The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  “Did you really expect anything different?” she asked. “Three hours ago we were in England. Yesterday, the States. Did you honestly think you could just walk in here, flash a business card, and find a book that doesn’t exist?”

  “It does exist.”

  “How do you know that? Because some guy you hardly even know told you so. Even if Colts is reliable, it could have been moved years ago.”

  “Possibly, but somehow I doubt it. If the book is what I think it is, Señor Velázquez probably knows exactly where it is, and most likely he just doesn’t want someone like me to look at it.”

  “What do you mean, someone like you? It’s bad enough I’m trying to figure out one kind of code.”

  Ben smiled. “Interesting name, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Velázquez.”

  Juliet hadn’t even thought about it. “I suppose.” She looked at Ben, confused. “What are you getting at?”

  “When Cortés first travelled to the New World, he sailed under the guardianship of Diego Velázquez, who himself was famed for conquering Cuba. Velázquez was also part of Columbus’s crew during his second voyage. And Cortés’s first wife was Diego’s sister-in-law.”

  “Meaning what? You think there’s a connection?”

  “Last week, I spent several days in the company of Juan Cortés, which, although not enough time to learn everything about the man, did tell me what type of man Hernán Cortés’s latest living descendant really is. He loathes trusting outsiders, despite recognising the necessity. If Cortés has to rely on anybody, it will be the people he knows.”

  “Wait, you don’t honestly think there’s a connection between the curator of Seville Cathedral and the conqueror of Cuba?”

  “This guy lives in the correct town. It’s a strange name. Not one you are going to hear every day.”

  “Is that proof?”

  “No, but it’s enough to get me interested. Especially bearing in mind the condition of the tomb.”

  The waiter returned with three plates.

  “Gracias.” Juliet smiled at him and looked suspiciously at the calamari. “For the record, I’ve never had squid either, so I’m blaming you if it’s horrible.”

  He grinned. “Great. Ladies first.”

  Juliet tried it.

  “Well?”

  She chewed it thoroughly, clearly unprepared for the heat. “Rubbery.”

  Ben’s grin widened. “Well, at least nobody can tell you you’re not one to take adventures.”

  “Hey, I’ve always loved trying new things, no matter how little I think of the company. Speaking of which, Velázquez hated Cortés.”

  “Only because Cortés got too big for his boots and began disobeying orders.”

  “Furthermore, Cortés remarried. The family connection was lost.”

  “Only after his first wife died. If TF was right about Catalina, Juan is possibly descended of a previously unknown branch.”

  Juliet swallowed the squid before offering a response. “He wasn’t exactly a model husband.”

  “All right, you’ve got me on that, but this is the 1500s we’re talking about. I just find it something of a coincidence, and you know how I feel about coincidences.”

  He tried the sirloin in whisky, instantly satisfied by his choice. Next, he took a bite of the cod, deciding to leave the calamari till last. Once their hunger was no longer of pressing priority, Juliet reignited the conversation.

  “You honestly think there’s a connection?”

  “Coming here was the best thing we could have done. Even without the book, at least now we know of a connection. The connection is Columbus.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. Columbus and Cortés didn’t know one another. Columbus died when Cortés was only twenty-one.”

  “True, but we do know that not only was Columbus Cortés’s hero, but Velázquez is potentially a link. You said it yourself; the Columbus tomb was no longer in Seville at the time of Cortés’s death. Fernando’s, on the other hand, was.”

  “You think he buried something inside Fernando’s grave?”

  “What better place to hide something without giving away a precise connection?”

  “You think Juan Cortés has found it?”

  “Maybe. But it’s definitely the reason Velázquez denied all knowledge of the book.”

  *

  Less than a quarter of a mile away, the curator of the cathedral checked he was alone before picking up the phone and dialling. Glancing through the gap in the metallic blinds that shrouded his office in secrecy, he sank into his comfortable chair and waited for the recipient to answer.

  The visit was unexpected, even after recent events. If anything, they made it all the more significant. Ben Maloney was exactly as his associate had described. The height, the build, the clothing, the way he seemed unnaturally fixated with his hair, all fitted the description. The similarities were uncanny.

  Amusing even.

  The woman, however, was a new one. Her slender five-foot-five physique was appealing, especially coupled with such a pretty face. She was different to Spanish women. Different even to the Americans. He detected something of a British quality, a charming, refined elegance and intellect.

  He could have enjoyed showing her the sights.

  He took a deep breath as the call connected, a familiar voice replying.

  “It’s Velázquez. The American is here. In Seville.”

  *

  Standing behind the couch in Godolphin’s sitting room, Colts stifled a quiet gasp as he watched the results appear on the screen in front of him.

  Less than three feet away, the specialist from GCHQ sat on the edge of the couch, his eyes focused intently on the fifteen-inch screen of his laptop computer. He had set up the necessary equipment on the coffee table; a grey scanner connected wirelessly to the laptop. The scanner hummed intermittently as the man turned a page on the codex before scanning it. A red light accompanied the humming, moving from left to right. No sooner did it stop, new data appeared on the screen.

  To Colts, the scanned image of the Mesoamerican symbols was like looking at a scene from another universe.

