Rogue Angel 52: Death Mask (6 page)

“When do you think these were drawn?” he asked.

“Goya started work on
The Inquisition Tribunal
in 1812, so these sketches must date from earlier than that.”

More than a decade before he’d first met the man. “The mask did not make it into that painting,” Roux noted.

“Which is not particularly unusual for an artist like Goya. He made hundreds of preliminary sketches, working on countless details that didn’t make it into the final works for whatever reason.”

What she said was quite true, but there was something about the drawing that made Roux think the artist had other reasons for not including it in the final painting. Certainly this wasn’t something conjured from his imagination. Goya was quite grounded in his studies of the Inquisition pieces. He wasn’t given to flights of fancy. No, the old man couldn’t shake off the feeling that Goya had drawn this from life, right down to the ribbon that tied the mask in place.

“Is there any way I could have a copy of this?”

“I’m sorry, that’s quite out of the question,” the woman said, but this time it was the curator’s turn to step in, not wanting their unhelpfulness to get back to the board member who’d facilitated Roux’s visit. She was that powerful in this world.

“I’m sure there’s some way we can accommodate you, sir.”

The woman gritted her teeth, determined to put herself in between the man and her treasure. “These cannot just be placed in the photocopier, you know.”

Roux had no idea if that was what the curator had in mind, but he had a simple enough solution and one that would be far more efficient, while leaving the drawings untouched. He fished his phone out of his pocket and held it up like a flag of truce. They both looked at him as if they couldn’t quite comprehend what he was thinking. He spelled it out for them.

“If I could just take a photograph? That would be quite incredible. I would be forever in your debt.”

“Of course,” the curator said, fussing around to make sure that Roux had enough room.

Roux glanced at the woman. While she didn’t seem enamored by his request, she didn’t object.

He captured a single image of the sketch. There was nothing else he was likely to learn here, so he gave his thanks and made his farewells, promising to put in a good word with his friend when he saw her next.

The curator couldn’t hide his pride. “Our pleasure.”

The woman forced a smile. She clutched the portfolio close to her breast. It would be hidden away again, lost to the world until the next exhibition. There was something sad about that, but it was equally wonderful that new generations would discover these treasures and keep on discovering them as long as there was someone like her to cherish them. He smiled his thanks and followed the curator back out through the warren of corridors to the main glass doors.

Stepping outside, Roux had to look up and down the street several times before he spotted the car, and Mateo standing beside it. The driver waved and slid back behind the wheel, driving up to him. As he got in and closed the door, Roux heard the sound of an engine starting up close by.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I think perhaps I did,” Roux said, studying the picture on the phone’s screen.

He forwarded the photograph to Annja, then tried to call her, but it went straight to voice mail again. He hung up without leaving a message. Roux put the phone back into his pocket. He glanced through the rear window, taking one last look at the museum. All this time, it had held a secret without even knowing it. Annja would appreciate that.

Roux was still looking out the rear window as the car took a slow right turn. The driver in the car behind them was staring back at him far too intensely for comfort.

This wasn’t the old man’s first time at the rodeo.

He was being followed.

7

20:00
—Valladolid

Annja had expected bones. Bones or dust. Or fragments of one and a gathering of the other. A few rags, perhaps, untouched for generations.

Deep down, there’d been a tiny part of her that had hoped it’d be easy, that she’d push back the lid and see a silver mask lying on some moldering cushion, just waiting to be found. That would have been all of her lottery-ticket, late-running-for-a-train and traffic-lights-in-her-favor luck for the rest of her life all rolled into one.

But it wasn’t to be.

She wasn’t that lucky.

Which was bad news for Garin.

The flashlight beam played across the only thing the stone casket contained: a key. A small brass key with worn teeth.

Annja reached inside for it.

She assumed the metal would feel rough, pitted with corrosion given its obvious age, but it was surprisingly smooth. There was the obvious coarseness associated with something made so long ago, but it had weathered the passage of time relatively unharmed, no doubt because of the near-vacuum seal the sarcophagus lid provided. It had been hidden for a reason. More than that, it had been hidden
here
for a reason. Why, though, had it been placed in an empty coffin marked for a Moor and surrounded by tombs of the Inquisition’s most faithful? That only opened a nest of questions, the most immediate being: What did it unlock?

She heard a sound originating from the direction she’d come. The unexpectedness of it caused her heart to skip a beat.

Someone was heading her way.

Had she been followed down here?

She could make herself known, avoiding an unpleasant confrontation—but that would mean having to explain herself, and it wasn’t as though she had a right to be down here. It would eat up valuable time she couldn’t spare. Or, to be blunt, time Garin couldn’t spare.

She turned off the flashlight and did her best to slide the lid of the sarcophagus back into place without making enough noise to wake the rest of the dead down here. Even so, the grating of stone-on-stone echoed through the chamber.

A voice cried out.

She didn’t like the sound of it.

Annja crept deeper into the catacombs, not wanting to be discovered by whoever was down there with her. She could only hope she’d be able to find another way out of this charnel house, but the odds weren’t in her favor.

