Kingdom of Darkness

21

‘This is it,’ said Zane as the Jeep crested a low hill.

Eddie surveyed the landscape. ‘Christ, looks like we’re driving into a Clint Eastwood film. I should’ve brought a poncho.’ The scrubby plain rolled away to the distant Andean foothills. Winter had arrived, but for now the snow-capped peaks on the far horizon were keeping a jealous grip on their frozen moisture, everything a bleak, parched brown.

Zane checked a map. ‘The town’s on the west side of the lake.’

‘What lake?’ The Englishman searched for it. ‘That’s not a lake, it’s a puddle.’

‘Huh. It’s much bigger on the map.’

Surrounding the thin patch of water was an expanse of pale, flat ground. It was swathed in what Eddie at first thought was fog before closer observation revealed it as wind-blown dust. The lake had largely dried up, leaving behind a barren wasteland of silt. He guessed that the settlement had originally been built on the shore, but it was now at least half a mile from the water’s edge. Village and lake shared the same name: Lago Amargo — Bitter Lake. ‘So Kroll and his arsewipes are hiding out here?’

‘This is where the IP address originated, yes.’

‘Assuming they didn’t route it through somewhere else first.’

‘It’s possible,’ Zane admitted, ‘but this part of the world was a popular hideout for Nazis after the war. We’re only about sixty kilometres from Bariloche, where there was a whole community of escapees — and there was a compound over the border in Chile, Villa Baviera, that was basically a cult founded by a Nazi. When the Chilean police raided it, they found huge caches of weapons, and even a tank.’

Eddie gave him a disbelieving look. ‘A tank? How the fuck did they get hold of a tank?’

‘These people can get hold of anything. They have the money they stole from Jews and others in the war, and middlemen like Leitz to supply it to them.’

‘Speaking of Leitz, he’s bound to have told that fat bastard about us by now.’

Zane nodded. ‘I spoke to the Mossad after we landed. He’s already left Italy and gone off the grid. We tried to access his computer remotely, but he’s stopped using it. He probably guessed it had been compromised.’

They drove on. Scrub gave way to fields, but from the derelict state of most of the farm buildings, it seemed that the former inhabitants had given up on their profession. ‘So what do we know about this place?’ Eddie asked.

‘Not much. It used to be a mining town, but the mines closed decades ago, so they turned to agriculture.’ Zane looked out across the desolate farmland. ‘Without much success, I’d guess. The population’s more than halved over the past twenty years. Beyond that, though, we couldn’t find much more information.’

‘How are we going to find these Nazis, then? I doubt we’ll get lucky and catch Kroll while he’s buying the morning groceries.’

‘That would save us a lot of time,’ Zane said. ‘But we should see if we can get access to the town records.’ He glanced at a boxy equipment case on the rear seat. ‘I’ve used the cover story of being a photographer before; it’s surprising how much people will open up to you if you tell them they have a pretty home.’

‘You’ll have to be bloody convincing for that to work here.’ They entered the settlement proper, passing a faded sign bearing the village’s name. More empty, crumbling buildings greeted them. They had gone a good hundred yards along the street before seeing their first sign of life: an old woman watching them warily from a doorway before retreating inside. Eddie whistled an ululating five-note tune, following it with ‘Waah waah waaaahh…’

‘What was that?’ Zane asked.

‘The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.’ The Israeli regarded him blankly. ‘Come on, don’t tell me you haven’t seen it?’

‘It must have been long before my time.’

‘Tchah! Fucking kids.’ Ignoring Zane’s smirk, Eddie guided the Jeep through the village. The buildings became grander, faded relics of a more prosperous era. Before long, they reached the centre, a flaking white church on one side of a small square facing a hotel with a sign optimistically proclaiming it to be the Paradiso. None of the buildings looked anything less than a century old.

‘There’s the satellite link,’ said Zane. A large white dish was mounted on a mast on the hotel’s roof, a couple of smaller ones flanking it. ‘The town’s Internet hub must be in there. We might be able to track down the IP’s physical location if we can access it.’

The new arrivals were now drawing more attention. A couple of old men on a bench stared as the 4x4 passed, and a young woman peered with interest from one of the Paradiso’s upper windows before hurrying from sight. Eddie pulled up outside the hotel. ‘Let me do the talking,’ said Zane as they got out.

‘Why you?’ Eddie demanded.

‘For one thing, you’re English, and England and Argentina have some issues.’ They headed for the entrance.

‘What? The Falklands War was over thirty fucking years ago.’

