Empire of Gold

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.’

‘Th-that’s good,’ Nina gasped, heart racing. The scorpion was mere inches from her eyes, bulbous claws snapping at her. ‘’Cause accidents can happen.’

‘Oh, this won’t be an accident.’ Stikes moved the scorpion away from her face . . .

To her bound arm.

The hideous little beast lashed out with its tail, the poisonous barb stabbing into the back of her wrist. Nina instinctively yelped, as if stung by a bee – before screaming for real as the full horror of the situation struck her. The jab’s initial pain was fading, but already another was replacing it, a burning spreading up her arm. ‘Oh God! Jesus Christ!’

Stikes returned the scorpion to the box, then opened the second container and took out a syringe containing a colourless liquid. ‘Now, we’re going to discuss El Dorado. If you give me good answers, I’ll give you the antivenom.’

Nina struggled uselessly against the ropes. The spot where she had been stung had already swollen. The burning sensation pervaded her body, her racing heart spreading the venom faster through her bloodstream. Another kind of pain, an intense cramp, grew in her shoulder muscles. ‘I don’t know where El Dorado is!’ she cried. ‘Osterhagen’s the Inca expert, not me!’

‘You can do better than that. Now, you saw the paintings on the wall. You must have deduced what they meant. I mean, even I did, and I’m not an archaeologist.’ He held up the syringe tantalisingly. ‘Tell me what you saw.’

The cramp reached her throat, feeling as though an invisible hand was slowly tightening around her neck. ‘An – an account of their journey,’ she said. ‘Showing how they fled Cuzco to escape the Spanish. Along the Andes, then out into the Amazon basin. A map.’

‘A map, yes. With a very important stop along the way. El Dorado.’

‘Yes,’ she croaked. ‘But they thought the – the Spanish would find it, so they moved on.’

Stikes nodded. ‘So we have a start point, Cuzco; an end point, Paititi; and a map, of sorts. That should make it possible to find El Dorado. How do we decode the map?’

‘I don’t know.’

He held up the syringe, pushing the plunger slightly with his thumb. Droplets formed at the end of the needle. ‘Try again.’

‘I don’t know, I don’t know! We never worked that out, we didn’t have time!’

‘And you don’t have much time now. So think fast. There were markings on the map, between the pictures. What do they say? Are they directions?’

She gasped as the pain spread, struggling to remember what she had seen. ‘I don’t know! The Incas never developed writing - if they’re directions, I don’t know what they mean! Nobody’d ever seen anything like that before, not even Osterhagen!’

Stikes regarded her unblinkingly for a long moment . . . then, with a look of grudging acceptance, turned away. ‘All right. You don’t know how to decode the map. Let’s try something else. How did you really find Paititi? And don’t tell me it was the result of years of patient research.’ He picked up one of the stone figurines. ‘It’s something to do with these, isn’t it?’

Nina was losing feeling in her hands and feet as the scorpion toxin paralysed her. But despite the growing numbness in her extremities, the pain within her was getting worse. The hand was tight at her throat, squeezing harder. ‘They led me here,’ she choked out, struggling to breathe. Any thoughts of resistance had vanished, survival instinct forcing them aside.

‘Led you? How?’

‘Earth energy, it’s called earth energy. Don’t know how it works, but – statues glow under certain conditions. Point towards each other. IHA had—’ She broke off, convulsing as a searing cramp rolled through her body. ‘Oh God! Please, please!’ She looked desperately at the syringe.

‘The IHA had what?’ Stikes demanded. ‘Tell me!’

‘Two statues, IHA had two statues. I put them together, they pointed to Venezuela. Interpol thought – link to Inca artefacts Callas was selling out of Valverde.’ She started to hyperventilate, forcing air through her constricted windpipe. ‘I don’t know anything else. Please . . . ’

Stikes regarded the statuette thoughtfully. ‘This “earth energy” effect – can anyone make it work?’

Nina’s eyes stung, tears blurring her vision. ‘No, only me – something about my body’s bioelectric field. Don’t know why, it just does . . . ’ She panted, each breath a terrible effort. ‘Please, told you everything I know . . . ’

Stikes remained still, gazing at the stone figure . . . then put it down. He pulled up Nina’s sleeve, searched for a vein, then jabbed the needle into her. She barely registered the injection through the burning pain – but after a few seconds, the pressure at her throat eased. With a shuddering gasp, she drew in a long, unrestrained lungful of air.

He withdrew the needle. The syringe was still half full. ‘So, the first two statues led you to Paititi, where you found half of the third . . . and the other half, according to the painting, is somewhere in El Dorado.’ He returned the syringe to its box. ‘Which means you can use these statues to point the way there. Very handy.’

‘Not gonna . . . help you,’ Nina croaked, head lolling.

‘We both know that you will. But,’ he said, going to the case, ‘I have work to do first. No point making retirement plans until I have the money to pay for them.’

Nina blinked away the tears, focus returning as Stikes returned the statuette to its foam bed. He put the bag containing the khipu on top of the three figures and closed the case.

The khipu . . .

Osterhagen had said the collections of knotted strings were valuable; not so much for their intrinsic worth as their rarity. But what had Cuff called them? Talking knots. A unique form of record-keeping. The Incas had no written language, but they did have numbers.

Numbers.

Distances. Directions. Any journey could be reduced to a series of numbers, as long as you knew the system—

A new tightness pulled at her chest, but this time not because of the poison. It was an adrenalin surge, sudden excitement as she realised what the knots were silently telling her. Not a series of numbers. A string. In this case, a literal one. The khipu was somehow the key to understanding the map, its markings connected to the dozens of cords.

Stikes had her, and the statuettes, but he didn’t have a source of earth energy. The effect at Paititi had been so feeble it had only provided the vaguest indication of the final statue piece’s location.

But with the khipu and the painted account of the Incas’ last journey, she wouldn’t need the statues. She would have a map.

She stayed silent, trying not to let the unexpected elation of discovery show on her face. Stikes still had the scorpion, still had another dose of antivenom he could use to take her to the agonising edge of death if he thought she was concealing information. He looked down at her, cold blue eyes piercing her soul. Had he realised that she had worked out more?

No. He turned away and opened the door, summoning the two soldiers back in. They untied her and hauled her back through the cellars.

‘Nina,’ said Kit as she was dumped, rubber-legged, in her cell. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Super fine,’ she moaned. The antivenom may have worked, but she still felt numb and nauseous, the sting on her arm an angry red lump.

‘What did they do to you?’

‘Your turn to find out,’ said Stikes. The soldiers opened his cell. No attempts to grapple the prisoner here; one of the men simply drove a punch into Kit’s stomach, doubling him over.

‘You bastards,’ said Nina, but she was too weak even to raise a hand in protest as Kit was dragged from the cage. ‘He’s not an archaeologist, he can’t tell you anything about El Dorado.’

Stikes held up a hand. The soldiers stopped. ‘Maybe not,’ said the Englishman, ‘but there’s something else he can tell me.’ He leaned closer to the Interpol agent, examining him with unblinking intensity. ‘Why are you here, Mr Jindal?’

‘Smuggling . . . case,’ Kit groaned.

‘No, why are you really here?’ A silent moment as the two men locked eyes. Then Stikes clicked his fingers. ‘You’ll tell me very soon,’ he said as the soldiers hustled Kit away.

‘What do you mean, why is he really here?’ Nina demanded. But Stikes simply gave her a disdainful look before slamming the door behind him.

18

The jungle rolled below, mile after mile of endless green. The Cessna was heading almost due north towards Caracas, detouring slightly to avoid the peaks of the Serrania Mapiche mountains. The sun dropped towards the horizon, casting a golden hue over the landscape. The explorers had left Valverde less than an hour ago, so were not even halfway to their destination, and it would be dark in around forty minutes.

‘Is landing at night going to be a problem?’ Eddie, in the copilot’s seat, asked Valero. ‘Without a radio, I mean.’

‘Don’t worry,’ the Venezuelan replied. ‘I can do it.’

‘Great.’ He looked down the cabin. ‘How’s Ralf?’

‘Asleep,’ said Macy. She and Osterhagen were taking it in turns to watch the injured man, having used the plane’s first aid kit to clean and bandage his gunshot wound. There was a good chance he would recover if he reached a hospital.

‘What about you?’

She grinned half-heartedly. ‘Oh, just kinda wishing I’d worked harder in school so I could have done a medical degree like my parents instead of archaeology. You get shot at less that way. Even in Miami.’

Eddie smiled, then examined a navigation chart. Valero had earlier pointed out a landmark: Cerro Autana, a great flat-topped mountain, standing alone on the jungle plain. The bizarre tower was now many miles behind them, so before long they would pass about ten miles east of the city of Puerto Ayacucho.

He noticed something else. Puerto Ayacucho, as a regional capital, had a fairly large airport . . . but it was also marked as a military facility. ‘Is this an airbase?’ he asked, pointing at the map.

‘Si,’ Valero replied. ‘That is why we are going to Caracas. I didn’t want to land in the middle of Callas’s friends.’

