Aztec Century (6 page)

‘Want me to use technical language, do you?’

‘That’s not necessary. I’m designed to work with colloquial English
,
but because of its inexactitudes there will be times when your precise meaning may not be clear to me.’

‘I’m with you.’ A brief glance at me, and then: ‘What’s your purpose? What functions can you offer a user?’

‘Of myself, I have no purpose. It would depend on the interactions of the outside agency. You’ll get out what you put in.’

He grinned, exactly like the real Alex.

I said, ‘Ask him if he can access confidential information for us.’

Bevan eyed me appraisingly before repeating the request.

‘That would depend,’
came the response.

‘On what?’ Bevan asked.

‘It might be possible, provided the outside agency gave me suitable empowerment.’

Bevan paused. Then he asked, ‘What sort of empowerment?’

‘Naturally I can’t supply this information. By its very nature it has to come from you.’

‘You’re saying that full access to your capabilities is limited to those who have some kind of key or special operating routine.’

‘Again you’re correct.’

‘And is there any way for me to override this?’

‘None that I’m aware of. It’s a perfectly reasonable security precaution, wouldn’t you agree?’

Bevan turned to me. ‘Did you get the gist of that?’

‘I think so.’

‘We’re burglars, see. We’ve opened the front door and got into the house, but all the valuables are stored in a safe with a combination lock whose number we don’t know.’

‘I understand. Surely there must be some system for finding out?’

‘You heard what he said. No chance.’

‘You could try. Please.’

‘Do you know any more than you’re telling me?’

I shook my head.

He looked unconvinced, but turned back to the console.

For the next half hour or so, he battled with the keyboard and attempted to coax, trick and force information from ALEX. ALEX remained polite and even friendly, but it was to no avail.

‘Forget it,’ Bevan said at last, slumping back in the chair.

From the screen, ALEX looked benevolently on.

‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘At least you tried. Let’s forget it for tonight.’

As he moved to switch off the terminal, I said casually, ‘You can leave it on. I think I’d just like to talk to ALEX alone for a while.’

He flicked the switch and the screen went blank.

‘You wrote it all down. It should be easy for you.’

Was he suspicious of me? He swallowed a yawn and stood up.

‘I really appreciate all your help,’ I said.

Without replying, he slouched off to his apartment.

I waited for ten minutes, then crept over to the door and quietly locked it. Switching on the terminal again, I painstakingly went through the routine I had scribbled down.

I was only half-way through when the screen started flashing OPERATOR ERROR. I started again, and achieved the same result. After the third abortive attempt, I knew there was no alternative but to go back to Bevan.

I unlocked the door, knocked, and opened it. Bevan was sitting in an armchair in a pool of yellow light from a table-lamp, his head wreathed in blue smoke.

‘Not so easy, is it?’

‘I don’t understand where I went wrong,’ I admitted.

‘You’re bound to miss things when you’re a novice. Think you could drive a car just by watching someone and writing it all down?’

‘I want you to bring ALEX back.’

‘Need to have a heart-to-heart, do you?’

I nodded.

He crushed out his cigarette. ‘All right, then.’

Filled with gratitude, I returned to the suite and punched the REPLAY button on the player. Even before the music began, Bevan had reactivated ALEX.

‘So, then,’ he said to me. ‘What now?’

If I asked him to leave now, would he go? Did I have any justification for doing so?

I took a deep breath, a sigh in reverse, and said, ‘The codeword’s
axolotl
.’

Bevan grinned. He was sitting in the swivel chair like some
dissolute Buddha, his belly poking out between the straining buttons of his shirt. He spun round and spoke the word into the microphone.

On the screen, ALEX smiled.

‘Now I can accommodate you
,’
he said.
‘Tell me what information you require.’

Over the next two hours, we delved deep into the Aztec informational network. Bevan had ALEX summon up a host of data from classified files – details of troop dispositions throughout the country, an inventory of armaments, a level-by-level plan of the complex, which included surprise confirmation that none of our rooms were monitored, either by sound or vision. The information came up on the screen in the form of bar charts, Venn diagrams, full-colour graphics and simple lists which scrolled slowly past our avid eyes. There was far too much to absorb in one sitting, but I noted down what I could.

I marvelled at the ingenuity of the programmers who had created the simulacrum. It was easy to understand why Alex had attached such importance to the disk. The information which his electronic counterpart could obtain seemed limitless.

