by David Gilman
Max had no idea that the shivering turbulence along the stream’s bank was one of the jungle’s most lethal creatures. Its jaws, lined with small, hooked teeth, would grip its prey as it rapidly coiled itself about its victim. Within moments the massive strength would crush bone and suffocate lungs; then the jaws would unhinge, allowing it to swallow its prey. No one was strong enough to fight a boa constrictor of this size once they were held in its coils.
Death was certain.
Now it would eat again.
Sayid had paced the floor, back and forth, eventually sitting on his bed, head in hands. Had his intrusion into the building been traced? He half expected to hear someone pounding on his door at any moment, so powerful was the fear of discovery. What to do? If he admitted hacking into all those cameras, then one thing would lead to another and they would know that he was involved with Max from the very beginning. But if he did not warn the authorities that a man might have been killed or captured, he would never be able to live with himself.
By the time he had made his decision, he found himself already knocking on Mr. Jackson’s door.
“You’re absolutely sure that this is exactly what happened?” Fergus Jackson asked him moments later.
“Yes, sir. I think they held him at gunpoint, and after that they pulled the camera off the wall. It’s all a bit of a mess, sir. I hope I haven’t made matters worse by sending the information through to the people at MI-Five. That would mean I was responsible for whatever happened to that man.”
Mr. Jackson nodded and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Well, you’ve done the right thing now, Sayid. We have to bring in the authorities,” he said as he picked up the phone.
“I really don’t want to hurt my mum. And I’m scared.”
“I’ll make sure nothing happens to you and your mother.” Jackson turned away as he spoke into the phone. “Hello, Bob, I think there’s something you should know.”
The White Hat hackers were safe; Sayid had seen to that. They had left absolutely no trace of their involvement and had created a spaghetti junction of unfathomable complexity to cover their tracks. Robert Ridgeway and another man had landed in the helicopter an hour after Mr. Jackson made the telephone call. Now he stood back as the young man with him keyed information into Sayid’s computer. He turned and nodded, and Sayid could see that he had reconnected to the CCTV cameras in the building.
“The boy’s telling the truth, sir. He was logged into the security circuit.” He adjusted the screen so that Ridgeway, Sayid and Mr. Jackson could see. A dozen camera views flitted through the building, and Sayid could see men and women in every area. They were searching, testing for fingerprints and recording everything on cameras.
“One of our men is missing, and those are my people searching for him. You are certain you saw nothing other than what you’ve told us?” Ridgeway asked Sayid.
“I’ve told you everything. I was the one who alerted you in the first place. I sent you the building’s location.”
“Yes, well, we’d really like to know how you did that. That’s a major security breach as far as we’re concerned.” He glanced at Jackson, who shook his head gently. He did not want any threat leveled against Sayid and his mother again.
“But perhaps that’s a conversation we might have at another time,” Ridgeway said, pressing a button on his mobile phone. They watched as, seconds later, one of the agents on the screen answered his own phone.
“We’re watching,” Ridgeway said.
The man looked up into one of the cameras, speaking directly to them.
“Boss, there’s no trace that Keegan was in the building. No prints, no fibers. Nothing. This is a private hospital. Half a dozen rooms behind each security door. It’s also a mortuary. It’s genuine; we’ve checked it out. It’s run by an independent medical group called Zaragon that uses it for their international clients based in London. Postmortems are done here at the request of a patient’s family. There’s nothing suspicious, so what do we do now?”
Sayid pointed at one of the screens. “There were monitors on that wall where that stainless-steel table is, and your bloke saw something that was really horrible.”
“Did you hear that?” Ridgeway said into the phone.
The agent nodded. “We’ve checked already,” he replied. “They’re viewing screens. So far all we found was a computer library with postmortems recorded. Keegan isn’t the toughest of blokes, with all due respect, sir. Anyone could cringe at an autopsy.”
Ridgeway looked at Jackson. He was stymied. The only evidence he had was that Sayid Khalif had hacked into the building’s cameras and had sent the location to MI5 in the first place. If it were not for the fact that Keegan was missing, he would write this off as a schoolboy prank that had got out of control.
Ridgeway stared at Sayid. “There’s nothing I can do about this, unless you can give me something more to go on. Did you see these men hurt my agent?”
“No, sir, but I think one of the men pointed a gun at him.”
“Then is there anything else at all that can help us find out what happened to him?”
Sayid couldn’t think of one thing. He gazed at the screens and let the computer mouse click on each one. He stopped in the tiled room with the stainless-steel examination table. Then he panned the camera round slightly. Something was different. What was it?
He pointed to the room. “There was something like a clothes rack there. It had special suits hanging on it. They were biohazard suits. Now they’re gone.”
“Biohazard?”
“Yes, the same kind I saw in the tunnel when Danny Maguire’s body was found,” Sayid told him.
Ridgeway considered this information for a moment and then put the phone back to his ear. “Lock that building down and bring in a full forensic science team.”
They saw the agent nod. Ridgeway looked down at Sayid. “I can’t see any reason why you would make that up. You’ve convinced me something’s going on in that building. Well done, son.”
