by Joseph Nagle
A wave of pain hit Lou, and he paused. His cough came much more violently this time. The fluid in his lungs was filling faster. He could feel it. His fate became apparent.
I’m drowning in a room with no water.
He chuckled.
Raising his gaze toward Jorge, his moment of pleasure morphed into anger and vitriol.
“You are in a dark room, Garrido; a dark room with no door, and all you have is a dead, obsolete operation. The only thing more pathetic than your lack of knowledge is that stupid, dumb-dog look draped across your face right now.”
Jorge had had enough. His slight grip on control was gone. This had gone as far as it could. One member of the Order had tried to put a bullet through his chest and killed one of his own. Here sat another one, patronizing him; pushing him; chiding him like a child.
The punches came in flurries, each more violent than the last, one after the other.
Jorge finally stopped. His broken chest was heaving in pain from his efforts.
Lou’s eyes were rolled deep into the back of his head. An interesting liquid gurgle rolled from deep within his throat.
Jorge waited: he had nearly beaten the man to death but made sure not to push him beyond the point where he couldn’t return.
It was a struggle, but Lou groaned as his senses righted themselves. His stare was slightly distant and almost went through Jorge; only one eye could partly open.
Jorge’s knuckles were bared to the bone on one hand. The skin was split on the other. Slowly dripping streams of blood cascaded to the floor from his still clenched fists.
Slowly, Jorge relaxed his balled fingers and then reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from his hands.
“I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to do this. There’s an easier way for me to get my answers, but the side effects—well, I don’t need to tell you, do I?”
Jorge pulled out a small black kit from his inside pocket. Unzipping it, he pulled out a vial of clear fluid and a hypodermic needle.
“Sodium thiopental or pentothal, depending on whom you ask, in case you were wondering.”
Lou raised his gaze a bit higher.
“This will burn a bit as it goes in, but I will get my answers. And I suppose the side effects are of no consequence now, are they? The brain cells that are not burned away from this drug will do you little good anyhow. You’ll be lucky if you can say your name without drooling when I’m finished.”
Inside Lou’s mind, it was over. He had lost, that much he knew. If the truth serum didn’t kill him—not to mention his injuries—it would certainly cause his ability to think to regress to that of six-year-old.
There was only one thing that he could think to do. “Mind if I smoke?”
Jorge pulled the needle from the vial and inspected its contents. When satisfied, he replied, “Might as well. You’ll probably forget how much you enjoy that filthy habit by the time the drug is out of your system. Besides, it’s doubtful that’s what’s going to kill you anyway.”
Lou laughed at the dark joke, and, with his one good hand, he unsteadily removed a pack of cigarettes from his front pocket. The book of matches that had been tucked into its cellophane wrapping fell to the floor.
“Guess my motor skills ain’t as good as they used to be.” He shook the pack of cigarettes until three of them emerged. Putting his lips on one, he pulled it from the pack. Biting on its end, he spoke through his teeth and asked, “Do you mind?,” gesturing to the matches on the floor. “I don’t think I’ll be able to light it.”
Jorge picked up the matches, but before lighting one, he held Lou down and shoved the needle into his neck. Lou writhed slightly and groaned as the drug filled his jugular vein and spread to the rest of his body.
Jorge was right: it burned. It was like a molten fluid was filling his veins.
Jorge smiled as he pulled out the needle.
“Shit, Garrido! You over-bred, self-righteous asshole: you could have given me some warning!” The drug was already taking effect. Lou’s one good eye was having trouble maintaining focus, and he nearly dropped the cigarette from his mouth.
Jorge lit the match and held it to the cigarette.
Lou smiled.
As he puffed, the flame of the match turned from an intense yellow to a curious green.
Lou inhaled deeply.
Jorge’s eyes bulged from their sockets.
It was too late.
Jorge screamed out, “You son of a bitch!” and then slapped the cigarette from Lou’s mouth.