It made sense, but Eddie was suddenly on edge. An airbase so close to the border would serve a strategic purpose, its planes patrolling the edge of Venezuelan airspace . . .

And intercepting intruders.

‘Where are the binocs?’ he demanded.

Macy found them, concerned by his change of tone. ‘What is it?’

‘If Callas has friends in the air force, we don’t need to land to meet them. They can come to us!’ He looked northwest through the binoculars, following the long sparkling line of the Orinoco until he spotted the greys and browns of civilisation. The airport was south of the city.

Even from this distance, it was easy to make out a couple of parked airliners. He was searching for something smaller, however. He panned away from the civilian terminal to a cluster of hangars and support buildings. Their drab functionality told him at a glance that this was the military facility.

Something was moving in the rippling heat. Camouflage paintwork: a fighter jet, rolling towards the runway.

It could have been a coincidence, the plane about to set out on a routine patrol . . . but he wasn’t about to bet his life on it. ‘Oscar – take us down as low as you can, and head away from the city. Quick!’

‘Why?’

‘’Cause if you don’t, we’ll be going down in flames! They’re sending a fighter after us.’

Shocked, Valero banked right and put the Cessna into a steep descent. Macy pulled her seatbelt tighter. ‘Okay, I don’t know much about planes, but aren’t we at kind of a horrible disadvantage in this thing?’ She gestured towards the propeller.

‘That’s why we’re trying to stay under their radar,’ Eddie told her. ‘Most of it’ll be pointing west, towards Colombia. We might have a chance.’ Valero’s expression, however, suggested it would be very small.

Macy saw their shared look. ‘Oh, great! After everything we’ve been through, we’re going to be blown up by the Venezuelan Maverick and Iceman?’

‘We’re not going to be blown up,’ Eddie growled. He raised the binoculars again.

Perspective flattened the runway against the landscape as the plane descended. Where was the jet? He couldn’t see it. Lost in the heat distortion, or—

It was already in the air, a dark dart pulling up sharply atop a cone of flame from its afterburner. Its silhouette triggered his memory of aircraft recognition training: a Mirage 5, a French-built, delta-winged fighter. Some versions lacked radar . . . but not, he remembered, the Venezuelan variant.

It would find them. Soon. ‘Buggeration,’ he muttered.

‘Oh boy,’ Macy gulped. ‘Not good?’

‘Not good.’

‘Shit shit shit, why didn’t I pay attention in biology class?’

The jet levelled out, afterburner flame disappearing – and turned in their direction. ‘Oscar,’ said Eddie, ‘I don’t have a fucking clue how, but we’re only going to stay alive if you can lose it.’

Valero shot him a disbelieving look. ‘I don’t have a fucking clue how either!’ He eased out of the dive, the Cessna only metres above the rainforest canopy.

Macy pointed. ‘There’s a river. Maybe we could fly along it, behind the trees.’

Again, Valero’s face revealed what he thought of the odds of success, but nevertheless he turned the plane to follow the river, easing back the throttle to give himself more time to react to the waterway’s turns as he dropped lower.

The high trees along the bank blocked Eddie’s view of the Mirage. He felt a moment of hope. If they couldn’t see it, it couldn’t see them – and the fighter’s radar would also struggle to detect them through the trees.

But all the pilot had to do to find them was head for the river and look down to spot the white cross of the Caravan.

Valero made another turn. Eddie kept watching the sky. The high wing, which had made the Caravan the ideal choice for surveying the ground, now blotted out part of his view. How long before the jet reached them? The Mirage was a supersonic fighter, but even at subsonic speeds it could cover the distance in under two minutes—

Osterhagen made a startled noise as the wingtip thwacked a branch. Eddie winced, but there was no damage beyond a green stain on the paintwork.

Valero slowed the Cessna still further, holding it just above stalling speed. Even so, the plane was still tearing through the jungle at over seventy miles per hour. The river weaved, the rainforest rising on each side like green walls.

Walls that were closing in.

‘There is not enough room,’ Valero said urgently.

Eddie was still scouring the sky. ‘Stay low as long as you can. If it goes past us, we might have a chance—’

‘I can see it!’ Macy cried.

‘Is it going past us?’

Her voice was simultaneously angry and terrified. ‘Whadda you think?’

‘Oscar, climb!’ Eddie roared. Stealth was now worthless; they needed room to manoeuvre. ‘Macy, what’s he doing?’

‘Coming right at us!’ she shrieked over the engine’s howl as Valero pulled up sharply.

Eddie finally saw the Mirage again, sunlight flaring off its cockpit canopy. It was approaching head-on. The Caravan would be fixed in its gunsight, the slow-moving aircraft an easy target—

Twin flashes of fire beneath the fighter’s fuselage. Glowing orange dots seemed to drift towards him, but he knew all too well that the cannon fire’s apparent laziness was just an illusion. ‘He’s firing!’ he yelled.

Valero responded, flinging the Cessna into a hard rolling turn. Loose items bounced around the cabin. A loud crack came from the roof as an aluminium panel split under the stress. Eddie lost sight of the Mirage, but knew the shells were still incoming—

Bright streaks flashed past the windows like meteors. ‘He missed!’ cried Osterhagen.

‘Let’s hope he keeps missing!’ Eddie strained to hold himself upright as the Cessna wheeled round. The Mirage came back into view. Closer. The guns flared again. ‘Oscar!’

Valero changed course again, climbing . . .

Too late. Some shells seared past – but others hit home. Two fist-sized holes exploded through the starboard wing. Macy screamed as a piece of shrapnel scarred the window beside her.

Valero struggled with the controls. ‘Can you keep it in the air?’ asked Eddie, trying to see the damage. Something was coming from the wing. Smoke?

No. A red liquid, sparkling in the light of the falling sun.

Fuel.

The Venezuelan saw it too. He cursed in Spanish, eyes flicking over the instruments. ‘I can’t stop the leak.’ The wing tank had been punctured top and bottom by the cannon shells; no way to shut off the flow.

‘The plane!’ Macy cried, instinctively ducking. Eddie saw a flash of camouflage green and brown rushing at them—

The Mirage blasted overhead with an earsplitting scream, the Cessna crashing violently through its wake. The jet had come in too fast, unable to slow enough to match the weaving transport’s speed. Instead, it ignited its afterburner with another sky-shaking roar and powered into the distance.

Eyes wide, Osterhagen watched it thunder away. ‘He’s leaving,’ he gasped.

‘No, he’s not,’ Eddie replied grimly. The Mirage was making a long, sweeping turn, the pilot about to swing back round . . . and fire a missile. ‘Can we get to Caracas without that fuel tank?’ Valero shook his head. ‘Shit! How much fuel’s still in it?’

Valero checked a gauge, the needle of which was slowly but steadily dropping. ‘Four hundred litres, and falling.’

Eddie thought for a moment, tracking the distant Mirage as it turned. ‘Head away from him, and take us up,’ he ordered.

Valero stared at him, confused. ‘What?’

‘Up, take us up – we need all the height we can get!’ He unfastened his seatbelt as Valero put the Cessna into a climb, heading northwest.

‘What are you doing?’ Macy demanded as he stood.

‘The emergency kit – where is it?’ The yellow plastic case had contained the first aid supplies used to patch up Becker, and more besides. He spotted it at the back of the cabin and slid down the sloping floor to retrieve it.

The glowing dot of the Mirage’s afterburner cut out. ‘Eddie, the jet’s turning,’ warned Valero.

‘Just keep climbing!’ Eddie opened the case. Inside were a Very pistol and several distress flares. He loaded one and snapped the breech closed, then looked through the window. The fighter was coming back towards the Cessna. ‘Okay, Oscar. Can you dump the fuel from the knackered tank?’

‘Yes – but why?’

‘Get ready to do it! Level out, and turn so he’s directly behind us.’

‘But that’ll make us a really easy targ— Oh,’ said Macy, regarding him with sudden hope. ‘You’re going to use the flare gun to decoy the missile!’

‘Nope,’ said Eddie, shaking his head. ‘That only works in movies. We need something a lot hotter!’ There was a small hatch opposite the main door; he unlocked it and swung the top section upwards. Wind shrieked into the cabin – along with the stench of fuel, the leaking avgas swirling in the vortex created by the plane’s wing.

Macy’s hope was replaced by appalled disbelief. ‘You’re going to blow up the fuel? What happened to the whole us-not-blowing-up thing? We’ll go too!’

‘Not if I time it right.’ The Mirage was moving in behind them, now some miles distant – the ideal range for a heat-seeking missile. ‘Oscar! Dump the fuel when I say, then head for the ground.’ The jet disappeared behind the tail. ‘Now!’

Valero, with considerable trepidation, pulled the fuel-dump lever.

The plumes of red-dyed avgas streaming from the holes in the wing were joined by a much denser spray as the main valve opened. The needle on the fuel gauge plummeted. Eddie leaned out of the open hatch, the slipstream tearing at the back of his head as he searched for the Mirage. The dark dot was directly astern. He readied the flare gun—

Another flash of fire from the jet, this time beneath a wing. A line of smoke trailed behind a white-painted speck. A heat-seeking missile, either an American Sidewinder or a French Magic, but it made no difference – neither would have any trouble locking on.