The snake coiled rapidly, twisting round his body. It happened so quickly he had no time to scream. Barely a gasp of fear was possible as it slithered from the mud, caught his ankles and then in a smooth, lethal turn entwined his body. One hand was free, but he couldn’t reach a weapon. If he could have grasped his knife, he’d have slashed at the ferocious head that now stared into his face, its tongue flicking out to touch his bursting, sweating skin.
It crushed him. Steel-like bands of coiled muscle contracted, exerting a force that squelched his organs and made his eyes bulge with horror as the needle-toothed jaws opened.
From a place of darkness, somewhere deep inside his body, Max’s primal scream echoed through the jungle.
That horrifying sound was almost inhuman. It froze the blood and rooted Xavier and his guard to the spot. The fight in the forest had played back to them in all its heart-clenching terror. Xavier reacted first. Breaking free from the man’s grip, he sprinted down the path looking neither right nor left, determined never to run into the jungle again. He zigzagged, but he was an easy target. The man raised his weapon.
“Stop!” Orsino Flint yelled, bursting through the edge of the forest.
The gunman turned and fired. Flint dived into cover.
Xavier stopped, turned and shouted in surprise. “Flint!”
The gunman twisted back and fired at the boy, who forgot his fear of the jungle and plunged into the undergrowth.
“Don’t shoot!” Flint shouted again as he ducked into the open, and back again, getting ever closer to Xavier.
The gunman could not cover both at the same time. He waited, the AK-47 sweeping left to right, ready to fire again. He was scared. The scream from the forest, the failure of his companions to return, all brought home the fact that he was alone and vulnerable. There was a sudden flurry at the edge of the jungle. He fired, the bullets chopping the leaves, but Flint had moved farther down the forest edge and run across the strip.
He gripped Xavie
r’s neck as he pinned him to the ground, the bullets snapping the air above them. “Stupid! You’re so damned stupid!”
“You said you were leaving!”
“I saw your dumb stunt, and I couldn’t believe it! Come on! He’s reloading.”
Xavier was dragged to his feet. He saw the gunman fumbling for another magazine, but Flint had already yanked him into the trees.
Which was worse? The gunman or whatever lay in the jungle?
Max burst from the muddy water, powering himself upward, his mouth still wide open from the scream, but now he was snarling as he attacked. He held the spear in both hands and lunged.
The gunman’s bulging eyes were glazing over, the breath had been sucked from him like vacuum-packed meat as the snake still twisted round him. His swollen tongue protruded, and in the last few moments of consciousness, he saw the blurred movement of a mud-streaked demon lunging at his head with a spear. Max thrust the spear into the snake’s jaws and shoved with all his might. He felt the recoil as the snake’s muscles spasmed and swirled, lashing in ferocious death throes. Max leaned on the spear, pinning the snake to the ground, jamming one foot onto its writhing coils. Dripping with sweat, he desperately sucked in air as he overcame his fear. He closed his eyes, gripping the shaft of the spear, concentrating all his strength and energy, making sure that the terrifying snake could not survive and attack him.
Light faded as thunder ricocheted across the mountains from the low-lying clouds. Max was oblivious. He hunched over the writhing snake, clasping it with foot and fist, the flint blade like a big cat’s claw. Max’s teeth were bared with exertion as he growled with primitive savagery against the thrashing snake.
Finally, he knew the snake was dead and sank to his knees. He gazed at the magnificent creature and for a brief moment regretted its death. The man who had tried to kill him lay on his back in the dirt. Max tried to find a pulse, but there was none. His effort to save the man had come too late.
A steady pattering beat the forest leaves as a rainstorm broke. Max tilted back his head and let the fresh water wash the grime and sweat away, tasting the sweet liquid that his adrenaline-scoured body so desperately needed. Nothing else moved. A distant, muted bird trill and a gentle plopping call of another was all that could be heard.
The downpour ended almost as quickly as it had begun.
The rapid beating of the rain gave way to the steady sound of dripping leaves. A small movement caught his eye-a blue morpho butterfly opened its wings, its deep iridescence startling against the greenery. A brief moment of beauty in a place of death.
Max yanked out the spear and turned for the ravine. He had fought one snake; ahead lay another unknown peril-the Cave of the Stone Serpent. Like a jungle cat, he bent his body and sought a path beneath the low foliage. Some of the big leaves reflected the dull glint of rain, but a mottled form shifted in the shadows, and Max could smell the dank odor of wet fur. Without another thought, he chased the shadow. His senses altered, and like radar, his sense of smell and hearing took over. He ran bent low, ducking beneath curved branches as he found the animal path opening ahead of him. The rustling branches and the sound of paws on the ground led him through a dim, twisting labyrinth where light barely reached the forest floor. His feet hit mud, and he slithered onto his side, brought to a halt by a rotten log across the path. His shoulder slammed into the crumbling bark, and as he reached up to pull himself clear, he gazed into the eyes of the creature that had led him this far. Four meters away, smudged in camouflage, the jaguar gazed at him; its panting breath reached his nostrils. Max blinked. The jaguar was gone. Had he imagined it? He saw tracks in the mud. Surely it could not have been an illusion? The big cat had guided him here. Max looked to one side; the cliff had turned into a steep, muddy descent. Imaginary or not, he had reached a place where he could get down to the river.
