The Matador's Crown (10 page)

“Keeping my balance and also, yes, there is a fine moment when man and bull can be so close as to be one. The crowd cheers, but I no longer hear them. My heart pounds. I cannot hear anything but my life racing through my veins.”

“I bet.”

“It is a sacred moment all toreros seek. There is no other feeling like it on this earth. It is in that moment our love for death is fulfilled.”

“I’ve heard matadors love death.”

“Just a little bit,” he said and winked.

Annja swept the cape before her, impressed with the swish she’d given it. “Like this?”

“Yes. And then a sweep to the side as you step to the right. Feet together and legs straight. Keep a good, strong line with your body. Hips and torso long and shoulders proud. That’s very good, Annja.”

His hand moved along her back as if to correct her posture and she straightened. But she realized the touch was more personal when his hand stopped at her shoulder and he leaned in to smile at her.

“Don’t let the bull smell your fear,” he warned.

She wasn’t a woman who scared easily, even when faced by a gun-wielding terrorist, but animals weren’t so easily confronted. “Isn’t it impossible not to be afraid?”

“Yes, it is. A torero who is unafraid has lost his bravery. That’s why we say our prayers before each fight and tend the
meada de miedo
right before going out into the ring.”

“The big fear leak?” she translated literally, smiling.

He chuckled. “Exactly as it sounds. The big leak of fear that relieves us before walking out into the ring. Otherwise, we’d surely piss our pants when the bull charges. It all shows in those tight
trajes cortes
we wear.”

“That’s for sure.”

He tilted his head at her, his eyes twinkling. “The women always linger on the pants. You are all much alike in your hearts. Ah, but I love women. Just wish it was easier to have a relationship during the season.”

“I imagine you’re a bit of a rock star on the corrida circuit.”

“I fight at least every other night during the season. No time for more than a one-night stand. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

He winked at her a third time, and then he whistled over his shoulder. Cristo snapped awake, jumped over the fence and disappeared inside the barn.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Manuel said. “You ready for the bull?”

“No.” He’d only given her a few minutes of instruction. All she could do was turn the cape this way and that. “This bull doesn’t have horns, does it?”

“Yes, but they’re small and blunt. We keep them that way for the boys who come to practice on the weekends.”

Horns. Great.

But if mere boys practiced with these bulls, Annja wasn’t about to show cowardice. On the other hand, who was she kidding? She’d take a jungle guerrilla wielding a machine gun to a bull bred for violence.

She gripped the cape and eyed the barn door where she saw the head of a dark-faced calf scamper along behind the fence. Scampering was good. Yet it was much taller than the calf that had just been in the ring.

She took a step toward Manuel and wasn’t afraid to silently admit relief when he remained close beside her.

“I admire a woman who is not afraid of new challenges,” Manuel said as the calf burst into the ring, trotting toward the opposite side of the fence. Its black shoulders were broader than most cows she’d seen.

“That’s not a yearling,” Annja said.

“Brutus may be closer to two years. No worries, Annja. I’m right here. Perform the veronica I showed you. Use graceful, long movements. And keep the cape to the side of you in case the calf should charge aggressively.”

Manuel whistled sharply, bringing up the bull’s head. The beast trotted toward them, playful in its steps, but as soon as Annja flicked the cape to the right, it dodged right and headed toward the fluttering fabric. Its short horns skimmed the cape and he made a whole pass on her right.

“I did it,” she said, quickly turning to attract the bull on the other side. Again it charged, and again, she easily steered it around her.

“Olé!” Manuel clapped, as did the ranch hand who had set the bull free. “Now try it without moving your feet so much, Annja. Hold your body straight and glide along the bull’s body.”

The calf’s head was as high as her shoulder, and this time she stood, legs together, and her side facing the charging beast. Waiting until the last moment, she flicked the cape to the right. Except the calf didn’t veer right. She stumbled, seeing it coming right toward her, and stepped wrong on her foot.

