King had long ago become convinced that Amelia Kernewek was Emily Hamilton. His recent discovery of Kha’um’s ship’s name, also the Hand of Freedom, only served to fuel that belief now.
Despite the possible link between the first name and the coincidence that the enigmatic Lady Kernewek first appeared in 1714, the same year that King had lost track of any accounts of Kha’um, and now surmised it as the year of his death in Xibalba, there was no unequivocal proof.
Except, he was certain, within the pages of the Kernewek Diary.
Upon her death, Lady Kernewek left all her few worldly goods to her ‘slaves’ and the handful of white people who had flocked to her humanitarian banner.
The Kernewek Diary, King was sure, had been passed down through the generations to the present day owner of the tiny, near bankrupt Hand of Freedom museum. But despite the paper trails, the owner, an overweight and intimidating Jamaican woman, insisted no such thing existed, despite King’s best efforts to simply see it. He had almost bankrupted himself to pay her for a single look at the diary, positive that it would relate the adventures of Kha’um and Emily Hamilton and reveal the resting place of the assembled Moon Mask.
“We need that book,” Gibbs stated bluntly. “And I’m not prepared to sit around a negotiating table hammering out a sales ledger. We go in, King identifies the book, we take it and leave.”
“Just one problem,” King admitted. “I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
Gibbs stared at him, dumbfounded. “You… What the hell do you mean—”
“I’ve never seen it. The owner denies it even exists—”
“Surely you can tell, right?” O’Rourke added, entering the conversation. “It’s a museum so there’ll be labels and information boards.”
“It’s not the Louvre,” King snorted irritably. “This place is a mess. It’s full of memorabilia that has never been properly catalogued.” He redirected his gaze to Gibbs. “There are books galore in there. I can find the diary without the owner’s help. But it’ll take half a lifetime.”
“We need her to tell us where it is,” Raine added in support.
“And short of torturing a seventy six year old innocent woman,” King concluded, “she’s not going to do that if we storm her particular little castle.”
Something flashed through Gibbs’ face in that instant, something worrying, as though he were actually considering torture. Would they really succumb to that, he wondered, glancing at the soldiers in a new light?
“If we can’t take it by force, and if she won’t be bought, then how do we get her to give it to us?” Gibbs demanded, equally irritable.
That was something King hadn’t yet worked out either. His last encounter with the owner of the museum had ended in a stay at the local prison — not something he wanted to repeat — and he didn’t doubt that the stubborn old cow would even resist Gibbs’ torture attempts.
But then Raine spoke up. All eyes turned to him. “I have an idea,” he grinned. “But I’ll need a tie.”
26:
Sin City
The black Humvee raced down the Palisadoes, the promontory which almost entirely encircled the Kingston waterfront. To either side of the Norman Manley Highway which ran the length of the Palisadoes, the inviting waters of the Caribbean sparkled brilliantly blue under the tropical sun while at the end of the spit of land lay what had once been described as “the richest, wickedest city in Christendom.”
Originally called Cayo de Carena by the Spanish, it was later renamed ‘The Point’ by the English. Realising its strategic importance, they built Fort Cromwell, later known as Fort Charles, the first of six forts to be manned by a garrison of more than two and a half thousand men.
The town of Port Royal developed to service the garrison and it became a sprawling array of workshops, rum shops, inns and brothels. For it was not only the English garrison that was serviced by the folk of Port Royal, but pirates. The name ‘Port Royal’ went hand in hand with the folklore of the days of high sea buccaneers. It became a seething, broiling mass of rum and whores, of smuggling and piracy, murder and mayhem.
The original Sin City.
But the glory days of piracy waned and Port Royal was almost entirely swallowed by the sea in a massive earthquake. Huge crevices tore across the land, entire buildings dropped into the sea, an enormous tidal wave wrenched an entire vessel from the harbour and deposited it on the roofs of the buildings. Two thousand people died on 7 June, 1692.
Perhaps Sin City was being punished by God for is evils, for only nine years later, while it was being rebuilt, it was gutted by a terrible fire.
The hay day of the notorious Port Royal was over. Many of the residents relocated to up-and-coming Kingston on the mainland. The Royal Navy continued to use the Point as their main Caribbean base until 1905, after which time it fell into historical obscurity.
Now, it was little more than a small fishing village, frequented by pirate enthusiasts and wannabe treasure hunters who scoured the underwater remains with masks and snorkels. The ruins of Fort Charles remained on the western tip, well preserved rows of fading red-brick, semi-circular gun ports warding off nothing more than the ghostly memories of old.
At the wheel of the Humvee, Nathan Raine drove the three civilian scientists into the town of Port Royal. A hotchpotch of varying architecture from its convoluted history swept in low archways and narrow cobbled streets. There were dozens of museums, some large and important like the Fort Charles Maritime Museum and the National Museum of Historical Archaeology. But it seemed that, especially after the hype of a series of hugely successful Hollywood blockbuster pirate movies, the entire population of Port Royal was looking to make a quick buck. Almost every other building claimed to be an authentic pirate museum and, turning a corner onto the seafront, they were suddenly confronted by a mass of pirates and wenches milling around the fishing harbour.
Raine let out a low whistle. “Johnny Depp, eat your heart out.”
“It’s a pirate party,” King explained from the back seat where he sat with Sid.
Ever since civil unrest in Kingston in 2010 had damaged the island nation’s tourist industry, the authorities had been struggling to bring back holiday makers. Port Royal had, for years, been at the centre of numerous plans, ranging from a pirate-themed amusement park sponsored by Walt Disney to an ultra-modern port for expensive cruise ships. In the absence of financial support for grander plans, organising these ‘pirate parties’ was a weak attempt to draw tourists to the otherwise sleepy town.
“Looks like some nerdy Star Trek convention for pirate enthusiasts,” Raine said as he slowed the vehicle and let out a series of toots on the horn. Several of the fancy-dressed revellers scattered off the road but many more, dressed in tri-corns, eye patches and hooked hands, still wandered aimlessly in front of them, too caught up in the fun to notice. Market stalls lined either side of the road selling giant Jolly Roger flags, large skull shaped mugs, plastic swords and, ironically, pirated DVDs of seemingly every pirate movie ever made.
Through his mirrored sunglasses, Raine scanned the crowd for any sign of trouble. Many of the partygoers carried toy muskets and pistols but his trained eye easily nullified them as any real danger.
“Eagle Eye, do you read me, over,” he said through his invisible com-unit.
Kristina Lake’s voice came back through the tiny ear piece. “Delivery team, we have a visual on you.”