Juliet remained unsure. “So what you’re saying is that this version is unfinished?”
“Possibly the opposite,” Ben suggested. “If TF managed to read the book first-hand, and discovered the cipher, he may have been able to translate the original. Therefore, by copying only the important bits, he would have been able to prioritise.”
“Then why didn’t he translate it into English?”
“Most likely because he valued the content. This way he would have been in possession of the hidden meaning without danger of a deciphered version falling into enemy hands.”
A thought struck Juliet. “Which in theory gives you another problem. Just what language are we supposed to be dealing with? I’m guessing Spanish.”
“In which case, translating the deciphered version won’t be a problem, as all three of us read Spanish – as did TF. Of course, that’s another possibility. The version here, we know, contains spaces between groups of symbols, which almost certainly confirms we’re dealing with words. Letters that appear alone, in English, are almost certainly going to be As and Is. In Spanish we have a similar situation with two letters, like el. Uncover them, we have a chance of progressing using guesswork.”
Colts broke into a grin. “Personally, I don’t believe we’ll be dealing with anything too complicated. The journal was written in the sixteenth century. Back then the world of ciphers was still in its infancy.”
“Even so, it’s not the kind of thing that can be broken in a day.” Juliet responded. “I mean it’s not like we have software that can help us. At best, we’re looking at something that can take weeks.”
Colts rose to his feet and picked up the nearby phone.
“Who the hell are you calling?” Ben asked.
“Back when Arthur and I started, it was impossible to get the book out of Spain; nor was it possible for us to make a copy ourselves. Now things have changed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Miss Waters is spot on when she says that cracking this code by hand will take weeks if not a lot longer. Fortunately for us we have specialists who can help us.”
The penny dropped immediately. “You mean GCHQ?”
“For security’s sake, it would be unwise for us to visit the Doughnut in person.” Colts spoke of the organisation’s headquarters near Cheltenham. “However, that doesn’t mean we can’t make progress.”
Ben nodded, satisfied. “Good. Well, in that case, I’ll leave you to take care of that.”
Colts paused mid-dial. “You got somewhere better you need to be?”
“If the original was in Seville, chances are it’s still there. Maybe if I can see it for myself, we will know for sure we’re dealing with the same thing. Can you get us transport?”
“The plane is in the same place on permanent call. But I can’t guarantee the same about the cathedral.”
“Give the pilot a call; tell them we’re coming. Even if the original is gone, or they refuse us access, chances are the emeralds are still somewhere in Spain. Once you’ve deciphered this” – he pointed to the codex – “you’re gonna need someone to track them down.”
*
Away from the busy offices in the nearby doughnut-shaped building, the dark hatchback vacated its parking space in the large multi-storey car park and made its way south of Cheltenham. Like most cars that had been parked there, the model didn’t attract attention; driving along the busy motorways, it was only likely to stand out for breaking the speed limit.
Not that the driver would be so reckless.
By 2:30 p.m. the traffic was past its peak. The heavy volume of vehicles that had occupied the road five hours earlier was now little more than a sparse scattering, the majority heading for the centre of Bristol. Keeping to the roads that bypassed the city, the driver joined the steady flow of traffic heading south on to the M5 and relaxed to the sounds of the local radio station as he prepared to continue the long journey across Somerset into the Devonshire countryside.
*
At around the same time, the blacked-out limousine pulled up on the same stretch of tarmac Ben had already seen once that day. He left the car without waiting for the assistance of the chauffeur and guided Juliet towards the nearby runway.
Chris emerged from the passenger-side door. “I still don’t understand what you hope to find. If you can’t find the original codex and the guys in suits can’t break the cipher on the copy, chances are you’re gonna be in for a long wait.”
“Well, between you and me, that’s a chance I’m willing to take. If the original codex still exists in the same place, there may be more to it than what TF copied. Also, it eliminates the possibility of any mistakes in translation. Not that he would have made any.”
“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“You stay here and keep an eye on Colts.” He shook Chris’s hand. “And continue to focus on the diary. Find out anything you can about those missing pages.”
Chris hugged Juliet while Ben hurried along the tarmac. A small, twin-engine aircraft was stationed near the start of the runway, where half a dozen men, including a brown-haired pilot in RAF uniform, took their time going through the preflight checks.
He recognised the steward he had met on the flight from Boston.
“Thanks for coming out at such short notice.” Ben shook his hand as he studied the plane. “What model is this?”
“This baby is what’s called a Piper PA-34 Seneca. We use it on the shorter flights,” the man said, in his broad Californian accent, beaming with pride as he spoke. “You know, they had talked about discontinuing production. The prince paid over eight hundred thousand dollars for this baby!”
“No kidding,” Ben said, excited by the sights and sounds of the propellers in motion. “I can’t wait to see it up close.”
“Dr Maloney, if you would like to step aboard, please.”
