Empire of Gold_A Novel

by Andy McDermott

  “That’s not as helpful as I was hoping for.”

  “I’m still working on them.”

  The door opened and a pair of soldiers trooped in. “Work faster,” Nina urgently told Kit as they unlocked her cell and entered. “All right, okay!” she protested as she was pulled to her feet.

  They took her back upstairs, ascending a broad marble staircase to the mansion’s upper floor. Nina screwed up her eyes, dazzled by the brightness of the morning sun through panoramic windows as she was led through a luxurious lounge with a giant TV on one wall. Beyond, a large balcony overlooked the golf course.

  Stikes and Callas, the general in full uniform, waited for her outside, but there was also a third man; tall, tanned, with long jet-black hair swept greasily back from his forehead. His pastel jacket and trousers were clearly of some extremely expensive designer label, though the stylish effect was offset by a vulgar gold medallion. Even this early in the day, he had a glass of Scotch and clunking ice cubes in his hand.

  “Ah, here she is!” said Callas as the soldiers brought Nina into the open. “My expert.”

  The third man’s eyebrows flickered in recognition. “Wait, she is …”

  “Dr. Nina Wilde,” Callas announced. “Discoverer of Atlantis, and the secret of the Sphinx, and now … my guest. Dr. Wilde, meet my good friend Francisco de Quesada.”

  She remembered the Venezuelan mentioning the name at the military base, though in a far-from-friendly way. Like Pachac, then; another of his allies of necessity.

  De Quesada took in Nina’s dirty, disheveled clothing. “You do not let your guests shower, Salbatore?”

  “She’s not entirely a willing guest,” said Stikes.

  “But she will still tell you how much this is worth,” Callas said, indicating something on a glass coffee table: the khipu, opened out to its full length, knotted strands displayed along the braided central cord. Nina noticed the case holding the statues on the floor nearby.

  De Quesada shook his head. “I am already paying you fifty million dollars for the sun disk—”

  “It is worth far more,” Callas smoothly interjected.

  “Perhaps. But you are also getting a share of my … proceeds.” He looked askance at Nina. “Is it safe to talk in front of her?”

  Callas snorted. “You can say anything you like—she won’t be telling anyone.”

  “My drug revenue, then. Now that the American DEA and the government have cracked down in Colombia, I need Venezuela to ship my product. Which means I need you, General. Or should I call you el Jefe?”

  Callas smiled proudly, only to be deflated by Stikes’s “Let’s not count our chickens before they’re hatched.”

  “Which brings me to another English phrase,” said de Quesada. He gestured dismissively at the khipu. “Money for old rope. You are getting a lot of money from me, Salbatore—cash now, and a share of what will come later. Why should I pay another million for this trash?”

  “That is why I brought Dr. Wilde,” said Callas. “Who better to tell you why these strings are worth so much? If you can’t trust the world’s most famous archaeologist, then who can you trust?”

  “Yes, who?” de Quesada replied, his tone suggesting to Nina that the Venezuelan’s veiled dislike was mutual. But he sat back, gesturing at her with his drink. “Very well. Impress me, Dr. Wilde.”

  “And be honest,” Stikes added in a quiet but threatening voice.

  Nina walked to the table, examining the khipu. Fully opened, it was more than three feet long, the number of multicolored strings attached to the woven spine greater than she had thought: well over a hundred. The number of knots on each string ranged from a couple to over a dozen.

  The topmost knot on each string, she noticed, was always one of four kinds. She knew that the Incas had divided their empire into quadrants based on astronomical features: Could they be directions? Below the first, the other knots were more varied, strung like beads. If it were indeed a guide to the Incas’ journey, it would require considerable work to decode.

  But she had seen such guides before—leading to Atlantis, to Eden. It could be done. El Dorado could be found.

  If she made the khipu seem dull enough to dissuade de Quesada from buying it.

  “Well, it’s called a khipu,” she began, slipping into a professorial tone. “They were used as a system of record keeping by the Incas. The knots on each string are a way of storing numbers, similar to an abacus.” She tried to remember what Osterhagen had said about them. “They were used to keep censuses, calculate taxes, track how much food was grown.” Keep it boring, she told herself. “They were the backbone of the Inca accounting system.”

