India and Brandon sat in the tea room of the Golden Years nursing home. They had spent the previous evening making calls, tracing the descendants of the family who had bought the necklace, and had at last located the whereabouts of the only surviving member. For the last half hour they had been enjoying a cup of tea and a chat with Eileen Richards, daughter of the last known person to have owned the Gemini Cross. At ninety-one, Eileen was surprisingly alert and wonderful company. India in particular was totally enamoured with her and listened in fascination as she regaled them with stories of life during the war and indeed the following decades. Finally, Eileen sat back and she stared over at Brandon, her piercing eyes still inquisitive and attentive.
‘So, Mr Walker,’ she said, ‘as delightful as it is to receive visitors, I’m still not sure why you are here.’
‘Like I said, Mrs Richards,’ said Brandon, ‘we are researchers from the British Museum, and we are tracing the heritage of certain historical items from the last century.’
‘I assume you don’t mean me?’ she asked with a smile.
‘Of course not,’ answered Brandon. ‘The item we are currently researching is a piece of jewellery bought by your family over a hundred years ago. We were wondering if there was any chance it was still in your family’s possession, whether you had any recollections as to the piece in question, or indeed if you knew where it is now.’
‘What is the piece?’ asked Eileen.
‘A crucifix called the Gemini Cross,’ said India. ‘It was made by a little-known jeweller called Frederick Simpson and was sold to your family by auction in 1901.’
Eileen closed her eyes and sat back, a slight smile on her face.
Brandon glanced at India, who shrugged her shoulders, not quite knowing what to do.
‘Mrs Richards…’ started Brandon. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said, ‘it’s just that you have just brought back some wonderful memories.’
‘I have?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Eileen. ‘As you are no doubt aware, my mother’s family was very well off, and I remember being brought up in the thirties in a beautiful country house in the Cotswolds. We had servants, nice clothes and lovely food, especially considering the rest of the country was in a depression. But the main thing I remember were the adventures we enjoyed as children. My brothers I and would ride our ponies into the countryside and spend all day exploring, unhindered by the worries of today. It was a wonderful time and though there were hard times throughout the rest of the country, we weren’t really affected. I remember grand parties with film stars staying the night and weekends where even politicians stayed over to enjoy the hunting on our land.’
‘It sounds wonderful,’ said India.
‘Oh, it was while it lasted,’ said Eileen, ‘but life has a way of bringing you down to earth very quickly, and when my father died in a freak accident, our lives changed drastically. My mother fell apart, she started drinking heavily and soon had a string of unscrupulous boyfriends who bled her dry. Eventually the money ran out and the servants left. The estate fell into disrepair until eventually my mother had to sell the house just to survive. When war broke out, we moved into a small cottage in the grounds of a house belonging to an old friend, but even then we struggled and mother had to sell the last of the things of any value she had left. I remember sitting at the kitchen table as she emptied her jewellery box. A few hours later a man in a suit arrived and gave her some money before taking the jewellery away.
‘Oh how she cried when he left. I remember counting the money on the table and there was over five hundred pounds there, more money than I could ever imagine, but apparently the jewellery was worth ten times that.’
‘So she sold the cross,’ said Brandon.
‘No, she didn’t,’ said Eileen. ‘It was the one thing she kept. It meant too much to her as it had been given to her by father as a gift on her wedding day.
‘It was a very emotional time, but at least we had money to feed ourselves and to pay our way. For a while, everything seemed to be OK, but then one day my brother came home and told mother he was joining the air force. Mother was distraught, but my brother’s mind was set. He spent his last few days as a civilian with us and on the day he left, Mother gave him the one thing she had left of any value.’
‘The cross?’ said India.
‘The cross,’ confirmed Eileen. ‘She placed it around his neck and told him it would ensure he returned home again safely.’
‘And did it?’ asked Brandon.
‘At first, yes,’ said Eileen. ‘He joined bomber command and his crew flew over thirty missions before they were shot down over Germany. We never heard from him again.’
‘Oh, Eileen, that’s terrible,’ said India. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘That’s war,’ said Eileen. ‘He knew the risks and paid the price. So, you see, Mr Walker, I’m afraid your trip has been in vain. Yes, we had the cross you speak of, but as far as I am concerned, the last time anyone saw it was over Berlin in 1945.’