‘The Second World War was seventy years ago, but we’re still hunting down people who fought in it. And for another, you’re not exactly subtle.’

‘Bollocks!’ Eddie protested loudly as they entered a large and dimly lit bar. He couldn’t help but imagine that he’d stepped through a time portal to the Wild West, so dated were the surroundings. Even the lights were wheel-like wooden chandeliers, one of the few concessions to modernity being electric bulbs. There were half a dozen unenthused patrons, and a single mournful member of staff behind the long counter. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ He marched to the middle of the room. ‘Oi! Anyone seen any Nazis?’

Zane shook his head. ‘Yes, that was really subtle.’

‘Might as well get straight to the point and not piss around.’ He went to the bar and addressed the elderly man behind it. ‘Hi. We’re looking for some people who live around here. Germans, probably turned up around 1946?’

The barman gave him a look of bewilderment. ‘Lo sentimos, pero no sé lo que estás diciendo.’

‘No habló inglés?’ Eddie asked, to equal confusion.

‘You told him that you did not speak English,’ said an amused female voice. A young Hispanic woman came down the stairs. She was around eighteen, and had the flustered air of someone who had just given themselves a last-minute check in the mirror before hurrying to meet a guest.

‘Well, some people don’t understand me even when I am talking English,’ said Eddie. ‘You seem pretty good at it, though.’

‘I learned it from satellite TV,’ she said with pride. ‘And from the Internet.’

‘Hopefully only the nice parts.’

She giggled. ‘I heard you say you were looking for someone? I know everyone in town, I can help you find them.’

Zane cut in before Eddie could speak. ‘We’re photographers; we’re taking pictures of the whole country. But we also want to interview people about what it’s like to live here.’

The young woman gave them a look that revealed considerable perception for her age. ‘That would be easier if you spoke Spanish, yes?’

‘I speak Spanish,’ said Zane. ‘My assistant is only here to carry the cameras.’

‘Oi!’ Eddie objected. ‘Assistant, my arse.’

She ignored him, instead addressing Zane in rapid-fire Spanish. ‘I… yes?’ he eventually replied.

Another giggle. ‘Your Spanish is not as good as you think,’ she said. ‘Unless you really paint your toenails pink?’

‘Oh, he does,’ said Eddie. ‘You should see what he wears for a night out on the town an’ all. Lots of frills.’

‘Will you shut up?’ Zane snapped. Behind him, Eddie noticed one of the patrons heading for the exit — watching the visitors out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly wary, he surveyed the room. The remaining barflies hurriedly looked down at their drinks.

Zane picked up on Eddie’s concern — as did the woman. She lowered her voice. ‘You are not here to take photos — did Roland’s brother send you?’

‘Who’s Roland?’ Zane asked.

‘My boyfriend. His brother left here a week ago, but nobody has heard from him — and I have not seen Roland either. I am worried, I do not know what has happened to them.’

A thought came to Eddie. ‘This brother… what’s his name?’

‘Julieta, qué estás haciendo?’ said someone before she could answer.

The group turned to see a man emerge from a back room. He was in his late forties, with slicked-back black hair and a rakish moustache. The barman’s look of deference told Eddie that the new arrival was his boss.

The girl, Julieta, replied in Spanish, drawing a good-natured shrug and a sigh. ‘I hope my daughter is not bothering you,’ he said. ‘Not many people visit Lago Amargo, and she likes to get fresh news from the outside world.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ Zane assured him.

‘Good, good. Then can I do anything for you? I am Pablo Silva, the owner of this hotel — and also the mayor.’ He gave them a beaming smile. ‘Are you going to be our guests?’

‘Yes, we’ll probably be here for a day or two.’

‘Good! If you need anything, I am at your service. This may only be a small town, but we pride ourselves on our hospitality.’

‘It looks a lot smaller than it used to be,’ said Eddie.

Silva shook his head sadly. ‘Yes, a lot of the people have moved away. Since the lake dried up, many of the farms failed. It is hard to grow crops when there is not enough water.’

Julieta frowned and said something that clearly needled her father. ‘No ahora,’ he said, waving a dismissive hand.

Or was the gesture concern? ‘What happened to the water?’ Eddie asked.

‘There was enough for everyone,’ said Julieta, before Silva could respond, ‘until the people in the Enklave blocked the river to keep it for themselves!’

Eddie and Zane exchanged glances. Kroll had mentioned the name in his videoconference with Leitz. ‘Where’s this Enklave?’ asked the Yorkshireman.

‘It is a private estate,’ said Silva. ‘They own the land, so what they do there is their business.’

