Excavation

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.”