Hiram fell silent for long seconds, gazing out into the wintry day as they ambled on. His grandfather gave him all the time he needed. After a considerable while, Hiram stopped.

  “I shouldn’t have let Danny leave school with me that day. But… He would’ve gone with his friends eventually, so I— ” Another long pause. “I just thought it was better he came with me.”

  That’s the story Hiram had convinced himself of, anyway.

  Hiram tried to keep his tears of guilt bottled up, especially around his father. But his grandfather had always been understanding and had never once apportioned any blame.

  “You know,” he said, “if your father possessed even a quarter of the adventurous spirit you and I have, he would’ve seen that whole terrible event differently. Of course he felt devastated about Danny’s disappearance. We all were. But no one can attach any blame, especially not to you.” Now Hiram’s grandfather fell silent, as if trying hard to remember something lost to time. He shook his head, bewildered, still in disbelief. “Something that has always troubled me is that there was no body. No evidence of any struggle. No footprints leading out of the house, only yours. Nothing. Just so, so strange.”

  And it was strange. Apart from the shock and confusion and obvious devastation for the Kane family to have lost its youngest member, none of what happened made any sense to anybody, including the police.

  The two lads broke into the abandoned old building, which was unwise, but it had lain empty for more than two decades, and that’s just what curious kids did. That part at least made sense. What didn’t add up was that there was never any evidence of foul play, not a shred. Hiram was adamant Danny couldn’t have snuck past him out of the Old Rectory. And even if he had done, surely he would’ve just gone home.

  Of course, after again searching the entire structure until convinced Danny wasn’t there, Hiram sprinted to where they’d left their bikes, expecting to see Danny’s gone. It was still there.

  Hiram rode to the nearest house in a panic and raised the alarm. The police arrived five minutes later, and ten minutes after that had broken open every window and door of the Old Rec’ and turned the entire building upside down. And yet they found nothing, not one single clue as to what could have happened to Danny. It’s a mystery that remains unsolved to this day.

  Hiram and his father were never close. His dad had in no way inherited his own father’s adventurous spirit, and though he’d travelled a little, he’d never ventured further afield than Spain. Emotionally, Hiram was much closer to his spirited grandfather, so when Danny went missing and his heartbroken father began searching for answers, it was inevitable when Hiram became an outlet for his father’s blame.

  Hiram had always maintained he didn’t encourage Danny to bunk off school that afternoon, but that just wasn’t true. The real truth, that he had teased and cajoled Danny until he agreed to bunk off school and go with him to the Old Rec’ that day, was a secret that burned him, a curse and a burden he’d carried in all the years since, and probably always would.

  It was unfair of his father to blame him, based on what he knew, but blame him he did. With the cold truth hanging like a rock of penance around his neck, Hiram just accepted it. They’d not spoken more than a few sentences since that time, and now his mother was dead, the relationship between father and son had devolved into a haunted wasteland.

  Hiram and his grandfather shuffled on through the alabaster snow until they reached the crest of a hill. It was the most beautiful spot at White House Farm, far from the house, and as the crow flies, more than a mile from any other buildings. It’s where his grandfather spent a lot of his free time, especially in the warmer months, but he was an old man now, and though healthy and full of life, he had never liked the cold. What he did enjoy was spending time with his grandson, and a notion shared only by he and Hiram’s grandmother, Jan, his protégé.

  Their elevated position–it was the highest spot in the entire county of Suffolk–afforded them panoramic views over the estate and the countryside beyond. To their left, a forest which started within the boundaries of the property but spread west several more miles, was rich in wildlife. They spotted tiny muntjak Janr regularly, along with multiple species of birds, and their particular favourite, a beautiful barn owl they never tired of seeing, and who visited every dusk. To their right arable farmland spread as far as the eye could see and brought to mind the early nineteenth century paintings of John Constable. Ahead of them, the gently undulating hills synonymous with England stretched all the way to the coast, and while green for most of the year, today lay hidden beneath a dazzling blanket of silky white. It was a spectacular view, and an appropriate spot for Hiram’s grandfather to at last hand over his secret heirloom. But not, however, before a spirited snowball fight that left the old man wheezing through a broad smile.

