Rogue Angel 52: Death Mask (11 page)

15

11:45
—Calahorra

The bike roared into life again, like a caged beast finally released.

The road to Logroño was barely thirty miles, and the traffic was light. The temptation to really open up the throttle and unleash the power of the Roadster was impossible to resist.

Annja adjusted her grip and felt the surge of acceleration as the tires gripped the tarmac. She pulled out from the slipstream of a delivery truck and shifted up through the gears. The rush of speed, the adrenaline coursing through her, reminded her of what it meant to be alive. It was primal. The Roadster flew through the curves and switchbacks.

From somewhere behind her, she heard a siren.

She gave a silent curse.

She couldn’t afford to be pulled over by the police—or worse, be taken to some backwater police station and forced to waste a couple of hours explaining herself. Even somewhere like this, there was the remote chance the officer might recognize her and let her off with a slap on the wrist, but she couldn’t risk the chance that this wasn’t her audience. Not while Garin’s life hung in the balance. She was close. Getting closer. She couldn’t afford to blow it.

As far as Annja could tell, she had two choices. She could either stop and hope she could talk herself out of a ticket, or trust to the fact that the Roadster was an ungodly machine and try to outrun the cops. What would Garin do? Without question, ride...ride like the wind. She dropped a gear again and twisted the throttle hard, finding power even the Roadster itself hadn’t known it possessed. The engine complained desperately. A car horn blared as she pulled back in front of it in order to overtake the next vehicle on the inside. She wove in and out of traffic without a second thought for her safety, relying on her reflexes. She focused on the road, shutting out everything else, even as the siren grew louder. It was just her and the road. The cars ahead of her began to slow in response. She didn’t. She pushed the Roadster harder.

And then she was at the point of no return. A glance at the speedometer, and the dial was already nudging toward the hundred-miles-per-hour mark. It was too late to play dumb and pretend she was getting her miles and kilometers mixed up. A car had slowed, its blinker indicating it was about to pull over, but the traffic had already built up around it, trapping it in the fast lane. That meant the police car wouldn’t be able to get through. That was all Annja needed. She seized the moment and pulled into the middle of the road, squeezing between the slowing car and the line of seemingly stationary traffic.

She clipped the car’s side mirror, snapping it off and sending it clattering and spinning to the ground. The impact caused the bike to wobble, but she was strong enough to steady it. As an angry horn shrieked, Annja unleashed every remaining ounce of power in the bike’s engine and leaned forward to cut down the drag.

The Roadster continued to pick up speed and she fought to keep it under control as she rode along in the slipstream of a semi. Then she was out, in the middle of the lane divider and flying past the truck while the turbulence battled her.

She pulled in front of the semi and eased off the throttle, out onto clear road, but she didn’t relax her grip.

The trucker sounded his horn, venting a short, sharp blast.

She checked her mirror to see that the cop car was, impossibly, closing the gap.

The driver was stubborn, she’d give him that. That, or he had a death wish. She wasn’t about to slow down now.

She made out the sound of brakes and the squeal of rubber as wheels locked.

Annja risked another glance in the mirror to see what was happening behind her.

The semi completely blocked the road, tipping onto its side.

Now there was no way the cop could follow her.

The sign ahead proclaimed that she’d just breached the city limits of Logroño.

She followed the road into the city, slowing but not too much, knowing she needed to get off the road as soon as possible if she didn’t want more of the local law enforcement coming after her. Her description was out on the wire, for sure.

It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for—the Cathedral of Santa María de la Redonda. The name of the place had been nagging at the back of her brain all the way here. She knew it should mean something to her, but it wasn’t until she stood in front of the cathedral itself that she started to remember why it was significant.

When the Inquisition had turned its attention away from the Jews and the Moors, it had turned its attention toward women accused of witchcraft.

So many innocent women had been dragged before the court to answer charges.

It had been male-dominated oppression, an easy way to silence the rising female voices of the day.

Another town, another visitors’ center standing opposite the cathedral, another middle-aged woman sitting behind another desk.

This one didn’t have the same smile, though. She didn’t have a smile at all. Her attention was taken by a magazine spread open in front of her. The array of brochures on display showed that Logroño wasn’t afraid to play on its connections with the Inquisition. Geographically, it may have only been thirty miles from Calahorra, but it was half a world away in terms of attitude. Logroño was making the most of its history. Annja pulled an English leaflet from the rack and smiled at the woman behind the desk. She didn’t respond. On the television behind her, a news report was showing footage of a courtroom explosion in Seville where a number of civilians had been badly injured. Miraculously, it didn’t appear that anyone had died. The ticker across the bottom said that Spanish police were looking for an old Frenchman in connection with the events. Roux. She shouldn’t have been surprised. The man had an unnerving ability to get into the kind of trouble that wound up on the national news.

