The Cortés Enigma (36 page)

Less than half a mile away, Cortés noticed the tracks. He pointed his torch at the ground and knelt down to inspect the redundant rails.

He looked up at Pizarro, who was looking down, shining the light in his cousin’s eye.

“A little new for such an old mine.”

Cortés got up. “My thoughts exactly.”

They heard noise ahead: a pickaxe on rock, possibly something even more primitive. Busquets and Alvarez were both in a state.

“This mine is haunted.”

Cortés was furious. He waved with a lowered hand, ordering hush. “Listen.”

For several seconds they waited, their ears straining for any sound. The noise had finished, or had it? In the darkness, it was easy to let the mind wander, play tricks…Cortés knew from experience that dangers arose when the mind lost control. In the distance he heard the sound again, a dull banging, not loud but consistent. He thought he heard something else, possibly talking.

“Come. I think we are close behind.”

49

Colts was unimpressed. While admiring a person’s tenacity was one thing, what Ben was doing was just plain stupid.

“Would you please cut that out,” he said, grabbing Ben’s outstretched arm, prohibiting him from continuing with his banging of the door. The pickaxe was sturdy, despite its age. By using the side as opposed to the blade, the impact made nothing but a dull clattering sound, barely anything more than someone playing a xylophone.

“Doors like this were created for one single purpose,” Colts said, adjusting his hat. “Making sure the likes of us didn’t proceed too much further.”

Looking at the door, Valeria had another idea. “Maybe we could make something. Fill it with the exact same shape.”

“Wouldn’t work,” Ben said, silently admiring the idea. “It isn’t about size. Every piece has to be the same mass, shape and volume. Any variations and it won’t work.”

“You sound so sure.”

“You remember that scene in
Raiders of the Lost Ark
when Indy stole the idol? Same thing could happen.”

“You mean it’s booby-trapped?”

“Of course it isn’t booby-trapped,” Colts said, anger rising. “Clearly the only way in through the door is with the keys. However, there may be another door.”

“Failing that, there may be another passage.”

“Failing that, why not try to fill the lock anyway,” Valeria added, picking up some small rocks.

“I should not be so rash, cousin.”

The voice came from directly behind them. Cortés was standing in front of Pizarro, flanked by his two henchmen. Standing in darkness only moments earlier, the Spaniards’ faces were lit up by small lanterns.

Cortés walked forward. “I could not help overhear your theory on the door,” he said, looking at Ben. “Clearly you are a man of great knowledge and cleverness. Perhaps I was foolish in the way I behaved the night before.”

Ben was incredulous. “What have you done to my cousin?”

“I tell you before, I know nothing of the man.” He turned to Valeria, who was standing nervously. Cortés walked toward her, eyeing her the way only a person of close intimacy could. He sensed she was close to tears.

“Take your friend’s advice, cousin. After all, there is no need for improvising.” He clicked his fingers, and Alvarez brought forward the final piece.

Cortés took it. He examined it in his hands, cleaning it of excess dirt, like an antique dealer searching for flaws. “Perhaps you, Professor, would care to do the honours?”

“Ben.” Colts’s tone was urgent.

“It would be wise to cooperate, my friend.” Cortés gestured, and Pizarro and Busquets moved in the light. Both were armed, automatic weapons at their sides.

“Professor.” Cortés handed over the trumpet. “Thank you.”

Ben nodded at the Spaniard, not knowing what to make of him. The man was handsome, more than he had first thought: his facial hair was neatly trimmed, a perfect complement to his thick wavy hair and light olive skin. Despite the severity of the situation, Ben felt no hostility toward the man, at least less than he had at the Old Man’s Foot.

Either way they were outnumbered. And out of options.

Ben moved forward to the door, careful to avoid stepping on any loose rock. He adjusted the trumpet stone in his hands and lined it up with the gap.

The fit was perfect; like the other four, it slid in easily. As it did, it made a clicking sound.

That was followed by another noise.

There had only ever been one pub in Godolphin Cross. Over the years it had been given many names. The Godolphin, The Duke of Cornwall, The Godolphin Swan, The Godolphin Arms…

The Godolphin Cross.

