Empire of Gold_A Novel

by Andy McDermott

  “I don’t want this to even get to court,” de Quesada growled. “I meant, what are my options for leaving the country?”

  “Limited,” Goldberg told him. “It would give the American government the excuse it needed to freeze your assets worldwide. And then there’s the issue of extradition …” She trailed off as the Colombian went into a white-tiled room—and unzipped his fly.

  “What? Haven’t you ever seen a man take a piss before? Keep talking,” he demanded. But both lawyers had been left speechless by the bizarre nature of his bathroom. Rather than a lavatory, the room housed a sunken square four feet to a side. Incredibly, set into its floor was the stolen sun disk. An unimaginable fortune in gold, a priceless cultural treasure … now acting as a urinal.

  Hearing no further legal advice forthcoming, de Quesada looked over his shoulder. “Oh, this?” he said, anger briefly diminishing as he took the opportunity to boast. “A little trinket I bought in Venezuela. I thought it would take weeks to arrive, but my new shipping company was very efficient. Now every time I take a piss, I’m pissing on the culture of my old friend Arcani Pachac! I may even send him a picture—although I doubt he has good cell reception in the mountains of Peru.”

  “Ah … quite,” said Bloom as de Quesada shook himself off and zipped up. “But on the subject of extradition—” His phone trilled. “Excuse me.”

  Now de Quesada was all business, watching intently as the lawyer listened. “Was that your man?” he said as Bloom terminated the call.

  “I’m afraid so. The warrant has been signed.”

  “This way,” the drug lord ordered, pushing past them and continuing down the hall.

  Two of his men met the trio. “Jefe!” said one. “I just talked to someone in the village. He said some trucks went down your road and haven’t come back.”

  “When?”

  “About two hours ago.”

  De Quesada glared accusingly at the two lawyers. “I told you, we didn’t see anyone,” Goldberg said, trying to conceal her sudden nervousness.

  De Quesada whispered to the bodyguards, who nodded and jogged back to the room overlooking the infinity pool. “In here,” the Colombian said, leading the Americans to a set of arched double doors. He opened them to reveal a large room that was a combination of luxurious lounge and office, leather armchairs and couches laid out before a black chrome desk with a top of polished granite. Along one wall was a bar with hundreds of different bottles arranged behind it—and above them a large, yet seemingly empty, aquarium.

  Goldberg regarded the glass tank curiously, but de Quesada passed a second archway to the hall and went behind the bar to the shelves at its end. He pulled out one particular bottle—which only slid so far before stopping with a click. “My vault,” he told the intrigued pair. “There are some documents I don’t want them to find, you understand?”

  “Perfectly,” said Bloom.

  “Good.” He swung the shelves away to reveal a small room hidden behind them. Goldberg tried to peer inside, but at his stare switched her attention back to the aquarium. “You like my pets?” he asked. Both lawyers were puzzled, seeing nothing. “There, in the middle.”

  Goldberg stepped behind the bar, finally spotting one of the tank’s occupants: a little yellow octopus, two of its suckered tentacles holding it to the transparent wall. She leaned closer, hesitantly tapping the glass. The octopus leapt away, turning a far brighter yellow with rings of black and vivid blue appearing all over its body. Eight limbs pulsing in unison, it shot toward the surface.

  “Don’t stand too close,” said de Quesada. “It’s a blue-ringed octopus—one of the world’s deadliest creatures. If it bites you … you’ll die.”

  “The glass looks quite thick,” she said, covering her brief shock with haughty indifference.

  “Maybe, but the tank has no top—and they can climb.”

  She hurriedly retreated. De Quesada laughed harshly. “Now, here is what I want you to do,” he said. “Wait on the bridge for them to arrive, and do not let them pass. Say you need to check the warrant, any legal shit you can think of, just hold them up for as long as you can.”

  “This … isn’t really what you hired us for,” said Goldberg.

