by Stephen Cole
Jonah was uneasy. ‘No, after you.’
Coldhardt pulled a small remote from his pocket and strode inside. A moment later the place was blinding bright with the glare of spotlights. Jonah screwed up his eyes, waiting for them to adjust, shivering in the sub-zero temperature.
When he could see, he was disappointed. There were paintings and tapestries lining the walls, wooden swords and clubs lying in display cases, a few weird ornaments littering the floor; judging by the style, they were Aztec. But the vault was definitely not some mega treasure trove. It was dominated by a plain stone altar in the middle, about the length and breadth of a man.
‘This search for the lost Temple of Life from Death has become something of an all-consuming passion,’ said Coldhardt. ‘You could say my future depends on it.’
Jonah looked at him uneasily. ‘Could I?’
‘Here you see every Aztec treasure I own.’ Coldhardt gestured round. ‘You know, I was quite prepared to give them all to Kabacra or even to Sixth Sun in exchange for that sword.’
‘Why?’
Coldhardt crossed to the far corner. ‘Cortes’s sword was stolen by an Aztec warrior, and subsequently fell into the possession of the high priests. They saw it as a totem, a powerful symbol of the Spaniards’ great strength, and used it in their mystical rituals, hoping to turn that strength against their aggressors.’
Jonah rubbed his arms to try and keep warm. ‘I’m guessing it didn’t work, right?’
‘Correct. And as a result the priests came to believe that by burying their treasures in anticipation of the conquistadors’ victory, they had unwittingly buried the greatest prize of all – the soul and spirit of the Aztec people. They had foreseen only defeat, had failed to believe in themselves – so why should Coatlicue believe in them?’ The old man lifted a small grey-green statuette from the floor. ‘Abandoning them, she turned to sleep. And they believed she would sleep on until her people regained their glory through victory in war.’ He half-smiled. ‘Of course, it was a victory that never came. The Aztecs had no resistance to the infectious diseases the conquistadors brought with them from Europe. Smallpox, malaria, measles, whooping cough, yellow fever … They died in their millions. And the sword itself was lost for centuries.’ He passed the statuette to Jonah. ‘Here is Coatlicue, fashioned from green obsidian in the fifteenth century, recovered from the Great Temple excavations in Mexico. And there are our two mysterious pictograms – pride of place on the front.’
Jonah shuddered as he studied it. The figure was beautifully crafted, and yet hideous. The head of the goddess had been severed from her body; two snakes rose up from the neck, each turning in profile to form a face. She wore a necklace of human hands and hearts, and her skirt was formed from writhing serpents. In place of fingers she sprouted monstrous claws, while her feet were like talons. And all over, she was tattooed in pictograms, deeply scored with painstaking skill.
‘What do the other pictograms mean?’ Jonah asked.
‘Apparently they celebrate the appetite of Coatlicue. She feasted on human corpses.’ Again, Coldhardt’s smile stopped far short of his eyes. ‘It has been alleged in surviving scraps of Aztec literature that only Cortes’s sword, the hateful symbol of the Aztec nation’s utter defeat, can rouse her from her slumber.’
‘Or in other words, it must play some part in reopening the buried temple.’ Jonah thought hard, tapping his finger against his lips. ‘Perhaps it needs to be placed in some hidden mechanism to raise the entrance, or you can use it to defuse booby traps once you’re in.’
‘Perhaps,’ Coldhardt murmured.
‘And Sixth Sun have got it.’ Jonah turned the statuette slowly in his hands. ‘Do you think they’ve managed to crack the symbols in the codex – that they know where the temple is?’
‘I don’t know,’ Coldhardt admitted. ‘Not yet. But while there’s a chance the temple’s location is within our reach, we must go on working to crack that code.’
‘Crack …’ Jonah blinked, turned the statuette slowly back and forth, frowning. ‘Or cracks. Hang on a minute …’
Coldhardt stood beside him. ‘What is it?’