It didn’t matter: the cyanide inside of the cigarette was entirely too fast-acting.
Lou’s body convulsed horribly, and his skin immediately took on a freakishly pink hue.
Jorge backed away from the man. The air in the room smelled of rank tobacco and burnt almonds.
Lou’s body was still. The smoke that had not yet been exhaled slowly trickled upward from the dead man’s mouth.
I’ve got to get a hold of Sterling, thought Jorge.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CALLE OFICIOS,
1 GRANADA, SPAIN
Andalusia’s countryside had a quiet beauty. The hills rolled, and the ubiquitous sylvan spread like a wide baize canopy throughout the undulating hills of forest and green.
Granada was different—not worse, just different—York noticed as they entered the city’s limits. It was marked with carved edifices of differing styles and history. Everything looked heavy, formidable.
Michael directed him through the city, occasionally pointing left or right as his eyes darted from the navigation system, out of the window, and then back again.
Although not a largely populated city, it was dense and everything seemed to close in on York—it was either claustrophobic or agoraphobic: he wasn’t sure exactly which. The structures that surrounded him as he drove down Calle Recogidas were impressive and ornate, as if the walls held secrets still yet to be told. Lost on him, however, were the influences of the Visigoths, the Romans, the Greeks, and, of course, the Moors. York knew nothing of architecture and even less of history.
“Pull over here, kid.” Michael was uneasy; his voice did nothing to mask this. They both were. The final one hundred or so miles had gone by quickly, but they knew the man shadowing their every movement wasn’t too far behind.
It made Michael more than nervous to know that a man would go to so much trouble to make sure that he and York would make it to their destination.
York pulled the Bentley to the side of the road as Michael had commanded; Michael opened the door and got out of the car, York following.
“Leave it, kid. That car is a much bigger target here. We make the rest of the way on foot.”
York gave the car one last look, stroked its hood gently, and said, “It was fun while it lasted.”
Both Michael and York moved quickly through the streets. Michael led, York stayed close. As they moved, York saw Michael’s limp was becoming more pronounced; he failed in his attempt to hide the painful grimace scribed on his face with each step.
York broke the silence. “You ain’t lookin’ so hot, Doc. You okay?”
Michael pursed his lips tightly but knew the kid was only trying to show concern. “I’m fine. We have other things to worry about. Stay focused. Our tail must be nearby. Watch the high ground and crowds. And remember, he’s armed.”
York pulled out the weapon Michael had given him in Portugal and spun it around his finger like a cowboy doing tricks. “So are we.”
“Oh, good lord, kid. Put that thing away before you hurt someone. Just keep your eyes open, and watch your six.”
The two men moved; their eyes darted left and right, York’s a little more than Michael’s. The street was showing some life. As they walked, York glanced up and read the street sign: Calle Reyes Católicos—the street was named for the Catholic Monarchs.
“Doc?”
“What is it, kid?”
“You never finished you
r story about the Catholic Monarchs.”
Michael stopped moving and stared straight ahead. Before the two men was an unassuming if not plain façade, given everything that surrounded it—even more plain with respect to whom was inside.
York spat out in surprise, “That’s it? That’s the church?”
“Mausoleum, kid—it’s not a church.” Michael quickly walked through its doors.
Under his breath, York sarcastically mimicked Michael: “Mausoleum, kid—it’s not a church.”
Michael either didn’t hear him or didn’t care.
York followed him inside.
Vertical emphasis and light: the hallmarks of Gothic heritage. Michael soaked in the complexity of the interior: spatial, baroque, renaissance, and gothic influences. It was filled with rich elements of architectural and art history. He would have loved to study it more—religious history was more than just the basis of his doctorate, it was his hobby—but he had no time to enjoy any of it. Not even the eclectic paintings by Botticelli and Boccanegra or the impressive Torrigianis would warrant a glance. His focus was tunneled in one direction.
