Potentially taking the diary up as far as 19 April.
Returning to the opening page, he read everything again slowly, invigorated and calmed by the fresh air of a pleasant breeze through the open window. If TF had been murdered, Chris reasoned his assailant was probably responsible for the anomalies; the only alternative he could think of was that TF had hidden them first. Either way, it posed an intriguing question.
What was so important about the missing pages that they were removed from the diary?
*
Colts watched from the main entrance as the dark hatchback moved slowly along the tree-lined driveway. After circling the oval-shaped lawn, he saw it pull up just outside the columned façade, its engine falling quiet.
A man emerged from the front door on the driver’s side, his dark suit matching the colour of his hair. Colts watched him closely as he removed a large laptop-sized carryall from the boot. Like most people he had met in the organisation, the man’s physique was tall and wiry, his age somewhere in the mid- to late-thirties. In his left hand, on the fourth finger of which, Colts noticed, he was wearing a wedding ring, he held a slick leather briefcase. Although the kit he was carrying appeared more substantial than Colts had expected, it was readily apparent that the visitor wasn’t built for the military.
Colts awaited him with an outstretched hand. “Damien, I might have known they’d honour me by sending the best.”
The man smiled, shaking Colts’s hand whilst taking great care not to drop any of his belongings. “If the document you described turns out to be what I think it is, it’s unlikely to cause us much trouble. A trip to the lab is always best avoided whenever possible.”
Colts glanced down at the bag. He guessed it contained either a scanner or a laptop. If not both.
“Is it always possible to tell without seeing something first-hand? Or are these rumours of psychics I’ve been hearing so much about turning out to be true after all?”
Another smile. “Fortunately for us, technology has come a long way since the 1500s. If your colleague’s dating of the piece is correct, we should have no problem working this one out.”
“Can I give you some help with that?”
“No. But a cup of tea would be lovely.”
19
Cortés studied the content of yet another apparent forgery and immediately replaced it on the shelf. Even without the blessing of qualifications or formal training as an historian, it was obvious it wasn’t the one he was looking for.
After almost five hours of sifting through the first three shelves of the Gallery of Forgeries, a familiar theme had begun to present itself. The documents had been written in the late 1800s, but dated to at least three centuries earlier. Most carried the signatures of apparently famous people, often the king or queen of Spain. If the narratives were accurate, parties of conquistadors led by his ancestor had discovered places for which no historical records had previously existed before the early eighteenth century. To Claude, the purpose was clear.
Carlos’s sole aim had been to con the wider community into believing that the discovery of the New World had been made almost exclusively by Hernán Cortés.
Juan stared at Claude, who was struggling for comfort, his actions indicating that he had severe pain in his lower back. He felt little sympathy.
“Why did you not tell me about this before?”
Claude turned to face him, fearing further deterioration in Juan’s mood. “The conclusion of everyone was unanimous, including your father. The documents were forgeries. Very good forgeries.”
Juan bit down hard on his lower lip as he reminded himself of what he had just read. The letters spoke of great things, a lost world existing deep within the jungles of Mexico.
“Fernando lied to me. All these years, he knew the location of the lost city, yet he refused to share how he knew.” He stared at Claude, fire burning from his eyes. “He will burn in hell for what he has done.”
“Juan Pablo, please. You must never allow your greed to sour the memory of familial love.”
“As for you.” Cortés moved closer, kneeling down so close to Claude he couldn’t escape Juan’s familiar scent. “Too long you have let this slide.”
“Juan Pablo, I have told you many times. The hunt for the great treasures can be a great dream, but it was never my dream. I assisted your father out of love, love for a brother. I never desired part in a quest that has cost so many lives.” His face swelled with sorrow. “If I have offended, please forgive me now. No man should grow bitter in old quarrels.”
Juan was unmoved. “These documents are not forgeries, they are copies. Every letter here is worthy of closer scrutiny. Thanks to this, the location of the city should never have been a mystery.” He laughed wryly. “All these years I have searched. Put puzzles together, piece by piece. All this time, in my own archive, proof was here. Behind a label marked forgeries.”
Claude cleared his throat and wetted his lips. The last thing he wanted to do was incense Juan further. “The city may have been discovered, but nothing is said of the emeralds. You said it yourself: only with the correct keys can the inner sanctum be opened again.”
“The letter we seek. What will we learn?”
Claude removed his glasses and closed his eyes, massaging his temples as if inviting the ether to bless him with knowledge from the past. “Carlos, it seems, got closer than any to discovering the lost places. The city, if he found it, he visited without the stones.”
“You still have reason for your doubting?” Juan answered as he scanned the next shelf up, still confused. “What is it we seek?”
“Back before the First World War, Carlos had become paranoid that the English were watching him. Whatever the truth, the Englishman who wrote the original letter clearly possessed a great talent for espionage.”
“What is so important?”
“Aside from Hernán’s original letters, it is the only text that definitively mentions the missing stones.”
