Wall of War: Drake Alexander Adventure, #2

By Allan Hudson

Deep in the wilderness of the Peruvian Andes lies a monument hidden for centuries. Who were the builders? Why was it abandoned? What secrets does it reveal?

In 1953, an amateur rock climber makes a startling discovery. Overwhelmed by the choices he must make, the mountaineer completes his ascent deciding he will document his findings and present them to his superiors as soon as possible. It will take another fifty years before anyone reads what he wrote.

In 2004 news of the strange revelation reaches Drake Alexander. He will become involved whether he likes it or not. People very dear to him are plunged into a nightmare of avarice, impairment and death. Using all his skills as an ex-soldier, with accomplices he can trust, can he save his tormented friends from the raiders that thirst for the secret that lies within the mountains?

Drake Alexander Adventures Book 2

• Language: English
• Publisher: South Branch Scribbler
• Release date: Mar 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386784241

Allan Hudson

Allan Hudson was born in Saint John, New Brunswick now living in Dieppe, NB. Growing up in South Branch he was encouraged to read from an early age by his mother who was a school teacher.His short story, The Ship Breakers, received Honourable Mention in the New Brunswick Writer’s Federation short story competition. Recently, his short story, The Abyss, recieved the same award. Other short stories have been published on commuterlit.com, The Golden Ratio and his blog, South Branch Scribbler.

Book preview

2004

CHAPTER 1

November 6, Saturday

Ollantaytambo, Peru

Miguel Pisconte is an affable man. Cherub cheeks and a widening waistline tell of his fondness for good food. His eyes are bright, brown and serious. His glossy black hair, which is much too long for a priest, hangs down on his forehead. Today his mane is dotted with plaster dust. His brow is beaded with sweat. Dust particles float in the air like feathers, a stale heated aroma of old wood fills the room. He is looking at the ceiling, where he has torn down much of the old plaster and laths. He has almost made his way as far as a trapdoor, which is half way across the room. He’s glad he takes after his mother’s family. Even though Jemina Pisconte is a small woman, her brothers are all solidly built men. His carpenter skills, feeble as they might be, are a trait garnished from his father, Luis. He was never able to master anything mechanical like his Dad or younger brother Alvaro, but he is handy with a hammer and saw.

He studies the water stains on the remaining stretch of ceiling, shaking his head. He fixed the roof where the water came in and now he has to repair the damage the moisture caused to the ceiling. He realizes he is tired and decides to rest a bit. He plunks down on the old wooden chair, taking off his safety glasses. He grabs an open can of Pepsi from the table and finishes off the cold beverage with one large gulp. Closing his eyes for a moment, he thinks that if he had known beforehand how much work his new parish would demand, he might not have accepted the new posting.

In reality, he knows that isn’t true. He is thrilled to be back in Peru, the land of his birth. His Quechan ancestors have been calling to him for years.

He drops the pry bar he is holding to the floor amid the broken plaster and wood. Folding his arms, he wiggles down in the chair and relaxes. His mind drifts like an unmoored boat. He’s been in Ollantaytambo for over a month now. Although he is in charge, a novice priest has been assigned to assist him in tending his flock. Befriending the young man hasn’t been an easy experience thus far. When he had met the retiring priest, Father Van Brevoort, a Dutchman, he told Miguel about the young priest’s disagreeable attitude.

A smile slowly spreads across Miguel’s face as he remembers the parishioners’ warmth and love for the elderly priest. He hopes he can win their hearts half as much. He misses the many Mexican friends he had made while in Ciudad Valles, where he had been the novice priest at one time. He misses his family back in Canada; he misses the moody waters of the Atlantic Ocean. He recalls the first sunrise he witnessed there: his father had woken them all in darkness – his mother, his younger sister Teresa. His brother Alvaro had not been born yet. They had arrived the night before, in the late evening, and slept in their new home. He remembers the astonishment he felt when Mr. Alexander, his family’s benefactor, led him to his own room. It was unimaginable. He had previously slept with his sister on a worn out cot, in the same room as his parents. That night had been the beginning of a wonderful new life. He loved the Alexanders.

He can still picture his father when he brought them outdoors that morning; their house was close to the road, with the waters of the Cocagne Bay opposite. They stood off to the side, by the driveway at the front of their home. Luis Pisconte huddled them all close together, his arms around his wife Jemina and his son. Teresa was yawning and leaning against him. Miguel recalls the ancient Quechan prayers his father had spoken in thanksgiving, finishing his benediction praising God’s goodness in Spanish for bringing them there. The horizon was soon defined by the faintest of light. Slowly the flat line of the earth split into roaring orange and reds above, the water below changed its hue from dark to steel blue before the rising fire glazed it also. Miguel would never forget that moment as the sun crested, the lengthy morning rays painting their bodies. He had looked up at his father. Giant tears escaped from his closed lids. He must’ve sensed Miguel watching him because he opened his eyes, looked down, squeezed his son’s hand and smiled. He didn’t wipe away the tears; he just continued to study the water. They remained there, embracing, thankful and hoping it to be real.