Max could hear the sound of a waterfall. Using vines as ropes, he slithered his way down to the river sixty or so meters below him. It was broad but shallow, and he could see that, with care, he should be able to cross without being swept away. But what held his attention was the gaping hole in the rock face on the opposite mountainside. It looked as though someone had carved a mask into the mountain, and the cave gave the appearance of snarling jaws with jagged pinnacles of rock as teeth. Fetid, breathlike mist eased out of the opening. From where Max stood, there could be no doubt that it resembled the head of a snake. This was it. He had to enter the Stone Serpent’s gaping jaws.
Another ragged rain cloud curled down the mountainside at the far end of the valley, snagging on forest limbs like sheep’s wool on barbed wire. Max felt the first gust of wind and sting of rain as it urged him across the shallow water and onto the lower slopes of the mountainside. It seemed insistent on pushing him into the unknown.
Something splashed out of the mist into the stream behind him. He spun round. It was the driver of the bush-cutting machine. Blood streaked his clothes. Somehow he had survived the fall-maybe the cab’s roll cage had saved him. He staggered toward Max, pulled back the action on the shotgun he carried and brought it up to waist height. Max was exposed. There was no cover. There were one or two deep pools, but how far underwater could he dive to escape those lethal blasts? How long could he hold his breath until the man gave up? It was not an option.
In that moment of hesitation, the man stumbled into deeper water. He raised the shotgun, but it was more for balance than for aiming at Max.
A cry of pain ripped from the man’s throat. He had dropped the shotgun, beating the water with his fists. He screamed when the surface fluttered as if struck by hailstones, then fell facedown into the turmoil. Max was rooted to the spot. In less than a minute, the man was shredded. His blood had attracted the most ferocious of predatory fish-piranhas.
A stupid thought flashed through Max’s horror. He hadn’t known there were piranhas in Central America.
He did now.
Fragments of the man’s shirt floated past him.
Max gazed up into the huge, frightening cave that awaited him, but after the punishing terror he had experienced, it offered the illusion of a place of safety.
Could his mother and father have traversed this very route? Somewhere in the amphitheater of these mountains, on the other side of this cave, had they faced danger and death? His mother had died; his father had run. There was only one way to find out the truth.
Max stepped into the darkness and let the serpent’s breath smother him.
21
Riga was not the kind of man to sit idly by as events unfolded around him. He had studied maps and satellite photos while he waited at the abandoned airfield for word of the missing boy and the likelihood of his survival.
Cazamind’s determination to destroy Max Gordon was such a high priority that, for the first time in his career, Riga wanted to know why a target’s death was so important. Using his own contacts in Russian intelligence and with others who worked like himself, he began to feel the uneasy presence of Cazamind’s shadow world. There were rumored links to a network of power brokers whose secretive global influence was staggering. It was like a huge octopus, with Cazamind sitting squarely between the eyes of the beast. Cazamind knew everything. Riga had never had any sense of self-importance. He knew his place in the world, and as long as no one ever double-crossed him, or gave him incorrect information that stopped him from doing his lethal work, then Riga had no complaint. He could take his inquiries into Cazamind’s activities only so far without raising suspicions. The Swiss control freak would not like him probing. Riga had been careful, choosing only those men he knew would never mention his query. If he had asked anyone else, his questioning could seep out into the world like blood into sand. There was no sense in jeopardizing his own position just because the fate of a schoolboy had aroused some interest in him.
He had also listened in to the radio chatter of the various people who patrolled the strip zones around the rain forest and forbidden mountain kingdom, and as he heard
the sporadic radio calls in the background, he studied air-reconnaissance photos of the area.
Riga looked through a stereoscope’s eyepieces, shifted the photos slightly and saw the aerial images of the sheer mountain walls lose their flat perspective and become three-dimensional.
Now he could identify clefts in the mountains, but he knew that no one would survive going through there, not with the security measures Cazamind’s people had put in place. He scanned the riverbed and saw what looked like smoke but knew it to be the vapor from a waterfall. These photographs had been taken on a clear day some years ago, but the physical features had not changed. Riga heard excited shouting of men on the ground through the radio set. He spun the chair and fine-tuned the channel. The excited shouts were too difficult to follow, and, besides, Riga did not understand Spanish well enough to follow the fast, disjointed speech. He went to the door and called out through the rain to the pilot, who ran the few steps from his helicopter into the hut.
“What’s going on here?” Riga asked, pointing at the radio.
The pilot listened for a few moments. “There’s some kind of trouble. There’s been shooting; three of the men are missing. The guy’s saying there were strangers down there. They’ve escaped. Something scared him pretty bad.”
Riga turned to a map spread out on the table. “Speak to him. Get his position. I want to know where he is. Exactly.”
The pilot lifted the microphone, thumbed the Call button and spoke quickly in Spanish. He had to shout once or twice to calm the excited man at the other end of the radio link. He moved next to Riga and the map, tracing his finger along the rain forest that nudged against the curved river. He dragged his finger south onto the scarred landscape where the forest had been cleared. “He’s about here.”