These days a different sign hung above the door. It was of a great ship at sea, lit by moonlight. The moon was at the three-quarters stage, shining as brightly as a full moon, but not quite the same in size.

Gibbous, the technical term.

Once upon a time Adrian Nicholl had owned ten pubs in Cornwall. The first had been at St Michael’s Mount, the most recent at Tintagel.

Then there was the one he always wanted: the one that was never for sale. The owner claimed he was mad, making so large an offer. The pub was worth a fraction of the price. It would take three lifetimes to recoup that amount.

It took less than a year.

Nicholl and Danny moved from the office into the cellar. There was a door at the far end; as far as the staff knew, it was always locked.

Nearly always.

Nicholl opened the large padlock, then the door before moving to a second door five metres beyond. Unlike the first door, sturdy, but made of wood, this one was reinforced steel: the kind that could keep out an army and a whole lot more.

It took ten seconds to open.

Beneath the pub beer garden, the tunnel was dark and lonely. Cobwebs formed in the highest reaches, some floating down from above or just passing the face teasingly. Nicholl had walked it many times before, Danny, less so.

Only one person alive knew where it would lead.

50

It opened slowly, as if in a scene from a movie. The movement was loud: before, during, and after. It was as if the whole world was crashing down: the walls were about to cave in, that was the fear. Valeria experienced a fit of panic, so much so that she was cuddling up to Colts. Alvarez and Busquets were lost for words; both looked at each other nervously. The fear of a calamity was great.

Yet the fear of Pizarro’s wrath was arguably greater.

Like the two on St Mary’s, the door opened in the centre. Light radiated through the opening, becoming brighter as the door parted completely. The light was distant, glowing rather than strong. A similar passageway to the one they had followed existed on the other side of the door, winding left to right, up and down. The railway tracks continued; again a collection of elderly looking tools was scattered along the tunnel.

Cortés was stunned, Pizarro even more so. Ben, Colts and Valeria looked at the sight, open mouthed. The glow was yellow and profoundly angelic, like a halo hidden behind the rock.

Ben felt a nudge in the back, coming from Cortés.

“After you.”

Ben led the way. He guessed at least two guns were being pointed at him, though he wasn’t looking.

The ground was uneven, just like before. The tracks continued; they seemed in better condition, not modern, but usable. The metal was shiny, reflecting the light of the torch like a mirror or clear water. That wasn’t the only thing it reflected. The rock was also shinier, practically silver, though Ben reasoned that was impossible. Not for the first time, he could hear the sound of running water, but this time there was also another sound, different to the one he’d just heard. It was like an avalanche, though not of rock.

It sounded like coins.

The pathway twisted and turned for over four hundred metres, one way then the other. Up ahead it led to a clearing of sorts, not quite a pit, but similar. The glow was becoming brighter and larger, shining from every direction as if something was surrounding them.

“Jesus,” Colts said, arching his neck and feeling something hard poke him in the back.

“Keep moving.”

The order came from Pizarro, which irritated Cortés. Unlike his cousin, he was captivated, almost speechless. The source of the light was still hard to pinpoint; whatever it was, they were still to reach it. It was not just yellow, but green, red, blue, like walking through a rainbow. Again the sound of something sliding was evident. Ben could hear it, but not see it. His heart was thumping in his chest and his throat felt constricted, making it harder to breathe, to swallow, to speak. Instinct told him to keep his eyes in front of him, following the torch, the pathway, anything to avoid getting on the wrong side of his captors.

Valeria was behind him, how far back, he was unsure. He hadn’t seen her, heard her, smelled her fragrance since the door opened. He looked to his right, seeing Colts, then Cortés. He saw her almost five metres behind, walking distractedly, escorted by the largest of the brutes, who was holding a gun to her back. She didn’t speak, barely even acknowledged him – at least she was being sensible. Ben feared what would happen.

If Cortés was consistent, he would eliminate all trace of today’s events.