Father Miguel’s reverie is interrupted by the shouts coming from the hallway. He opens his eyes as he sits up straight. The words are not discernable yet, but they are moving in his direction. It soon becomes evident, from the shrillness in her voice, that Senora Carmona is upset. The apologetic baritone of Father Teodoro Delapaz seems insufficient to calm the tiny woman. Father Miguel stands, wiping dust from his pants before heading to the door. He assumes they are going to his office. He kicks an errant strip of broken wood onto the pile of debris as he steps through the clutter. He opens the door just as the conversants pass by in the hallway. His abrupt move startles them, causing Father Teodoro to raise his arms almost in defence while the Senora clasps both hands to her chest shouting, Ay! Caramba. Un Fantasma!

Miguel’s face is white with plaster dust except around the eyes, which are dark and imposing where his safety goggles kept the dirt away.

It’s no ghost, Senora, only me, says Miguel, flashing his sociable grin.

Oh, you startled me, my heart won’t slow down. You should be more diligent Father, scaring an old lady such as myself.

She has a small lace handkerchief in her hand, waving it to fan her wizened face. Miguel looks into her light blue eyes, admiring the seventy-year-old’s vibrant mien. She is still an attractive woman.

How can we assist you today, Senora Carmona?

Teodoro interrupts Miguel’s query by stating, I was telling the Senora that it would be impossible for one of us to be at her sister’s birthday party tomorrow afternoon with such short notice. We have two weddings tomorrow, as you remember, Father Pisconte.

Miguel responds, directing his words towards the elderly lady, How marvellous that Senora Ramirez is celebrating another birthday. How old will she be?

Senora Carmona changes her scowl to a more pleasant expression, her eyes twinkling when the new priest remembers her sister’s name. She turns her back to the younger priest and his unaccommodating manner.

She will be 80 tomorrow. As you may remember, Father Pisconte, she has been widowed for many years and with no children. We are her only family. She is very devout, and one of your most faithful attendants. I think it is only appropriate that one of you could offer the blessing for our celebratory meal.

She folds both hands about her small clutch, holding it at her waist. She steps back from the two men as if to say, Well?

Miguel touches the Senora lightly on her shoulder, guiding her toward his office, the second door on the right.

Please come, Senora, and have a seat for one moment while my assistant and I discuss our schedule. At what time would the meal be presented?

We intend to sup at 6 o’clock, so any time prior to that would be adequate.

Miguel makes sure she is comfortable, suggesting he will only be a few moments. He returns to the hallway, where he sees Teodoro leaning against the wall with a look of discomfort. He looks up as Miguel approaches. He is about to say something when Miguel forestalls him by saying, Wait, Teodoro, don’t say anything just yet. Hear me out. Come, let us step into the sanctuary for just a moment.

He leads the younger priest through the heavy door separating the offices from the main church. He wonders why the man is so disagreeable and intolerant. When the door shuts behind them Teodoro knows what’s coming.

Father Pisconte, there will be nothing but old women there; it will be a dull, boring encounter. Can we not find an excuse to put her off? I know it will be me that has to attend, am I correct?

Listen, Teodoro, the Senora’s husband’s family are our wealthiest benefactors. We don’t have the luxury of offending them. Our congregation is shrinking as it is, and it is our job to invigorate this parish and make it grow. Now, as boring as this event may be, it is without a doubt very important to her. I must remind you that the Carmonas have the most splendid vineyard in all of Peru. They will be serving some of the finest wines fermented in these valleys. Does that alone not tempt you?

Something akin to guilt causes Teodoro’s brow to wrinkle. He is rubbing his hands, avoiding eye contact with his senior as he asks, Why do you think the vintage of their wine would be important to me, Father?

Come now, Teodoro, do you think me so stupid that I don’t notice the missing wine from our own meagre stock. I think you have a fondness for the grape, yes?

There is no use denying Father Pisconte’s allegation. Teodoro’s blushing cheeks already suggest that he is not innocent. He has been in trouble enough times in his life to know it is better to remain quiet.

So, you do not deny it? Well, Teodoro, let me suggest to you that it is not a sin for you, or I for that matter, to indulge in the blessings that God has offered us in the way of alcoholic spirits. It is only a sin when it is abused. It is also a sin to steal. I will hear your confession on Sunday, but I will offer you your penance now. The weddings will be over by five o’clock and you will be free to attend the birthday party. So I am asking you, please be kind to the Senora. Now go to the office and make plans with her. Then change your clothes and meet me in the dressing room so we can get the ceiling torn down and the debris cleaned up this afternoon. Okay?

