Moon Mask (32 page)

“We’re not going to a goddamn Sunday market, Raine,” Gibbs snarled at him.

“Nor are we going into a theatre of battle . . . Gibbsy,” Raine replied calmly. He removed his sunglasses and opened his eyes. King could feel the tension in the air. It was electric. Raine’s nonchalance only seemed to irk Gibbs all the more.

“Benny said it’s a haphazard, almost bust museum, a private collection of memorabilia from Port Royal’s heyday, run by a little old lady with a temper,” he recited.

King had earlier explained the reasoning behind having made Jamaica the team’s first stop.

In his on-going research into the life of Kha’um, he believed he had discovered another diary, most probably belonging to Emily Hamilton and picking up the story after the attack on the Hamilton estate in 1707.

In 1714, a new player had entered the social spotlight of Kingston’s elite. Lady Amelia Kernewek had, in one newspaper at the time, been described as possessing a king’s ransom in wealth yet with no traceable ancestry. It was as if she had appeared out of nowhere, many years after the terrible, unexplained fire at the Hamilton Estate.

While Amelia was a derivative of Emily, that alone was not enough to go on. However, King’s research had shown that Lady Kernewek had all but bankrupted her estate by the time she died at the age of 71. Her vast wealth hadn’t been frittered away on the lifestyle of the day, however. Instead she became something of a recluse, purchasing a large lot of land and hundreds upon hundreds of Negro slaves.

But the slaves, apparently, had not been treated as slaves. Instead, she had paid them generously to work in a self-sustaining community where all she asked for was that they provide her with enough food to live on. She went on to campaign for slave rights and became an influential voice in those early days of the abolition of slavery. She founded the ‘Hand of Freedom’ museum, an ineffectual attempt at presenting the horrors of slavery to a world which still turned a blind eye. Some rumours even suggested that she had a scandalous affair and sired a Negro child.

King had long ago become convinced that Amelia Kernewek was Emily Hamilton. His recent discovery of Kha’um’s ship’s name, also the
Hand of Freedom,
only served to fuel that belief now.

Despite the possible link between the first name and the coincidence that the enigmatic Lady Kernewek first appeared in 1714, the same year that King had lost track of any accounts of Kha’um, and now surmised it as the year of his death in Xibalba, there was no unequivocal proof.

Except, he was certain, within the pages of the Kernewek Diary.

Upon her death, Lady Kernewek left all her few worldly goods to her ‘slaves’ and the handful of white people who had flocked to her humanitarian banner.

The Kernewek Diary, King was sure, had been passed down through the generations to the present day owner of the tiny, near bankrupt Hand of Freedom museum. But despite the paper trails, the owner, an overweight and intimidating Jamaican woman, insisted no such thing existed, despite King’s best efforts to simply see it. He had almost bankrupted himself to pay her for a single look at the diary, positive that it would relate the adventures of Kha’um and Emily Hamilton and reveal the resting place of the assembled Moon Mask.

“We need that book,” Gibbs stated bluntly. “And I’m not prepared to sit around a negotiating table hammering out a sales ledger. We go in, King identifies the book, we take it and leave.”

“Just one problem,” King admitted. “I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

Gibbs stared at him, dumbfounded. “You . . . What the hell do you mean-”

“I’ve never seen it. The owner denies it even exists-”

“Surely you can tell, right?” O’Rourke added, entering the conversation. “It’s a museum so there’ll be labels and information boards.”

“It’s not the Louvre,” King snorted irritably. “This place is a mess. It’s full of memorabilia that has never been properly catalogued.” He redirected his gaze to Gibbs. “There are books galore in there. I can find the diary without the owner’s help. But it’ll take half a lifetime.”

“We need her to tell us where it is,” Raine added in support.

“And short of torturing a seventy six year old innocent woman,” King concluded, “she’s not going to do that if we storm her particular little castle.”

Something flashed through Gibbs’ face in that instant, something worrying, as though he were actually considering torture. Would they really succumb to that, he wondered, glancing at the soldiers in a new light?