  To her relief, de Quesada didn’t appear impressed. “But they are valuable, no?” prompted Callas.

  “I suppose, but more because of their scarcity than any intrinsic worth. There are only a few hundred still in existence. The conquistadores destroyed all the ones they found.”

  “The conquistadores?” De Quesada’s eyes flashed with sudden interest. “Why did they destroy them?”

  “They thought the Incas used them to send secret messages,” said Nina, aware that Callas now had a look of greedy expectancy. It seemed she had unwittingly pushed one of de Quesada’s buttons. “I don’t think that’s true, because as far as we know the khipus only contained numerical information—the Incas never developed a written language. But the Spanish—”

  De Quesada regarded the khipu more closely. “So the conquistadores destroyed them to show their power over the Incas?”

  “You could say that. Really, though, they’re just—”

  He cut her off again, getting to his feet. “I will buy it, Salbatore!” he cackled, swigging from his glass. “You just make sure that my old friend Arcani Pachac knows I have it, like his precious sun disk. That little communist cagada thinks he is the Inca emperor reborn? Then I’ll remind him what the Spanish did to the Incas. A million dollars, you said? Make it two!”

  “You—you’re spending two million dollars just to annoy Pachac?” Nina said, shocked and appalled.

  “I am spending more than that! The sun disk, this great symbol of Pachac’s glorious heritage?” His words dripped sarcasm. “I have the perfect place for it. When it is installed, I will send him a picture—it will drive him mad!”

  “Francisco and Pachac were once partners,” explained Callas. “Until—”

  “Until he turned against me,” said de Quesada. “He got politics, decided he wanted to restore the poor downtrodden Indians to power.” He mimed wiping a tear from one eye, pulling an exaggeratedly sad face. “The defeated should keep their heads down. The Spanish nobles were the victors. They still are.”

  “But all that money,” said Nina. “You’re spending millions out of spite? Why?”

  De Quesada shrugged and took another drink. “Because I can. I already have cars, boats, planes, houses, women … I have to spend my money on something. Other than bribes, anyway.” He looked back at the khipu. “I will take it. What about the sun disk? How are you going to get it to Colombia?”

  “It’s already being dealt with,” said Stikes.

  “You found a replacement for West?”

  “Indeed we did.” He gave Nina a smug look. “As for the khipu, you can take it with you if you like, but I’d recommend using our agent’s services for that as well. In case anyone asks questions.”

  De Quesada scowled. “You are probably right. I cannot take a shit in my own country without some government pendejo or bastard from the DEA trying to look up my ass. Maybe after tonight I should move to Venezuela, eh?”

  “Maybe,” said Callas noncommittally.

  “And speaking of tonight …” A small but distinctly cunning smile as de Quesada took something from his jacket: a DVD in a transparent case. “I know you have made a deal with Pachac, giving him control over the southern routes across the border. I want you to give those routes to me.”

  Callas stiffened at the challenge, regardin
g the disk suspiciously. “What?”

  “Capture and kill his runners, and give his drugs to me. The only cocaine shipped through Venezuela will be mine.”

  The general shook his head. “We have made a deal, we will stick to it. Just as I will stick to the deal I made with Pachac.”

  De Quesada laughed. “Yes, of course you will. It never crossed your mind to use your new power to change the deal with him in your favor.” His smile vanished. “Or the deal with me.”

  Callas looked pointedly toward the two soldiers, both of whom were armed. “I don’t like your tone, Francisco.”

  “And I don’t like being double-crossed, Salbatore. So let’s make sure it never happens, eh?” He held out the DVD to Callas, who hesitated before snatching it from him, then nodded toward the television in the lounge. “Put it on.”

  “Watch her,” Callas ordered one of the soldiers, who moved closer to Nina. The other closed the door behind Callas, Stikes, and de Quesada as they went into the lounge. The reflections on the glass made it hard for Nina to see inside, but she could make out Callas putting the disk into a player and switching on the TV.