‘They have taken our water!’ Julieta protested. ‘You know they have. You are the mayor, and the Enklave is part of Lago Amargo — why have you not done anything about it?’

Her father’s tone became patronising. ‘It is more complicated than that. Hablaremos de esto más tarde. En privado,’ he added, glancing at the two travellers. ‘Now, I need to find rooms for these two gentlemen.’

With an angry huff, Julieta flounced up the stairs. Silva sighed again. ‘I apologise for my daughter.’

‘No problem,’ said Eddie. ‘So, this Enklave place — is it far?’

The mayor seemed unsettled by his return to the subject. ‘As I said, it is private property. The owners keep to themselves, but they pay their land taxes, so that is okay with me!’ A small laugh, with little humour.

‘But it must be upriver, right?’ Eddie pressed on. ‘Otherwise they couldn’t block off your water.’

‘It should be easy enough to find,’ agreed Zane.

Silva began to look worried. ‘It — it would be better for you not to go to the Enklave. The people, they do not like visitors…’

‘That’s okay, we won’t bother them,’ said Eddie. ‘Unless they bother us.’

‘Really, there is nothing—’ The hotelier broke off as the front door opened.

Eddie turned — and snapped to full alert. Someone had called the cops.

Three uniformed men entered the room, the cold and empty stares of mirrored aviator glasses sweeping over its occupants. The drinkers were suddenly fascinated by the bubbles in their beer. The trio swaggered towards the men at the bar.

Eddie assessed them. Two young men flanked the leader — whom he instantly knew was the greatest threat. The head cop was in his fifties, a big bear of a man who even though somewhat overweight was still packed with muscle. He had a thick moustache that drooped down around his mouth, one side of which was filled by the gnarled stub of a cigar. Heavy gold rings glinted on both hands… the right one hovering close to his holstered gun.

‘Ah, Eduardo!’ said Silva. He stepped forward to meet the cops. ‘This is Eduardo Santos,’ he told Zane and Eddie, ‘our comandante of police. Or El Jefe, as we sometimes call him. Heh-heh.’ The chuckle was strained.

‘The Chief?’ asked Eddie. ‘If you’re the mayor, shouldn’t that be your nickname?’ There was no reply.

Santos turned his mirrored gaze to the two visitors. ‘Who are you?’ he growled, rolling the cigar between his teeth. ‘What do you want here?’

‘We’re photographers,’ said Zane, giving the cops a friendly smile. ‘We’re travelling through Argentina to take pictures of the landscape.’

‘You have come to a beautiful place, eh?’ was the sarcastic reply. ‘There is nothing worth taking photographs of here. You should find somewhere else.’

‘Always thought beauty was in the eye of the beholder, myself,’ Eddie said. ‘Looks pretty nice to me.’

The big man’s blank stare locked on to him, hostility jumping from barely veiled to open. ‘You are English?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘Show me your passports. Both of you.’

Zane complied, taking out the fake US passport under which he had been travelling. He opened it to show the cop his photo — and a pair of folded fifty-dollar bills poking from the page below. ‘I think everything’s in order.’

The Argentinian took it, giving it a cursory glance as the banknotes disappeared into his hand. However, to Zane’s growing concern, he didn’t return it, instead waiting for Eddie to follow suit. ‘Come on. Now.’

Eddie found his own passport. ‘Here you go.’

Santos snatched it from him, but didn’t even open it, instead staring at the golden emblem on its cover: a lion and unicorn, the royal coat of arms of the United Kingdom. Finally he looked back at Eddie, taking off his sunglasses. The dark, deep-set eyes revealed beneath were anything but friendly. ‘You know what I did when I was young, English?’

‘Pressed flowers and painted sunsets?’ Eddie offered.

The cop did not smile at the joke. ‘I joined the army. I supported El Proceso — the junta — because I believe that to be great, a country, or a person, must have strength, power.’ He leaned closer, blowing cigar smoke into the Englishman’s face. ‘The strength and the power to take what belongs to them. You know?’

‘Yeah, I see where this is going,’ said Eddie, holding his ground — but also eyeing up exit routes. Behind Santos, the two junior officers brought their hands closer to their holstered weapons.

Zane also sensed the impending trouble. ‘Is there a problem, sir?’ he asked, trying to defuse it.

But Eddie already knew they would not be able to talk their way out. Santos and his men had been ready for a fight from the moment they entered. ‘I’m going to guess that he’s a Falklands veteran,’ he told the Israeli, ‘and that he’s not a bygones-be-bygones type.’