The missile closed in a sweeping arc. Travelling at over Mach 2, it would take just seconds to reach its target.

Fuel was still gushing from the dump valve. Eddie held his breath, feeling droplets soaking his skin. If he fired too soon, Macy’s fear would be realised – the igniting fuel vapour would consume the plane and its passengers.

And if he fired too late, they would be dead anyway . . .

The deluge stopped, the tank empty but for the last dribbling dregs.

He pulled the trigger.

The pistol bucked, the flare spiralling into the dissipating red cloud. For a moment nothing happened . . .

Then the sky caught fire.

Flames spread like an exploding star, greedily swallowing up the drifting fuel. Searing tongues lashed after the Cessna, trying to reach the last morsels in its ruptured wing. Eddie threw himself back into the cabin as a wave of heat hit the plane.

The missile was an R550 Magic, carrying a fragmentation warhead of twelve and a half kilograms of high explosive wrapped in frangible steel. Its infrared seeker was overwhelmed by the fireball, the heat source of its target’s engine lost amidst a much bigger, hotter signal. It ran through its programmed options in a millisecond. Target lost at close range: only one response.

Detonate.

The missile was less than a hundred metres from the Cessna when the warhead exploded, sending red-hot shrapnel out in all directions. Most of the chunks of metal hit nothing . . . but only a fraction had to strike their target to score a kill.

The Caravan’s tail shredded as if hit by a shotgun blast. Other sizzling shards ripped through the wings and fuselage.

One hit Valero above his ear, tearing away a chunk of flesh and hair. Blood splattered the windscreen.

He slumped, unconscious. The Cessna’s descent steepened, beginning to roll.

Eddie slid across the rear of the cabin as the plane tilted. ‘Eddie!’ Macy screamed. ‘Oscar’s hit!’ He hauled himself up and half ran, half fell down the aisle to clamber into the copilot’s seat. Rows of dials and gauges gazed meaninglessly at him. ‘One of these days,’ he gasped as he took hold of the control yoke, ‘I’m going to learn how to fly a fucking plane!’

He turned it like a steering wheel in the hope that it would counter the roll. Smoke trailing from its tail, the aircraft staggered back to a wings-level attitude – but still with its nose pointing down at the rainforest. The altimeter he understood, at least: two thousand feet.

Falling fast.

He pulled back the yoke, trying to level out. Nothing happened, the control refusing to move. ‘Oh, bollocks,’ he muttered as he tried again, harder. It gave slightly, then locked again. The damage to the Cessna’s rear had jammed the tailplanes. ‘Oh, bollocks!’

Fifteen hundred feet. He jerked the yoke in an attempt to free it. The plane responded slightly, producing a faintly nauseating roller coaster sensation, but the controls remained stuck.

But to have worked at all, they still had to be connected to the tailplanes. The problem was a physical obstruction, something preventing them from moving. Maybe they could be forced free . . .

One thousand feet—

Eddie planted his feet firmly against the instrument panel. Macy watched in frightened bewilderment as he gripped the yoke with both hands. ‘Everyone hold tight!’ he warned as he pulled at the control, simultaneously pushing with all the strength in his legs – trying to force the tailplanes to move through sheer brute force.

The yoke creaked. It seemed to give, but only a little. He pulled harder, aware that if he tore the handgrips clean off their mount, they were all doomed.

Five hundred—

‘Come on!’ he rasped, face twisted with effort. The jungle was rapidly approaching. Three hundred feet. Every muscle trembled as he strained. The glass of a dial cracked beneath his foot.

Two hundred—

Something snapped. The yoke suddenly broke free, the tailplanes slamming upwards to their full extent. The aircraft pulled out of its dive . . .

Not quickly enough.

The jungle’s tallest trees stretched up well over a hundred feet above the ground. Even as the Cessna levelled out, it was still heading inexorably into the thick canopy—

Branches and leaves disintegrated as the propeller carved through a treetop like a chainsaw. Eddie wrestled with the controls, still trying to pull up, but the plane hit another tree, branches clawing open the Cessna’s skin.

The towering trunk of an emergent redwood rose above the canopy ahead. Eddie shoved down a rudder pedal, but even had the controls been fully responsive there wasn’t time to turn away—

The tree scythed past less than a foot from the fuselage’s left side, slicing off the port wing at its root. Fuel erupted from the tank inside it as it crumpled. The Cessna’s tail, still smouldering, hurtled through the spray – and ignited it. The wing blew apart, an oily mushroom cloud roiling up through the foliage.

What was left of the plane dropped towards the ground, the mangled tail now aflame. ‘Brace!’ yelled Eddie, grabbing his seatbelt straps and bending into a crash position—

The Caravan hit on its belly, the impact tearing away the wheels and buckling the hull. The propeller blades bent as they churned through the earth. The starboard wing clipped another tree and was ripped in half, the fuselage skidding onwards in a huge spray of soil and rotting vegetation. The windscreen shattered, dirt filling the cockpit. Jutting roots tore at the aircraft’s belly as it crashed over them with a terrible screeching sound.

Which suddenly lessened.

Eddie clung to the straps, eyes shut tight. The plane was still moving – but the ground beneath it was somehow cushioning its passage. The bumps continued, but muffled, fading as the plane slowed . . .

And stopped.

The bent hull tipped back with a thump. Eddie wiped away mud and cautiously opened his eyes. They were indeed stationary. His arms ached where the straps had cut into them, and there was a horrible bruise across his stomach from the steering yoke. He flexed his hands, then his feet. Nothing broken.

Valero had fared much worse. Unconscious, he had been unable to protect himself, flailing as the plane ploughed through the trees. Two of his fingers were bent back at unnatural angles, and blood streaked his face where he had hit the controls. Becker, equally helpless, had come off better; secured in his seat, he was now slumped over the armrest, moaning softly.

‘Ow, God . . .’ a female voice whispered. Eddie staggered to his feet. Osterhagen sat bolt upright, eyes squeezed shut and breathing loudly and rapidly. Macy, meanwhile, had her head against the window, grimacing.

Eddie staggered to her. ‘Macy! Are you okay?’

‘I dunno . . . ’ She tried to stand. ‘Ow, that hurts – wait, if it hurts . . . ’ She rolled her head to clear the dazed fog from her mind. ‘I’m not dead?’

Eddie half laughed. ‘No, we’re alive. That means I’ve survived two plane crashes in less than a year. Fuck me! Don’t know if that means I’m really lucky or really unlucky.’ A feeble smile briefly turned up her lips, which he returned. ‘We need to get out of the plane, though. Something’s burning.’ He faced Osterhagen. ‘Doc. Doc! Can you hear me?’

Osterhagen’s eyes snapped open, darting about wildly before settling on Eddie. ‘Where are we?’

‘On the ground, and that’s good enough for me. Are you hurt?’

‘Only bruised, I think. But my neck is very painful.’

‘Whiplash, but I doubt you’ll get the chance to sue anyone for it. Okay, you and Macy get Ralf out of the plane. I’ll get Oscar.’

They released the injured men from their seats and hauled them through the main hatch. The reason for the plane’s relatively soft landing became clear; they were in a marsh, boots sinking inches deep into the soft muck. Eddie looked at the plane, seeing smoke curling from the tail, then searched for more solid ground. There was a broad hump of earth not far away. ‘Lie them down on that,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll—’

A deep rumble shook the rainforest. The Mirage. It was still out there.

Hunting for them.

Osterhagen searched the patches of sky visible through the canopy. ‘Where is it?’

Eddie turned, listening. The jet growl was loudest back along the channel gouged out of the jungle by the careering plane.

And still getting louder . . .

He glimpsed movement above the trees to the southeast. The Mirage was circling. But not overhead. He realised why; the exploded port wing had sent up a column of thick black smoke.

And from a fire that large, the pilot might assume that the entire plane had blown up.

The Mirage came round for another low, slow pass. Even something the size of the Cessna slashing through the all-encompassing canopy would only have left a small scratch; the pilot wouldn’t be able to spot more than a few scraps of wreckage through the trees.

Or so Eddie hoped. He waited, the engine roar growing louder. Another brief flash of something large and deadly above . . .

And gone. The thunder faded as the Mirage accelerated away, heading northwest. Back to the airbase.

‘Think they’ll come back?’ Macy hesitantly asked.

‘Not in a jet,’ said Eddie. He carefully lowered Valero. Macy and Osterhagen put Becker beside him. ‘They might send a chopper or a foot patrol, but I reckon that pilot thinks we’re dead. The wing made a pretty big bang. And speaking of which, better grab what I can before the rest of the plane catches fire.’ He hurried back into the wreck, re-emerging with a handful of charts, Becker’s hat, a torch and a plastic bottle of water. ‘Couldn’t find the first aid kit – it must have been sucked out of the hatch.’

‘So what can we do to help Ralf ?’ Osterhagen asked. ‘And Oscar?’

