Rogue Angel 52: Death Mask (7 page)

Other than that, the display offered little more than a floor plan of the church.

There was nothing to indicate where the entrance to any crypt might lie.

Now Annja was convinced that if there was anything to be found here, it would lie beneath this Christian building, down in the ruins of the old Moorish palace, assuming the builders had built upon the foundations of that place as they had with the theater on the other side of the city.

It didn’t take long to find an area that had been sectioned off by red velvet rope. It wasn’t exactly high security. A priest was busy placing fresh candles in sconces close by. She would have to wait for him to finish what he was doing before she could slip under the rope and disappear down into the crypts. In the meantime, she decided to take a proper look around, just in case there was something she’d missed.

The transept displayed two paintings by Bartolomé de Cárdenas. According to a small plaque on the wall, he had died in Valladolid in 1628. No direct link with either of the Torquemadas, but what
was
interesting was the fact that one of the paintings depicted the Conversion of Saint Paul. Cardinal Torquemada was a defender of the conversos in Valladolid—Jews who had adopted the Christian faith rather than be forced to leave Spain. Paul of Tarsus was a Jew who converted. More connections, more hints and clues. Her gut instinct was that she was looking in all the right places, but it was hard to know what was actually relevant and what was a case of her making connections where none existed.

The church included several side chapels, according to the floor plan. One was the funerary chapel of Alonso de Burgos, who had died in 1499. The date was so close to the death of the inquisitor that it had to be worth investigating while she waited for the priest to finish with his candles. It offered no immediate revelations from the outside. She stepped through the arch into the chapel proper. Although there were no doors between it and the body of the church, it was markedly quieter. The archway was obviously acting as some kind of baffle, which meant sound would almost certainly not travel out of here, either. That could prove useful if she had to hide.

There didn’t seem to be anything of great interest inside the chapel, so Annja took a moment to check out the picture Roux had sent.

The sketch certainly looked as if it could be the mask they were looking for. The additional detail of the ribbon suggested that the artist might actually have seen the artifact. Of course, it was possible he had just used his imagination in deciding how the mask might be fastened around the Grand Inquisitor’s head. There was no way of knowing if Goya had in fact seen the mask, or even confronted a figure wearing it, during his studies. But if he had, that meant she was looking at as near-perfect a rendition of it as she could possibly have hoped. That made it feel more
real
to her.

She pocketed the phone again.

The moment of peace gave her the opportunity to examine the key properly, as well. She held it in one hand and rubbed the ancient metal between the thumb and forefinger of the other. A few flakes of rust fell away, but no more than that. It was in incredible condition, almost perfectly preserved. It was hard to imagine it could be as much as five hundred years old. She could feel the weight of history in it as the key stretched across her palm, extending beyond the width of her hand. It was sturdy, not delicate, but it was also beautifully crafted. Judging from its size and weight, the key was designed to fit a heavy-duty lock. What did that lock protect? Something valuable, surely? Something the world wasn’t intended to discover by chance. The key represented a secret. There would have been a few who protected that secret through the years, but they must all be dead now. What was that secret? The Mask of Torquemada? She wasn’t sure that artifact, no matter how compelling a treasure for someone like her, was actually valuable enough to warrant such extreme measures—a Moorish grave in a Christian crypt, a Moorish palace beneath a Christian church? That had to be about more than just a mask. But if that was true, then she was just wasting time chasing it, wasn’t she? This was all about the mask. It had to be.

Annja was about to leave the chapel when she noticed an inconsistency in the design on the wall. She would have dismissed it, but she realized that the repeated pattern in the mosaic matched that of the bow of the key—latticework entwined around a crucifix. And then it struck her: it was a combination of Moorish and Christian design. She was in the right place. It wasn’t a design she’d encountered elsewhere.

It tied the key and the chapel together.

She ran her fingers over the distortion.

The crucifix in one repetition of the pattern was missing, replaced by something that looked, on closer inspection, like an arched doorway. There was a chance it was a flaw in the design, maybe a problem in the manufacture or a mistake made by whoever had assembled the mosaic, but that changed nothing. The pattern on the key
was
the pattern in the floor.

She ran her eyes around the room, searching for a repetition of the error somewhere in case it had been deliberately mirrored. There was nothing.

Annja squatted down, putting the distorted design at eye level.

She placed the tip of a fingernail against the arch. The surface was softer than she’d expected. She had mistakenly assumed that the image had been part of the tile, but as she teased away at the arch, she discovered that it was the accumulated dirt and grime of centuries that had built up in a hollow, perhaps even a hole inside the tile.

That got her heart pumping.

Annja brushed at the dirt, scraping it away until it became an obvious indentation in the ceramic. She felt in her pocket, searching for something thin and sharp that she could use to dig it out. She found her bike’s ignition keys; they’d do the trick. After a minute of careful work, scraping away at the grime around the hole, it was obvious that it was actually large enough to allow the old key she’d found in the Moorish coffin to slide inside.

