She found she couldn’t stay the hot tears building in her eyes as she drew near.
“What’s wrong, darling?” he asked, his face suddenly tight with rising alarm. “What happened? Is—is it Jake?”
She quickly shook her head, finding it difficult to swallow as she then hugged him close. “No. It’s young Peter back stateside . . .”
“Peter—? What about him?”
“David, he’s been murdered.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Albis Hills, Ten Miles West of Zurich, Switzerland
Herr Josef Hagermann, sole owner and managing director of the private bank of Hagermann & Richter, watched from an upper floor window of his gray stone chateau as first one car—followed immediately by another—quietly made their way up the long, red gravel lane to the estate’s impressive front portico.
As Josef noted in the growing twilight, both were European sedans, conservatively muted in color so as to draw a minimum of unwanted attention. This intentional discretion was reassuring. Considering the troubled times they lived in, it was his observation that truly successful businessmen rarely, if ever, advertised their inherited wealth to the general public. Such foolish pretensions were best left in the domain of the nouveau riche.
Once each driver in turn deposited a single passenger at the front entrance, they headed over to a secluded lot, there to bide their time hidden from view behind a high stand of trees.
As Josef left his second-floor library and descended to greet his guests, the hall chimes announced the precise arrival of 6pm, the scheduled hour for their clandestine gathering. This was likewise pleasing. Within his tight circle of business acquaintances, strict punctuality was always appreciated, if not a firm given.
He convened the meeting in the confines of his private study.
The rectangular room was large and decorated in the Baroque style, the walls a deep ochre, the plush, high-backed chairs covered in rich brocade. Every piece of furniture and decorative object seemed to compliment one another, all suggestive of old money and good taste. Though it was now already well into early spring, the night air at this altitude remained damp and chill, thus an appropriately comfortable fire burned in the stone hearth as the three men took their seats.
Like Josef, his guests were serious men in their early sixties, all three of them in direct control of family banking enterprises stretching back several generations. Lean and fit, their physical dissimilarities were, at most, marginal to the casual eye. Likewise, each was a firm proponent of an extreme capitalist philosophy which they believed gave them the right to not only make money unfettered by restrictive government regulations, but also the inherent duty to conceal it wherever and whenever possible from the moral injustice of taxation.
To this end they harbored no qualms against acting upon any profitable opportunities that came their way, regardless of prohibitive legalities. Indeed, the complicated and secretive world of Swiss banking had served them very well—and tonight, if all went as planned, they were on the cusp of reaping what promised to be unheard of financial rewards for their respective banks.
Though also Swiss by citizenship, Josef’s two partners in this current venture were of different nationalities—one Italian and one French. Over the years this hadn’t in any way hindered the many successes of their working relationship. Far from it. Early on they recognized themselves to be of a like mind and nature, and the mutual trust they now enjoyed was solid and unequivocal.
The meeting chaired by Josef was to be intentionally brief.
“Gentleman,” he said, “we have true cause for celebration. It is with great pleasure I can tell you the first shipment of gold from our American client came through as planned. Two hundred bars, each weighed and stamped at thirty-two troy ounces. The method of delivery proved flawless—and in my estimation, totally untraceable. Exclusive of anything untoward, I’m informed we can expect these monthly shipments to continue uninterrupted for at least a full five years. Possibly even longer.”
“Five years, you say?” blurted the Italian, momentarily losing his habitual composure. Clearly this projected time frame far eclipsed his expectations.
Josef smiled at his friend.
“Yes, and quite possibly longer,” he repeated for emphasis. “Five years was a minimum estimate.”
His guests looked suitably stunned, each swiftly doing the mental calculations of their cut that came second nature to them.
“As you can appreciate,” Josef continued, “it behooves us to manage our affairs with extreme care over the foreseeable future. We must allow nothing to jeopardize this arrangement, for the rewards will be enormous.”
This said, he stood, producing an intricately decorated 18th century silver decanter from a sideboard. Inside was a chilled bottle of Armand de Brignac champagne. While pouring the sparkling contents into fluted, crystal glasses for a celebratory toast, he noted the narrowed eyebrows and rather pensive expression of his French partner.
“Something troubling you, mon amis?” he asked.
“Troubling? No, not at all, Josef. I was merely speculating . . .”
“About what?”
“Our American client, actually. Such an incredible amount of gold. One has to be curious just how it came into his possession—and from where exactly it all originated.”
Tenochtitlan, Early Summer of 1520 C.E.
The late evening order for young Chimuli to appear early the following morning before his new emperor came totally unexpected—and so taken aback was the puzzled youth that he slept not at all throughout the long night hours. For what possible reason, he wondered would Lord Cuitlahuac wish to see him, of all people, during such momentous times as these? The unexplained summons made no sense to him.
Surely it must’ve come in error . . .
Less than two days had elapsed since the hated Spanish soldiers led by Hernan Cortez made their daring midnight escape from the Aztec capital. After the stoning death of Moctezuma II twelve days before—followed by the subsequent uprising led by the newly elevated younger brother of the slain emperor—the undermanned invaders had found themselves virtually cut off and besieged inside the palace. With supplies running low, no real option remained but to flee. The ensuing battle and prolonged struggle had been fierce, the loss of lives high for both opposing sides.
