The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  They had reached the heart of what the map called the Plaza de Anaya. Less than fifty metres away to the south, the north façade of the newer of the city’s two cathedrals rose imposingly above the neighbouring buildings, its strong orange walls glowing like a sunset in the warm light. To the north, the smaller, though equally elegant Palladian-styled Palacio de Anaya, now used as part of the famous university along with the building to the west, attracted the attention of many passing photographers, while alongside it the Iglesia de San Sebastián stood opposite the cathedral like a smaller, distant relative, the fine domes of each facing one another like inverse reflections. Ben had always intended to visit them when time permitted.

  Once again, he knew the opportunity for sightseeing would have to come later.

  Juliet had followed him tirelessly since leaving the hire car. After failing to get a response a second time, she raised her voice.

  “Will you please just stop for one second?” She stood with her hands on her hips, her angry glare slightly obscured by her designer sunglasses. “How the hell does rushing around help if you don’t even know what you’re looking for?”

  Ben’s attention remained fixed on the iconic sights before him, his mind inspired by the setting. He felt at home, spiritually if not physically; he loved the way in which the rooftops of the imposing stone structures were emblazoned by the morning light, like a purifying fire that engulfed their heart and soul but would never destroy them. He felt awake, more so than he had done in weeks; as if he was suddenly capable of more than he had ever been. He had made the correct decision. Had he not, they would still be back in Valladolid or, worse yet, in England, licking wounds and reading books. It was as if he were experiencing the first morning of a new life.

  Physical tiredness no longer mattered.

  He explored the plaza, trying to get his bearings. The cathedral was too modern for any connection with Columbus; despite the well-known existence of the older Romanesque building beyond it, connected to the newer one at the picturesque Calle Patio Chico on the south side, he knew it wasn’t what he was looking for. The other university buildings further afield – whose ancient halls had once been the temporary home of both a bored boy from Medellín dreaming of a life exploring the great seas and a famed sailor from Genoa recounting his experiences living that dream – he knew had no connection with the monastery. The importance of the translation was clear. The clue was in the word watchdogs.

  The destination was a monastery.

  Not Franciscan but Dominican.

  Ben removed his Android from his pocket and reactivated the Maps app. “The Convento de San Esteban is over here.” He pointed across the tree-lined square located close to the aptly named Calle Silencio, beyond the Teatro Juan del Enzina. He checked the time. 10:15. “It should be open now.”

  He made it to the end of the plaza, at which point he felt excess pressure grabbing his arm.

  “Will you please just stop and think for a second?” Juliet pleaded. “We still have no idea what we’re looking for.”

  “We don’t have time to think; for all we know, Cortés is already inside. He could be there right now. A few minutes could make a huge difference.”

  “Nobody is going to dig up a long-forgotten artefact in the middle of the morning in the most crowded area of a crowded city.” She folded her arms, her expression uncompromising. “I keep telling you, we might be wrong.”

  “I haven’t got it wrong; the clues are clear. Columbus’s hearings took place there in the old convent. Furthermore, look at this.” He showed her the map. “Part of the university is over here and the Museo Conventual de Santa Clara is due north. The original order formed part of the Franciscans.”

  “I’m not disputing the past, just the present. As I kept telling you in the car, the old monastery was demolished and replaced by a new one.” She moved her hair away from her face, blowing regularly. “Whatever existed there has been lost.”

  Ben smiled wryly; the temptation to get involved in an ‘I told you so argument’ was too great. “Did you learn nothing in Valladolid? I’m pretty sure Columbus didn’t die in some theatre watching the Wonder Tour.”

  “No. But nor did the clue say anything about being underground. The clue talks about stairs and doors and wells. That room no longer exists.”

  “Maybe so. But maybe the most important clue is the well. Wells do have a tendency to be underground.”

  “In that case, let’s just hope they haven’t already filled it in. Otherwise we could be here forever.”

  Ben led the way past the theatre and then across the main road, Calle San Pablo. He took Juliet’s hand as they negotiated the traffic before continuing across a second tree-lined, paved plaza that led to a large medieval church.

  The stonework was similar to that of the nearby cathedral.

  Ben brought up the Internet on his phone and submitted a search for the official website. The monastery was recorded as being open for visitors till 2 p.m., price three euros for individuals. The main entrance was visible directly in front of them, an arched, imposing medieval door accessible via a similarly historic approach way of elegant stonework. Several historic buildings lined the plaza that was also decorated with flourishing greenery and a statue of St Stephen in clerical garb.

  He stopped where a small bridge crossed the Arroyo de Santo Domingo and took his time familiarising himself with the area. From up above, the sun was beating down blindingly, catching the elegant west front and casting a deep shadow across the forecourt, drawing out the texture and detail of the iconic bellcote.

  He concentrated in particular on the main façade. Above the door, a deceptively wide triumphal arch, comprising a half-barrelled vault decorated with a coffered ceiling of Milanese origin, framed a priceless stone tapestry from the Renaissance period. Below the arch, the story of Christ’s death on Calvary was depicted on the upper part of the façade that was separated from the lower section by various reliefs above a similar portrayal of the passion of St Stephen. Adjacent to the west front ran a similarly coloured portico, which featured a mixture of Tuscan and Renaissance stonework that blended somewhat uneasily with an assortment of modern hatchback cars parked within its many arches.

