Chapter 2: The Priceless

Outside the Cádiz archives, the drizzle hadn’t stopped. Diego locked the silver coins and the manuscript into a bank vault, taking only the Nautical Chart with him toward the archway. His finger brushed the rough edge of the parchment, pausing. That texture didn't belong to seventeenth-century paper. He pushed open the heavy doors of the archive; the bell was just finishing its ninth strike. Sofia poked her head out of the storage room, her eyes lighting up when she saw the chart.

"Where the hell did you get this?" Sofia pulled on her gloves and took the chart from him. Diego shook his head. "It was tucked inside the manuscript. I need you to run a carbon-dating and ink analysis on it."

Sofia spread the chart out under the lamp, scanning it back and forth with a magnifying glass. "Look at this misregistration here. The eagle’s wing and the ship’s hull are off by three millimeters. No printer from the seventeenth century would make that mistake."

Diego stared at the error, his throat tightening. "Maybe... it was printed wrong on purpose." Sofia frowned. "You mean someone deliberately left a flaw when forging it?"

Diego nodded. "The Navigation Log mentioned that some charts hide secret markings. These misalignments on the drawing? They might be coordinates." Sofia scoffed. "You're superstitious about old paper. This isn't some treasure map; it's a forgery."

Diego pointed to the ink. "Look at the ink. It’s Iron-gall Ink. It turns black when exposed to acid. Seventeenth-century ink oxidizes and turns yellow over time, but this ink is fresh."

Sofia was quiet for a moment, then dipped a cotton swab in a chemical reagent and dabbed the ink. The mark instantly flushed blue-black.

"It is definitely Iron-gall Ink," Sofia said, lowering the swab, her expression softening slightly. "But the paper fibers are wrong. This is nineteenth-century cotton pulp."

Diego held his ground. "Then it means this chart was drawn in 1863. Someone used seventeenth-century ink on nineteenth-century paper."

Sofia stared at him. "That doesn't make sense. Unless... someone intentionally aged it but left time’s fingerprints behind." Diego nodded. "Exactly. This isn't a forgery, it's a copy."

Sofia examined the Nautical Chart closely. "If it's a copy, where's the original?" Diego shook his head. "I don't know. But the secret markings on the drawing must point to where the original is."

Sofia carefully rolled up the chart and placed it back in the secure storage with a solemnity that suggested the weight of the task. "I need a day to do the fiber analysis and compare the ink samples. I'll have a written conclusion for you tomorrow."

Diego nodded and turned to leave. By the time he stepped out of the archive, the sky was overcast, and the rain had started falling again.

That evening, Diego received a phone call at his inn. The voice on the other end was the archive’s night duty officer, trembling. "Mr. Diego, Sofia has been killed. The police found your fingerprints in the storage room."

Diego gripped the receiver, unable to form a single word. He hung up, burst out of the inn, and headed straight for the archive. By the time he arrived, police cars were parked outside, yellow tape cordoning off the entrance. Officer Hans stood at the door, blocking his path. "Mr. Diego, why were you in the storage room yesterday?"

Diego stared at Hans. "I only handed the Nautical Chart to Sofia. I never went into the storage room."

Hans held up an evidence bag containing a clear fingerprint. "But your fingerprint was found on the Nautical Chart at the scene." Diego froze, his face draining of color. "Someone framed me."

Hans shook his head. "The evidence is solid. You need to come with us." Diego was taken away and locked in a holding cell. His lawyer, Thomas, advised him to plead guilty. "The chain of evidence is complete. You have no chance of winning."

Diego refused. "I didn't kill anyone. I want to see the scene photos." Thomas frowned. "That’s not how things work." Diego insisted. "With photos, I can prove my innocence."

Thomas relented and pulled the scene photos. Diego flipped through them one by one. The camera panned over the storage room, the Nautical Chart spread flat on the table, a corner torn away. Diego looked up sharply. "The chart is missing a corner. That’s where I made my mark. It has my initials on it."

Thomas looked stunned. "You mean the killer tore off the evidence?" Diego nodded. "The torn piece proves I’m innocent. Someone is using me."

Thomas fell silent, studying the photo. "So what do you intend to do?" Before Diego could answer, the door swung open. Victor stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed, a smile on his face. "Mr. Diego, Mr. Fernando wants to buy back that scrap of paper."

Diego stared at Victor. "Scrap?" Victor nodded. "Yes, the chart is scrap paper. But Mr. Fernando is willing to pay a high price to buy back that scrap."

Diego sneered. "He’s not afraid of the paper; he’s afraid of what’s written on it." Victor shook his head. "You’re misunderstanding. Mr. Fernando just wants to reclaim his family’s property."

"I want to meet him," Diego demanded. Victor refused. "He won’t see you. Here is a check." He handed over an envelope. Diego took it and opened it. Inside was a check with a staggering number, and a note: *Don’t touch what isn’t yours.*

Diego clenched the envelope, saying nothing. Victor turned and left. After Diego was released, he returned to the inn and pulled out the manuscript. There was an indentation along the edge of the Nautical Chart. He traced it with his fingers, realizing there was a layer of hidden paper on the back of the chart. He held it over a candle flame, and the characters on the hidden paper gradually appeared. It was a list, filled with stolen treasures from the Prado.

Diego stood there, realizing Fernando wasn't after the chart, but this list. He stared at the list, tightened his fist, and decided not to hand it over. He would use it as leverage to drag Fernando out.

