Empire of Gold_A Novel

by Andy McDermott

  Eddie looked at the map. “I want to check this place out in person.”

  “I thought you might. I’ve got a rental car. Although there’s something I think you should do first.”

  “What?”

  Mac glanced toward the bathroom. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Eddie,” Macy said, “but … you kinda stink.”

  Eddie looked down at his filthy, ripped, bloodstained clothing. “You mean they aren’t going to bottle me as the new fragrance from Hugo Boss?”

  “Cool house,” said Macy, regarding the Clubhouse through the rented Fiat’s rear window.

  Eddie made a noncommittal sound. Architecture was not foremost on his mind, but rather the soldiers on duty around the mansion. There were two at the main gate, and even though the building and its grounds were partially concealed behind trees and a wall he had spotted at least three other uniformed men. Because this was Callas’s unofficial headquarters, those numbers would be the tip of the iceberg.

  “So what do you think?” Mac asked from the driver’s seat.

  “Unless I dress up as a delivery boy bringing twenty pizzas, I doubt I’ll get in through the front gate. And they’ll be watching the golf course ’round the back too.” He looked at one of the nearby houses. Another mansion, though not as grand as the one the Venezuelan government had confiscated. “The neighbors—they’re still all normal houses with people living in them, right?”

  “I think so. According to MI6, the chap who owned the Clubhouse was rather outspoken against the Suarez regime. Whether the tax evasion charges were real or trumped up they didn’t know, but he was someone Suarez had been targeting for some time.”

  Eddie scanned the row of luxury houses. “Might have to do a bit of garden-hopping. But I’ll need a distraction to get into the Clubhouse grounds without being seen.”

  “I’m sure we can come up with something,” said Mac. “But if you’ve seen as much as you need, we should go. Being parked like this is probably attracting attention.” The tree-lined street was devoid of stationary vehicles; all the houses had drives and garages large enough to accommodate multiple cars. Parking on the road was a giveaway that someone didn’t belong.

  “Yeah, okay.” Eddie looked back at the Clubhouse—and saw the main gates open, the guards moving aside. “No, hang on—someone’s coming out.”

  It was not a car that emerged first, but a police motorbike. Next came a black Cadillac Escalade SUV, miniature Venezuelan flags fluttering from its front quarters. Another bike followed it.

  Eddie glimpsed a familiar silhouette behind the tinted glass as the convoy drove past. “That was Callas!”

  “No sign of Stikes?” Mac asked.

  “Nope.” He regarded the Clubhouse again, cracking his knuckles. “He might still be in there with Nina …”

  “Or he might have gone to do whatever Callas has hired him for.”

  “Either way, Nina’s still there. Soon as it gets dark, I’m going in. Okay, let’s go.”

  “So how are we going to distract the guards?” Macy asked as they set off.

  Eddie looked at her, an idea forming. Having showered away the sweat and grime of her jungle ordeal, she was back to her usual state of youthful beauty—though her clothes still bore the dirty scars. “We’ll have to get you a new outfit.”

  She grinned. “I’m okay with that.”

  “Something that shows off your body.”

  The smile broadened. “Still with you.”

  “And some running shoes.”

  “Aw.”

  “And an iPod.”

  “Cool!”

  Mac sighed. “And I suppose all this is going on my card?”

  “If we stop Callas and Stikes, I’m sure el Presidente’ll pay you back.” Eddie pointed down the street. “Okay. To the mall!”

  In the tropics daylight ends quickly, the twilight sky over Caracas soon fading to black. By the time the last glow had vanished, Eddie was in the garden of the mansion next to the Clubhouse, perched in a tree near the wall separating the two properties. The house behind him was dark; he didn’t know if its occupants were simply away for the evening or if the military takeover of their neighbor’s home had encouraged them to take a vacation, but either way it simplified matters.

