Rogue Angel 52: Death Mask (10 page)

“I’m sorry, Elise. Really. But I can’t say.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“Quite.”

“There’s a guy who seems to be one of those who calls the shots. We’ve never been able to pin anything on him, but he’s guilty. We know that absolutely. The guy is scum. Dangerous scum.”

“Who?”

“His name is Enrique Martínez.”

“Okay. Martínez. Got it. Last known whereabouts?”

“He’s not an easy man to keep tabs on, but there’s no report of him having left the country, so he should be there somewhere.”

“Thanks,” Roux said. “I owe you.”

“Yes, you do,” she said. “And I won’t let you forget about it.”

She gave the briefest of goodbyes, then hung up.

He had another call to make.

The pilot kept looking across at him, waiting for instructions. He still didn’t have a destination. “Don’t worry, whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it, just keep circling the city for now.”

“You’re the boss.”

He called up another number and listened to it ring.

“Hey, Roux,” Oscar said, picking up.

“What have you got for me?” No small talk.

“Well, I’m not sure I’ve got anything... It’s a dead zone. Nothing from any scans, no infrared, nothing.”

“Then maybe that’s our boy. Where?”

“The Alhambra.”

He repeated the name to the pilot, who adjusted his heading, banking low over the rooftops of the city before speeding away.

“Anything else?”

“Not a lot. I’ve got a list of the places around the world where the feed was being rerouted, but that’s not important. I’m still looking for the source.”

“There’s one more thing,” Roux said. “A favor.”

“Another one?” The hacker laughed.

“I need you to find out whatever you can about an outfit called the Brotherhood of the Burning.”

“Never heard of them.”

Roux filled him in, realizing how little he actually knew about them. With luck, Oscar would be able to dig up a lot more.

“Sounds like a fun little club,” the man said.

“I’ve got a name, too,” Roux said. “Enrique Martínez. It might be nothing, but maybe it’s a case of find him, find the source of the signal.”

“Leave it with me.”

Roux hung up and pressed himself back into his seat, content to take in the view for a few hours.

Next stop, the Alhambra.

13

14:45
—Valladolid

Annja clutched the oilskin-wrapped book as she reemerged into the chapel.

The panel had remained tantalizingly open while she’d undertaken the search for secrets beneath its ancient protection. She pushed it back into place now and used the key to lock it. Within a few seconds, it was as though she’d never been there. The only difference between the old chapel an hour ago and now was that there was nothing she could do to disguise the keyhole. Someone would discover it, sooner rather than later, but now there was nothing remarkable down there waiting to be found, save for a statue of the Savior.

By that time, though, she would be long gone.

In the meantime, she didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to herself.

She dusted herself down, brushing away dirt and cobwebs, before making her way back into the body of the great church.

The cleric who had been standing near the roped-off entrance to the crypt gave her the briefest of glances, without seeming to register the book in her hand. He offered her a slight smile. Annja inclined her head in acknowledgment. It was a dance of silent communication. Anything else would have been memorable, but a smile and a nod between strangers? Was there anything more everyday than that?

A child who had escaped from her mother and grandmother tested the acoustics of the great ceiling by squealing with laughter. It drew every eye in the place to her and was more than enough of a distraction for the priest, who sent the mother a disapproving look that suggested a dozen Hail Marys wouldn’t square it away with the Boss.

Annja left them to it.

Outside, in the sunlight, she breathed deeply, sucking in the air and relishing its freshness. Ticktock. Ticktock. She wanted a look at the book in the light, so she set it down on the bike’s seat and unwrapped it. It truly was a thing of exquisite beauty. A real treasure. But she didn’t know how to decode its secrets. She fished out her phone. It was time she touched base with Roux.

“Where are you?” Roux asked.

“Valladolid,” Annja said.

“What have you got?”

“A book. A ledger, actually. I found it in a chamber behind a Morisco mosaic in the church. The key opened the way.”

“A ledger?”

“I’m convinced that it’s a record of confiscated wealth.”

“Interesting. And it would make sense,” Roux said. “If I were a gambling man, I’d say it was a pointer toward the Alhambra. Or rather another one.”

“Why do you say that?”

“That video file you were sent seems to be streaming from there.”

“You think Garin is there?”