“If we can’t take it by force, and if she won’t be bought, then how do we get her to give it to us?” Gibbs demanded, equally irritable.

That was something King hadn’t yet worked out either. His last encounter with the owner of the museum had ended in a stay at the local prison – not something he wanted to repeat – and he didn’t doubt that the stubborn old cow would even resist Gibbs’ torture attempts.

But then Raine spoke up. All eyes turned to him. “I have an idea,” he grinned. “But I’ll need a tie.”

26:

Sin City

Port Royal,

Jamaica,

The
black Humvee raced down the Palisadoes, the promontory which almost entirely encircled the Kingston waterfront. To either side of the Norman Manley Highway which ran the length of the Palisadoes, the inviting waters of the Caribbean sparkled brilliantly blue under the tropical sun while at the end of the spit of land lay what had once been described as
“the richest, wickedest city in Christendom.”

Originally called Cayo de Carena by the Spanish, it was later renamed ‘The Point’ by the English. Realising its strategic importance, they built Fort Cromwell, later known as Fort Charles, the first of six forts to be manned by a garrison of more than two and a half thousand men.

The town of Port Royal developed to service the garrison and it became a sprawling array of workshops, rum shops, inns and brothels. For it was not only the English garrison that was serviced by the folk of Port Royal, but pirates. The name ‘Port Royal’ went hand in hand with the folklore of the days of high sea buccaneers. It became a seething, broiling mass of rum and whores, of smuggling and piracy, murder and mayhem.

The original Sin City.

But the glory days of piracy waned and Port Royal was almost entirely swallowed by the sea in a massive earthquake. Huge crevices tore across the land, entire buildings dropped into the sea, an enormous tidal wave wrenched an entire vessel from the harbour and deposited it on the roofs of the buildings. Two thousand people died on 7 June, 1692.

Perhaps Sin City was being punished by God for is evils, for only nine years later, while it was being rebuilt, it was gutted by a terrible fire.

The hay day of the notorious Port Royal was over. Many of the residents relocated to up-and-coming Kingston on the mainland. The Royal Navy continued to use the Point as their main Caribbean base until 1905, after which time it fell into historical obscurity.

Now, it was little more than a small fishing village, frequented by pirate enthusiasts and wannabe treasure hunters who scoured the underwater remains with masks and snorkels. The ruins of Fort Charles remained on the western tip, well preserved rows of fading red-brick, semi-circular gun ports warding off nothing more than the ghostly memories of old.

At the wheel of the Humvee, Nathan Raine drove the three civilian scientists into the town of Port Royal. A hotchpotch of varying architecture from its convoluted history swept in low archways and narrow cobbled streets. There were dozens of museums, some large and important like the Fort Charles Maritime Museum and the National Museum of Historical Archaeology. But it seemed that, especially after the hype of a series of hugely successful Hollywood blockbuster pirate movies, the entire population of Port Royal was looking to make a quick buck. Almost every other building claimed to be an authentic pirate museum and, turning a corner onto the seafront, they were suddenly confronted by a mass of pirates and wenches milling around the fishing harbour.

Raine let out a low whistle. “Johnny Depp, eat your heart out.”

“It’s a pirate party,” King explained from the back seat where he sat with Sid.

Ever since civil unrest in Kingston in 2010 had damaged the island nation’s tourist industry, the authorities had been struggling to bring back holiday makers. Port Royal had, for years, been at the centre of numerous plans, ranging from a pirate-themed amusement park sponsored by Walt Disney to an ultra-modern port for expensive cruise ships. In the absence of financial support for grander plans, organising these ‘pirate parties’ was a weak attempt to draw tourists to the otherwise sleepy town.

“Looks like some nerdy Star Trek convention for pirate enthusiasts,” Raine said as he slowed the vehicle and let out a series of toots on the horn. Several of the fancy-dressed revellers scattered off the road but many more, dressed in tri-corns, eye patches and hooked hands, still wandered aimlessly in front of them, too caught up in the fun to notice. Market stalls lined either side of the road selling giant Jolly Roger flags, large skull shaped mugs, plastic swords and, ironically, pirated DVDs of seemingly every pirate movie ever made.