  “I hired you to keep me out of prison, and I pay you a lot of money to do it. So do it. Consider it part of your client service.” The bodyguard entered, carrying Bloom’s briefcase. “Take your case and go. Keep them busy.” When they didn’t move immediately, he barked: “Now!”

  Affronted, Bloom collected his case and the lawyers departed. The bodyguard waited until they were gone, then went to the bar. “Did you do it?” de Quesada asked.

  “Yes, Jefe.” He handed the drug lord a small remote-control unit. “Everything is set.”

  “Good. Tell the others to arm up. And bring Alicia and Sylvie here—I want them as my last line of defense.” A cruel smirk. “No man would dare shoot them.” He returned to the hidden vault. “I have to destroy the hard drives. Get ready—they will be coming!”

  “The guy may be a criminal,” admitted Nina, “but he’s got a gorgeous house.”

  The combined force from Interpol, the Drug Enforcement Administration, and the Colombian police—and the two representatives of the International Heritage Agency—was concealed among the trees along the cliff top, looking at the little island below. De Quesada’s villa had been impressive enough in photos, but in reality it was magnificent, white walls gleaming in the sunlight.

  “Nice taste in bodyguards too,” said Eddie, taking a closer look through binoculars.

  Nina could guess at what—or whom—he was looking. “Give me those,” she snapped, wresting the binoculars from his grip as the two young women emerged from the infinity pool and padded, still topless, into the building. “And I’m pretty sure they’re way below your ‘half the man’s age plus seven years’ rule.”

  Eddie grinned. “No harm in looking.”

  “There will be if I catch you doing it again.” She panned along the house to the crossing. While it seemed solidly built, it was still merely a footbridge, too narrow to accommodate vehicles. The drug lord’s cars were kept in a garage on the mainland, outside which an SUV had stopped and disgorged a suited man and woman about twenty minutes earlier.

  She moved her view back to the island. At each end of the bridge were tall and stout wooden poles, a cable that she guessed was a power line hanging between them. Near the far pole was the house’s main entrance—the doors of which suddenly opened. “Someone’s coming out.”

  It was the suited couple. “De Quesada’s lawyers,” said Baker.

  “They don’t look happy.” The pair were in the midst of an agitated discussion.

  “I think I know why.” Nina looked around to see Kit, holding several sheets of paper, and Probst slipping through the bushes. “This just came through over the mobile fax.”

  Baker took the pages. “Outstanding.”

  “The warrant?” Eddie asked.

  “Signed, sealed, and delivered. We now have full authority to go in and get that son of a bitch. Okay, Mr. Jindal, Dr. Wilde, Mr. Chase, wait here until we’re done. Walther, are the snipers covering the jetty?”

  Probst nodded. “We can take out the boats anytime.”

  “Great. Okay, time to kick ass …” He stopped, seeing that the lawyers had come to a standstill three-quarters of the way across the bridge. “Now what the hell are those two doing?”

  The answer came as the man called out in American-accented Spanish. “Well, shit!” exclaimed Baker.

  “What’s he saying?” Eddie asked.

  The DEA agent shook his head in disgust. “They want to talk to us. Guess they heard about the warrant.”

  “So much for the element of surprise,” Nina said gloomily. “Now what do we do?”

  Probst surveyed the house. “I don’t like it. It could be a trap.”

  “We outnumber them three to one,” Baker said dismissively, “we’ve got an elevated position and s
uperior firepower, and all their escape routes are cut off. That son of a bitch is just trying to buy time so he can destroy anything incriminating. Mr. Cruz!” he called. The head of the Colombian SWAT team, who had been standing beside a six-wheeled truck giving last-minute instructions to his men, hurried over. “You and four of your guys, come with me. We’ll see what these clowns have to say. Get the rest ready to move in. Walther, keep your guys on lookout.”

  Cruz signaled to his unit, and four black-clad cops joined him. Baker summoned four more DEA agents, and the ten men, weapons at the ready, headed for the bridge. Probst and Kit moved away to organize the Interpol team.

  “Not keen on this,” Eddie muttered.

  “You think it’s a trap too?” asked Nina. The two lawyers were still waiting on the bridge.

