honeycombed the Yucatan could be treacherously strong, sucking the rainwater through the labyrinth of limestone channels and out to sea.
The vehicle ground to a halt and Jack snapped back to reality. He was pulled out of the door and led across uneven ground, slipping and sliding on wet vegetation. The rain was torrential, pounding his senses. Then he was inside some kind of shelter, out of the rain but steaming hot. Costas bumped up behind him, and he heard their gear being offloaded. Then he was pushed forward again. His blindfold was ripped off, leaving him blinking and reeling. Duct tape was crudely slapped round his wrists. He was somewhere gloomy, candlelit. He saw Costas a few feet to his left, and a man in front of them. Jack immediately knew who it was. Pieter Reksnys was the spitting image of his father Andrius, the man Jack had seen in the photo of the SS Ahnenerbe team in Greenland, the picture Kangia had given Macleod.
Kangia. The icefjord. It all seemed a million miles away, back beyond some boundary they had crossed to come here, to a place where hell and its demons suddenly seemed far more than just a medieval nightmare.
Jack looked around. They were in a room, a stone chamber, maybe an old church. It was hot as a boiler- house, and Jack was dripping sweat. The ceiling was high, corbelled. There was a circular hole in the floor. The wall beside him was painted, vivid flickers of colour revealed in the candlelight.
Then he saw Maria.
He had tried to prepare himself, gazed at the emailed photograph before they left Seaquest II, but the reality was still shocking. She was sitting against the wall opposite the mural, groggy, swaying slightly, her legs drawn up and her wrists taped together. Her mouth was duct-taped. Her face was streaked and swollen, and her cheek had a raw welt across it. Their eyes met.
Jack tried to control his anger. “Did he do that to you?”
Maria looked at him imploringly, then shook her head, motioning to somewhere behind Jack. He turned round and saw the only other person in the room, the man who had picked them up from the beach. It had to be Loki. The same slicked-back hair, the spare, mean features, the washed-out eyes. Like father, like son. Loki grinned as he saw Jack looking at him, turned to the light, drew one finger hard down his cheek. Then Jack remembered O’Connor’s description. The scar.
Costas had been staring aghast at Maria, and he suddenly lunged towards Loki. The response was terrifyingly supple, quick and fluid like a hunting animal. Loki had Costas in a half-nelson and was pulling his head up and sideways, raising him effortlessly off the floor despite Costas’ greater weight.
“Release him.” Jack heard Reksnys’ voice for the first time, harsh, grating, an undefinable accent with a hint of east European. Loki obeyed his father and pushed Costas away. Jack stared at Loki. This was the ruthless killer described by O’Connor, an independent operator who relished working alone, yet he was totally subservient to his father. Rage was not his only weakness.
Costas picked himself up, grimacing with distaste, wiping his shoulder where Loki had held him ostentatiously. Loki sneered and slunk back to lurk in the far corner of the chamber. Reksnys pulled out a pistol, instantly recognisable to Jack as a Nazi-era Luger, and aimed it at Maria’s legs.
“First one knee, then the other. Then I work my way up.” His voice had an ugly edge to it. “Or you cease being foolish.”
At first there was no reaction from Costas, then a surly nod. Maria had gone sheet white at the sight of the pistol, and was staring at it in a daze.
Reksnys turned to Jack. “I want you to study that wall-painting. Closely.”
Jack looked at him stone-faced. Then he looked at Maria, who nodded weakly, mumbling through the tape over her mouth, encouraging him. He gave Reksnys a look of contempt and then turned to the mural.
It was two-dimensional, without depth. It had once been a dazzling explosion of colour, deep browns, reds and greens on a yellow and blue background. He immediately grasped the narrative sequence, the victors and the vanquished. To the right he saw a melee of boats, elaborately attired warriors with sloped foreheads, paddled vessels with symmetrical endposts. One vessel with a square sail, different warriors.
A square sail.
