Uncharted, page 9
Sighing, she reached into her bag for the cross and handed it over.
* * *
Nate told Chloe to head for the Gothic Quarter—the Barri Gotic, according to his phone, which he wasn’t even going to try to pronounce—and she took them roughly northwest, past streets of massive, ancient medieval structures mixed with colorful Modernist buildings, shops and houses scattered between. Beautiful… but after he changed his shirt, Nate mostly just scrolled on his phone, learning what he could about their destination. Sully rode shotgun and tried to chat with Chloe on the way, acting like they were old friends, but she treated him more like an annoying little brother, her responses short and sarcastic, delivered in her charming Australian accent. Other than to ask for clarifications on directions, she didn’t talk to Nate at all.
Nate told her to take a turn and Chloe finally snapped at him. “I know the area, so why don’t you just tell me where we’re going?”
“Uh, the… Placa del Pi,” Nate stuttered.
Chloe turned to look at him, her gaze lighting up. “Of course! God, I didn’t even think of it!”
“Think of what?” Sully asked.
Chloe shook her head and stepped on the gas.
“What are you talking about?” Sully looked back at Nate, brow furrowed, but Nate just shook his head too, stifling a smile. They’d be there in a few minutes, and he had to admit, it felt good to know something that Sully didn’t.
Nate saw the church’s bell tower from a few blocks away, a tall octagon of weathered brick rising from a handsome Gothic cathedral. The solid block of ornately decorated church and the few buildings near it were surrounded by gardens and open space. Chloe pulled into a small lot and they all got out, gazing up at the cathedral. A huge stained-glass rose window was set high over the massive arched doorway. Tourists walked around on the dusty brick placa in front of the entrance, snapping pictures in the midday heat. The church had been built in the late 1400s, had been damaged and rebuilt many times over the centuries, but had always been Santa Maria del Pi.
“Saint Mary of the Pine,” Nate said, for Sully’s benefit, although there was a sign right outside the church with the English translation. And the symbol on the bricks behind it was confirmation. Nate saw it and his heart skipped a beat.
“This has to be it,” Sully said. “Kid, you’re a genius.”
“Genius is a stretch,” Chloe said.
Sully pulled Elcano’s journal out of his bag, gently opening it to one of the acid-free bookmarks.
“Look at this,” he said, holding up the journal. The tree that the long-dead captain had drawn was exactly the same as the one on the sign.
Chloe looked convinced, but not necessarily happy about it. Maybe because she hadn’t thought of it herself. Nate had figured it out while they’d been waiting to meet her, though he hadn’t been a hundred percent until he’d seen the stylized little tree.
“I’ll go see when we might have a private look inside,” she said, and started across the wide expanse of cobbled gray brick toward the open doors. A couple of wizened nuns were standing outside, chatting with tourists. Nate shuddered inwardly, focusing on Chloe. She walked like a badass, long strides, head up, reddish highlights from the bright sun cropping up in her dark hair. She had to be in her twenties still, not much older than him. She was pretty—beautiful, even—but it was the way she carried herself that had caught his eye.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sully said. “Chloe Frazer is not to be trusted.”
Nate felt caught out but didn’t look away. She was talking to one of the nuns now, smiling, nodding her head, tucking her hair behind one delicate ear…
Sully’s words sank in, and Nate frowned. “You’re going to cut her out.”
“Didn’t want to cut her in,” Sully said. “She had the other cross, so I had no choice.”
Chloe started back toward them, and Sully clammed up. Nate managed to lose the frown as she approached, but wasn’t sure he liked Sully’s plan. If they found the gold, and that was a big if, there’d be more than enough for all of them. And as far as trust went… yeah, she’d lifted the cross off them, but Sully had ditched him at the auction.
“There’s a midnight Mass tonight,” Chloe said. “Tomorrow’s the earliest we can poke around. After closing, of course.”
