The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  The colonel looked Colts directly in the eye, a pensive expression wearing deep into his face. “If I’d had my way, they would have been destroyed, everything. Nothing of good can ever come of it. You mark my words. Its very discovery will reap havoc on its discoverer.”

  Chris was intrigued, but Colts beat him to a response. “What happened to the missing pages?”

  “You don’t know what you’re dealing with; neither of you do. The discovery of the city would be like unleashing a plague. A curse on the world. It’s too great a risk. I’d have been killed years ago for sure if anything had happened. My grandfather made the mistake once of trying to become involved in things he didn’t understand. It cost him his life. I can’t say he wasn’t warned.”

  Colts was confused. “Major Weir was killed in the desert, fighting Johnny Turk. He assisted Lawrence. A hero’s death.”

  “Oh, it sounds so noble, doesn’t it? Lawrence of Arabia, hazaar for king and country. Yes, it’s all very glam, isn’t it, when you see it on the big screen? The truth is my grandfather was far too old to serve in the war; instead, they had a different mission in mind for him. In an ideal world, I’d love the world to know the true capabilities it could celebrate, but I would be shot down by any who disproved, friend or villain. Not that they would be wrong, necessarily. The repercussions are far too deep.”

  “What repercussions?”

  “Clearly you are already familiar with the story of the conquistador. Five emeralds brought back from the New World. Together famed for their beauty, collective and individual, coveted by the Queen of Spain. However, the Spaniard gave them to a different woman.”

  “I am familiar with the stories, Colonel. Three of those stones were buried in Spain. TF Maloney discovered each of them. He later buried them somewhere nearby. The missing pages confirm where.”

  “But, really, how can you be so sure?”

  “The good doctor cross-referenced the fact in an epilogue to a ciphered diary written by Cortés. I have reason to believe his latest living descendant now possesses at least one of them and very much wishes to get his hands on the rest.”

  Weir drained his glass, coughing as he swallowed the last mouthful. “Every generation repeats the antics of the ones before. My God, you should have known them in my day. They were the slimiest, most villainous, treacherous scum to ever have walked God’s earth.”

  “Fortunately, thanks to this, we are now one step ahead.” Colts waved the translated codex in his hand. “What happened to your grandfather? I’m guessing the stones were found.”

  Weir took another drink. “Of course they were found. Worse. They were used. My grandfather even participated in the first mission. So did yours, I might add.”

  Chris raised an eyebrow. “TF visited the lost city?”

  “The location of the city is no longer a mystery,” Colts agreed, his gaze resolute. “Perhaps it was through him, Arthur knew what he knew. What happened to the stones?”

  “The expedition was doomed from the start. It was like a precursor to the Battle of Omdurman. Taking that perilous march through the jungle. Heat sweltering. Nothing to drink. Insects climbing up to your neck.” The colonel shuddered at the thought. “Of course, they knew the reality of the conditions they would encounter; even your ancestor was a soldier. However, little did they know the horrors that would follow. The keepers.”

  “The what?” Chris asked.

  “A tribe. A lost tribe. Indigenous to the region,” Colts clarified.

  “You’ve heard the story?”

  “Seen them myself; only just survived with my life.”

  “Well, then, you were the lucky one. My grandfather did once; however, greed is a wretched thing. Made the mistake of returning.”

  “Without the stones?” Colts was gobsmacked. “You mean to say . . .”

  “Yes, I most certainly do,” Weir cut him off. “Nor was he the only one. My own father received the news whilst taking refuge with relatives in the countryside. He had been brought home after an incident with mustard gas. He was lucky to survive himself.”

  Chris lowered his head. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Colts took over. “Soon all the stones will be recovered. That way, the path will be cleared. Lessons will be learned from the last time. Please, tell us what happened to the three Dr Thomas discovered. It’s the only way we can make sure they remain in the correct hands.”

  “And how do you know what are the correct hands? Are you really prepared to unleash such an evil on the world? Such a curse.”

