He laughed to himself.
The pair were still arguing amongst themselves.
*
Valeria pushed Maria to one side and scurried onward through the trees. The plan she had formed was to remain in the dehesa and then stay low as she crossed over open ground, at which point she could use the shadow of the wall to her advantage.
Even if the cameras were working, they were less likely to attract attention if she stayed down far enough.
She sensed movement behind her a second time, hands on her back. “Why do you never listen?” Maria asked, panting. “What you are thinking is suicide.”
Valeria pushed back and continued on, sprinting from tree to tree. Lingering for less than a second, she did the same again.
She felt hands around her midriff, tighter than before. “Wait. Please. You must listen. There was more to the temple than just the fountain and the statue.”
Ignoring her, Valeria composed herself and sought to move on. This time, she felt Maria’s grip holding her back.
“Valeria, please, you must listen.”
Valeria turned to face her, furious. “Will you keep your voice down? One mistake and they shall hear us.”
“Continue inside and they shall see you. This is madness.”
She sought to escape her grasp, but Maria pulled hard against her sleeve, forcing her into the bark of the tree. Valeria had never experienced such strength from her sister before.
“Listen to me. There was more inside the temple. Clues. Diagrams. I think they were important.”
Valeria looked at her, confused. “Diagrams? Clues? What do you mean?”
“The wall on the right side was covered by spider webs. Seeing beyond them wasn’t possible. Only when the webs were removed did they reveal their secrets.”
Valeria had no idea what she was talking about. She recalled cobwebs on the walls, but nothing about them appeared striking.
Maria anticipated another burst for freedom. “Wait, please. You must listen! I photographed them. They were like the cave paintings in the other rooms, but not Aztec. The places are in Spain.”
“What are they?”
“They show a cathedral, possibly two or three. Also an island.”
Valeria bit her lip, suddenly unsure. Beyond the last line of trees, the south wall of the courtyard was close; she estimated less than twenty metres away.
Easily within reach.
Valeria remained sceptical. “All throughout there was wall art. It was put there only to decorate. What you saw means nothing!”
“It was not nothing. Whatever it was, I know it is important. It was like a map to where something had been buried.”
“What did it show? Cathedrals and islands. Without directions it could mean anything.”
“There were stones marked along the sides: all green, the shapes matched the ones you described in England. Valeria, I’m telling you, this is the clue we’ve been looking for.”
Valeria raised an eyebrow; it was as if a switch had been flicked. “The emeralds of Doña Juana.”
Maria nodded. “Each symbol was shown by a different location. I think it was a map. Written in symbols.”
“You have the photos?”
“Yes.”
Valeria realised she faced a conundrum. She was so close, within touching distance of the castle. The possibility was irresistible.
Map or no map, Juan Cortés had to pay.
“If the first stone was once there, it is now here. Even if you are correct, we still need all five. Only together can the lost location be revealed.”
“Valeria!”
Valeria ran off once more, sprinting through the trees. She counted them down in her mind as she prepared for a final push. As she did so, she hit the ground with a thud, her head spinning violently. She felt blood pour from her left cheek, pain rising from her back and shoulders. Looking up, dazed, she saw a face looking down at her.
“I cannot let you do this. You will die.”
“Let me go.” She wrestled, forcing Maria off her. Scrambling to her feet, she felt her legs go from under her again.
Within a second, she knew it had saved her life.
24
Valladolid
Ben stepped out through the open door of the recently landed twin-engine plane and savoured the feeling of fresh air on his face. The flight from Seville, though easily the quickest of the day, meant he had now spent over twelve of the last twenty-four hours airborne. The constant roaming across time zones was starting to play havoc with his timekeeping. The digital clock on his phone confirmed it was 8 p.m. – the display updating instantly on arriving in Spain – whereas the silver-plated watch on his left wrist implied it was six hours earlier. It was afternoon tea time in New Hampshire. Suppertime in England.
Which meant it was still tapas time in Spain.
On reaching the ground, he felt his phone vibrate and checked the screen. One new voicemail. Chris.
“How are things going over there?” Ben asked on calling him back.
Back at Godolphin, Chris sat alongside Colts in the living room, staring at the screen of Colts’s laptop. “Good. Colts is over halfway through translating the Spanish version. The cipher guy has already packed up and left.”
At the other end, Ben raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, translating? Doesn’t he have software to do that?”
“Yeah. For some reason he doesn’t trust it.”
Ben grinned, walking quickly as they approached the end of the runway. In the distance, a car was waiting for them. A white taxi.
“What’s he got so far?”
Colts handed him a small piece of paper, which he had torn from a notepad. “Tell him what it says. He’ll understand.”
Chris spoke into the phone. “Colts just gave me a note. Said you’ll understand.”
“Make that should understand.”
Ben overheard and smiled. “Okay. Shoot.”