‘Where would this thing have stood in the Great Temple or wherever it was?’ Jonah demanded. ‘A window ledge maybe? Somewhere it would catch the sunlight?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Then say that spotlight’s the sun.’ He carefully angled the statuette in front of it. ‘The light makes the raised edges of the pictograms cast shadows. And as the sun moves round, the shadows get longer, right? And as they do …’ He carefully turned the statuette, showing Coldhardt what he’d noticed. There were faint, silvery veins in the obsidian, and as the smudge of the shadows fell on them, they came into sharper relief – and formed distinct, deliberate lines. ‘That’s why the symbols couldn’t be translated – they’re meaningless – shaped and styled to bring out the veins of silver when the shadows fall across them!’
Coldhardt snatched the statuette from him. ‘So, if viewed from the correct angle and at the proper time, new symbols will be formed,’ he murmured. ‘After all these centuries, the figurine will give up its secrets.’
‘We’ll need to simulate proper sunlight on this thing,’ Jonah said, ‘get the precise shapes of the hidden lines marked up at different times of day, see if we can make anything of them.’
‘You have done well.’ There was genuine pleasure on Coldhardt’s face now as he stared raptly at the symbols. He suddenly looked years younger. ‘I gave you a new life, Jonah,’ he murmured. ‘Now you may well have returned the favour.’
‘What?’ Jonah frowned.
The smile faded, and a haunted look stole into Coldhardt’s piercing eyes. He turned and walked from the vault. ‘Come. We still have much to do.’
‘I won’t say anything to the others,’ Jonah assured him, wanting the pleased, paternal Coldhardt to come back. But abruptly the lights flicked off, leaving him in freezing darkness. He hurried back out into the cellar, just as the vault door began to close. Coldhardt was already climbing the stairs stiffly, slipping the remote back in his pocket, his face lost in shadow. Jonah followed him back up to the house, still gripping the statuette in one icy hand. There was something about that haunted look …
Jonah couldn’t imagine feeling warm again for some time.
Tye had spent a tense day by the pool with Ramez, their every move watched by the two bruised bouncers. They’d been given food and beers and even champagne when Ramez requested it – but weren’t allowed to leave the penthouse.
She and Ramez had hardly spoken since Traynor’s arrival. The spell was broken and, as the hours passed, Tye had felt as flat as her untouched Cristal.
Now, as night began to swell like a dark bruise over the Santa Fe skyline, Traynor had returned to interrogate her.
On the surface, the questioning was a civilised affair – no harsh light shining into her eyes since the power was still out, only cosy candlelight. Ramez had insisted that no harm was allowed to come to her, and as Perfect Sacrifice his voice still seemed to count for something round here. Even so, the possibilities of sudden violence – the bruised bouncers on the door, the gun in Traynor’s shoulder holster, the intimidating way in which he wound and unwound a length of wire around his fingers – were not lost on her.
‘You’ve made no attempt to contact Coldhardt since you arrived here,’ Traynor noted.
She shrugged. ‘I called him at his hotel in Guatemala.’
‘I mean proper contact. You’re one of his operatives, you must have set instructions about calling in.’
‘You make it sound like the FBI or something – and it really isn’t.’ Tye smiled coolly. ‘I’m freelance. I just happen to be under contract to Coldhardt at this time. Doesn’t mean I owe him anything.’
‘Not even an explanation as to your disappearance?’
‘I was having a good time.’
Traynor toyed with the wire. ‘Why didn’t you leave with your friends when they
turned up here?’
‘They’re not my friends,’ she insisted. ‘They’re just colleagues.’ She affected disinterest. ‘I don’t owe them anything either. I just wanted to get things straight with Ramez. I mean … it’s been a long time since I saw him, you know?’
‘Indeed it has.’ He smiled. ‘You do realise that Ramez owes his current predicament to you, my dear?’
A sick feeling went through her. ‘To me?’
‘Coldhardt’s interest in Cortes’s sword and the Temple of Life from Death came to our attention some time ago. Word has it he’s obsessed with chasing after any relic connected with immortality or new life – however tenuous. What’s frightening him? Simply old age? Or something more?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Tye breezily, though inside she was rattled. She was well used to Coldhardt reeling off the ambitions of other high-movers, but to hear it being done to him felt all wrong. ‘He keeps his aims to himself.’