  Chris was confused, Colts equally so. “A curse? Evil?” Chris recalled what Ben had told him about Sir Walter Raleigh. The Stone of Fire. One of four or five. “You honestly believe we are dealing with something supernatural?”

  The old man laughed, hard and mocking. “My dear boy, you disappoint me. And you, sir, should have known better” – he turned to Colts – “than to fill this young man’s head with tales of such frivolity.”

  “I assure you, he did no such thing,” Chris retorted. “Among my ancestor’s possessions was a biography of Walter Raleigh. Raleigh himself coveted the treasures. Believed they dated back to the Aztec empire’s foundation.”

  “Whether they did or didn’t, the jewels themselves were never the issue.”

  “So what is?” Chris asked apprehensively. “A curse? Lost knowledge?”

  “The reason the Spanish sought conquest of the New World was quite simple. When Columbus first set sail, looking for the world of Marco Polo to the west, he sought not to lay waste to peaceful villages but to network. Open up trade routes. It might also be argued a similar thing was the intention in the Americas. Only it never materialised. Then one man’s greed put paid to everything.”

  Chris assumed he was talking about Cortés. “So what is this great evil? Treasure? Is that it?”

  “While much gold was indeed taken and even more so left behind, what was less considered was the source of this wealth. How did the great kingdoms amass so much?”

  “Mining surely,” Chris said. “We know from the gold rush much still remained unclaimed.”

  “That may have been true in some cases, but those in the know realised something that could never be fully understood by others. The real reason the savages were eradicated. The gold supply was endless.”

  Colts raised an eyebrow. “You mean the fault still exists?”

  “No. There never was such a fault. The gold came from somewhere else.”

  Chris’s jaw dropped. “You mean they were alchemists?”

  The man laughed. “You can just imagine if they had been, can’t you? The discovery of such mischief by those who knew so little would be bound to cause a rift between those of the Old World and the New. When Cortés’s crusaders saw what ingenuity existed beneath the mountain, they were both aroused by greed but also appalled by manipulation. To them, what they saw was magic. Sorcery. From those who sacrificed their kin on the temple steps, devil worship.”

  Chris bit his lip. “But alchemy was attempted before their time. Flamel. Roger Bacon. Even though they never succeeded, the concept was attempted.”

  “Perhaps. And maybe the Spaniards knew this – maybe they did not. However, for the religious, especially the Jesuits, news of this inexhaustible source had the potential to cripple the world. Just imagine the possibility: that a group of men, wild, ragged, seen to butcher their own people and drink their blood, could also be blessed by infinite wealth.”

  Colts bit his lip. “Just the sort of thing the Kaiser or Adolf would have loved to get their hands on.”

  “At last you understand the horrors. The evil that has the potential to bring the world to its knees.”

  “Not forgetting what Wall Street would give,” Chris added.

  “This is no joke, young man. A terrible wrath has so far been avoided. The source of the natives’ wealth, if used with bad intent, could wreak unimaginable havoc.”

  “Or if good, provide prosperity,” Chris said. />
  Weir smiled. “I once thought like you do. Reality and pipe dreams are sadly two different things.”

  “The Spaniards are still out there, looking to reclaim a lost heritage,” Colts said, looking to move on. “They have stopped at nothing, nor will they. They covet only the end result. If they do already have two of the stones, soon they will achieve their goal. Help us, Colonel. I understand now why Dr Thomas buried what he feared could be used to end the world. Trust us. You have my word that the city will remain undisturbed, that the finding of the final two emeralds will never become our mission. Let us use those missing pages and end this.”

  The old man turned towards the window, his gaze settling on the distant cloud. It was bright outside; the recent rainbow had vanished amongst thin sea mist.

  “All my life I have sought to avoid such occurrences. So far no harm has come. The stones must remain where they are.”

