Empire of Gold nwaec-7

by Andy McDermott

  Backwash from the propeller whipped past him as Valero increased power, swinging the plane into line with the runway. Eddie braced himself. The last takeoff had been a bumpy ride, and this was likely to be a lot worse . . .

  ‘Shit!’ A Jeep raced through the gate, two soldiers inside. The passenger stood in his seat, supporting his AK-103 on the windscreen. ‘Take off, now!’

  Valero brought the throttle to full power. The plane picked up speed, landing gear crashed over bumps.

  The Jeep speeded up too – closing in.

  Eddie and the soldier fired almost simultaneously. Their aim was thrown off by the rough ride, but the Venezuelan had a larger target. Bullets pocked the wing as Eddie fired again. The Jeep’s windscreen crazed, but neither soldier was hit. Another burst from the 4×4, followed by a crack-crack-crack of lead punching through aluminium. Valero yelped as the instrument panel was hit.

  Eddie pulled the trigger once more. The Jeep’s windscreen shattered. The shooter dropped back into his seat, hanging on tightly as the driver swerved sharply to take the vehicle behind the Cessna’s tail.

  Out of Eddie’s firing line.

  ‘Dammit!’ He turned. The Jeep came into view through the rearmost starboard window, but trying to shoot out the toughened acrylic might result in a lethal ricochet. Instead, he gripped the strap more tightly and leaned from the open hatch, swinging round to bring his gun arm over the top of the fuselage.

  ‘Eddie, Jesus Christ!’ Macy shrieked. ‘Get back inside!’

  But he could no longer hear her, the propeller’s piercing rasp joined by the rising roar of wind. He fired another burst at the Jeep. The rifle bucked in his hand, banging against the metal roof.

  The soldier shot back. Bullets pierced the fuselage.

  One of the Cessna’s wheels ran through a deep dip. The whole aircraft jolted violently – and Eddie’s right foot slipped.

  Unbalanced, he swung further out of the plane. The strap creaked, biting into the flesh of his wrist. His other foot was hooked round the hatch’s frame, metal digging painfully though the leather of his boot.

  His right arm started to slip back down the fuselage’s curved roof. . .

  The Cessna’s nose tipped upwards. The Jeep was falling behind, but still firing. More bullets riddled the plane.

  Eddie kept sliding—

  With a last straining swing of his arm, he jammed the AK over the base of the tailfin – and swivelled the weapon to fire at the Jeep.

  The remaining bullets spewed out, most of them harmlessly hitting soil and grass – but one caught the speeding Jeep’s front tyre, which deflated abruptly, the wheel rim shredding it. The Jeep flipped over and tossed both soldiers high into the air.

  The Cessna’s wings flexed as they took the plane’s weight—

  The ground made one final attempt to claw the plane back down to earth, a wheel striking a muddy hump. The Caravan lurched – and Eddie’s boot lost its grip on the doorframe.

  The seventy-five mile an hour wind snatched him out of the hatch. He lost his hold on the AK-103, the weapon spinning away as the Cessna took to the sky. He slapped his hand against the roof, but there was almost no grip to be found on the smooth metal. The strap around his wrist creaked and strained, the fastener attaching it to the hull buckling under his weight.

  ‘Eddie!’ Macy cried. She yanked at her seatbelt release.

  The plane kept climbing: one hundred feet, one-fifty. Valero struggled to keep the controls steady. ‘Close the hatch!’ he yelled.

  ‘Eddie’s out there!’ Macy screamed back. She staggered to her feet, clinging to the seats as she made her way down the steeply sloping aisle.

  ‘No, you’ll be killed!’ Osterhagen shouted, but she kept moving. With a curse, he unlocked his own seatbelt.

  Outside, Eddie felt what little hold he had on the fuselage slipping away as the plane picked up speed. He was flapping like a flag, legs trailing helplessly.

  And the strap was giving way. He could feel the fastener breaking . . .

  A hand grabbed his wrist. He squinted into the wind. Slim fingers, neat nails. Macy. She poked her head through the hatch, black hair whipping round her face. ‘Get back in!’ he yelled.