Dawn was beginning to break before Bevan finally shut down the terminal. Though exhausted, I was also exhilarated.

‘What are we going to do with all this data?’ I wondered aloud.

‘Leave it with me,’ Bevan said. ‘Maybe I can pass it on to interested parties.’

I studied him in the half-light. ‘Have you got contacts?’

‘Easier for me to move around than you, isn’t it?’

‘Is there an opposition movement here?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Tell me, Bevan.’

‘You said you’d trust me, didn’t you?’

‘I have done.’

But he refused to be drawn, despite all my efforts. I had no contacts myself, and I didn’t want to leave the notes in my suite in case they were found. So, reluctantly, I relinquished them.

The complex was an even larger building than it appeared from outside, with subterranean levels housing swimming pools, steam baths and gymnasia. There were also numerous
tlachtli
courts where the ancient native ball game was played in a spirit of fierce competitiveness. Formerly the game had had a deep religious significance, with the fate of cities or entire nations resting on its outcome. Nowadays it was played on soft surfaces and competitors were allowed to wear protective elbow-and knee-pads. Despite this, injuries were still common, so keen was the desire to win. It ranked second only to soccer as the Aztecs’ favourite sport.

I had requested a tour of the complex only the previous day, and Extepan had promptly arranged it. Victoria accompanied me as Chicomeztli led us through the lower levels of the subsidiary pyramids where the married officers were housed with their wives and families. Libraries, cinemas and recreation rooms were provided for them on every level. No less well cared-for were the unmarried men, who like their married counterparts enjoyed the favours of the
auianime
, the courtesans whose honoured status had finally been sanctioned by the Catholic Church in the early years of Motecuhzoma’s reign. There was little to distinguish the
auianime
from legitimate wives except that the former were more mindful of their appearance, taking great care with their makeup and favouring the traditional
huipil
blouse and long native skirts rather than the European styles which had been fashionable for most of the century.

Every apartment in the complex had access to tier-gardens, each one planted not only with flowers and shrubs but also vegetables from every part of the world, biomodified to thrive in
the British climate. There were ornamental pools and miniature waterfalls, terraces and arcades, grassy spaces with loitering peacocks and sheltered intimate arbours, all of them testament to the Aztec passion for gardens, which exceeded even that of the English. It was remarkable to think that the entire edifice, gardens and all, had been constructed in the space of three years.

The complex housed perhaps five thousand people, and it included many civil servants, recently drafted in by Extepan to help smooth the transition to the new civilian government. Most were British nationals, and Chicomeztli proudly told us that they were allowed exactly the same amenities as the governor’s men. Privately I wondered whether this included access to the
auianime
and the steam baths, where all sorts of intimacies were reputedly conducted.

We returned to the central pyramid, and Chicomeztli led Victoria and me into a dim room. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that it was an Aztec chapel, one of many in the complex.

It was a small room, with a stained-glass window showing the Virgin of the Hill of the Star receiving her revelation from God. We were deep in the heart of the pyramid, and the window was a fake, a back-lit coloured screen set into a solid wall. The chapel itself was austerely furnished in white stucco and earthen tiles. There were brackets for candles and vases holding fresh flowers. Even when full, its bare benches could have accommodated no more than fifty people.

Behind the simple raised altar at the far end hung a small picture, difficult to see in the dimness. As we moved forward, Victoria blurted out, ‘It’s Jesus and Mary.’

‘Of course,’ Chicomeztli responded. ‘Perhaps you were expecting twin shrines to Huitzilopochtli and Tlaloc, yes? An altar drenched in human blood?’

Huitzilopochtli and Tlaloc were two major gods of the Aztecs before their conversion to Christianity, honoured with mass sacrifices of prisoners in former times.

Victoria seemed nervous at the very mention of their names.

‘We call the Son of God Ipalnemoani,’ Chicomeztli told her. ‘It means “He By Whom We Live”.’

I also knew that the Aztecs referred to God as Tloque Nahaque, ‘Lord of the Immediate Vicinity’. Both these names
had once been applied to pre-Christian deities, all of which increased suspicions that the Aztecs still clung to their ancient beliefs beneath the cloak of Roman Catholicism.

Like all Aztecs, Chicomeztli was aware of our fears, and he obviously enjoyed playing up to them.

‘Perhaps you would like to see another chapel? We have many more, some much larger than this. We keep them very clean.’