The novice nods, realizing that Father Pisconte is being generous. He also relishes the idea of sampling a vintner’s private collection.

Yes, Father, I will do as you ask.

The two men separate, Miguel going back to the mess in the dressing area, Teodoro to soothe the Senora. As he enters the work area, Father Pisconte is thinking how little he knows of his assistant. The man doesn’t encourage familiarity. When Bishop Altamirano had welcomed him back to Peru, he had explained the young man’s need for a strong mentor. He is twenty-two years old and impetuous. The bishop explained to Miguel that the lad was familiar with money, spoiled and pampered most of his life. Why he became a priest is still a mystery to the older man. The grandest of all surprises is that Teodoro Delapaz is the son of Anacelia and Guillermo Delapaz a noted politician and a paleontologist. The bishop confided to Miguel that he had received specific instructions that the novice priest was to receive no special treatment because of his parents. It had been left at that.

Teodoro escorts Senora Carmona to the parking lot, where her driver patiently waits with the rear door of her car open. He is jotting down the address for the celebration as he leads her to the vehicle, a heavy black Rolls Royce. He tucks his notebook into the pocket of his cassock.

Until tomorrow, then, Senora, I bid you adieu.

Yes, Father Delapaz. Until tomorrow then.

Teodoro watches the dark cruiser slowly leave the parking lot until it disappears, its wide tires scrunching the gravel of the driveway. The grandness of the impressive auto is diminished as a smelly gray cloud of exhaust hovers in its wake, the smell as sour as Teodoro’s mood. He stands in the parking area at the rear of the church, his hands folded in front of him, wishing he was back in Spain, in Valencia to be exact. When he had been coerced to attend the Seminario Metropolitano Inmaculada, he had gone reluctantly, realizing then that life as a priest, until his grandfather died at least, was much better than life as an outcast, penniless and shamed. A grimace disturbs his smooth features as he remembers the fiasco when he had been at university in Madrid. The young lady that had attached herself to him during a night of carousing with his roommates had become a nightmare of the hugest proportions. He had woken in a small grimy hotel at the outskirts of the city. Both the young girl and his wallet were missing; all that remained was his clothing and a headache. She had shown up a month later at his door with her father, a grizzly of a man who stank of rotted fish. Both were protesting loudly at the terrible condition he had left the poor girl in. She was pregnant and claiming that Teodoro had raped her.

The torment that had ensued was an unbearable blemish to his family. His father had hushed things up by buying off the man and his wayward daughter, realizing later that that had been the plan from the beginning. Teodoro had been chastised and banished to a life of celibacy; he would become a priest, where he would not have the opportunity to shame his family again. The man and the girl mysteriously disappeared. On top of this terrible recollection, layered like a poisonous sandwich, is the troubling phone call he had with his mother only days ago adding to the misery he already suffers from.

Teodoro clears his head of the troubling thoughts, going to his room to change into work clothes before he goes to help Father Pisconte with the renovations. He actually smiles, for he enjoys nothing more than wrecking things. He secretly appreciates the skills he is learning from the priest. The occasion to work with his hands is fulfilling. He can forget his cloistered life as he concentrates on the details of construction. He quickly changes into a pair of jeans faded from many washings and a navy t-shirt that has a faded picture of Yoda on the front. He sits on the bed to lace up his work boots, wondering if Senora Carmona’s granddaughter Beatriz will be there. He smirks, scoffing at the idea of celibacy. He may have made the vows, but they were in word only, the fire of carnality continues to burn within him.

When he reaches the dressing room, Miguel is on a rickety step ladder tugging at the mouldings that frame the trapdoor. Teodoro glances at the reddish water stains that decorate the old plaster, tugs the chair they are using as steps into the middle of the room and grasps the extra pry bar from the floor.

What section should I tackle, Father Pisconte?

Miguel reaches up to tear off the mitered wood he has loosened and replies, Teodoro, when we are alone, I would like it if we could forget the formalities. Please call me Miguel. Why don’t you start on the section beyond this hatch and work towards the back wall. I will work in the opposite direction. Try to direct the larger pieces towards the pile behind me, okay?

The young man smiles because he really does like the priest, who is not much older than him. Miguel has been kind to him even though Teodoro’s dislike for the priesthood and his posting have been evident in his behaviour. It isn’t this man’s fault, he knows.

Very well, Miguel.

Use those gloves on the counter, Teodoro; you can’t be giving out hosts with scarred fingers. The parishioners will be reluctant to let you put them near their mouth.

The men laugh at the quip, knowing that it is only the older members of their congregation that want the priest to place the precious body of Christ upon their lips; the younger people want it in the palm of their hands.