They turned back to the SUV, Sully already talking about supplies they needed to pick up, Chloe cracking a joke about having a sleepover. Nate found himself thinking about trust, and it occupied his thoughts for quite a while.
The headline in El Periódico told the story by itself: Billionaire Moncada Apologizes, Joins ‘Giving Pledge’, Commits to Give Fortune Away. Below the headline was a picture of Armando Moncada, his chin up, his thinning silver hair slicked back. He looked old and defiant and somehow brave, too, which was entirely untrue. Santiago Moncada saw the story at breakfast and had immediately cleared his schedule for the day, driving his Gullwing to their building and cursing all the while. On the way, he called Jo Braddock and told her to meet him there.
The Moncada excavation was in full swing, the soaring glass-and-iron building that Armando had built three decades prior now just an expensive topper to his current passion: excavating the Roman ruins beneath. Barcelona had once been Barcino, a Roman outpost. Vestiges were all around them: crumbling border walls, the columns at Temple Roma D’August, even the grid layout of the Barri Gotic… But so much more lay under their modern city. Barcelona had the most extensive subterranean Roman ruins that had ever been found, tunnels and homes and even factories. Armando had already spent a fortune on the excavation beneath their business headquarters, winning acclaim from the media and local politicians; a gift to their heritage, he called it, and Santiago had been proud of the work. But all he saw today was his father pouring money into a dusty hole.
Santiago carried the damning newspaper into the building, through the once pristine lobby where family portraits still hung on the walls in gilded frames. Now they were covered with grit from the excavation. The cleaners couldn’t keep up. He walked through the open gate at the east edge of the dig, where the floor fell away, revealing a crumbling town below that spread out from their building and west, into the neighboring lot. He ignored the worker who tentatively held out a hardhat, ignored the uniformed diggers armed with brushes and hammers who scurried out of his path, as was appropriate. Wasn’t it his name on the building?
Santiago found his father on one of the main catwalks that ran over the north end of the open dig, talking to his advisors, gesturing at the stone walls that rose from the dry soil below. A dozen-plus workers picked and clanged around the rocks in the vast, sprawling pit, ran small, noisy suction hoses over the sour dirt.
When he stepped onto the walk, Armando shot him a look while still talking, his eternally sharp gaze commanding his son to wait.
Fuming, Santiago leaned against the railing and reread the story of his father’s madness. When the advisors walked away a minute later, Armando raised a hand and beckoned him over.
Santiago gritted his teeth at the imperious gesture and marched toward him, struggling to keep his voice down.
“You said we were going to discuss this,” he said, holding up the paper.
Father looked out over the dig. “I changed my mind. I’m allowed.”
“‘Our family has sinned’?” Santiago’s hand shook, the paper trembling. “What gives you the right to shame us like this?”
“Our family has participated in the most shameful chapters in our history,” Armando said. “What is that, if not sin?”
Father waved at the dusty portraits watching over them from the lobby’s eastern wall. “They’re not heroes, they’re villains. Our fortune is dipped in blood.”
“And giving it all away will erase the stain?”
His father’s jaw stuck out. “It’s a start.”
He’d meant to stay calm, but the arrogance on Armando’s face was too much.
“It’s not yours to give, you built none of it,” Santiago hissed, pointing at the same paintings his father had so casually dismissed. “They did. But you enjoyed all of it, didn’t you?”
Armando Santiago had worked hard managing their empire but had easily spent what he’d earned, many times over. A long, full life of indulging every whim, servants at his beck and call, traveling, expensive things, beautiful women—using the Moncada fortune for whatever he liked. And now that he was dying, he wanted to wash his hands of the money, pass through the needle’s eye. Leaving his own son, his future grandchildren, and their progeny penniless.
His father looked at him with open disdain. “I should have cut you off years ago. Forced you to make something of yourself. Instead, you spend your life chasing after gold that never belonged to us. Gold our family stole.”
Armando drew himself up and walked away, head high.