  “Once upon a time I would have probably agreed with you,” Colts said. “However, times have changed. Whatever great thought went into the planning has since become obsolete. We have tracking systems now. Great vaults. Twenty-four-hour security. Guard units. You ask for security, we can provide it.”

  Weir seemed unsure.

  “One day the stones will be found. Dr Thomas confirmed they had been buried. No treasure stays in the ground indefinitely. It only takes one lucky strike with a metal detector and whoosh. We have a lucky finder having his fifteen minutes in the tabloids.”

  “Ah, a sensible man you appear to be after all. Perhaps you are right, perhaps you are wrong.”

  Colts sensed he was near. “The Duke has seen the hoard in Cornwall. Everything I’ve said of him is true. Help us now. Don’t make me trouble his already troubled mind.”

  Sighing, the old man rose to his feet and headed towards a set of wall cabinets, the last of a neat assembly of antique furniture. He opened the oak doors and shuffled through a large collection of books and papers. He retrieved several, kept together in a thick folder.

  “Perhaps God is finally answering my prayers. Ridding me of this terrible dilemma. You are an honourable man. I shall trust you as the good Duke does.”

  Colts stood with outstretched arms and accepted the folder as if it were a priceless gift.

  “Thank you, Colonel. You have my word that we shall take great care of this.”

  *

  They left the house and took a coastal pathway west, heading for Hugh Town. For Chris, walking the sun-drenched pathway surrounded by the view of long grass on both sides and the summer sun glinting off the clear blue ocean whilst carrying the roughed-up folder that contained the missing pages of TF’s diary was like something out of a dream.

  Colts was hurrying on ahead. Chris needed to break into a jog to catch him.

  “You honestly believe the Mesoamericans were capable of alchemy?”

  Colts laughed, only now in disbelief. “I doubt it. Most likely they just stumbled on something even they couldn’t understand.”

  “So where the hell are we headed?”

  “The Gibbous Moon.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s either that or head back to the boat.”

  Another stint in Colts’s tiny living quarters was the last thing Chris desired. He loosened the strap of the folder as he walked, impatient to see what secrets the hundred-year-old diary entries might reveal.

  Colts noticed what he was doing. “I wouldn’t be doing that if I were you. Even on a calm day such as this, it never pays to take too many chances with the wind.”

  Chris decided to take his advice. “Did you honestly know?”

  “Had a feeling, assuming they hadn’t been destroyed.”

  “You never asked him?”

  “Never had one of TF’s descendants with me to help my cause.”

  Chris grinned, knowing he probably made a good point. Again his gaze fell on the folder. “This is unreal.”

  “Exactly,” Colts agreed, looking out beyond the coast at the far islands. “Now all we need to do is work out what on earth it all means.”

  42

  Ben checked the time on his phone as the twin-engine aircraft began its descent over St Mary’s. They had taken off from Valladolid at midday Spanish time; it was now quarter to three BST. The time on his phone had automatically updated as the plane crossed time zones.

  Again, he avoided the temptation to correct the time on his watch. 9:45 ET.

  Nana will be preparing lunch in Massachusetts, he thought.

  He gazed out through the passenger’s window, down at the scenery below. Sunlight glistened off the paradisiac backdrop of blue sea lapping against the north and south coasts. Luxury vessels of the rich and privileged were berthed in the harbour on the north side, the residents going about their daily business appeared little more than insects from his elevated view. As the plane approached the ground, the familiar features of Old Town presented themselves along the south coast, its famous church and cemetery guarded by a fine sea mist.

  For Ben, the setting was surreal. Ten days had passed since his visit; after everything that had happened since, it already seemed like a long time ago. It was as if time had become fractured, memories merged; what he had once remembered clearly had since become muddled, as though he had experienced the entire trip in a daze. He feared that the events of recent days were beginning to take their toll on his mind, that one day he would be explaining everything to a shrink, probably one of his colleagues. It seemed incredible he had been part of the discovery of something so huge.