Teodoro puts on the gloves before sweeping some of the larger rubble towards the main pile. Getting up on the chair, he places the wrecking bar into the cavity made by the missing mouldings and heaves on the laths that hold the plaster in place. He is fortunate in his placement. When he pulls down, a section of the ceiling the size of a small coffee table falls. The laths at the opposite end are rotted from the excess moisture. They crash to the tarp-covered floor, breaking into a dozen pieces. A dust cloud erupts from the collection of rubbish fogging the air.

Teodoro jumps from the chair to get out of the way of the falling ceiling, slipping and falling onto his butt. The pry bar he has been using lands in the middle of the pile with a thud.

Be careful you don’t hurt yourself Teodoro, says Miguel.

Well, I hope it all comes down that easy, it was all breaking off in small pieces before. This won’t take us too long.

He picks himself up, brushes away some of the dust and retrieves his tool. When he bends down to pick it up, he disturbs a dusty blue rag that was rolled into the insulation. He picks it up.

What have we here, Miguel?

Miguel is braced upon the ladder. He watches Teodoro reach for the rag, noticing that there is something rolled up inside where the edge of the flap is open.

It’s very heavy, whatever it is.

Teodoro unravels the cloth to reveal a roll of paper. The shiny edge of something gleams from within. He drops the rag to the floor, holding the items in his hand. The paper has an unfamiliar feel and thickness. As Teodoro unrolls the paper, the golden object slips out, falling to the floor. Miguel has alit from the ladder, curious as to what Teodoro has. He is standing beside the younger man when the object falls. He picks it up. Holding it in both hands, the men are speechless as it is obviously made of gold. After several moments, Miguel says, "This is an ancient dagger, Teodoro; it is similar to one on display I saw at the University in Cuzco. Archeologists have suggested knives like this were used in what was referred to as capacocha ceremonies, human sacrifice, often children. The squat figure of the haft might be a depiction of one of their gods. This one reminds me of Supai, the god of death, but I’m only guessing."

Teodoro remains spellbound, not so much by Miguel’s interpretation, but at what such a relic might be worth. He has forgotten about the paper he holds in his hand until Miguel hands the golden object out to him and says, Hold this Teodoro and let me see the paper. Handle the scroll carefully for it seems quite old.

The men trade objects; the younger man’s eyes are glazed by greed, unnoticed by Miguel. Teodoro handles the dagger with caution, turning it over while inspecting the details of the carved figure. Miguel studies the paper roll, surprised at how white the paper is. It hasn’t yellowed like most paper, adding to the mystery. The texture is much different than normal paper; it almost feels like a banknote. It is then that he realizes that it is likely rag paper, paper made from fibres of the cotton plant. That would explain why it is not brittle.

Come with me, Teodoro; let’s go into the office with this.

Teodoro is mesmerized by the gleam of the polished metal. If it is as old as Father suggests, it is possible the notes lead to more treasure which makes him think back to the last conversation he had with his mother, only three days ago. When he called her, as he did every week, she wasn’t her usual self. Her voice had been distraught. She confided in him, not as a son but as a priest. She broke down, telling him that she had just fought with his father. While shopping that day, her credit card had been declined. When she questioned him about their finances, he had told her they were deeply in debt. There was no one else she could talk to; it would be devastating if it were to become public knowledge. Teodoro offered to come home to be with her, but she put him off, telling him that his father had said everything would be fine again in a month or so. Their conversation ended with her apologizing to Teodoro for worrying him and thanking him for listening. She told him she loved him and that things would be fine. What she didn’t tell him was that the whole story was a lie, a fabrication.

Miguel turns and notices Teodoro standing, a blank stare on his face.

Teodoro, did you hear me? Let’s move to the office.

The young man snaps out of his musing, keen to find out what the papers Father Pisconte holds will reveal.

I’m sorry, Miguel, it’s just that this is a magnificent relic if it is what you suggest. What are we going to do with it?

I don’t know yet, Teodoro. Let’s find out what this document says first.

Miguel heads to the office, with Teodoro following. The young man is polishing the figure on the haft of the knife with the bottom of his t-shirt, his gaze fixed upon the ugly creature. The god of death, he muses. All he sees in his hand is an ingot of gold, something of great monetary value; he cares not for the stupid old gods. The dagger’s bloody past pulses through the deadly tool of Incan priests. It weakens his already fragile consciousness, his eyes frost with covetousness

I have to have this! he tells himself. He lifts his head to look at Miguel, who is two steps in front of him, just turning into the office. He will have to make note of where Father Pisconte stores it. He will get it later, but first he has to learn what is on the papers. It could lead to more items of value, something that might help his mother and father maybe, an opportunity to compensate for his youthful misbehaviour. He is already scheming on how to leave Peru.