“Hi,” Annja said, producing the list of names from her pocket again and placing it on the desk.

“Hola,”
the woman said.

Annja ran through the same introduction she had given earlier, adding that the woman’s colleague in Calahorra had suggested that the remains of the six men might have been moved to Logroño.

“Ah, yes, María telephoned me and said you might come in, but I was not expecting you to get here so quickly.”

“I had a bit of luck with the traffic,” Annja offered.

“As I am sure she told you, people were brought here from all over the region,” the woman said. She reeled off a list of places, many of which meant nothing to Annja, but she listened intently in case the woman said anything that would provide some obvious missing connections. Even a single piece of the puzzle, an extra link in the chain, would move her closer to solving the mystery of the mask, and in turn secure Garin’s freedom.

“Navarre, Álava, Guipúzcoa, Biscay...” The list seemed to go on and on. The woman didn’t even draw a breath. Annja wondered how many times she’d reeled off these towns and cities, like a waitress running down the day’s specials. Annja resisted the temptation to tell her to cut to the chase.

“It was not only women, of course. There were many men and children, too, including priests.”

“Priests?”

“Yes. There were thirty-one priests who faced the Inquisition on charges of using
nóminas
, amulets with the names of saints engraved upon them.”

“I had no idea,” Annja said.

“Oh, yes, even the holy men were not immune as the Inquisition progressed. It spread its net far and wide,” she said. “And it didn’t matter which God you worshipped.”

“I’m trying to find out about one particular victim.”

“There were thousands of people who died here, tens of thousands, and almost all were buried in unconsecrated ground. Mass nameless graves. Many were transferred from other places. May I see your list?”

Annja gave it to her, and for the first time since she’d walked into the tourist center, the woman began to look excited. Her head bobbed up and down as she read.

“I recognize these names. These were not common victims of the Inquisition. Far from it. These were powerful men, in their own way.”

“Do you know where I would find their graves?”

“Heretic’s Yard, but I’m afraid you have made a wasted journey. The yard is closed to the public.” Before Annja could ask why, the woman explained, “The walls are being repaired. After the storms last summer, the entire yard has been under threat from subsidence. They could collapse at any time, bringing half the cathedral down on top of anyone in there. It has taken the workmen forever to shore up the foundations.”

She gave Annja directions that would take her behind the cathedral. Annja’s thanks fell on deaf ears, as the woman had already returned to her seat and the magazine that had been captivating her when Annja had arrived.

Leaving the information center, Annja peered around the corner to where she’d parked her bike. A police car had pulled up next to it, and an officer was speaking into a radio, reading out the license-plate number. The ledger and her change of clothes were locked in the panniers. She’d have to recover them later, but for now she had a grave to find. She had less than twelve hours to find the mask and turn it over to Garin’s kidnappers. She could worry about the Roadster and the ledger and squaring away the incident with the authorities after that, once Garin was safe.

If...

16

11:15
—Logroño

A signpost shaped into the unconvincing likeness of a finger pointed the way. One of the knuckles had been broken, another was chipped and peeling paint. The letters were long faded.

Annja followed the narrow path between overgrown trees and encroaching bramble hedges that hid the sun. As the woman had promised, the path took her beyond the cathedral proper and around to an enclosed cemetery garden. The high stone wall was dwarfed by the scaffolding rising on the other side of it. There was no sign of any workers on the site.

“Hello?” she called out tentatively, in case there was someone on the other side she couldn’t see. “Anyone there?”

There was no response.

Annja followed the wall. If she stretched up, she could just about reach the top with her fingertips. She approached a heavy wooden door set with iron studs. There was a notice on the wall beside it, an historic-interest plaque giving details about the number of people who had been executed and buried in Heretic’s Yard as part of the Inquisition.

Annja tried the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. She had no idea if the workers were on siesta or just not on the site at all, meaning she had no idea how long she’d have in there undisturbed if she broke in. She walked a little farther along the wall until she reached the corner and turned right, out of sight of the main thoroughfare in front of the cathedral, and continued following the perimeter. This section of wall edged onto the backyards of other buildings, and she risked being seen if she hung around too long. People tended to notice things that didn’t belong. Had the workers been there, her presence might not have been so remarkable, but alone she stood out like a sore thumb.

There was no sign of another entrance.

She doubled back along the path until she reached the most sheltered stretch of wall, and took one last glance in either direction before taking a couple quick steps back, then running and leaping at the wall, planting her foot as high as she could and boosting herself up. Annja’s fingers clawed at the old stone, scratching against loose grit as she scrambled up. She kicked out, one toe finding enough purchase to push herself up until she folded across the top of the wall. She lay flat for a second, adjusting her balance before swinging her legs up and over one at a time and dropping down on the other side.

She stumbled as she landed, because of a buildup of dirt beside the wall that she hadn’t expected, but she caught her balance and looked around.