Swept from her feet, a strong arm clasped her under her breasts and swung her around and away from the charge of the bull. “I have you,” Manuel said, still clinging tightly as he set her on her feet. “You steady?”

She nodded, but he didn’t release her.

“Guess I got a little cocky with that one. I’d better stick to the basic moves and running for my life when the thing gets too close.”

Manuel laughed and squeezed her in a hug. His cheek brushed hers and she registered the scent of his spicy aftershave. Catching a glimpse of Cristo, who rolled his eyes at the flirtation he’d likely seen many times before, she shoved herself out of Manuel’s grip and handed him the cape.

“I think that’s enough for today.”

“Yes, the bull got the better of you. But no worries. There’s always tomorrow. You didn’t feel the hoof?”

“The hoof?”

He pointed to her leg. Lifting her skirt, she saw a dusty red smear of dirt from her knee to her ankle. The bull must have almost stepped on her foot. And in these sandals, that could have resulted in broken bones. Not good.

“It’s nothing.” She tried to brush the dirt off, but it clung to her. “Your dinner guests will think you pushed me.”

“Ha-ha! I like you, Annja Creed.” The matador turned and blocked her against the barn, putting both hands to the wall over her shoulders and pressing his body against hers.

Annja reacted by drawing up her knee. He gave a small hiss and relented, but didn’t step back.

“To be bedded by El Bravo is a great victory,” he muttered quietly. “Let me show you how I tame American women.”

“I kinda like remaining wild and free. I’m sorry, Señor Bravo, if I’ve given you the wrong impression. I’m just here as a friend of Garin’s.”

“Are you his lover? I should have asked him.” Manuel stepped back, taking in Annja’s figure through the skirt and red blouse that now felt gaudy and not at all comfortable. “He is a very lucky man.”

“Garin and I are not…” Lovers. Or friends. Or even allies, at any given moment. “I should freshen up before he returns. Thank you for showing me your—” moves “—capework, Señor Bravo.”

She liked him. But nothing more. She had no desire whatsoever to strike another mark on her bedpost just because he was a celebrity. Besides, Ava’s accusation stuck in her brain. A man capable of slaying an animal for a crowd’s enjoyment could also be capable of murder.

“Go ahead and use the washroom in the villa,” he said, gesturing to the house. “The butler will show you where it is. I’ll be right in.”

* * *

T
HE
MUSEUM
’
S
DATABASE
was packed with information but not easy to search on as the ancient operating system never seemed to merit an update come the biyearly budget reviews. Only over the past decade had the museum taken to transferring the older paper records to digital format, and that was a slow go considering it was a one-man job. With such a vast filing system—and most of it in archival boxes in the basement—not everything was electronically searchable. But James Harlow managed to find what he was looking for after forty-five minutes of attempting one search keyword after the next.

The image on the screen was of a black-and-white photo of the bronze bull statue. A document detailing the acquisition of the small item and postulating its origins as seventeenth century, representing a pagan god of fertility, was also included. It was a small trinket in the overall scheme of statues and totems. The museum had only placed it on the floor for display in 1921. It was stolen not three weeks later.

“Well, I’ll be. It really does belong to us.”

James Harlow sat back in the creaky desk chair he would never get rid of. Just because something wasn’t smooth and polished didn’t make it useless. The picture of the bronze bull statue was grainy and black-and-white, having been taken in the early part of the last century.

Now that he had a clear picture of it, his brain was jolted with recall of what, exactly, it was. Years ago he’d been given information on this little bull. At the time it had fascinated him; history had virtually lost all information pertaining to the prize. Hell, even the archives hadn’t had the proper details.

Well, they hadn’t held it long enough to do proper research on the acquisition. With a scan over the document data he verified the acquisition date. Harold
Wilson—a name that had no significance to Harlow—had donated it after returning from a trip to Guatemala. It wasn’t at all Aztec in nature, and there was no certificate of provenance. But that didn’t mean much. If what Harlow had been told about the object was true, it had originated in Spain. The museum apparently had accepted the donation with a blind eye.

