Empire of Gold nwaec-7

by Andy McDermott

  ‘An Inca treasure,’ said Callas. ‘I thought you should have it.’

  Pachac’s wonder quickly faded, resentment surfacing. ‘While you sell the other lost treasures of my people to anyone who has the dollars.’

  ‘They were found in Venezuela,’ Callas said patronisingly. ‘So they belong to my people, not yours. And you could have bid for any of them – if your followers in the True Red Way did not mind you spending millions of dollars of the cause’s money on golden trinkets . . . ’

  The Peruvian snapped the box shut and turned angrily away, taking in the crate next to the Venezuelan helicopter for the first time. Realisation dawned as its odd dimensions suggested what it might contain. He whirled back to Callas. ‘That – that is—’

  ‘The Punchaco, yes,’ Callas replied. ‘Two tons of Inca gold.’

  ‘You must let me have it. You must.’ Pachac was almost pleading. ‘It is the greatest symbol of the Incas – of my people. We must have it back!’

  ‘The gold alone is worth more than you can afford, Inkarrí.’ The general’s use of the title now held more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘And because it is an Inca treasure, it is even more valuable. But I have found a buyer.’

  Pachac’s face paled. ‘No . . . ’ he whispered, then more forcefully, with rising anger: ‘No! Not him!’

  ‘Yes, your old friend - your old partner, Francisco de Quesada. He can afford it. And anything else he desires. You could have been the same, if you had concentrated on business and not politics . . . ’

  The Maoist’s teeth clenched in rage. ‘He only wants it to insult me! And you cannot even get it to him. My contacts told me that your smuggler, West, was arrested. Without him, it will never get through customs – and what else can you do, drive it through the jungle? There are many bandits round here. On both sides of the border.’ He gave Callas a pointed look. ‘You cannot give it to him.’

  Callas laughed. ‘I am not giving it to him. He has already paid me the first twenty million dollars!’

  Pachac looked down sharply at the bundles of banknotes. ‘You are paying me with that bastard’s money?’ A burst of invective, again in the unfamiliar language. ‘Give me the Punchaco, or this deal is off!’

  ‘The deal has been agreed, Arcani,’ said Callas.

  ‘I am not leaving without the Punchaco.’ Pachac’s right hand slipped inside his camouflage jacket.

  The soldiers snapped up their AK-103s. Callas’s face was now stone. ‘Remember where you are, Pachac,’ he growled. ‘You have your money, my thanks, and even my gift. Take them, and have your revolution. But do not challenge me in my own country. It will be painful.’

  The shorter man glared at him, breathing heavily. Finally, he zipped up the holdall, then picked it up and, the wooden box under one arm, strutted without a word back to the Jet Ranger.

  ‘Communist scum,’ snarled Callas once the Peruvian was aboard.

  Stikes appeared entertained by the whole confrontation. ‘I did rather enjoy the hypocrisy, though. A man who’s such a hard-core Maoist that he thinks the Shining Path are counter-revolutionary, making millions by selling drugs. Holding two completely conflicting viewpoints at the same time? No wonder he’s insane.’

  ‘He did have a point, though,’ Callas admitted. ‘Without West, getting the Punchaco to de Quesada will be very difficult. And I need the rest of his payment – even after the operation succeeds, there will be chaos. The only way to calm it will be with money to the right people. Lots of money.’

  An odd smile crept on to Stikes’s face, and he gave Nina a calculating look. ‘I think I may have a way.’

  Callas regarded him questioningly, but before he could speak the Jet Ranger took off, sweeping more dust across the helipad. Stikes brushed grit from his sleeves and addressed the Russian pilot. ‘Gurov, take the Hind to the staging area and restore the weapons. General,’ he said to Callas as Gurov returned to the gunship, ‘we should get back to the Clubhouse – there are still tactical issues to discuss.’

  Callas nodded, then looked at the prisoners in the truck. ‘First we deal with them. Dr Wilde is the only one we need alive. The others—’

  ‘Jindal too,’ Stikes interrupted.

  ‘What?’ Callas asked, confused, as Nina and Kit exchanged shocked looks. ‘The Interpol agent? Why him?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’ He let the words hang in the air as he regarded Kit thoughtfully.

  ‘Get them down,’ Callas ordered. The soldiers in the truck forced Nina and Kit to their feet.

  ‘Let them go,’ Nina demanded. ‘If you kill them, you might as well kill me too, because I’ll never tell you what you want to know.’

  The Venezuelan smiled, a chilling crocodile grin. ‘That sounds like a challenge, Dr Wilde. And as I told Pachac, challenging me results in pain. Great pain.’

  He shouted more commands in Spanish: for a forklift to load the crate containing the Punchaco aboard the Mil; two men to take a Jeep to Valverde and clear out any personal effects from the expedition’s hotel rooms; the prisoners to be driven to ‘the hole’. Whatever it was, it was clear that the trip would be one way. Callas began to walk away—

  ‘Bastardo!’ yelled Valero. He dived for one of the soldiers’ weapons, only to be clubbed down and kicked repeatedly in the head and chest. Macy jumped up, shouting for them to stop, but was shoved to the bloodstained floor.