‘I still think Ralf’ll be fine if we get him to a hospital,’ said Eddie. ‘Oscar, though . . . ’ Even a cursory glance told him that things did not look good for the Venezuelan. The deep head wound needed sterilising, stitches and bandages – none of which he could provide.

He lifted Valero’s hand to get a better look at his broken fingers – and the man jerked awake with a scream. Macy jumped back, startled. Valero cried out in Spanish, writhing. Eddie tried to hold him down. ‘Oscar! Oscar, stay still. You’re hurt. Don’t try to move.’

He tried to wash a little water over the gash above Valero’s ear, but he flinched away. ‘Eddie, you’ve got to get to – to Caracas. Tell militia about . . . ’ His face twisted in pain. ‘Callas. Tell them about Callas.’

‘We can’t leave you behind,’ Eddie insisted. ‘We’re not far from Puerto Ayacucho. We can get you to a hospital.’

Valero shook his head, the movement clearly causing him great suffering. ‘No,’ he said, his voice falling to a hoarse whisper. ‘In my head, I can – I can feel it. Something hurts, it hurts so bad. You have to—’ The tendons in his throat pulled tight as he convulsed in agony, a strangled moan escaping. ‘Clubhouse, Callas is at – the Clubhouse. Stop . . . him . . . ’ Another spasm, mouth open wide in silent torment . . . then he relaxed, his final breath softly leaving his body.

Eddie, Macy and Osterhagen stared at him in silence. Macy was the first to look away, eyes brimming with tears. Osterhagen rubbed his head with a shaking hand. ‘A burst blood vessel, perhaps . . . I don’t know.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Eddie stiffly. He reached down to close Valero’s pain-stricken eyes. ‘We know who caused it. Callas. And Stikes. All of this is because of them. Oscar was right – we’ve got to stop them.’ He stood.

‘Can we really get to this Puerto place?’ Macy asked quietly.

‘Yeah. We’re maybe seven or eight miles away as the crow flies – but if we go due west, we’ll get to a main road a lot quicker.’ He unrolled a chart and showed her. ‘About four miles, a bit more. We can hitch a lift.’

‘What about Ralf?’ Osterhagen asked.

‘I’ll carry him.’

‘All the way?’ Macy exclaimed.

‘I can manage. You take this.’ He tossed her the torch. ‘Once we’re out of this swamp, the chart says there’s no rivers and the terrain’s pretty flat, so it shouldn’t be too bad. We’ve got less than half an hour of light left, so we need to get moving. Doc, give me a hand.’ Osterhagen helped him hoist Becker in a fireman’s lift. The injured man moaned faintly, but didn’t fully wake up. ‘Okay, let’s get going.’

Time in the cell blurred past as if in a fever dream, the after-effects of the poisoning lingering like a sickness. Nina drifted in and out of consciousness, unsure whether moments or minutes had passed each time she closed her eyes.

She felt the swirling, clammy darkness rising to swallow her again, and shifted her head, resting it against the metal bars for the coolness they provided. But it didn’t last long. The awful weariness pulled at her once more . . .

A noise startled her into wakefulness. Two soldiers dragged Kit into the room and dumped him back in his cell before slamming its door and leaving. Nina pushed herself upright. ‘Kit,’ she said, her voice weak. ‘Kit, are you okay?’

The bruises on his face revealed that Stikes had used old-fashioned interrogation techniques in addition to his vile little pet. One eye was blackened, the lower lid puffy and swollen, and there was a smear of blood down his chin from a split lip. ‘I’ve had better hospitality,’ he croaked. ‘I . . . ’ His face suddenly twisted with pain, and he let out a choked scream as he clutched his chest.

‘Kit?’ said Nina, alarm rapidly turning to fear. ‘Kit! Oh my God!’ She tried to stand, but her legs still felt rubbery. ‘Hey!’ she shouted at the guard. ‘Do something, help him!’

The guard gave her an uncomprehending look, apparently not understanding English, before turning his gaze back to the convulsing Indian . . . and doing nothing.

Horrified, Nina rattled the door. ‘He’s dying! Help him!’ But the soldier’s expression remained dispassionate. Appalled, she realised what that meant; now that he had been interrogated, Kit was expendable. She tried to reach across the empty middle cell to him, but he was too far away. ‘Kit!’

His moans stopped, and he slowly raised his head to give her a pained wink with his swollen eye. ‘It was worth a try,’ he rasped.

Nina glanced back at the guard, who still showed no signs of understanding what was being said, before lowering her voice. ‘You were faking?’

‘If he had opened the door, I could have found out how well I remembered my unarmed combat training.’

The guard was younger and considerably beefier than Kit. ‘As much as I want to get out of here,’ said Nina, ‘I’m kinda glad you didn’t put it to the test.’

Kit managed a look of mock affront. ‘Are you saying I couldn’t have taken him down?’

‘I’m saying that I know how I feel right now. I’d guess that you probably feel worse.’

‘You’re probably right.’ He slumped on the concrete floor, sweat beading his forehead.

‘What did Stikes want from you?’ Nina asked, hoping that conversation would help him – and her – stay awake.

A hesitation. ‘He . . . asked me lots of questions about Interpol. He wanted to find out how much I had told headquarters about Callas.’ He moved his arm to display a reddened scorpion sting. ‘He believed me when I said that they knew nothing. Eventually. But what about you?’ he went on before Nina could ask another question. ‘What did he want from you?’

‘El Dorado. How to find it.’

‘And did you tell him?’

She looked away, shamefaced. ‘Yeah. All about the statues, earth energy, how I used them to find Paititi . . . everything.’

With visible strain, Kit sat up. ‘Nina, you did nothing wrong. Nobody can stand up to torture, however strong they think they are.’

‘Eddie probably could.’ The thought of her husband filled her with sudden guilt; her own suffering had pushed him from her mind. ‘Oh, God, I hope he’s okay. I don’t even know what happened to him at Paititi.’

‘I think he is still alive. Stikes seems to be the kind who would enjoy telling you if he wasn’t.’

Despite her efforts to stay focused, the sickening tiredness was rising to swallow Nina again. ‘I hope you’re right,’ she whispered, slumping against the bars.

The trek westwards was not difficult physically; the thick jungle canopy actually made movement easier by starving the undergrowth of light. Eddie and the others made steady, if plodding, progress.

What made it unpleasant were the humid heat, which refused to lessen even after the sun had set, and the insects. They were bad enough in daylight, but once the twilight gloom forced Macy to switch on the torch they swarmed around the light. ‘You know what?’ she complained after a particularly huge and loathsome bug batted her in the face with its wings. ‘Screw the rainforest! They can bulldoze the whole place into strip malls for all I care!’

Eventually, to everyone’s relief, the jungle thinned, giving way to open ground that had been subjected to slash-and-burn cultivation. Before long they found themselves on a road – not a glorified dirt track like those found in the rainforest, but an actual paved highway. It was only one lane in each direction, but to the exhausted group it seemed like an eightlane motorway. ‘Oh, thank God!’ Macy cried. ‘Civilisation! Kinda.’

There was no sign of traffic. Eddie checked his watch; it was coming up to nine p.m. ‘Let’s hope somebody’s out at this time of night. And that Venezuela doesn’t have laws against hitchhiking!’

They laid Becker down beside the northbound lane, and waited. After a few minutes, headlights appeared to the south. Eddie stood in the road and waved for the approaching vehicle to stop. Macy joined him. ‘What?’ she said, to his look. ‘If the driver’s a guy, he might be more likely to stop for a hot babe, right?’

She was covered in dirt and sweat, clothes torn, hair a ratty, tangled mess. ‘Right now you look about as hot as I do. But maybe he likes it dirty . . . ’

‘Shut. Up!’

The vehicle, a beaten-up pickup truck, stopped. Macy did the talking, explaining that they had been in a crash – she left out that it had involved a plane to avoid awkward questions – and forced to walk through the jungle. The driver, an elderly man, chided the yanquis for lacking both caution and survival equipment before agreeing to take them to Puerto Ayacucho. Osterhagen rode up front with Becker, while Eddie and Macy sat in the rear bed.

The drive along the empty road didn’t take long. They passed the airport, Eddie keeping a wary eye open for military patrols, and entered the city. The driver pulled up outside the hospital. ‘Eddie,’ said Osterhagen as the Englishman climbed from the truck, ‘I am going to stay with Ralf.’

‘You sure? They might still be looking for us. Two gringos in the hospital . . . they could make the connection.’

Osterhagen looked at the wounded man. Becker had drifted in and out of consciousness through the entire trek, but never been lucid enough to do more than mumble in German. ‘He will need someone to tell him what has been going on. Besides . . . ’ He regarded the hat he was holding. ‘He is my friend. I should be with him.’

Eddie put a hand on the older man’s shoulder. ‘I can’t argue with that. Just be careful, okay?’

‘I will. And you be careful too.’ They lifted Becker from the truck. ‘What about you and Macy? What are you going to do?’

‘Rescue Nina and Kit. And kill Stikes and Callas. Not necessarily in that order.’