‘They are the Malvinas!’ barked Santos. ‘They belong to Argentina, but you English stole them! And when we tried to take back what was ours, you fought like cowards, sank our ships — killed my friends!’

‘Nothing to do with me, mate,’ said Eddie. ‘I was only about six years old when it all kicked off.’

‘You are all the same,’ the cop growled. He took out the cigar — and spat a thick brown-flecked glob of phlegm on to Eddie’s foot.

‘Don’t do anything,’ Zane said urgently. ‘He’s trying to provoke you. Don’t give him an excuse to arrest us.’

‘They don’t need an excuse,’ Eddie replied. The Argentinian wore an almost gloating expression, waiting for his response. ‘Even if we don’t do anything, you’re still going to arrest us on some bullshit charge and beat the crap out of us, aren’t you?’

Santos smiled, the tip of the cigar glowing as he took another drag. ‘That’s right, English. We don’t like outsiders who—’

Eddie punched him in the face. ‘Thought so!’

The unexpected blow sent Santos reeling. He collided with the younger and more slender of the other cops, knocking him down. The comandante regained his balance, but was left choking and spitting — the crushed cigar had been driven into his mouth.

The remaining cop jumped back, startled, then fumbled for his gun—

Zane’s leg swept up. His foot caught the cop’s hand just as the weapon cleared the holster, sending the pistol spinning across the room. The man screeched in pain.

Silva gasped, then fled for his office. The other patrons also scrambled for cover. Eddie ignored them and ran for the main entrance. ‘Jared!’

But the Mossad agent was still fighting the third cop, delivering another brutal kick to his chest that sent him crashing against the bar. ‘Come on!’ Eddie yelled. Zane’s gaze flicked between the Englishman and the dropped passports — then he ran after his companion.

The police chief spat out the remains of his cigar and drew his gun. The Israeli immediately changed course, rolling on to a table and grabbing its edge with one hand as he slid off the other side. His weight pulled it over behind him, the hefty wooden top slamming against the floor.

Santos fired twice. The bullets hit the table’s underside — but didn’t fully penetrate, the varnished surface cracking.

Zane flinched as splinters hit him. His impromptu shield had saved him, but now he was trapped behind it, cut off from the exit. And the cop was already moving to get a clear shot—

Santos was suddenly sent sprawling as a chair smashed on his shoulders.

Eddie had returned. ‘Have a seat!’ The Argentinian fell to the floor, broken wood clattering around him. Zane jumped up and sprinted for the door. Eddie turned to follow—

Someone grabbed him from behind.

The youngest cop was back on his feet and trying to tackle him. He didn’t have the mass or muscle to overpower the Englishman, but he was still wiry enough to hold him while his comrades recovered.

Sharp jabs to the chest from Eddie’s elbows made the cop gasp, but he didn’t let go. Changing tactics, Eddie pulled up his legs. The young man lurched with the shift of weight. Eddie kicked down again, twisting to ram his attacker against the counter—

The cop released him — not because he had realised what Eddie was about to do, but simply because he lacked the strength to maintain his grip. Both men hit the bar, the cop collapsing with a pained squawk beside his winded companion. Eddie grunted as he took the blow, using his momentum to roll over the countertop. Bottles went flying. The barman, who had watched the brawl with dumbstruck confusion, finally broke free of his paralysis and ran for the stairs.

Eddie stood. Harsh daylight glared through the door as Zane threw it open. ‘Eddie!’ he shouted. ‘Get to the car!’

Two heads popped up on the other side of the counter. Both the young cops were now back in the fight, the beefier of the pair red-faced with anger. He clawed at his holster, only to find it empty. ‘Dispárale!’ he bellowed. The thinner man fumbled for his own gun.

Santos was also recovering. He was between Eddie and the exit. If the Englishman tried to go around him, he would be tackled — or shot.

Which left—

Eddie vaulted on to the bar and ran along it — then veered towards Santos and leapt…

Grabbing a chandelier.

Light bulbs flashed and popped as the jolt broke their filaments, but he ignored the sparks as he swung across the room — bringing up both feet to catch the startled police chief in the chest. Santos tumbled backwards, scattering chairs as Eddie flew over him. The Yorkshireman landed with a bang on the scuffed wooden floor and raced through the door.

Zane was already in the Jeep. Eddie jumped in as he started it. ‘So much for subtle!’ the Israeli shouted as he put the 4x4 into gear and floored the accelerator.

