Excavation (24 page)

Henry stepped away as his gaze fixed on the familiar face of the taller monk. It was the gunman from Johns Hopkins, the one named Carlos. Once again, the man held a pistol in his grip, but this time there was no silencer. “Be cooperative, Professor Conklin, and all will go well.”

“Wh…where am I? What do you want with us?”

Carlos ignored him, instead signaling his companion. The guard crossed to another door down the hall and freed the bolt. Swinging the door open, he barked in Spanish and pulled a gun from a slit at the waist of his robe. He waved its muzzle, signaling the occupant to vacate the room.

Joan stepped out cautiously, her eyes instantly finding Henry's. He saw the clear relief in her gaze. Tears glistened. She wiped brusquely at her face and needed no further prodding from the guard to join Henry and Carlos. Her eyes flicked a moment to the pistol in the taller monk's hand, then back to Henry. “Why are we here?” she whispered. “What do they want?”

Before Henry could answer, Carlos spoke. “Come. Your questions will be answered.” Turning on his heel, the tall monk led them down the hall. The other monk, gun in fist, followed.

Joan slipped her hand into Henry's. He squeezed as much reassurance into her grip as possible. If these men had meant them dead, they wouldn't have drugged them and dragged them all the way here. But where was here? And what did they want? There was only one way to find out.

Henry followed Carlos. He studied the swish of the gunman's robe, sandals tapping quietly on the flagstone floor. And why these damnable disguises?

As they were led down a maze of halls and up two flights of stairs, Joan remained silent at his side. Her gait was stiff. They passed only one other monk in the hallway, a cowled figure, head bowed. He stepped aside to let the procession pass without raising his face. Henry heard a mumbled prayer upon the man's lips as he walked past. He never looked up.

Henry glanced back; the monk continued down the hall, either unaware or uncaring about the guns and prisoners.

“Strange,” he mumbled.

At last, Carlos stopped before a set of large double doors, polished and waxed to a brilliant sheen. African mahogany, Henry guessed, and expensive. Carved in relief upon the doors was a mountain range with villages dotting the slopes. Henry knew the view. He had seen it many times while visiting Peru. It was a well-known region of the Andean mountains.

Henry frowned at the door as Carlos knocked.

A deep voice answered, “
Entrada
!”

Carlos swept open the doors on oiled hinges and revealed a room as handsome as the mahogany doors. An ornate prayer altar, adorned in silver and gold leaf, stood in the corner, while underfoot, an elaborate woven alpaca rug cushioned Henry's steps as he entered. To either side, shelves lined with dusty volumes filled the walls from floor to ceiling. In the center of the room, a massive desk rested, with an incongruous computer stationed at one end.

Behind the immense desk, a large man, elderly but still vigorous, pushed to his feet with a squeak of his chair. His size made even the desk seem small.

But Henry ignored the man and room, his eyes drawn to the wide windows beyond. Outside rose the steeple of a stately colonial church, towering above the surrounding town. Henry gaped at the view, shocked. He instantly recognized the landmark structure, knew with certainty where he was—Cuzco, Peru. Beyond the windows stood the Spanish Church of Santo Domingo, a Dominican church built atop the ruins of the Incas' Temple of the Sun.

Henry glanced back to the room at hand. Knowledge of where they had been imprisoned suddenly dawned. The monks, the view, even the figure now standing behind the wide desk, grinning a welcome…

Oh, God
.

Henry stepped forward, eyes coming to rest on the large man, his captor. His features were distinctly Spanish, almost aristocratic. Henry recalled his conversation with the archbishop back in Baltimore. The bishop had promised to pass on the archaeologist's questions to a Dominican colleague in Peru. Henry remembered the name that the Archbishop had mentioned. “Abbot Ruiz?” he said aloud.

The huge man bowed his head in greeting. “Professor Conklin, welcome to the Abbey of Santo Domingo.” He seemed unperturbed by Henry's recognition. Abbot Ruiz's girth matched his height. His chest and belly swelled his cassock and black robe. His large size did not seem soft, more like a man who had once been solid with muscle, but whose shape had become bulky with age.

