Matthew Reilly - Temple

‘I’m afraid so,’ Nash said. ‘Remember, this isn’t the original manuscript, but rather a half-finished copy of it, transcribed by another monk many years after Santiago wrote the original. This is all there is, this is all that the other monk managed to copy from the original.’

He frowned. ‘I was hoping we’d get the exact location of the idol from it, but if it doesn’t give us that, then what I need to know are the generalities: where to look, where to start looking. We’ve got the technology to pinpoint the location of the idol/f we know where to begin our search. And by the sound of things, from what you’ve read so far, it appears that you have enough there to tell me where to start looking. So tell me what you know.’

Race showed Nash his notes, told him the story of Renco Capac and his flight from Cuzco. He then explained that from what he’d read, Renco had made it to his intended destination—a citadel-town at the base of the Andes known as Vilcafor.

He also told Nash that, so long as they knew one particular fact, the manuscript detailed how to get to that town.

‘And what fact is that?’ Nash said.

‘Assuming the stone totems are still there,’ Race said, ‘you have to know what the “Mark of the Sun” is. If you don’t know what it is, then you can’t read the totems.’

Nash frowned and turned to Walter Chambers, the anthropologist and Incan expert, sitting a few seats away.

‘Walter. Do you know anything about a “Mark of the Sun” in Incan culture?’

‘The Mark of the Sun? Why, yes, of course.’

“What is it?’

Chambers shrugged, came oven ‘It’s just a birthmark, really. Kind of like Professor Race’s there.’ He nodded with his chin at Race’s glasses, indicating the dark triangular blemish on the skin under his left eye. Race cringed. Ever since he was a kid, he’d hated that birthmark. He thought it looked like a smudged coffee stain on his face.

‘The Incans thought birthmarks were signs of distinction,’ Chambers said. ‘Signs sent from the gods themselves.

The Mark of the Sun was a special kind of birthmark, a blemish on the face, just below the left eye. It was special because the Incans believed that it was a mark sent from their most powerful god, the Sun God. To have a child with such a mark was regarded as a great honour. The Mark of the Sun indicated that that particular child was special, in some way destined for greatness.’

Race said, ‘So if someone instructed us to follow a statue in the direction of the• Mark of the Sun, they would be telling us to go to the statue’s left?’

‘That would be correct,’ Chambers said, hesitating. ‘I think.”

‘What do you mean, you think?“ Nash said.

‘Well, you see, over the past ten years, there’s been substantial debate among anthropologists as to whether or not the Mark of the Sun was found on the lefthand side of the face or the righthand side.

Incan carvings and pictographs universally depict the Mark of the Sun—whether on pictures of humans or animals or whatever—under the carving’s left eye. Problems arise, however, when one reads Spanish texts like the Relacion and the Royal Commentaries which talk of people like Renco Capac and Tupac Amaru, both of whom were said to have borne the Mark. The problem is, those books say that Renco and Amaru had the mark under their right eyes. And as soon as something like that arises, confusion reigns supreme.’

‘So what do you think?’

‘Lefthand side, definitely.’

‘And we should be able to find our way to the citadel?’

Nash said, worried.

‘You can trust my judgement on this one, Colonel,’

Chambers said confidently. ‘If we follow each statue to the left, we’ll find that citadel.’

Just then, a singsong little bell rang from somewhere nearby.

Race turned. It had come from Nash’s laptop—an email message must have just come through. Nash went back to his seat to get it.

Chambers turned to Race. ‘It’s all very exciting, isn’t it?’

“Exciting isn’t exactly the word I would use,’ Race said.

He was just glad that he’d finished translating the manuscript before they had landed in Cuzco. If Nash was going to venture into the jungle after the idol, he didn’t want to be a part of it.

He glanced at his watch.

It was 4:35 pm. It was getting late.

Just then, Nash appeared next to him.

‘Professor,’ he said. ‘If you’re up to it, I’d like you to come along with us to Vilcafor.’

There was something in his tone that made Race pause.

This was a command, not a question.

‘I thought you said if I translated the manuscript before we landed I wouldn’t even have to get off the plane.’

‘I said that that might be the case. You’ll recall that I also said that if you did have to leave the plane, you’d have a team of Green Berets looking after you. That is the circumstance now.’

‘Why?’ Race asked.

‘I’ve arranged for a pair of helicopters to meet us at Cuzco,’ Nash said.

‘We’ll be using them to follow Santiago’s trail from the air.

Unfortunately, I thought the manuscript would be more detailed in its description of the location of the idol, more precise. But now we’re going to need you for the trip to Vilcafor, in case there are any ambiguities between the text and the terrain.’

Race didn’t like the sound of this. He felt that he had fulfilled his part of the deal, and the idea of going into the Amazon rainforest made him decidedly uneasy.

On top of that, the tone of Nash’s request made him even more apprehensive. He got the feeling that now that Nash had him on board the Hercules and bound for Cuzco, his options—and his ability to say no—were extremely limited.

He felt trapped, railroaded into going somewhere he didn’t want to go.

This wasn’t part of the deal at all.

‘Couldn’t I just stay in Cuzco?’ he offered lamely. ‘Keep in contact with you from there?’

‘No,’ Nash said. ‘Definitely not. We’re arriving through Cuzco, but we won’t be leaving that way. This plane and all the U.S. Army personnel waiting for us in Cuzco will be leaving the city shortly after we head off into the jungle in the choppers. I’m sorry, Professor, but I need you. I need you to help me get to Vilcafor.’

Race bit his lip. Christ…

‘Well… all right,’ he said reluctantly.

‘Good,’ Nash said, standing. ‘Very good. Now, did I hear you say earlier that you had some less formal clothes in that bag of yours?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I suggest you get changed into them. You’re going to the jungle now.’

The Hercules flew over the mountains.

Race emerged from the lavatory in the plane’s lower cargo deck, now dressed in a white T-shirt, blue jeans and a pair of black sneakers—the clothes that he’d packed for his lunchtime baseball game. He was also wearing a cap—a battered, navy-blue New York Yankees baseball cap.

He saw the Green Berets on the deck in front of him, preparing and cleaning their weapons for the mission ahead. One of the commandos—a red-headed older corporal named Jake ‘Buzz’ Cochrane—-was talking animatedly as he cleaned the firing mechanism of his M16o

‘I tell you, boys, it was fucking apples,’ he was saying.

“Apples. Sweet sixteen with cheap Doreen. Gentlemen, mark my words, she is without a doubt, the most bang-fory6ur-buck whore in all of South Carolina—’

At that moment, Cochrane caught sight of Race standing— listening at the lavatory door and he cut himself off.

All of the other Green Berets spun around and Race felt instantly self-conscious.

He felt like an outsider. Someone who wasn’t part of the brotherhood.