by Bear Grylls
'Tonto! ' spluttered Marco. 'That idiot Ramirez is guaranteed to make things worse. That chopper is blowing all the smoke down onto the crowd.'
'Follow me,' Beck shouted as they forced their way through the crowd in the direction of the arch, where the swirling cloud of green smoke seemed thinnest. At last, crouched down again, he could breathe in fresh air.
'Look. Over here!' said Marco. 'I can see under the smoke. They're trying to rescue Dad and Professor Granger. There's a car and . . .' His voice tailed off as the telltale rattle of a second canister bouncing along the cobbles was immediately followed by a phutt and a loud hiss; more clouds of dense smoke engulfed them.
But Beck had already seen enough. Just before the second canister exploded, he had caught a glimpse of something that made his heart freeze. The float carrying the effigy of Don Gonzalo had come to a halt just beyond the arch. A black limousine with tinted windows was blocking its path and the conquistadors were shouting and waving their arms wildly.
But instead of swords, they were now brandishing pistols and shouting at the mayor and Professor Granger, who were being bundled roughly off the float. The doors on the near side of the limo were pulled open and the pair pushed roughly inside.
As smoke engulfed the crowd once more, the salsa music pumping out of the PA system was turned off and Marco recognized the voice of the chief of police appealing for calm. Then, from beyond the arch, came a high-pitched squeal of tyres. The crowd began to break up in confusion.
Beck's brain was working overtime. A switch had been thrown in his mind and instinct had taken over. If they crouched close to the ground, they would still be able to breathe while the panicking crowd dispersed. He gestured to the twins to stay low, then covered his mouth and peered towards the arch, his eyes stinging badly and the screams of the crowd ringing in his ears.
After what seemed like an age the smoke began to thin. The three teenagers stared in horror towards the float beyond the arch. The black limo was no longer to be seen. The effigy of Don Gonzalo, its arms still waving, lay on the cobbles, grinning amiably towards the sky. Two bouquets of flowers lay tossed aside on the cobblestones and petals floated gently to the ground in the night air. A panama hat had come to rest at a jaunty angle in the gutter.
But the mayor and Professor Granger were gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
Beck's dreams that night were troubled. Once more he was back in the square. The Indian with the glittering eyes was pointing at the sky, where the jungles of the Sierra Nevada seemed to hover in the clouds. But each time Beck tried to move, a giant wave crashed down on him, flooding the square.
And then the crowd turned into huge shoals of fish darting back and forth. Chasing them this way and that, the carnival effigies had become sharks with bared teeth and staring eyes. And Don Gonzalo, his mouth leering in a ghastly grin, his teeth jagged, was no longer chasing the fish. It was Beck he was after now.
Lungs bursting, fighting for air, Beck struck out desperately towards the sky. Somewhere above him he could hear the dull sound of the church bell ringing above the waves. He could see the spire clearly above the surface, shining in the bright sunlight. If only he could escape those vicious teeth. If only he could reach the surface before they ripped into the soft flesh of his legs. If only—
Beck sat bolt upright in his bed. Wide awake now, he struggled to remember where he was. The ringing had stopped and somewhere downstairs he could hear someone speaking.
'Pronto?'
Beck recognized Marco's voice talking into the phone in the hall below. At once the dramatic events of the previous evening came flooding back. With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, he could see the smoke canisters exploding around him and the chaos erupting in the square. Then the frightening truth hit home once again. Uncle Al and Mayor Rafael had been kidnapped. Beck had heard about Colombia's reputation as the 'Kidnap Capital of the World' and his heart sank. Almost certainly the gang would demand a large ransom in return for the safe return of Uncle Al and the mayor.
The previous night, in a blur of flashing blue lights, squealing tyres and blaring horns, Ramirez's men had spirited the three teenagers out of the square. Still reeling from the shock, they were soon back in the safety of the mayor's hacienda a few kilometres down the coast. Beck was relieved to see a three-metre-high chain-mail fence surrounding the grounds.