  ‘Let them go,’ Nina repeated. This time, it was not a demand but a plea for mercy.

  None was forthcoming. Callas waved a hand, and the truck drove away, the prisoners at gunpoint in its back.

  15

  Panting, muscles stiff and burning, Eddie watched from a high branch of a creeper-choked tree as the truck set off. His run through the jungle, stopping every ten minutes to check his bearing against the sun, had taken just over two hours. Tough going, but the thought of what would happen to Nina and the others if he didn’t make it had driven him on.

  But he was too late.

  Even from outside the perimeter fence he had picked out Nina’s red hair immediately in the hot afternoon sun. She and Kit were being taken to the Mi-17. A forklift hoisted the crate containing the sun disc into its cabin, and it looked as though Stikes, recognisable by his beret, and Callas were waiting to board the helicopter as well.

  But his concern was now for those left behind. The armed guards in the truck told him that at least some of the prisoners were still alive . . . but they wouldn’t be for long. Civilians held on a military base might arouse questions. Corpses buried in the jungle would not.

  But how could he help them? The truck was too far away for him to catch up. And he couldn’t help Nina and Kit either; too many armed men around the helipad for him to stand a chance of even getting close.

  The helipad . . .

  Part of his mind had already subconsciously registered something wrong, and as the other chopper’s rotors began to turn he realised what. A Hind? That wasn’t unusual in itself, as the Russian flying tank had been sold all over the world . . . but this one bore the red-and-white roundel of Peru, not the Venezuelan tricolour. What was it doing here?

  He dismissed the question when he saw something more important. On the far side of the base was a small motor pool. A soldier climbed into a Jeep.

  His chance—

  Eddie leapt down, breaking into a run parallel to the boundary fence. He couldn’t catch the truck – but if he was fast enough, he might be able to intercept the Jeep.

  The Hind roared into the air and turned northwards. The Mil had been loaded, the forklift backing away to let its passengers, willing and otherwise, board. A flash of red: Nina being pushed inside.

  He forced down a surge of anger and kept running. The soldier in the Jeep waved impatiently to another man. The deforested area was only about two hundred metres across – once the 4×4 set off, it wouldn’t take long to reach the gate.

  A corner of the fence ahead. He swung round it, angling away from the base. Another glance—

&nb
sp; The Jeep was on the move.

  Shit! Could he catch it? It disappeared from view, blocked by trees, then reappeared. Closer than he had expected. The driver was in a hurry.

  So was Eddie. He forced himself on, aware that one stumble on the uneven ground could cost the prisoners their lives. Dangling vines swatted at his face. His heart pounded, leg muscles on fire, but he couldn’t stop.

  A scrape and clatter of metal – the gate being opened. He heard the clash of gears as the driver set off.

  A shallow slope ahead. The muddy road at the bottom came into view through the undergrowth – as did the Jeep. Moving quickly.

  Too quickly. Eddie knew he couldn’t reach it before it passed.

  His chance was gone—

  No!

  He turned again, aiming ahead of the Jeep, and leapt up, grabbing a clutch of creepers hanging from a high tree. He swung down the slope, reaching the bottom of his arc, rising higher . . .

  And letting go.

  He fell, landing with a bone-jarring crash in the Jeep’s open back as it passed. The two soldiers had put their AK-103s on the rear seat, and it now felt as though they were embedded in his spine.

  The pain of his touchdown was nothing compared to the soldiers’ shock, however. The driver jumped halfway out of his seat in fright. The 4×4 swerved almost into a ditch before he regained control.

  Eddie pulled himself upright. One of the AKs clattered into the footwell. But they were too close to the base for him to use the weapon – the shots would draw attention. Instead, he smashed an elbow into the driver’s face as he looked round. The Venezuelan’s head snapped back, blood spraying from his burst lip.

  The other man twisted in his seat, grabbing for the rifle. Eddie chopped at his throat. He jerked away, the blow catching his jaw.

  A retaliatory strike lashed at Eddie’s eyes. He threw himself back – and banged his head on the hard-edged bodywork.

  The passenger took advantage of his brief dizziness, pulling the AK from the footwell by its barrel. He spun it round, about to empty the magazine into the intruder’s chest at point-blank range—

  Eddie reached between the front seats and yanked the handbrake.

  The 4×4 skidded. The sudden deceleration caused the passenger to be thrown forward, and his head thunked forcefully against the windscreen’s frame.

  Eddie used the same inertia to fling himself upright. The dazed soldier was halfway out of his seat, and Eddie shoved him with both hands to make the exit complete. With a cry, the passenger tumbled out of the Jeep’s open side, and hit a tree at the roadside head first, breaking his neck. The AK bounced into the undergrowth.

  One down – but the driver had recovered. He released the handbrake and stamped down hard on the accelerator.

  The Jeep fishtailed, kicking up a muddy spray. The sudden swerve hurled Eddie sideways. He clutched desperately for a handhold to avoid following the dead soldier out of the vehicle, but only caught the edge of the rear seat. He hung over the Jeep’s side, mud splattering into his face.