Always the last word, eh Papa? That sanctimonious, hypocritical bastard. Santiago watched him step off the catwalk at the excavation’s far end and disappear into the south hall that led back outside. He wanted to scream, wanted to break something, but he’d been dismissed. His own father would throw him away as easily as he gave away their fortune, their name. His name.
He turned back for the front door, thinking furiously of what he could say or do to stop his father, a press release isn’t a contract, he can recant—
—and he saw Jo Braddock standing in their lobby, flanked by her men. As always, she looked cool and dangerous, although he’d been singularly unimpressed by her performance so far.
He took a breath and forced his father out of his mind, controlling his anger via iron will. When he was ready, he raised his hand and beckoned her to join him. She stepped out onto the platform, her men hanging back. He would handle family business later; for now, he needed to ensure that his own business was well in hand.
* * *
Moncada had told them to meet at his building, of course, a not-so-subtle reminder of who was in charge. With his name plastered across the structure in letters a meter high, that was hard to miss. Braddock didn’t mind, she understood men like him, the kind of men created by immense wealth: straight narcissists with strangely delicate egos, always seeking to impress even as they declared their superior worth at every opportunity.
She and her team walked into the busy and extensive excavation that the Moncadas had financed, just in time to witness an exchange between the patriarch and his heir, standing on one of the catwalks over the dig. Armando Moncada walked away from the terse discussion, a look of disgust on his face… and Santiago was obviously furious, face red, shoulders up, fists clenched. Something to do with Moncada Senior announcing that he was going to give away their inheritance, presumably; she’d seen it on her newsfeed just after they’d landed. Tough luck for Santiago, although getting to the hidden gold would certainly mitigate the loss.
Santiago turned, snarling, and saw her waiting, Scotty and Hugo at her side. He took a breath, face working like he was trying not to vomit, then mastered himself. In the space of a few seconds he’d regained his haughty demeanor, and he gestured her over.
“Ms. Braddock,” he called, warmly, as she joined him on the catwalk. “Welcome to Barcelona as my ancestors knew it. Quite something, isn’t it?”
She’d half-expected another tantrum like the one he’d thrown after the auction—which, to be fair, she’d deserved, having underestimated Sully’s capacity for stupid tricks—but it seemed that today he wanted to play benevolent philanthropist. Fine by her. She scanned the excavation, the sturdy stone walls, the uncovered remnants of rooms and doorways, part of a cobbled street.
“An impressive restoration,” she said. She wasn’t the fawning type but did her best to seem interested.
Moncada pointed out an ancient portrait hanging on the lobby wall, a lean-faced man with piercing eyes. “Fulgencio Moncada, my great-great, great-great, great-grandfather.”
He smiled. “Give or take a few greats. He funded Magellan’s circumnavigation. Come, walk with me.”
They moved off the catwalk and he led her to steps cut into the dirt at the excavation’s northwest corner. Together they walked down into the dig, keeping to one of the marked paths that ran between two of the unearthed buildings, headed back toward her team.
“That voyage changed the way we understand the globe, changed all the maps,” Moncada said. “‘We gave the world to the world,’ is the family motto.”
They moved past three men working on an archway, picking packed dirt out of the stones.
“But great accomplishments come at a great price,” he continued. “Magellan’s gold is ours by contract. I will collect it. This will be my chapter in the family histories.”
Braddock nodded. “We’ll make history together, Mr. Moncada.”
She thought she’d struck the right tone, supportive and confident, but saw immediately that Moncada had taken offense. He stopped walking, turned to look at her with a dangerous gaze.
“When those eighteen starving men finally returned from their journey around the world, they were celebrated for their achievement. Fulgencio threw the party. But when it was over, he reminded those men that they hadn’t delivered what was promised. And they were punished.”
So, still angry about the auction, then. Goddamn Sully.
She didn’t cower, aware that revealing any weakness would set her up for further abuse. He was spoiled, yes, but also fully capable of crushing anyone he deemed a threat.