Doña Maria de Castillo, the twins' mother and the head of an international aid agency, was away on a field trip in a remote part of Africa. Making contact with her was proving difficult and no one knew when she was likely to return. Meanwhile Señora Cordova, the housekeeper, clucked around them, cooking supper and telling anyone who would listen that everything would be fine.
Police Chief Ramirez was at his oily worst. Nervously running a finger up and down the scar in his hollow cheek, he fixed his thin lips in a permanent sneer. The twins listened in surly silence, clearly unimpressed by Ramirez's promise that his team were doing everything they could to track down the kidnappers.
'If they're that good, why couldn't they have stopped the gang in the first place?' said Marco later as they dragged themselves despondently to bed.
Now, in the cold light of morning, Beck held his breath and listened intently. Marco was evidently talking to Ramirez, who was giving him an update on the latest information. From the tone of Marco's voice, Beck guessed that the news was not good.
Hurriedly pulling on some clothes, he made his way along the balcony, glancing into Christina's room as he passed. Everything was neat and tidy. In pride of place on the wall above the bed was a framed photograph of the Colombian pop star, Shakira. Beck couldn't help noticing that it had been signed in person and wondered how many more pop stars were on first-name terms with the twins.
In Marco's room, the contrast could hardly have been greater. A hurricane looked like it had ripped through overnight and clothes lay scattered around the floor in untidy piles. A poster of the Colombian football team, also signed, had been Blutacked unevenly to the wall. One corner had come loose and was curling downwards at an awkward angle.
Down in the hallway at the foot of a sweeping wooden staircase that creaked loudly as he descended, Marco and Christina were already deep in conversation.
'Ramirez says there is nothing he can do until the gang contact him with their demands,' Marco was saying. 'He's put a police guard on the house in case the gang try to kidnap us as well. We are forbidden to leave under any circumstances. The Reptile says it's for our own safety.'
'What he means is he doesn't want us poking our noses in where they're not wanted,' said Christina with a contemptuous toss of her curls.
Beck took in this latest development. 'We can't just sit on our backsides and do nothing,' he said after a while. 'Anyway, it might not be money the gang want. Surely it must be something to do with the expedition to the Lost City. Why else would they have kidnapped the mayor and Uncle Al just after the announcement?'
'Ramirez didn't want my father to make that announcement,' said Marco. 'He said it was too dangerous.'
'But the gang must have already known about the expedition,' said Christina. 'It must have leaked out somehow. Ramirez probably couldn't keep his mouth shut and told some of his goons. The walls have ears in Colombia.'
'But even your father doesn't know exactly where the city is,' said Beck. 'After all, it wouldn't be the Lost City if he did.'
'Yes, but maybe the gang thinks he knows how to find it, and with Professor Granger's expert knowledge of the Indians, they could force them to take them there,' suggested Marco.
'And loot the gold before the archaeologists get there,' added Christina. A silence fell on the room as this possibility sank in.
'Do you think your dad may have known more than he was letting on?' asked Beck finally.
'I overheard him once telling Mum he was convinced Gonzalo made a map before he died, but no one in the family has ever found it.' Marco paused and looked across at his sister, as if for reassur
ance. Christina gave a brief nod. 'Come with us, Beck,' he said quietly. 'There's something you should see.'
The twins led the way along an oakpanelled corridor before stopping in front of a polished door with a brass plaque on it. The single word, Jefe, had been etched on the plaque in a flowery copperplate. 'Hail to the Chief,' said Christina, raising her eyebrows knowingly at Beck.
Marco went into his father's study and reappeared moments later, clutching a heavy, ancient key that looked to Beck as if it had been used to lock up prisoners in the Tower of London. Hanging next to it on a rusty key ring was another key that looked like a miniature version of its larger brother.
Further down the corridor, Marco led the way through a door. The hacienda had been built in the old Spanish style around a stone courtyard. In the centre was an intricately carved fountain of a dolphin and on the far side was an ancient wooden door that looked like it hadn't been opened for many years.