“It’s possible, but at the very least, the people I suspect are behind his kidnapping are located there.”

“You’ve made inroads?”

“Butted heads might be closer to the truth. They call themselves the Brotherhood of the Burning. The police think they’re a bunch of dangerous racists, while Europol suspect they’re more extreme than that. Given my run-in with them, I’m inclined to side with Europol on this one. They draw some kind of inspiration from the Inquisition. It’s all about religious and racial purity, keeping Spain for the Spanish and all that. No Jews or Muslims allowed.”

“Sound like a charming bunch.”

“Indeed. Thankfully, they’re arrogant enough to ink themselves with their precious gang tattoo. Keep your eyes peeled for anyone with a tattoo of flames on the back of their hand.”

“Roger that. And you think these are the people who have Garin.”

“I’m not at the point of staking my life on it, but I’d risk Garin’s.” She heard the grin in the old man’s voice.

“Well, that almost sounds positive,” Annja said, trying to work out how far away she was and how long a journey to the Alhambra was likely to be. Time was being eaten up quickly, and running from one end of the country to the other wasn’t an option. Or at least not a good one. “So what makes you think the ledger is pointing that way, too?”

“The Alhambra was one of the last strongholds of the Moors in Spain, and yet, curiously, it was given up without the fortress and palace coming under attack. The last Moorish sultan of Granada was driven out in 1492, so we are talking about the right kind of date again. How much of the sultan’s wealth remained when his family fled is impossible to say,” Roux continued, “but if the Inquisition were holding on to some Moorish treasures, then his would have been their greatest cache. Much of his palace was vandalized, of course, rubbing defeat in his face. Another case of destruction in the name of religion. It may lead us to the mask. It may not. If I’m wrong and it doesn’t, but Garin is there, then finding the mask is no longer imperative.”

It was logical, of course. Annja felt a pang of guilt. For a moment, she’d completely forgotten that Garin was the reason they had been caught up in this. In her head, finding the Mask of Torquemada had started to become an end in itself. But now, reminded of its position in the scheme of things, she was painfully reminded of the stakes.

“Okay, let’s think about this. Is there
anything
that links this Brotherhood of the Burning to the Alhambra?” she asked.

“As I said, some of their leadership appears to be obsessed with the Inquisition. Remember more Moors were executed at the Alhambra than at any other single place.”

“Which would make it interesting in and of itself to people like that. Especially if they were looking to re-create something like the Inquisition. Where better to stage a modern-day auto-da-fé?”

“Now you’re using your head, girl,” Roux said approvingly.

“It will take me a few hours to get there,” Annja said.

“I can be there sooner. Be sure you’ve explored absolutely every avenue there before you head south. We don’t have time to turn back once we’re committed to a course of action.”

“Will do.”

“I’ll call you if I find anything that points to a different destination.”

Annja slipped the phone back into her pocket as a car drove past. The turbulent air turned over a couple of the ledger’s pages. The script seemed to dance as the pages moved. She spotted something she hadn’t noticed before. Nine or ten pages of entries clearly related to wealthy men, and the list of items beneath each name was long and detailed, some going over more than one page. She carefully counted the number of people this covered. Six men. Even though she had no idea what the items meant, there was no doubt that each of the six had been worth a substantial amount. It wasn’t the wealth that drew her attention, though, but rather the fact that all six men came from the same place: Calahorra.

Now she had a decision to make. Roux had basically said to leave no stone unturned, but even a few minutes’ delay could be the minutes that cost Garin his life. Was Calahorra the answer or just another question? She needed to consider and reassess. That was better than charging on blindly, hoping she was going to miraculously find the answers she needed. Roux was going to get to the Alhambra long before she would. If it was a bust, they were both in the same place, whether she was with him or not. If all he found there was another clue that pointed elsewhere, then it was better she was mobile.

She looked at the list of names again.

One entry stood out from the others: Abdul bin Soor. There were far fewer entries beneath his name than the other five. The three words that sent a shiver up her spine were printed beneath his name:
Faber Argentarius Persona
. The first two were words she had come across before, meaning
silversmith
. The third stumped her for a moment, but then her pulse sped up as she realized that it referred to a mask, not the modern-day persona. Surely that meant she’d found the man who had made Torquemada’s mask.