His fractured smile and off-centre gaze accentuated the impression of mockery.

‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ I said.

We lunched in a dining room on one of the upper levels which was adorned with a large Warhola painting of Tenochtitlan. The pyramids and towers of the capital stood out in super-realism against the greens and blues of lake and sky while a spiky golden sun blazed down. The colours were stark and primary, and it did not surprise me that the artist had later pursued an equally successful career producing animated features for one of the major Acapulco studios.

Chicomeztli intended to take us on to see the new chamber for the House of Commons, but both Victoria and I were now wearying of the tour. Victoria pleaded a migraine and returned to her suite. I asked to see Extepan.

Chicomeztli glanced at me across the table. ‘Do you mean immediately?’

I nodded.

‘It’s possible he may not be available.’

I merely shrugged, as if to say: ‘Try.’

He went off to a phone booth while I gazed idly at the scattering of people at the other tables. All were Aztecs, attending to their lunches in silence, sparing me only the occasional glance. A television high on one wall was showing the latest episode of
Oaxaca Heights
, an imported soap opera which was by far the BBC’s most popular programme.

Chicomeztli returned.

‘I have been asked if it is urgent,’ he said.

‘Quite urgent.’

‘Then the governor will see you immediately. He apologizes in advance if you find him in informal circumstances. It is the time in each day when he takes a break from his duties.’

I nodded, perfectly aware that the Aztecs followed a practice similar to the Spanish
siesta
. I was actually hoping to catch him off-guard.

We rode a private lift to Extepan’s suite, and were met by a retainer who took us through the governor’s offices to a room beyond. Aztec chairs and couches dominated the room, but on the walls were framed posters for London Underground, Roberts’ Supermarkets and the National Lottery. A low table was cluttered with newspapers and magazines, while glass-fronted cabinets held all manner of bric-à-brac from cheap plaster models of Big Ben to a plastic policeman’s helmet.

An adjoining door opened, and Extepan emerged. He was dressed only in a dark blue towelling robe, and the swathe of his chest gleamed with oil. Behind him was a young woman in a striped
huipil
, her long black hair braided, her arms bare. She immediately struck me as beautiful, with large almond eyes and a perfectly formed mouth. From her dress, it appeared that she was one of the
auianime
.

‘Catherine,’ Extepan said, coming forward and taking my hand. ‘Forgive me receiving you in this way, but I gather it was something urgent.’

I felt awkward and embarrassed because I had nothing pressing to tell him; I was instead hoping to obtain some information from him.

He motioned to chairs and asked the girl – whom he called ‘Mia’ – to fetch us refreshments. She bowed, keeping her eyes averted from me, and withdrew silently.

Extepan sat cross-legged in an armchair, carefully draping his robe over his knees.

While Chicomeztli hovered discreetly in the background, Extepan remarked, ‘A daily massage is one of my few indulgences. I find it soothes the spirit as well as tones the muscles.’

‘If I had known,’ I said drily, ‘I wouldn’t have disturbed you.’

‘If it had been truly inconvenient, then I would have said so.’

Chicomeztli sat down out of earshot with a copy of the
Daily Herald
, whose banner headline read CROWN HIM!

‘Mia is my household companion,’ Extepan went on, ‘and a great comfort to me. I am a long way from home, and the duties
of a governor permit few luxuries. Now – in what way can I help you?’

He had an openness and directness which seemed almost innocent. But I had to beware of making judgements on surface appearances, especially since it was an Aztec trait to mask the most intricate of manoeuvrings beneath a show of formal courtesies. While it was normal for the
tlatoani
to appoint his sons to eminent positions, Extepan would not have been given the governorship of Britain if he did not possess any diplomatic or administrative talents.

‘Where’s Richard?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t seen him in several days.’

‘I believe today he’s visiting the Natural History Museum,’ Extepan said. ‘They have a new display of articulated dinosaurs which I understand he was eager to see.’

This fitted: Richard still had his child-like delight in large creatures. But the answer wasn’t sufficient for me.

‘And previous days? I have the distinct impression he’s being kept away from me.’

Extepan belted his robe more tightly. ‘That’s not the case, I assure you. Weren’t you told he had gone to Windsor? Your private rooms at the castle are being refurnished, and Richard wanted to see how the work was progressing.’