CHAPTER 2

Teodoro stands to the right of the desk, with the time-worn knife held tightly in his grip. Miguel removes the keyboard and mouse from the surface of the small desk to make room for the curled papers, which he lays down gently. He slowly unfurls the document. The sheets are surprisingly supple, belying their true age. The tracks from the beleaguered old typewriter that Father Suetonius Graft had used over a half of a century ago stand out like small, dark, flattened spiders. The men quickly notice the words are odd; letters are repetitively missing amongst them. After mere seconds, they simultaneously exclaim, Its Latin.

Miguel is baffled. He can only speak Latin to say Mass. When he was in seminary, he had avoided the subject, the roman words tasting watery and bizarre. Teodoro, however, had excelled at Latin, his favourite subject. He would often have conversations with the eldest of the priests. Unsure of Father Pisconte’s abilities, he remains quiet.

I’m afraid I haven’t a clue what this says, Teodoro. Did you study Latin by any chance? He has some small doubt, knowing priests only studied the time-honoured language if they elected and were chosen for advanced studies.

Indeed, I did, Miguel. It was a challenge, but actually quite thrilling to read the old texts from the authors tongue. Shall I translate for you?

Miguel is pleased at Teodoro’s confidence and kind manner. He steps to one side as if to say, please do. Teodoro bends over the pages and for the next fifteen minutes discovers the mystery of the dagger. When he reaches the last page, the remaining paragraph is nonsensical with misspellings and incomplete sentences. The men look at each other. The detailed description of the author’s discovery is difficult to conceive, both men are dumbfounded when the last page, which refers to the location of the monument, is unfinished.

Finally, Teodoro says, It can’t be real. There couldn’t be that much gold! This man was taking drugs, I think. And the funny name, Suetonius – nobody calls their child Suetonius. And yet he calls himself Father, could he have been a priest?

He glances at Miguel, who doesn’t respond to his questions. The man is looking directly at him, but with a puzzled look. Miguel is unable to absorb the information about gold slabs, eerie caves, skeletons and of the history of the carvings, if true. Nevertheless, they have the dagger, the knife that breathes old age.

‘Father Pisconte... Miguel, what are you going to do with this?"

Sorry, Teodoro, this is simply too amazing if it is true. I was trying to think who we would tell. We can’t let this become public until we have more information. If it’s a hoax, then nothing lost; but just think for a second, Teodoro, if this is real, what it could mean.

Is there any way we can find out if the person who wrote this was a priest? I mean, a priest wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t make something like this up. It’s dated June 1953. Do we have records that go back that far back?

You’re right, Teodoro. Hang on, I have a better idea.

Miguel reaches for the directory he keeps in the top drawer of the desk. He leafs through the pages until he finds what he is searching for. Removing the cordless phone from its cradle, he dials the convent where the nuns still teach school in Ollantaytambo. He remembers when he had visited enroute to his new posting; he spent the afternoon with the Mother Superior, Sister Agatha. She’s almost eighty years old. She will possibly remember. She is not only the head Sister but an avid historian. He doesn’t want to contact the Bishop’s office until he knows more about what he is dealing with.

He is soon speaking with the elderly lady, explaining that he has come across an odd name in an old document he found and wonders if she might know who Suetonius Graft was. He listens for some time, nodding occasionally, before he thanks her politely and hangs up. He looks at Teodoro, who waits silently.

There was, indeed, a Father Suetonius Graft here in the early fifties. He was an American Negro from the United States and get this Teodoro, he was a mountain climbing hobbyist. He died in a car accident in 1953.

Teodoro experiences a brief shiver; he drops his gaze to the floor. It’s true, then?

Well, its likely safe to assume so, but it’s hard to imagine a shrine of this proportion. Why would it be hidden in an obscure cave in a mountain? There are too many questions, Teodoro.

What are we going to do, Miguel?

Miguel steps closer to Teodoro, touches him on the shoulder, and holds the younger man’s gaze with serious eyes. His voice is stern.

I want you to promise me right now that you won’t say anything to anyone about this. Do you promise?

Teodoro is still holding the dagger in his hand.

Give that to me, Teodoro, I am going to hide these in my bedroom for now. On Monday, you and I can go to the bishop. Until then, promise me you will keep this quiet, Teodoro.

Yes, Father, of course.

Now go and finish with the ceiling, I will be along shortly to help you clean up.

Teodoro reluctantly places the golden dagger in Miguel’s outstretched hand and sighs. He is astounded by an image that forms in his mind of an enormous wall of solid gold, a wall of war as the author called it. He tries to imagine the sculpted soldiers that are hidden in the mountains. As he heads back to work, he is seized by the impatience of youth, his own greed and impetuosity. He won’t be able to keep this a secret; he has to tell his mother. The church will take it all he feels.

