag.”
Danny looked at him, the pace of his breathing increasing. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”
*
Maria lingered for less than ten seconds before advancing back towards the ledge. Thanks to the height of the large network of torches, there was no danger of her falling over the edge.
Close up, the ferocity of the heat was almost unbearable.
The view was extensive. On the far side of the chamber, the area surrounding the doorway was deserted, her sister and the Americans no longer visible. Closer to where she was standing, she heard a voice speaking arrogantly in Spanish, undoubtedly Juan.
She sensed he was somewhere in the middle of the chamber.
She hesitated before moving quickly along the right side of the chamber, hoping for a better view. She saw Juan with a gun in his hand, backing away from a kneeling Valeria. She held her breath in anticipation as he threatened to fire.
Then something incredible happened.
*
Cortés heard the almost identical sound of a gun cocking before he noticed the presence. He looked without turning his head to see Elena stalking the ground behind him, a primitive revolver aimed at his head. She moved like a phantom, her heeled shoes making practically no noise as they made contact with the hard ground.
He turned slowly towards her and quietly appraised the situation. Her appearance was ridiculous; the sensible church shoes, the white and red blouse-skirt-cardigan combination was more suited for a morning cleaning the pews than underground exploration. She wasn’t there by choice, he remembered, but unusually, appeared oddly unprepared.
Normally she was a slave to efficient planning.
“You are a foolish old lady. Unblock my path now and everyone can be saved.”
Elena watched him with a stern expression, keeping the gun fixed on his head. Cortés considered that most women who lived to her age would be afflicted by failing sight, particularly in a darkened chamber, but so far she had displayed no evidence of weakness. Thirty-six years had already taught him a person can learn a lot about someone from the look in their eyes. Hers told a clear story.
She would kill him here and now without regret.
“Filthy scum. Relinquish what you have stolen.”
Cortés raised an eyebrow, showing no fear despite feeling it. “Stolen?” He laughed aloud. “The years may have been kind to your body, old woman, but clearly not so your mind. My father was still a young boy when he saw you lurking through the corridors of my home like a horrible spectre from hell. Yesterday, I saw the same thing. It’s funny, sometimes, how history repeats itself. The stones were created as a symbol of love by men who chose death over dishonour. For over three hundred years, father passed them down to son. Until they were stolen.” He looked at her piercingly. “You do not remember the actions of your own father?”
“I remember many things your father would have gladly gone to hell for rather than face the truth.”
Juan was suddenly incredulous. “Do not speak of my father to me. His blood is a debt that I cannot forsake. Nor forget.”
Elena’s lips slowly formed a smile. “Empty promises, the curse of your household. It is not fact that makes a legend, but creation. That is your true legacy.”
They eyed each other, Cortés’s gun remaining trained on Valeria, hers focused on him. He looked both ways and licked his lips in a pensive manner, as though waiting for the moment when the universe would collapse. He listened carefully, straining for any sound, but heard only silence, the burning of nearby fires the only disturbance. A split second was all it would take. Success or failure. Life or death. They were the only options.
He couldn’t afford to get it wrong.
A bullet echoed piercingly throughout the chamber, not close, but still unnerving. Then a second, far closer. Valeria dived, losing her gun.
A split second was all it took.
Cortés’s reactions were swift. He spun to his right, gun cocked, and fired instinctively. Blood poured from Elena’s left temple, spilling down on to her clothes. She hit the
floor.
Her expression still one of complete bemusement.
*
Ben heard a woman scream, possibly a second. In the centre of the chamber, he saw Valeria on her knees, shaking, her eyes flooding with tears. She scrambled for her gun, desperately trying to get a shot away.
*
Valeria looked up at the villain in front of her and saw Cortés’s face rigid with anger. She saw his arm move, the gun aimed at her.
His finger pulled the trigger.
Suddenly she was moving, her body racing across the hard surface, causing her skin to cut and blister. Through blurring vision she saw a face looking down at her. An expression of rare compassion.
Danny had dragged her out of the line of fire and behind a row of torches.
*
Maria no longer had control over her reactions. She ran for Valeria but made less than ten metres before her legs buckled, her soul overcome with sorrow. Close to the centre of the chamber, she saw Elena’s body lying in a pool of her own blood. Blood she shared.
As she opened her eyes, she felt herself drifting, floating in mid-air. She could hear voices talking loudly around her, but they seemed strangely distant, like she was hearing them through water.
She saw the ground moving quickly beneath her boots and blue jeans. She realised she was being carried.
Her saviour an American with a limp.
*
Danny didn’t stop until he had made it to the far wall. Eduardo had disappeared, he guessed to help his uncle; in the poor light he knew any movement could attract attention.
He held Valeria tightly in his arms, her gun trained uncomfortably on him. She looked at him in silence, her gaze uncompromisingly focused. He stared back, fearing recent events had distorted her mind.
Fortunately they hadn’t.
She lowered the gun.
“Come on. I left your sister by the stairs.”
*
Valeria saw Maria alone at the bottom of the stairway, crying her eyes out. She grabbed her sister’s face and looked mournfully into her eyes. It was not a dream. Both had witnessed the same thing.
Elena was dead.
Valeria looked at Danny, afraid.
“Go,” Danny said. “Quickly. Before he comes back.”
Valeria looked up at the stairway, the light of distant torches creating a menacing image above the steps. Somewhere on the other side, Cortés was still armed, Eduardo also.
She knew their return would be imminent.
Grasping Maria by the hand, she sprinted across the deserted chamber and across the bridge over the underground river. Their pace accelerated as they headed through the open doorway. She looked back longingly at the four stones, their strange light shining through the darkness. She forced her legs to keep moving, not stopping till they had reached the summit.