  “Yeah, but … I don’t know what this arsehole’s got planned. And that worries me.” He took the binoculars back from Nina and checked the villa once more.

  Inside the house, de Quesada looked back at him through his own binoculars from behind a venetian blind on the upper floor. One of his bodyguards had spotted movement in the trees. With their cover blown, the intruders were less concerned about secrecy.

  Which could be their fatal mistake. “How many?” he asked.

  “At least fifteen people,” his bodyguard replied, hefting his M16 assault rifle. “Probably more.”

  The drug lord clicked his tongue, not liking the odds even with his contingency plan ready to go. “They’ll be watching the boats …” He stopped when he picked out a dash of contrasting color among the greenery. A woman, her fiery red hair standing out clearly.

  A familiar woman. “What’s she doing here?” he asked himself, recognizing Nina Wilde from their meeting at the Clubhouse. Why would an archaeologist be accompanying a police raid?

  The answer was obvious. “Wait here and get ready to shoot,” he ordered as he headed downstairs to the hall. Two more armed bodyguards lurked near the front door; he ignored them, instead going to one of the artworks.

  The khipu. He plucked it from the board, then hurried back to his office, glancing into the bathroom as he passed. The sun disk was obviously far more valuable, almost certainly the main reason for Wilde’s presence, but unlike the khipu it could hardly be slipped into a pocket. Wilde had told him that the lengths of string were potentially worth millions to the right buyer; he might soon need the cash.

  But first, he had to make sure he remained free. He entered his office, where he found the dark-haired Alicia and the blond Sylvie waiting for him. He gave their naked breasts an appreciative look. “You know what to do?”

  “Yeah, babe,” said Alicia, raising her imposing weapon: an AA-12 automatic shotgun, its twenty-round drum magazine making it look like a futuristic gangster’s tommy gun. Sylvie was similarly armed, and both women’s wide-eyed, hyper expressions told him they had just snorted considerable amounts of confidence-boosting cocaine off the marble table. “We won’t let anyone in until you’re done.”

  “Good.” He kissed her, then did the same to Sylvie before going through the hidden door.

  It was a shame to lose such hot companions, he thought as he placed a small thermite block on top of the computer containing his financial records. But then, he could always find more.

  A CCTV monitor showed him the bridge, Bloom and Goldberg still standing partway across it. As he watched, the cops finally revealed themselves, ten armed men trooping to the crossing.

  He tugged out a tab to light the thermite’s fuse and retreated to the bar, shielding his eyes. The block ignited, sparks spitting as the matchbox-sized incendiary device almost instantly melted through the plastic case, the hard drive inside it, and the shelf on which the computer was sitting, then finally made a sterling effort to burrow into the concrete floor.

  The girls gave him worried looks, but he smiled reassuringly and, wafting away the smoke, returned to the vault. In an ideal world he would have closed the door to ensure total security, but the stench of vaporized plastic and metal was choking in the confined space.

  Another look at the screen. The SWAT team was now on the bridge, marching to meet the lawyers.

  He gathered up the items he needed—a clutch of passports, a flash drive containing Swiss bank account details, an encrypted cell phone, a wad of highdenomination banknotes of assorted currencies, and the khipu—and sealed them in a watertight ziplock bag, then held the remote. Any second now …

  “Are you with the DEA?” asked Bloom, blocking the SWAT team’s path.

  Baker tapped the huge DEA logo emblazoned across his body armor. “What gave it away?” he asked sarcastically. “Let us through.”

  “You’re not taking another step across this bridge until we see a warrant,” Goldberg said firmly. “We have reason to believe that our client’s rights are being violated by the issuing of an illegal search order, and we demand to inspect said order before we allow you on his property.”

  “In accordance with the Colombian legal code,” added Bloom.

  Baker looked irritably to Cruz. “Is that right?” The Colombian nodded. “Well, good thing I brought these.” He thrust the faxed documents at the lawyer. “Read fast, ’cause one way or another, we’re crossing this bridge.”