‘I was told, but I found it hard to credit that he’d take any interest in such matters,’

Extepan smiled. ‘He spent most of his time playing croquet.’

‘With nothing else to occupy him?’

I knew from ALEX that he had, in fact, met with the French and Italian ambassadors, though I had no idea what they had discussed.

‘A number of diplomatic courtesies were conducted,’ Extepan said. ‘Other European countries are naturally interested in your brother’s intentions, and he only agreed to meet them in exchange for a “holiday” at Windsor.’

‘Why wasn’t I told?’

Extepan looked rueful. ‘To be frank, he asked that you shouldn’t be. He thought you would disapprove.’

‘I see. Which European countries exactly?’

‘Italy, Serbia and France.’

‘How convenient. All countries under your occupation. No doubt they were most enthusiastic that Richard should accept the crown.’

Extepan sat back. ‘I think, Catherine, that perhaps you are the only person who isn’t.’

I didn’t want to get into another fruitless argument on the subject, so I kept my peace. At this point, Mia returned, bearing a silver tray with two crystal tumblers containing a thick green drink. She moved with perfect grace, giving off fragrances of cinnamon and lavender. Again she withdrew without glancing once at me.

Extepan raised his tumbler and swallowed half of his drink.

‘Sweet lime juice, freshly squeezed. We grow them all year round in California now. Try it, Catherine – it’s delicious.’

‘You know I won’t co-operate with you.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s understandable. You may not believe me, but I admire you for it. I hope that eventually you’ll come to trust me, and then perhaps there will be occasions on which we can work together for the best of everyone.’

I rummaged briefly through the pile of periodicals on the table between us – copies of the
Daily Correspondent
,
Woman’s Window
,
Style
, a Captain Camelot comic book in which the titanium-armoured avenger was vanquishing an android Jack the Ripper.

‘Is this what you usually read?’ I asked.

His expression was wry. ‘I follow my father’s advice that to understand a people truly, one must be familiar with their popular culture. After all, beautiful objects and fine works of art are hardly representative of any nation, are they?’

I contemplated the plastic Tower of London apron, the snowstorm model of Stepney Cathedral in its perspex dome.

‘Do you believe one culture
can
fully understand another?’

‘I live in hope. Do you know I went to a greyhound race meeting at the White City only last week? It was a most interesting experience.’

I couldn’t help but be amused. ‘At least you seem to find more enjoyment in your duties than your brother.’

‘Half-brother,’ he corrected swiftly.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘It rather sounds as if you’d like to disown him.’

He shook his head. ‘No, no. That’s not it at all. It’s a question of how he perceives me. To him, and perhaps to my elder brothers as well, I’m not truly Mexicatl. Because my mother was Castilian.’

I indicated a big oil portrait which had pride of place above the hearth. ‘Was that her?’

Of course I knew already. Extepan nodded. ‘It’s a Keating. He came to Mexico just before my mother’s death.’

‘Doña Maria Mendizabel.’

Extepan registered surprise.

‘It’s a famous portrait. They sell prints of it in all the poster shops.’

I knew this from the few excursions I had been allowed since my capture, Sunday afternoon outings to Mayfair under armed escort, temporary roadblocks keeping the public at bay. Every attempt I made to meet ordinary citizens under informal conditions was thwarted by the Aztecs.

The painting had been modelled somewhat presumptuously after the
Mona Lisa
, but it worked. It showed an elegant russet-haired woman in black silk and white lace, an impressionistic view of Tenochtitlan shimmering distantly on the lake behind her. Beautiful and formidable, Doña Maria stared out of the picture with eyes that seemed both hazel and sea-green, haughty yet passionate. It was said that Motecuhzoma had offered to give up the Turquoise Throne to marry her but that she had retorted he need only give up her conquered country.

‘She looks a remarkable woman,’ I said.

‘I think she was,’ Extepan replied. ‘She died when I was six years old. I gather you lost your mother at a similar age, yes?’

He was as well informed as I had expected.

‘I presume you’ve seen
The Eagle and the Swallow
?’ I said.

This was the English language title of the popular film based on Doña Maria’s romance with Motecuhzoma.

‘The actress was not my mother,’ Extepan said. ‘The film was not her life. Now everyone remembers that, and not the true person. There was much it didn’t tell. It was not the whirlwind romance the film portrays. My mother held out against my father’s courtship until there would be maximum benefit for Spain.’