In the absence of anything else, it was always a good move to follow the money.

Or in this case, the silver.

There was nothing to say she’d find any record of Abdul bin Soor outside of the ledger, but that didn’t matter; this felt like the first bit of proof of the mask’s existence, and it was linked to a physical place. Calahorra.

That was where she was going next.

Ticktock. Ticktock.

14

12:00
—Calahorra

“Ticktock. Ticktock,” the voice at the other end of the line mocked. “Half your time has gone and the clock ticks mercilessly on.”

“You’re a poet and you don’t know it,” Annja snapped back. She wasn’t in the mood for games. “I want proof of life, simple as that. Prove Garin is still alive. If you can’t do that, I’m going to find you and I’m going to kill you,” Annja said.

She had been on the outskirts of Calahorra when her cell phone vibrated in her jacket pocket. She’d been expecting Roux.

“You want proof of life? My, my, I’m
almost
insulted. You don’t believe me? My word isn’t good enough for the famous Annja Creed?” The man let out a cruel laugh and the line went dead. He’d hung up on her. Annja’s skin crawled. Was that it? Was it over?

She was shaking when she felt another vibration from her phone. It was a video file, only a few seconds long. She opened the file and any doubts that they were prepared to kill Garin were washed away.

At first it was impossible to be sure who the body lying on the ground was.

Then a boot came into view, kicking the man in the ribs, forcing a groan from his bloody lips.

Hands reached down and pulled him from the ground, hauling him up into a chair.

There was no mistaking that it was Garin despite the severe swelling and dark bruises that altered his features. One bloodshot eye managed to open slowly. A trickle of blood oozed from the cut above his brow.

“Hope this is proof enough for you, Miss Creed,” the voice said as the image zoomed in on Garin’s face, which was etched with pain. His eye had been blinking furiously. She could only imagine the torment they’d inflicted on him to break his will. Garin was tough, but even he couldn’t withstand relentless torture.

“What the hell have you got yourself involved in?” she asked the picture of her friend. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t answer her.

The screen went blank.

She held the phone in her hand, waiting for the kidnapper to call back and continue mocking her. The call never came.

There was no point trying to reach Roux; he’d still be airborne, on route to the Alhambra. Would Oscar be able to confirm anything she didn’t already know? It seemed like a stretch. He had already identified the source of the broadcast as somewhere inside the Alhambra. She wasn’t sure what he’d be able to glean from this new video, and anything he could find out would probably come too late to be of any use.

She called him anyway.

“It’s Annja.”

“Ah, to what do I owe this pleasure? I’ve already given Roux everything I’ve got.”

“I’ve been sent another video.”

“You want to send it to me?”

“You willing to risk another laptop?”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” he said. “Send it over. I’ll get right on it.”

Annja hung up and emailed the file to him.

Her first stop was Calahorra’s tiny tourist information office, though she didn’t expect to find anything about the silversmith there. A middle-aged woman behind the counter spoke to her in Spanish, but seeing her confusion, instantly switched to English. Annja smiled her thanks. The woman had a pair of tortoiseshell glasses hanging around her neck from a thin gold chain. She toyed with them as she talked.

“Good afternoon,” she said, reminding Annja that the time was ticking away. “How can I help you?”

“I’m doing some research,” she said, fishing out a business card for the station, along with the network’s corporate logo and
Chasing History’s Monsters
on it. She handed it to the woman. “For a possible television program.” It wasn’t
exactly
the truth, but given the way the search was developing, it wasn’t exactly a lie, either. The woman’s smile widened, but Annja caught the momentary panic in her eyes as she glanced around to be sure there wasn’t a camera filming them.

“How can I help?”

“Well, I’m hoping to get some information as to where some of the victims of the Inquisition were buried,” she began. The smile on the woman’s face began to slip. No doubt the majority of her visitors asked the same or similar questions.

“I’m afraid that there’s very little to see here,” she began. “It’s true that the Inquisition held its court here, but only for a very short time before it moved thirty miles down the road to Logroño.” She slipped the pair of glasses on, pushing them up the bridge of her nose, and opened the drawer of a small filing cabinet. She retrieved a well-worn folder from inside.