The next scene was a ferocious jungle battle. Some of the fighting was aboveground, some in a fast-flowing river, seemingly belowground. Mutilated bodies lay everywhere. The victors carried atlatls, spear-throwers, and square shields with the figure of a war god. They were led by an eagle-warrior, a muscular giant wearing an eagle mask with a staring eye, with wings on his back and huge tearing talons on his feet. His warriors wore jaguar-skin headdresses, anklets and wristlets, heavy jade necklaces and earrings. They fought with clubs, and fell on their victims with enraged, terrifying eyes. Their opponents had round, red shields, different headgear, different weapons.
Jack peered at the weapons again, then looked at Maria out of the corner of his eye. She must have been transfixed by this scene, stared at it as she lay on the floor before they arrived. She must have seen what he had just seen. She nodded at him, almost imperceptibly. She had seen it. He turned back.
Now he understood.
Jack betrayed nothing in his expression. He moved on, to the left. Captives were on the ground, some lying on their backs, some kneeling. Some were shackled, men not attired as warriors, captured servants being led off as personal slaves by each of the victorious warriors. Jack thought of the Viking skeleton at L’Anse aux Meadows, of the man who had somehow made the trek three thousand miles north, who almost made it back to his own world. This was the nightmare he was escaping from.
The next scene dominated the painting. Jack saw hideous images of death, of mutilation. On top of a terraced platform stood a priest-king, wearing the mask of the eagle-god. He was passing sentence on those taken in the battle. On the lower step were captives being tortured, having their fingernails ripped out. A few steps up a prisoner raised his hands in vain for mercy, and another was splayed on the steps, fainting, bleeding profusely from his fingers. At the top a priest plunged a knife into the chest of a victim, gouging out his heart, his soul ascending heavenward from the altar in a bloody trail. A severed head rested on a bed of leaves, and others tumbled in a cascade of blood down the steps. All around were fires, flaming pyres of incense. The ritual was not restricted to the hapless prisoners of war. Below a skull-faced deity, Toltec warriors offered their own blood from self-inflicted wounds, gushing out all over their bodies. On a stone table beside the king were three richly bedecked women, shaven-headed, being offered a bloodletting implement by a servant. One woman was drawing a thorn-studded rope through a hole in her tongue. Beside her a nobleman was doing the same, through his penis.
Jack turned away. Reksnys leered at him, enjoying his reaction. “I found this building myself, years ago when I acquired this land,” he said. “It’s a jungle temple, a sacrificial chamber above a sacred cenote.” He jerked his head towards the dark hole in the centre of the floor. “I scoured this jungle for years, searching for just such a find. What I have come across is truly remarkable. We in the felag guessed at such a thing, but there was never any evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” Jack said.
Reksnys ignored him. “Our sources told us you were searching for the menorah.”
“Sources,” Jack said derisively. “You mean you tortured it out of Father O’Connor.”
“O’Connor was very helpful to us,” Reksnys replied, his voice suddenly shrill. “But not in the way you think. In the Vatican he had become less cautious. Breaking into the Arch of Titus was one step too far. He had a superior who reported everything he did. We already knew about that woman.”
He jerked his head towards Maria and then saw Jack’s half-smile and suddenly narrowed his eyes. “That information is useless to you now. It is of no consequence whether I tell it to you or not, and I only share the story of my discovery with you as a fellow archaeologist.”
Jack looked from side to side. “I don’t see any other archaeologists here.”
Reksnys affected not to hear him. “We heard you had reached as far as Greenland. Of course we knew about the longship in the ice, discovered by my father with the Ahnenerbe expedition in the 1930s. Shortly before he was murdered he told me the full story, how Kunzl had snatched the runestone from him and tried to kill him with his own SS dagger in the crevasse. Fortunately my father had a photographic memory and could reproduce the symbols for a runologist in our pay years later, after the war.”
“I trust the photographic memory of all the women and children he murdered on the eastern front kept him awake at night,” Jack said icily.
“Only counting them.” Reknys snorted, then carried on. “Something made me remember this little temple, something about the glimpse I had years ago of that battle scene, the appearance of the warriors from the sea.