She edged forward in the dark, trying not to make a sound.

She was lucky the avenue was straight and that the person moving toward her was carrying a hooded lantern, which spread its glow across the floor without lighting the entire tunnel. She was going to have to get out of there, though. There was no way her luck was going to hold. Annja crept along the passageway, trying to time her footsteps to those of the newcomer. It wasn’t easy, but thankfully, the other person wasn’t trying to be quiet.

Annja almost missed the narrow flight of stairs—old stone steps with well-worn edges leading upward.

She held her breath as the lantern swung in the darkness.

A muffled voice called out, too indistinct for her to make out any words.

She stopped moving.

She could wait and hope the newcomer missed her, or trust to whatever god looked after reckless explorers in ancient crypts, and take the stairs, praying they’d lead her out of there and not into trouble. Fortune favors the brave, she thought. She took the first few stairs as fast as she could, making sure that she got her body out of the line of sight in case the hooded lantern’s light got too close too quickly. When she was high enough up the staircase, Annja turned on the flashlight. The time for stealth was over. She broke into a run, her boots clattering on the stone.

“¿Quién es?”
the newcomer shouted from below. Annja took no notice. She needed to get out, fast, and hang on to the key. That was the most important thing right now. That key opened something, somewhere. A Moorish tomb in a Christian burial ground—that had to mean something. She wasn’t far enough down the path to know what, yet, but she would. Did it have anything to do with the mask she was looking for? Impossible to say. She couldn’t worry about that now. All she could do was run. And she did, clutching the flashlight in one hand, the key in the other. She wasn’t about to risk it falling out of her pocket.

An icy thrill of fear coursed through Annja when she saw the heavy wooden door blocking her way at the top of the stairs. She hit it hard, expecting it to bounce her back, but it swung open easily. Without hesitating, she stepped through and slammed it closed behind her. There was a key in the lock. She turned it, locking it on the person in the crypt.

It took a moment for Annja to realize where she was. She hadn’t emerged in the Zorrilla Theater, but, perhaps unsurprisingly, in a church.

Her phone rang almost as soon as she took her first steps down the aisle toward the door that would take her outside. The only worshipper, a woman kneeling at the altar, turned and offered her a withering glance. Annja was getting a lot of those these days. She hurried down the aisle and out into the fresh air before she checked her phone.

Number withheld.

“Hello,” she said.

“Well, well, well... Am I to take it you have found religion?” the voice in her ear mocked.

It took her a moment to realize she was speaking to Garin’s kidnapper, the voice from the video feed. The fact that he knew where she was located was unnerving, to say the least. Were they watching her? Using satellites to track her like Garin had in the past? GPS on her phone? She glanced back inside the cool confines of the church. The woman had returned to her devotions and had absolutely no interest in Annja. There was a priest in the chancel now, lighting candles. Assuming it hadn’t been the priest himself, there was no sign of the person she’d heard in the catacombs.

“It’s rather a plain church, don’t you think?”

She glanced around, looking for someone who stood out, someone who was obviously watching her, who had a phone to his ear. The street was quiet. She couldn’t see anyone. But they knew where she was.

“Is this a social call?” she asked, still looking up and down the street.

“No. Definitely not. I like to think of it as incentivizing.” He laughed. It wasn’t a maniacal sound, not the
mwahahaha
of a cartoon villain. It was filled with genuine mirth. In the background, she heard a cry of pain. Garin. Why were they doing this to him? Why torture him? If he knew where the mask was, he would have told them. He wasn’t a hero. There was only one thing Garin Braden valued above and beyond the possession of beautiful things, and that was self-preservation. He would have given them what they wanted if he thought it would buy his freedom. Once he knew he was safe, then he’d figure out how to get it back. That was the kind of man he was.

“There’s someone here who wants to talk to you,” the voice said.

There was a pause. A second. Two. It felt like forever.

A weak and mumbling voice spoke. “Don’t do it...don’t give them what they want. Even if you find it...” It was Garin. The phone was snatched away before he could finish speaking. The next thing she heard was a grunt and the sound of flesh slapping flesh.

“Garin!” Annja called, unable to stop herself.

“You’ve wasted four hours, Miss Creed. Ticktock. Ticktock. Don’t waste any more.” The kidnapper killed the connection.

Annja looked around again, phone still pressed to her ear.

She tried to think. Yes, they knew where she was, but she couldn’t see anyone watching her. There was no obvious tail. Her first thought when the phone rang had been that they were close, maybe even behind the light in the catacombs, but there was no proof, only paranoia. Her phone hadn’t worked down there, which meant the kidnapper’s couldn’t, either. It was much more likely they were using the same kind of technology that Garin would have. They had her phone number. Maybe they had a way of monitoring her SIM? She thought about pulling the battery out of the phone, but she needed to stay in contract with the old man.

She called Roux.

He answered on the third ring. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I went on a little trip. Underground.”

“Find anything?”