'Dad always keeps it locked and no one is allowed in,' said Marco. 'The old part of the hacienda was built by Gonzalo himself, using beams from the galleon he sailed in from Spain. It's like stepping back into history.'
Marco slowly inserted the larger of the two keys into the lock. There was a flinty sound like a rusty bicycle chain as the key turned with a rough jolt. Marco pushed and the door creaked open on its ancient hinges. Shafts of early morning sun lit up the interior of the room in a swirl of dust. Inside, a long wooden table was surrounded by carved high-backed chairs. Five brass candlesticks covered in dribbling waterfalls of melted wax stood in a line along the centre of the table.
Hanging from the beams were the everyday objects of a Spanish warship. A musket, its butt almost entirely rotted away, was displayed next to a curved rapier with moth-eaten tassels still attached to the scabbard. On an oak-panelled wall at the far end of the room hung a ship's wheel.
'The table was taken from the map room in Gonzalo's flagship,' said Marco. 'We think Columbus himself may have sat around it on these very chairs. There are many legends surrounding Gonzalo. When we were younger, we were very frightened of this room. My family have always believed that Gonzalo was sitting in the chair at the head of the table on the night he died.' He paused. 'It's also said that anyone who sits in that chair will find the Lost City . . .' Marco's voice trailed off.
'Or die trying.' Christina was standing silently behind Beck and her voice made him jump. 'Dad never allows anyone to come in here except on very special occasions. And as far as we know, he's never sat in the chair.'
'Until perhaps a few days ago.' Marco's face was stern now and he looked worried. 'The day before you and your uncle arrived in fact. Dad was muttering our family motto all day. I asked him about it and he told me he had been into Gonzalo's room – he was sure there was some kind of puzzle or a clue. But he wouldn't say what.'
'Do you think the map to the Lost City may be hidden in this room then?' asked Beck.
'It's not possible,' replied Marco. 'Every inch has been searched many times, even under the floorboards and behind the panels. Dad badly wanted to find it but he never could.'
Beck walked slowly into the room and made his way towards Gonzalo's chair. His heart was beating fast now. As a child he had been taught not to believe in ghosts or superstitions or tales of Bluebeard and things that went bump in the night.
'Poppycock,' Uncle Al had once told him. 'All poppycock.' And Beck was inclined to agree. Although these days he used a different, rather ruder, word to describe it himself. In the school dormitory when he was a new boy, he had realized at once that it was one of the older boys making tapping noises to scare the 'piglets', as the juniors were known.
Once he had got himself into serious hot water when he tried to turn the tables after lights out one night: covered in a sheet, he'd leaped out at one of the seniors, making screeching banshee noises. Just his luck it happened to be the Head of House. Bentley, or Bent Jaw, as he was known, had chosen not to see the funny side and Beck had spent the following two Saturdays in detention.
But now Beck was pacing boldly across the room, the ancient floorboards creaking ominously under his feet. His eyes flicked ceaselessly back and forth. As a young child he had spent time in the bush with the Masai in Kenya and he had learned how to use his eyes to survive. Now it was pure instinct. On the mantelpiece above the fireplace he saw a scattering of ancient coins and the tattered remains of an old flag.
Finally he came to a halt behind Gonzalo's chair, placing the palms of his hands on its high back. Then, without warning, he pulled the chair out from under the table. And sat down. A jolt like an electric shock surged through his body as Christina let out a yelp of surprise.
It was at that very moment that Beck saw it. Above the fireplace directly opposite his chair hung an oil painting of Don Gonzalo. By now Beck recognized the conquistador's features as if they were his own. No one could mistake the goatee beard or the long face with its distinctive Roman nose.
But it was not these that caught his attention now. Beck's eagle eyes had noted them the moment he entered the room. It was Don Gonzalo's pointing finger and the direction in which his eyes were gazing that made his heart knock against his ribs. From his position in the chair, and only from the exact position where he was now sitting, he could see that both the finger and Don Gonzalo's eyes were pointing directly at the words under the family crest on the ornate gilt frame.
'Perdido no más.' Beck whispered the words as if in a trance. 'That's it. That's the clue. Your father was staring right at it all the time and never realized.'
Mystified, the twins followed Beck's gaze across the room and stared blankly at the painting of Gonzalo.
'Look. Follow his finger directly up.' Beck traced a straight line through the air from the top of Gonzalo's finger towards the top of the portrait where it bordered the frame. 'His eyes are looking at your family motto. But his finger is pointing directly at the letter O.'
In an instant Marco had dashed around the table and was lifting the dusty old portrait down from the wall. Laying it flat on the table, the three teenagers stared down at the embossed wooden crest of la rana, the toad, and the family motto beneath.
'And the letter O is different to all the other letters,' whispered Christina, finishing Beck's sentence. 'It seems to be covered by some sort of flap.'
'And that's because it's actually a keyhole,' said Beck, pushing a fingernail into the curve on the outer side of the carved O. There was a click as the central portion of the O slid back. Beneath was the unmistakable outline of a keyhole.
'The other key. It's the lock for the other key,' murmured Marco. 'Beck, you're a genius. And not one of us ever saw it. We never knew what this key was for and it was in front of us all along. We were all so scared of the curse, we never dared to sit in Gonzalo's chair. That's what he's been trying to tell us all along.'
Marco grappled with the smaller key and, with shaking hands, inserted it into the lock. And turned. As if by magic, the belly of the toad on the embossed crest swung open. Beck blinked in astonishment. In front of them lay a golden amulet. It had been made in the shape of a toad, just like the one on the family's coat of arms. Its stomach bulged and its eyes glowed green in the dim light while its mouth gaped wide open.
Christina picked up the amulet on its gold chain and dangled it in front of them. 'La rana,' said Marco in disbelief. 'The legend we were told as children. The toad will appear when the Lost City is found.'
But Beck's attention had shifted to a folded parchment that still lay in a delicately carved recess at the back of the secret compartment. The words Mapa Ciudad de Los Koguis were still clearly visible in a copybook italic script.
'Map of the City of the Kogis,' said Beck, his voice breaking with excitement. 'This is what your dad was looking for all along. But he must have decided to hunt for the Lost City without the map . . .'
'. . . and the kidnappers must have thought he had discovered it,' said Marco, finishing Beck's sentence. 'And now they want to f
ind the Lost City and loot the gold.'
'So at last it all makes sense,' whispered Christina in a trance, her head swaying gently in time with the golden frog. 'Perdido no más.'
'Perdido no más,' echoed Beck. 'Lost no more. The Lost City is lost no more!'
CHAPTER FIVE
Huddled over Gonzalo's table, Beck and the twins peered down at the ancient piece of parchment in awed silence. At first glance it hardly looked like a map at all. Lines, crosses, circles and numbers tumbled across the page as if the mapmaker had been grappling with a complex set of mathematical equations rather than the location of a Lost City.
In the bottom right-hand corner was a circle with a cross roughly drawn across it. 'Compass rose,' said Beck, stabbing his finger at the map. 'Well, at least we know which way we're facing. These old maps were very basic – the conquistadors had no reliable instruments for plotting their position.' Beck remembered his time with the Tao tribe in the South Pacific, learning to navigate with the stars.
'Some of these numbers must be nautical miles and I think it's divided into sections. This bit here must be the coastline, roughly where we are now. Look, here!' He pointed to where the word Cart had been written next to the rough outline of a castle. 'This must be Cartagena. And this' – he pointed to a miniature symbol of a Spanish galleon further along the coast – 'must be where they landed when they found the city the first time.'
Along the bottom of the map was a signature that reminded Beck of a document signed by Queen Elizabeth I he had once seen in a history book at school. Above a series of florid curves and flourishes were the words Gonzalo de Castillo with Año de Nuestro Señor written in smaller letters underneath, followed by some Roman numerals: MDXXII.
'Fifteen . . . twenty . . . two,' stumbled Christina, peering hard at the numbers. 'I knew those boring Latin lessons would come in handy one day. That was the year of Gonzalo's death. He must have hidden this map not long before he died.'