Ben accepted the man’s offer and took a seat on the right side of the aircraft over the wing. Seconds later, Juliet joined him.
“I hope you know what you’re doing here. It’s a long way to go just on the off chance.”
“Be one heck of a long way further to Mexico just to find a locked house when you don’t have the key.” He looked through the window and waved at Chris. His cousin watched on while the chauffeur smoked a cigarette.
“So what exactly are we looking for? What makes you think TF might have done something different?”
Ben didn’t know exactly how to answer that question. “Why Seville?”
“Excuse me?”
“Of all the places in the world, why Seville? And why the cathedral?”
Juliet was unsure what Ben was getting at.
“What’s Seville famous for?” Ben continued. “Aside from having the world’s largest cathedral and the best tasting orange juice.”
“The only thing I can think of is the Archive of the Indies, but that has nothing to do with Cortés.”
“Exactly. But it did have something to do with Cortés’s hero.”
Not for the first time Juliet’s face demonstrated only confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“The General Archives of the Indies weren’t established until the 1780s; if Cortés did bury something, then we need to focus our search on things that would have existed during his lifetime. Seville Cathedral was there in his lifetime. And it just so happens to be the final resting place of the man who inspired his quest.”
“Who?”
“Admiral Christopher Columbus.”
16
Medellín, 5 p.m.
The heavy banging and rattling of drawers could be heard from the floor above. After twenty minutes of constant disruption, Eduardo had given up on his plans to watch television in the lounge. Avoiding the temptation to disappear into his room, where the noise of his guitar would drown out the escalating chaos, he decided to investigate the cause.
The door to the library was open, which in recent times was rare. There was light e
ntering through the narrow leaded-glass windows that lined the west wall like those of a medieval cloister, confirming someone had recently opened the curtains.
He entered the room and stared at what lay within. All of the original walls were rich in oak panelling, the majority hidden behind sturdy nineteenth-century bookcases that reflected the light and smelled of dust. There was no sign of his uncle, nor any other member of the household.
Just further noise from down below.
He crossed the room to where a small chapel-like door was already open and rattling against its hinges. He took the stone stairwell to the bottom and found himself in a busy room that for over three centuries had served as the castle archive. His great-uncle, Claude, had once told him over twenty generations of family history lay concealed within its ancient racks.
He was still to investigate them all personally.
*
Juan was seated at the far end, surrounded by wood and papers. He had taken Pizarro’s advice and gone to work in the area that had become known as La Galería de Falsificaciones.
The Gallery of Forgeries.
Claude sat alongside him, busying himself among the once discarded documents. Unlike other parts of the archives where priceless manuscripts took pride of place within a slick system of wooden and metallic storage facilities, the Gallery of Forgeries was less maintained.
Claude blew his nose with a handkerchief before shaking further dust from the next document. Alongside him, Juan was becoming impatient.
“How can we be sure the letter was not accidentally destroyed? We could be wasting time looking for things that no longer exist.”
Claude shook his head. “I told you before, nothing was ever removed from the archive. Before we began, the old system was obsolete. Nothing was labelled nor catalogued correctly. The purpose of the update was to bring order from chaos. Not to remove content.”
Juan remained sceptical. His recent inspections had confirmed the catalogue had been made using longhand: over sixty sheets of paper, laid out as a primitive spreadsheet. In the early 1990s, his father had updated it using an early PC that still sat alone on an antique desk. He knew for a fact nothing had been updated since.
“We’re looking in the wrong place. If it were here, it would have been found by now.”
“Patience, Juan Pablo. Patience. The letter is here, somewhere. It will be found.”
Juan heard footsteps coming from the stairs. Between where he sat and the stairwell, over ten rows of racking, packed with documents from the 1400s to the previous century, cast long shadows across the wooden floor under the bright ceiling lights.
Eduardo emerged at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in his usual casual wear, his expression illustrating clear confusion.
“I told you to keep an eye on the surveillance room,” Juan said. “After the failings of last week, we no longer have the luxury of becoming careless.”
Eduardo shrugged. “All of the outside cameras are set to movement activation. Xavi installed the new one you asked for above the postern. If they were to return the same way, we will know the second they enter the trees.”
Juan was unconvinced. “Even they would not be so foolish as to attempt entry the same way.” He returned the latest document to its protective brown casing and replaced it on the shelf. “It is only a matter of time before they seek retribution for what happened to their grandmother. We must be prepared for their arrival.”
“So what if they do? Neither are master criminals. Before, they had the frogman. Neither of them can dive. Unless your ex-wife has qualities you’ve never divulged.”
Cortés sensed that was a quip. “Their intrusion last week gave the slimy eel ample time to conduct a full reconnaissance of our defences. For this reason, we must take every precaution. One slip-up and she could again enter undetected. Equally bad if she should be scared off before I have a chance to speak with her.”