  From his position, he had a good view of the brightly lit Clubhouse. It was a big building, with multiple points of entry. More important, none seemed to be guarded. Soldiers were patrolling the grounds in ones and twos, but they had an indefinable air of excitement—or anticipation—about them. Their minds were on something other than their immediate duties.

  The coup? Possibly. Callas hadn’t returned, and there had been no sign of Stikes or anyone who might be working for him, just Venezuelan troops. Was tonight the night?

  But for now, his priority was finding Nina and Kit. He regarded the house. A swimming pool glowed an unreal cyan, illuminated by underwater lights. A large flat-screen TV near the poolside was showing a baseball game, an excited commentator offering a blow-by-blow account in Spanish, but nobody was watching it. Handy; the noise would help cover his entry into the grounds.

  He looked at his watch, then toward the road. Any minute now …

  Movement in the grounds: a soldier strolling from the mansion’s rear to its front. Shit! He was staying on the wide lawn rather than venturing into the bushes and flower beds near the wall, but would still be close enough to catch any unexpected movement in his peripheral vision. Eddie had replaced his filthy clothes at the mall with a black T-shirt and jeans, but they would hardly render him invisible—there was more than enough light coming from the pool for him to be spotted if he wasn’t careful.

  He willed the man to move faster, but instead the Venezuelan slowed, taking out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one … then stopping entirely for his first drag. “For fuck’s sake!” Eddie muttered.

  Another look at the street—

  He saw Macy jogging toward the gates. She had gone the other way ten minutes earlier, her low-cut, tight, and very bright pink-and-black running outfit insuring that she caught the attention of the two young men guarding the entrance. Her smile and wave as she passed had hopefully cemented her in their memories. Now she was returning, the inference being that she lived nearby and was on her way home.

  The gate guards definitely remembered her, turning to watch her approach. That was part of the distraction Eddie needed—but now this arsehole with his cigarette was right where he wanted to go. And there wasn’t enough time for him to climb a different tree—a pair of headlights had just come into view behind Macy …

  The soldier remained still, savoring the smoke as if he had stepped out of a 1950s cigarette ad. Eddie glared at him, trying to induce instant and terminal lung cancer, but to no avail.

  Macy waved at the soldiers again, then jogged across the street toward them. The headlights drew closer. White earbuds in, she didn’t seem to hear the oncoming vehicle. One of the soldiers suddenly realized the danger and shouted a warning. Macy turned—

  The car skidded to a stop. Not quickly enough. The screech of tires was punctuated by a flat metallic bang as she rolled up onto the hood, then slid off to land heavily on the road.

  Eddie winced. Even though he had been expecting it, and both Mac, driving, and Macy knew what they were supposed to be doing, it still sounded like a bigger impact than they had planned.

  The smoking soldier heard the commotion. He saw the guards hurrying into the street, and ran to investigate.

  Eddie looked back at the “accident.” Mac was out of the car, hands raised in an expression of shock. Unsurprisingly, though the collision had been entirely the pedestrian’s fault, the soldiers were siding with the attractive young victim rather than the elderly motorist, one of them shouting angrily at the Scot. Even as he advanced along the stout branch, Eddie couldn’t help but be worried—if they decided that Mac was to blame and called the police, or, worse, took matters into their own hands …

  Macy was back on
her feet. She blocked the Venezuelans from reaching Mac, apparently telling them she was okay. This seemed to mollify the soldiers, who began competing with each other over who would help her.

  The noise had attracted a couple of other men from the mansion’s far side, but Eddie was only concerned with the smoker. Seeing that everything was under control, he stopped—far enough away to give Eddie his chance.

  The branch reached almost to the wall, having been trimmed to a stump to avoid encroaching on the neighboring property. He jumped off it, briefly landing with both feet on the top of the wall, then dropped down on the other side and flattened himself behind an ornamental shrub. He peered through the leaves, hunting for the soldier …

  The man had half-turned to look back.

