David Gibbins - The Crusader's gold

“The Toltec underworld,” Costas said quietly. “Not a place I’d want to spend eternity.”

Jack drew Costas aside and huddled with him in the gloom at the rear of the chamber, talking intently. Costas occasionally looked at Maria, his expression increasingly grim. After a few minutes Jack gestured for her to join them. Costas passed her something wrapped in a cloth, which she checked and quickly concealed inside her jacket.

Jeremy suddenly appeared at the entrance, breathless and frantic. “Quick. For God’s sake. Reksnys has escaped. He’s got a local kid. He’s threatening to kill him.”

“How the hell…”

“The Mexican police cut him loose, then they both vanished, did a runner.”

“Shit.”

There was a sudden commotion outside and Reksnys appeared, pushing a boy of about five, the distraught parents pleading in Spanish behind him. Jeremy forced them back out and Reksnys marched in holding a leather belt round the boy’s neck. He paraded in front of them, his head held high and sneering, then dragged the boy like an animal to the centre of the chamber.

“I can break his little neck in a second. Just like that.” He snapped the fingers of his free hand. He seemed to forget his audience, and spoke with almost childish glee. Suddenly he looked around. “Where’s my son?”

“Went for a swim.”

Reksnys failed to take in what Costas had said, and drew the boy towards him. “?Como te llamas?”

The boy was too terror-stricken to reply.

Reksnys jerked the boy up towards his face. “?Como te llamas?”

The boy whispered tearfully, “Daniel.”

“Daniel.” Reksnys let the boy drop and then jerked him back against him, the belt held tight around his neck. “Interesting name for a Maya. When I was his age, I knew some little boys with that name. Daniel, Doron, Menachem. And there were some little girls with them too. But not for long.” Reksnys sneered again, then eyed Maria suspiciously as she detached herself from the others and took a few steps to the wall, to the place where she had recovered consciousness after her nightmare trip from Iona. She stood facing Reksnys, her legs slightly apart.

“I think,” she said, “you once found it a lot easier using this.”

Slowly, deliberately, she raised the Luger and aimed it at Reksnys’ head, both hands clasping the butt, her left index finger brushing the trigger.

Jeremy stared at Maria, shocked.

Reksnys sneered again. “You don’t know how to use that.”

She flipped down the safety catch on the left side of the frame. “Oh yes I do.”

“It’s not loaded.”

“Jack?” Maria said, not moving her eyes.

Jack pulled out a small box with the words NINE MILLIMETRE PARABELLUM printed on one side and showed the half-empty interior. “We found these in your pocket,” he said. “Remember?”

Reksnys was contemptuous. “Put the gun down or the boy dies.”

Maria began to recite words she had memorized when she was a child. “Operational Situation Report USSR, Number 129a,” she said quietly. “Einsatzgruppe D. Location: Nikolayev, Ukraine. Addendum to Report Number 129 concerning the activity of the Einsatzkommandos in freeing places of Jews and finishing off partisan groups. SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Andrius Reksnys personally executed 341 Jews. Revised total for the last two weeks: 32,108.”

There was a stunned silence. Maria kept the Luger levelled at Reksnys’ head. He remained stock still, staring at her with cold loathing, the belt taut and shimmering against the boy’s neck.

“May the fourteenth, 1943,” Maria continued. “A beautiful spring morning. The flowers were up everywhere, the birds singing. The last in line in front of the ditch were a young family, a father and a pregnant mother and four small children. Do you remember? Your father let you finish the little ones.”

“Impossible.” Reksnys spat out the word, looking conspiratorially at the others. “This woman is mad. There were no witnesses. There never were.”

“It was your first batch,” Maria continued matter-of-factly. “You were not very experienced with the Luger. Three days later the youngest child crawled out from among the bodies, a bullet lodged in her skull. A sweet little girl, weeping and helpless in the spring sunshine.” Tears were coursing down Maria’s cheeks, but her voice was unwavering. “A German Wehrmacht soldier found her, took pity on her. She stayed with his unit all the way back to Berlin, looked after by the Germans, men disgusted by what the SS had done. When they were all killed in action she was rescued by a British soldier. Years later she married a Spanish diplomat, had a daughter of her own. Last spring I took her back to Nikolayev, to lie once again in that lovely meadow, to be with her brothers and sisters, her beloved mama and papa. She said they had been missing her, had been desperate to find and protect her.” Maria swallowed hard, blinking away the tears but staring unflinchingly down the barrel. “That little girl was my mother.”

“Nonsense.” Reksnys jerked the boy towards him, his eyes flitting to and fro, his voice suddenly demented and high-pitched. “Don’t believe a word she says. She is a Jew.”

The room was deathly silent. Reksnys suddenly looked unnerved, began to shake, his face pale and dripping sweat. He pushed the boy away. Jack grabbed him and bundled him towards the entranceway. Reksnys staggered and then stood upright, attempting to regain his composure. “You have the boy.” He passed his shaking hands over his hair, greasing it back. He was struggling to make his voice seem normal again, to sound conciliatory. “Now is the time to end this nonsense. You have what you want. The police will never pin anything on me. We can all walk away. Where is my son?”

“On a one-way trip to hell,” Costas said.

“Where is my son?” Reksnys was uncomprehending, his eyes bloodshot and staring, panic-stricken. There was another silence, and he looked frantically from one face to another, then staggered sideways. “No.”

Maria aimed down the barrel, slowly, deliberately, all the time keeping it levelled at his head. Her voice was cold, clinical. “Kneel down. Face the wall.”

Reksnys lost all control. He fell to his knees, his lips shaking, his eyes transfixed with terror. A dark patch appeared on his trousers and spread down his legs. “No. I beg you. Not this.”

“I am a Jew.” Maria spoke quietly.

There was a deafening crack. Reksnys’ head snapped backwards and he fell on the floor, convulsing. A gush of blood arched out. For a moment he was conscious, his eyes wide open, his legs jerking horribly. Then he was still. The spatter of blood on the wall began to drip down, rivulets of crimson that picked out the faded colours of the sacrifical scene, trickling to join the blood pooling on the floor below.

Reksnys began to move again. They stared aghast. He seemed to be convulsing, jerking like a rag doll, moving towards Maria. She dropped the gun and collapsed, seemingly paralysed. Jack grabbed her, pulling her away. Suddenly the ground shook violently. Jack could barely register what was happening. Then he remembered. Chichen Itza. The earth tremor a few days before. Reksnys hadn’t come alive again. Earthquake. A crack appeared in the wall, tearing apart the painting. An ear-splitting cacophony rumbled up from the cavern below. Jack was aware of a frantic rush to the entrance, of dragging Maria outside, of seeing the waters rise in a great surge behind him and recede back into the cavernous hole that was left where the temple had been.

Later he watched as Maria opened her eyes. He saw the water dripping on her face; saw sunlight streaming in through the tangled canopy above, heard birds screeching. He breathed in deep, savouring the draught of cool, clean air that followed the rain. He thought of Maria’s mother, of O’Connor.