Up ahead the path became wider, leading to a large opening, still part of the main mine. The tracks were in better condition at this point. There were several trucks at the far end, all surrounded by equipment, only this time more modern. There were logos on the sides, trademarks of some description. There were boxes and crates, all wooden, beech, exactly the same size. Some had been lifted onto the trucks, others left scattered around. There were more located along the sides, hidden in crevices, behind them, piled up one above the other.

Ben was speechless. Was this a mine or a warehouse?

Then there were the things that were not in boxes or crates, but lying loose. Finally the source of the glow became obvious. Much of the treasure was stacked up in piles; it had been hidden in the rocks, behind the rocks, spanning the mine like a natural creation. There were stairways, natural paths, some leading down, others up. Ben walked to where the light seemed brightest; it guided him upwards on a path that again wound from left to right, reaching a pinnacle some twenty metres up before coming down again on the other side.

That was when he saw it. The gold consisted of a mixture of coins and bars, some of which were neatly shaped and cut, others uncut and irregular in shape. There were other things, emeralds, bright green; sapphires, dazzling blue; rubies, red the colour of a sunset or blood…other things his American eyes had never seen before.

Cortés walked alongside him, looking down into the colours below. The patterns danced in his dark Spanish eyes, like a movie being played on a continuous loop. His mouth watered; his cheeks puffed. It was like the realisation of a dream, a quest, the very reason for his life.

As his eyes looked up, drawn away from the gold, he saw something he had missed at first. The pathway went around the gold as if circumnavigating a lake. It continued, winding and then upwards, reaching what appeared almost like a summit of a small mount.

That was when he saw it, perched atop the mount. The statue was unlike the one that preceded the entrance. The structure itself was also gold, the depiction unmistakeably Aztec.

Cortés’s reactions were immediate. Leaving Ben, he jogged, almost sprinting, along the path, oblivious to the possibility of losing his footing. He followed it all the way to the statue.

There he examined it, his eyes taken with this and this alone. The male figure was a warrior carrying a large spear in his right hand, pointing down rather than up. In his left hand was a rounded shield, patterned with three circles, each layer slightly thicker toward the centre. He wore robes around his shoulders and waist, leaving his torso, legs and stomach visible – from all outward appearances the statue was made of solid gold.

Surrounding the figure’s head was his crowning glory, not quite a crown but something even more notable: a headdress, large and thick, its feathers a plethora of colour. To the Spaniard it was like a magical peacock. What started off as green ended as purple: separating the feathers from the head were five layers of patterns, creating an image like a bridge over water. Again, the colours dazzled him: green, red, yellow, cyan. It was a scene from mythology, history split apart at the seam.

Montezuma II. In all his glory.

Cortés didn’t know how to feel. As the descendent of his, possible, killer, his presence was almost sacrilege.

Yet sacrilege didn’t really apply when it came to Aztecs against Catholics; so went the logic. The man was a friend of his ancestor; that was the other school of thought. Cortés wept for his friend, his father-in-law, his worthy adversary.

As the initial shock at last began to wear off, Cortés moved elsewhere. There was something else about the statue, not the man but what was nearby. It was in Montezuma’s hand, loose, but secure. Cortés failed to believe his eyes.

“The Stone of Fire,” Cortés said, his eyes alight.

Ben was confused. His attention had been so wrapped up with the headdress, he’d missed that.

“The Stone–”

Pizarro pushed past him, taking a look for himself. Pizarro freed the stone from the statue’s grasp, held it, looked at it, confused by what secrets it held.

Cortés took it, immediately taken with the purple object. It was like a bar of gold, only not gold.

“The Stone of Fire,” Cortés repeated. “Brought to earth by Quetzalcoatl in the first visit. 1,000 carat.”

Ben was stunned. “Did you just say 1,000 carat?”

Cortés was too busy to reply. His eyes were full of greed, his tongue quivering, his mouth wide open.

“You honestly believe that’s the real deal?” Ben asked.

Pizarro pushed Ben to one side, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the floor. “You ask too many questions.” He gestured to Alvarez standing beside him with the gun. “You have seen. And you have liked.”

He took the gun and aimed it at Ben.