  He watched it for less than a minute before whirling angrily on de Quesada. A brief argument, Callas becoming more furious by the moment, then the Venezuelan stormed back to the player, ejected the disk, and hurled it across the room. Still seething, he threw the door open and returned to the balcony, clenching his fists around the handrail as he glared out across Caracas.

  De Quesada followed. “If that became public, your new position would become very unstable.” He finished his drink, crunching an ice cube between his teeth. “It might even give the Americans an excuse for regime change. However much oil you offer them, they are not going to tolerate a drug lord as president.”

  “I am not a drug lord!” Callas spat.

  “But you are working with one, and there was the proof.”

  “That recording would also be damaging to you,” Stikes pointed out.

  “A calculated risk. But,” de Quesada went on, “it will be much easier if we just make sure it is never seen, eh? Accept my new deal. You will still get your percentage—and you know you would rather deal with me than a psychopath like Pachac.”

  The general drew in a long breath before facing de Quesada. “Pachac is … unreliable, yes. Very well. You will have his territory. But if the video is ever seen …” He jabbed a threatening finger at the Colombian’s heart.

  De Quesada simply smiled. “It will not be.” He rattled the last couple of ice cubes in his glass. “Now, we should celebrate our new deal with a drink.”

  “Not for you, I’m afraid,” Stikes said to Nina. He nodded to the soldiers. As they led her away, he added, in an overly casual way: “Oh, by the way—your husband.”

  “What about him?” demanded Nina, heart sinking.

  “Dead.” The word was delivered with a thin smirk. Nina felt as though she had been stung by the scorpion again, her throat clenching tight. “I must admit, he put up a good show. Even rescued your friends. But then their plane got shot down and exploded in the jungle. The end of the Chase, you might say.”

  Fury and despair rose simultaneously inside her, the former narrowly gaining ascendance. She lunged at Stikes, but the soldiers caught her before she could reach him, twisting her arms behind her back. “I’ll fucking kill you!” she snarled.

  Stikes merely smirked again as she was dragged away.

  TWENTY

  Caracas baked under the afternoon sun, shimmering beneath a blanket of smog. The streets were clogged with traffic. More so than usual; there was a greater police and military presence than when the archaeological team had arrived four days earlier. Armored vehicles rumbled through the city, soldiers and cops regarding the sweating Caraqueños with suspicion. The mistrust was mutual, everyone feeling the tension in the air.

  Almost everyone. “Excuse me! Jeez,” Macy sniped at a woman who had bumped into her and carried on without a word. “What was her problem?”

  “Same as ours, probably.” Eddie nodded toward three policemen who had thrown a man against their car and were roughly searching him. “This’ll be part of Callas’s coup. Stir the shit, find an excuse to get the police and army on the streets. That way, they’re already in position when the real action starts.”

  “And what is the real action?”

  “Something to do with Stikes and that chopper. You don’t hire mercenaries and buy a gunship just for mopping-up work. They’re the key.”

  The man was shoved into the police car, one of the cops gesturing threateningly at bystanders with a baton. “So what are we gonna do?” Macy asked.

  “Find this Clubhouse place. That way, we find Nina and Kit, and probably Callas and Stikes as well. Maybe even stop them before they start.”

  A military jeep bullied its way between cars, armed soldiers glowering at drivers. Macy regarded them nervously. “How are we going to do that? They’ve got, like, hundreds of guys on their side. And they’ve all got guns. And we don’t.”

  “I don’t need a gun.” They reached a crossroads and saw the giant screen outside the television station. On it President Suarez, wearing militia uniform, delivered an impassioned speech. “What’s he saying?”

  Macy listened to the booming audio. “That everything’s okay and there’s nothing to worry about, and not to listen to—Hey! He’s blaming America! Says CIA agents are trying to undermine the revolution. What a jerk! They’re not. Are they?”

  “The CIA messes with friendly countries,” said Eddie. “Take a guess what they do in ones they don’t like.” The traffic was almost at a standstill; he took Macy’s hand and hurried her across the street. “Okay, the hotel’s just up here.”