He typed in Harold Wilson’s name and found a few more donations over a ten-year period. A gold neck plate that did feature Aztec hieroglyphs. No certificate of provenance. A silver tea service that was completely modern, and Harlow thought perhaps it was the beaten old set in the cafeteria. Could be. They used a desiccated elephant tusk to hold down papers in the IT department. If you could label a staff of one an entire department.

“This should make it easier to get it returned,” he said and hit Print.

Someone had to have known exactly what the statue was when it was stolen in 1921, Harlow postulated. Yet they hadn’t gotten far if Annja Creed had dug up the booty in Jerez.

“Or maybe they hadn’t had a clue,” he murmured as he tugged down a scruffy notebook he’d labeled neatly with a Sharpie marker in the upper right corner on a piece of medical tape: London, 1995.

The year he’d met Rockford LePlante, a man who made Indiana Jones look like an amateur. He’d traversed every inch of the world, including islands rumored to be populated with headhunters. If issued a challenge, he jumped. If given a deadline, he beat it by hours or days. He was known to wield a machete and semiautomatic at all times and could judge a poisonous snake from a harmless viper at striking distance. He was currently on a quest for the Fountain of Youth, and Harlow wouldn’t be surprised if the man found it. LePlante might have gotten along well with Annja Creed, but he wouldn’t have appreciated her morals interfering with a devotion to the quest.

The things Harlow had learned from Rockford could fill volumes, and as luck would have it, Harlow took notes about everything. He paged through the moleskin notebook, one of the few he hadn’t allowed his assistant to transfer to digital format. There were some things a man must keep to himself. Secrets about treasures, namely.

The page he recalled flipped over and he traced a finger over the pencil sketch of the statue Rockford had drawn as he’d been describing it. The man had once seen the bronze statue, and then it had been lost. A small trinket, he’d said. No one would ever know its true value or that its real treasure was in the belly of the bull.

“The belly of the bull,” Harlow muttered. “Clever.”

Through the centuries many a valuable treasure had been hidden inside innocuous artifacts to transport them through customs and shipping ports without alerting authorities. Sometimes people innocently displayed the outer shell in their homes for centuries without ever being the wiser about what it held inside.

In this particular bull’s belly there was rumored to be an exquisite jewel far more valuable than the Hope Diamond. Rockford hadn’t been clear on what it was exactly, but he’d thought it wasn’t a diamond. Perhaps a ruby, maybe an emerald. He had hoped it was a ruby simply for the effect it would have. The blood it would represent. And should the statue ever be cracked open, well, then, it would be quite the find. The adventurer believed the thing had been created in the seventeenth century, as a gift to King Louis XIII from Philip III of Spain on the eve of his daughter Anne’s marriage to the French king. But the carriage the future queen had been riding in had been looted en route, possibly by the very guards escorting her. The statue had been passed through the centuries, no one ever the wiser to what might lie in its belly. The only proof was Rockford having seen some designs for statues by a little-known seventeenth-century artist who had once produced some jewels for Philip III’s wife, Margaret.

“Yes,” James muttered and slapped the notebook shut. “Quite the find.” And yet it had been passed over and left behind near a dead man’s body. “Interesting.”

11

The matador’s house was a marvel of modern design accented with various ancient artifacts placed in recessed nooks and standing on the floor in the corners of most rooms. Annja passed a bronze bull displayed under LED lights in the hallway and paused to look it over. About a sixth the size of the so-called calf she’d learned to cape, its sinuous lines and smooth surface leaned toward a modern sculpture. The horns were tipped with silver and one of the ears was pierced with a silver ring featuring what resembled Celtic ribbon work around the circumference.

Nice, but not old, she decided.

She had no idea matadors made so much money they could afford such rare relics, but then again, Manuel had said everything he owned had been gifts to him. The man certainly had generous friends.