  It took a few minutes, but once he’d recovered enough he sat his grandson down on an ancient stone bench that he had hand carved himself to mimic classic Inca masonry. “Hiram, both Jan and I are so proud of you, and we couldn’t wish for a finer grandson. You’re a perfect son, too, though your father doesn’t see it that way. But that’s just his mistake. Your mother was also very proud of you, and as for Danny—” The old timer paused for a moment, and looked Janp into Hiram’s eyes. “You were a hero to Danny, the best older brother a kid could have. You must never feel any blame for what happened to him. Never.”

  Hiram’s eyes glazed over as he fought back tears that would sting his face, despite the freezing air. His guilt was a constant nemesis.

  “Hiram, you’re an exceptional young man, and you’ve proven that often over the last few difficult years. That’s why I’ve chosen to give you something that by rights I should’ve given to your father on his own eighteenth birthday, all those years ago.”

  Taken aback, Hiram blinked away his negative thoughts. His grandfather sensed the confusion, and paused, heightening the anticipation.

  “Well, Grandad, what is it? Not that mouldy old explorer’s hat you used to wear, is it?” He thought it might be.

  “Wouldn’t that be an acceptable thing to hand down to a grandson with the same passions as me?” He smiled, and it was a smile that held in it more than six decades of curiosity and adventurous spirit. “No, lad, it isn’t my old hat. I’d never part with that, not even to you.” He winked at the hearty declaration. “But what I am giving you today is no joking matter. It’s an object of the highest cultural significance, and I’m giving it to you because I believe it could not be in more appropriate hands. However…” He paused again, making sure his grandson was paying attention.

  As ever, Hiram was.

  “However, it comes with a heavy burden… you are not to take this lightly.” It was a sombre speech, but failed to hide the excitement that laced his voice and sparkled in his eyes.

  Hiram had heard whispers of something like this when he was younger, when the older members of the Kane family got together on special occasions and discussed the adventures of their famous patriarch, Patrick. He also recalled talk of an old map, but believed it was just a fanciful story for the kids’ enjoyment. Now though, because of the serious manner in which his grandad was addressing him, he had to wonder: The map?

  “Hiram, what I’m giving you must remain secret. It’s too important not to take serious, and I know you will. Do you understand?”

  Hiram nodded.

  “There’re only a handful of people who know about it, and I trust each of them. I need to ask. Can I trust you?”

  Hiram’s heart raced. Whatever is it? “Yes, Grandad, you can,” he answered, his voice hushed. “You can trust me.”

  “I know I can.” He removed the backpack from his shoulders and opened the zip, and with great care removed a small, fine leather package, his pale eyes shining with excitement. “Take, it lad, and open it up. But be gentle, mind.”

  Hiram took the package, unconsciously holding his breath. Slow, and with the utmost care, he opened the folds of the package and gazed in disbelief at what he saw inside.

  In his hands was something that perhaps held the secret of one of the all-time greatest mysteries of exploration. Next to a large X, its blood-red shade in stark contrast to the faded brown and green cloth, was the one word that had forever occupied his thoughts and dreams, just as it had those of his grandfather and his great-grandfather before him. In small but clear writing, was a single word:

  Vilcabamba.

  He was holding a map to the Inca’s most famous lost city.

  In Hiram’s excitement, he didn’t notice the shadow that passed over his granddad’s eyes. The old timer had mentioned the map came with a burden, but that burden was a million times more important than he could let on now. There was still time to explain all of that to his grandson, and although that time could wait, just how much of it he had was an answer beyond even his vast knowledge.

  The old explorer knew only time itself would tell.

