The Inca Prophecy (21 page)

Chapter 25

O’Connor and Aleta arrived at the Convento de San Francisco in Lima an hour before it closed to the public. Their meeting with the Franciscan friar, Brother Gonzáles, wasn’t until five p.m., but O’Connor had arrived early to check the exits, just in case. They paused, as any tourists might, to admire the Spanish baroque architecture. The magnificent old monastery had been built during the time of the Spanish conquistadors. The entrance to the basilica was guarded by two stone towers. Their façade featured a sculptured statue of the Virgin Mary surrounded by cherubs, depicting the Immaculate Conception. The monastery itself was on the left, and like the towers and the basilica, it was rendered in yellow stucco with ornamental wooden balustrades adorning the roof. Dozens of pigeons populated the stone niches of the towers, and hundreds more
c’too-coo
ed around the stone steps leading to the entrance.

O’Connor paid the entrance fee and he and Aleta walked into the gardens, dominated by a large fountain and surrounded by two levels of white, arched cloisters. They moved through the main cloister where huge oil paintings depicting the life of St Francis of Assisi hung on walls decorated with priceless Seville tiles.

‘Some of these paintings are by Francisco de Zurbarán,’ Aleta observed, a reverential tone in her voice.

‘The Spanish Caravaggio,’ O’Connor agreed, but his eyes were focused elsewhere, probing the endless corridors of the monastery. Aleta glanced at O’Connor, a wry smile on her lips. She hadn’t picked him as an art connoisseur, but his expertise didn’t surprise her. She already knew he had a mind like a steel trap – he was more a Renaissance man than a CIA agent, although she was learning he set the gold standard for both. They moved through the Passageway of the Geraniums, the walls rendered in red stucco and lined with geraniums in elegant pots. O’Connor marked it as a place to be avoided; there was no cover in the long stone corridor.

Moving upstairs, they found the exquisitely carved stalls of the friars’ choir on a mezzanine overlooking the interior of the church. O’Connor immediately noted the grates in the stone floor of the basilica, worn smooth over the centuries. Through the gaps he could see the steps to the catacombs and secret passages that dated back to the time of the conquistadors. Further down the nave, baroque altars were decorated in stunning blues and aquamarines, offset by gilt edging. O’Connor glanced at his watch.

‘Time to meet with Brother Gonzáles,’ he said, fingering the Glock 21 hidden in his jacket. ‘Let’s hope this isn’t a set-up.’

‘I’m only just beginning to understand the world you move in,
but don’t forget it was José Arana who gave us the contact.’ Aleta reminded O’Connor of the old shaman who had guided them in their search for the Maya Codex. ‘His standing in Guatemala is impeccable.’

‘It’s not Arana or Gonzáles I’m worried about. The question is who’s operating around them,’ O’Connor warned, as they made their way to the agreed meeting place. An old friar was waiting for them at the entrance of the library, his weathered brown face etched with lines of wisdom.

‘Welcome to one of the oldest libraries in the Americas.’ Brother Gonzáles took Aleta’s hand first and then O’Connor’s. ‘This one contains over 25 000 books, and many of them are incunabula – printed before 1501,’ he said, closing the library’s outer doors.

O’Connor followed Aleta and the friar past the ropes that kept tourists out of the narrow room. Heavy teak bookcases lined the long walls and at the far end, two wooden spiral staircases led to narrow balconies, containing more shelves that ran the length of the room. Chandeliers hung from the pressed-metal ceilings and the floor was finished in exquisite cream and charcoal tiles.

‘Some of these volumes date back to the first printing presses in Peru,’ Brother Gonzáles continued, ‘and they cover the Franciscan Order from the time of the first missionaries, who arrived in the fifteenth century. The library also contains over 5000 Jesuit, Benedictine and Augustine scrolls, as well as a priceless collection of early Bibles and music scores.’ He pointed to a large Bible on display, beside which was a huge, yellowed, hand-written musical score supported by a large wooden stand.

‘But for you, the principal advantage of the library is its privacy,’
Brother Gonzáles opined, ushering O’Connor and Aleta towards carved wooden chairs at the far end of the room. O’Connor chose one with a view of the doors.