  Bloom handed the papers to his partner. “I need my reading glasses,” he said, opening his briefcase.

  It contained a laptop, several folders of documents, assorted pens, and a spectacle case, for which Bloom reached … before he registered something extra among his belongings. A book-sized block of a dull yellow putty-like substance, to which was taped a small electronic device, a red light glowing on it.

  He stared at it in bewilderment. “What—”

  The brick of C-4 plastic explosive detonated.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  In the vault, de Quesada pushed a button on the remote, and watched the image of the bridge—and the twelve people on it—vanish in a flash of light. An explosion rattled the building. He smiled. “Now that’s what I call client service.”

  He pulled a cord on the back wall. Another concealed doorway opened, revealing a rocky passage descending steeply into the island’s heart. He started down it. Below, the sound of waves echoed through a large enclosed space.

  Eddie and Nina raised their heads. The bridge had been obliterated, only truncated stumps left at each end. The two power poles rocked, the cable flapping between them like a skipping rope.

  Of the people on the bridge, nothing remained but a red tint to the drifting smoke.

  “Jesus Christ!” Eddie gasped. Half the assault force had been wiped out in a single blow.

  And the other half was under attack. Crackles of automatic gunfire came from the island. Nina shrieked and ducked again as bullets thwacked the vegetation around them.

  “It’s suppressing fire,” Eddie realized. The drug lord’s men were trying to force the surviving SWAT members to stay down while they escaped.

  Probst, with three members of his team by the trucks, had reached the same conclusion. “Sniper unit!” he shouted into his radio. “Take out the boats!”

  Farther along the cliff, beyond the broken bridge, two more men lay in the concealment of a bush, their monstrous Barrett M82 rifles on bipods before them. While the huge weapons were generally used in a sniper role, they were also often applied to anti-matériel tasks; a single .50-caliber round could destroy the engine of any unarmored vehicle, and quite a few armored ones.

  The snipers already had targets. A jetty, reached by a zigzag path down the island’s less steep seaward side, had three speedboats moored along it. The first man targeted the outboard motor of the boat closest to shore. Even with the waves causing the vessel to bob in the water, at a range of less than three hundred yards it was a simple shot. “Firing,” he said, warning his companion to brace himself as he pulled the trigger.

  A burst of flame eight feet long exploded from the Barrett’s muzzle. Looking back through his scope, the sniper saw a hole through the e
ngine wide enough to see blue water. The speedboat wasn’t going anywhere.

  His companion lined up the next shot …

  A new sound over the bursts of fire from the house—a low, flat whoosh—

  They looked around—and an RPG-7 round struck the cliff between them, tearing both men apart.

  Eddie grimly watched the rocket-propelled grenade’s smoke trail drift away. The snipers’ first shot had revealed their position, and de Quesada’s men had responded with immediate overkill.

  “Keep down,” he told Nina, crawling through the bushes to Kit and Probst. “They got your snipers,” he told the Interpol officers, who reacted with shock. “They’ll be going for the boats.”

  “I’ll tell the Coast Guard to intercept,” said Kit, going to one of the group’s Ford Expedition SUVs.

  “How far away are they?” Eddie asked.

  “There’s a cutter three kilometers off the coast.” The Indian began speaking into the radio.

  “Why the fuck are they so far out?”

  “We didn’t want to alert de Quesada,” said Probst in disgust. “For all the good that did.” He turned to the other men. “We have to make sure nobody gets away. Get the rest and go along the cliffs. But keep spread out—they might have another rocket.”

  “Anything I can do?” Eddie asked as the team moved off.

  “I’m not sure there is even anything we can do,” the German replied, following his men.

  “Great,” Eddie muttered. He checked the trucks in the hope of finding a spare weapon, but found only the now worthless tear gas launchers.

  Kit finished his radio call. “The Coast Guard are on their way.”

  “How long?”

  “Six or seven minutes before they’re close enough to take any kind of action.” He drew a pistol. “Stay here with Nina. I’ll be with Walther.”