Below us, Mia and the guards were climbing the dunes. In a minute, they would join us, and I had the urgent sense of having to make a decision that instant, while Extepan and I were still alone. I thought of Motecuhzoma, whose image I had seen countless times on film and television, a man more than any other who had shaped our times. I thought of Tenochtitlan, city on the lake, the heart of the Aztec empire, a distant place of power and exotic dreams. I confess I was flattered to hear that the great tlatoani, He Who Speaks, wished to meet me, even though I was the daughter of a king.
I walked off down a brambled path, forcing Extepan to follow. I allowed him to catch up with me.
‘Did you ever find out who sacrificed the Russian soldier?’ I asked.
He tugged the hem of his cloak free from a briar.
‘Nothing was found in the church,’ he told me. ‘There was no body and no evidence of the… act you described to me.’
Branches gusted overhead, showering us with water. How convenient – and inevitable – that all signs of the sacrifice had been cleared away. I was now more certain than ever that Pachtli had been involved, and I wished I had insisted that Extepan accompany me to the church the next day. Probably, though, it would have made no difference, the body taken away during the night, the place scrubbed clean of blood.
‘It happened,’ I insisted.
‘I’m sure it did. But without proof, we had no means of proceeding with further enquiries.’
‘You do believe me?’
‘Catherine, I have never had any reason to disbelieve you.’
I walked on again, descending the dunes back towards the beach, uncaring of the rain. Richard was crouched at the waterline, building a wall of pebbles in front of the waves while Xochinenen looked on under a big black umbrella. In that unguarded moment, her face expressed the sadness which she must have felt; her father would never see the child she was carrying.
Extepan drew abreast of me. ‘I think you might be pleased to hear that Pachtli has been transferred to a position of lesser responsibility. Enquiries revealed that he had been selling commandeered wines and spirits to our infantry. He is now in charge of military supplies in Godthaab.’
Did Extepan have the same suspicions as me? Even if he did, the punishment was woefully inadequate.
‘So justice has been done,’ I said with heavy irony.
Extepan took my arm. ‘Catherine, visit Mexico with me.’
He held me close, black hair plastered to his forehead by the rain.
Before I could say anything, there was a rising whine, and a jetcopter appeared over the trees. It banked above our heads, then descended, enveloping us in warm exhaust gases, sending pebbles scurrying as it landed.
‘Time for us to be getting back,’ I said.
Chicomeztli had arrived sooner than we had expected. When he emerged from the copter, he whispered urgently to Extepan. I knew something was wrong.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘We must return to London immediately,’ Extepan told me. ‘There has been an explosion. The Prime Minister and many of his cabinet are dead.’
Two
After the memorial service at Westminster Abbey, we were driven back to the complex in a heavily armed motorcade. The crowds were kept well back.
Only one pyramid of the complex had been damaged in the explosion, and this was now swathed in canvas and scaffolding. The repair work was proceeding rapidly, although the bomb had blown out much of the two lower floors, including the cabinet room where Kenneth Parkhouse and his ministers were meeting. He, and seven others, were killed instantly by two kilos of Aztec-manufactured Texcem plastic explosive, carried in a briefcase by a private secretary whom the media described as ‘a fanatical member of a small terrorist organization, the English Liberation Army’.
Later, watching the television coverage in my suite with Bevan, I saw Richard and Xochinenen walking among the crowds outside the Abbey, shaking hands and accepting wreaths and sympathy. People interviewed on the street expressed only outrage at the killings. Iztacaxayauh came on screen to announce that the investigation of the case was being put into the hands of the police’s anti-terrorist squad, who were treating it as a criminal rather than political affair. He was followed by the new Prime Minister, a strident woman in a dark blue suit, who told the nation that she had already formed a new cabinet, that Parliament would continue to represent the people and would never surrender to common murderers.
The camera panned over the crowd, who held banners saying GOD SAVE THE KING, STOP THE SLAUGHTER and GIVE PEACE A CHANCE. A commentator revealed the results of a poll showing that ninety per cent of the public wanted stability under Aztec governorship and an end to all subversive activities.
‘If this is stage-managed,’ I remarked, ‘it’s quite convincing.’
‘Sign of the times,’ Bevan responded. ‘People are fed up with bombs and assassinations and all the rest of it.’
‘Oh? Have you been canvassing opinion yourself?’
He sat amply in an armchair, stockinged feet up on the coffee table.
‘Written all over their faces, it is. Everybody’s had enough of killings, especially after Russia.’
‘Ninety per cent in favour of Aztec rule? I don’t believe it.’
My Citizens Aid office had been gutted in the explosion, and I realized I felt no inclination to start it up again. In recent months, regional centres had been established throughout the country, staffed by local people and including barristers who could bring civil actions against Aztecs if necessary. They would be well equipped to continue the work I had started.
‘Something on your mind?’ Bevan asked.
He had obviously noticed that I was preoccupied.
‘Extepan’s asked me to visit Mexico,’ I told him.
‘Has he now?’
‘Apparently Motecuhzoma wants to meet me. Or so he says.’
He grinned. ‘I reckon he’s more than a bit fond of you, that one.’
To my surprise, I found myself blushing.
‘I turned him down,’ I said hastily. ‘If I went there, it would seem like I was capitulating to Aztec rule over us.’
Bevan looked dubious. ‘I doubt it’d make much difference, myself. It’s all over bar the shouting any road.’
I was surprised by this. ‘I never thought I’d hear you sounding defeatist. I always thought you were a radical. An anarchist, even.’
He shrugged. ‘Not going to blind myself to the facts, am I?’
‘So you’ve given up?’
‘I’m watching and waiting. See what happens next.’
Now there was a report that the remaining members of the English Liberation Army had been rounded up. A group of dowdy figures were shown being bundled into the back of a riot-wagon. This was followed by a potted celebration of Kenneth Parkhouse. He was portrayed as a man ‘whose patriotism showed itself in his constant efforts to provide stable government for his people.’
I made a contemptuous noise. ‘Next they’ll be telling us he was a martyr to British democracy.’
‘There’s some would say he was.’
‘What?’
Bevan pulled off a sock and began inspecting it for holes.
‘Do you think I’m being too hard on him?’
‘Depends. Speaking for myself, I always thought he was a toad. But there’s talk.’
‘Talk?’
‘You know. The usual sort.’
‘What sort, Bevan?’
His forefinger protruded from a hole in the toe. ‘Some are saying the whole thing was rigged by the Aztecs.’
I wrenched the sock from his hands.