Henry faced his adversary. He had always considered himself a good judge of character, but the abbot confounded him. His manner was open and friendly. Silver-haired, he seemed a kindly grandfather. But Henry knew, considering the circumstances, that this judgment could not be further from the truth.

Joan shifted beside Henry. “You know this man?”

Henry shook his head. “Not exactly.”

Abbot Ruiz waved them toward a pair of overstuffed
chairs. “Professor Conklin and Dr. Engel, please make yourselves comfortable.”

Henry stepped nearer the desk. “I'd prefer to stand until I get some answers.”

“As you wish,” he said, wearing a wounded expression. The abbot returned to his own seat, sinking into it with a sigh.

Joan joined Henry at the desk. “Just what do you want with us, goddammit?”

The abbot frowned, the false warmth melting from his face. “This is a holy place of our Lord. Refrain from blasphemies here.”

“Blasphemies?” Henry said angrily. “Your man over there killed a colleague of ours, then drugged and kidnapped us. Just how many Commandments, let alone international laws, did he break?”

“We care not for secular laws. Friar Carlos is a warrior in the Lord's army and above any international rules. As for Friar Carlos's soul, do not fear. He has been absolved in Holy Confession, his sins forgiven.”

Henry scowled. They were all mad.

Joan spoke up. “Fine…everyone's soul has been cleaned, pressed, and folded. Now why the
heck
have you kidnapped us?”

The abbot's face remained tight, angered—the kindly grandfather persona long gone. “Two reasons. First, we wish to learn more of what Professor Conklin has discovered at the ruins in the Andes. And second, what both of you have learned in the States from the mummy.”

“We'll not cooperate,” Henry said sternly.

Ruiz fingered a large seal ring on his right hand, twisting it around and around the digit. “That is yet to be seen,” he said coldly. “Our order has grown skilled over the centuries at loosening tongues.”

Henry's blood chilled at the man's words. “Who are you?”

Ruiz clucked his tongue. “I ask the questions here, Professor Conklin.” The abbot reached to a desk drawer and pulled it open. He lifted a familiar object from within and placed it upon his desk. It was the laboratory beaker containing Substance Z. The golden material was still in the shape of the small pyramid. “Where exactly did you find this?”

Henry pictured the mummy's head exploding. He sensed he had better not lie, not until he figured out how much these others knew. Still, he refused to give away the complete truth. “We found it…in Friar de Almagro's possession.”

Joan glanced sharply at him.

The abbot's eyes opened wider. “So our old colleague was successful in his mission. He
had
discovered the source of
el Sangre del Diablo
.”

Henry's brows bunched as he translated the abbot's words. “The blood of the Devil?”

Ruiz studied Henry in silence for several moments, then steepled his fingers before him and spoke slowly. “I sense you know more than you're voicing, Professor Conklin. And though we've refined our tools over the centuries, I think simple honesty may gain your cooperation more easily and fully. You are, after all, a man of science and history…and curiosity may win out where threats fail. Would you hear me out?”

“As if I had any choice…”

Abbot Ruiz stood again. He collected the beaker and made it vanish within the folds of his vestments. “All men have free will, Professor Conklin. It is what damns us or saves us.” The abbot stepped around his desk and waved for the monk named Carlos to lead the way. “The Sanctum,” he ordered.

Henry noted the friar's shocked expression, then the quick nod and the turn of a heel. Carlos opened the office door and led them out.

Ever the good soldier of the Lord
, Henry thought.

“Where are you taking us now?” Joan asked, sticking to
Henry's side.

Ruiz marched beside them as they reentered the hallway. “To reveal the truth in the hopes that you will be equally open.”

“The truth about
el Sangre del Diablo
?” Henry asked, prying for more information. “How do you know about it?”

The abbot sighed loudly, seeming to weigh whether or not to answer. Finally, he spoke. “The metal was first discovered by the Spanish conquistadors here in Cuzco.” The abbot waved a hand. “It was found in the Incas' sacred Temple of the Sun.”

“The ruins under the Church of Santo Domingo?” Henry asked. The temple had first been described by historian Pedro de Cieza de Leon as among the richest in gold and silver to be found anywhere in the world. Even the walls of the Incan temple had been plated with inch-thick slabs of gold—until the Spanish had ransacked and stripped it, tearing the structure down to the foundations to build their God's church atop it.