‘I know. I’ve been hacking into his secure files for some time. That’s how we knew where to find you at his new base.’ He smiled. ‘Coldhardt’s never posed any serious threat to our operation, but the possibility always remained that he might some day. So when choosing our Perfect Sacrifice, who better than young Ramez? A boy so desperate he’d do anything for freedom, and with an emotional attachment to one of Coldhardt’s field agents to boot.’
‘Then this all comes down to Coldhardt, not me?’
‘You are our insurance, now events are nearing their conclusion.’ Traynor yanked the length of wire taut. ‘Coldhardt’s been blundering about in the dark, but now the race is almost won he’s starting to get close. That’s why we had you picked up. If he gets any closer, knowing your life hangs in the balance may deter him from pressing on.’
Tye looked away. ‘Don’t count on it.’
‘And hey, it’s given Ramez such a boost in his last days. His only unfulfilled dream come true – reunited with his old flame, right at the end.’ He grinned, shook his head as if puzzled. ‘You know, Tye, given the circumstances of your final meeting, I honestly thought you wouldn’t give him the time of day. But my colleague assured me you would.’
‘A woman’s intuition?’
‘Apparently so.’ Traynor’s smile faded, as he realised he’d given something away. ‘How did you know my colleague was female?’
‘Lucky guess?’ she suggested. ‘Here’s another. You’re hoping to be brought face to face with Coatlicue herself, aren’t you? That’ll give you power, right?’
He stood up, his face darkening. ‘How did you come by this information?’
She cast her mind back to what was said that night on the balcony. ‘Have you discovered the precise location yet?’
Traynor flexed the wire between his hands. ‘I asked you a question.’
‘Thing is – wherever you choose to rendezvous, it’s going to be kind of tricky, hooking up with an Aztec goddess. Which makes me think that Coatlicue’s got to be a codename for someone …’ Tye watched his eyes closely; even the smallest reaction would give her a clue as to whether she was right. But all she caught was scorn as he advanced, apparently ready to garrotte her.
‘Use that on me and Ramez will never willingly go through with what you want him to do,’ she said quickly. ‘Don’t you think your Aztec goddess will be kind of offended when you have to drag her Perfect Sacrifice kicking and screaming to the knife?’
Again, she was testing him. He should be saying, What are you, crazy? You think I really believe in that Coatlicue crap? But instead he was just sitting back down, his anger smouldering away like a smoking match near gunpowder. Still dangerous.
‘I asked how you knew these things,’ he said at last.
‘I’ll trade the information,’ Tye told him with a coolness she wished she felt. ‘But only if you’ll let Ramez go. Find another sacrifice.’
Traynor smiled indulgently, like she’d tried to be funny. ‘I’ll get the answers I want,’ he assured her. ‘Remember – we choose how Ramez dies. How slowly we make the incision in his chest. How long we stretch out his death agonies.’ His eyes held a hard, fanatical gleam that chilled Tye as much as his words. ‘Yeah, I think you’ll tell me what I want to know.’
There was a knock at the front door. The bruisers slipped out of the room to answer it, and Tye found she felt more intimidated now she was alone with this weirdo sadist.
Distantly, she caught a harsh, accented voice from behind the front door. ‘It’s Kabacra, open up.’ Her heart lurched and she looked down at her hands, fighting to keep her reaction muted, like the name meant nothing to her.
Traynor rose quickly and turned for the door. ‘We’ll pick up where we left off shortly, Tye.’
She heard the key turn in the lock behind him, and an exchange of cordial greetings followed as they went next door into the living room. What the hell was Kabacra doing here, so far from home turf? Motti had said the arms dealer had already sold Sixth Sun the sword – what had brought him here in person? Tye pressed her ear up to the wall and strained to listen in.
‘The consignment will be ready for collection the day after tomorrow,’ Kabacra was saying. ‘A dark red freight truck, marked Pomarico Eucalyptus, will be heading east on Interstate 40. Cargo’s untraceable, with no serious security. The truck will pass exit 85 around 23.30 hours.’
‘Excellent,’ drawled Traynor.
She frowned. The I-40 ran through north-western New Mexico. But what was this cargo?
‘So is everything set for the demonstration?’ Tye could hear the eagerness in Kabacra’s voice. He sounded like a little boy who couldn’t wait to pull the wings off a fly.