‘Well, at least now we know we’re in the right place!’ Eddie turned, seeing the three cops barrelling out of the hotel. ‘So you can call your Mossad mates and — whoa, incoming!’

The burly cop had recovered his gun, and he and Santos both aimed at the retreating Jeep. The third man protested, but a double crack of gunfire as Eddie ducked showed that his objections had been ignored. One bullet whipped past, the other striking the rear door.

Zane slammed the steering wheel hard over, hurling the Jeep into an evasive weave. Eddie was thrown against the door. ‘Jesus!’ he yelped — before being flung the other way as the 4x4 swerved again.

More shots. The rear windscreen shattered. Zane spun the wheel again to send the Jeep down a side street, out of the line of fire—

A bullet ruptured the front tyre.

The Jeep slithered off course. Zane tried to pull it back in line, but the 4x4’s back end had already skidded wide.

Choking dust gushed in through the broken rear window. Coughing, the Israeli forced the wheel to full lock and applied more power to catch the skid. But the flat tyre was dragging on the dirt road. By the time he compensated, it was too late—

The 4x4 pounded sidelong into the corner of a building. Plaster exploded and stone cracked, but the Jeep came off worse, the rear wheel ripping from the axle. Zane’s head struck the driver’s window hard enough to crack it, leaving a bloody smear on the glass.

Eddie sat up painfully. ‘Jared? We need to move.’ He squinted at his companion, who was slumped against the door. ‘Jared!’

For a moment it seemed he was either unconscious or dead, but then the Israeli opened an eye. ‘Benjamin?’

‘No, it’s me, Eddie.’ The Englishman pulled him upright, wincing when he saw the damaged window. At best, the Mossad agent would have a splitting headache; at worst, concussion or even a subdural haematoma. ‘They’ll be here any second — we’ve got to—’

A shout told him they were out of time. Santos and his two subordinates charged towards the wrecked Jeep, guns raised. Eddie thought about running, but by the time he got out of the car they would be upon him. Even if he had been able to make a break for it, he was unwilling to leave a wounded man behind.

All he could do was surrender. He raised his hands.

‘Get out!’ Santos bellowed, gun pointed at Eddie’s head. The more aggressive of his comrades circled the crashed vehicle to cover its driver, while the third man held back, uncertain.

Eddie stepped warily from the 4x4, facing Santos. The big man’s sunglasses were back on, eyes unreadable. Was he going to kill him there and then?

‘Jefe!’ cried the youngest man with the same fear. ‘No puedes matarlo!’

The mirrored eyes remained locked on Eddie, his reflection staring back at him twice over behind the gun’s muzzle… then the weapon twitched downwards. ‘On the ground,’ Santos snarled.

Eddie reluctantly lowered himself to his knees. ‘Hands behind you,’ said Santos. ‘Miranda, espósalo.’

The young policeman took a pair of handcuffs from his belt and snapped them around Eddie’s wrists. ‘Vargas?’ called Santos. A reply came as the third cop dragged the semi-conscious Zane from the Jeep and cuffed him. The chief looked back at Eddie. ‘So, English. You thought you could get away? Only your friend is not a good driver.’

‘Yeah, he crashed a Ferrari the other day,’ Eddie replied, already tensing himself for what he knew was coming. ‘Don’t think I’ll let him drive again.’

‘I think that is a good idea.’ Santos glanced at Zane, lying at Vargas’s feet… then his face twisted with anger as he drove a savage kick into the Englishman’s side.

Eddie fell, writhing in agony — then another blow hit him in the stomach. Vomit burned the back of his throat and he gasped for breath.

‘Bastardo inglés!’ The Argentinian drew back his foot again — but Miranda darted in front of him, waving his hands and pleading for him to stop. Santos glowered at him, but withdrew. Miranda sighed in relief — only to reel away as the older man punched him hard in the face. ‘No me digas cómo ejecutar mi ciudad!’ Santos growled. He looked around. Some of the town’s inhabitants, Julieta amongst them, had come to investigate the commotion, but they all shrank away under the police chief’s empty stare. Pablo Silva might be the mayor, Eddie realised, but there was no doubt who was really in charge of Lago Amargo.

Even so, Santos apparently still felt the need to show at least a pretence of working by the book. ‘You are both under arrest for attacking an officer, and resisting arrest,’ he told the handcuffed men.

‘Yeah, and possession of an English accent,’ Eddie gasped. ‘This how your Nazi bosses up at the Enklave keep their secret, is it? They pay you to beat the shit out of visitors?’

The police chief stared unreadably down at him — then his boot rushed at Eddie’s face, and everything went black.