“Henry?”
“Yes… yes, that would be great.”
“You’re staying at the Sheraton, yes? I can pick you up around eight o’clock. That is, if a late dinner is okay with you?”
“Sure, that would be fine. I often eat late, so that’s no problem. And… and as a matter of fact, um…” Henry’s nervous blathering was thankfully interrupted by the beep of an incoming call. He awkwardly coughed. “I’m sorry, Joan. I’ve got another call. I’ll be right back.”
Henry lowered the receiver, took a long calming breath, then clicked over to the other line. “Yes?”
“Professor Conklin?”
Henry recognized the voice. His brow crinkled. “Archbishop Kearney?”
“Yes, I just wanted to let you know that I received your fax and took a look at it. What I saw came as quite a surprise.”
“What do you mean?”
“The emblem of the crossed swords over the crucifix. As a former European historian, it’s one I’m quite familiar with.”
Henry picked up the friar’s silver ring and held it to the light. “I thought it looked familiar myself, but I couldn’t place it.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s a fairly archaic design.”
“What is it?”
“It is the mark of the Spanish Inquisition.”
Henry’s breath caught in his throat. “What?” Images of torture chambers and flesh seared by red-hot irons flashed before his eyes. The black sect of Catholicism had long been disbanded and vilified for the centuries of deaths and tortures it had inflicted in the name of religion.
“Yes, from the ring, it seems our mummified friar was an Inquisitor.”
“My God,” Henry swore, forgetting for a moment to whom he was speaking.
An amused chuckle arose from the Archbishop. “I thought you should know, but I must be going now. I’ll forward your information to the Vatican and to Abbot Ruiz in Peru. Hopefully we’ll learn more soon.”
The archbishop hung up. Henry sat stunned, until the phone rang in his hand, startling him. “Oh, God… Joan.” Henry clicked back to the pathologist he had left on hold. “I’m sorry that took so long,” he said in a rush, “but it was Archbishop Kearney again.”
“What did he want?”
Henry related what he had learned, still shaken by the revelation.
Joan was silent for a moment. “An Inquisitor?”
“It would appear so,” Henry said, collecting himself. “One more piece to an expanding puzzle.”
She replied, “Amazing. It seems we’ll have even more to ponder over dinner tonight.”
Henry had momentarily forgotten their supper arrangements. “Yes, of course. I’ll see you tonight,” he said with genuine enthusiasm.
“It’s a date.” Joan quickly added her good-byes, then hung up.
Henry slowly returned the receiver to its cradle. He did not know what surprised him more—that the mummy was a member of the Spanish Inquisition or that he had a date.
Gil climbed the stairs of the only hotel in the jungle village of Villacuacha. The wooden planks creaked under his weight. Even in the shadowed interior of the inn, the late-morning heat could not be so easily escaped. Already a sweltering warmth wrapped itself around Gil like a heavy blanket. He swiped the dampness from his neck with the cuff of his torn sleeve and swore under his breath. The night-long flight through the jungle had left him scratched and foul-tempered. He had managed only a short nap after arranging this meeting.
“He had better not be late,” Gil grumbled as he climbed to the third landing. After fleeing the campsite of the Americans, Gil had reached a dirt track in the jungle just as the sun finally rose. Luckily, he stumbled upon a local Indian with a mule and a crooked-wheeled wagon. A handful of coins had bought him passage to the village. Once there, Gil had telephoned his contact—the man who had arranged for Gil’s infiltration onto the Americans’ team. They had agreed to a noon meeting at this hotel.
Gil patted the golden cup secured in his pocket. His contact, a dealer in antiquities, should pay a tidy sum for such a rare find. And this broker in stolen goods had better not balk at Gil’s price. If Gil had any hopes of hiring a crew to return to the dig and commandeer the site, he would need quick funding—all in cash.
Gil ran a hand over the long knife at his belt. If it came down to it, he would persuade the fellow to meet his price. He would let nothing stand between him and his treasure, not after how much it had cost him already.
Atop the stairs, Gil pushed the taped bandage covering his burned cheek more firmly in place. He would be rewarded for his scarring. That he swore. Teeth gritted with determination, Gil walked down the narrow corridor. He found the right door and rapped his knuckles on it.
A man’s firm voice answered. “Come in.”
Gil tried the door. It was unlocked. He pushed his way into the room and was instantly struck by two things. First, the refreshing coolness of the room. Overhead, a ceiling fan turned languidly creating a gentle stir to the air that seemed to wash away the humidity. A double set of French doors were swung wide open upon a small balcony overlooking the hotel’s shaded garden courtyard. From somewhere beyond the steamy warmth of the jungle, a cool breeze flowed through those open doors into the room. White-lace curtains drifted in the gentle breezes, while thin mosquito netting around the single bed billowed softly like the sails of a ship.
But more than the breezes, the room’s occupant struck Gil as the source of the room’s coolness. It was the first time Gil had ever met his contact in person. The tall man sat in a cushioned rattan chair, facing Gil, his back to the open double doors. Dressed all in black, from shoes to buttoned shirt, the fellow sat with his legs casually crossed, a drink clinking with ice in one hand. From his burnished complexion, he was clearly of Spanish descent. Dark eyes stared at Gil, appraising him from under clipped black hair. A thin mustache also traced the man’s upper lip. He did not smile. The only movement was a flick of the man’s eyes toward the other chair in the room, indicating Gil should sit.
Still wearing his ripped and sweat-stained clothes, Gil felt like a peasant before royalty. He could not even manage to roil up a bit of righteous anger at the man’s attitude. He sensed a vein of hardness in the man that Gil could never match, nor dare challenge. Gil forced his tongue to move. “I… I have what we talked about.”
The man merely nodded. “Then we need only discuss the price.”
Gil lowered himself slowly to the chair. He found himself perched just at the edge of the seat, not comfortable enough to lean back. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be done with this deal, no matter what the price. He longed to leave the chill of the room for the familiar swelter of the bustling town.
Gil could not even meet the other man’s eyes. He found himself staring out the window at the town’s church steeple, the thin white cross stark against the blue sky.
“Show me what you found,” the man said, his drink still clinking as he gently rocked his glass, drawing back Gil’s attention.
“Yes, of course.” Swallowing the dry lump in his throat, Gil fished out the dented chalice and placed it on the table between them. Rubies and emeralds flashed brightly against the gold setting. Gil felt a resurgence of his resolve as he eyed the jeweled dragon wrapped around the thick gold cup. “And… and there’s more,” Gil said. “With enough men and the right tools, by week’s end, I could have a hundred times as much.”
Ignoring Gil’s words, the man lowered his drink to the table and reached to the Incan cup. He picked up the chalice, raised it to the sunlight, and examined its surface for an excruciatingly long time.
Gil’s hands wrung in his lap as he waited. He stared at the dent along the cup’s lip as the man studied the workmanship on the chalice. Gil feared such a blemish might significantly reduce the price. The fellow had insisted any artifacts be brought to him intact.
As the man finally lowered the cup back to the table, Gil dared meet his eyes. He saw only anger there.
“The dent… it… it was already there,” Gil stammered quickly.
The man stood silently and crossed to a small bar behind Gil. Gil listened as the man added more ice to his glass. He then stepped behind Gil.
Gil could not bring himself to twist around. He just stared at the treasure atop the table. “If you don’t want it, I… I will not hold you to any obligation.”
Without turning, Gil knew the man leaned toward him. The small hairs on the nape of his neck quivered with the instinct of his cave-dwelling ancestors. Gil then felt the man’s breath at his ear.
“It is only ordinary gold. Worthless.”
Sensing the danger too late, Gil’s hand snapped toward the knife at his belt. His fingers found only an empty sheath. Before Gil could react, his head was yanked back by the hair; he saw his own knife gripped in the man’s hand. He did not even have time to wonder how the blade had been snatched from his side. A flick of the man’s wrist, and the dagger sliced open Gil’s throat, a line of fire from ear to ear. Gil was tossed forward and fell to the floor as his blood spilled across the whitewashed planks.
Rolling to his back, Gil saw the man return to the bar for his abandoned drink while Gil choked on his own blood. “P… Please…” he gurgled out, one arm raised in supplication as the light in the room began to dim. The man ignored him.
Eyes filled with tears, Gil again turned to the open window and the bright crucifix in the blue sky. Please, not like this, he prayed silently. But he found no salvation there either.
Finished with his drink, the man eyed the still form of Guillermo Sala. The pool of blood appeared almost black against the white floor. He felt no satisfaction in the killing. The Chilean had served his purpose and was now more a risk than a benefit to his cause.
Sighing, he crossed the room, careful not to foul his polished shoes with blood. He retrieved the Incan treasure from the table and weighed it briefly, judging its worth once the gems had been pried free and the cup melted into a brick. It was not the discovery his group had hoped to find, but it would have to do. From Gil’s description of the underground vault, there was still a chance of a more significant strike. Stepping back to the room’s bed, he collected the small leather satchel and secured the cup inside.