“Here we go,” she said, running a finger down the top sheet. “The Inquisition only held a court here from 1521 to 1570. Very little evidence of it remains, I’m afraid. Were you hoping to find something in particular?”

Annja pulled a piece of paper from her pocket.

She had written the names of the six men onto it to avoid having to remove the ledger from the bike’s panniers. The woman frowned as she tried to read Annja’s hasty scrawl.

“Sorry,” Annja said, suspecting that it was the handwriting that was giving her trouble. “I think I was a doctor in another life. This is the man I’m hoping to find out more about.” She pointed at Abdul bin Soor.

The woman pursed her lips. “I can’t say I recognize the name. Was he important?” She slipped off her glasses again and looked up at her.

“Probably not in the grand scheme of things. I know very little about him,” Annja admitted. “I think he either lived or was executed here. The same goes for the rest of them. I understand that they were all probably quite wealthy men.”

“And all Moors,” the woman added.

“There is that. I don’t suppose you’d have any idea where they might have been buried, assuming they were killed here?”

The woman shook her head. “Victims were usually placed in unmarked graves,” she said. “It is not a period of our history that we celebrate.”

So, no easy solutions here, either. But was it a brick wall? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been led to believe something was a dead end because people were reluctant to bring bad publicity to a town. As the woman had said, the execution of innocent people wasn’t something Calahorra celebrated, but was it something they’d sweep under the rug? Maybe a little coaxing would help.

“Perhaps they’d know at the church?”

“They wouldn’t be buried there,” the woman said, just a little too quickly. “Things have changed a lot since those times. Back then, there’s no way they would have buried Moors in a Christian cemetery.” That made sense. But Annja was reminded that, so far, every major find she’d made on this hunt had been a case of a Moorish relic hidden away in a Christian shrine.

If what Roux had told her about the Brotherhood of the Burning was right, a growing number of people wanted those darker days to return, even if their motivations were racial rather than religious. Of course, the irony was that if the Inquisition actually made a comeback, a great many of those right-wing racists would no doubt find themselves on the receiving end of persecution for their own lifestyles. In a society driven by religious fervor, having no faith could be just as dangerous as having the wrong one.

“I know it’s naive of me, but I’d been hoping there would be some kind of evidence that might prove these six men had lived here. Never mind, I’m sure we can use some footage of the church, a few of the older buildings that would have been here at the time, that kind of thing. They’ll set the tone we’re looking for.”

“Did you say six?” the woman asked, her interest suddenly piqued.

Annja nodded. She turned the piece of paper so the woman could see it again.

“I’m sorry, dear. The names mean nothing to me, but there is a story...”

“Yes?”

“When the Inquisition moved from here to Logroño, the Church took more than just their documents and—” she paused for a moment, obviously searching for a word that wasn’t part of her usual vocabulary “—equipment.”

Annja waited.

“They took some of their victims with them,” she added.

“You mean the people that were awaiting trial?”

She shook her head. “No, they took the remains of some of the men who had been executed. The bones of six men were supposed to have been taken from the ground and moved to a new resting place.”

Six men? Annja could hear Roux’s voice in the back of her mind: there’s no such thing as coincidence.

She felt a shiver up her spine. It was more than just the air-conditioning. This was the thrill of the hunt. She was on the right track. The mystery was unraveling for her. So much history, so many secrets and ultimately a new truth that no one else had discovered in five centuries. This was why she did her job. This was what she’d fallen in love with, this connection between the past and the present, this single moment when everything crystalized and became one single, compelling story.

“They wanted to keep their treasures close to them,” the woman continued.

“Treasures? That’s a curious choice of words to describe six dead men.”

“The six gave their confession freely. That set them apart from the other victims here. They didn’t suffer torture. They willingly gave the statement that condemned them. Even when others around them were claiming their innocence, even up on the scaffold, these six men did not. They would not deny their God.”

“So the remains of the truly guilty were important to the Inquisition,” Annja said, thinking aloud.

“The court moved to the cathedral there. If there are records pertaining to the six, they should have them.”

“You’ve been really helpful, thank you,” Annja said. She could only hope that they were talking about the same six men.

Ticktock. Ticktock.

There’s no such thing as coincidence.

The woman’s smile returned. She had been happy enough to see Annja arrive, but seemed much happier to see her leave.