Juan nodded, remembering what Pizarro had told him. All his life he had been taught to look scornfully on the reputation of his ancestor Carlos Cortés. A fantasist. A forger. A fraud. He remembered hearing the story himself: that the man was an underachiever, unsuited for the law or for family business, a sickly child, weak, unspectacular, never bound for greatness . . .
He recalled something similar had been said about the greatest of his ancestors. Now a new picture of the man was emerging.
“Carlos located the documents here in the archives. Unlike yourself and Fernando, he used them. Analysed the findings. Left Spain. Travelled. Located a lost city. He fell short only at the final step.” Juan turned away from the dusty shelves, feeling the need for a breath of fresh air.
As he departed the narrow aisle, he found Eduardo working at the computer.
“Why are you still here?”
“To find your lost document. I told you already, the cameras are all set on motion detection.”
Cortés studied the database from behind him. Words showed up consistently, Carlos the most frequent. “What does this mean?”
“Shout at Claude all you want, the job they did creating the archive was pretty impressive. I bet even the one at Salamanca is no better.”
Juan ignored him. “These. What are they?”
“Every document in the archive has been referenced thoroughly, including by author, recipient, date, keywords and who was officially responsible for acquiring or archiving them. All of these” – he pointed to the author column – “are the letters Carlos actually wrote; these, the ones he received. It’s one of these you’re looking for.”
Juan scanned the list, realising there were far too many to read quickly. Finding the correct one would require a process of elimination.
As Eduardo scrolled down further, Juan noticed a name in the keywords column; one he had heard recently. On seeing it, he felt his heart beat faster, as though a chain reaction had been triggered inside him. The name was clear, so too the re
cipient. Even more important was the date.
Eduardo looked on, confused, as Claude shuffled to his feet and approached the computer. “Juan, what is it?”
Juan felt as though he could hit someone, that the events of recent days, new friendships already lapsed, had been part of a great joke at his expense.
He shook his head, his frustration still building, before inexplicably his expression turned to humour. All this time he had been missing the obvious.
He should have known there was only one such person the Englishman could have been.
*
Less than an hour away from Medellín, Maria felt her body leap forward in shock as her four-by-four veered disturbingly close to the black hatchback in the next lane. She opened her eyes instinctively, her weary vision greeted with the sight of an angry Spaniard shouting obscenities, the exact words lost in the wind.
It was getting late and she was tired. The evening sun shone from a low position behind the nearby hills, casting deep shadows on the distant mountains. The city of her birth was still a small speck on the landscape, its familiar buildings obscured in shadow. Experience told her it would take over thirty minutes to arrive in Mérida, then another half an hour till she reached her destination.
She cursed her sister for leaving so rashly.
Yawning, she leaned to her right and picked up the takeaway coffee she had purchased half an hour earlier, praying it would help revive her from her drowsy stupor. Sipping the hot liquid and clearing her eyes, she focused on the vast landscape, the sights of the steppes and dehesas a comforting reminder she was on familiar ground. It looked like home, only different somehow, as if she were visiting it in another time, having not been there for years. It was a bad day, one of the worst in living memory. In her heart she knew it was the first day of the rest of her life. A life without her grandmother.
Possibly without her sister.
Gripping the steering wheel tightly between her fingers, she put her foot down harder on the accelerator and passed the angry hatchback driver as she made her way towards Mérida.
20
Ben sat with his arms folded, concentrating solely on the man behind the desk. The man’s appearance was impressive; a full head of distinguished silver hair maintained in its elegant combed-back position with the aid of some form of gel or paste.
Ben attempted to break the ice by enquiring of the brand.
Nothing about the man he had witnessed so far warranted criticism. A smart, dark suit complemented his hair and eyes, while his handsome clean-shaven face reminded Ben of one of the singers from Il Divo. He spoke crisply in perfect English, clearly presuming that neither Ben nor Juliet would speak Spanish. He exuded an air of confidence befitting his station.
According to the nameplate on the door of his office, he was Dominic Velázquez, curator of Seville Cathedral.
Ben eased forward in his seat and brought his hands together comfortably. “I don’t understand. How can you be so sure the book isn’t there?”
Velázquez sat back in his revolving leather chair as though he were a king on a throne. “I am afraid, Dr Maloney, I mean exactly as I say. The book of which you speak is not listed in our database.”
Ben glanced at Juliet, who offered little support. After failing to find any help from the staff in the gift shop or at the ticket office, Juliet persevered by trying to locate the curator online. Having no luck again, she struck gold with a former acquaintance now teaching at the local university.
The man had put her directly in touch.
Over an hour had passed since they had located the strange bookcase and the recently restored tomb of Fernando Columbus. As 6 p.m. passed, they were greeted by a similarly smartly dressed man in a much darker suit, who ushered them quietly through the museum and into a white-walled studious office lined with items of medieval origin, including ruined stonework, grave slabs in glass cases and some similar reliquaries to those that Ben had seen in the Chapel of the Maidens.