Based on the significance of these events, fourteen-year-old Chimuli could only conclude that the royal command was somehow misdirected. After all, he reasoned, he was a person of no consequence, just a humble palace artisan now taking shelter in his elderly uncle’s modest dwelling. Despite this conviction, however, he nevertheless arose with the faint light of approaching dawn from his thin, woven mat, knowing he’d no alternative but to obey.
After first relieving himself, the slim youth encircled his waist with a narrow maxtlatl loincloth. He then tied back his hair and brushed off his only remaining mantle. Despite his vigorous efforts, the patterned cloth was visibly soiled in several places; hardly appropriate apparel to face the new emperor. Yet he possessed no other, and he reluctantly pulled it over his head, accepting it must of need suffice.
Not surprising at this early hour, the sparse household still slept.
Feeling too nervous to put anything into his stomach more substantial than a quick drink of water, he left the whitewashed dwelling with growing unease and crossed over to the grand avenue that ran straight into the city center.
Very few of the city’s inhabitants were up and about, for the great disruption to their daily lives had yet to be fully absorbed. Dark and pungent smoke hung in a thin layer over those causeways connected to the mainland where the fighting had been most intense—and as Chimuli eventually reached and traversed the smooth stone pavement of the Great Plaza toward his destination, he discovered the grim evidence of the battle was now impossible to avoid. Though the multitude of dead warriors had been removed, the bloody stains where they fell had yet to be washed clean. Despite the passage of two days, in many places
the reddish stones remained sticky beneath the soft leather of his sandals.
Ahead of him—located on the southern side of the Great Temple—was the formidable palace of the late emperor. Prior to the recent arrival of the Spanish, it had been Chimuli’s home for the past four years. Trained as a promising artist and mapmaker, he’d known only happiness within its formidable walls. Now his heart stirred in his chest, fearful of what damage he must surely find.
Save for the Great Temple itself, the residence of Moctezuma II had been the most elaborate and grand building ever constructed in Tenochtitlan. Two stories in height, it covered an enormous area, a vast structure surrounded by gardens, fishponds, military warehouses, and many aristocratic dwellings either attached or located nearby. Inside, as Chimuli well knew, the huge complex was equally impressive, for here had been housed over one thousand guards, servants, nobles, trained artisans, cooks, courtiers—not to mention a royal harem—all there to serve at their lord’s pleasure.
As the youth drew near, his worst expectations seemed doomed to be true.
A substantial number of Eagle Warriors stood guard at its much-damaged entrance, the wide wooden doors behind them torn from their hinges and thrown to one side. Visible on the floor within was a veritable field of debris, all further evidence of Spanish looting prior to their escape.
Several of the men regarded Chimuli sternly as he approached, but it was at this moment that the familiar figure of old Nochetzin stepped out and gestured him forward, assuring the doubtful warriors that the boy was indeed expected. As Nochetzin was a man of noble family, they acceded without challenging the youth’s presence.
Noting the somewhat frayed and disheveled appearance of his aged mentor, Chimuli no longer felt conscious about his own soiled apparel. Instead, he pushed such concerns from his mind as his curiosity grew.
Once inside, he could only stare at the damage wrought to the vast interior of the ground floor. Where once the long walls had been covered with exquisite paintings, panels of gold, rare carvings, mosaics fashioned out of jade and precious gems—all manifestations of the emperor’s wealth—now what remained were only those things the Spaniards considered unworthy of plunder. As was their nature, their main focus had been the gold. Here, too, the youth noticed that a number of doors leading into the many chambers had likewise been removed, their current whereabouts unknown.
Seeing the boy’s puzzlement, the old man guided him over to the empty treasury chamber, which had also been stripped of its wide doors.
“In the days preceding their departure,” explained Nochetzin, “the greedy devils used the wood to construct seven horse-drawn sledges intending to haul away all the many piles of gold and jewels that they couldn’t personally carry. The futility of such an insatiable lust goes beyond all understanding. This foolish attempt proved unsuccessful, costing them dearly in time and lives as they fought their way out of our sacred island city.”
“Unsuccessful?” said Chimuli. “It’s been recovered?”
“Only partially, young one. Two of the sledges were of necessity abandoned during the struggle. Through accident or intention, the other five were spilled or dumped into the shallow waters of the canals under pressure from our brave warriors. Even as we speak, our people are recovering what they can.”
“To be returned to the palace?”
The old man shook his head.
“This brings me to the reason for your summons here this morning. It is not my place to explain much further before Lord Cuitlahuac arrives, but let me at least inform you of something that Cortez and his band of thieves were never made aware. The old palace of the previous emperor, Axayacati, though not as huge as this, has within its confines secret treasure rooms, all filled with stored tribute—a volume of gold and silver that far exceeds what this single chamber contained. It is important you know this.”