  ‘No, hang on!’ she shouted, tugging at his arm. Eddie shook his head, desperately willing her back inside. He didn’t want to die – but he wanted to drag her with him even less. Macy just didn’t have the sheer physical strength needed to pull him through the hatch against the wind – and his fingertips were slipping off the hull . . .

  Another hand seized his arm. Osterhagen. The German leaned out of the hatch behind Macy, gripping the upper frame with his free hand. ‘Oscar!’ he bellowed. ‘Now!’

  Valero jammed the control stick hard to the right, putting the plane into a steep roll – and simultaneously pitching it downwards.

  Eddie lost his grip, swinging away from the hull. Macy and Osterhagen both hauled on his arm with all their strength—

  And Eddie dropped head first into the cabin as gravity overpowered wind resistance, bowling them with him against the cabin’s starboard wall as the plane banked practically on its side.

  ‘Hang on!’ Valero howled. They were far from out of danger. The plane was still at a low altitude – and getting lower by the moment. He shoved the stick back over to level out, throwing his passengers to the floor. The Orinoco wheeled ahead. The Cessna was only two hundred and fifty feet above it.

  And still in a dive.

  ‘Oh, mierda!’ he wailed, yanking back the stick.

  Eddie looked up, seeing nothing but water through the cockpit windows. Two hundred feet, the Caravan pulling up, but slowly, too slowly. Greenery on the far bank replaced the river as the plane’s nose rose, but they were still too low—

  Whumph!

  A slam of impact – and a huge spray of water came in through the open hatch.

  But the plane was still in the air, even if only by inches. The landing gear had skimmed the great river, Valero levelling out just in time. The Venezuelan whooped in relief, then worked the controls to gain height again. The Caravan climbed, trailing sparkling raindrops from its wheels.

  ‘Everyone okay?’ Eddie gasped.

  Osterhagen crawled back into a seat. ‘I feel . . . airsick.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Macy squealed. ‘I’m alive. You’re alive. We’re alive!’ She kissed the Englishman. ‘I can’t believe it, we’re all still alive!’ She kissed him again.

  ‘Steady on, love, I’m married,’ said Eddie. ‘Oscar, how’s the plane? Can we make it to Caracas?’

  ‘It will fly okay, but some of the instruments are broken.’ Valero gave him an almost apologetic look, indicating the bullet damage. ‘And so is the radio.’

  ‘What?’ Eddie sat up. ‘You’re fucking kidding me! How are we going to call the militia?’

  ‘More to the point,’ added Macy, ‘how are we going to land if we can’t talk to air traffic control?’

  ‘I can fly a distress pattern to tell the airport we have no radio,’ Valero assured her. ‘They will give us priority.’

  ‘How long will it take us to get there?’

  ‘About two and a half hours. Although it will be hard to know exactly.’ The Venezuelan shot an irate look at Eddie. ‘I can’t get a proper airspeed reading because you wouldn’t let me take the cover off the pitot tube.’

  Eddie laughed a little. ‘So long as we get there, that’s the main thing.’ He stood. ‘First, can someone shut that hatch? It’s a bit draughty in here.’

  17

  The building nicknamed the Clubhouse was a mansion in the Caracan hilltop district of Valle Arriba, overlooking the perfectly kept greenery of a private golf course, and beyond it the great sprawl of the city itself. Even with the Venezuelan government’s increasingly militant push towards the redistribution of wealth, the enclave was reserved for money and privilege. No barrios here; even the smallest house was worth several million US dollars.

  Nina very much doubted that
she or Kit would enjoy the luxury, though.

  Callas’s helicopter had flown north to the airbase at Puerto Ayacucho, where the group transferred to a military transport plane to travel on to Caracas. A convoy, two SUVs escorted by police outriders, completed the journey to the Clubhouse. Callas and Stikes were in the lead vehicle, Kit and Nina under heavy guard in the second. Nina looked out through the darkened glass as the vehicles turned on to the driveway. Two soldiers stood guard at the main gate, and she saw several others inside the grounds. Off to one side of the mansion she glimpsed a swimming pool and a private helipad. Not exactly a typical military facility.