“There’s another line that comes after unknown sailor. By rain and wind, and land and sea, the sailor brought it here. By Hope’s great roundel at his foot, it lies beneath the sphere.” Chris waited for a response that didn’t come. “That mean anything to you?”
Ben was unsure. “We’ll figure it out later. What else?”
“The next clue refers to the final emerald. East of the street where the lawyers read, the stone of knowledge now rests. For not for want of a deceiver’s words, to take it within his chest. From the little poor man’s house of the rising sun, to where the geographers gave counsel poor. Beneath the stairs where the watchdogs stare, it lies beyond the door. Oh, and sun is spelt as in the sun, not you have a son.”
“Thanks.” Ben rolled his eyes, grateful Juliet wasn’t listening. “House of the rising sun. Maybe he was a fan of The Animals.”
“Either that or he didn’t tell his wife about something. Where are you now?”
“Just leaving the airport. Shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to reach the centre.”
“Cool. Listen, before you go, I need to tell you something.”
Ben covered his mouth as he approached the taxi. He ushered Juliet inside and accepted the ageing driver’s offer to take his rucksack. Juliet requested he take them to the Plaza Mayor.
“What is it?” Ben resumed his conversation with Chris.
“I’ve been through TF’s diary again. The final days are strange. You said TF checked out of the Gibbous Moon April 8, right?”
“According to Nicholl, he never checked out at all. Though rumour has it, the 8th was the last time he was seen by the staff.”
“In total there could be up to eleven pages missing at the end of the diary. The entry for the 8th says something about heading out to Tresco after meeting with some learned gentleman and contemplating a trip to the mainland. The final page is dated the 11th.”
Ben leaned against the side of the taxi and placed his hand to his stubble. He offered a thumbs-up to the enquiring driver, informing him he would just ne
ed another moment.
“There’s an entry on the 11th?”
“Just one page. Most of that entry is missing.”
“What else did TF say on the last page?”
“Not much. It’s mainly the diagrams at Godolphin and TF talking about the outer garden, highlighting the ancient squares as recommended by the learned gentleman. He drew the Raleigh statue twice.”
Ben remembered. “Is that definitely the final page?”
“Final page with writing on it. Pages were torn out either side of it. You ask me, this page survived purely by chance. Whoever ripped the others out just happened to miss this one.”
“All right, I’ve gotta go. See if you can figure out the identity of the man he saw.”
“What man?”
“The learned gentleman.”
Chris thought he was joking. “You can’t be serious?”
“The learned gentleman was probably a reference to TF’s agent on the island. The man who gave him orders and passed reports back to his bosses in England. Find out who he was. I suggest you start by asking Colts. Good luck.”
Ben disconnected the call and took a seat alongside Juliet in the back of the taxi. Once again she was giving him a hard look.
“Just where the hell are we supposed to be going? You said yourself, the site no longer exists.”
Ben glanced at her and asked a question of the Spanish driver, “Hola, donde se encuentra el museo de Colón?”
“Colón?”
“Si.”
The driver considered the question as he joined the lengthy line of traffic leaving the terminal.
“Ah, si. Yes.” He continued slowly in passable English, “The Christopher Columbus museum is located on the site of a house believed to have once been owned by members of his family, perhaps also the house where he died. You wish to be taken there instead?”
“Gracias.” Ben smiled and turned to Juliet. “I remember reading a biography of Columbus years ago, back before I got my PhD. The site still exists, though the original building has been replaced.”
Juliet’s expression illustrated her lack of optimism. “What help is that? He was buried in a convent.”
“I know. But I visited the museum myself when I was here before and saw some interesting things. Maybe they might have some information.”
“In that case, I really hope museums here stay open late.”
*
Chris hung up the phone and turned to Colts. The archaeologist was busy alternating his attention between the screen and a notepad, recording his translations.
“I have to ask you something, though I’m guessing you may not appreciate it. Just exactly who was TF working for?”
Colts remained focused on his notes. “You make a habit of enquiring into things that don’t concern you?”
“In his diary, TF speaks about a meeting with a learned gentleman, but he doesn’t give away the name. Ben thinks he was probably an English agent who relayed messages back to London.”
“Your ancestor clearly knew a lot more about tact than you two.”
“There are pages missing from the diary, pages Ben thinks might be important. If we knew who he was dealing with, it might help make sense of things.”
“Well, son, as much as I’d love to help you out, you’re barking up the wrong tree. The identity of the man was clearly intended as being known only to a select few. You said yourself he was probably an agent. Identities of people like that were kept hidden for a reason.”
“It’s been a hundred years, surely that stuff’s all been declassified by now.”
“If it was ever recorded in writing in the first place.” Colts glanced at him. “What you’ve got to understand, Chris – what your cousin’s got to understand – is that all that’s gone on, what’s still going on . . . well . . . between you and me, it’s not the kind of thing you just go ahead and reveal to the public.”
“Will you just cut out your goddamn cloak-and-dagger riddle talk for one second. Since the beginning, we’ve been straight down the line with you. If it wasn’t for us, you’d have nothing right now to work on.”