Osterhagen’s face suggested that he thought the latter objective a dangerous step too far, but he said nothing. He and Eddie carried Becker into the hospital. Macy gave a modified version of her story to a nurse to account for Becker’s wound, the ‘crash’ now happening while fleeing armed robbers. The story seemed to be accepted, and Becker was taken away for treatment.

Osterhagen shook Eddie’s hand. ‘Thank you. For keeping us alive.’

‘Shame I couldn’t do it for everyone,’ Eddie replied glumly. ‘But look after Ralf. And yourself. Hopefully see you both again soon.’

‘Thank you,’ the German repeated, before following his friend.

‘So how are we going to rescue Nina and Kit?’ Macy asked once they were outside.

The pickup driver had waited for them, keen to learn Becker’s condition in the hope of adding a happy ending to his tale of Samaritanism. ‘We need to get to this Clubhouse place,’ said Eddie. ‘I doubt this bloke’ll take us all the way to Caracas, but ask him how we can get there – if there’s a bus or something.’

Macy did so, learning that there was an overnight bus between Puerto Ayacucho and the capital, with still enough time for them to catch it. ‘Ew, I hate using buses,’ she added after reporting this to Eddie. ‘There’s always some really gross guy trying to check me out.’

‘You want to walk three hundred miles?’

‘Depends how gross the guy is.’

‘Can’t be as gross as those bugs. Ask if he’ll give us a lift to the bus station. Oh, and if there are any payphones there.’

‘Yes, and yes,’ she said after posing both questions. ‘Who are you planning on calling? Someone in the government we can warn about Callas?’

‘I would if I knew who to call, but I don’t – and I don’t know who we can trust, either. If Callas is planning a coup, he’ll need more than just the military on his side. He’d have to have people in the militia too. They’re the biggest threat to him.’

‘Except for you.’

Macy had meant it as a joke, but the smile Eddie gave her had a very hard edge. ‘Yeah. Except for me.’

They got back into the pickup and set off. ‘So who are you going to call?’ Macy asked.

His smile this time was somewhat warmer. ‘An old friend.’

19

Nina jerked awake, a fierce cramp burning in her arm. For a nightmarish moment she thought the antivenom had worn off, letting the Gormar’s toxin continue its work, but as she scrambled to sit up she realised it was only the result of her uncomfortable sleeping position on the hard floor.

She rolled her shoulder to ease the stiffness. The wallowing nausea had subsided, leaving just a hangover queasiness. Examining her wrist, she saw that the swollen sting had gone down, though it was still an angry red.

‘Nina? Are you all right?’

She looked round to see Kit sitting against the wall of his cell. ‘I’m . . . not great,’ she admitted. ‘But better than I was.’ A glance told her that the guard had been replaced by another man. ‘How long was I asleep?’

Kit checked his watch. ‘Quite a while. It’s after eleven in the morning.’

She had been out for something like fourteen hours while her body did its best to expunge the poison from her system. ‘Jesus. How long have you been awake?’

‘About an hour. I didn’t want to wake you.’

Another look at the guard. This one apparently understood English, his eyes flicking between them as he followed their conversation. ‘We’ve got a new watchman – did I miss anything else?’

‘No, he was there when I woke up. I’ve been spending the time wondering how on earth I ended up in this situation. It seems destiny works in strange ways.’

Nina made a sarcastic sound. ‘You think being tortured with scorpions was our destiny?’

‘I prefer that to it being nothing more than bad luck.’

‘Huh. I kind of see your point. Just hope that our destinies don’t end in here.’

‘So do I. But . . . I do think that things happen for a reason, even if we can’t always see it at first. There is order in the universe, but it has to be maintained – whether by the gods, or by our actions. Part of our purpose is to keep that order.’

‘Interesting,’ said Nina with a faint smile. ‘I’m not used to philosophical discussion in the morning. But then, I do live with Eddie.’

Kit grinned back through his puffy lips. ‘Not bad for a humble policeman, no?’

‘So is that why you became a cop? To maintain order?’

He nodded. ‘In some ways. Growing up in India, I saw a lot of corruption, a lot of greed that caused others to suffer. I wanted to do what I could to stop it – to make sure that people who took more than they deserved were punished.’

‘Sounds like a good motivation to me.’

The Interpol officer gave her an appreciative look, then sighed. ‘It did not always make me popular. Even among my colleagues.’

‘Yeah, I know what that feels like,’ Nina told him sympathetically.

‘But then, this is what I mean about destiny. If I had been the kind of cop who looked the other way when I saw others taking bribes, I probably wouldn’t have been “encouraged” to move from regular police work into more specialised areas like art theft. And if I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have been offered a position at Interpol, which means I would not have investigated the Khoils, I would not have met you and Eddie . . . and I would not be here right now.’

Nina raised her eyebrows. ‘And you’re still upbeat about it? If I’d thought about the course of my life like that, I’d be going “Oh God, where did it all go so wrong?”!’

He smiled. ‘I’m a very upbeat person. And I don’t regret my decisions. Even though at the moment they seem to have brought me to a rather dark place.’

‘You’re not kidding.’ She tapped the bars. ‘Any ideas how we can get out into the light?’

‘A few. Unfortunately, they all begin with us being outside these cells.’

‘That’s not as helpful as I was hoping for.’

‘I’m still working on them.’

The door opened and a pair of soldiers trooped in. ‘Work faster,’ Nina urgently told Kit as they unlocked her cell and entered. ‘All right, okay!’ she protested as she was pulled to her feet.

They took her back upstairs, ascending a broad marble staircase to the mansion’s upper floor. Nina screwed up her eyes, dazzled by the brightness of the morning sun through panoramic windows as she was led through a luxurious lounge with a giant TV on one wall. Beyond, a large balcony overlooked the golf course.

Stikes and Callas, the general in full uniform, waited for her outside, but there was also a third man; tall, tanned, with long jet-black hair swept greasily back from his forehead. His pastel jacket and trousers were clearly of some extremely expensive designer label, though the stylish effect was offset by a vulgar gold medallion. Even this early in the day, he had a glass of Scotch and clunking ice cubes in his hand.

‘Ah, here she is!’ said Callas as the soldiers brought Nina into the open. ‘My expert.’

The third man’s eyebrows flickered in recognition. ‘Wait, she is . . . ’

‘Dr Nina Wilde,’ Callas announced. ‘Discoverer of Atlantis, and the secret of the Sphinx, and now . . . my guest. Dr Wilde, meet my good friend Francisco de Quesada.’

She remembered the Venezuelan mentioning the name at the military base, though in a far from friendly way. Like Pachac, then; another of his allies of necessity.

De Quesada took in Nina’s dirty, dishevelled clothing. ‘You do not let your guests shower, Salbatore?’

‘She’s not entirely a willing guest,’ said Stikes.

‘But she will still tell you how much this is worth,’ Callas said, indicating something on a glass coffee table: the khipu, opened out to its full length, knotted strands displayed along the braided central cord. Nina noticed the case holding the statues on the floor nearby.

De Quesada shook his head. ‘I am already paying you fifty million dollars for the sun disc—’

‘It is worth far more,’ Callas smoothly interjected.

‘Perhaps. But you are also getting a share of my . . . proceeds.’ He looked askance at Nina. ‘Is it safe to talk in front of her?’

Callas snorted. ‘You can say anything you like – she won’t be telling anyone.’

‘My drug revenue, then. Now that the American DEA and the government have cracked down in Colombia, I need Venezuela to ship my product. Which means I need you, general. Or should I call you el Jefe?’

Callas smiled proudly, only to be deflated by Stikes’s ‘Let’s not count our chickens before they’re hatched.’

‘Which brings me to another English phrase,’ said de Quesada. He gestured dismissively at the khipu. ‘“Money for old rope”. You are getting a lot of money from me, Salbatore – cash now, and a share of what will come later. Why should I pay another million for this trash?’

‘That is why I brought Dr Wilde,’ said Callas. ‘Who better to tell you why these strings are worth so much? If you can’t trust the world’s most famous archaeologist, then who can you trust?’

‘Yes, who?’ de Quesada replied, his tone suggesting to Nina that the Venezuelan’s veiled dislike was mutual. But he sat back, gesturing at her with his drink. ‘Very well. Impress me, Dr Wilde.’

‘And be honest,’ Stikes added in a quiet but threatening voice.

Nina walked to the table, examining the khipu. Fully opened, it was more than three feet long, the number of multicoloured strings attached to the woven spine greater than she had thought; well over a hundred. The number of knots on each string ranged from a couple to over a dozen.

The topmost knot on each string, she noticed, was always one of four kinds. She knew that the Incas had divided their empire into quadrants based on astronomical features: could they be directions? Below the first, the other knots were more varied, strung like beads. If it were indeed a guide to the Incas’ journey, it would require considerable work to decode.

But she had seen such guides before – leading to Atlantis, to Eden. It could be done. El Dorado could be found.

If she made the khipu seem dull enough to dissuade de Quesada from buying it.