He enters the room with the pile of debris scattered about the floor. Dust particles float about, visible in the slant of the afternoon sunshine that filters through the stained glass window. He is concentrating on the remainder of the ceiling, hoping for other riches to rain from the demolition, knowing it is unlikely. He puts on the gloves he left on the floor, picks up the pry bar to set about tearing at the plaster and wood. All he can think of is getting the dagger and papers from Miguel, of getting them back to Spain. A chilling idea occurs to him. If Francisco Pizzaro, the conqueror of the Incan Empire, had been alive and in the same room, he likely would have run a sabre through the priest’s ample body and stolen them.

*

The papers feel heavier than the knife. He waits several moments after Teodoro has left before he moves, coming out of a trance of turbulent obligations. Like Suetonius Graft a half a century before him, an experiences a feeling of smallness as God’s plans encompass him. He must pray over this, to be prepared for the fury this will cause. The historic shrine, a solid slab of vast fortune buried in a mountain cave somewhere – it will create chaos when the world finds out. It is almost unbelievable. He leaves the church, the items held closely to his body. He hurries across the courtyard to the stone building that houses their rooms. His is the first on the right as you enter the hallway. He steps in and shuts the door. Pausing a moment against the door frame he surveys the room for a place to hide the items. He feels silly for a moment, wanting to stow them out of sight. There is only him and Teodoro. Yet something tells him not to leave them in plain view.

The edge of one of his suitcases catches his eye, sticking out from the foot of his bed. He only finished emptying it last week. He sets the paper and dagger on the floor as he kneels to pull out the piece of luggage. It is an older hard body, a gift from his parents when he was just eighteen, brown and scuffed up from much travel. He flips the two clasps open and lifts the top. Reaching back for the document, he places it in the case then sets the yellow weapon beside it, closes the lid, flicks back the clasps and begins to pray. He is kneeling at his bed beside the suitcase when there is a knock at his door. It startles him; he inhales sharply as if someone has physically tapped him on the shoulder. He forgets about the suitcase for a moment.

Who is it? he calls out.

The door opens and Teodoro steps into the room. Noticing that Miguel has been praying, he says, Oh, I’m sorry, Father Pisconte; I didn’t mean to disturb your prayers. It’s just that I can’t find the wheelbarrow.

Miguel crosses himself, ending his devotions, and rises.

It’s okay, Teodoro; you just gave me a surprise. I feel confident that we are doing the right thing by informing the bishop.

As he says this, his eyes drop to the suitcase, reminding him of his mission. He shoves it back under the bed with his foot, looking back at Teodoro, who is concentrating his gaze upon the battered case. Miguel witnesses something eerie in Teodoro’s eyes. He`s seen it in young men before, but mostly around young woman. It is lust. The action causes him great concern; he will have to watch this man.

The wheelbarrow is in the garage. I didn`t put it back in the toolshed yesterday. Make sure you roll out the tarps to the back door, the wheel will be full of plaster dust and we won`t want to clean up the hallway too. Now, if that`s all you need, why don`t you get going and I’ll be right over to help,

Teodoro is ready to leave before Miguel even asks him to. He’s found out what he came for. He is certain the knife and papers are in the old suitcase.

CHAPTER 3

November 7

Costa Blanca, Spain

In the darkened bedroom, a muffled version of Blue Danube perforates the quiet. The cell phone is nested in the drawer of the night table, tossed there several hours earlier by Anacelia Delapaz. She is lying naked upon a massive bed, asleep exactly where she fell onto the quilts. Velvety olive skin makes her seem like a shadow on the bed. She had been entertaining a young man earlier, the revelry ending only a short time ago.

A beaded serpent of pearls curl about her sleek throat, the strand reflecting the muted light burning from a wall sconce in the far corner. The soft incandescence highlights her alluring shape and lengthy limbs. She slowly stirs, annoyed by the incessant music. Turning on her side, she tries to ignore the noise until she realizes it is her phone. She pushes herself into a sitting position on the side of the bed, her short curly hair entangled and wispy about her head. Her puffy eyes are still closed; the lids scrunched tightly, trying to suppress the aching inside her skull. The cognac she had imbibed the previous evening has changed from silk nectar to a sledge hammer as it pounds on her nerve endings. She is reaching for the phone to silence its painful dirge when it stops; her hand falls back to the bed.

She opens her eyes, shaking her head softly, trying to align her split vision. The room slowly comes into focus. Her scrutiny reveals a trail of her garments: shoes in the open doorway, blouse, skirt, hose and her new Yohji Yamamoto jacket strewn about the floor. Red lace panties lay near the bed. She inhales deeply through her nose, taking in the scent of spent passion that lingers. Her narrow face broadens with a close-lipped smile as she remembers the young man she spent the evening with, thinking that at forty-nine years old she is still more woman than most men can handle. Her few seconds of erotic memory dissolve as the strains of Strauss’ famous dance chime again. She scowls at the night table, thinking it’s probably her husband, Guillermo. The last person she wants to speak to right now. Pulling open the drawer, she retrieves the phone, rises warily and proceeds to the ensuite. Headache and a need to relieve herself urges her to the bathroom. She decides whoever is calling can wait or call back.

When she enters the lavish bathroom, pale lights over the sinks automatically come on. She places the chanting phone on the marble vanity. Quickly alleviating her full bladder, she wipes, washes her hands and poses in front of the silvered mirror, brushes reddish locks from her forehead and stares at her image. Her small breasts are tipped with a faint circle of skin as delicate as chocolate, taut in the coolness of the room. A narrow waist flows into girlish hips that finish in comely, well-proportioned legs. She is pleased with what she sees. Continuing to admire her body, she opens one of the drawers to extract a bottle of painkillers. Removing two red pills, she pops them into her mouth, washes them down with a handful of water from the tap, leans her buttocks against the counter and flips open the phone, Why are you calling me at... she glances at the faint digital image that glows at the bottom right edge of the mirror...not quite six in the morning?

An angry whispering voice filled with urgency gushes forth. Mother, it’s me Teodoro. I’ve been calling you for over an hour. I know its early back home but I have fabulous news and I…I... he stalls, almost hyperventilating from his ebullience.

Slow down, Teodoro. Hold on for a moment. I’ve just woken up; my head hasn’t cleared yet, a cold coming I think!

Frowning into the receiver, she is thinking that so much of her life is a lie to her son, a lie to most of the people who know her actually. She still fumes every time she pictures her son in a priest’s smock; she abhors her husband for banishing Teodoro to the other side of their world, both by forcing him into a religious order and by sending him halfway around the globe.

Now, what is so fantastic, Teodoro? Talk slowly.

Teodoro’s breathing calms as he blurts out the fantastic discovery over the next fifteen minutes. Hiding in his clothes closet, afraid that Miguel might hear him in the next bedroom he speaks lowly into his phone. When he tells his mother the dimensions of the golden wall, her skin prickles. Her imagination spins. If what he says is true, the treasure could be worth millions, possibly tens of millions. Everything inside her wants to believe it. A delightful shiver courses through her body knowing she is one of only three people aware of this possibility. She envisions the freedom it could bring. Listening to Teodoro’s explanation of who the author was, how Father Pisconte had confirmed it, she also begins to think of Turi Salcedo. She could finally get the piece of dirt off her back, she tells herself. Suddenly her son is quiet.

So where is this magnificent wall, honey? she says.

Well, that’s where it gets a little vague. We think the writer most likely didn’t finish because he was killed in a car accident. There are some words I can’t quite understand, but I do know you follow the Malaga Pass to get there. I know roughly how far, to look for something I don’t understand. It’s a word I’m not familiar with.

Why’s that, Teodoro?

It’s written in Latin, Mother.

The wayward priest begins to speculate when she cuts him off.

Give me a moment, Teodoro.

She struggles with how to handle this. She folds one arm across her breasts, cupping the elbow of her other arm. Turning to face the mirror again, she is struck by a greed so deep she can see it in her eyes. Unsure of how to profit from this, she will have to act quickly she decides. She needs a moment to digest what her son has told her. This is simply amazing, Teodoro. If what you suggest is true, it will change our lives. It gives me chills. I need to think on this. I’ll call you back shortly, okay, son? Oh, do you know where the priest put the papers?

Teodoro detects a familiar tone of the last remark. She’s already planning something, he realizes. It isn’t merely curiosity that has her asking. He feels a profound affection for his mother, knowing that he has always been the favourite of her two children; she rarely gets along with his sister, Engracia. He would do anything for his mother, which is the exact opposite of the way he feels for his father, whom he detests with a passion. He will never forgive the man for forcing a cloistered life upon him.

I think so, he says.

Good Teodoro; that’s good! Stay put.

Anacelia closes her phone, tossing it on the bed. She sits on the edge, wrapping the silk sheet around her body; it is cool in the villa. One of the glass doors off the bedroom is ajar, the ivory sheers rippling along the floor from the sea breeze. Through the exposed opening, she can see the faintest hint of the coming day, merely a wink separating the elements; it draws Anacelia’s focus as she ponders this weighty revelation. She sits motionless watching the horizon open its bloodshot, sleepy eye, knowing hers are just as bad.