She took a deep breath and turned the key slowly, gently, trying not to force the mechanism, which had rusted with age.

The key turned.

She heard a click from behind the wall.

A panel of the wall had been released. It had widened a crack. Annja worked it open carefully. Finally, the crack was large enough for her to walk through, though she had to stoop.

She turned on her flashlight, shining the beam into the darkness beyond.

8

19:50
—Seville

Mateo didn’t break pattern. He turned through a series of lefts, circling around his original position, just to be sure that the car behind them really was on their tail.

The old man noticed a tattoo on the back of Mateo’s hand.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he had, he couldn’t help but be intrigued by it.

His instinct was to ask what it meant, but given the fact they were being followed, and escaping their pursuers was very much dependent upon Mateo’s concentration and driving skills, distracting him with questions didn’t feel particularly smart. It wasn’t as if a remark about his tattoo couldn’t wait a few moments, after all.

Instead, he watched the driver through the rearview mirror, well aware that his eyes kept darting up to meet the old man’s gaze.

Roux didn’t like being followed.

He decided to force a confrontation, rather than risk his pursuer tagging along to whatever discovery was next. Of course, the easiest option was just to give them the slip, but easier wasn’t anywhere near as effective. Or permanent. “We’re going to make an unscheduled stop, Mateo.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Indeed I am. Things could get a little interesting if I’m right about our tail.”

“I like interesting.”

“Me, too.”

“Turn in here,” Roux said, directing Mateo into a dead end. The driver did as he was told, no questions asked.

Roux looked behind them again. The other car had followed them.
So much for the benefit of the doubt,
Roux thought bitterly. Roux checked for the reassuring shape of the gun inside his jacket. It was always a last resort, but when options were quickly whittled down by circumstance, it was always better to have the choice than not.

“This will be fine,” he said. “Stay in the car. You don’t have to get involved in this.” Mateo nodded and pulled over. On cue, the other car stopped, riding their tailgate.

Roux climbed out of the car.

He started to walk toward the other vehicle as four men emerged, their eyes firmly fixed on him. They were keyed up, on edge, ready for action. Not a good sign. He stood his ground, not moving beyond the length of his own car.

The man who’d been driving started toward him, swinging a semiautomatic by his side.

There was no pointing, no shouting. No grandstanding. These men were professional, organized, disciplined. Roux’s first thought was ex-paramilitary. They were a team. A death squad.

He’d been willing to think things weren’t as bad as they could be when he noticed the tattoo on the back of the man’s gun hand. It was the same tattoo Mateo had.

The old man didn’t believe in coincidences.

He turned slightly and in the corner of his eye saw that Mateo had climbed out of the car. So, five of them instead of four, not that it made a massive difference. The odds were stacked against him. The only thing in his favor was that he was Roux. They’d never encountered anyone as resourceful or stubbornly determined to stay alive as he was.

“This isn’t for you. You’re not wanted, understood?” the man with the gun said.

“Not wanted by who?” Roux asked. It was a straightforward question. He was buying time. Trying to think. Had he seen that tattoo before? What did it mean?

“Doesn’t matter,” said the man.

“I think it does. I think it goes right to the heart of the matter.”

“You talk too much, old man. Don’t make me hurt you. Just turn around and go home.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You can. Mateo will drive you back to the airport. All you need to do is get back on your plane and we can all go on with our lives.”

Roux shook his head. “There’s someone counting on me.”

“And now
I’m
counting on you. Mateo’s counting on you. My friends here are counting on you. We don’t want this to become messy.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then it becomes messy. Go back to Paris.” The man was obviously well-informed, Roux realized. “Live out the rest of your life in peace. That sounds like a good deal to me.”

“I’m sure it does,” Roux said. He thought about going along with their request. It had a lot going for it, truth be told. Garin was a big boy. He had Annja working hard to save his life. Roux had pretty much exhausted all avenues of inquiry here in Seville and, more importantly, got his findings out to Annja. She’d find the mask if it was here to be found. All things considered, it wouldn’t have been difficult to walk away. But the simple fact that these people wanted him to do that meant he wouldn’t. He wasn’t that kind of man. Garin always said he was an ornery bastard. He wasn’t wrong. That they didn’t want him here meant this was exactly where he wanted to be.

“You want me gone, tell me what you’re so afraid of me finding. Then I’ll think about your offer.”

“I’m not afraid at all, my friend, because there is nothing for you to find.”

“Really?”

“Really. We don’t like foreigners coming here and poking their noses in our business. Get back in the car and we’ll say no more about it. That is my final word.”

Five against one.

He could improve on those odds pretty quickly.

Roux nodded and climbed back into the car without saying another word. He waited for Mateo to ease himself in behind the wheel.

Before the driver could start the engine, though, Roux had the muzzle of his gun pressed against the back of his head. That was the joy of private jets, small private airports and lax security. He’d revised his opinion on the team he was facing—they weren’t professionals. They were fanatics. They were still dangerous, obviously, but the fact that they hadn’t patted him down was a dead giveaway that their history of violence was short, if it existed at all.