  There were numerous people coming and going through the main doors, folded-up umbrellas and DSLR cameras a frequent sight. Two dark-haired women waited outside as an elderly couple departed, clearly pilgrims on their way out after a morning prayer.

  They made it halfway across the forecourt before Ben came to an abrupt stop, further unsettling Juliet.

  “What on earth is wrong with you now?”

  Ben was shocked; instead of replying, he stared at the doors. The elderly couple had departed, shuffling tenaciously in their direction, heading for the bridge. Juliet’s eyes remained focused on Ben, concerned by the expression of bewilderment that was now etched across his face.

  “Ben?”

  Ben remained silent. The two dark-haired women were still standing outside the church, preparing to enter.

  “Ben?” she repeated.

  “Shhh. I don’t believe it. It’s them.”

  *

  Almost twenty-five miles from the isolated hamlet that contained the headquarters of the little-known Project Estelle, the limousine with blacked-out windows pulled up in a vacant parking space close to Penzance harbour. On Colts’s instructions, the driver remained seated. No sooner had the two passengers alighted, he reversed on to the one-way street and joined the light traffic heading out of the centre.

  Colts knew it wasn’t necessary to think up a new plan. The same one had been used countless times before, even recently, and always to good effect. The passage to St Mary’s was short and familiar, especially to one who knew the way. Even to a rookie taking in the Isles for the first time, there were only two likely options to arrive safely. Both were equally sound, swift and cost effective. Everyone had their personal favourite.

  For over thirty years, Colts had always used the sea.


  He powered down his laptop computer and zipped up its tight carrier case before leading the way to the nearby harbour. On this occasion, using the area’s notoriously erratic Internet connection had not been necessary. The expertise of the man from GCHQ had already proved its weight in gold, quite literally. Whatever preconceptions he had once had about the locations of the missing emeralds had now been completely dispelled. His greatest fear had always been that they had already been located, the lost hoard rediscovered, spent . . .

  He now knew his fears had been partially proven, but in a positive way. He grinned wryly to himself as he considered the final pages of the translated codex.

  Without question, he had read the cleverest thing he had ever encountered.

  Chris followed Colts through the sun-drenched streets before reaching a private jetty, looking out to sea. Unlike his skipper, whose hatted and leather-jacketed appearance never seemed to differ, he was dressed in a Boston Red Sox baseball cap that complemented his black sailing jacket from his time in the navy.

  He had learned from Danny during his first night at the Gibbous Moon that the only ferry that connected to St Mary’s was via Penzance harbour, a mighty cruiser named the Scillonian III. In the distance he made out its rugged white outline, rising and falling on the waves, on the approach to the harbour.

  Closer still he made out something far smaller, identical in colour.

  Colts cast off, throwing the mooring lines on to the deck. Chris followed him aboard, taking in the features of the cabin cruiser. “This is it? I thought you said you owned a boat.”

  Colts stared at him, unimpressed. “You’re off land and you’re not swimming, aren’t you?” He began coiling the mooring lines. “I’ll have you know this baby has got me out of some pretty tight jams. Never let me down yet.”

  “Tight jams I can imagine. Bit different being out on the open water.” Chris’s cynicism was growing. “I take it you know how to navigate?”

  “You just worry about getting the coffee perfect. Let me worry about the navigation.”

  Colts secured the final line and prepared to set a course for St Mary’s harbour. From over thirty years’ experience, he knew that the journey was unlikely to take more than four hours.

  He removed his Android phone from his pocket and selected a call.

  Chris noticed. “I guess you’re a more sensible old man than I first thought. I’m assuming you’re warning the coastguard in advance.”

  “Nope. Just your cousin.”

  “Why?”

  “To tell him he’s wasting his time in Spain.”

  36

  Valeria waited patiently for the kindly woman on reception to process her ticket before entering the church. She learned from the guidebook she’d bought at the front desk that St Dominic had originally founded the Dominican Order to spread the gospel through the preaching of anointed nuns and friars, who established similar convents throughout Europe. Unlike Spain’s reformed neighbours in Europe, the longevity of Catholicism in the country had allowed the monastery to thrive, and even in the modern day it maintained its original purpose.

  The church was large, but smaller than the neighbouring cathedral. The first thing she noticed on passing the main doors was that the central body consisted of a single nave and that one long central aisle connected the entrance to the main altar. There were no stone columns supporting the vaulted ceiling; she remembered her grandmother had once told her that convent churches were designed specifically so that preachers could be seen and heard.

  Never hidden by pillars and posts.

  It felt calm inside, open, colourful. The early morning sunlight appeared to be magnified as it entered the church through long stained-glass windows, casting the gothic walls in a pleasing, almost angelic light. Between the entrance and the great transepts, the walls maintained a width of approximately twenty-seven metres; there were sharply pointed lancet arches on either side, supported by discreetly placed pillars; a ribbed, vaulted ceiling stretched from the entrance to the altar, whose gilded trimmings incorporated a Baroque style.

