The King's Gold (7 page)

I ran my fingers over these lavishly inked words, which were like miniature black silk sculptures. “Oh, it could be a different author; look at the slant. Your letter’s veers more to the left—it almost appears as if the writer’s changed hands from one decade to the next. And the scripts, serifs, heights—they disagree.”

Dr. Riccardi concurred. “And—here—the swashes on the
T
s are also different, and the
A
s are all hideously wrong.”

Marco was not ready for that answer. “The seal
is
identical. What more do you need? That’s a classic sign of authenticity! The second letter could have been written by a secretary.”

Both Dr. Riccardi and I forcefully said no.

“The seals do match,” I agreed. “But the Medici were crazy about the New Learning, humanism—they tried to model themselves after Cicero and his hand-lettered correspondence. A personal note, and one this important, to Giovanni de’ Medici, and written in the italic script, would have been written by the author unless he were
dying
, probably.”

“During the sixteenth century,” Dr. Riccardi added, “the style of writing, the content of the letter, and the personal touch in correspondence were considered a mark of the man himself.”

I held out the letter under the lights as Marco’s hands clenched, and his mouth paled as he shot me a warning look. But I still gave my verdict.

“You’ve brought me here for
no reason
.” I roughly pushed the pages of his document at him. “The letter’s a forgery, Marco.”

Marco thrust his letter once more into my hands.

“Look at it again,” he demanded.

“I did look at it. I told you what I think.”

“What you think is wrong!”

I pushed the pages back into their envelope, stuffing it into his blazer pocket. “I’m right. They’re different—they weren’t written by the same man.”

“You’re being sloppy. You can
do better
than this. Sloppy work always makes me lose my temper.”

“The letter’s a piece of trash, Marco—”

“No, no, no,” Dr. Riccardi bubbled. “No scholarly lovers’ spats—”

“We are
not
lovers.”

“Those are the absolute worst. Come on now, kids, stop
biting
each other to death.” We continued sputtering while the doctor wrapped us in her surprisingly strong arms, mashing our shoulders together and crooning, “I’m
sure
we can still make this trip worth your while. The evening isn’t beyond repair, my darlings! I have a wonderful dinner planned for all of us.”

She forcibly hauled us out of the library, reminding us that though the Palazzo Medici Riccardi serves as a museum, it still harbors a working kitchen whose chef can re-create the
tortellini en brodo
and
fritto di calamari
that delighted Cosimo I himself. Also, some of its grand bedrooms and dining halls remain in sumptuous order for the scholars and diplomats—and booksellers—who are “lucky” enough to spend a night or two there.

Adriana appeared in the darkling halls, as if on instinct or telepathic command, and was told in easy tones to “bring these nice people up to their room. They’re having a kind of disagreement, so—I don’t know—make them...
happier
or something.”

After communicating a violent coded message to her employer with her eyes, the assistant’s powerful little paws manhandled us up the stairs to an apartment designed for the fleshly pleasure of Florence’s exacting duchesses. She tilted her head, expertly studying my plane-rumpled outfit. “Marco—that is, sir—and madam, will be advised that while staying in the palace you are expected to mind whatever manners you have been taught by the cave people who raised you...and to please dress appropriately for dinner. We do require that sir wears a tuxedo and madam favors more...suitable attire.”

“I don’t have anything else but this dress,” I yammered, gesturing at my priestess gown, which now made me look like an ethnic extra in
Conan the Barbarian
.

“When sir made his arrangements, and explained that madam was from Long...Long...
Beach,
was it? We instantly took measures to take care of any sartorial dilemma madam might have. Please do look in the closet and you’ll see we’ve provided more than suitable attire.”

“Yes, and thank you, Adriana,” Marco said, collecting himself enough to give her a smile.

Then she shimmered into the recesses of the palace.

“Why are your things here?” I said wildly, when I saw that Adriana had stacked Marco’s bags in my suite’s closet. “Why does she think we’re staying in the same room?”

Marco pulled out the golden-sealed letter from his pocket, his face dark red with anger: “You did a shabby job of it back there. This is the real thing! I know it! I’m not joking around about this, for Christ’s sake.”

