'About?' Nash said.
Copeland took a deep breath. 'There was a break-in there early this morning. Seventeen security staff dead. The entire night crew killed.' .
Nash's face went ashen white. 'They didn't—'
Copeland nodded seriously. 'They stole the Supernova.'
Nash stared off into space for a second.
'It was the only thing they took,' Copeland said. 'They knew exactly where it was. They knew the codes to the vault room and had cardkeys for the clamp-down locks. We must assume that they also know the codes to the titanium airlock on the device itself, and maybe how to detonate it.'
“Any idea who it was?'
'NCIS are there now. Early indications are that it might be the work of a paramilitary group like the Freedom Fighters.'
'Shit,' Nash said. “Shit! They must know about the idol.'
'It's likely.'
'Then we have to get there first.'
'Agreed,' Copeland said.
Race was just watching this conversation like a spectator at a tennis match. So, there had been a break-in at DARPA but what exactly had been stolen was a puzzle to him. Something called a Supernova. And who were these Freedom Fighters?
Nash stood up. 'What's our lead?' he asked.
'Maybe three hours, if that,' Copeland said.
'Then we have to move fast.' Nash turned to Race. 'Professor Race, I'm sorry, but the stakes in this game have just been raised. We don't have any more time to waste. It is now imperative that we have that manuscript translated by the time we fly into Cuzco, because when we hit the ground, believe me, we are gonna hit it running.'
With that, Nash, Copeland and Chambers moved off to areas of the plane, leaving Race alone with the manuscript.
Race looked at the cover page again, scanned the rough texture of the photocopier's ink. Then he took a deep breath and turned the page.
He saw the first line, written in fine medieval calligraphy:
MELIS NOMINI EST ALBERTO LIIIS SANTIAGO ET ILLG EST MELIN!
He translated.
My name is Alberto Luis Santiago and this is my story…
FIRST READING
On the first day of the ninth month in the year of Our Lord 1535, I became a traitor to my country.
The reason: I helped a man escape from a prison of my countrymen.
His name was Renco Capac and he claimed to be an Incan prince, the younger brother of their supreme ruler, Manco Capac, the man they called the Sapa Inca.
He was a handsome man, with smooth olive skin and long black hair. His most distinctive feature, however, was a prominent birthmark situated directly below his left eye. It looked like an inverted mountain peak, a ragged triangle of brown skin that sat atop his otherwise clear complexion.
I first met Renco on board the San Vicente, a prison hulk that lay out in the middle of the Urubamba River, ten miles north of the Incans' apital, Cuzco.
The San Vicente was the foulest of all the prison hulks that lay at anchor in the rivers of New Spain—an old wooden galleon no longer fit for ocean travel that had been dismasted and hauled overland for the sole purpose of housing hostile or dangerous Indians.
Armed as usual with my prized leather-bound Bible a three-hundred-page handwritten version of the great book that had been a gift to me from my parents upon my entering the Holy Orders—I had come to the prison hulk to teach these heathens the Word of Our Lord.
It was in this capacity as a minister of our Faith that I met the young prince Renco. Unlike most of the others in that miserable hulk—foul, ugly wretches who, owing to the shameful conditions my countrymen imposed on them, looked more as dogs than men—he was well spoken and educated. He was also possessed of a most unique sensitivity the likes of which I have not seen in any man since. It was a gentleness, an understanding, a look in his eyes that penetrated my very soul.
He was also of considerable intelligence. My countrymen had been in New Spain for but three years and he could already speak our language. He was also eager to learn of my Faith and understand my people and our ways, and I was happy to teach him. In any case, we soon struck up a friendship and I visited him often.
And then one day he told me of his mission.
Before he had been captured, so he said, this prince had been charged with travelling to Cuzco and retrieving an idol of some sort. Not an ordinary idol, mind, but a most venerated idol, perhaps the most venerated idol of these Indians. An idol which they say embodies their spirit.
But Renco had been waylaid on his journey to Cuzco, captured in an ambush set up by the Governor with the aid of the Chancas, an extremely hostile tribe from the northern jungles that had been subjugated by the Incan people against their will.