Somehow she had expected more.

Once the scaffolding and the builders’ equipment were removed, there’d be nothing here but a patch of well-tended grass and the stone walls that surrounded it. It didn’t feel like a particularly fateful spot. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing marking any individual graves. But it was obvious that there weren’t thousands of dead in the Heretic’s Yard, even if they were buried ten deep.

She looked up to the skies, but it wasn’t as if a lucky break was just going to land in her lap.

She scoured the ground, not sure what she was hoping to spot...some kind of stone or plaque that might denote a grave, maybe. But even if she examined every single blade of glass, there was no guarantee she’d find any indication of who was buried where.

She started to pace, one hand brushing against the stone, watching where she put her feet. There was nothing here; she was only wasting more time. She was beginning to doubt herself. Why had she ever thought this mission could lead to anything but a dead end?

To find the mask, if it was even here, she’d need a powerful metal detector. The chances of finding one lying around in a place like this were slim to none. A minute later, she was scrambling up the scaffold, hoping the improved view would make a difference.

Her eyes were drawn to the farthest corner, where the grass seemed to stop short of the wall.

She scanned the rest of the space from her perch, but saw nothing particularly out of the ordinary.

If there was any sort of marker stone in the grass, it was there.

She clambered down and made her way quickly to investigate, hoping that she’d just made her own luck.

By the time she was within a dozen paces of the corner, she was sure that the gray patch of ground where grass wasn’t growing was a slab of stone. It could just be builder’s rubble, of course, but the way the grass had receded around it made her think it hadn’t been moved for years.

Grass grew close to the great stone slab and licked over its edges, while moss and lichen maintained a grip on its surface.

She dropped to her knees.

The stone appeared unmarked, nothing to indicate what it might be commemorating or covering. But this corner was the farthest part of the Heretic’s Yard from the cathedral proper, possibly even distant enough to not be considered part of the holy ground. If she had to guess what lay beneath, she’d say it was something that the Church was afraid of and yet wanted to keep in its sight.

She couldn’t pry the stone up with her bare hands; she needed something she could use as a lever. The builders had left plenty of equipment lying around. Something ought to work. As she started to walk toward the blue-topped work huts, she heard the sound of voices on the cathedral side of the wall. She felt a sharp stab of panic, sure it was the builders returning, but as she listened to the soft tones, she realized that they weren’t the usual gruff tradesmen on the other side. Clergy, then, come to inspect the builders’ handiwork, or young lovers looking to consecrate the age-old sex-in-a-graveyard rite of passage. She hoped for the latter, expecting the former. If she made any noise, the clergy would be drawn to investigate, while the young couple would likely be scared off.

She walked softly, glad that she only had grass beneath her feet. She had to be quick and quiet. She couldn’t risk the first alternative.

She ransacked the builders’ hut, coming away with a long iron bar, most likely used for breaking up the ground. If she could work the bar beneath the slab, then maybe she could pry it up. Assuming the six men had been buried deep, at least six feet under, she grabbed a spade, too. She might not have time to dig, but it was always better to be prepared.

She was about to head back to the slab when she heard what could only be feet scrabbling against the other side of the wall.

Fellow trespassers, then.

Great.

Annja dropped to the ground, pressing herself up against the wall, hoping they’d just go away. She held her breath and waited, still clutching the metal bar. She heard gasping, then the scrabbling stopped and whoever it was dropped heavily to the ground, still on the outside of the yard. For what seemed like an eternity, the couple—it was two people, now Annja was sure—attempted to climb up, kicking and cursing before bursting into laughter and walking away.

She noticed a crate of tools pushed against the wall.

Annja didn’t dare touch anything until she was sure the would-be lovers, or whoever they were, had moved on, but in among the hammers, chisels and screwdrivers she spotted something that might be of use. As the voices receded, she reached into the crate, her fingers closing around a black oblong box. She slid it out from its resting place. Just as she’d hoped, it was a pipe and cable detector, a small metal detector designed for locating and avoiding electrical wiring and plumbing that ran within walls to prevent them from being drilled into inadvertently. It was unlikely to work at any great depth, but surely it would be enough to tell her if there was something in the ground—if she could get the slab lifted.

She went back over to the stone and punched the end of the bar into the ground, forcing it beneath the stone until it was deep enough to provide leverage when she pushed her weight down on the other end. It took all of Annja’s considerable strength to work the stone free, with the earth fighting her every inch of the way, not wanting to give up the prize it had spent centuries absorbing. But once the slab was up a couple of inches, it was easier to deal with.

She leaned on the bar, forcing the gap another couple of precious inches wider, then slid the spade in, jamming the blade into the earth to prop up the stone and give her a moment to catch her breath. Then she took a grip on the edge of the slab.