  The driver jerked the steering wheel. The Jeep swayed, tipping Eddie even further out. The track blurred past beneath him. He tried to hook a foot under the front seats, but couldn’t get a firm hold.

  Green in his peripheral vision—

  He closed his eyes as a plant at the roadside smacked into his cheek, at this speed even mere leaves enough to draw blood. Stinging, he looked ahead again – to see a tree coming up fast.

  The driver saw it too. He swerved to scrape off his uninvited passenger against its thick trunk.

  Eddie kicked, searching for a foothold. His boot thumped against the hard seatback. He strained to pull himself back into the Jeep, but couldn’t get enough leverage.

  The tree rushed closer, filling his vision—

  His groping foot finally caught the seat’s underside, and he yanked himself back inside as the tree whipped past, the leafy creepers dangling from it swatting his head.

  Other parasitic growths concealed a danger of their own, though – a branch protruding into the road—

  The driver screamed and braked hard – but too late.

  The branch hit the Jeep’s windscreen. The glass shattered, pieces showering into the driver’s face. Chunks of broken wood bombarded both men. The remaining AK fell off the rear seat, ending up beneath the driver.

  Eddie recovered first. He grabbed a piece of smashed tree and swung it at the soldier’s head, scoring a satisfyingly solid hit.

  But the driver wasn’t out of the fight, swerving the 4×4 sharply across the track. As Eddie swayed, the Kalashnikov rattled into the front footwell – giving the driver the chance to snatch it up.

  With an angry leer of victory, the Venezuelan swung round to shoot his attacker—

  Eddie was gone.

  The soldier was bewildered by his apparent disappearance – until he realised the Englishman had flattened himself across the rear seat.

  He whirled back—

  The Jeep had angled off the track – directly under a low, thick branch. There was a crunching thud. Slowed by dense bushes, the 4×4 bounced to a stop amidst the undergrowth. The engine rattled and stalled.

  Eddie cautiously looked up. The driver was still in his seat . . . up to his neck. His head was a hundred feet further back, a pulped mess beneath the bough that had chopped it from his body.

  ‘Nice bit of tree surgery,’ Eddie said, clambering into the front and kicking the decapitated corpse from the Jeep. He recovered the AK-103, then restarted the engine and backed the 4×4 on to the road.

  Now, he had to find the truck.

  Before it was too late.

  The new track was even more narrow and overgrown than the one that had led to Paititi, trees clawing at the military truck. Macy ducked a clawing branch, then peered fearfully at her surroundings. The vehicle had turned off the base’s access road on to the almost hidden path only a few minutes earlier, but even over that short distance the jungle had transformed into a dark, malevolent thicket. The trees were gnarled, as if twisted by the wounds of physically battling each other for the few scraps of daylight. Even the sun seemed to have abandoned this place . . . or turned away in horror.

  Because there was something hanging in the air, permeating everything with foulness. A stench, beyond the inescapable jungle odour of decaying vegetation.

  Osterhagen had caught it too. ‘I did my civilian service in the Katastrophenschutz – disaster relief,’ he whispered to Macy, his face grim. ‘I know that smell.’

  The scent of death.

  They were at their journey’s end.

  Macy searched the soldiers’ faces for any hint of mercy. She found none. The four Venezuelans holding them at gunpoint were all cold, dispassionate. They had done this before.

  One last lurch over some roots, and the truck clattered to a stop. The jungle canopy was so thick it seemed like twilight beneath, all colour sapped away. A soldier unlocked the tailgate and let it fall open with a gunshot bang. ‘Muévete!’ he said, pointing out of the truck with his AK.

  Soto began to shudder. ‘Oh, please no, please, don’t do this, please . . . ’ One of the soldiers roughly dragged her to her feet. She wailed, a keening mewl of helpless despair as he shoved her from the truck.

  Valero snarled, about to leap up at him, but received a brutal kick to the head for his trouble. Another soldier threw him out on to the ground.

  The two remaining men gestured with their guns. Macy and Osterhagen picked up the semi-conscious Becker and carried him from the vehicle. One of the soldiers plucked the injured man’s hat from his head and put it on, earning sarcastic laughs from his fellows.

  The driver was waiting, Kalashnikov in hand. He signalled for the prisoners to advance. The guards pushed them forward. Macy could hardly breathe, the stench of rot clogging her nostrils and fear tightening her chest. She rounded the truck to see . . . the hole.

  It was aptly, bluntly named: just a ragged opening in the earth, steep sides littered
with decomposing leaves. But as Macy got closer, she saw that it was not empty.

  Bodies were piled inside it, a dozen, more. Most were rotted beyond recognition, insects and animals having feasted on the rich flesh and organs. Only the pair on top of the heap remained recognisably human, just a day or two dead, but even these had already lost their eyes and chunks of skin to the relentless scavengers. Insects swarmed from the blackened bullet wounds in their chests. Cayo’s partners, the drug smugglers.

  Cayo himself soon joined them. As the other soldiers held the prisoners at gunpoint, two men pulled his corpse from the truck, carted it between them like a sack to the pit, and tossed it in. Flies exploded from the bodies as it thumped down on top of them.