“Many a great tragedy has been made by desiring retribution above all things.” Claude eyed him seriously. “Do not make the mistake of allowing history to be repeated.”
Juan was unmoved. “Keep searching. The document should have appeared by now.”
“What are you looking for anyway?” Eduardo folded his arms.
Claude answered, “The letter I recall was written to my great-grandfather, Carlos, and signed by the gentleman from England. Sadly, it came at a time when Carlos saw making idle threats to outsiders as more of a personal hobby than a serious form of negotiation.”
Eduardo made his way past the racks and sat down at the antique desk with the PC that predated his birth. He moved the mouse and saw the cursor zip from side to side, confirming that the computer was still working.
He judged from the screen that Claude and Juan had used it recently to access a database.
He focused on the list of names, ignoring his uncle’s continued tendency to swear at Claude. He tried entering a search for Carlos and found several entries: some in a column titled author, others in one titled archivist.
“What was the content of the letter?” Eduardo asked Juan.
“I told you to return to the surveillance room.”
“And I told you, the cameras are set to motion detection.” He widened his search. In total, he found over four hundred results for Carlos as an author and double that as an archivist. He noticed a further column for subject.
“What was the name of the recipient?” He pressed, “Claude?”
Claude shook his head. “I do not remember. Only that the gentleman was English.”
“What about the date?”
“I do not remember.”
“Think!” Eduardo snapped.
The bark left Claude momentarily rattled. Thinking, he shook his head. “I don’t remember. Early 1900s, perhaps.”
Eduardo entered the new search and sat back to study the results. Most of the Carlos author entries dated from the late 1800s, which narrowed the criteria down to less than a quarter.
He began with the first, an entry from 1900, and soon established the last was dated 1907. The year of his death.
Without further information, he knew it would be necessary to go through them one by one.
*
Less than half a mile from the castle, the grey-haired driver activated the touchscreen on his BMW’s command console and sent a new message into the desktop.
Target has returned home – along with guest. ID confirms name Claude Cortés.
Rubbing his hands together before rolling a cigarette, he acknowledged the immediate response before shutting down the console. With the master of the house home and daylight slowly fading, he knew there was nothing more he could do till morning.
*
Less than half a mile away from the discreetly parked BMW, Valeria stared at the stonework of Castillo Cortés. She hated the way the imperious walls cast their dominating shadow across the nearby village as though Dracula had returned from the grave. Like the story of the legendary count, once upon a time, the villagers themselves had learned to revere the building, fear it even: the personal throne of a tyrannical lord, if not something altogether less human. Even in the modern day, she knew such ancient beliefs still lingered, especially among the older residents. Times changed, but thoughts didn’t.
It was behind such walls evil continued to flourish.
Her body ached from top to bottom; making the journey all the way from the monastery on a scooter had been inconvenient, albeit necessary. Ignoring the pain, she checked the time on her mobile phone, the digital clock confirming it was after 5 p.m. Experience told her it was the time when security at the castle would start to increase. Entry the same way as before would surely be almost impossible.
Especially with the master of the house home.
Removing a water bottle from her handbag, she sipped it slowly. With the castle in sight, she had nothing to do but wait till the household went to bed.
17
Seville, 5 p.m.
Ben wait
ed until the taxi stopped before removing his wallet from his pocket. He paid the driver using fifteen of the three hundred euros Colts had given him before leaving Godolphin, and followed Juliet out the back door on to a street called Calle Alemanes.
The new sights were like something out of a dream. Just a few metres away to the south, the famous cathedral of St Mary of the See pointed skyward like a citadel, its imposing walls and flying buttresses warmly reflecting the evening sunlight. Citizens and tourists walked the cobbled street and pavements happily, some queuing for entry to the cathedral while others took the tram or walked the nearby side streets, many stopping outside a local eatery to order a drink and tapas. A plethora of appetising aromas filled the air as local chefs weaved their magic before waiters brought them out to hungry patrons. On the Plaza del Triunfo, a local classical guitarist plucked his rhythmic tunes, entertaining relaxing locals who soaked up the atmosphere on stone steps close to one of the statues.
Juliet got out her iPhone and activated Google Maps, the blue GPS icon confirming their position.
“Okay. The main entrance to the cathedral should be somewhere around here.” She pointed to the south wall as they circled the cathedral along the west side. “In Europe, there’s usually two queues. One for groups. Another for individuals.”
Ben checked his watch as they hurried towards the south gate. Though he had failed to make contact with anybody of official status during the flight, he knew from his recent searches they still had well over an hour before closing.
A small queue had formed outside the main gate. Nearby, crowds of other citizens moved further south leisurely in the direction of the Alcázar, their progress intermittently halted by horses and carriages taking people on a romantic tour of the main sights.
“Oh my gosh, isn’t he magnificent?” Juliet said, her focus on a fine black stallion that was presently minus its rider.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 74