‘The agent at the Black House is almost ready for the final tests,’ Traynor replied. ‘We’ll leave for Colorado midday tomorrow.’
‘Excellent.’ A pause. ‘What happened to the lights around here?’
‘Just a fault in the power supply.’
‘Right,’ Tye whispered to herself. Clearly Traynor didn’t want Kabacra knowing there had been trouble here. But who was this agent they were talking about – a secret operative of some kind? If so, maybe Coatlicue was a codename. And yet Traynor hadn’t given away a flicker of confirmation when she’d suggested that – quite the reverse, in fact. He’d acted as if he really believed in a pagan goddess with dominion over life, death and rebirth …
As her head crowded with thoughts of cargoes and demonstrations, of gods and secret agents, Tye knew one thing for certain – she had to get out of here, get help for Ramez before his time was up. He would be safe for now – Traynor couldn’t kill him twice.
She had to go and get Coldhardt.
Tye slipped into the en suite bathroom and locked the door behind her. The window was split into two – a solid pane of frosted glass beneath a smaller one that opened on a hinge, too small for her to get through. Smashing the larger pane was her only option, but the sound of the glass breaking would surely bring Traynor or the bodyguards running.
Quickly she grabbed a bottle of shower gel and slathered the scented goo all over the glass. Then she grabbed yesterday’s Santa Fe Tribune from beside the toilet, doused it in water in the sink and squelched it into place against the pane. She flushed the toilet, and while it gurgled noisily she grabbed the chrome toilet brush holder and swung it against the window with all her strength.
There was a dull crack as the glass broke – but at least the newspaper held it in place, stopping it from shattering everywhere. Wrapping each of her hands in a thick layer of toilet roll, Tye managed to pull the newspaper away complete with the broken glass, then set about removing the largest, most lethal shards still lining the frame. If she could clear a good space before the thirsty, hissing cistern stopped filling –
She jumped to hear a bang at the door. ‘What’s going on in there?’
It was one of the bodyguards; of course, Traynor wouldn’t come himself – why alarm Kabacra if he could help it? ‘Nothing,’ she shouted back.
&nb
sp; ‘What was the noise?’
‘I knocked a stack of shampoo and stuff into the shower screen,’ she called, still pulling at the glass. ‘Now could you let me use the toilet in peace?’
She listened for the sound of footsteps moving away. Nothing. He was waiting for her right outside.
Tye flushed the toilet again, ran the taps as fast as they’d go, and punched out the remaining glass. Wrapping a towel around her midriff for protection she swung herself through the broken window feet first. She gasped as jagged edges cut into her ribs even through the thick fluffy fabric, and arched her back. The evening was gusty; it prickled her bare legs as they dangled down, as she tried to get a foothold.
Twisting lithely round, she balanced on the narrow ledge beneath the window. The wind whipped at the towel. She pulled it away, felt a rush of nausea at the thick crimson stripe left on the white cotton, and stuffed it back through the window. She was afraid to look and see just how much she was bleeding. Below to her right was the balcony outside the living room – if she dropped down, Traynor and Kabacra would surely see her. And yet what else could she do?
The decision was made for her when she heard a crash from the bathroom. The bodyguard knew something was up and he was trying to kick the door down. Tye jumped and landed lightly, pressed herself flat against the balcony floor and scuttled along commando-style to the far side, praying she wouldn’t be seen.
But the only person up there listening was Ramez on the roof – and he’d sure seen her.
‘Tye!’ he shouted. ‘No way. Don’t you dare leave me!’
She climbed up on to the balcony rail. She wanted to yell at him, ‘I’m not leaving! I’ll be back for you!’ But if she advertised the fact to Traynor and co …
‘She’s on the balcony!’ Ramez yelled. ‘Someone stop her!’
Swearing, Tye leaped across the divide and hit the ground running. He must honestly believe she was running out on him – that the only way he could keep her was by force. The gash in her ribs was still pouring blood; her pale green top and the waistband of her shorts were sodden. But no time to think about that. It wouldn’t take Traynor long to work out she’d jumped across to the penthouse next door.