  Some noise, the scuff of the Englishman’s boots on the wall or the thump of his landing, had caught his attention. Eddie froze. The soldier’s expression changed from confusion to a curious frown.

  He started toward the bushes.

  Eddie reached into his jacket. Getting hold of a gun in a country where he had no contacts had been impossible; the only weapon he had been able to obtain was a small survival knife from a sporting goods store in the mall. And unless the soldier obligingly walked right up to him without looking down, he would be spotted long before he could use it …

  Cheers came from the television by the pool as the batter struck a home run. The soldier looked over to it—and then turned away, clearly assuming the noise he had heard had come from the TV.

  Eddie returned the blade to his pocket and cautiously raised his head. The soldier was still retreating; at the gate, he saw Mac ushering Macy to his car. She was limping, but seemed otherwise unharmed. The soldiers reluctantly watched her go, then returned to their posts as the car drove away.

  He was clear.

  A quick check of the area. About sixty feet of lawn to cross to the pool, then around it to one of the entrances. Glass double doors were open at the poolside, but a single door farther along the wall seemed the better choice, giving him more cover—

  A distant boom, like thunder.

  Only it wasn’t thunder. Eddie had heard enough explosions to know the difference. Another, sharper crump, then the unmistakable rattle of machine-gun fire.

  And more, from a different direction. And a third harsh clatter, elsewhere again.

  The coup had started.

  Callas had put his forces into place throughout the city, waiting for the right moment—and that moment had come. A coordinated attack, aimed at taking control of the most vital strategic locations: key roads and intersections, radio and TV stations, centers of operation for the pro-Suarez Bolivarian Militia.

  And President Suarez’s own residence, the Miraflores palace in the heart of Caracas.

  That was what the men at the Clubhouse had been waiting for. Eddie ducked again as soldiers rushed from the building, carrying machine guns and ammo boxes, ready to defend the grounds against attack.

  Someone shouted orders. Eddie recognized him from Paititi: Rojas, Callas’s right hand. Callas might not be here, but the Clubhouse was obviously a key part of his plans. The place was being fortified, surrounded by a ring of soldiers.

  Not just soldiers. The front gates opened, vehicles entering the grounds. Three Tiunas, Venezuelan near-copies of the American army’s ubiquitous Humvee, ripped up the pristine lawn as they took up position by the entrance. They were followed by a pair of larger and far more imposing pieces of military equipment: a brutish V-100 Commando armored car with a soldier manning the .50-caliber machine gun mounted on its open parapet, and behind it an even bigger V-300, a six-wheeled slab of steel with a 90mm cannon on its tank-like turret. Both hulking machines pulled up outside the mansion.

  As if things weren’t bad enough, two soldiers moved to the corner of the house—with a clear line of sight over the swimming pool. Eddie now had no way to get inside without being seen.

  And no way to leave unseen either. He was trapped—as civil war erupted on the streets of Caracas.

  TWENTY-ONE

  General Salbatore Callas suppressed a smile as he put down the phone. The first reports had come in to Miraflores of an uprising in the city … but the one he had just received was very different from those his agents in the Bolivarian Militia were feeding to the palace’s senior staff. The first accounts of events President Tito Suarez received would be vague, conflicting, uncertain even who was responsible for the explosions and gunfire across Caracas.

  Callas, however, had accurate intelligence. His forces had struck exactly on schedule, and now controlled a long list of important locations. The only major target yet to fall was one of the state-run—and Suarez-supporting—television stations, where the approach of troops had roused a loyalist mob to defend it, but it would soon be taken.

  He left his office and marched down a marble-floored hall to the double doors at its end. Two members of the Bolivarian Militia stood guard, eyeing him suspiciously—for the crime of wearing an army uniform rather than militia fatigues, even an old and trusted friend of el Presidente was regarded as a potential threat. But they let him pass. Within, Suarez’s secretary was fielding phone calls; she waved him to the next set of doors.