“Are—we—staying—in—the—same—room?”
I repeated, even louder. “With one bed?”

He gazed around the suite for the first time, the veins standing out in his temples. “It was the only way I could get any accommodations.”

I stared at him, trying not to think what I was thinking about him, but thankfully he looked repulsed when he understood my fear.

“What? Rape?
No—
not in the cards, no, not part of the plan.” He waved his hand at me as if I were ridiculous. “That’s a bit too dirty for my taste.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I am a gentleman. Sometimes.”

“Last I heard, gentlemen didn’t slap women around and threaten them.”

“Who told you that lie? Gentlemen do all sorts of beastly things. But I don’t do
that.”
Marco regarded me with his hot eyes.

Taking in my bush of a hairdo and near-screaming, he evidently determined that this conversation would yield only diminishing returns. “Fine. Look. I don’t mean to push you into hysterics; it’s not a very productive state of mind.”

“I might find it very productive.”

“I doubt that. And it doesn’t really seem your way, hysteria. You’re too smart.”

“Just
go
. I’ve done what you wanted. The letter’s a fraud. I’m just hoping you aren’t. You said you knew something about Tomas—about where he was buried. So tell me now. Because I’m leaving.”

“Actually—no you’re
not
. Because then you’d just get into a nasty squabble with Domenico, who will beat you, is that clear enough?” Marco said tiredly.

“You
are
disgusting,” I fumed.

He fluttered his eyes, looking suddenly ragged. “Yes. It’s a family trait, and if you’re not careful, you’ll bring it out.”

“Poor you.
I
just inherited big hips and a flaming distaste
for being held hostage
!”

His features unexpectedly flared out into a half smile.

“Is something funny?”

“Oh, my goodness. Well, actually, sort of, yes. Look at you stomp around. Roar, roar, roar. You’re like a tiny Genghis Kahn.”

“I’m glad you’re having such a party.”

“All right. Let’s calm down. Clean yourself up, killer. Chop chop. You heard our orders from Adriana regarding dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t
care.
Because, listen to me: There’s something I want you to see downstairs, in the dining room. I think you’ll find it interesting. It relates to the letter.”

I hesitated for two beats but couldn’t help asking: “The dining room? What’s there?”

His dark eyes latched onto me, and he reached out to tweak my chin. “Ye-es. That’s better. Curious Cat.
That’s
the little freak Soto-Relada promised me. Don’t worry. I’ll show you when you get down there—you won’t be disappointed. Just don’t disappoint
me
.”

He took care to leave the letter on the bed, then snatched up his bag and left the room.

I scanned the place to see if there was a way to crawl out of a window, or maybe I could just go running down the stairs and hope the ogres didn’t see me escape. When I opened the door, though, I saw Domenico filling up the hall like a dam. This left me to the confines of the palatial suite with its barred windows, marble fixtures, large oak tester bed hung with green and gold tapestries—and two phones, one by the bed, the other by the bathtub.

I immediately called my fiancé, Erik, twice, but there was no answer. Sitting down on the bed while listening to the incessant
ring, ring, ring,
I nervously fondled the silk coverlet and its embroidery, then the shining envelope tossed there.

I looked down at it. It was a fake, as I’d said. It was a hoax.

The different writing styles proved it.
There was no Aztec gold.
That I continued to entertain the possibility demonstrated that my intelligence had been eroded by far too much indulgence in Conan Doyle and Jules Verne. And even if the letter was beautifully executed, and had that matching wolf seal, these features certainly didn’t mean anything—forgers had been known to do exquisite work before.

I should call my parents or Yolanda, I thought. I should call the U.S. Embassy.

But I am
perverse.
I picked the letter up. I slid the shining leaves of onionskin or hemp between my fingers, tilting the envelope.

Out slipped that little card.

Señor Sam Soto-Relada

Dealer in Used Goods

11 Avenue and 11 Calle, Zona 1,

Via Corona Ciudad de Guatemala,

Guatemala, 502–2–82–20–099

Dear Sir or Madam,

Please enjoy this rare letter in fine health.