  Time, and the ticking bomb of a five-hundred-year-old prophecy.

  New York City

  October 4th, 2013

  Early autumn in New York meant the city’s trees had started their annual display of colour, the vibrancy of the reds and gold and blazing oranges in stunning contrast to the diluted grey drabbery of the concrete jungle. Kane wasn’t a big fan of large modern cities and felt more at home in the narrow crumbling streets of atmospheric Cuzco. But the air today was crisp, and carried on it the myriad scents associated with the Big Apple: coffee, donuts, freshly toasted bagels… and traffic fumes. Despite the latter, it was enough to make a grown man hungry, and Kane’s stomach grumbled a protest. It would have to wait.

  It was only to be a short stay in New York, but one Kane had been anticipating a long time. He was there to meet a select group of individuals, men and women who would form the team of his next expedition into the Andes. Kane had led several such expeditions over the last decade, but the focus of each had become more and more refined every year. This expedition would be the most focused yet, and they would set out with only one objective: locate Vilcabamba.

  Within the world of extreme adventures, Kane has garnered an almost legendary reputation. Renowned not only for the safety of his team and the diligence of his preparation, Kane has long been respected for his conscientious affinity with local cultures and traditions, wherever he is in the world. During his career, he has led groups across the Arctic, traversed the Sahara and the wilds of the Mongolian Steppes, and has completed several circuits of Nepal’s notoriously difficult Annapurna Range. And though those adventures are not without their unique and often dangerous moments, Kane has never lost a single person. It’s an incredible track record he is rightly proud of, but his reputation is no more than his skill and integrity deserve. There is no doubt about it; Hiram Kane is the best in the business.

  Born of the old school, Kane also relies upon his own research and abilities, and the expert on-the-ground teams he puts together. Making use of all the high-tech gadgetry and communications available was not an option to Kane, who would rather follow in the footsteps of the great explorers of the past. To Hiram it felt almost akin to cheating to haul along the latest equipment, and though his modus operandi got mocked by some in the expedition world, many others admired him for it. It had served him well. If he was going to find Vilcabamba, Kane was going to do it his way.

  He turned up to the noon meeting twenty minutes early, as was his custom. But, looking through the restaurant window, he was a little ashamed to see he was last to arrive. Still, the looks of admiration and excitement on the faces of the attendees as they spotted him both embarrassed Kane and put him at ease. Such was his reputation, those guys would’ve been happy to wait hours, if not days, to secure their place on the proposed expedition. Kane pushed his way through the doors of the famous Tavern On The Green restaurant along Central Park’s western fringe, and approached his waiting guests. All those seated at the table stood.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, with a serious look on his face. “And congratulations. You’ve all passed the first test.”

  After a moment of confused looks shared among the others, Kane smiled, putting them at ease. “Relax, guys, I’m joking. Actually, I’m only half joking, because for what we’re planning to do, punctuality is crucial. And you are all early, so well done.”

  One by one Kane introduced himself with a quick handshake and a few words of welcome. He also expressed his gratitude for their attendance. There were some impressive, successful people gathered, including A. J. Waters, a world-renowned archaeologist. Equally well-known art historian Professor John Haines was there, along with his protégé, Katherine Edgewood. Lesser known were the Spanish Professor of Religious Studies, Angelo De La Cruz, and an American writer named Howie Hooper. Completing the eclectic mix of adventurers was Kane’s old friend and expedition photographer, Evan Craft and Kane’s soul mate and on/off lover for most of the last two decades, Alexandria Ridley, herself a Professor of Antiquities.

  Kane had studied under Professor Haines at university, and they were old friends. Also, Haines had vouched for Katherine Edgewood, which was good enough for Hiram. He’d met A. J. Waters on numerous occasions and the two shared a mutual respect for each other’s work, and he knew Evan and Alexandria well, and considered them his closest friends.