Ignoring the quaternary naves, he headed for the fifth and most dramatic of them: the principal chapel—the tombs of the Catholic Monarchs.
The men were standing between two rows of ten Corinthian columns each. Prodigious statues of the twelve apostles rose in dominating fashion. The apostles seemed to float above the men and either reached magnificently upward in an effort to touch the endless colors of the stained-glass depiction of the Passion or looked ready to fall in on them.
Laid beneath the ten gothic arches, the tomb of the Catholic Monarchs was uniquely military and in the typical Spanish pyramidal frustum shape.
The Florentine figures of the monarchs were carved so that their images were recumbent. King Ferdinand was in his armor, and his queen—Isabelle—was dressed simply. At their feet, two stone lions—symbols of their royal blood—rested.
Michael eyed the impressive tombs. It was there somewhere; he knew it.
“Hey, Doc,” York shouted out, “what do you think this thing next to the fat kids says?” York was pointing to a carved epitaph inside of a cartouche.
“Putti, York, they are called Putti—we Americans have it wrong when we call them cherubs”—or fat kids. Michael eyed the small, carved figures. Plump little boys: they bore wings and were holding weapons—a bit contradictory—and, as an art form dating back more than two thousand years, had been revived for use in Italian Renaissance art in the fifteenth century, particularly with sarcophagi.
Michael bent in lower and roughly translated the Latin carved into the epitaph: “Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile, unanimous husband and wife, called the Catholics, are buried in this marble burial mound.”
“Doc,” said York, “now what?”
Michael stood up and slowly circumambulated the tombs; his trained eyes were focused. He studied the lines of the voluminous marble and the edges of the tiled floors. He was looking for a way in.
“Kid,” Michael answered as he continued to walk around the tomb. “Whatever it is we were sent to find is here. And my hunch is that it’s in the crypt.”
York thought curiously about this for a moment. “In the crypt?” he asked. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, Doc, but there’s no way we are getting whatever is inside of those things. They have to weigh a couple of tons at least. We’ll need a wrecking ball to crack them open.”
“You don’t really listen all too well, do you? I didn’t say that it was in the tomb; I said it was in the crypt.”
Michael stopped walking. He had found it.
York didn’t understand.
“Get over here, kid! Help me with this. Quickly now, we don’t have much time!”
York ran to his mentor’s side. Michael was already kneeling to the floor; there, where he knelt, was the simple outline of a small trap door. The outline was hard to see; its edges blended nearly seamlessly with the surrounding marble. A handle was recessed neatly, the only thing that gave away its location.
Michael struggled to lift it; York leaned in to help. Together, the two men lifted it from its place, exposing a narrow flight of stone stairs. The smell of damp, rotted air rushed across their faces. The unlit passageway sunk into the earth and was as equally uninviting.
York looked uneasily at Michael and said, “You first. You’ve got seniority.”
Michael went first.
As the two men disappeared into the floor, Charney emerged from behind an ornamented statue of St. John the Evangelist. He had been watching the two men from the shadows.
Striking a match against the tiled wall, he lit a cigarette and waited. He knew that the only way out for the two men was the same way that they had gone in.
Beneath the floor, Michael and York traced the wall with their hands as they continued further into the ground. The air was growing colder and the walls slightly wetter.
Michael pulled a small magnum flashlight from his coat pocket and illuminated the way. At the bottom of the stairs, the ground leveled; not far from the base of the stairs the small passageway ended, opening to a large room. It was unfortunate for York that the iron gate, which secured the contents of the room, blended in nicely with the darkness.
A loud, dull thud resonated in the narrow confines of the passageway. York yelled out, “Son of a bitch!”
Michael shined the small flashlight on York’s face. With the light in his eyes, York was holding his forehead. He couldn’t see Michael’s face but was sure there was a smile on it.
“You all right, kid?”
York didn’t answer as he pressed hard on his forehead: his look said it all.