  Juliet blamed the feeling on a lack of sleep.

  They landed safely, the doors opened. A blue taxi was waiting near the end of the tarmac, its tinted glass failing to rival that of the limousine they had previously become used to. A driver had been sent specifically to collect them.

  The instructions had come from Colts.

  *

  The driver dropped them off outside the Gibbous Moon. A sign on the door said Open.

  Danny was standing behind the reception desk, finishing on the phone. He smiled at Ben as he approached.

  “Just the person I wanted to see.” Ben shook his hand and introduced Danny to Juliet. Not for the first time, the young man possessed both charm and uncertainty in the presence of an attractive lady. “I’m guessing you must be running the place by now?” Ben continued.

  “Hoping to be the new owner. Mr Nicholl’s wife died many years ago; sadly, they had no kids. His lawyer says his will instructed that all his business-related assets be divided up equally among his staff.”

  Ben raised an eyebrow, wondering how the man’s ghost now felt, knowing one of them had been responsible for his passing. “Well, good news for the Gibbous Moon. Where’s Chris and Colts?”

  “Through here.” He pointed to the same reception room Ben had previously used to discuss Chris’s disappearance with Hammitt. “They’re just about to have some food.”

  “Good, I’m starved.”

  Ben followed the cream-carpeted corridor all the way to the rarely unlocked door of the private reception room and entered to find three people gathered around an unlit fireplace.

  The identity of the third man caught him by surprise.

  “’Bout time you two showed up. I was just about to call the coastguard.” Colts sat facing him, his expression turning serious. “Ben, I believe you’ve met former sergeant Hammitt.”

  “Former sergeant?” Ben paused in the doorway. “I hope this has nothing to do with your failure to find my cousin. He’s fine, by the way. Showed up about a week ago.”

  “Been trying to tell him that since midday. He still doesn’t believe me,” Chris waded in.

  Ben grinned and offered Hammitt a reluctant hand. “I guess there’s no real point me asking whether you’ve had much luck apprehending the culprits? Actually saw them myself not four hours ago. In Salamanca.”

  Colts continued, “Truth is, Ben, Bill here actually retired from the force three years ago.”

&
nbsp; “St Mary’s was never exactly the busiest of areas for the constabulary to deal with,” Hammitt took over. “Fortunately for us, the Isles’ reputation for lawlessness is largely a thing of the past. In recent years, there’s only ever been two of us out here at any one time.”

  “That a fact?” Ben asked. “Sounds like the perfect retirement.”

  “Since leaving the force, Bill has been working for the Duchy, mostly surveillance,” Colts said. “Actually, he has some good news for us.”

  “Oh really? That’s great. I could use some cheering up.”

  “For the last few days, Bill here has been tracking our good friend Juan Cortés.”

  That surprised Ben. “You’ve seen him?”

  “Matter of fact, I have,” Hammitt began. “Señor Cortés has been a very busy boy of late. In recent days, he’s shown up almost everywhere from his home village of Medellín to the cities of Seville, Valladolid and Madrid.”

  “What was he doing in Madrid?” Ben asked.

  “As far as I can tell, he was just visiting relatives. The address was a property owned by the late Señor Pizarro’s father.”

  “That a fact? So what are you doing back on St Mary’s?”

  “That’s the good news; Cortés is here.”

  Ben let out an exhausted breath. “Oh goodie.” He took a seat alongside Chris, adjacent to Juliet, who had wasted no time taking the weight off her feet. “So if Juan is here, why are you with us?”

  A wry smile. “Señor Cortés was recently witnessed landing his helicopter, the Santa María XVI, apparently named in honour of his ancestor’s historical flagship, close to the ruined church on St Lide’s. Less than an hour before that, he touched down on a large yacht currently docked just off Tresco. I understand it also once belonged to the late Señor Pizarro.”

  “Sounds about right.” Ben gazed towards the door. Danny entered, wheeling in a selection of plates, most of which contained sandwiches.