‘It would be frowned on by the Vatican, if they knew,’ Gonzáles said, his brown eyes twinkling, ‘but some of us maintain close contact with the descendants of the Maya and the Inca, and their spiritual advisors, one of whom you’re destined to meet. His name is Carlos Huayta, and he’s descended from the Q’ero people.’

‘Another shaman?’ O’Connor asked, keeping one eye on the library doors.

Gonzáles nodded. ‘As you’re both aware, shamanism has been practised for far longer than organised religion … it predates Christ by over 50 000 years. We’ve found evidence of the existence of shamans in France, where there are cave drawings that are over 30 000 years old; and in Norway, the remains of shamans have been found that are even older … perfectly preserved in the ice, with their sacred crystals and carved antelope figures safely secured in leather pouches.’

‘Are they really a threat to the Catholic faith, these shamans?’ O’Connor asked, wondering if his old nemesis, Cardinal Felici, had an interest in the Inca. Even O’Connor had been bemused by the lengths to which the Vatican intelligence services would go to protect both their doctrine and criminal priests. In the sixteenth century, Catholic priests had burned every Mayan codex, the precious books that recorded the entire history and culture of the Maya, including their mathematics, astronomy and beliefs. O’Connor had pondered the reaction of the cardinals if the tables had been reversed, and the Maya had burned every book in the
secret archives and Catholic libraries.

‘Throughout history,’ Gonzáles agreed sadly, ‘too many priests and cardinals have been threatened by anything that lies outside the accepted dogma, but shamans are very different to priests.’

‘You don’t seem threatened,’ Aleta observed.

‘Unlike many of the Curia, I live in the real world out here, amongst the poor and dispossessed, as do the shamans. The shamans understand there is more than one path to the hereafter … but more importantly, they’re in touch with the energy of the natural world and the animal kingdoms. Many shamans, including Huayta, are able to change the frequency of their brainwaves through meditation. That enables them to connect with the planet’s sacred source field.’

‘The Russians did some work on that,’ O’Connor said, his interest immediately aroused.

‘Yes, although we still have a great deal to learn,’ Gonzáles emphasised. ‘But first there’s an old book I want to show you, and then we’ll visit the catacombs below the basilica.’ He rose from his seat and climbed one of the old spiral staircases that led to the bookshelves above. He returned with a slim volume covered with a cracked leather binding, which he handed to O’Connor.

‘This may help you in your quest,’ Gonzáles explained.

‘How do you know about our quest?’ Aleta queried as O’Connor leafed carefully through the yellowed pages.

‘José Arana was here a month ago. He arrived just after you disappeared from the rainforests of Guatemala.’

‘You know José?’ Aleta asked.

‘Quite well. Not only is José well respected amongst the
descendants of the Maya in Guatemala, but he is well known internationally. José wasn’t sure when he first met you, but once you were successful in recovering the Maya Codex, he knew it would fall to you to uncover the rest of the warning. The second part is a prophecy hidden by the Inca.’

‘Is there a third part?’

‘That has been hidden by a civilisation even older than the Maya or the Inca, but the Inca must be attended to first.’

‘This book,’ O’Connor observed, ‘it’s a copy of the Beale papers.’

‘And very rare,’ Brother Gonzáles agreed, his eyes sparkling. ‘Not even your Library of Congress has a copy.’

‘What are the Beale papers?’ asked Aleta.

‘In 1885, one James B. Ward of Lynchburg, Virginia, published what has become known as the Beale papers,’ O’Connor explained. ‘They’re ciphers that will lead whoever is clever enough to decode them to a stone vault somewhere in the Blue Ridge mountains, full of gold.’

‘Along with silver and several million dollars’ worth of jewellery,’ Brother Gonzáles confirmed. ‘In 1820, a man by the name of Beale was befriended by a publican, Robert Morriss, who owned the Washington Hotel in Virginia. But Beale disappeared, leaving a strong box at the hotel. Twenty-three years after Beale’s disappearance, Morriss finally opened the box, only to find three number-based ciphers, along with two letters from Beale.’