Before the youth could respond to this surprising revelation, voices drew their attention toward the near meeting hall from where the new emperor and several of his highest nobles and warrior commanders were now exiting. Spotting his aged chief artisan, Cuitlahuac gestured him forward.
Nochetzin and Chimuli approached, ritually kneeling and prostrating themselves on the stone floor before being commanded to sit back on their heels. Here the youth got his first clear view of Moctezuma’s younger brother and successor. Overall, he thought the man physically impressive, suitably warlike, and all that an emperor should be in these troubled times. Even his voice projected an inner strength and resolution.
“So this then is Chimuli? The one you selected, Nochetzin?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“He appears young. Perhaps too young. Will he be up to the great task that we discussed?”
The old man gave a single nod.
“Definitely, my lord,” he stated firmly. “Of all the artists I’ve trained, he is by far the most talented and intelligent—thus I believe the most qualified to best serve your needs.”
Cuitlahuac paused to consider this, and then spoke directly to the youth.
“Are you willing to accept the responsibility of a vital mission under the direction of Nochetzin? There is much to be done, and little time to prepare. Know that it will involve a long journey and much danger . . . ”
Journey?
Blinking in confusion, Chimuli swallowed with difficulty, for he recognized this was as much a command as a request. Too, he knew there could be but one response to such a direct question from his liege lord. Unable to totally mask his instinctive hesitancy, he replied, “I—I am, my master.”
“Then so be it.”
CHAPTER THREE
With two hours flying time remaining to its final destination at Boston’s Logan Airport, Olympic Airline’s trans-Atlantic flight 1218 cruised smoothly through the night sky at her assigned altitude of 45,000 feet. Not surprising, the majority of the 747’s passengers were either asleep or comfortably dozing in anticipation of a scheduled 6:15am arrival.
Not so David.
Try as he might, he accomplished neither.
Despite his physical and mental exhaustion, the best he could manage was to stare out into the starry sky, his thoughts and emotions caught up in an aching cycle of grief. The initial shock of hearing Elizabeth’s news upon his return from Ulan Bator had lessened only marginally over the preceding two days. Nor did he foresee the next twenty-four hours as offering any possibility of relief.
The reason for his sorrow was twofold and deeply felt.
Tragically, twenty-one year old Peter Conner—the only grandson of David’s oldest and dearest friend, Dr. Richard Andrews, Dean of Cornell University—had been found brutally murdered under the most bizarre of circumstances. Just how his old mentor and his wife, Elise, were finding the strength to cope with this nightmare was something he couldn’t even begin to imagine. For a couple pushing eighty years of age—both people that David revered—the sheer horror of it had to be nothing less than crippling.
He again looked at his wristwatch, knowing he would soon find out. The much-delayed funeral for Peter was scheduled to begin at 11am—and doubtless the main reason for this delay in laying him to rest was simply to accommodate their impending arrival from Europe.
David’s close relationship with Richard spanned better than thirty years, beginning when he was just a youngster growing up outside Dayton, Ohio. In a curious sort of way it was an abiding friendship that he’d inherited from his late father. Both men had soldiered together in Nam—and when David, at fourteen, lost his parents and younger brother in a tragic car accident, it was Richard who stepped up to the plate, basically becoming the surrogate father the boy so desperately needed. In his opinion a kinder and more generous soul didn’t exist.
He owed Richard big time.
Far more than he could ever hope to repay.
What compounded this tragedy even further, Peter was someone clearly cut from the same cloth as Richard. Of this, David knew firsthand. Not twelve months earlier the gift
ed archaeology student had spent the entire spring working alongside him in Salonika helping wrap up the final season at the latter’s long-running dig site. Talented, enthusiastic, engaging—the young man had been a joy to have around, quickly endearing himself to both Elizabeth and young Jake, as well.
Now Peter was gone, his great potential unfulfilled.
Was there something—anything!—he could’ve done to prevent this?
In silent retrospection, he now recognized that perhaps on a subliminal level he’d come to regard Peter as the younger brother fate had denied him so many years before. Despite their age difference, they actually had much in common. Beyond a shared passion of field archaeology there was an additional similarity that perhaps also played into the equation. Like David, Peter had also lost both his parents at an early age.
Why did it take the young man’s sudden death, he found himself wondering, to now dwell on all of this? Was it possible he felt a latent sense of guilt for not having played a bigger part in Peter’s life?
As quickly as this thought came to him, David immediately dismissed it, unwilling to be drawn into yet another round of self-recrimination. He knew it to be a pointless exercise, for he was no stranger to the many intricacies of sustained sorrow. Far from it. He well knew its varied symptoms and pitfalls. What he was now experiencing was merely the byproduct of growing fatigue, the mind’s subconscious tendency to randomly distort and pervert selected memories—and all seemingly for no other purpose than to torture on multiple levels.
He refused to participate further in this increasingly painful game.
Rather, he caught the attention of a passing steward and requested a double scotch and soda. Since rest was determined to elude him, it couldn’t do him any harm. If anything, it might be exactly what he needed. With the funeral only seven hours away, he needed to be as strong and supportive for Richard as possible.
The Emperor's Treasure Page 2