Rubbing her temples with her fingertips, her thoughts return to yesterday and how dreadful it had been. She tried to wish it away, had tried to hide from the uproar in a rout of liquor and aggressive sex last night. Her gaze turns to the crumpled newspaper she brought with her from Madrid. It had been thrown by the closet mirror, its image making the news twice as bad. Throwing aside the sheet, she fetches a lacy pink robe from the back of the chaise and picks up the twisted paper. Straightening the bent ones, she arranges them along the fold and walks over to her makeup table. Laying the pages out flat, she stares at the front page with visible hate. The headline reads:

Allegations of corruption within the Ministry of Public Works

She studies the story closely once more. A government document, rather a fragment of a document, had been posted to the newspaper and is now in the hands of the police. It is page two of an internal memo that admonishes the recipient for not awarding a numbered tender to TS2000 Engineering. The last lines from the sender strongly urge a re-tender, as specifications are to be modified. There was nothing else in the envelope, no explanation. The newspaper pled with the sender to reveal more information, providing them an email address and a toll-free number.

The story focuses on past allegations ranting of the government’s lack of investigating their own. A second story below the fold is a brief bio of the present Minister of Public Works. The paper tries to be unbiased towards the government official, but it is clear the editors approve of her strong character, her dedication to her work. The reader is left wondering how the allegations seem unlikely during Minister Anacelia Delapaz’s mandate. She is, after all, the youngest and first woman to become Minister of PW. She is well known for cutting red tape, hastening the overall planning and implementation of infrastructure so badly needed throughout the country.

The author explains summarily her degree in Civil Engineering from Université Paris, her father’s business acumen. The only stain on the otherwise favourable review is that one of her aides, a young man of only twenty-five died in a hit-and-run several years ago while biking in the early morning. The person who hit him has never been found.

Refolding the paper to read easily, she plops down on a gaily upholstered chair, tossing one of the loose cushions from behind her back on the floor. She reflects upon the young aide, Antonio Abeyta Muniz, how he always enjoyed his early morning bike rides. Thoughts of his muscular body and the delight it had brought her cause her to smile maliciously. She rids herself of those ideas, recalling his demands for money or he would expose her carnal ways. Shortly after his death, Turi Salcedo, a local gangster, had been in her bed when he told her how he had forced the young man off the road. She and Salcedo were lovers then; today she realizes what a mistake that had been. Now she is the killer’s slave and she detests him with a tormented passion, and yet… She grows moist from a moment’s reflection of the man’s sexual talents. She sees herself blushing in the closet mirror that faces her bed and she speaks out loud as if he is in the room,

You bastard, she hisses. I’ll find this so-called wall of gold or war or whatever it is and I’ll get rid of you once and for all.

Irony can be found in many guises. For now, it is the very newspaper that lies before her. It contains another observance, one not so ground shaking or notorious. In the World News section there is note of a celebration that vibrates throughout the world of archaeology. A new species of carnivorous vertebrate that likely roamed the earth during the Messinian faunal stage of the Miocene epoch was uncovered. Bones believed to be over six million years old were discovered in Fossil Beds of Painted Hills, Oregon. Multiple layers of prehistoric specimens had been detected in the park over many years, but this is the first dinosaur found in a previously unexplored area. The recognition is centered on the world renowned vertebrate palaeontologist Dr. Guillermo Delapaz, husband of Spanish Minister of Public Works, Anacelia Delapaz.

After glancing over the article once more, Anacelia laughs out loud at the absurdity. The odds of them both sharing the daily paper are astronomical, yet the evidence lays before her. She doesn’t relish the new responsibilities it will bring. Her husband’s new found fame will demand more of their social life. She shakes her head, thinking I just won’t have time. She hasn’t seen him for over three months anyway. He has been on the same dig for over three years. He is the head palaeontologist, well respected and his workers do as he asks, but he feels his continuous presence is mandatory. It doesn’t matter to her that he is always gone; she hasn’t been in love with her husband for many years and is actually pleased by his absence. It is her husband’s intense religious beliefs and Spanish pride that denies them a divorce.

Her shoulders sag as she throws the paper to the floor once more, this time it falls to a heap in the center of the room. She will have to take a chance that what Teodoro is telling her is indeed fact; it will be the answer to her many problems. The most serious of which is that she is taking kickbacks; she needs Turi Salcedo’s money. She could never maintain her present lifestyle on her salary as a government official. Her father had cut her off for her reckless spending many years ago. A sigh escapes her as she thinks of the money she borrowed from Turi personally. It worsens her mood as she dislikes being tied to him. Desperately wanting to put her troubles behind her, Teodoro’s description of the wall resurfaces in her mind.

...and Mother the author writes that the wall is incredibly long and over three meters tall, a huge slab with carvings of soldiers in pure gold. It’s impossible to imagine what it must look like, how much it must weigh, what it could be worth...

Anacelia rises from her chair, looking at the light green eyes in her reflection. She watches them slowly darken as her mind races to what she is about to do. She has no qualms about the decision she is making. She has told her son many lies over the years, but when the time is right, she will tell him the truth. Together they will find the gold. Turning back to the bed, she picks up the