“There are no books written about my family, Mr. Moncada,” she said, carefully, reminding him that he was special, that she was but a lowly employee. “But I assure you, I want to succeed every bit as much as you do.”
He seemed mollified, and started walking again, leading them to another set of dirt stairs on the east wall, back out of the dig. He wasn’t quite done with smacking her down, though, waiting until they’d rejoined her team. He spoke in a light, musing tone. “This competitor of yours, the one who got away—Victor Sullivan? Maybe he’s the one I should have hired.”
She only barely managed to hang on to her professional demeanor. “Victor Sullivan is a pathological liar and a fraud. Any deal you make with him is worthless.”
“Perhaps,” Moncada allowed. “But I’ve been told Mr. Sullivan was seen in the Gothic Quarter. Maybe you should look into it.”
Without another word, he left her standing with Scotty and Hugo, inwardly seething. Sully was in Barcelona? He’d made a fool of her, and not for the first time… But if she had anything to say about it, it would be the last.
* * *
They spent the afternoon shopping, loading Chloe’s SUV with supplies. Besides some standard burgling-slash-spelunking equipment, torches and rope, rock hammers and chalk for marking trails, they’d hit the markets and splurged on the makings of a celebratory feast. They were all in a good mood, knowing that tomorrow night they might find whatever it was that Magellan’s keys unlocked. Chloe drove them back to her flat as the sun started to drop over Barcelona, down the narrow street and into her “garage,” a portico on the east side of the apartment building. Home safe. Sully and Nate started carrying boxes upstairs, Sully commenting that she’d done “pretty well” for herself.
The apartment was beautiful, the upper corner of an ancient building turned into flats. The result was an expensive mix of old world and new, rough brick framed by clean, modern lines; there were two bedrooms and a small balcony with a view of the cobbled street. It wasn’t home, but it was probably her favorite base of operations; the place in London was a dive, and the one in Mexico had roaches. The kitchen here was open plan, bold green and yellow tiles behind the stove, a wide counter overlooking a sunlit living room. She’d paid for the apartment with what was left from a piece she’d acquired a few years prior, a 1948 Yixing Zisha teapot that she’d happened across while traveling; never mind that the owner hadn’t known its value, and let it go for a pittance. Selling it had meant enough money for her to finally set up shop in a city she loved… with enough left over to keep her in the acquisition business, at least until her next big break. Most of what she did wasn’t strictly legal, and she’d been in a few jams, but she did, in fact, do “pretty well.”
Chloe changed into jeans, and Nate gave her the translated pages from Elcano’s journal. While he and Sully made another trip to the car, she tucked into the couch and started to read. She was instantly lost in the pages, each sentence a touchstone to events that had happened before the first Queen Elizabeth had ascended to the throne, when the world was just discovering itself and spice drove the economy. It was exciting, heady stuff… but she forced herself to skip ahead, to find the part about the keys. She could read it all again later, when she had the leisure to savor the history.
She looked up when Nate sat a box of bottled wine on the table. She pointed to the kitchen island—the corkscrew was in the top drawer—and went back to reading, but looked up again a moment later. Sully was digging through their bags from the outdoor shop, pawing through flashlights and packs of batteries.
“You got your key at the auction in New York, yeah?” she asked, curious what they had to say for themselves.
Nate answered, using her corkscrew to break the foil on a La Rioja Alta they’d picked up. “Yep. We liberated it, in the interest of historical discovery.”
She smiled. Nate was a charmer, in an innocent, good-natured way. He was funny… and he reminded her of someone, although she couldn’t say who. It would come to her eventually. A boy she’d known back home, maybe.
Not too smart, though, if he’s in this with Sully.
“I found my cross in a crypt in Genoa,” she said. “Didn’t even know what I had, that it was a key to a much bigger fortune. But Sully knew.”
“Let me guess, he tried to lowball you.”
Sully was digging through another bag and looked up with a fake hurt expression. “I offered you a fair price.”