  Valeria proceeded slowly, taking measured steps to reduce the sound of her footfalls on the hard flooring. Through the system of loudspeakers, she could hear the soft mellow tone of a male voice leading the congregation in prayer. Small gatherings of people occupied the pews on both sides, their attention focused on the black-robed preacher reciting words from an elevated lectern. She made her way into the third pew from the front and gazed fleetingly at the preacher before concentrating on the Chapel of the Rosary in the north transept.

  She sensed as she looked around that she had come to an area that had once hosted an important meeting.

  Maria moved in alongside her.

  “Give me your phone,” Valeria said.

  Maria remained silent. She unlocked the screen and passed it to her.

  Valeria flicked through the images, concentrating on the one concerning Salamanca. The outline Maria had photographed definitely looked like the present building.

  “There is no question. We are definitely in the correct place.”

  Maria watched over her shoulder, sceptical; she had been passing the time reading the guidebook. “The church was not completed until 1610. It cannot be the same.”

  “No. Columbus died in 1506; the website says building work started in 1524. Hernán Cortés would still have been alive.”

  Maria nodded, otherwise remaining quiet. In theory the dates worked.

  All of the diagrams on the wall of the inner sanctum had included the presence of an emerald-coloured stone. She had noticed from the different images that the position of the emerald was never in the exact same place. In the case of the present monastery, it had been somewhere beneath floor level.

  And in the shape of a rose.

  A thought occurred. “All this time, we have been missing the most obvious clue. The emerald’s position gives its location, just like a map. The rose is below the ground; it is brighter than the rest.” She pointed at the screen, noticing for the first time the other emeralds were of differing height and brightness. “It is below ground, possibly on the south side.” She increased the size of the image with her thumb and finger.

  Maria decided to take her word for it. “This church is bigger than some palaces. Where do we begin to look?”

  Valeria looked up from the screen, noticing a change in the atmosphere. The calm melodious timbre of the friar’s voice continued to reverberate steadily through the nearby speakers, only now partially drowned out by the sound of the congregation reciting Ave Marias.

  She whispered in Maria’s ear, “Let us wait a little longer. Then we will explore properly.”

  *

  Ben stood absolutely motionless, his gaze locked on the main doors. Though several seconds had passed, he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The glamorous brunette, who had first caught his attention moments earlier, had an almost exact double alongside her, whose lighter-coloured, similar-length hair swayed from side to side as she moved gracefully like a model walking the catwalk.

  Ben didn’t need to see their faces to know it was them.

  Juliet was getting annoyed again. It was obvious Ben wasn’t inspecting the architecture.

  “Ben!”

  “Shhhh!” He grabbed her arm and sought cover behind the nearby stone pillars that marked the end of the footbridge. They were both far too narrow to conceal their bodies completely, but it was the only thing he could think of on the spur of the moment.

  He bounced into the pillar, his back to the stone, holding his breath as he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes on the doors. The second of the two brunettes was preparing to enter; the first had already disappeared inside.

  “Ben!”

  He turned to Juliet, who pushed him hard. He looked her in the eye, concerned.

  “That was Valeria.”

  Juliet raised an eyebrow. Though she had heard the stories, she was still to have the pleasure of meeting her.
“What? Ben?”

  Ben returned his gaze to the entrance, relieved to see the forecourt was deserted, the door closed.

  “They’ve entered. Come on quickly. Let’s head inside.”

  Juliet’s frustrations were increasing. “Ben, what are you doing? Will you just listen to me for one second?”

  “Valeria and Maria are here in Salamanca. Now, you may disagree, but to me that can only mean one thing.” He stopped, placing his hands firmly on Juliet’s shoulders. “Nobody’s seen anything of them since they left the monastery. All this time, they could have been anywhere.”

  “They’re not invisible, Ben. I’m sure some people must have seen them.”

  A million thoughts were going through Ben’s mind. “Perhaps we’re looking at this all wrong,” he said, contemplating new possibilities. “Maybe it wasn’t Cortés who took the stones. Maybe it was them.”

  It was them, not Cortés. The possibility was incredible. The empty void below the sphere in Valladolid . . . the tomb in Seville Cathedral . . .

  Less than a week earlier, Valeria had already amassed all of the four stones needed to open the doorway at Cabañas del Castillo.

  Only the final one remained elusive.

  Juliet never gave the idea a chance. “If what you’ve told me is true, those two stick insects would have no way of pulling this off. They clearly aren’t bright enough to find everything they need, nor do they have the connections.” She grabbed Ben by the jacket and looked fiercely into his eyes. “Do you honestly think they would have been capable of breaking into Seville Cathedral and doing such a perfect job on the tomb, or, better yet, convincing someone as clearly intelligent as that curator to let them in? You were probably right the first time.”

  Juliet was right, he decided. It was Cortés – it had to be. He possessed the wealth, the resolve, most notably the contacts. One did not simply break into Seville Cathedral and open up the tomb of a famous man. It took planning, money, equipment.