Annja strained every muscle, feeling her temples bulge and her face burn red as she lifted. It was a backbreaking effort. She felt like Sisyphus, but she couldn’t imagine having to move this massive hunk of rock more than a few feet before collapsing, never mind up a hill. And once she had her weight under it, she couldn’t let it fall. She braced the stone with her legs, then heaved up, straightening, her feet threatening to slip on the grass, until the stone was upright. One last push sent it falling into the wall so hard she thought it or the wall would crack.

The densely compacted earth crawled with bugs and worms scurrying to find shelter from the burning sun. After a lifetime in the dark, this must have been a rude awakening for them. Amid the insects, Annja noticed a strange raised pattern in the soil. It took her a moment to realize it was an imprint from something carved into the stone. She brushed the slab with one hand, delicately removing the dust and dirt to read two letters. Those two letters were enough to convince her she was on the right track.
V
and
I
, the roman numerals for the number six. It was a simple acknowledgment of what was in the soil beneath the stone, wasn’t it? No names, nothing so personal, just a number to mark six bodies. The six men who’d been moved from Calahorra to this place.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, grateful as ever that she spent so much time in the gym building core muscle strength. Even so, the combination of the physical effort and the high sun was punishing.

Annja unboxed the cable detector, then powered it up, moving the head close to the iron bar to make sure that it actually worked. A red light blinked on as soon as the head came within a few inches of it. As she suspected, the detector was far too precise to alert her to anything buried well below the surface, but it was all she had, and if it meant she didn’t have to waste an hour digging, then it was a godsend.

She ran the detector over the earth. Despite the constant motion of the insects, or maybe because of it, the light blinked on and off.

It was all the promise she needed.

Annja tossed the cable detector aside and grabbed the spade.

As she forced the blade into the compacted earth, Annja had to remind herself that just because there was something metallic down there didn’t mean that it was the mask.

But it
could
be...

She scraped away a thin sliver of dirt that held together like a slice of clay, then another and another.

Gradually, she peeled back the surface layer by layer, aware that digging too deep too quickly could damage whatever was hidden in the ground. As she struck the earth again, the corner of the blade nicked something. She stopped digging immediately. It could have been a stone, but it she wasn’t about to risk it. She cast the spade aside and knelt on the edge of the shallow hole to better see what her digging had revealed.

Carefully, Annja brushed aside the dirt with her fingers, flicking away the soil and a bloated earthworm to reveal a few fibers of old sacking. She teased at it, unsure whether it could be the remains of the wrapping that would have been used to keep the bones together during transportation, or whether it was protecting something else entirely. She kept brushing. The sack had long since rotted away, leaving barely a few fragments, and those were more dirt than burlap. She peeled the last few fragments away, heart in mouth.

Pushed into the earth, a little bent and flattened by the pressure of five hundred years’ worth of weight resting on it, robbed of any luster, was the thing she had been looking for. She’d found it, she was absolutely sure. She lifted the Mask of Torquemada out of the silversmith’s unmarked grave.

As Annja gently held the mask in her hands, she heard the sound of men’s voices moving closer—deep jovial voices, the sound of working men returning. Siesta was over. She had to move fast. Annja set the mask to one side and with one colossal effort heaved the slab back into place. It hit the ground with a dull thud. She realized too late that she hadn’t replaced the earth she’d removed from the hole. She didn’t have time to worry about it. She just had to hope they weren’t paying attention. She snatched up the tools and ran back to the hut, trusting that it wouldn’t matter if she put them back exactly where she’d found them. She doubted the workmen would notice that any tools were out of place. She was banking on the fact that by the time anyone realized the burial plot had been disturbed she’d be long gone.

Annja heard the men cursing at the door to the yard, struggling with the old lock, then she took the first step up onto the scaffolding.

With the mask tucked into her leathers, she hauled herself up, climbing hand over hand, legs swinging beneath her as she rose, the entire scaffolding rocking with her movement. She reached the top as the door in the wall swung open.

Annja lay flat on the wooden platform, sliding slowly onto the wall. The motion worried the mask loose from her leathers. It fell, clattering against the outside of the wall before hitting the ground below. She dropped down after it, the toes of her boots scraping against the stone as she did.

Annja rolled as she landed, springing to her feet and snatching up the mask.

She couldn’t believe she’d found it. The mask of the Grand Inquisitor. She could feel the contours of his face in her hand. She was so close to saving Garin, and with time on her side. It was a miracle. She needed to make contact with the kidnappers, to arrange the handover and release.

First, though, she needed to make sure she still had transport.

She jogged alongside the wall, going the long way around the cathedral to avoid the door to the Heretic’s Yard. She didn’t want to risk stumbling into any workers who were too curious for their own good and had followed the sound of the mask hitting the wall. When she was far enough away to be sure she wasn’t being watched, she looked at the mask in her hand.