The Cortés Enigma (23 page)

Colts returned from the bar a moment later, armed with two large whiskeys. He downed his first in seconds and was already halfway through the next.

A million thoughts were going through Ben’s mind. It seemed pointless denying his own interest in the treasure, but the man’s mention of the Spaniards sounded intimidating.

“Who are you?” Ben asked, ignoring the second whiskey being placed in front of him.

“Do you enjoy wasting time asking pointless questions, Ben?”

“It may be pointless to you, but not to me. You told me a name, you never said it was a real one.”

“You think I lied about my name?”

“Whether you did or you didn’t, I still have no idea who you are.”

Colts poked again at the fire, sending sparks jumping in all directions. “Perhaps I underestimated you, Ben. Maybe you’re not as reckless as I thought you were.”

“Oh, you were right. I’m reckless, and right about now I’d do just about anything to find what I’m looking for – and I’m not talking about any goddamn Cortés treasure. Now tell me who you are and what you know about my cousin?”

“I was first asked to look for the Cortés treasure back in the late ’70s. Back then I worked in the public sector – primarily on the estates of the Duchy of Cornwall. In many ways, not much has changed.”

“I bet you’ve changed.”

“I bet you’d have changed too – even in this last week. Before the end you will change further still.” Colts sipped his whiskey. “As a matter of fact, I’d heard of your great-great-grandfather even before I heard about his little visit here.” He laughed out loud. “His theory on the Spanish Inquisition was all wrong.”

Ben smiled, a wry grin. “You think you’re an expert?”

“An expert is only relative to what one knows compared to someone else,” Colts replied.

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” Ben said, realising he was in danger of losing focus. “Now perhaps you’ll be kind enough to answer my questions without no winding-ass bullshit. How did you know my cousin?”

“As a matter of fact, we met in here. The night before you came.”

“He told you what he was here for?”

“He didn’t have to. Folks who come to St Lide’s come for two reasons–”

“I’ve heard all this before,” Ben interrupted. “What happened to him? Who are the Spaniards?”

Colts opened up his jacket and removed both a pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He tipped some baccy into the mouth of the pipe and slid a match across the side of a matchbox. The smell was overwhelming, dense and foul.

Despite the no-smoking laws, he guessed Nicholl wouldn’t have any major objection.

“Anyone ever tell you the story of Cortés?”

Ben folded his arms. “I lecture European history at an Ivy League college. I thought you said you didn’t make a habit of wasting people’s time.”

“We all know that story,” Colts mocked. “The great Cortés: the man who came from nothing, the maniac who conquered a great king, ruined a great city, the man who set fire to his ships, we all know that Cortés.” Colts leaned toward Ben, so close their faces were almost touching. “The question is, do you know what your great-great-grandfather knew?”

Ben leaned back in his chair and took the first sip of his whiskey. The liquid burned the back of his throat.

“I know the legends – both of them. There’s no way on earth Cortés could have come here himself. Not that I’m saying his granddaughter did.”

Colts raised an eyebrow, accompanied by a mischievous smile. For the first time Ben had evidence the knowledge wasn’t restricted to TF.

“Besides the shipwreck being too old, Cortés died in 1547.” Ben looked the stranger in the eye. “You’re not going to tell me he didn’t really die now, are you?”

Colts laughed; this time it sounded genuine. “Not quite. But you’re not far wrong. See, between you and me, I think you know far more about this than you say you do. History undergrad, master of the arts in history, doctorate in European history…now I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, Ben, but I ain’t never seen a postgrad with that sort of pedigree who doesn’t have an opinion on something concerning his field.”

Ben folded his arms. “You finished?”

“Now, I know you’re smart. You’re certainly not the fool you’d like me to think you are – running off to St Lide’s late afternoon, storm on the way. You ain’t that stupid.”

Ben decided not to reply.

“Now, your ancestor, he wasn’t stupid either. In fact, judging on what little I know of him, I’d say he was just about as smart as they come.”

“Like you say, you know little.”

“See, most people on the island see things and shrug. It’s here. But you and your ancestor, you see things and ask, what’s it doing here?”

Ben eased his chair away from the table. “Mr Colts, I don’t wish to appear rude; after all, it’s been mighty nice talking with you. But sitting here, listening to you, enjoyable though it’s been, isn’t going to help me find my cousin. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be finding myself a boat.”

“Now you listen here,” Colts said, now slightly animated. “Now as Thomas Maloney’s great-great-grandson I know your relatives must have told you much of what had been going on during his last three weeks. But I’m guessing they didn’t tell you everything…” He looked toward the counter. Kernow had disappeared, but Nicholl was still in the bar.

Clearing up, apparently.

“You not got somewhere better to stand, Mr Nicholl?”

Nicholl grinned but said nothing. He started rattling glasses before disappearing behind the bar.

Colts gestured with his index finger. “Come closer. I don’t want to speak too loud.