  He approached the table and took a seat. Once the final page had been scanned, the man from Cheltenham converted the new document into PDF and opened up a programme Colts had never heard of.

  “You don’t need me to remind you, of course, that you never saw any of this?”

  Colts looked at him and nodded. “You can rely on me, fella. What’s it say?”

  The specialist waited for the new programme to open. “If all goes to plan, we will know very shortly.”

  Colts watched, nodding, as the uncommon symbols appeared on the screen before changing at rapid speed like the icons on a slot machine. He held his breath as the LED flashed green, indicating the laptop’s processor was running at optimum capacity.

  Within seconds letters began to appear on the screen, recognisable.

  “It’s Spanish.”

  The man nodded. “Yes. An Atbash cipher. Just as I thought.”

  “A what?”

  “Atbash. Very common for that day and age. Believed to have been invented by the Hebrews. Basically whoever did it switched the alphabet back to front.”

  “Back to front?”

  “Yes. So Z would be A. Y, B and so on.”

  Colts nodded, intrigued. “How long do you think it will take?”

  The man from Cheltenham waited a few seconds and offered him access. “I think we’re finished.”

  Colts’s face broke into a broad smile. Eyes on the screen, the previously unreadable content now showed up in clear Spanish.

  “I guess you really are the best after all.”

  21

  The ringing of Ben’s mobile phone interrupted the conversation mid-sentence. He swallowed a mouthful of calamari as he removed the phone from his pocket and answered.

  “Colts?”

  “You were right to trust your gut feeling
, Ben.” Colts spoke into the landline telephone. “Turns out you were wrong about some other stuff.”

  Ben was unclear what he meant. “What? Colts, we’re in Seville. We found the bookcase, but the book apparently wasn’t there. The curator claimed he had never heard of it.”

  “Getting the approval of the curator was always going to be a long shot, Ben; I told you that before you left. I’m sorry you had a wasted trip.”

  “It wasn’t wasted. We found other stuff. The grave of Fernando Columbus has recently been the subject of maintenance.”

  At the other end, Colts took a seat on the couch. “What kind of maintenance?”

  “I’m not sure right now. The slab itself was off-limits. As far as I could make out, the areas around the verge have lately been filled in.”

  “You think it was opened?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Wow, that is interesting.”

  Ben noticed a distinct change in Colts’s tone. “What is it?”

  “Boy arrived from the West Country late afternoon, less than four hours after I called his boss. Took him less than ten seconds to break the cipher.”

  Ben felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. “You have a translation?”

  “Pretty much. Turns out your clever lady friend was right. The original was written in Spanish.”

  “Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? It’s not as though the great Cortés was secretly learning Mandarin.”

  Colts laughed. “Our boy believes the translator figured out a cipher using a mixture of Aztec symbols and pictographs. After that, he used something called an Atbash.”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  Colts’s voice had been coming through loud enough for Juliet to eavesdrop. “It’s when someone uses the alphabet in reverse.”

  Ben eyed her, quietly unsurprised. “What’s it say?”

  “Based on the first couple of pages, Cortés confirms he returned from the New World with five emeralds, all of which hold the key to any return.”

  “It says that?”

  “Hold your horses, Ben. So far it doesn’t go into any specific detail about what the treasure is or where it is. Only that five emeralds were apparently scattered and later buried. One he seems to have kept, perhaps worn by his wife as a trinket.”

  “Figures. What about the others?”

  Colts gazed at the laptop as he spoke, scrolling down. “Another, based on the clue, he hid in an antechamber in the same place where he buried the treasures originally brought home after the Noche Triste. He talks about the monastery below the Virgin’s walls where the serpent’s priests stand guard.” He translated the phrase into English. “I’m guessing that’s a reference to the place you saw.”

  “Sounds about right.” Ben nodded, remembering the story Juan had told him about the Order of the Virgin and the statues located either side of the sealed doors. He wondered whether there was a connection with the order and the Chapel of the Maidens in Seville. “And the others?”

  “I can tell you’re worried, Ben; and so you should be. According to this, Cortés headed to Seville just before he died.”

  “He buried an emerald there?”

  “He doesn’t confirm that exactly but refers only to the Phoenician city where the Moors ran strong, where the sun will shine ever after. In the mapmaker’s tomb it lies at the foot of one whose memory is worthy of his great admiral father.”

  Ben banged his fist on the table; Juliet was stunned. “The epitaph on Fernando’s tomb said something pretty similar.”

  “And Seville was a Phoenician city later inhabited by the Moors. It’s thanks largely to Fernando that Columbus’s life is so well documented. It stands to reason Cortés read the first biography during his lifetime. Probably before it became mainstream.”

  “Quite possible,” Ben agreed, now on the edge of his seat. “Well, whatever happened to the original book, chances are we’re not going to see it. If Cortés or the curator have already used it, that explains the work on the slab. Which means they’re probably already in possession of it.”

  “Assuming, of course, that it was still there.”

  Ben hadn’t considered that possibility. “So what now?” He rose to his feet and gestured Juliet to join him. He placed twenty euros on the table and caught the attention of the Venezuelan waiter, thanking him.