Diego tucked the list into his inner shirt pocket, pressing the wax paper against his skin. Victor’s men had tail him for three days, but he refused to run. He walked to the entrance of the Prado and told the guard, "Tell Fernando that the paper he lost is with me."

The guard went inside, and when he came out, he led the way. Diego walked through the long corridor and pushed open the door. Fernando was sitting in front of a painting, his back to Diego. "So you came."

Diego spread out the list. "Twelve stolen treasures are on this list, three are in your private warehouse. You don't want the chart, you want this ledger."

Fernando turned, smiling. "Clever. But if you dared to come, you should know you can’t get out." Diego nodded. "I know. So I copied it and sent it to the police. If I die, the ledger gets published."

Fernando’s smile froze.

Diego pushed the list across the table. "Now we negotiate. I want my grandfather’s signature to clear his name. You want the ledger; I’ll burn the original."

Fernando stayed silent for a long moment, then finally pulled out an old letter and pushed it across. Diego verified the handwriting and nodded. He picked up the list, walked to the fireplace, and tossed it into the fire. Fernando watched the ashes. "You burned it."

Diego turned. "I memorized it. Once the signature is signed, I’ll write it for you."

He left, and Fernando didn't stop him. After stepping out the door, Diego pulled out the layer of hidden paper he was wearing, tore it to shreds, and threw it into the rain gutter. The real ledger had long been encoded in his memory. With the signature in hand, he sent the manuscript out that night, attached with Fernando’s warehouse coordinates. The next day, police raided the warehouse and recovered three stolen treasures from the Prado.

Diego stood at the train station, the grandfather’s signature in his pocket. He bought a ticket for the south and left without looking back.

Upon arriving at the Prado, the guards reported his arrival. Fernando, with his back to the painting: "You came." Diego spread the list: "Twelve stolen, three in your warehouse. You want the ledger, not the chart." Fernando laughed: "Smart. But you can't leave." Diego: "I copied it and sent to police. If I die, ledger published." Fernando froze.

Diego pushed the list: "Negotiate terms. Grandfather’s signature for the original ledger." Fernando took out the old letter, verified it. Diego burned the list, turned: "I memorized it. Will write for you once signed." Left, tore hidden paper, threw in rain gutter. Real ledger code in his brain. Sent manuscript with coordinates; police raided warehouse, recovered three items. Diego held signature, bought southbound ticket, didn't look back.

Next step: Does the archive exist? Need to encrypt.

Does the archive exist? Need to encrypt. Diego didn’t stop; he walked straight to the platform and sat on the waiting bench. He pulled a heavily creased piece of old paper from his inner pocket—not the ledger, not the list, but a copy of the index page he had stolen from the archive and then carefully returned.

He unfolded it and scanned a line of text: 1863, Nautical Chart registered, Number B-14, notes column read "Annotation on back, pending verification."

He struck a match. The paper burned to ash, falling at his feet. The original archive document still lay in the records office; the police would find it eventually. But it was just a registration index; no physical evidence, no fingerprints. It would only prove he had accessed the catalog. His alibi was already prepared: as a shipping agent, he was routinely verifying vessel documents. It was watertight.

The window clattered as the train pulled into the station. He stood up, ticket clutched in his fingers. South, first stop: Seville. The grandfather’s signature was tucked close to his chest—that was his innocence, and his chip. As for Fernando—he had burned the list, but Diego remembered the names of the twelve stolen treasures. Three were in the warehouse, already recovered. The whereabouts of the remaining nine were a mystery.

What Fernando had left with was only that ledger, which had been burned yet lived on in Diego’s memory. He thought Diego was dead and the ledger would be published. In reality, Diego was alive, and the ledger was in his head. Fernando was trapped in a dead end.

The train started moving. Diego leaned against the window and closed his eyes. He had already torn up that hidden layer of paper and thrown it into the rain gutter; the true ledger was coded deep in his memory. The manuscript for his grandfather had been sent out, attached with the coordinates of Fernando’s warehouse. The police had raided the warehouse and recovered three treasures. He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting.

The drizzle tapped against the glass. Diego opened his eyes, his gaze falling on the man in the opposite seat. The man sat upright, hands resting on his knees, fingers thick and rough—the kind of hands a dock worker had. But Diego recognized those eyes—the Prado guard, one of Fernando’s men. He had followed him onto the train.

He didn’t move. Only as the train pulled out of the station did he reach into his coat’s inner pocket, his fingertips touching a cold, iron object: an old locksmith’s knife he always carried.

He didn’t rush to react. Fernando wasn’t a man of quick, decisive violence; he sent tails just to verify if Diego had really left the ledger behind. Diego closed his eyes, feigning sleep, while the last page of the ledger flipped through his mind. There, a non-public entry was recorded: the name of the police chief Fernando had bribed.

He clenched the locksmith’s knife. On the handle were traces of him picking the side door of the archive. He remembered the archivist’s last words, garbled and dying: "The back of the chart... isn't just the list... there’s one more thing..."

He hadn’t finished before he died.

The train roared. Diego slowly opened his eyes; a decision had been made. He would get off at the next station, shake the tail, and then make a trip to Granada. Because the unfinished sentence from the archivist led to another clue: on the back of the chart, besides the treasure list, there was a blurred pattern of an address pointing to an abandoned monastery outside Granada.

He took out his pocket watch. Inside the cover was a tiny sliver of paper torn from the chart, the pattern faint. He snapped the watch shut, looking out the window at the night darkness.

He would reach the monastery before dawn. And behind him, that guard remained in the shadows, a figure of death, following tight.