The Cortés Enigma (37 page)

Colts had been less concerned with the statue. Instead, as soon as Pizarro and the other two followed Ben and Cortés, he made directly for the nearest gap in the rocks.

Valeria followed, both now hidden from sight. “What are we going to do?”

Colts removed a black revolver from his pocket and checked it for bullets. “I’ll think of something.”

As he edged closer to the side of the mine, an area that separated them from the position of the statue, he noticed a second path heading upwards. He moved toward it, scanning the area to see what was there. There was something up ahead. The path widened noticeably, enough to fit a vehicle along. There were marks on the floor, symmetrical and straight.

It looked like the tracks of a forklift truck.

The path led upwards, hiding Colts and Valeria from the Spaniards further still. The area was lighter, suggesting to Colts they were nearing some kind of power supply.

The area showed more signs of recent usage: boxes everywhere, but different.

It was like being in the cellar of a pub.

The pathway turned into a tunnel lined with even more pub-related articles. There was food in crates, cheeses, seafood…anything that kept. There was a logo along the side; Colts recognised the name, not the logo.

“The Godolphin Cross,” he said, realisation hitting him immediately.

Valeria was confused. “What is it?” she asked, worried. “Mr Colts?”

Colts wandered aimlessly along the tunnel, stopping on coming to a doorway. The way led to civilisation, he guessed the pub itself.

“Mr Colts?”

Colts turned, placing his finger to his lips, concern evident from the expression on his face. He looked at Valeria, moving toward her, not stopping until their faces were almost touching.

Valeria had never felt so panicked. Here she was, wherever she was, her only protection the man in front of her, a man she was still to trust. All throughout the day she had known only one way of working: trusting herself and putting her faith in others. It had won her many things: answers to many questions, riddles solved…

Only for it to be taken away.

She looked at Colts, her slender frame shaking before his. He saw her look at him, confused and concerned.

Then they heard gunfire.

51

Ben thought he was a goner. The barrel of the gun, lined up from Pizarro’s hand to his own forehead, was set up for the kill. The weapon was loaded, the semiautomatic function ready and waiting…even the sound was as expected.

Only he heard it. He was still hearing it.

And he was alive.

Pizarro held his expression, eyeing Ben with contempt. Seconds later Ben saw his jaw squeeze tightly, then more so, before relaxing inexplicably. His eyes crossed, his arms lowered, all without firing the trigger, and he finally crashed forward.

Pizarro hit the floor.

Dead.

Ben was shell-shocked. It was impossible to hide his surprise. The Spaniard’s eyes were open wide, a lifeless expression centred somewhere between the path and the gold. Incredibly his expression didn’t alter.

In death he remained angry.

Cortés fell to his knees, devastated.

“Fernando,” he said, quivering. Unmistakeably the Spaniard was shaking, his eyes blinking, his head incapable of staying still. He placed his hands beneath his cousin’s upper torso and held him closely. Finally Ben saw a tear, just one, only one. Cortés’s eyes closed tight, as if they were closing up forever.

Ben could see what had happened. The bullet had penetrated Pizarro’s upper body, perhaps entering the lung from the back. Whether deliberate or not, he was unsure.

Cortés had also found the wound. He rubbed it, his palms moving gently across the hole, his fingers now messy with blood. Ben saw it cross his fingers, his palm, spreading all the way to his wrist. Cortés’s eyes were still closed, his face suggesting he had lost control of conscious thought. He seemed indifferent to the sound of the second gunshot.

Metres away, Alvarez hit the deck, then Busquets, a third gunshot, unmistakeable. Both lay lifeless, their strong bodies lying close in a heap.

Ben was in a fit of panic. He looked around frantically in all directions but saw nothing, only gold and emeralds, sapphires, and rubies. And rock.

Everywhere surrounding them was rock.

He wanted to move but where? Where? Where? Three bullets had been fired; he guessed more could come. There was no shelter, aside from the gold, and that was not enough.

They were sitting ducks.

Cortés had risen to his feet, eyes on Ben. He had a worried look in his eye, though different to the one he had before. The tears had disappeared, as had the despair.

Instead he harboured only concern.

Even in the corridor, Colts heard it too. It sounded like it came from nearby.

Valeria was a nervous wreck; she fell into his arms and held him. He heard her heavy breath on his chest, whimpering rather than sobbing. He grabbed her face, looked her in the eye and put his index finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. She looked up, puppy faced, wiped her eyes and understood.

Colts let her go and moved, heading back toward the main area where the gold was. The gunshot sounded as though it had come from his left, but he realised that the acoustics could be misleading. The roof above, despite being solid earth, appeared natural, like a cave or cavern. There were ridges to his left, some to the right, but instinct told him left was getting nearer. Slowly he continued, more and more, further and further.

What he saw was incredible. Looking to his right, he saw the majority of the mine below him: the sight was unique, almost like looking down at the main body of a cathedral from the upper stories, its excellence mapped out, seemingly deliberately. He saw Ben, then Cortés, then, incredibly, another of the Spaniards hit the ground.

Then a third.

He ducked instinctively. The gun had been fired from nearby, further to the left. Keeping low, he moved toward it, still unsure exactly where he was going. The light was fading; he was walking into total darkness. He heard another gunshot, the fourth he counted. The sound echoed, piercing in his ear. In front of him he saw what appeared to be a figure.

He was very near; he estimated less than fifty metres away. In the darkness, he thought he could make out shadows, but he was still unsure. He wanted to try the torch but knew he daren’t. The figure was hunched, looking down at the cavern below, a large rifle of some description in his hands.

Colts aimed his gun and went for the trigger.

Then he recognised him.

The sound of a fifth gunshot filled the mine.

Cortés was falling, his stomach in agony, blood spewing from the right side and covering his upper body.

Ben’s reactions were immediate. He dived to his right, barely keeping his feet, and caught Cortés as he fell. The wound had already deepened, blood spreading. It had stained Cortés’s hands, run down his arms and made a sizable stain on his jeans. His expression was one of desperation. He tried to speak, managing only a gagging sound. Blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, dripping down across his cheek. He had a dreamy look in his eye, distant, but lost. He caught Ben’s eye, a silent communication lasting less than a second.

Then that was also lost.

Ben had lost all track of time. As he lowered the lifeless body of the last descendent of the great conquistador to the floor, he looked up at the roof. There were shapes he hadn’t seen before; they seemed different, as if illuminated by some form of light.

He walked slowly to one side, squinting. In the distance he thought he saw movement, perhaps a silhouette.

Then movement.

Then sound.

Valeria put her hands to her mouth, successfully quelling a scream. The latest gunshot had been particularly close; the sound echoed in her ears, leaving her both dazed and mortified.

Colts had fallen to the floor, wounded, possibly more. His body lay still, flat, his arms down by his side. She guessed there was blood, but the light was so poor she couldn’t see it or see where on his body the wound had occurred.

There was movement up ahead. It had happened so quickly she felt her heart beating violently. Whoever it was, was coming her way; if they continued, they would head straight into her.

She had to hide, or at least get out of the way. She moved to the nearest crevice, left of where she had been. She entered, back to the wall, holding her breath. Inside she was crying, but outwardly, she was still to shed a tear. Her heart continued pounding as she strained to keep out of sight as the man with the gun passed, heading down below, into the heart of the mine.

He passed.

She watched.

As the figure came close, she caught a glimpse. Light on the side of his face revealed something. Was it a scar? An injury? Perhaps something more defined, like a birthmark.

No.

She recognised it straightaway. Indeed it was a scar, thick, its redness hindered by elements of a white beard.

A beard she knew.

Had come to adore, as though it covered the face of her father.

Nicholl had made it as far as the statue, distracted by the sight below his feet. The bodies were mangled, five in total. He stepped over the two largest, both men of Spanish features. He lowered his rifle, unloaded it, emptying the barrel. He looked down at the fifth, seeing nothing but stillness. Too bad, he thought.

I kinda liked the American.

He moved on, his attention again taken by the statue, every aspect of its appearance an element of delight. The shiny surface, the exquisite pattern on the shield, the false embroidery on the cloaks, the way the spear was pointing down instead of up.

It was an emperor standing over a vanquished foe.

It still seemed incredible he was looking at something so real.

He heard a noise coming from nearby, not unfamiliar. The coinage was slipping again. There was so much of it he accepted the movement as nothing out of the ordinary. Anything could cause it. A slight tremor, the movement of an animal, insect, sound vibrations.

As he wiped his face and head with a handkerchief, he heard the sound again, this time greater. Confused, he moved away from the statue, passing again over the bodies of the deceased. Something was nearby, moving.

“Hello?”

He heard nothing, no response, the sound of the moving coins the one and same exception. Heading toward the summit of the cliff, he thought he saw something, a shadow maybe. Were his eyes deceiving him? His mind playing tricks?

“Hello?” he called again, once more receiving no reply. Slightly anxious, he moved faster, looking to reach the top, reloading the rifle as he moved. He heard something, footsteps, unmistakeable, not loud but loud enough. In a mine, sounds echoed, and the slightest noise could be distorted. This was different, unlike anything he had heard in the mine before. Before today he was the only person who knew.

He rushed to the summit and over, gun aimed, cocked, at the ready.

Nothing.

Darkness.

He kept the gun at eye level, covering himself everywhere. The sound had started again, this time down below. He walked without watching his feet, concerned one moment of weakness would be critical.

The end was near, that was the fear. The fear was growing.

He heard something from behind him, then another sound, this time to his left. Yet as far as he could see, there was no movement. He moved toward it, closer, closer.

The gun was fired from behind him.