“All right, Mateo, you are going to tell me what this is about, or I am going to put a bullet in your brain. It’ll be quick, it’ll be painless—you’ll be dead before your body realizes it. Then I’ll go after your friends. I am not a man to give second chances. This is a one-shot deal. I highly encourage you to take it.”

The man tried to turn his head, but Roux pressed the gun harder, making sure he knew exactly what would happen if he continued to try to turn around. “Don’t.” He saw the fear in the man’s eyes through the rearview mirror. “All you need to do is tell me what this is all about.”

“I can’t,” Mateo said.

Roux drew in a sharp breath. “Can’t or won’t?” It didn’t really matter which it was. Even if the driver was afraid of him, he was more afraid of the men out there. Mateo didn’t say anything. “Okay, get us out of here.”

“Where to?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just turn the car around and get out. I’ll decide where we’re going when I know myself.”

Mateo didn’t need telling twice. He started the engine and pulled the car away from the curb. There were three other cars and a delivery van parked inside the dead-end alleyway. He swung the car into the parking space for an apartment block. As he did, he leaned forward and reached for something under his seat. “Idiot,” Roux grumbled and hit him hard on the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. “I said no second chances.” He shook his head as the driver slumped forward on the wheel, his foot still pressed down on the gas.

The car lurched forward, hitting the back of the delivery van hard enough to deploy the air bag as the horn blared.

Moving fast, Roux slid out of the far side of the car and hit the ground hard as gunfire strafed the Mercedes’s bodywork. The sound of bullets punching into metal was torturous. The fact he was still alive to hear it was wonderful.

He rolled across the asphalt.

Four against one.

Twenty percent improvement in less than a minute. He intended to improve on that substantially in the next sixty seconds.

Bullets rained down, ripping into the passenger door, shredding the metal as if it were cardboard. Glass shattered. A million tiny fragments rained down across the backseat and the street around the car. Roux had made it out by the skin of his teeth. In that moment, coming up on his elbows and knees, the years peeled away and he felt
young
.

He felt
alive
.

And he was going to stay that way.

Unseen by the other gunmen—all of whom were out of their car again, looking for him—Roux scrambled behind the van, taking full advantage of the cover it offered. He watched as the leader barked out orders in Spanish, sending one man around the two cars to try to flank him while the others laid down covering fire. It was a basic maneuver. They had no idea where he was. That uncertainty bought him a few precious seconds. He used them to release a single shot of his own. The bullet caught the scout in the knee, taking him out. He went down screaming. Three against one. He had to admit, things were looking brighter all the time.

Until a woman appeared at an upstairs window overlooking the scene. She let out a scream and hastily backed away. He didn’t need any superpowers to know what was going to happen now. She was going to call the police. It would only be a matter of minutes, and not very many of them at that, before the sirens would signal that the authorities were on their way.

He needed to work fast. He needed a way out of this. He couldn’t be caught here.

He heard sirens in the distance.

It had taken less than twenty seconds for a response—which meant the first call couldn’t have come from the woman. Too soon even for a rapid-response unit.

The leader of the gunmen ushered his team back to the car, abandoning their fallen comrades to their own fate. So much for no man left behind.

Roux watched them run.

Before the sixty seconds was out, he was the last man standing. Their car was surging out onto the main street, clipping the rear of the van as it fishtailed away and sending a trash can flying as it took the corner too tightly.

The van rocked with the impact, pushing Roux back.

Mateo hadn’t moved. He was still slumped behind the wheel of the Mercedes and showed no signs of coming around soon. Roux had seen the same kind of absolute stillness several times before. He knew what it meant. He
hoped
the driver wasn’t dead because of him, but the signs weren’t good. He hadn’t intended to hit him so hard. Everything had happened so quickly. He couldn’t dwell on it. Mateo had made his own metaphorical bed, choosing to go for his gun rather than get them out of there as Roux had told him.

The fallen gunman gave out another groan.

He clutched at his knee, stubbornly trying to get to his feet. He wasn’t going anywhere. His kneecap was absolutely destroyed and his leg wouldn’t hold his weight. He was bleeding and in agony. It was only shock that had him half-standing, supporting himself against the bullet-riddled car.

Roux ran to the Mercedes and started to pull Mateo from the driver’s seat. His body was heavy and it took Roux longer than he would have liked to heave the man out of the car. He didn’t so much as groan as Roux dumped him into the road.

Roux gunned the engine, stepping hard on the gas. He wasn’t quick enough. Sirens screamed. Tires shrieked. Cars slewed across the alleyway, blocking him in. There wasn’t enough distance for him to get up to speed and ram his way through.

Armed police officers moved into place behind the makeshift car barricade, their weapons trained on him. The odds had turned very much against him. He was good, but he wasn’t
that
good.

He climbed out of the Mercedes, keeping his hands high above his head.

“Hit the ground! Now! On your knees! Down!”

He did as he was told.

There was nothing else he could do.