  The SUVs stopped at the front door. Nina and Kit were hustled out and taken down to the building’s cellars. One underground room had been converted into a makeshift prison, metal bars dividing it into three small cells. Nina was pushed into one, Kit another, an empty chamber separating them. A soldier locked the cell doors, then took up position on a chair to watch his prisoners.

  After half an hour, footsteps echoed down the passage outside. The jailer looked round as the door opened, standing and saluting when Callas entered, accompanied by two more soldiers. Stikes followed them in, carrying the case containing the statuettes. ‘Dr Wilde,’ said Callas. ‘Mr Jindal. I hope you are both comfortable?’

  ‘I’m guessing this is as comfortable as we’re going to get,’ Nina replied.

  ‘That is up to you. And also to Mr Stikes. If you tell him what we want to know, your discomfort may be kept to a low level.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘You can work it out,’ said Stikes. ‘You’re an intelligent woman. Although your marrying Chase does make me question that. And speaking of questioning. . . ’ He opened the case to reveal the three figurines within, two whole and one bisected, and the bag containing the khipu. ‘El Dorado. You’re going to lead us there.’

  ‘I don’t know how.’

  ‘Yes you do. You found . . . what did Chase call it? Paititi.’

  ‘That was the result of years of archaeological research by Dr Osterhagen and an aerial survey,’ she lied.

  ‘Then why did you bring these?’ He tapped the two complete statuettes. ‘How did you know the third one would be there?’

  ‘Because . . . ’ Her hesitation, her inability to fabricate a convincing excuse in the split second available, told Stikes all too clearly that she was concealing something.

  The mercenary gave her an unpleasant smile, then addressed Callas. ‘Is the room ready?’

  Callas nodded. ‘My men will show you.’

  ‘And the item I asked for?’

  ‘Waiting for you. It was not easy to find at short notice, but my people have their resources.’

  ‘Good.’ Stikes nodded to the jailer. ‘Bring her out.’

  ‘What are you going to do with her?’ Kit demanded, rattling his cell’s bars.

  ‘The same thing I’m going to do to you later,’ Stikes replied, chillingly matter-of-fact.

  ‘Then take me first. I’m an Interpol officer, and Dr Wilde is my responsibility.’

  A sound of sarcastic amusement from the general. ‘He is quite a hero.’

  ‘Is he, though?’ Stikes eyed Kit curiously. ‘But that’s what I intend to find out. In the meantime . . . ’ He stepped back as the jailer unlocked Nina’s cell and the soldiers moved to bring her out. ‘A little chat with Dr Wilde.’

  ‘Get your goddamn hands off me,’ Nina snarled, jerking out of one soldier’s grip. The other man backed her into a corner, and they both grabbed her. She kicked at them. ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘Rather unladylike language,’ said Stikes. ‘Chase really is a bad influence.’ He closed the case. ‘General, if you’ll excuse me?’

  Callas smirked. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I will.’ He signalled for the soldiers to take Nina, and followed them from the cells.

  ‘Nina!’ shouted Kit, but he was cut off as the heavy door slammed shut.

  Nina was dragged down a white-painted passage to another small room. It had apparently once been used for storage, but the shelves were now empty – except for two small boxes and a single glove of thick black leather. One box was tightly secured by an elastic band, several little holes poked in its side. A rust-scabbed metal chair sat beneath the glaring overhead light.

  Lengths of rope were coiled on its seat.

  Nina fought to break loose, but the soldiers forced her on to the chair and held her as Stikes tied her wrists securely to its armrests, then her ankles to the front legs. He finished by looping the last length of rope tightly round her chest. ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ he asked.

  ‘Go fuck yourself!’

  Stikes was unfazed. ‘Then we’ll begin.’ He told the soldiers to leave, then closed the door and opened the case again, revealing its ancient contents. ‘El Dorado,’ he said. ‘I always thought it was just a myth.’