Searching for the bathroom, she strolled past an open door and peeked inside. It wasn’t the room she was looking for, but the low lighting glowing off the walls tempted her to walk inside the simple, small windowless room.

The plaster walls were illuminated by a stretch of halogen lights tracking across the ceiling. Nothing decorated the walls, except for trowel swishes in the plaster beneath the muted ocher paint. A simple damask-
padded bench fashioned from dark-stained wood sat against one wall.

The wall opposite the door hosted a shrine of sorts, or possibly an altar. A dark wood table rose before a cushioned prie-dieu. On the altar, a few candles and an incense burner sat on a white cloth edged with elaborate white tatting.

The most fascinating votive crowns hung over the altar. Two of them, suspended from delicate gold chain link. Visigothic in origin, from the seventh or eighth century, if her guess was correct. They had once been fashioned by kings as gifts to cathedrals. Particularly valuable and rare.

She had only seen one, in the Madrid museum years ago—part of the treasure of Guarrazar—and didn’t believe there were many others out there. Not in museums, anyway. Many had been lost over the centuries, and probably hung in the homes of the wealthy, and perhaps…one suddenly intriguing matador.

She stood on tiptoe to inspect the larger of the two. The crownlike circle of pounded gold was dotted with rubies and sapphires. Another gold circlet was suspended above the first on elaborate gold chains, to give it the votive appearance. The double crown was rare, as the single was most common. The Visigoth kings once sat beneath them on their thrones—they hadn’t actually worn them as crowns. Letters around the base sometimes spelled out a king’s signature. And one of these crowns did have letters. It read in Latin “Given by Alaric.”

“A Visigoth king?” The name sounded familiar. If he’d ruled in medieval times she would have known for sure.

How El Bravo had come to possess two votive crowns baffled her. More generous friends?

“They should be in a museum,” she whispered and lifted a finger, but then stopped. It felt sacrilegious to touch it. “No, they can’t be authentic.” They had to be copies or fakes.

“Did you touch them?” Manuel asked from the doorway.

Unaware he’d been watching her, Annja slid her hand around behind her waist and shook her head. “No.”

How long had he been standing there? And she, a guest in his home, had been caught snooping. Even with the dirt still streaking her leg, it was obvious she hadn’t been looking for the bathroom.

“They’re beautiful,” she offered.

“This is my private sanctuary. I never allow people inside.”

“I’m sorry. The door was open, and I was looking—”

“Come out of here now. Please.” He’d lost the teasing charm he’d shown her in the practice ring.

Annja knew most matadors kept prayer altars. They never stepped into the ring without honoring the ritual of asking for blessings.

“Forgive me, please,” she said as he closed the door with a hard click of the lock behind her. “I was drawn to the votive crowns. The only one I’ve ever seen was in the Madrid museum.”

“And now you have seen two more.”

“They aren’t authentic, are they?”

“The washroom is next door.” He gestured ahead without meeting her eyes.

And then he shoved her shoulder against the wall, and his dark eyes found hers. Heartbeat racing, Annja felt like the bull standing before the torero that intended her death. “Tell me truthfully. Did you touch anything?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t like it when people touch my things. Especially my sacred things.”

“No, I didn’t. I was going to, but I didn’t. I swear it.”

His fingers squeezed her shoulder close to her neck, pinching the artery painfully, but then he let up and, with a bow, gestured she walk ahead of him.

She made quick work in the bathroom, washing off the red dust on her bare leg and splashing water on her face. Staring at her reflection, she wondered what the matador was involved in.

She’d feel him out during supper, but she’d be wary. Manuel Bravo could prove more deadly out of the ring.

* * *

G
ARIN
HAD
ARRIVED
while she was washing up, and Annja joined him and Manuel in the sitting room outside the dining area. Both men puffed on cigars, and when offered, Annja accepted a Cuban Churchill. A few puffs opened up to rich notes of caramel and hickory, and relaxed her—and helped to assimilate her into the men’s club. That club was often impenetrable, and she didn’t count sexy blondes who hung on a man’s arm and pretended to inhale as having infiltrated it. To be in the club, not quite a member, you had to stand alongside them and engage in the same conversation and not give a damn about your shoes, hair or dress—but still be able to look good.

Manuel sneered at her. He actually sneered. His demeanor had grown decidedly cold as he poured a finger of brandy into a tumbler for himself and leaned against the mahogany bar. Still thinking about the votive crowns, she felt sure.

As was she. If authentic, they had not been obtained legally.

“So, Manuel tells me he gave you a few lessons on fighting a bull?” Garin asked. He wore a cream linen suit again today. Hemingway, look out. “If there’s a woman out there who can stand against a bull, it is Annja Creed,” he added over his shoulder to the scowling matador.

“She was a bit skittish,” Manuel said. “But she has potential. Of course, women should not be allowed to fight professionally.”

Annja was aware of a few professional female matadors. Most were forced out of the profession because of lack of interest in their fights. Blame it on Spanish machismo and the idea that a woman’s job was in the kitchen and cradling a
niño
in her arm while she checked the oven.

“Why is it nothing frightens you, Señorita Creed?” Manuel’s question pulled her from the nightmare image of a woman in an apron standing over a smoking, burned meat loaf. “First you chase a sniper, and next you stand before a bull with no training in the cape whatsoever.”

“You had said the bull was just a yearling. And I did have you right beside me. I was afraid. You said fear was necessary in the ring.”

Garin began to shake his head, but Manuel joined them, cigar smoking in the fingers that clutched the brandy glass. “It is. A torero who enters the ring without fear and a cocky attitude will take the horn or fight poorly, it is guaranteed.”

“Does the bull feel fear?” she asked. Cigar smoke curled around them, wafting the delicious scent above their heads. “Can you see that?”

“Only the cowardly ones do. A brave bull charges without pause. Fights to the finish with honor.”

“Exactly how does a bull display honor?”

Manuel smirked and touched her at the back of her neck. Tap, tap, with the blunt end of one of his fingers. “If I were to prick you here with the banderilla. And here.” Another tap wrapped chills around her spine. “And again. Could you stand and, focused only on the cape, continue to charge?”

“It would be difficult. Painful. Plus, I’d be bleeding out.”

“And yet, the bull does so. The bull challenges me to step up my game. To face death alongside it.”

“You do love death,” Garin commented.

Manuel grinned. “It is necessary, no?”

“No,” Garin said. “Well, yes, for your profession it is. But for me, I don’t favor death or even the idea of it.”

His glance to Annja brought images of Joan’s broken battle sword to mind. He’d been convinced of his immortality before the pieces of the sword had been collected. But now that the sword was whole? Who knew? A man who had experienced such a long life wasn’t willing to concede it to mortality.

“What of you, Annja?” Manuel narrowed his dark gaze on her, the smoke curling about his head taking the appearance of diabolical coils. “Do you fear death?”

“Not at all. It is a natural thing we must all eventually succumb to.” She returned Garin’s glance. “But I admit I hope my death isn’t painful.”

“Ah, but that is the only way to die,” Manuel stated. “No glory without the pain, eh? I should show you the wound on my abdomen I took from a horn last year. They carried me out to the infirmary, stitched me up without anesthesia, and less than half an hour later, I was back in the ring to finish off the bull. Ah!” He gave a grand sweep of his hand.

Machismo at its finest.

The cigar smoke was beginning to make her woozy by the time the cook announced dinner, and Annja heard Garin’s audible sigh. She caught his sorry shake of his head, as if to say “don’t bait the maestro,” but ignored it.

The men walked ahead of her, making it apparent she hadn’t breached the men’s club, after all. Stubbing out the cigar on a silver tray, she followed them into the dining room.

The elaborate meal consisted of five courses and two wine vintages. She’d learned something about wine, but would never consider herself a connoisseur. By the time dessert was brought out Annja had begun to wonder where both men put it all. Especially the matador, whose costume showed every ounce of excess body fat. He had none.

“This must be fuel for your next fight,” she pondered as she set aside the tempting vanilla custard and instead reached for the glass of pansy-garnished water.

“Not at all,” Manuel said, “I fuel up on protein in the morning and have a light lunch before heading off to the fight. It may not appear as though I work that long in the ring, but the nervous energy alone requires a hearty meal.”

“And all the sweat,” Garin commented. “The suit of lights you wear must be a bitch in the sun.”

“It is not the most comfortable attire. And the jacket doesn’t allow for ease of movement. But tradition demands the heavy costume. I appreciate the elaborate embroidery on the jacket when it deflects a wayward horn. Now the shoes, they are a bit feminine, I must admit.” The two laughed heartily.

While the men discussed the merits of bespoke leather shoes, Annja let her eyes roam over the wall behind Manuel. It was plastered with tickets to bullfights and posters advertising them, most of them, she noted from the names listed, fights El Bravo had appeared in. But others were older, dating back decades. Perhaps fights he’d watched when he was younger or even fights his relatives had appeared in.

When Manuel noticed her interest, he turned to stretch an arm along the wall. “My history.”

“It’s fascinating.” Folding the cloth napkin on the table, she got up to examine them more closely.

“What is a
novillerado?
” she asked, bending to read the details on a ticket.

“Novice fights,” Manuel explained. “The bulls’ horns are blunted and they are often used many times in the rings, which would never be allowed in an official corrida. Once a bull has been in the ring it’s no good for future fights because it begins to learn defensive tactics or to be fearful. The
novillerado
offers opportunity for aspiring bullfighters to appear before the public and hone their skills with a more docile animal. They are often some of the most interesting fights you will see.”

“Are there many injuries?”

“Not so many as you would suspect.” Manuel joined her, and she felt as though his anger over having found her in his sanctuary had finally subsided. “This was my first.” He pointed out a yellowed poster, which featured four fighters’ names, his in the smallest font and on the bottom of the list.

“That must have been exciting. Are your parents alive? Do they attend your fights?”

“My mother is ailing, but she comes out once a month, along with her girlfriends in their fancy shawls and
bata de colas,
the flamenco dancer’s dress.” To illustrate he performed a quick stomp of his feet, a flamenco dance move. “I always dedicate my kills to her. My father is traveling with my brother right now.
Renaldo is rising in the ranks as matador. It won’t be long before he surpasses me. He’s already started to pic his own bulls. Soon enough, he’ll have mastered the kill. But for now he’s still leery. Tends to jump too high, for fear of the horns. He’ll come around.”

Annja ran her gaze down the many Spanish names on the posters, and one in particular jumped out at her. “César Soto?”

She glanced at Garin, who crossed his arms and frowned at her. What was that about? He was very pouty this evening. Had the butler made him check his gun at the door?

“Isn’t he the chief inspector of the Cádiz police?”

“You’ve met him?” Manuel nodded. “The man was once an aspiring torero. About the same time I started. He was no good. Had no leg strength and was always stumbling before the bull could even reach the cape. No bravado.” The last comment was made in a tone of disgust.

“He’s very keen on his job,” she replied. “And I noticed he has a limp.”

“Which is why he is not a torero today.”

“He was the one I spoke to after chasing the woman who attempted to shoot you and…” He didn’t need to know about the murder at the dig site.

“César Soto is on the case? Well, then, I’m sure the matter has already been solved.”

The comment was meant as a means to dismiss the conversation. Annja could feel the tension stiffen Manuel’s lanky frame beside her. He didn’t like talking about César Soto. But apparently he knew him well enough to judge his former fighting skills.

They looked about the same age, late twenties or early thirties. Was it possible they held an animosity toward each other? Perhaps César, the failed matador, couldn’t care less who had taken a shot at his former rival? Or had reason to see someone did?