Half an hour later India and Brandon sat in the car outside the nursing home.
‘What a wonderful old lady,’ said India, ‘and such a tragic story.’
‘It doesn’t help us though,’ said Brandon.
‘No, it seems it is a dead end,’ said India. They sat for a few seconds in silence before Brandon gunned the engine.
‘So, where now?’ asked India as they drove away.
‘Well,’ said Brandon, ‘this avenue seems blocked, so we have to take the obvious alternative.’
‘And where may that be?’ asked India.
‘Argentina,’ said Brandon, and pulled out into the main flow of traffic.
Three days later they walked out of Buenos Aires Airport and climbed into a taxi. India gave a piece of paper with the name of the hotel to the driver and they sat back to watch the city go by. Brandon had spent the previous few days making phone calls and eventually, when all the arrangements were in place, they had made the fifteen-hour flight from Heathrow.
Brandon was strangely quiet and despite being pressed by India, refused to say much about the next stage of the investigation. Finally they reached the hotel and after settling in, they met again in the dining room to share an evening meal.
‘So,’ said India, as they waited for the food to arrive, ‘here we are. Are you feeling any better now you have had a sleep?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Brandon.
‘Then why are you so miserable?’
‘I’m not miserable, it’s just that we have to be careful.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look,’ said Brandon, ‘as you know, we need to ask questions regarding that mummy back in London. The only way to do that is to go to the relevant museum over here. Now that may seem easy enough, but bearing in mind the situation between both countries, I don’t think we are going to be welcomed with open arms, do you?’
‘Perhaps not, but we aren’t doing anything wrong.’
‘I know, but as soon as we start asking questions, eyebrows will be raised and doors will be slammed. No, we need to be a bit clever here, and that’s why I am calling in some favours off some old acquaintances.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘India, despite what you may hear on the news, there are still huge tensions between the two countries, and Britain needs constant intelligence about the situation out here. The cold war may be over on the continent but I can tell you, the government has just as many operatives out here as they ever did in Moscow.’
‘You mean spies?’
‘If that’s what you want to call them, yes, but it is much more sophisticated these days.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Look, when you see the US and Russian presidents meeting together on the news, do you really think it is they who discuss the issues and make the deals?’
‘Well, no. I suppose it is the diplomats behind the scenes.’
‘Exactly,’ said Brandon, ‘and it is that network of civil servants that are the key to opening doors here. I have contacted the British Embassy and they have made arrangements for us to meet one of our “friendlier” contacts out here to see what he can do to help us.’
‘So why are you so worried?’ asked India.
‘I know him,’ said Brandon, ‘or at least, I know of him. He is as slippery as an eel, and can’t be trusted.’
‘So let’s use someone else,’ said India.
‘There is no one else,’ said Brandon. ‘At least nobody with the credentials this man has. We are just going to have to be very careful.’
‘OK,’ said India. ‘At least forewarned is forearmed. What’s this guy’s name?’
‘His name is Stefan Gomez, and he is a senior official in the Ministry of Immigration. We are meeting him tomorrow morning at his offices.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ said India, ‘is why a senior government official is going to help us, especially if they hate us so much.’
‘Don’t forget, India,’ said Brandon, ‘they are just as keen to get to the bottom of this as we are. There are too many other things at stake here. If all this kicks off and it reaches the media, it could set back negotiations on the Falklands ten years.’
‘But surely we’ll never give up the Falklands,’ said India. ‘The people there have made it absolutely clear they want to stay as part of Britain.’
‘So did the residents of Hong Kong,’ said Brandon, ‘and we gave that back in 1997. No, it’s not the people who are the main negotiating point here, India, but the vast oil reserves thought to be under the seabed around the islands. Don’t kid yourself. Britain is no longer a big enough player to fight another Falklands War. Brazil is one of the fastest-growing economies in the world, Peru, Mexico, Chile and Colombia have just formed a trading alliance and Argentina is expanding rapidly. If they all decide to combine their trading power and take sanctions against Britain, or at least give other countries more favourable trading terms, we are at risk of becoming sidelined in this part of the world. Make no mistake, India, Britain needs Argentina more than they need us. We are a tiny island punching above our weight, but the world is changing and we need friends in this part of the world, not enemies.’
