“It all makes sense now,” Villa continued. “Francisco Coronado was not looking for a city of gold. He was looking for something far more valuable. The golden chambers only point the direction. The chambers themselves serve as either a beacon to the righteous or a distraction for the wicked.”
“What do you mean, distraction?” Sean chimed in, his voice resonating off the walls.
“For those of pure heart, the golden chambers would not have mattered. It was the journey that was of importance. The greedy and misguided souls would see the glittering gold and forget all about the path. They would figure they had found the ultimate treasure when, in fact, all they had found was worldly riches. “Coronado must have known this. And he surely must have known that he was far to old to take on such a journey.”
“So you are saying there is something even more valuable than four golden rooms worth billions of dollars?” Emily seemed dubious.
“Money isn’t everything,” Adriana replied. “In Coronado’s book he quoted the Gospel of Mark from the Bible. I wondered for a while, why that particular verse was there. It comes from chapter eight. For what doth it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul?”
“The treasure is something else…” Sean trailed of.
“Something far more powerful and potentially more dangerous,” Adriana added. “Perhaps Coronado knew this as well, confirming his thought that it should be left alone, hidden to history and time.”
Adriana stared at both of them with an intensity none either of them had ever seen before. Then she looked back at the golden leaf, sitting silently on the pedestal. She drew in a breath as she considered the implications.
“El Arbol de Vida,” she said finally. “The tree of life.”
Chapter 34
Cars hustled by on the dimly lit streets. The air was colder than usual, almost unseasonably so. There was always a chill that time of year, but, after the brutal summer, the weather seemed to have skipped autumn and gone straight to winter.
Eric Jennings checked back down the sidewalk he’d just come from and then looked in the other direction before pushing open the heavy wooden door to Bellamy’s Irish Pub. Old habits were hard to break. He was of the mindset that one could never be too careful.
Inside, the warm air washed over him, a stark contrast to the bone-chilling cold of the sidewalk outside. He took off his black trench coat and hung it on a hook in the foyer then loosened his blue and white striped tie.
Despite the establishment’s rousing reputation, the bar was quiet that evening. Irish folk music played on the speakers throughout the room, but absent were the large groups of drunken revelers that one might expect based on previous experience.
There were only a few people: a man and a woman, finishing off the last of their beers at the other end of the bar. They laughed and talked quietly, perhaps teasing about what the rest of the night would hold. The man’s back was to Jennings so he couldn’t see his face.
Jennings nodded to a short, fleshy bartender who returned the gesture. Eric had been a patron of the joint for years and Bobby had been bartending there since before then. The man’s gray, thinning hair looked like it was pasted to his round head. He wore the typical white button up shirt and apron over black pants.
The dimly lit pub had a random collection of sports memorabilia from Boston and Washington: Capitals and Bruins jerseys, autographed baseball bats, an old Washington Senators jersey next to one from the Red Sox, and some Redskins pictures all gave the impression the place was some kind of sports bar. Of course, the Irish tri-colors were everywhere mingled with Guinness posters and placards.
Many famous people had stopped in to Bellamy’s over the years but not because it was a trendy spot. It probably had more to do with the fact that one could remain anonymous in the dark, quietude of the pub, at least on weeknights anyway.
“Usual, Mr. Jennings?” The bartender yelled across the room as Eric slid into his favorite booth in a corner and unbuttoned the top button on his white dress shirt.
He nodded. “Thanks Bobby.”
It had been a trying week. A beer and some good food would hit the spot. Bellamy’s was famous for having better than average bar food. With a full compliment of soups and hearty sandwiches, it was one of the only bars in town that had to be open for lunch simply because of the popularity of the menu.
“No problem, Mr. J,” Bobby replied. The barkeeper smiled and hurriedly finished wiping down a spot on the bar that he seemed to be perpetually cleaning then exited the room through a doorway into the kitchen.
It was hard to get service like that anymore. Most bars and restaurants had such a revolving door of turnover in staffing that a person hardly knew the faces they would see from week to week. It was nice that there were a few spots still left that had people dedicated to good service. Jennings smiled at the thought.
Bobby reappeared through the swinging, wooden door. “It’ll be right up, Mr. J,” the chubby man stated.
He passed by the other two customers who were obviously entranced with one another and grabbed a pint glass from behind the bar. Through a technique he’d probably done a hundred thousand times, Bobby filled up the glass with the familiar black stout from Ireland. After topping off the foamy head of the beer, the old barkeep rapidly stepped around the edge of the bar counter and brought it over to Jennings. “Here you go, Mr. J.”
“I appreciate it. Business good today?” Jennings asked the question every week when he came in. Part of him actually did care. After all, a quiet pub with great service and food was hard to find.
The squat man crossed his arms and smiled. “Business is always good when you work for yourself,” Bobby beamed as he said it. “But, yeah, it’s good. Had a bunch of execs come in from a convention this afternoon. So that was solid.” The bartender’s accent was thick, clearly from the Boston area. He paused for a moment. “Your…um, friend is running a little late tonight.”
Eric pursed his lips slightly and nodded. He didn’t need to say anything else.
Jennings was a man of few vices. Most worldly activities didn’t interest him. He’d never gotten in to drugs as a young man, didn’t over indulge with alcohol. Smoking had never been his thing, save for an occasional cigar after a nice meal. Women, however, were his one weakness. Fortunately for him, Bobby was more than willing to accommodate him with a rotation of escorts that met his strict standards, something that Jennings compensated the barkeeper for handsomely. “No problem, Bobby.” He smiled back at the man who winked, gave one nod, and headed back to the kitchen to check on the food. Eric grabbed the cool glass of Irish stout and took a long, slow sip from it, savoring the creamy, bitter flavor after a long day at work.
“Who you meeting here, Eric?”
Jennings was looking down at his cell phone when the new voice startled him, nearly causing him to spill some of his beverage. Setting it down, Jennings looked to his left and instantly recognized the young, narrow face. “I thought I recognized that slimy laugh when I walked in?” He cursed himself silently for not realizing who was with the woman at the bar.
Sam Townsend was the director of the CIA’s newest division. They focused mostly on corruption within government agencies. It was like internal affairs but for the whole party, not just one particular agency. Townsend had been in the Justice Department for five or six years. Eric couldn’t recall exactly. But he knew the young punk had risen quickly, too quickly in many veterans’ opinion. Eric hadn’t recognized him at the bar a few moments earlier. He stood a few feet away, hands in both pockets of his expensive Armani suit. His short, dark hair was slightly spiked off to the side and dark brown eyes were narrow, accompanied by a smug grin. He wasn’t even thirty yet.