‘Well, it’s called a khipu,’ she began, slipping into a professorial tone. ‘They were used as a system of record-keeping by the Incas. The knots on each string are a way of storing numbers, similar to an abacus.’ She tried to remember what Osterhagen had said about them. ‘They were used to keep censuses, calculate taxes, track how much food was grown.’ Keep it boring, she told herself. ‘They were the backbone of the Inca accounting system.’

To her relief, de Quesada didn’t appear impressed. ‘But they are valuable, no?’ prompted Callas.

‘I suppose, but more because of their scarcity than any intrinsic worth. There are only a few hundred still in existence. The Conquistadors destroyed all the ones they found.’

‘The Conquistadors?’ De Quesada’s eyes flashed with sudden interest. ‘Why did they destroy them?’

‘They thought the Incas used them to send secret messages,’ said Nina, aware that Callas now had a look of greedy expectancy. It seemed she had unwittingly pushed one of de Quesada’s buttons. ‘I don’t think that’s true, because as far as we know the khipus only contained numerical information – the Incas never developed a written language. But the Spanish—’

De Quesada regarded the khipu more closely. ‘So the Conquistadors destroyed them to show their power over the Incas?’

‘You could say that. Really, though, they’re just—’

He cut her off again, getting to his feet. ‘I will buy it, Salbatore!’ He cackled, swigging from his glass. ‘You just make sure that my old friend Arcani Pachac knows I have it, like his precious sun disc. That little communist cagada thinks he is the Inca emperor reborn? Then I’ll remind him what the Spanish did to the Incas. A million dollars, you said? Make it two!’

‘You – you’re spending two million dollars just to annoy Pachac?’ Nina said, shocked and appalled.

‘I am spending more than that! The sun disc, this great symbol of Pachac’s glorious heritage?’ His words dripped sarcasm. ‘I have the perfect place for it. When it is installed, I will send him a picture – it will drive him mad!’

‘Francisco and Pachac were once partners,’ explained Callas. ‘Until—’

‘Until he turned against me,’ said de Quesada. ‘He got politics, decided he wanted to restore the poor downtrodden Indians to power.’ He mimed wiping a tear from one eye, pulling an exaggeratedly sad face. ‘The defeated should keep their heads down. The Spanish nobles were the victors. They still are.’

‘But all that money,’ said Nina. ‘You’re spending millions out of spite? Why?’

De Quesada shrugged and took another drink. ‘Because I can. I already have cars, boats, planes, houses, women . . . I have to spend my money on something. Other than bribes, anyway.’ He looked back at the khipu. ‘I will take it. What about the sun disc? How are you going to get it to Colombia?’

‘It’s already being dealt with,’ said Stikes.

‘You found a replacement for West?’

‘Indeed we did.’ He gave Nina a smug look. ‘As for the khipu, you can take it with you if you like, but I’d recommend using our agent’s services for that as well. In case anyone asks questions.’

De Quesada scowled. ‘You are probably right. I cannot take a shit in my own country without some government pendejo or bastard from the DEA trying to look up my ass. Maybe after tonight I should move to Venezuela, eh?’

‘Maybe,’ said Callas noncommittally.

‘And speaking of tonight . . . ’ A small but distinctly cunning smile as de Quesada took something from his jacket: a DVD in a transparent case. ‘I know you have made a deal with Pachac, giving him control over the southern routes across the border. I want you to give those routes to me.’

Callas stiffened at the challenge, regarding the disc suspiciously. ‘What?’

‘Capture and kill his runners, and give his drugs to me. The only cocaine shipped through Venezuela will be mine.’

The general shook his head. ‘We have made a deal, we will stick to it. Just as I will stick to the deal I made with Pachac.’

De Quesada laughed. ‘Yes, of course you will. It never crossed your mind to use your new power to change the deal with him in your favour.’ His smile vanished. ‘Or the deal with me.’

Callas looked pointedly towards the two soldiers, both of whom were armed. ‘I don’t like your tone, Francisco.’

‘And I don’t like being double-crossed, Salbatore. So, let’s make sure it never happens, eh?’ He held out the DVD to Callas, who hesitated before snatching it from him, then nodded towards the television in the lounge. ‘Put it on.’

‘Watch her,’ Callas ordered one of the soldiers, who moved closer to Nina. The other closed the door behind Callas, Stikes and de Quesada as they went into the lounge. The reflections on the glass made it hard for Nina to see inside, but she could make out Callas putting the disc into a player and switching on the TV.

He watched it for less than a minute before whirling angrily on de Quesada. A brief argument, Callas becoming more furious by the moment, then the Venezuelan stormed back to the player, ejected the disc and hurled it across the room. Still seething, he threw the door open and returned to the balcony, clenching his fists round the handrail as he glared out across Caracas.

De Quesada followed. ‘If that became public, your new position would become very unstable.’ He finished his drink, crunching an ice cube between his teeth. ‘It might even give the Americans an excuse for regime change. However much oil you offer them, they are not going to tolerate a drug lord as president.’

‘I am not a drug lord!’ Callas spat.

‘But you are working with one, and there was the proof.’

‘That recording would also be damaging to you,’ Stikes pointed out.

‘A calculated risk. But,’ de Quesada went on, ‘it will be much easier if we just make sure it is never seen, eh? Accept my new deal. You will still get your percentage – and you know you would rather deal with me than a psychopath like Pachac.’

The general drew in a long breath before facing de Quesada. ‘Pachac is . . . unreliable, yes. Very well. You will have his territory. But if the video is ever seen . . . ’ He jabbed a threatening finger at the Colombian’s heart.

De Quesada simply smiled. ‘It will not be.’ He rattled the last couple of ice cubes in his glass. ‘Now, we should celebrate our new deal with a drink.’

‘Not for you, I’m afraid,’ Stikes said to Nina. He nodded to the soldiers. As they led her away, he added, in an overly casual way: ‘Oh, by the way – your husband.’

‘What about him?’ demanded Nina, heart sinking.

‘Dead.’ The word was delivered with a thin smirk. Nina felt as though she had been stung by the scorpion again, her throat clenching tight. ‘I must admit, he put up a good show. Even rescued your friends. But then their plane got shot down and exploded in the jungle. The end of the Chase, you might say.’

Fury and despair rose simultaneously inside her, the former narrowly gaining ascendance. She lunged at Stikes, but the soldiers caught her before she could reach him, twisting her arms behind her back. ‘I’ll fucking kill you!’ she snarled.

Stikes merely smirked again as she was dragged away.

20

Caracas baked under the afternoon sun, shimmering beneath a blanket of smog. The streets were clogged with traffic. More so than usual; there was a greater police and military presence than when the archaeological team had arrived four days earlier. Armoured vehicles rumbled through the city, soldiers and cops regarding the sweating Caraqueños with suspicion. The mistrust was mutual, everyone feeling the tension in the air.

Almost everyone. ‘Excuse me! Jeez,’ Macy sniped at a woman who had bumped into her and carried on without a word. ‘What was her problem?’

‘Same as ours, probably.’ Eddie nodded towards three policemen who had thrown a man against their car and were roughly searching him. ‘This’ll be part of Callas’s coup. Stir the shit, find an excuse to get the police and army on the streets. That way, they’re already in position when the real action starts.’

‘And what is the real action?’

‘Something to do with Stikes and that chopper. You don’t hire mercenaries and buy a gunship just for mopping-up work. They’re the key.’

The man was shoved into the police car, one of the cops gesturing threateningly at bystanders with a baton. ‘So what are we gonna do?’ Macy asked.

‘Find this Clubhouse place. That way, we find Nina and Kit, and probably Callas and Stikes as well. Maybe even stop them before they start.’

A military Jeep bullied its way between cars, armed soldiers glowering at drivers. Macy regarded them nervously. ‘How are we going to do that? They’ve got, like, hundreds of guys on their side. And they’ve all got guns. And we don’t.’

‘I don’t need a gun.’ They reached a crossroads, and saw the giant screen outside the television station. On it President Suarez, wearing militia uniform, delivered an impassioned speech. ‘What’s he saying?’

Macy listened to the booming audio. ‘That everything’s okay and there’s nothing to worry about, and not to listen to— Hey! He’s blaming America! Says CIA agents are trying to undermine the revolution. What a jerk! They’re not. Are they?’

‘The CIA messes with friendly countries,’ said Eddie. ‘Take a guess what they do in ones they don’t like.’ The traffic was almost at a standstill; he took Macy’s hand and hurried her across the street. ‘Okay, the hotel’s just up here.’

Coming back to the same hotel was a risk, but when he made his phone call in Puerto Ayacucho Eddie hadn’t known anywhere else he could be contacted. Besides, he hoped that Callas’s followers thought they were dead. They entered the lobby, getting disapproving looks for their less than pristine appearance. Eddie ignored them and went to reception. ‘Hi. Any messages for Eddie Chase?’

To his disappointment, and surprise, there were none. ‘Huh. Better find out what’s up,’ he said, leading Macy to the payphones. The last of the coins he had taken from the dead soldiers at the burial pit got him through to an operator to make a reverse-charge international call, and he soon got an answer.