“Exactly,” Ruiz said with a sigh. “The temple must have been a wondrous sight before it was pillaged. A shame really.”

“And this Devil's blood?” Joan pressed. “Why that name?”

The group reached a long winding staircase leading deep into the heart of the Abbey. The abbot moved slowly down the steps, his great bulk hindering him. He wheezed slightly as he spoke. “The Incas had colorful names for silver and gold—the moon's tears, the sun's sweat. When the Spanish conquerors first learned of this other metal and witnessed its unearthly properties, they declared the material blasphemous, naming it just as colorfully
el Sangre del Diablo
. Satan's Blood.”

Henry found himself being drawn into this story. This was his field of expertise, but he had heard no such stories. “Why are there no records of this discovery?”

The abbot shrugged. “Because the Church was summoned
and agreed with the conquistadors. The metal was studied, its unusual properties noted, and was declared by Pope Paul III in 1542 to be an abomination in the eyes of our Lord. The work of Satan. The Dominicans who had accompanied the Spanish confiscated all such samples and returned them to Rome, for purification. All records of the metal's discovery were destroyed. To speak of it or write of it was deemed the same as communing with the Devil.” The abbot glanced to the walls as they followed Friar Carlos. “Several historians were burned when they resisted the Pope's decree, here in this very building. It was our order's burden to preserve the secrecy.”

“Your order…you keep saying that as if you're separate from the Catholic Church.”

Ruiz frowned. “We are most definitely a part of the Holy Roman Church.” The abbot glanced away, almost guiltily. “Unfortunately, most of Rome has forgotten us. Except for a handful of men in the Vatican, none still know this order's true mission.”

“Which is?” Henry asked.

Ruiz shook his question away. “Come and you will see.”

They had reached the bottom of the long staircase. Henry estimated they had to be at least fifty feet underground. A string of raw lightbulbs lit the way ahead. Henry glanced to the walls and was startled to see the characteristic work of the Incas—massive blocks of granite stacked and jigsawed together with immense skill.

The abbot must have noticed as Henry ran his palm along the wall. “We are now under the Abbey. Like the Church of Santo Domingo, the Abbey also rests on ancient Incan foundations. These passages actually merge and connect to the Temple of the Sun.”

“Are we going there?” Joan asked. “To this temple?”

“No…we're going somewhere even more astounding.”

With Carlos still leading, the group traveled the maze of passages. Henry noted the occasional wooden footbridge
straddling open sections of the stone floor. At first, he attributed them to regions where the ancient Incan stonework had succumbed to earthquakes or simple wear. Then, as he crossed another of these bridges, he realized they were too regular and the pits too square. He suddenly suspected where the group traveled.

“This is the place of the pit!” Henry blurted out, staring back at the warren of hallways with their many twists and turns.

“So you've heard of this place?” Ruiz said with a smile.

“Place of the pit?” Joan asked.

“An underground labyrinth. A hellhole where Incan rulers tossed their most hated enemies. It was fraught with booby-trapped pitfalls lined by razored flint. They'd also throw in scorpions, spiders, snakes, even injured pumas, to torment the prisoners.”

Joan studied the walls around them. “How awful…”

“It was one of the Incas' most infamous torture chambers. The Spanish conquistadors wrote extensively of it. It was supposed to be here in Cuzco, but it was believed long destroyed.” Henry turned to the abbot. “Apparently it wasn't.”

Carlos stopped at a bend in the corridor. He stood stiffly by a bare section of stone wall, almost at attention. From his narrowed angry eyes, the friar plainly did not agree with the abbot's decision to bring the captives here.

Abbot Ruiz stepped beside Carlos. “We've reached the center of the labyrinth. The Sanctum of our order.”

Henry glanced up and down the corridor. All he saw were stacked granite blocks. There was no sign of a door.

The abbot approached the bare wall and pressed his large ruby ring against a small stainless-steel plate embedded in a shadowed cubbyhole. Then he stepped back as the grind of gears sounded from behind the bricks.