‘Wow,’ said India, ‘I never realised.’
‘There’s a lot of information that Joe Public doesn’t know,’ said Brandon. ‘The media feeds us what the government wants us to believe.’
‘Surely not,’ said India. ‘What about the freedom of the press?’
‘Oh, they report what they think is the truth,’ said Brandon, ‘but there is an awful lot they don’t know until someone makes a mistake and various things are suddenly exposed to the world.’
‘Like what?’
‘Politicians’ expenses, bankers’ bonuses, manipulation of interest rates, millionaire tax loopholes. Everyone in power knows these things go on, but as they are part of the same system, they close ranks. Of course, when these things are exposed, the press have a field day. Some big names become fall guys, but the ranks soon close again and everything is forgotten as soon as the next A-list celebrity gets divorced.’
‘That’s a very cynical point of view,’ said India.
‘Yet accurate,’ said Brandon. ‘Don’t forget, I operate in a culture where secrecy is paramount, and I often get to see facts that aren’t for public consumption.’
‘Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?’
‘I don’t think so. I chose to do the job I do and I do it to the best of my ability. I would never betray my fellow soldiers or indeed my country, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have opinions on some of the crap the public are force-fed via the media.’
‘Well,’ said India, smiling at the waiter as he brought their meal, ‘it’s pointless worrying about it tonight. Let’s just take the opportunity to relax a little and enjoy some more of this fantastic wine.’
Brandon smiled and nodded his agreement.
‘Let’s do that,’ he said, and for the rest of the evening they made small talk about Argentineans, silver crosses and long-dead mummies.
The following morning saw them sitting in the waiting room of a nondescript office in central Buenos Aires. After a wait of half an hour, a skinny bespectacled man called them through and they followed him into a back room. Before them was a large desk, behind which sat a fat man in an immaculate suit. Brandon estimated him to be at least twenty stone and his multiple chins glistened with beads of sweat, as did his perfectly bald head.
‘Sit,’ said the fat man without standing up, and indicated two plastic chairs to one side of the room. As they retrieved the chairs, the fat man’s eyes never left India and even lingered for a few moments after they had sat down. Despite feeling awkward, India returned his stare without flinching. Finally he smiled and looked over to Brandon.
‘So,’ he said, ‘you are Mr Walker.’
‘I am,’ said Brandon, ‘and I thought we were meeting at the embassy.’
‘Ah yes, a necessary change of plan. It is a little more private here, don’t you agree?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Brandon.
‘And who, may I ask, is your delightful friend?’
‘My name is India Summers,’ said India, with an edge to her voice, ‘and I can speak for myself, thank you.’
‘Of course you can,’ said the man, ‘please forgive me. My name is Stefan Gomez, but of course, you already knew that. Tell me, Miss Summers, are you also on the payroll of the UK government?’
‘I am here in an advisory capacity,’ she said. ‘My expertise is in history, and my role is to provide Mr Walker with any historical information he may require to reach the bottom of this unfortunate situation.’
‘Good answer,’ thought Brandon.
Gomez nodded as the information sank in.
‘Very interesting,’ he said. ‘Anyway, we digress. We all know why you are here, Mr Walker, and as a representative of the Argentine government, it is my duty to remind you we are not happy about the spurious accusations your government is throwing our way. We have compiled a statement outlining our stance, but I think you will find nothing has changed.’ He slid a brown envelope across the table toward Brandon.
Brandon didn’t move but kept his eyes locked on Gomez.
‘We understand your situation,’ said Brandon, ‘and accept that your government has done everything in its power to formally investigate the claims. However, what we are looking for is an informal arrangement.’
Silence fell for a few moments until finally Gomez said something in Spanish and the skinny man who had shown them in left the room, closing the door behind him.
‘What sort of informal agreement?’ asked Gomez when they were alone.
‘The ten thousand dollar kind,’ said Brandon, sliding an envelope of his own across the table.
Gomez nodded but didn’t touch the envelope.
‘And what sort of information are you after?’
‘Not much,’ said Brandon. ‘We want to know the history of the mummy in question. Where it came from? Who found it? Where it has been kept since discovery? That sort of thing.’
Gomez nodded.
‘I think that can be arranged,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, we also want access to the vaults of the museum and anybody behind the scenes who may have handled it over the past year or so.’