“Are you absolutely positive about this?” Ben asked. “There is no chance of a mistake.”
Velázquez raised his palms flat. “The bookcase of which you speak is a most interesting piece, whose content is specifically of relevance to the chapel’s former purpose.”
“What exactly was that purpose?” Ben asked; inwardly he struggled to understand how something called the Brotherhood of the Maidens could have owned so much literature.
“All of our chapels are rich in heritage, each for different reasons. During its heyday, the Chapel of the Maidens was the meeting house of a pious local brotherhood who sought to offer charity to the poor young girls of the city.”
The story tied in with what Ben had read online. “What was this brotherhood?”
“A small group of righteous men; their story is recorded only in the literature in the bookcase and, in all honesty, worthy of little fame.” He peered at Ben suspiciously. “You are quite certain you have the title of the book correct? Perhaps a different name may yield a more helpful result.”
Ben bit his lip ruefully, knowing it was a test. All the while he sat in silence, the dynamic eyes of the curator remaining on him like a jeweller guarding his wares. “The book itself is untitled and written by an anonymous author. However, I know from a colleague in England that he was personally granted access to the book in the early 1980s. Even says he was recommended it personally by Dr Jimenez.”
The curator smiled and nodded, clearly unconvinced by Ben’s latest tactic. “Sadly Dr Jimenez is no longer with us nor, for that matter, is his successor. I’m really very sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Unfortunately, we’re only in Seville for one night,” Juliet interrupted; she crossed her leg, quietly wondering whether his reaction might have been different had she chosen a skirt instead of jeans. “The book in question we believe to be most important to our present research. I’d really consider it a great favour if you would allow us access.”
The man smiled, charm oozing from his face. “I am very sorry I cannot be of more help. Unfortunately, I have a prior engagement this evening, and it is too late to allow two visitors to remain alone in the cathedral – particularly without having made prior appointment. Normally we insist on a written request at least thirty days beforehand. Often it can be useful to provide an academic reference; however, I think in your case that can be overlooked. It is unfortunate you do not know the precise name of the manuscript. Or that you are in Seville only so briefly.”
Juliet smiled, equally charmingly. “Well, between the three of us, I’ve never really been one to plan too far in advance.”
“A lady with a sense of adventure.” He watched her like a shark encircling prey. “Once again I am only too sorry I cannot be of greater assistance. Please feel free to visit us again in Seville very soon.”
Ben rose to his feet and offered his hand. “Thank you for your time, Dr Velázquez.” He handed him a business card. “Let me know if the book turns up anywhere. I’d be very pleased to hear from you.”
*
They left, escorted by the same smartly dressed man who had brought them to the curator’s office less than twenty minutes earlier, and soon found themselves outside the east wall of the cathedral in a peaceful street popular with tourists.
It was early evening and still light. A different musician was playing a semi-acoustic guitar outside one of the nearby shops; Ben recognised the tune as ‘Stairway to Heaven’.
He led the way across the road, carefully avoiding the imminent arrival of a horse and carriage taking a young couple on a romantic tour.
The tour would have to wait a little longer, he mused.
“You think he was telling the truth?” Juliet asked.
“No,” Ben said. “But the question is, why lie?”
They headed north-east, passing the Giralda, opposite which many of the locals were stretched out at the base of the fountain, soaking up the late sun. Remembering the route from his previous visit, he led the way along Ca
lle Argote de Molina to a quaint European bar named Estrella. They took a seat outside and ordered a beer of the same name, a gin and tonic and three varieties of tapas.
Sirloin in whisky, calamari, and cod in batter.
“You know, I’ve actually never tried squid before,” Ben said, catching his reflection in the lenses of Juliet’s sunglasses. Checking himself, he brushed his fingers through his hair. “As the seafood expert, I’m guessing you know more about it than me.”
Juliet folded her arms, unimpressed. “Just what exactly are we doing here?”
“A few years ago, myself, Chris, Kelly and Yasmine hired an apartment around here somewhere.” He gestured vaguely to where the narrow cobbled street, lined with quaint buildings of various colours, veered right and up a slight incline. “I remember we tried this bar on the first night for tapas before taking a walk round the main sights. From what I recall, the food didn’t kill me.”
The waiter returned immediately. He had jet-black hair, his uniform a smart black and white combination. Ben detected from his accent he was Venezuelan. “One Estrella and one gin and tonic,” the waiter said in English as he placed their drinks on coasters as well as a basket of complimentary bread.
“Gracias.” Ben waited until the waiter departed before continuing the conversation. “Right now, I’m thirsty and famished. I can honestly say I can’t think of a better place to think.”
Juliet removed her sunglasses and ran her fingers through her hair. Though the table was set in shade, the outside temperature was comfortable, a gentle breeze taking the sting off the heat. She stared fixedly at Ben as he took a slice of bread from the woven basket, buttered it and tucked in, before taking one herself.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 76