“Maybe. The old Convent of San Francisco is gone, but the builders got lazy. They just leveled the land out and built over the old foundations. I found a way down into the catacombs. In among all of the tombs of the sisters and the good Christian servants of the Inquisition, I found a single sarcophagus that was out of place. It was marked Morisco.”

“Interesting. A Moorish grave hidden in the heart of a Christian shrine.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m assuming you opened it?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“No bones. No body.”

“It was empty?”

“I didn’t say that. There was a key inside.”

“A key? That seems like a lot of trouble to hide a key, don’t you think?”

“I do. Which makes it important. I don’t know what it opens or why it was hidden, or even who did the hiding, but I’ll work it out. That’s what I do. How about you?”

“If you check your texts you’ll find a picture of a preliminary sketch by Goya. Like your key, it has been hidden away, this time in the archives of a gallery here. It’s a drawing of a mask. I’m sure it’s the one we’re looking for. I’m also sure it was drawn from life.”

“Which would be proof that the mask exists.”

“Or at least existed,” he agreed.

“Well, it’s a start.”

“Indeed it is. The other thing that makes me think I’m on to something here is the fact that I’m being followed.”

Annja felt the fine hairs on the nape of her neck prickle.

It was one thing for the kidnappers to know where she was and what she was doing, but they were keeping tabs on Roux, too? That meant they knew about them, how they worked. Knowing their enemy, knowing how they’d act and react, gave them a distinct advantage over Annja and the old man.

“Funny you should say that,” she said.

“Are you being followed?”

“As good as. I just had a call from the kidnappers. They knew where I was. Pretty much described the church I’d just walked out of.” She looked back at the woman who was still kneeling in prayer, but it was the reredos that caught her attention, an ornate altarpiece depicting Saint James killing Moors. The image was enough to trigger a thought inside her head. The sarcophagus, and by extension the key, was a Moorish relic hidden away beneath a Christian church. What if that was the clue itself?

She was going to have to think about that. And she wasn’t going to risk saying it over an unsecure phone line, not if the kidnappers were as tech-savvy as she feared.

“Don’t tell me where you’re going,” she said. “Don’t tell me what you’re planning to do next.”

“You think we’ve got unwanted ears listening in?”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

She pictured him nodding. “Look after yourself, kiddo.”

“I always do,” she said, hanging up.

She already had an idea fermenting inside her brain.

The curator back in Ávila had said that Torquemada had founded a church here in Valladolid. That had to be her next port of call.

Annja crossed the city to find the church. Without a map it wasn’t easy, as Valladolid was a city seemingly constructed on the foundations of faith, with spires every few streets denoting yet another place of worship. It was like looking for a particularly sanctified needle in an already consecrated haystack. But after fifteen minutes of driving around and several stuttering conversations with helpful locals, she found herself standing outside the incredible building, wondering how she could possibly have taken so long to find it. The great Gothic frontage was imposing. It wasn’t difficult to imagine how the people of Valladolid would have reacted to its construction at the time: with awe. The church was built to the glory of God.

She was glad she hadn’t come straight here, even though it was a more logical starting point for her search. She wouldn’t have discovered the key if she had, and there was no way of telling how important that key might turn out to be before the day had run its course.

Annja retrieved the flashlight from her panniers. She wasn’t going to pass up the chance to take a look at what lay beneath this church if the opportunity arose.

There were more than a dozen people milling around inside, most of whom appeared to be tourists rather than worshippers. Beside a box inviting donations, several piles of leaflets provided information for visitors in a variety of languages. Annja skimmed the English one. It was crammed with tiny print and facts about the church and other religious buildings in the area. As she pocketed it, her attention was captured by an information board that gave a brief history of the church.

The first line sent a shiver up her spine.

She was wasting her time.

The San Pablo church had indeed been commissioned by Torquemada, but not
Tomás
. She could have screamed in frustration. This church was founded by Cardinal Juan de Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor’s uncle.

She was already looking in the wrong place.

She felt like banging her head against a brick wall.

But she didn’t stop reading. Hoping. She didn’t want to give up. She closed her fist around the key. The information board went on to explain how the facade, the final element of the church, hadn’t been completed until the year 1500, even though the cardinal had died in 1468.

It seemed like an easy mistake for someone unfamiliar with the two men to make, but the curator must have known better, surely? He wouldn’t have simply assumed the familial name meant the same man was behind the construction. Annja stared at the information, absorbing it, thinking, and made a connection; the building was completed two years after the Inquisitor’s death.

The same year that his tomb had been broken into for the first time.

Perhaps there
was
a connection, after all.

Just not the obvious one.

When she read that the church had been built on the ruins of a Moorish palace, abandoned and destroyed after the town had been taken from the Moors, it was hard not to see parallels with the Moorish sarcophagus hidden beneath what had once been a Christian convent. A church on top of a Moorish palace. A convent on top of a Moorish sarcophagus. One thing on top of another, or one thing hiding beneath another, depending on how you looked at it.