‘Is that all?’
‘That’s all for now,’ said Brandon, ‘though we may have more questions as we proceed.’
‘And thus, more envelopes,’ said Gomez with a sickly smile.
‘Possibly,’ said Brandon.
Gomez leaned forward and picked up the package.
‘I will give you what you need,’ he said. ‘Return to your hotel and someone will be in touch this evening. Now, if there’s nothing else, I am a very busy man.’
India and Brandon stood up and when it was obvious Gomez’s attention was already elsewhere, they left the office without another word. As soon as they were outside, India turned to Brandon.
‘What was that all about?’ she asked.
‘What was all what about?’
‘You, giving that man ten thousand dollars. Why did you do that?’
‘It’s the best way to get these people to play ball,’ said Brandon as they walked. ‘He may be a slimeball, but over the years his information has always been first class, as long as the money is right, of course.’
‘That’s a lot of money just to prove somebody has interfered with a mummy,’ said India.
‘Like I said last night,’ said Brandon, ‘there is a lot at stake here. Ten grand is toilet paper money to Her Majesty’s secret service.’
They crossed the road and made their way back toward the city centre before calling a taxi.
‘Flora Hotel, please,’ said Brandon.
‘No wait,’ said India, ‘Gomez will need a few hours to collate the information, why don’t we go to the museum?’
‘He wouldn’t have managed to arrange access yet.’
‘No, I don’t mean behind the scenes. Why don’t we just go as tourists? You never know what we may see.’
‘OK,’ said Brandon, ‘I don’t suppose a few hours will hurt.’ A few minutes later they pulled up outside the Argentine Museum and walked up the sweeping marble steps toward the magnificent arches.
Inside they walked through the wonderful entrance hallway and after picking up a leaflet written in English, followed a stream of visitors heading deeper into the building. For a while they wandered, taking in the vast array of exhibits ranging from the obligatory dinosaur skeletons to artefacts from the Falklands War. Brandon lingered at that display while India continued on her own. Eventually he caught up with her in a room dedicated to the presidency of Juan and Eva Peron. Brandon walked toward India and stopped just behind her, looking at the photographs over her shoulder.
‘Who’s this?’ asked Brandon.
‘Eva and Juan Peron,’ said India. ‘A fascinating couple and much loved by the people of Argentina.’
‘Wasn’t she called Evita?’ asked Brandon.
‘She was,’ said India, referring to the popular name for the ex-first lady of Argentina. ‘She was worshipped by the ordinary people as something just short of a saint. She spent about fifty million dollars a year on her charitable foundation including the homeless, schools and hospitals. Of course, it was just money funnelled from her husband’s government in a shameless marketing campaign, but the poor benefited nevertheless.’
‘What about him?’ asked Brandon.
‘He was an ex-soldier,’ said India. ‘He worked his way up through the ranks, serving in Italy, France, Germany and Spain before returning to Argentina just after the war started and took part in the military coup in 1943 before becoming president in 1945.’
‘Any links to mummies?’ asked Brandon half-heartedly.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said India. ‘Anyway, come on, they are through here.’
They entered another room and shuffled their way slowly through the crowd toward the one exhibit on display at the far end of the room. The room was a bit cooler than the previous one and dimly lit. Against the far wall, a hidden red light illuminated a glass box containing the frozen mummy of a young girl no more than fifteen years old.
‘It looks like the one back home,’ said Brandon.
‘Very similar,’ said India, referring to the guidebook. ‘Apparently she is one of several found on the slopes of an extinct volcano in the Andes.’
‘Where are the others?’ asked Brandon.
‘Locked away behind the scenes.’
‘Do you think ours is one of that group?’ asked Brandon.
‘I’m not sure,’ said India. ‘She was dressed quite differently to this one and certainly came from a different tribe, if not a different generation.’
They walked around the glass box, taking in the details of the long-dead child before finally making their way out and heading back to the hotel.
As they walked through the foyer of the hotel, the receptionist called out.
‘Mr Walker, we have a parcel for you.’
Brandon signed for the parcel and joined India at the lift.
‘That didn’t take him long,’ said India.
‘Money makes the world go around,’ said Brandon.
They went up to their rooms and after ordering room service, both sat on Brandon’s bed to open the parcel.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s see what we have got.’