Having any problems with the item? Any questions? Feel generally befuddled or confused? Feel free to call at ANY

TIME. And remember that Soto-Relada is your go-to guy for any and all “hard to obtain” goods!

Yours truly,

Sam Soto-Relada

What had Marco said about him?

That old schemer makes it his business to get his hands on all kinds of naughty commodities. He worked with your father, and had scads of information about Tomas.

My curiosity sizzled in me as I wandered around the room, twirling the card between my knuckles, wandering to the bathroom, drawing the bath water, reading the note over and over.

I inserted myself into the hot, foaming bath, touching the phone.

I dialed.

“Soto-Relada,” a harried, sparrow-like voice answered. “Who is this, please? Rather busy here.”

“Señor Soto-Relada...it’s Lola Sanchez.”

“Is this the police again? This is
harassment—
”

“What? No. It’s Lola...de la Rosa...?”

“What? De la Rosa? Did I hear that right? Oooooooo—yes—sorry—of
course
. Not Tomas’s little girl.”

“Yes, that’s it. That’s me. I guess.”

“Oh dear— Hello, dear child! Well— What an honor this is— What a...”

“Sir, are you out of breath? Are you all right?”

“Just running around a little— Nothing to worry— Getting my exercise.
Wait—
You’re in Italy, aren’t you? This isn’t collect—you are paying for this call.”

“Um...no, but you aren’t either—”

“Good. So! How’s it going? Having any problems with travel arrangements or tragic sociopaths?”

“Marco Moreno, you mean.”

“Isn’t he a charmer? You two getting along?”

“
Why
did you say that I would help him with this Antonio Medici business?”

“What, haven’t you guessed?”

“I don’t see how—”

“To save your
life,
you little fool. He was going to make you into chicken cutlets!”

“You mean kill me.”

“You’d be dead as King Tut right now if I hadn’t told him to consult your brains rather than bash them, dearie! Oh, the Morenos are famous for it, slagging people. Didn’t you know? After the colonel died, little Marco was just drunkenly racing around here, foaming about how he wanted to burn your father’s bones, and bombing your family home, other unpleasantries—and...I’d heard how good you were at the ancient document-reading-thing-um—so I thought, well, two birds, stone—whatever the saying is. Couldn’t let Tomas’s kid get creamed like a coconut pie—especially if she might be able to find this Montezuma whatsis. I just mean that I thought it would be terrific if you wouldn’t get dead—and, at the same time, well, you might also help make me some money! By finding this gold what-have-you, the Aztec stash—”

“Marco said you knew Tomas.”

“Did I ‘know’ Tomas—
hell
yes. An awful man. Good client—terrible human being. But—it has to be said, a genius. An absolute genius. Master of seven languages, disappearing acts, disguises, political organizing, archaeology, and womanizing.
And
— An absolute ass. Look how he treated your mother, the fair Juana, whom he abandoned to the spindly arms of that Manuel person, that bald little curator—”

“My father—”

“And then we can’t forget how he treated that daughter of his—your sister.”

“Yolanda.”

“Yes, right. Yolanda. Yolanda de la Rosa. Oh, he was the
worst
to her, your sis. Wasn’t he? Always testing her mettle, as it were—didn’t he once drop Yolanda in the middle of the jungle when she was twelve years old and tell her to find her way home? And he was always disappearing—she’d hear reports of his death—and then he’d pop right back up months later. Poor little cabbage. No
wonder
she’s so quirky. And she always wears that ghastly black hat, doesn’t she? Like her father did. I think she’s touched in the
head.”

All of this rather weird family history was, in fact, true, but as I had a two-ton thug guarding my door and a possible maniac returning to my room at any moment, it didn’t seem an appropriate time to get into a lengthy discussion about the many foibles of the de la Rosa clan.

“Yes, yes, but—hold on, Señor Soto-Relada, please—stop—talking—for a second. I have a
lot
of questions for you. First, about this letter—it’s turned out to be a forgery.”

A pause here, some panting. “Has it?”

“I was wondering if you had any more—”

“Now that’s odd—”

“—information about it.”

“Information? Do I have any?
No.
Though I can tell you that there was a time when your father was interested in it.”

“Marco said the letter used to belong to Tomas.”