‘Is that you, Eddie?’ said a familiar Scottish voice.

‘Yeah, Mac, it’s me,’ said Eddie, somewhere between relieved and impatient. ‘I’m at the hotel – I thought you were going to leave me a message?’

‘I wanted to deliver it in person,’ the voice said from behind him.

Eddie spun to find Mac standing there in a light-coloured suit, holding a mobile phone to his ear. ‘Mac! Fuck me, what’s you doing here?’

Macy was equally delighted to see him. ‘Oh my God, Mr McCrimmon!’ she cried, embracing him.

‘Well, there goes my suit,’ Mac sighed. Macy hurriedly tried to brush away a dirty mark she had left on his sleeve before a wink told her that he was joking. ‘Glad to see you both. How was your trip?’

‘Thirteen hours on a bus, loved every minute,’ said Eddie. ‘How the bloody hell did you get here so fast? And what are MI6 doing about Callas and Stikes?’

‘It’s a long-ish story, so I’ll tell it in my room,’ said Mac. ‘And while we’re there, you can take advantage of the shower . . . ’

‘So MI6 aren’t going to do a fucking thing?’ Eddie exclaimed, after Mac had described his dealings with the British intelligence agency. ‘I knew you can’t trust a fucking spook. Was it Alderley? And after I invited him to my wedding do, an’ all.’

‘Funny, I seem to remember you “accidentally” dropped his invitation down a drain,’ said Mac.

‘Yeah, there was that. But I’m sure he’s not bitter.’

‘Actually, South America is outside Peter’s section, so I didn’t speak to him. I did talk to C, though.’

‘Who’s C?’ Macy asked, emerging from the bathroom in an oversized dressing gown.

‘Head of MI6,’ Eddie told her.

‘I thought that was M?’

Mac smiled. ‘James Bond isn’t real, Macy. But I discussed this with C, although he wasn’t pleased at being woken up at four in the morning.’

‘So if you talked to him, why aren’t they going to do anything?’ demanded Eddie.

‘Well,’ said Mac, leaning back in his chair, ‘the official position of Her Majesty’s Government is that the internal politics of Venezuela are the country’s own affair, and that British interests are not sufficient to justify any kind of interference. Unofficially, of course, HMG would not object to Suarez’s being replaced by someone less incendiary. They’re also rather unhappy with statements he and his predecessor made about the Queen, and Britain’s ownership of the Falklands. In short, they’d be happy to see him go.’

‘Even if it means him being replaced by Callas? The guy’s a cold-blooded murderer working with drug lords! As soon as he takes power, the country’ll be a fucking bloodbath.’

‘Same old story,’ Mac said, shaking his head ruefully. ‘In a choice between two third-world military strongmen, we always seem to support whoever’s the more unpleasant.’

‘And what about Stikes? He’s British, his company’s British - he’s ex-SAS, for Christ’s sake. Doesn’t that count as being involved if he’s helping overthrow a democratically elected leader?’

‘How? He’s a private military contractor; he can choose to work wherever and for whomever he chooses. 3S has never worked directly for our government, so there’s no conflict of interest or potential for embarrassment there. As long as he doesn’t break the law in Britain, his hands are clean.’

Eddie threw up his own hands. ‘So that’s it?’

‘I did convince them to give me something, even if it’s not much. I got the address of this Clubhouse place.’ He took out his phone and brought up the map app, a pin showing a location in Valle Arriba. ‘After that, I went straight to Heathrow and got a standby ticket on the first morning flight to Caracas. Business class, so it cost me a bloody fortune. Still, whenever I get involved with you my bank account always takes a beating, so I should be used to it by now.’

Eddie looked at the map. ‘I want to check this place out in person.’

‘I thought you might. I’ve got a hire car. Although there’s something I think you should do first.’

‘What?’

Mac glanced towards the bathroom. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Eddie,’ Macy said, ‘but . . . you kinda stink.’

Eddie looked down at his filthy, ripped, bloodstained clothing. ‘You mean they aren’t going to bottle me as the new fragrance from Hugo Boss?’

‘Cool house,’ said Macy, regarding the Clubhouse through the rented Fiat’s rear window.

Eddie made a non-committal sound. Architecture was not foremost on his mind, but rather the soldiers on duty around the mansion. There were two at the main gate, and even though the building and its grounds were partially concealed behind trees and a wall he had spotted at least three other uniformed men. As Callas’s unofficial headquarters, those numbers would be the tip of the iceberg.

‘So what do you think?’ Mac asked from the driver’s seat.

‘Unless I dress up as a delivery boy bringing twenty pizzas, I doubt I’ll get in through the front gate. And they’ll be watching the golf course round the back too.’ He looked at one of the nearby houses. Another mansion, though not as grand as the one the Venezuelan government had confiscated. ‘The neighbours – they’re still all normal houses with people living in them, right?’

‘I think so. According to MI6, the chap who owned the Clubhouse was rather outspoken against the Suarez regime. Whether the tax evasion charges were real or trumped up they didn’t know, but he was someone Suarez had been targeting for some time.’

Eddie scanned the row of luxury houses. ‘Might have to do a bit of garden-hopping. But I’ll need a distraction to get into the Clubhouse grounds without being seen.’

‘I’m sure we can come up with something,’ said Mac. ‘But if you’ve seen as much as you need, we should go. Being parked like this is probably attracting attention.’ The tree-lined street was devoid of stationary vehicles; all the houses had drives and garages large enough to accommodate multiple cars. Parking on the road was a giveaway that someone didn’t belong.

‘Yeah, okay.’ Eddie looked back at the Clubhouse – and saw the main gates open, the guards moving aside. ‘No, hang on – someone’s coming out.’

It was not a car that emerged first, but a police motorbike. Next came a black Cadillac Escalade SUV, miniature Venezuelan flags fluttering from its front quarters. Another bike followed it.

Eddie glimpsed a familiar silhouette behind the tinted glass as the convoy drove past. ‘That was Callas!’

‘No sign of Stikes?’ Mac asked.

‘Nope.’ He regarded the Clubhouse again, cracking his knuckles. ‘He might still be in there with Nina . . .’

‘Or he might have gone to do whatever Callas has hired him for.’

‘Either way, Nina’s still there. Soon as it gets dark, I’m going in. Okay, let’s go.’

‘So how are we going to distract the guards?’ Macy asked as they set off.

Eddie looked at her, an idea forming. Having showered away the sweat and grime of her jungle ordeal, she was back to her usual state of youthful beauty – though her clothes still bore the dirty scars. ‘We’ll have to get you a new outfit.’

She grinned. ‘I’m okay with that.’

‘Something that shows off your body.’

The smile broadened. ‘Still with you.’

‘And some running shoes.’

‘Aw.’

‘And an iPod.’

‘Cool!’

Mac sighed. ‘And I suppose all this is going on my card?’

‘If we stop Callas and Stikes, I’m sure el Presidente’ll pay you back.’ Eddie pointed down the street. ‘Okay. To the mall!’

In the tropics daylight ends quickly, the twilight sky over Caracas soon fading to black. By the time the last glow had vanished, Eddie was in the garden of the mansion next to the Clubhouse, perched in a tree near the wall separating the two properties. The house behind him was dark; he didn’t know if its occupants were simply away for the evening or if the military takeover of their neighbour’s home had encouraged them to take a vacation, but either way it simplified matters.

From his position, he had a good view of the brightly lit Clubhouse. It was a big building, with multiple points of entry. More important, none seemed to be guarded. Soldiers were patrolling the grounds in ones and twos, but they had an indefinable air of excitement – or anticipation – about them. Their minds were on something other than their immediate duties.

The coup? Possibly. Callas hadn’t returned, and there had been no sign of Stikes or anyone who might be working for him, just Venezuelan troops. Was tonight the night?

But for now, his priority was finding Nina and Kit. He regarded the house. A swimming pool glowed an unreal cyan, illuminated by underwater lights. A large flatscreen TV near the poolside was showing a baseball game, an excited commentator offering a blow by blow account in Spanish, but nobody was watching it. Handy; the noise would help cover his entry into the grounds.

He looked at his watch, then towards the road. Any minute now . . .

Movement in the grounds: a soldier strolling from the mansion’s rear to its front. Shit! He was staying on the wide lawn rather than venturing into the bushes and flower beds near the wall, but would still be close enough to catch any unexpected movement in his peripheral vision. Eddie had replaced his filthy clothes at the mall with a black T-shirt and jeans, but they would hardly render him invisible – there was more than enough light coming from the pool for him to be spotted if he wasn’t careful.

He willed the man to move faster, but instead the Venezuelan slowed, taking out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one . . . then stopping entirely for his first drag. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Eddie muttered.

Another look at the street—

He saw Macy jogging towards the gates. She had gone the other way ten minutes earlier, her low-cut, tight and very bright pink and black running outfit ensuring that she caught the attention of the two young men guarding the entrance. Her smile and wave as she passed had hopefully cemented her in their memories. Now she was returning, the inference being that she lived nearby and was on her way home.