  Kane knew little about the Spaniard, Professor, De La Cruz, except that he taught at both the obscure Catholic University Saint Vincent Martyr in Valencia, Spain and the Universidad Nacional de Trujillo, in the west of the country. He seemed like a decent, unassuming man. Kane had always planned to have a writer on the expedition, but if little was known about the Spaniard, Kane knew even less about Hooper. But, he’d paid a significant fee to be the party’s official writer, and in Howie’s own words, he was proud to be the one to document a history making expedition.

  The two-hour meeting came to a close. Each member of the group had contributed to the discussion, and none were under any illusions at what a difficult mission it would be. A genuine buzz of excitement drifted among them, and Kane felt more confidence about success than he had ever been.

  So, this is my team, he thought. Kane stood up and said his last words to them in person before they came together in Peru the following May. “It’s not all going to be fun,” he said. “We need to become a well-drilled unit. Forming a tight-knit team will be crucial to our success, and there must be trust and transparency between all of us, and of course between the local team and my guide in Cuzco. If we can achieve that, then come next May, we’ll trek deep into the Andes mountains on the trail of one of the great undiscovered places in the world of exploration.” Kane paused, and with a big smile and his glass raised, he said, “Here’s to the lost city of the Incas, and may we be the ones to find her.”

  As the group clapped in appreciation, Hiram felt certain that at long, long last, the Kane family would have their success.

  1

  And So It Begins…

  An Ancient Capital

  Cuzco has long been considered by many scholars as the archaeological capital of the Americas, and sits nestled high in the Andes. The air is so thin at the head-aching altitude of 3,440 metres above sea level it sucks the breath from your lungs and makes walking up small hills feel like hiking impossible mountains. Yet Cuzco is spectacular, and not only for its setting in the heart of the sacred Huatanay River Valley. Because of its sublime mix of Spanish colonial and ancient Inca architecture, and historically important archaeological features, it’s already unique. But add to this the myriad cultural festivals and the wide range of locally made handicrafts sold by smiling Indian vendors, it’s no wonder Kane fell in love with his adopted city.

  The name Cuzco itself is controversial. The ancient city was the political and religious centre of the Inca Empire, known as Tawan-tin-suyu, the Four Quarters of the Earth. That gave it its name, Qosqo, meaning centre, or navel. But to demonstrate their power and humiliate the conquered Inca, the early conquistadors altered the name to the similar sounding Spanish word, Cuzco, meaning hunchback, or small dog. Only as recently as 1990 did the local government restore the city’s official name to Qusqo, though it’s still known internationally as Cuzco, a permanent issue of contention to the city’s native Quechuan population.

  Though Kane loved his city, it had one negative element he couldn’t deny: the altitude was terrible for a sharp hangover. Kane could handle his drink, but he’d been dry for weeks leading up to this expedition and had resisted the urge for a beer until last night. He wasn’t expecting the few small Cuzqueñas to develop into a party, but Alex Ridley had a habit of doing that to Kane, and he should’ve known better. Despite her high IQ and brilliant career, no one who knew Ridley would say she wasn’t a party girl at heart, and if she wanted someone to drink with, she rarely took no for an answer. And it was often Kane. But, after a cold shower and some hot Peruvian coffee, he was ready to face the day.

  As instructed, the other members of the expedition had arrived in Cuzco over a week ago in order to make a gradual acclimatisation to the crushing altitude. If a person was unaccustomed to such dizzying heights, not only was it uncomfortable for them as individuals, with harsh bouts of debilitating nausea and diarrhoea in tandem with crippling headaches, but it could be dangerous, and even undermine an entire expedition. This group of adventurers had taken Kane on his word, and all bar none had proven themselves dedicated to a successful trip. He showed his gratitude by treating them all to dinner at his favourite Quechuan restaurant.

  Kane was both relieved and honoured. It meant they were showing both him, and the physical demands needed, the respect required for a successful expedition.

 

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