  Though Ben hadn’t seen the bill, he knew he had left plenty, including a tip.

  “If Juan or whoever read the original knows what they’re doing, we’re already too late in Seville,” Ben said. “If we leave now, maybe we’ll have more luck elsewhere.”

  “It’ll take me a while to read through everything; sadly my Spanish isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Can you send me a copy?”

  “Not likely. Even if we overlook the fact you’d need software the rest of the world doesn’t know exists yet, you’re not cleared to look upon classified documents. I know a few people who would be upset I was allowed.”

  Ben decided not to argue the point. Taking Juliet’s arm, he guided her through the narrow streets, back towards the cathedral. “What have you got so far?” he asked Colts, still speaking into the phone.

  Colts scanned the next part of the text. He recognised no names, but one sentence stood out above all others.

  “Hernán Cortés told of something similar. A pilgrimage to the site of the admiral’s original grave, in the shadow of Christ our Blessed saviour. In the chapel of the finder and shepherd of the lost, pay homage at the base of the unknown sailor.”

  Ben was confused. “Unknown sailor?”

  Colts waited a few seconds before replying. “You’re the expert, Ben. I’m hoping this might mean more to you than to me.”

  “Admiral’s original grave? Columbus died in Valladolid. He was originally buried in a Franciscan friary somewhere off the Plaza Mayor.”

  “So I guess you do know something.”

  Ben picked up on the sarcasm. He upped his pace, his left hand holding Juliet’s arm. Since leaving the restaurant, she had been content not to interrupt. The light was fading and the great walls of the cathedral were basked in the warm light of nearby floodlights that created a soft angelic aura. On the nearby streets, crowds were gathering, soaking up the early twilight atmosphere.

  “Columbus’s body has been moved many times. When exactly was this thing dated?”

  Colts was unsure. “Doesn’t say exactly. Though judging by the reference to original burial, Cortés was already aware his body had moved at least once.”

  Ben bit his lip, determination rising. “When can the plane be back in the air?”

  “Soon as you like. Just say the word and I’ll make the call.”

  “Do it. Tell them we’ll be ready within half an hour. Our new destination is Valladolid.”

  Ben disconnected the call and immediately began searching the Internet.

  No sooner had he put his phone away, Juliet shouted in his ear, “What the hell did he mean?”

  Ben glanced at her, momentarily having forgotten she had been able to hear Colts’s every word. “Colts now has a translation of the codex in Spanish. Cortés, or whoever wrote it, clearly used Nahuatl letters and other Aztec pictographs to create a twenty-six-letter alphabet, which he then turned back to front.”

  Juliet laughed, almost in disbelief. “That’s incredible. Cortés was a genius.”

  “No. The Hebrews were the geniuses. He was just an avid learner.” Ben attempted to wave down a taxi, but the driver passed straight by. Quickening their strides, they neared the Plaza del Triunfo and turned right, west.

  Juliet struggled to run in her shoes. “What happened next? Colts said something about Fernando’s tomb.”

  Ben’s thoughts were moving a mile a minute. It was no longer possible to process everything clearly. “The book implies Cortés brought back the emeralds; it was probably written first-hand towards the end of his life – sadly, it doesn’t appear to be dated.”

  “If it’s not
dated, how do you know it’s genuine?”

  “It’s genuine, I know it is. The five emeralds were all dispersed. At least one of them appears to have been buried at the foot of Fernando Colón’s tomb. Cortés chose it in honour of both the father and son.”

  “If Velázquez oversaw the work on the tomb, chances are he used the book.”

  “You think?”

  Juliet caught the sarcasm. “Just slow down a second. Where are we heading?”

  Ben had taken them on to Calle Fray Ceferino González, still searching for a taxi. Not for the first time, none were close by. “Colts mentioned the site of Columbus’s burial.”

  “You said original grave.”

  I did say that. “The original grave was in Valladolid. The book said something about the base of an unknown sailor. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Nothing. So wait, now you want to go to Valladolid?”

  “If Juan saw the original, he already has a head start on us.”

  “A head start to nowhere. Going there is pointless; the monastery no longer exists.”

  “I know. But it’s all we have. Maybe something still exists beneath the grounds. A vault. Catacombs. Nothing is known of his first burial, other than it was in the crypt.”

  Turning the corner on to Avenue de la Constitución, Ben cursed beneath his breath. The taxis had all disappeared, the road instead occupied by relaxing locals and horse masters winding down at the end of a long day.

  A thought entered Ben’s mind. “Come with me.”

  The request caught Juliet flat-footed. “Wait. What now?”

  Ben sprinted north, close to the cathedral. A dark-haired, bespectacled Spaniard with a sharp beard was busy tending his horse.

  “Qué tan lejos puedes ir?” Ben asked quickly. How far can you go?

  The horseman seemed confused. “La ruta está designado previamente.” He glanced at Juliet. “Viente euros para la señorita bonita.”

  Juliet smiled, quietly unclear what Ben was thinking. The man confirmed the route of the tour was predesigned.

  And only twenty euros for the pretty lady.