Through his mirrored sunglasses, Raine scanned the crowd for any sign of trouble. Many of the partygoers carried toy muskets and pistols but his trained eye easily nullified them as any real danger.

“Eagle Eye, do you read me, over,” he said through his invisible com-unit.

Kristina Lake’s voice came back through the tiny ear piece. “
Delivery team, we have a visual on you
.”

The Super Stallion remained at a high altitude, keeping an eye on the Humvee. King knew it was as much to keep Raine on the straight and narrow as it was to watch for any threats. Just convincing Gibbs that the convicted traitor should accompany the civilians had been ‘more difficult than sunbathing in a cave’, to quote the rogue agent. The team leader had eventually relented, though not without a warning. The SOG team would be watching Raine’s every move. Waiting, no doubt, for the wrong one.

Still unsure of the other man, King was thankful that the soldiers wouldn’t be far away.

“Roger that,” Raine replied over the com. “Gibbs?”

Despite whatever grievances there were between the two men, now they were in the field, both Raine and Gibbs acted with highly trained professionalism.

“All units in position,”
Gibbs’ disembodied voice replied. King knew the plan. The soldiers had surrounded the Hand of Freedom building, just in case Raine’s plan didn’t pan out. Or, he knew, in case it was all a ruse.
“Delivery Team, you have a go.”

“Copy,” Raine acknowledged. He pushed harder through the crowd, keeping his hand on the horn. Shocked, the mass of revellers scattered out of the Humvee’s path, shooting angry glances his way.

They broke out of the party and Raine put his foot down. Following King’s directions they wound their way through town and out towards the southern tip of the Palisadoes. Behind the ruins of Fort Charles and the modern establishment of the Jamaican Defence Force Coastguard Headquarters, Raine guided the vehicle off the main road and down a rutted, disused dirt track. A handful of tatty, broken and pealing signs pointed towards their destination, a single lonely building, half a mile out of town, nestled against the southern shore. Beyond it lay nothing but the crystal Caribbean waters and a handful of seabirds gliding on the warm Jamaican air.

“I don’t think this road is used all that much,” Sid commented as the vehicle bounced and bumped over the track. A thick nest of weeds were slowly devouring it, making it difficult to discern.

“I don’t think the museum gets many tourists these days,” King replied. “And the owner, Mrs Marley-”

“No way . . .”

King ignored Raine. “-has become somewhat of a recluse. The Jamaican Defence Force has been trying to buy the estate for years but she won’t sell.”

Raine pulled up outside the oddly shaped building and stopped the engine. “This it?” he asked, stepping out of the Humvee and lowering his glasses. Out of the car’s air-conditioned interior, the Caribbean heat was almost overwhelming, but a fresh breeze skittered over the gentle waves of the sea and cooled him.

“This is it,” King confirmed as the others exited.

The building was a peculiar shape, starting wide on its northern face and tapering into a narrower point towards the south before splaying out like the fingers of an outstretched hand. It was coated in moss and vines and seagull excrement; the windows were so dirty as to be impenetrable and the paintwork was faded, mottled and pealing.

“Why is it shaped so strangely?” Nadia asked. Like Sid, the Russian woman had discarded the tactical gear she had only just been issued and now wore a black knee length skirt, white silk blouse and a form hugging blazer. Also following the unexpected shopping spree in Kingston, King now wore a pair of blue jeans, a white shirt, open at the neck, and a black suit jacket, looking very much the traditional modern day university lecturer. Raine finished off the professional image by wearing an expensive black business suit and tie and had slicked his normally wild hair straight back.

“It’s the ‘Hand of Freedom’,” King explained. “Lady Kernewek was by all accounts a bit of an eccentric. Apparently the shape of the building represents the hand of the slave reaching out to freedom. It was the motif of her abolition movement.”

“Shall we?” Sid suggested.

They made their way towards the narrower, southern end of the building. Above the dirty glass window of the narrow door, fading red letters peeled off a rotting wooden sign, cut into the vague motif of a blocky, outstretched hand: