Thieves Till We Die (14 page)

‘A phonogram,' Coldhardt muttered. ‘Yes, I see.'

‘Their language seems a total jumble of different meanings. And it's not even like you can just read the symbols left to right like words on a page.' Jonah sighed, rubbed his stiff neck. ‘The symbols lock into each other to make new symbols. Like, you put together the Aztec sign for mountain and the Aztec sign for a tooth, and what d'you get – mountain-tooth? Nope, you get
Tepetlitan
, the name of one of their cities.'

‘So we will need to know the names of all Aztec dwelling places?'

‘I'm patched into a database of pretty much everything recorded in their language, that should pick up on all the official stuff. But if it was a nickname, or a place kept out of all proper records so the Spaniards didn't find out about it …'

‘The objects in that temple were of such importance, there has to be a decipherable clue to its location,' Coldhardt declared.

‘Maybe the lines of actual language will give us that,' said Jonah, trying to stay positive. ‘But in some of these symbols, all sorts of words and ideas are being shoved together – a real picture puzzle. It would
be hard enough to crack the meaning even if it
wasn't
in code.'

‘And yet they must hold the key by which the puzzle can be unlocked.' Coldhardt placed a hand on Jonah's shoulder. ‘Would it help you if you saw the markings on the statuette for comparison?'

Jonah raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I suppose it might.'

‘Come with me.' Coldhardt led the way from the hub and called the lift. ‘It's kept in my vault. The one in the wine cellar you're not supposed to know about.'

Jonah felt a tingle of anticipation as he followed Coldhardt through the ranch house and down to the cellar, trying to push from his mind how it had been when Tye had led him by the hand to this same place.

Without ceremony, Coldhardt pulled the concealing curtain aside to reveal the vault door, then inserted an electronic key in a slot beside it. A red light played over his eye, scanning his retina maybe. Then he spoke aloud: ‘I have caught an everlasting cold. I have lost my voice most irrecoverably. Farewell glorious villains.'

A series of clicks and hisses sounded from the heavy vault door.

‘Voice recognition?' Jonah wondered.

‘The lines are from
The White Devil
by John Webster,' said Coldhardt. ‘A revenge tragedy.'

‘That's nice. Who says it?'

‘Someone who is dying.'

The vault door opened like a cold, dry mouth. Coldhardt motioned for Jonah to step into the darkness beyond the silver gleam. A waft of stale, freezing
air prickled his bare arms.

Jonah was uneasy. ‘No, after you.'

Coldhardt pulled a small remote from his pocket and strode inside. A moment later the place was blinding bright with the glare of spotlights. Jonah screwed up his eyes, waiting for them to adjust, shivering in the sub-zero temperature.

When he could see, he was disappointed. There were paintings and tapestries lining the walls, wooden swords and clubs lying in display cases, a few weird ornaments littering the floor; judging by the style, they were Aztec. But the vault was definitely not some mega treasure trove. It was dominated by a plain stone altar in the middle, about the length and breadth of a man.

‘This search for the lost Temple of Life from Death has become something of an all-consuming passion,' said Coldhardt. ‘You could say my future depends on it.'

Jonah looked at him uneasily. ‘Could I?'

‘Here you see every Aztec treasure I own.' Coldhardt gestured round. ‘You know, I was quite prepared to give them all to Kabacra or even to Sixth Sun in exchange for that sword.'

‘Why?'

Coldhardt crossed to the far corner. ‘Cortes's sword was stolen by an Aztec warrior, and subsequently fell into the possession of the high priests. They saw it as a totem, a powerful symbol of the Spaniards' great strength, and used it in their mystical rituals, hoping to turn that strength against their aggressors.'

Jonah rubbed his arms to try and keep warm. ‘I'm
guessing it didn't work, right?'

‘Correct. And as a result the priests came to believe that by burying their treasures in anticipation of the conquistadors' victory, they had unwittingly buried the greatest prize of all – the soul and spirit of the Aztec people. They had foreseen only defeat, had failed to believe in themselves – so why should Coatlicue believe in them?' The old man lifted a small grey-green statuette from the floor. ‘Abandoning them, she turned to sleep. And they believed she would sleep on until her people regained their glory through victory in war.' He half-smiled. ‘Of course, it was a victory that never came. The Aztecs had no resistance to the infectious diseases the conquistadors brought with them from Europe. Smallpox, malaria, measles, whooping cough, yellow fever … They died in their millions. And the sword itself was lost for centuries.' He passed the statuette to Jonah. ‘Here is Coatlicue, fashioned from green obsidian in the fifteenth century, recovered from the Great Temple excavations in Mexico. And there are our two mysterious pictograms – pride of place on the front.'

Jonah shuddered as he studied it. The figure was beautifully crafted, and yet hideous. The head of the goddess had been severed from her body; two snakes rose up from the neck, each turning in profile to form a face. She wore a necklace of human hands and hearts, and her skirt was formed from writhing serpents. In place of fingers she sprouted monstrous claws, while her feet were like talons. And all over, she was tattooed in pictograms, deeply scored with painstaking skill.

‘What do the other pictograms mean?' Jonah asked.

‘Apparently they celebrate the appetite of Coatlicue. She feasted on human corpses.' Again, Coldhardt's smile stopped far short of his eyes. ‘It has been alleged in surviving scraps of Aztec literature that only Cortes's sword, the hateful symbol of the Aztec nation's utter defeat, can rouse her from her slumber.'

‘Or in other words, it must play some part in reopening the buried temple.' Jonah thought hard, tapping his finger against his lips. ‘Perhaps it needs to be placed in some hidden mechanism to raise the entrance, or you can use it to defuse booby traps once you're in.'

‘Perhaps,' Coldhardt murmured.

‘And Sixth Sun have got it.' Jonah turned the statuette slowly in his hands. ‘Do you think they've managed to crack the symbols in the codex – that they know where the temple is?'

‘I don't know,' Coldhardt admitted. ‘Not yet. But while there's a chance the temple's location is within our reach, we must go on working to crack that code.'

‘Crack …' Jonah blinked, turned the statuette slowly back and forth, frowning. ‘Or
cracks
. Hang on a minute …'

Coldhardt stood beside him. ‘What is it?'

‘Where would this thing have stood in the Great Temple or wherever it was?' Jonah demanded. ‘A window ledge maybe? Somewhere it would catch the sunlight?'

‘Possibly.'

‘Then say that spotlight's the sun.' He carefully angled the statuette in front of it. ‘The light makes the
raised edges of the pictograms cast shadows. And as the sun moves round, the shadows get longer, right? And as they do …' He carefully turned the statuette, showing Coldhardt what he'd noticed. There were faint, silvery veins in the obsidian, and as the smudge of the shadows fell on them, they came into sharper relief – and formed distinct, deliberate lines. ‘That's why the symbols couldn't be translated – they're meaningless – shaped and styled to bring out the veins of silver when the shadows fall across them!'

Coldhardt snatched the statuette from him. ‘So, if viewed from the correct angle and at the proper time, new symbols will be formed,' he murmured. ‘After all these centuries, the figurine will give up its secrets.'

‘We'll need to simulate proper sunlight on this thing,' Jonah said, ‘get the precise shapes of the hidden lines marked up at different times of day, see if we can make anything of them.'

‘You have done well.' There was genuine pleasure on Coldhardt's face now as he stared raptly at the symbols. He suddenly looked years younger. ‘I gave you a new life, Jonah,' he murmured. ‘Now you may well have returned the favour.'

‘What?' Jonah frowned.

The smile faded, and a haunted look stole into Coldhardt's piercing eyes. He turned and walked from the vault. ‘Come. We still have much to do.'

‘I won't say anything to the others,' Jonah assured him, wanting the pleased, paternal Coldhardt to come back. But abruptly the lights flicked off, leaving him in freezing darkness. He hurried back out into the cellar, just as the vault door began to close. Coldhardt was
already climbing the stairs stiffly, slipping the remote back in his pocket, his face lost in shadow. Jonah followed him back up to the house, still gripping the statuette in one icy hand. There was something about that haunted look …

Jonah couldn't imagine feeling warm again for some time.