  ‘It is a myth.’

  ‘The paintings in that temple suggest otherwise. This Paititi may have been the last outpost of the Incas, but there was a much greater settlement along the way. El Dorado.’ He went to the shelves and picked up the ominous glove. The leather creaked softly.

  ‘Whatever it’s called, it’s not El Dorado,’ Nina insisted, trying to draw out the purely verbal part of his interrogation for as long as possible. The punctures in the box could only be air holes; there was something alive inside it . . . and the protective glove suggested it was deeply unpleasant. ‘That’s a completely different legend. The Conquistadors got it mixed up with the story of the Incas hiding their . . . gold . . . ’ She tailed off as Stikes pulled on the glove, clenching his fingers into a fist.

  ‘Semantics,’ he said. ‘The name may be wrong, but the story, it seems, is true. Somewhere in Peru is an unimaginable fortune. I did a little Googling upstairs just now. The ransom room, which the Inca emperor said he would fill with gold if the Spanish set him free, was seven metres by five and a half. Thirty-eight and a half square metres. Assuming it was two metres high, that would be—’

  ‘Seventy-seven cubic metres.’

  Stikes seemed almost impressed. ‘Correct. Seventy-seven cubic metres . . . of gold. Do you know how much that would be worth?’

  ‘Y’know, I forgot to check today’s price with my broker.’

  He was less appreciative of her sarcasm. ‘One cubic metre of gold weighs nineteen point three metric tons. And I’m sure you can use your apparent skills at mental arithmetic to work out how many tons would fill the ransom room.’

  Despite herself, Nina couldn’t resist the urge to work it out. ‘One thousand four hundred and eighty-six tons. Point one.’

  ‘Point one,’ Stikes repeated with a sardonic smile. ‘Almost one and a half billion grams of gold – using the American billion, that is. The proper imperial billion seems to have fallen by the wayside. But at today’s price per gram, that’s worth over fifty billion dollars. As you can imagine, General Callas and I are rather keen to find it.’

  ‘Flooding that amount of gold on to the market would drop the price to almost nothing,’ Nina pointed out, still trying to prolong the discussion. She could hear movement inside the box, sinister little ticks and rustles. ‘And Atahualpa told Pizarro he’d fill the room with treasure, not actual solid gold. However tightly everything was stacked up, there would still be a lot of empty space.’

  ‘Frankly, even if it were four-fifths air, it would still be plenty. But the point is, he didn’t fill the room, did he? Instead, he told his people to hide it all somewhere the Spanish would never find it. And they never did. And nor did anyone else.’ His gaze moved to the statues. ‘Until now.’

  ‘I’m telling you, I don’t know how to find it.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t know . . . yet.’ Stikes slipped the elastic band off the box. ‘But as I said, you’re an intelligent woman. And your past record speaks for itself. I’m sure that if you turn your mind to finding El Dorado, you will.’

  ‘Not gonna happen.’

>   ‘Oh, I disagree.’ He lifted the lid. ‘Even if it takes a little, shall we say, encouragement?’ He lowered his gloved thumb and forefinger into the box to grab its contents.

  That it took a couple of attempts suggested the contents did not want to be grabbed.

  ‘Ah, shall we not say? We could . . . ’ Nina dried up in instinctive toe-curling fear as Stikes lifted the box’s occupant into view.

  A scorpion.

  Dark green with mottled golden spots and bands across its carapace, it writhed angrily in Stikes’s grip, jabbing its poisonous sting ineffectually at his thick glove. ‘This is a Gormar scorpion, a native of Venezuela,’ Stikes announced, as if presenting it for Show and Tell. ‘There’s some dispute over whether it’s the deadliest scorpion in the world, or only the second. Either way, its sting will kill a healthy adult in ten minutes.’ He moved closer, holding the thrashing arachnid up to Nina’s face. She cringed back in rising terror. ‘Once stung, the only hope of survival is to get an injection of antivenom. Fortunately,’ he glanced at the second box, ‘I have a syringe there.’