And out into the warm Extremaduran evening.
*
“Juan?” Ben’s voice echoed throughout the chamber. “Juan?”
He saw him about twenty metres away, close to the sealed doorway. Cortés’s dark silhouette stood out clearly against the lighted backdrop; his eyes concentrated on the door.
Ben walked towards him, investigating the area for the first time. The door was constructed entirely of stone, a unique greenish hue that he attributed to manipulation of the light. Everything he saw replicated the famous temple, a near perfect re-creation.
He was awestruck that something like it actually existed.
“It’s over,” Ben said, standing alongside him. “Valeria’s gone. So’s Maria.”
Cortés stood with his arms folded across his chest, his expression typically hostile. “Let them go. It makes no sense following them now.”
Ben was sceptical. “Just like that. You’re going to drop it?”
“Even though Valeria is still alive, she has already entered hell. We will bury the old woman, and you shall return to your life in America. As you say:
“It’s over.”
*
Cortés was satisfied. He had missed Valeria with his final shot, but he knew full well that the perfect end would not come on demand. The slimy eel, gun in hand, had disappeared beyond the nearby torches. He considered chasing her, but decided against it. It never did to overplay one’s hand – his father had always made a point of emphasising that lesson. It was a rule by which he had learned to live.
Thank you, Father. I remember.
The rucksack felt surprisingly light on his back, the contents spread evenly. He opened it and saw the manuscript, apparently undamaged.
He walked with the others across the bridge, not stopping till they reached the previously blocked doorway. A plethora of colours still shone throughout the passageway, radiant like a rainbow. He counted four stones, removing them one by one, savouring the moment as he did so.
The Tollan Stones had been recovered in their entirety.
Or had they?
The Eighth Day
51
Cabañas del Castillo, 1 p.m.
The early afternoon temperature was cooler than Ben had anticipated. There was a stiff breeze in the air, strong enough to cause the thick cloud to move rapidly across the sky and the trees of the surrounding dehesa to sway steadily from side to side.
If the forecast was correct, the low pressure would pass within a couple of hours.
Ben was wearing his only clean pair of jeans and the same leather jacket he had on the night he had entered the mausoleum in Old Town. He had left the States packed for England, but he hadn’t expected the jacket to be necessary in Spain. Nor had he been prepared to leave anything behind. The Isles of Scilly had brought him a lot of luck, much of it bad. Answers to some questions. But mostly further questions.
They sat in the courtyard of the guesthouse, less than a hundred metres from the church in the shadow of the hilltop. The building was attractive but dated. Its orange stone façade was in keeping with the local way of life, a reminder of a simpler time. The inside matched the out. Fifty-year-old crockery hung from wooden shelves in the kitchen and lounge, where a wood burner crackled and hissed with clockwork regularity. A globe-shaped lampshade hung from dirty wooden beams that creaked when someone walked on the floor above.
Cortés had booked every available room; Ben hadn’t seen him since the previous evening. Despite the dated furniture, the four-poster bed being antique even before the Second World War, he decided a quiet night was just what they needed. What the room lacked in luxury, it oozed in charm. A small balcony offered views across the western fields, while the sun cast a timeless shadow as it rose over the dehesa to the east.
Chris had been quiet. He had discovered his suitcase in the car park where Maria’s four-by-four had last been seen. Like Ben, he was running low on supplies; he changed into the only clean clothes he still had.
Ben sipped his beer and replaced the glass on the coaster, relaxing and taking in the scenery. The last few days had been a blur. Still things didn’t feel right. The world he thought existed had been shattered, for better or worse, he was yet to decide. His cousin was alive, and that was a major consideration, something for which to be deeply thankful.
The bitch had saved his life, but lied to him. Both of them.
Life didn’t always make sense.
The door to the guesthouse opened and Danny emerged carrying three bottles of home-brewed lager. He gave one each to Ben and Chris.
“I just had a word with the manageress,” he said, speaking of the elegant fifty-something brunette who had been only too pleased to help them on their arrival. “Said a car will be with you after lunch. Apparently it has to be driven in from somewhere called Navazuelas.”
“A village about twenty minutes from here.” Ben nodded. “Not exactly the type of place that has a Hertz dealership on every corner.” He raised his beer in salute. “Thank you.”
Danny smiled and sat back in his chair. “Mind if I ask something? What was that place?”
Ben smiled. The ques
tion was where to start. “Many centuries ago this whole area was inhabited by the Moors. They built the castle around the time England was being invaded by Saxons. I’m guessing they must’ve put in some kind of network of vaults either to protect themselves from invasion or as somewhere to bury their dead. Over time, it got revamped.” He took the first sip of his beer, the fizzy local recipe tasting strange on his tongue. “According to Juan, when Cortés brought all that gold back from Mexico, it was hidden there. At least for a while.”
“What happened to it?”
Ben looked at Chris. Colour had returned to his cheeks, life to his eyes. “Well, TF mentioned in his diary that the chambers we saw were empty when he entered, save for a couple of small chests, both of which were taken away. Apparently they turned out to be only a couple of decades old. The only other things they found were gunpowder and various tunics. He attributed them to Napoleon.”
“Napoleon? I thought he was French?”
“He was. But after the French Revolution, he gained significant land in Spain, including Extremadura. If TF was correct, his forces came here and took what remained.”
Chris rubbed his fingers against his temples and brushed his hands through his hair. “So he was too late. And we were later still?”
“Pretty much.”
“So what were those stones all about?” Danny asked.
Ben shrugged, secretly still unclear how TF and his party had gained entry without them. “Juan said they came from the mythical city of Tollan, perhaps discovered by Francisco Pizarro and kept beneath the Templo Mayor.”
“Did they?”
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 62