Shining the flashlight away from York’s face, Michael traced the beam of light along the iron frame—the wall—that separated them from the other side; that separated them from the room. He studied it, looking for a way in, and was disappointed when he saw the iron rods were firmly mortared into the wall. There was a small door at its center; it, too, was made from crossed bars of iron.
York watched as the light flickered through the striated bars and into the room on the other side. The unique shape of coffins emerged as his eyes adjusted to the low light.
Michael continued to study the iron barrier; along the edge of the wall, near one of the flashing points of the iron frame of the gate, was a small, round button.
Michael pushed it.
A lone, low-watt light bulb crackled on; it dangled at the end of a single electrical cord hanging from the ceiling. It buzzed slightly as it hovered in the middle of the room on the other side of the iron gate. A slight cascade of light struggled to brighten the space.
York and Michael both peered into the crypt through the iron bars. A stone bench circled the interior upon which three old coffins rested. Michael knew these were not the coffins of the king and queen. At the front, on the wall, hung a simple wooden crucifix in the Gothic style. Underneath, in the room’s center, was a raised stone platform with two additional royal coffins: the coffins of the Catholic Monarchs.
Michael studied the framing of the iron bars that kept the two of them from getting in; he knew there had to be a way. With the help from the light, he eyed the old keyhole of the door, wondering if he could pick its lock. He reached into his inside pocket to grab his utility knife.
The sound of grating metal pierced the dank air. Michael looked up and saw a smiling York standing on the other side of the once-closed iron door. “Rule number four: it never hurts to see if the door is unlocked.”
There was a slight bit of solipsism in York’s tone, but he supposed the kid deserved it. Michael put away his utility knife and wondered if the light was low enough to hide the slight shade of crimson that had rushed into his cheeks; he walked into the crypt and past the smug young Green Beret.
The two lead coffins were rough to the touch; time had weathered their exteriors. Set slightly at an angle from one another, the heads the coffins were n
ear one another, and the foots were further apart, putting the coffins into the slight shape of a “V.” Between them, one solitary, long-stemmed white rose lay alone and dead. Its petals had dried long ago, and its stem was browned from time.
Michael brushed the dust from one of the coffins. On it he saw the faint etching of Isabelle’s initials.
“Kid, help me with this.”
Together the two men struggled as they pushed at its lid. It took slightly more than a moment; the lid felt as if it were pushing back at first. With a stronger shove, they felt it slowly slide away from them.
York had readied himself for the smell. But there was none. The body of the queen had centuries ago decayed well enough that nothing organic existed. If anything, the aroma from the inside of the coffin was slightly sweet.
Michael shined his light in, and York stepped back.
At one point, when first laid to rest, Isabelle’s hands had been laid one atop the other and crossed over her midsection. The effects of time on the changing composition of her flesh into solely bone had sent her left arm sliding downward and in apposition to her left side.
Michael’s eyes became large. He could hardly believe it.
“What?” asked York as he stepped in closer to Michael. “Did you find something?”
Michael reached in and, not wanting to show irreverence to any part of the queen’s remains, gently pulled the wrapped vellum from the palm of her right hand. He was surprised at how easily it was freed from her grip.
York said quietly, “Well, I’ll be goddamned—you were right!”
Michael laid the parchment on the lid of Ferdinand’s coffin. He studied it carefully; York edged in closer. A thin tie was around the parchment—frayed and deteriorating, but still bound to it.
Michael eyed York through his periphery and let out a slow breath. He pulled the tie by one of the ends underneath the bow and was not surprised that it crumbled at his touch. Quickly, he pulled back his hand and closed his eyes. He saw his father’s horrified, scowling face.
Dr. Michael Sterling Sr.—his father—was a renowned, if not slightly eccentric professor at Denver University; his specialty was no different than Michael Junior’s—religious studies with an expertise in the Middle East. Had he been in the crypt, he would have slapped Michael’s hand for his impetuousness, for putting his oily fingers to an ancient artifact, for disrespecting a piece of history.
