‘What do you mean?’
He pretended to look cowed. ‘They reckon Parkie had contacts. With groups like the ELA. That he was secretly working with the underground.’
‘That’s absurd.’
‘Hard to credit, I agree.’
‘He was a careerist, a trimmer. A traitor.’
‘Spoke highly of you, though.’
I was angered by the idea. ‘Are you trying to tell me the Aztecs had him killed? That they planted the bomb?’
‘I’m only saying that’s what some are claiming.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Don’t see it myself, neither. But then again, give a dog a bad name…’
‘Bevan, do you know something?’
He crossed himself. ‘Word of honour. You know how it is. Conspiracy theories. Next they’ll be claiming you had a hand in it.’
On the screen, Parkhouse was shown outside the complex on the day of his election as Prime Minister. He was waving to the crowds, his wife and two teenage daughters at his side.
‘Be a joke, though, wouldn’t it?’ Bevan was saying. ‘If Parkie really was on the side of the angels?’ His expression was almost mischievous. ‘Any chance of my sock?’
Extepan was up on the landing pad, supervising the loading of a luxury Ilhuicamina-class carrier which would be taking him and his retinue to Tenochtitlan tomorrow.
It was sleeting, and we stood together in the lee of the lift shaft. The sickle wings of the carrier glowed bronze in the murky evening light.
‘I expect you’re pleased to be going home at last,’ I remarked.
‘In some ways,’ he admitted. ‘Though I would have been quite happy to stay if my father had wished it. There are many things I like about your country, Catherine.’
‘I bet the weather isn’t top of the list.’
He smiled. ‘I really don’t mind it. But it will be good to return to the sun. And good to see my father also.’
Fork-lift trucks whirred back and forth, depositing crates in the carrier’s hold.
‘There’s something I wanted to ask you before you left,’ I said He gave me a knowing glance. ‘I thought as much. It’s not like you to make social calls without a purpose.’
I ignored the rebuke. ‘There are rumours about the bomb that killed the Prime Minister and his cabinet.’
His attention had returned to the loading operation. He said nothing.
‘Some people are claiming your administration was responsible. They say you wanted to get rid of Parkhouse because he had links with the resistance.’
Extepan shouted, and I recoiled. But he was simply calling to two handlers, telling them to be careful with a crate of chinaware.
‘I’d like to know if there’s any truth in this,’ I said.
Only then did he turn to face me.
‘Do you have evidence?’
‘It’s just a rumour. Is it true?’
A gust of wind made me huddle further under the concrete overhang. Extepan suddenly looked intense.
‘Ever since the explosion,’ he said softly, ‘your newspapers and television have been filled with coverage and analysis of the incident. We have given your reporters full access to all the information available. Nothing has been withheld.’
I made to say something, but he was not to be interrupted.
‘There has been much dwelling on the pain and suffering of the families of those who were killed. There have been photographs of these families and the eight dead men, lengthy and respectful obituaries. All this is as it should be. All this is right and proper. Yet almost nothing has been said of the seventeen Mexicans who were also killed in the explosion. They were just anonymous clerical staff, functionaries who oiled the wheels of your government’s machinery. But they had families and lives just like the others.’
The calm and care with which he spoke only emphasized how much he was containing his anger. He stood close, and I had the feeling he would have liked to take hold of me and shake me.
‘We expected that little account would be taken of them. We do not even demand it, given the circumstances of the occupation and the delicate nature of national sensibilities. But when you come to me and suggest that we might have murdered them, it is not unreasonable that I should feel insulted. Is it, Catherine? Do you think we are such creatures that we would cold-bloodedly kill our own people?’
I wanted to argue that it was perfectly possible he had no knowledge of the plot, that it could have been perpetrated by more ruthless and xenophobic Aztecs in the colonial hierarchy. But that would have been to add outrage to insult.
‘Bring me evidence, Catherine, and I shall act. Bring me proof that we are Tzitzimime and I shall reveal my fangs and claws.’
The Tzitzimime were the monsters of twilight in ancient Aztec mythology who would appear at the destruction of the world and destroy any survivors. And the strange thing was, in his anger with his face half lit by the radiance of the carrier’s wings, Extepan did, at that moment, look a little demonic.
‘I am very busy,’ he said, turning away from me. ‘I do not propose to discuss this matter further. You must follow it up with Iztacaxayauh, if you wish. He is governor now.’
I caught his arm. ‘Extepan, you can’t blame me for asking. I intended no insult. I only want the truth.’
‘Truth?’ he said harshly. ‘Truth, Catherine, is whatever you cannot help yourself believing.’
He pulled free and walked away.
Three
‘Catherine.’
Extepan’s voice woke me from my doze. I stretched in my seat, yawning, and heard Extepan say, ‘You asked to be told when we came in sight of Tenochtitlan. There it is.’
He was pointing through the window. It had been dark when I fell asleep, but now dawn was breaking. The carrier had banked over the Valley of Mexico, and there below us, sitting on a lake that was the colour of blood in the gathering light, rose the city.
I stared in silence for long minutes. Tenochtitlan looked like a vast intricate sculpture of many colours, its towers, spires and pyramids rising from a network of lower buildings in which I could discern gardens, courtyards and swimming pools. The city was divided into wedges and trapezoids, cut and crossed at innumerable points by canals which gave access to the wider waters of Lake Texcoco on all sides.
During my honeymoon, I had visited Venice with Alex and been suitably impressed by this city built on water, but at that moment Tenochtitlan seemed even more marvellous. Less than twenty years before, it had been a sprawling metropolis like many others, sitting on a lake bed that was almost entirely dry But then a major earthquake had struck, killing thousands and making hundreds of thousands homeless. Only the old central quarters of the city, built on the ancient island, had survived without extensive damage. It was then that Motecuhzoma had decided on a radical plan to reshape the city in its former image The surrounding suburbs had been levelled, their populations transferred to satellite towns around the edges of the valley. Then the lake had been restored by a prodigious feat of engineering which only an autocratic will and the economic power of an empire could have made possible. Using old plans, Motecuhzoma’s architects had re-created the ancient heart of the city with as much fidelity as possible. Modern materials and construction methods were used to restore the palaces and houses of the nobles, while the pre-Christian temples were repaired and repainted in their garish pagan colours. They dotted the city at regular intervals, the main ceremonial centre an extensive complex at its very heart.
‘Well?’ said Extepan.
‘It’s breathtaking,’ I replied.