  Coming back to the same hotel was a risk, but when he made his phone call in Puerto Ayacucho, Eddie hadn’t known anywhere else he could be contacted. Besides, he hoped that Callas’s followers thought they were dead. They entered the lobby, getting disapproving looks for their less-than-pristine appearance. Eddie ignored them and went to reception. “Hi. Any messages for Eddie Chase?”

  To his disappointment, and surprise, there were none. “Huh. Better find out what’s up,” he said, leading Macy to the pay phones. The last of the coins he had taken from the dead soldiers at the burial pit got him through to an operator to make a reverse-charge international call, and he soon got an answer.

  “Is that you, Eddie?” said a familiar Scottish voice.

  “Yeah, Mac, it’s me,” said Eddie, somewhere between relieved and impatient. “I’m at the hotel—I thought you were going to leave me a message?”

  “I wanted to deliver it in person,” the voice said from behind him.

  Eddie spun to find Mac standing there in a light-colored suit, holding a cell phone to his ear. “Mac! Fuck me, what’re you doing here?”

  Macy was equally delighted to see him. “Oh my God, Mr. McCrimmon!” she cried, embracing him.

  “Well, there goes my suit,” Mac sighed. Macy hurriedly tried to brush away a dirty mark she had left on his sleeve before a wink told her that he was joking. “Glad to see you both. How was your trip?”

  “Thirteen hours on a bus, loved every minute,” said Eddie. “How the bloody hell did you get here so fast? And what are MI6 doing about Callas and Stikes?”

  “It’s a long-ish story, so I’ll tell it in my room,” said Mac. “And while we’re there, you can take advantage of the shower …”

  “So MI6 aren’t going to do a fucking thing?” Eddie exclaimed, after Mac had described his dealings with the British intelligence agency. “I knew you can’t trust a fucking spook. Was it Alderley? And after I invited him to my wedding do, an’ all.”

  “Funny, I seem to remember you ‘accidentally’ dropped his invitation down a drain,” said Mac.

  “Yeah, there was that. But I’m sure he’s not bitter.”

  “Actually, South America is outside Peter’s section, so I didn’t speak to him. I did talk to C, though.”<
br />
  “Who’s C?” Macy asked, emerging from the bathroom in an oversized dressing gown.

  “Head of MI6,” Eddie told her.

  “I thought that was M?”

  Mac smiled. “James Bond isn’t real, Macy. But I discussed this with C, although he wasn’t pleased at being woken up at four in the morning.”

  “So if you talked to him, why aren’t they going to do anything?” demanded Eddie.

  “Well,” said Mac, leaning back in his chair, “the official position of Her Majesty’s Government is that the internal politics of Venezuela are the country’s own affair, and that British interests are not sufficient to justify any kind of interference. Unofficially, of course, HMG would not object to Suarez’s being replaced by someone less incendiary. They’re also rather unhappy with statements he and his predecessor made about the queen, and Britain’s ownership of the Falklands. In short, they’d be happy to see him go.”

  “Even if it means him being replaced by Callas? The guy’s a cold-blooded murderer working with drug lords! As soon as he takes power, the country’ll be a fucking bloodbath.”

  “Same old story,” Mac said, shaking his head ruefully. “In a choice between two third-world military strongmen, we always seem to support whoever’s the more unpleasant.”

  “And what about Stikes? He’s British, his company’s British—he’s ex-SAS, for Christ’s sake. Doesn’t that count as being involved if he’s helping overthrow a democratically elected leader?”

  “How? He’s a private military contractor; he can work wherever and for whomever he chooses. His company has never worked directly for our government, so there’s no conflict of interest or potential for embarrassment there. As long as he doesn’t break the law in Britain, his hands are clean.”

  Eddie threw up his own hands. “So that’s it?”

  “I did convince them to give me something, even if it’s not much. I got the address of this Clubhouse place.” He took out his phone and brought up the map app, a pin showing a location in Valle Arriba. “After that, I went straight to Heathrow and got a standby ticket on the first morning flight to Caracas. Business class, so it cost me a bloody fortune. Still, whenever I get involved with you my bank account always takes a beating, so I should be used to it by now.”