  Callas knocked once, then entered. The wall behind the large teak desk facing him held three portraits: Simón Bolívar, the nineteenth-century liberator of Venezuela from colonial rule; Hugo Chavez, the previous Venezuelan president who fancied himself as Bolívar’s modern-day socialist successor; and, central and largest, the current holder of the office.

  The general kept his contempt hidden. Suarez in person was not nearly as impressive as the artwork, his hair thinning and graying, fuller in face and body thanks to the lack of exercise and rich foods that accompanied high office. Callas made a mental note not to fall into the same trap once he occupied this room.

  With Suarez was another man in fatigues: Vicente Machado, second in command of the militia after the president himself. He was also number two after Suarez on Callas’s long list of enemies, a problem to be eliminated as soon as possible. With its head cut off, the militia’s body, a semi-trained rabble of peasants and paupers driven by vapid propaganda or the desire to feel important because they were wearing a uniform and carrying a gun, would soon die.

  That time was rapidly approaching. But not quite yet. He had to wait for Stikes.

  Suarez finally looked away from Machado. “Salbatore! What’s going on? Who is behind this?”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer yet,” Callas replied. “I’ve had reports of gangs rioting in the barrios, attacks on police stations and military personnel. But it’s definitely organized—the first incidents all took place simultaneously. Someone is behind it all.”

  “The Americans,” said Machado. “It has to be. They’re trying to overthrow the revolution!”

  Callas forced himself not to tut sarcastically at the idiot’s naïveté—Suarez had appointed him for his loyalty, not his brains. Instead he took advantage of it. “They would be the obvious culprits, yes. And”—he put a conspiratorial note into his voice—“they could have agents anywhere. For an operation this big to begin without our security forces knowing, the CIA must have corrupted people at all levels. The police—even the militia.”

  “Or the army,” Machado said. Stupid he might be, but he still had enough cunning and survival instinct to recognize an attempt to discredit him.

  Which was exactly what Callas wanted. “Or the army, yes. We have hundreds of thousands of soldiers—there’s no way to know how many have sold their loyalty to the Americans.” He faced Suarez. “Which is why we have to get you out of Miraflores and to a secure location.”

  “No,” said Suarez. “The people need to see that I am still in control. Not running away and hiding.”

  “But that’s exactly what President Chavez thought in 2002,” Callas countered, raising a hand toward the portrait of the former leader. “The plotters in the coup attempt arrested him here in t
he palace—in this room! He only survived because his enemies overestimated their support among the people. They won’t make the same mistake twice. We have to get you to safety. I’ve already ordered a helicopter gunship to evacuate you.”

  “To where?”

  “There’s an army base at Maracay. It—”

  “Not an army base,” Machado interrupted. “The Bolivarian Militia are responsible for the president’s safety. One of our facilities.”

  “It … is your decision,” Callas told Suarez, making a show of seeming conflicted at the idea of deferring to Machado. “Your safety is my top priority. I will be at your side whatever you choose, of course.”

  “The militia base,” said Suarez after a moment. Machado couldn’t contain a smug smile. “But yes, you will come with me, Salbatore. Both of you will. I need you to fight back against these bastards!”

  “The helicopter will be here soon,” Callas told him. “We should go now, before the rebels move on Miraflores.”

  “I’ll get some men,” said Machado, hurrying into the anteroom.

  Suarez stood, gathering up documents. “Don’t worry, Tito,” said Callas reassuringly. “We’ve seen days like this before. We’ll get through it together.”

  Suarez gave him a faint smile. “I’m glad to have you behind me, Salbatore.” He shoved the documents into a folder and snapped it shut. “All right. Let’s go.”

  They left the room, waiting briefly for Machado as he finished issuing orders by telephone. The two militiamen outside the doors fell into step behind the group as they moved through the palace. “A squad will meet us at the west exit,” Machado reported.

  “The helicopter only has eight seats,” said Callas. “It can take the three of us, plus five of Vicente’s men. Everyone else will have to stay.”