Matthew Reilly - Temple

‘If that’s the simple explanation,’ Race said drily, ‘I’d hate to hear the complex one.’

Copeland ignored him. ‘Any aircraft has seven different types of observable characteristics—radar, infrared, visual, contrails, engine smoke, acoustics and electromagnetic emissions.

The SAT-SN satellites use all seven of these characteristics to record the signature and location of individual aircraft all over the world—military and civilian.

‘What Colonel Nash wants now is a snapshot of central-eastern Peru so that he can spot every airplane over it—in particular, those planes outside regular commercial air corridors. From those pictures, we’ll be able to see where our Nazi friends are and hopefully calculate how long we’ve got till they get here.’

Race looked over at Nash.

He appeared to be deep in thought—as one would expect from a leader who had just lost three of his best fighting men.

‘What are you thinking?’ Race asked.

‘We have to get that idol,“ Nash said, ‘and soon. Those Nazis will be here any second now. But there’s no way past those cats. There’s no way of knowing how to get past them.’

Race cocked his head.

Then he said, ‘There was someone who knew.’

‘Who?’

‘Alberto Santiago.’

‘What?’

‘Remember the boulder that was wedged in the doorway to the temple?’

‘Yeah…’

‘On it was a warning: “Do not enter at any cost. Death looms within.” That warning had the initials “A.S.” written underneath it. Now I haven’t read enough of the manuscript yet, but I can only assume that Santiago and Renco stumbled onto the same problem we have now—before they arrived at Vilcafor, someone opened up that temple and let the rapas loose.

‘But somehow,’ Race said, ‘Santiago figured out a way to get those cats back inside the temple. Then he carved a warning into that boulder for anyone who would think to open it up again.

‘Now, we used the manuscript to find this village and we figured that was all it was good for but the copy I read was only partially completed. I’ll bet my life that the key to getting past those cats lies in the rest of the Santiago Manuscript.’

‘But we don’t have any more of the manuscript,’ Nash said.

‘I’ll bet they do,’ Race nodded at the four remaining Germans.

Schroeder nodded with his eyes.

“And I’ll bet you didn’t translate it beyond the part where it revealed the location of Vilcafor, did you?’ Race said.

‘No,’ Schroeder said. ‘We did not.’

A new look of purpose came over Nash’s face. He turned to Schroeder.

‘Get your copy of the manuscript,’ he said. ‘Get it now.” A few minutes later, Schroeder handed Race a fat stack of paper wedged inside a worn cardboard folder. The stack of paper was a lot thicker than Race’s earlier pile had been.

The complete manuscript.

‘I don’t suppose any of you four are your team’s translator?’ Nash asked the BKA man.

Schroeder shook his head. ‘No. Our language expert was killed during the cats’ attack on the rock tower.’

Nash turned to Race. ‘Then it looks like you’re it, Professor. Lucky I insisted on bringing you along.’

Race retired to the ATV to read the new copy of the manuscript.

Once he was safely ensconced inside the big armoured vehicle, he opened the folder surrounding the new manuscript. He was met by a Xeroxed cover sheet.

It was an odd cover sheet—markedly different from the overly elaborate one he had seen on the earlier copy. The main difference being that this cover sheet was remarkably almost deliberately plain.

The title, The True Relation of a Monk in the Land of the Incas, was written in a very rough handwritten scrawl. One thing was for sure elegance and majesty had been the last thing on the mind of whoever had written this.

And then it hit Race.

This was a photocopy of the actual, original Santiago Manuscript.

A Xerox of the document that had been written by Alberto Santiago himself.

Race leafed through the text. Page after page of Santiago’s scratchy handwriting unfolded before him.

He scanned the words, and soon he found the place where his last He scanned the words, and soon he found the place where his last reading had stopped so abruptly—the part where Renco, Santiago and the criminal Bassario had landed at Vilcafor only to find it in ruins, only to find its people scattered all along the main street, bathed in blood…

Renco, Bassario and I walked up the deserted main street of Vilcafor.

The silence around us filled my heart with dread. Never before had I heard the rainforest so mute.

I stepped over a bloodstained body. The head had been ripped clean from its trunk.

I saw other bodies, saw horrified faces with their eyes open in abject terror. Some had had their arms and legs wrenched from their sockets.

Many, I saw, had had their throats removed by some violent external force.

‘Hernando?’ I whispered to Renco.

‘Impossible,’ my brave companion said. ‘There is no way he could have arrived here before we did.’

As we progressed down the main street of the town, I saw the giant dry moat that encircled the village. Two flat wooden bridges-constructed of several tree trunks laid down side by side—spanned its breadth on either side of the village. They looked like bridges that could be withdrawn at a moment’s notice, the bridges of a citadel town.

Quite obviously, whoever had attacked Vilcafor had taken it by surprise.

We arrived at the citadel. It was a great two-tiered stone building, pyramidal in shape, but round, not square.

Renco hammered on the large stone door set into its base.

He called Vilcafor’s name and proclaimed that it was he, Renco, arrived with the idol.

After a time, the stone slab was rolled aside from within and some warriors appeared, followed by Vilcafor himself, an old man with grey hair and hollow eyes. He was dressed in a red cape but he looked about as regal as a beggar on the streets of Madrid.

‘Renco!’ the old man exclaimed when he saw my companion.

‘Uncle,’ said Renco.

It was at that moment that Vilcafor saw me.

I suppose I expected a look of surprise to cross his face at the sight of a Spaniard accompanying his nephew on his heroic mission—but none did. Rather Vilcafor just turned to Renco and said, ‘Is this the goldeater my messengers have told me so much about? The one who helped you escape from your confinement, the one who rode out of Cuzco by your side?’

‘He is, Uncle,’ Renco replied.

They spoke in Quechuan, but by now Renco had improved my fledgling knowledge of this most peculiar language and I was able to understand most of what they said.

Vilcafor grunted. ‘A noble goldeater.., humph… I did not know such an animal existed. But if he is a friend of yours, my nephew, he is welcome here.’

The chieftain turned again, and this time he saw the criminal Bassario standing behind Renco with an impish grin spread across his face.

Vilcafor recognised him instantly.

He shot an enraged look at Renco. ‘What is he doing here—?’

‘He travels with me, Uncle. For a reason,’ said Renco. He paused before he spoke again. ‘Uncle. What happened here?

Was it the Span—?’

“No, my nephew. It was not the goldeaters. No, it was an evil a thousand times worse than that.’

‘What happened?’

Vilcafor bowed his head. ‘My nephew, this is not a safe place for you to seek refuge…’

‘Why?”

“No… no, not safe at all.’

‘Uncle,’ said Renco and sharply. ‘What have—you done?’

Vilcafor looked up at Renco, then his eyes darted to the great rocky plateau that towered over the little town.