“If it wasn’t for you, I might not have got shot either. Nor would your cousin have spent last week running round Europe like a dosed teenager, putting his trust in strangers, trying to find you. You want my advice, try steering clear of things you don’t understand.”
Chris bit his lip, trying to control his building frustration. “Well, right now, I’m taking Ben’s advice. He told me to locate the agent. In all honesty, I don’t give a damn who his bosses were. But maybe if we do uncover the mystery of his identity, we might find a few answers as to what in God’s name finally happened to TF.”
“The identity of the name has never been a mystery; least not to those who had a right to know. There can be no fooling here, Chris. I can’t just go around showing sensitive information to people just for the hell of it. This isn’t a game.”
“Games are fun; you think this is fun? What exactly is your problem here? You don’t trust us? Is that it?”
“Think what you want, my only concern here is the recovery of what needs to be recovered; unfortunately for us, there are other people who would love to know what we know. As Ben said, find the name, maybe you find the path.”
Chris inched his way closer, watching Colts like a hawk. “Just who was he? The agent?”
“I doubt it’ll do you much good. Unfortunately he’s dead.”
Chris exhaled furiously. “Then he won’t mind if we trace him, will he? I’ll even sign an official secrecy contract if you want me to. But right now there’s nothing I can do unless you let me help you.”
Colts bit his lip, unsure. “Everything I inherited from Arthur was located in a filing cabinet. If the name is recorded anywhere, chances are it’ll be there. Going through it won’t be easy, and there might be nothing at all.”
“Well, in that case, I hope you’ve got some good coffee in.”
25
Cortés moved quickly to the north wall of the medieval courtyard and paused beside the gate. He wrapped his hand around the bolted lock, pulled it swiftly and proceeded into the outer grounds.
The north wall of the courtyard was better lit than the south; the strong beams of nearby floodlights created long shadows as they shone down on the stone furnishings. Instructing the butler to follow him, Cortés tiptoed west along the wall, stopping on reaching the north-west corner. The west wall extended north to south at a ninety-degree angle; he knew having lived in the castle so long that the courtyard was a perfect square, each wall measuring eighteen metres in length. Edging his way south, he kept his back to the wall, doing his best to stay out of the light. On reaching the south-west corner, where the stonework stuck out like a flying buttress, he gazed across the surrounding land.
The vegetation was wilder to the south of the courtyard. While the north side consisted of well-kept areas of greenery and recently planted trees, the woodland to the west and south was older, rather like a small dehesa. The shrubbery was thick underfoot, making running difficult. Tradition had it that Hernán Cortés planted the originals to help strengthen the most susceptible areas against possible onslaught. The theory was simple: the best way to protect a castle against a siege was to ensure the siege never began in the first place.
Five centuries later, the vegetation was still doing its job.
Leaning against the stonework, Cortés focused on the trees. The wind had picked up, causing the branches to sway slightly. Sounds came and went; animal calls echoed. Despite the relative calm, with each passing second he felt his heart rate quicken, his breathing deepen. Without knowing their precise position, he knew the biggest mistake he could make would be to venture too far into the unknown. Even if they escaped, the risk of exposure was far too great.
He spoke to Eduardo using his headset. “What’s happening?”
At the other end, his nephew focused on the screens. “Camera 13. Twenty metres south of where you are now.
About thirty degrees to your left, in front of you.”
Juan remained quiet. The area Eduardo had described was a thick area of trees, each one separated by no more than three metres. He heard noises coming from deep within the woodland, then far closer. He saw a shadow move through the trees, rapidly then far slower. Something had fallen to the ground.
He raised his gun and fired.
*
Valeria felt the air move above her. Her skin was warm and had a tingling feeling that reminded her of her recent episode in the hidden monastery in Cabañas del Castillo. She touched her hair and gazed at her palm.
She saw blood.
Maria was lying on her back, her face frozen with fear. Her entire body felt cold, as though caught in an invisible death grip.
A second gunshot caused the birds to scatter, the nearby branches to shake. Valeria held her breath as the foliage swung from side to side, the momentum built by the wind. Her eyes on the courtyard, she saw figures moving quickly: she counted two, maybe more.
Wasting no time, she turned and fled, taking refuge behind the nearest tree.
Composing herself, she aimed at the courtyard and fired.
*
Cortés ducked instinctively. He saw sparks fly above his head, then again a second time. Debris fell across his shoulders, a fine dust covering the blackness of his cotton polo shirt. Looking up, he saw two fresh bullet holes had appeared in the stonework. He looked back into the trees, furious.
The slimy eel would pay for her vandalism.
He kept low, concerned another onslaught was imminent. His initial inspection of the holes in the stonework had told him that the bullets had come from the same gun she had used in the chamber of torches days earlier. The gun had to be low on bullets, perhaps down to its last round. The maths didn’t lie.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 79