‘Hasn’t one of the ciphers been solved?’ queried O’Connor.

‘Yes, but only one. The first allegedly contains the location of the vault; the second cipher – the one that’s been broken – details the amount of gold, silver and jewels that are hidden; and the third
cipher details those who are entitled to a share of the treasure, all of whom are long since dead.’

‘But how does this help us?’ Aleta asked.

Brother Gonzáles smiled enigmatically. ‘We don’t know how the second cipher was broken, but we do know it’s a book code … a variation on the nomenclator codes that were used in Rossignol’s Great Cipher of the seventeenth century. That wasn’t broken until 1893 when Etienne Bazeries realised that each symbol represented syllables rather than letters; but if you are meant to discover the warning in the Inca prophecy, then things will eventually fall into place. Although time is not on your side – you have only two weeks until the sun reaches its zenith. The Inca prophecy is tied to the zenith, under which there is no shadow. Here in South America, the sun reaches its zenith on only two occasions each year and if you miss the one in two weeks, there won’t be another one for six months, which may be too late. In the meantime, there is something you should see.’ Brother Gonzáles rose and led the way to the basilica and the entrance to the catacombs.

‘This gets creepier than the Maya tomb,’ Aleta whispered to O’Connor as they descended a set of narrow limestone steps that led them into the first of several burial crypts, each filled with hundreds of human skulls and dimly lit by small cast-iron lanterns.

‘I suspect we haven’t seen anything yet,’ said O’Connor.

From one of the crypt’s darkest recesses, Monsignor Matthias Jennings, dressed in the brown robes of a Franciscan friar, eavesdropped
on the discussion. Monsignor de Luca and the Holy Alliance were no closer to cracking the Inca cipher, but as soon as word reached Cardinal Felici that O’Connor and Aleta might be headed for Peru, Felici had reassigned the Jesuit archaeologist Jennings to Lima.

‘The Inca capital of Peru was in Cusco,’ Gonzáles explained, ‘but when Francisco Pizarro defeated the Inca, he founded his capital here in Lima, in the Rímac valley, and named it Ciudad de los Reyes, or the City of the Kings, because it was founded on the Feast of the Epiphany. Over time, the name fell into disuse in favour of the simpler native name Limaq, or Lima. What you see here,’ Gonzáles gestured, leading the way through a very narrow tunnel, ‘are the skulls of ordinary citizens. In the Spanish Colonial era, these crypts were used as a cemetery, and there are over 25 000 bodies here.’ His voice assumed a conspiratorial tone. ‘Anyone of any importance in the city was buried in specially designated vaults.’ Brother Gonzáles took a set of keys off his belt and unlocked the door to a secret passageway leading to the Government Palace on the north side of the Plaza de Armas in the historic centre of the city. The palace had once been Francisco Pizarro’s headquarters, and had since served as the headquarters for various Peruvian presidents.

O’Connor and Aleta followed Brother Gonzáles along the dimly lit passage until they reached a vault, directly below the palace.

‘In 1536, Pizarro’s conquistadors recovered a priceless crystal skull from somewhere along the banks of the Urubamba River in the Sacred Valley of the Inca, and for centuries it was kept down here,’ Gonzáles explained, opening the steel doors of the now empty vault. ‘The skull was accompanied by two documents. One was an old Inca prophecy that had been recorded by one of Pizarro’s friars.
The other was a strange cipher, recorded by the same friar – a series of numbers which are reputed to have a connection to the Fibonacci sequence.’

O’Connor and Aleta exchanged glances. The Fibonacci sequence had already figured in their quest for the Maya Codex, and both knew the sacred numbers were revered in a number of ancient civilisations.

‘Over the centuries, successive generations of Franciscan friars tried to crack the cipher,’ Gonzáles continued, ‘but all failed. Early in the nineteenth century, a series of disasters struck our monastery. The friars blamed their misfortunes on the skull, and when word reached the Holy Alliance in the Vatican, the friars were ordered to send the skull and the two parchments to Rome.’

‘Holy Alliance?’ Aleta whispered to O’Connor.