“Now, a lot of things have been said about Cortés and the Montezuma treasure. Be they right or wrong, I’m sure I’m not the one to say. According to one of the legends, it wasn’t just the palaces that were filled to the ceiling with gold; it was the ordinary houses as well. Díaz wrote there were over fifty chests. And each chest was filled with over ten thousand ounces,” Colts said, referencing Cortés’s famous biographer and fellow soldier. “Now between him and a hundred men, that’s a lot of gold to carry.”

Ben took that with a pinch of salt. “You judge all your work on ancient legend?”

“These days we are not just talking about the value of the gold. Take into account the artefacts, Aztec gold, cut emeralds, uncut emeralds, relics of Montezuma’s palace…we’re talking something that’s monetarily priceless.”

“You honestly think it’s here? Still to be found?”

“A number of eyewitnesses were said to have seen the Noche Triste, yet only one is known to have written about it.”

“Díaz?”

Colts nodded. “You ever read his original account – mentions nothing, barely even a hint. Yet if you read the uncut version–”

“Wait. What uncut version?”

Colts laughed. “I guess I was wrong about your family.”

Ben was rattled. “What uncut version?”

“Apparently he found it among the archives of Valladolid – along with a load of other fine stuff. If the record is correct, the fleeing Spaniards lost some of the gold, but hid much of it in a cave: according to Díaz, over two million emeralds, cut and uncut.”

“A lot to hide.”

“Not to mention an awful lot to carry. Now, I understand you are familiar with the story of Cortés’s granddaughter.”

“It’s been mentioned,” Ben confirmed.

“Found in a cave, just as her mommy had told her. Only when she tried to bring it back to Spain, the king was angry, wanted a share. Only, to make matters worse, the ship got diverted and wrecked on an island.”

“St Lide’s?”

Colts laughed, an irritating giggle. “I’d honestly have thought a keen observer like yourself might have checked it out already. Or maybe you did.”

Ben thought about leaving. “Who the hell are these Spaniards?”

“Over five hundred years, people have been searching for the lost Montezuma treasure. People hear stories. Some shrug, some take it mighty seriously. Some a little too seriously. One group in particular. My, they are one real nasty group of men. Their leader is a man named Juan: thinks he’s the rightful heir.”

“Heir of what?”

“What he thinks is his,” Colts teased. “Chap by the name of Cortés.”

“Cortés?”

“His second-in-command is just as bad: man by the name of Pizarro.”

Ben was momentarily speechless. “I’m guessing this can’t be a coincidence.”

“You see, when Cortés’s granddaughter buried treasure on St Lide’s, she did a few other things as well. See, when Lady Cortés came to the island, the Queen’s Castle didn’t exist.”

“Well, obviously not. It would have been a hundred years too early.”

“Right you are. But back then, another older structure did exist.”

“What?”

“See back then, the island wasn’t inhabited.”

“Hang on a minute, it wasn’t?” Ben replied.

“Nope. Had been, back in the early Middle Ages. Place was abandoned after a couple of bad harvests.”

Made sense, Ben thought. “So what exactly was it? Before?”

“Hard to say,” Colts said sincerely. “Might have been an early fort. Possibly Roman. Whatever it was, it had long been abandoned.”

“What was so special about it?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. Word has it the site was built on top of an old tin mine.”

“You think something was buried there on purpose?”

Colts shrugged. “Maybe. But when you spend over three months at sea, being shipwrecked, you take what you can get.”

“Fair point. So they buried the treasure beneath the fort?”

Colts shrugged. “If I knew where it was, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now, would I?”

Admittedly a tin mine would be an easy place to hide something. “Then what happened?”

“Records connected to the Spanish dry up – the only evidence at that point is circumstantial. Apart from those who were shipwrecked, the island was uninhabited and remained so until the English Civil War.”

Ben was at his wits’ end. “So tell me, now that we’re friends. What’s your interest in all this? Is this some honorary obligation, or do you just fancy a pay rise?”

Colt stared, this time seriously. “Thirty-eight years ago I was asked by my boss to find whatever the treasure was. If it was just money, so be it. The hoard belonged to the country and the county.

“But if there was more to it than meets the eye, the findings could be catastrophic. Life changing. The kind of thing that can’t just stay hidden in a pit.”

Ben guessed he was talking about the Stone of Fire. He’d seen the Raleigh book, the belief, the legend, an object of undeniable importance. Still, Ben couldn’t take it seriously. “And just who is your boss?”

“The same as every man’s boss round here. The Duke of Cornwall.”

Ben looked hard at the man, taking in every detail. The eyes, the expression, the years of experience.

The man was telling the truth.

“You work for the Duchy?”

“More freelance. Archaeology.”

“But you’re American!”

“Sure am. Born and raised in Branson, Missouri.”

“Yet you work for the Duke.”

“You think he only hires English?”

“I think he would only hire someone he trusts.”

Colts looked back coldly. “He hired me because I was the best.”

“And tell me, friend. What interest does the good old Duke have in recovering Aztec gold?”

“The man owns the land. Technically anything found would be rightfully his.”