Tye had spent a tense day by the pool with Ramez, their every move watched by the two bruised bouncers. They'd been given food and beers and even champagne when Ramez requested it – but weren't allowed to leave the penthouse.

She and Ramez had hardly spoken since Traynor's arrival. The spell was broken and, as the hours passed, Tye had felt as flat as her untouched Cristal.

Now, as night began to swell like a dark bruise over the Santa Fe skyline, Traynor had returned to interrogate her.

On the surface, the questioning was a civilised affair – no harsh light shining into her eyes since the power was still out, only cosy candlelight. Ramez had insisted that no harm was allowed to come to her, and as Perfect Sacrifice his voice still seemed to count for something round here. Even so, the possibilities of sudden violence – the bruised bouncers on the door, the gun in Traynor's shoulder holster, the intimidating way in which he wound and unwound a length of wire around his fingers – were not lost on her.

‘You've made no attempt to contact Coldhardt since you arrived here,' Traynor noted.

She shrugged. ‘I called him at his hotel in
Guatemala.'

‘I mean proper contact. You're one of his operatives, you must have set instructions about calling in.'

‘You make it sound like the FBI or something – and it really isn't.' Tye smiled coolly. ‘I'm freelance. I just happen to be under contract to Coldhardt at this time. Doesn't mean I owe him anything.'

‘Not even an explanation as to your disappearance?'

‘I was having a good time.'

Traynor toyed with the wire. ‘Why didn't you leave with your friends when they turned up here?'

‘They're not my friends,' she insisted. ‘They're just colleagues.' She affected disinterest. ‘I don't owe
them
anything either. I just wanted to get things straight with Ramez. I mean … it's been a long time since I saw him, you know?'

‘Indeed it has.' He smiled. ‘You do realise that Ramez owes his current predicament to you, my dear?'

A sick feeling went through her. ‘To me?'

‘Coldhardt's interest in Cortes's sword and the Temple of Life from Death came to our attention some time ago. Word has it he's obsessed with chasing after any relic connected with immortality or new life – however tenuous. What's frightening him? Simply old age? Or something more?'

‘I wouldn't know,' said Tye breezily, though inside she was rattled. She was well used to Coldhardt reeling off the ambitions of other high-movers, but to hear it being done to him felt all wrong. ‘He keeps his aims to himself.'

‘I know. I've been hacking into his secure files for some time. That's how we knew where to find you at his new base.' He smiled. ‘Coldhardt's never posed any serious threat to our operation, but the possibility always remained that he might some day. So when choosing our Perfect Sacrifice, who better than young Ramez? A boy so desperate he'd do anything for freedom, and with an emotional attachment to one of Coldhardt's field agents to boot.'

‘Then this all comes down to Coldhardt, not me?'

‘You are our insurance, now events are nearing their conclusion.' Traynor yanked the length of wire taut. ‘Coldhardt's been blundering about in the dark, but now the race is almost won he's starting to get close. That's why we had you picked up. If he gets any closer, knowing your life hangs in the balance may deter him from pressing on.'

Tye looked away. ‘Don't count on it.'

‘And hey, it's given Ramez such a boost in his last days. His only unfulfilled dream come true – reunited with his old flame, right at the end.' He grinned, shook his head as if puzzled. ‘You know, Tye, given the circumstances of your final meeting, I honestly thought you wouldn't give him the time of day. But my colleague assured me you would.'

‘A woman's intuition?'

‘Apparently so.' Traynor's smile faded, as he realised he'd given something away. ‘How did you know my colleague was female?'

‘Lucky guess?' she suggested. ‘Here's another. You're hoping to be brought face to face with Coatlicue herself, aren't you? That'll give you power, right?'

He stood up, his face darkening. ‘How did you come by this information?'

She cast her mind back to what was said that night on the balcony. ‘Have you discovered the precise location yet?'

Traynor flexed the wire between his hands. ‘I asked you a question.'

‘Thing is – wherever you choose to rendezvous, it's going to be kind of tricky, hooking up with an Aztec goddess. Which makes me think that Coatlicue's got to be a codename for someone …' Tye watched his eyes closely; even the smallest reaction would give her a clue as to whether she was right. But all she caught was scorn as he advanced, apparently ready to garrotte her.