The gate guards definitely remembered her, turning to watch her approach. That was part of the distraction Eddie needed – but now this arsehole with his cigarette was right where he wanted to go. And there wasn’t enough time for him to climb a different tree – a pair of headlights had just come into view behind Macy . . .

The soldier remained still, savouring the smoke as if he had stepped out of a 1950s cigarette advert. Eddie glared at him, trying to induce instant and terminal lung cancer, but to no avail.

Macy waved at the soldiers again, then jogged across the street towards them. The headlights drew closer. White earbuds in, she didn’t seem to hear the oncoming vehicle. One of the soldiers suddenly realised the danger and shouted a warning. Macy turned—

The car skidded to a stop. Not quickly enough. The screech of tyres was punctuated by a flat metallic bang as she rolled up on to the bonnet, then slid off to land heavily on the road.

Eddie winced. Even though he had been expecting it, and both Mac, driving, and Macy knew what they were supposed to be doing, it still sounded like a bigger impact than they had planned.

The smoking soldier heard the commotion. He saw the guards hurrying into the street, and ran to investigate.

Eddie looked back at the ‘accident’. Mac was out of the car, hands raised in an expression of shock. Unsurprisingly, though the collision had been entirely the pedestrian’s fault, the soldiers were siding with the attractive young victim rather than the elderly motorist, one of them shouting angrily at the Scot. Even as he advanced along the stout branch, Eddie couldn’t help but be worried – if they decided that Mac was to blame and called the police, or, worse, took matters into their own hands . . .

Macy was back on her feet. She blocked the Venezuelans from reaching Mac, apparently telling them she was okay. This seemed to mollify the soldiers, who began competing with each other over who would help her.

The noise had attracted a couple of other men from the mansion’s far side, but Eddie was only concerned with the smoker. Seeing that everything was under control, he stopped - far enough away to give Eddie his chance.

The branch reached almost to the wall, having been trimmed to a stump to avoid encroaching on the neighbouring property. He jumped off it, briefly landing with both feet on the top of the wall, then dropped down on the other side and flattened himself behind an ornamental shrub. He peered through the leaves, hunting for the soldier . . .

The man had half turned to look back.

Some noise, the scuff of the Englishman’s boots on the wall or the thump of his landing, had caught his attention. Eddie froze. The soldier’s expression changed from confusion to a curious frown.

He started towards the bushes.

Eddie reached into his jacket. Getting hold of a gun in a country where he had no contacts had been impossible; the only weapon he had been able to obtain was a small survival knife from a sporting goods store in the mall. And unless the soldier obligingly walked right up to him without looking down, he would be spotted long before he could use it . . .

Cheers came from the television by the pool as the batter struck a home run. The soldier looked over to it – and then turned away, clearly assuming the noise he had heard had come from the TV.

Eddie returned the blade to his pocket and cautiously raised his head. The soldier was still retreating; at the gate, he saw Mac ushering Macy to his car. She was limping, but seemed otherwise unharmed. The soldiers reluctantly watched her go, then returned to their posts as the car drove away.

He was clear.

A quick check of the area. About sixty feet of lawn to cross to the pool, then round it to one of the entrances. Glass double doors were open at the poolside, but a single door further along the wall seemed the better choice, giving him more cover—

A distant boom, like thunder.

Only it wasn’t thunder. Eddie had heard enough explosions to know the difference. Another, sharper crump, then the unmistakable rattle of machine gun fire.

And more, from a different direction. And a third harsh clatter, elsewhere again.

The coup had started.

Callas had put his forces into place throughout the city, waiting for the right moment – and that moment had come. A coordinated attack, aimed at taking control of the most vital strategic locations: key roads and intersections, radio and TV stations, centres of operation for the pro-Suarez Bolivarian Militia.

And President Suarez’s own residence, the Miraflores palace in the heart of Caracas.

That was what the men at the Clubhouse had been waiting for. Eddie ducked again as soldiers rushed from the building, carrying machine guns and ammo boxes, ready to defend the grounds against attack.

Someone shouted orders. Eddie recognised him from Paititi: Rojas, Callas’s right hand. Callas might not be here, but the Clubhouse was obviously a key part of his plans. The place was being fortified, surrounded by a ring of soldiers.

Not just soldiers. The front gates opened, vehicles entering the grounds. Three Tiunas, Venezuelan near-copies of the American army’s ubiquitous Humvee, ripped up the pristine lawn as they took up position by the entrance. They were followed by a pair of even larger and far more imposing pieces of military equipment: a brutish V-100 Commando armoured car with a soldier manning the .50-calibre machine gun mounted on its open parapet, and behind it an even bigger V-300, a six-wheeled slab of steel with a 90mm cannon on its tank-like turret. Both hulking machines pulled up outside the mansion.

As if things weren’t bad enough, two soldiers moved to the corner of the house – with a clear line of sight over the swimming pool. Eddie now had no way to get inside without being seen.

And no way to leave unseen, either. He was trapped – as civil war erupted on the streets of Caracas.

21

General Salbatore Callas suppressed a smile as he put down the phone. The first reports had come in to Miraflores of an uprising in the city . . . but the one he had just received was very different from those his agents in the Bolivarian Militia were feeding to the palace’s senior staff. The first accounts of events President Tito Suarez received would be vague, conflicting, uncertain even who was responsible for the explosions and gunfire across Caracas.

Callas, however, had accurate intelligence. His forces had struck exactly on schedule, and now controlled a long list of important locations. The only major target yet to fall was one of the state-run – and Suarez-supporting – television stations, where the approach of troops had roused a loyalist mob to defend it, but it would soon be taken.

He left his office and marched down a marble-floored hall to the double doors at its end. Two members of the Bolivarian Militia stood guard, eyeing him suspiciously – for the crime of wearing an army uniform rather than militia fatigues, even an old and trusted friend of el Presidente was regarded as a potential threat. But they let him pass. Within, Suarez’s secretary was fielding phone calls; she waved him to the next set of doors.

Callas knocked once, then entered. The wall behind the large teak desk facing him held three portraits: Simón Bolívar, the nineteenth-century liberator of Venezuela from colonial rule; Hugo Chavez, the previous Venezuelan president who fancied himself as Bolívar’s modern-day socialist successor; and, central and largest, the current holder of the office.

The general kept his contempt hidden. Suarez in person was not nearly as impressive as the artwork, his hair thinning and greying, fuller in face and body thanks to the lack of exercise and rich foods that accompanied high office. Callas made a mental note not to fall into the same trap once he occupied this room.

With Suarez was another man in fatigues: Vicente Machado, second-in-command of the militia after the president himself. He was also number two after Suarez on Callas’s long list of enemies, a problem to be eliminated as soon as possible. With its head cut off, the militia’s body, a semi-trained rabble of peasants and paupers driven by vapid propaganda or the desire to feel important because they were wearing a uniform and carrying a gun, would soon die.

That time was rapidly approaching. But not quite yet. He had to wait for Stikes.

Suarez finally looked away from Machado. ‘Salbatore! What’s going on? Who is behind this?’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer yet,’ Callas replied. ‘I’ve had reports of gangs rioting in the barrios, attacks on police stations and military personnel. But it’s definitely organised – the first incidents all took place simultaneously. Someone is behind it all.’

‘The Americans,’ said Machado. ‘It has to be. They’re trying to overthrow the revolution!’

Callas forced himself not to tut sarcastically at the idiot’s naïveté – Suarez had appointed him for his loyalty, not his brains. Instead, he took advantage of it. ‘They would be the obvious culprits, yes. And,’ he put a conspiratorial note into his voice, ‘they could have agents anywhere. For an operation this big to begin without our security forces knowing, the CIA must have corrupted people at all levels. The police – even the militia.’

‘Or the army,’ Machado said. Stupid he might be, but he still had enough cunning and survival instinct to recognise an attempt to discredit him.

Which was exactly what Callas wanted. ‘Or the army, yes. We have hundreds of thousands of soldiers – there’s no way to know how many have sold their loyalty to the Americans.’ He faced Suarez. ‘Which is why we have to get you out of Miraflores and to a secure location.’

‘No,’ said Suarez. ‘The people need to see that I am still in control. Not running away and hiding.’

‘But that’s exactly what President Chavez thought in 2002,’ Callas countered, raising a hand towards the portrait of the former leader. ‘The plotters in the coup attempt arrested him here in the palace – in this room! He only survived because his enemies overestimated their support among the people. They won’t make the same mistake twice. We have to get you to safety. I’ve already ordered a helicopter gunship to evacuate you.’

‘To where?’

‘There’s an army base at Maracay. It—’

‘Not an army base,’ Machado interrupted. ‘The Bolivarian Militia are responsible for the President’s safety. One of our facilities.’

‘It . . . is your decision,’ Callas told Suarez, making a show of seeming conflicted at the idea of deferring to Machado. ‘Your safety is my top priority. I will be at your side whatever you choose, of course.’

‘The militia base,’ said Suarez after a moment. Machado couldn’t contain a smug smile. ‘But yes, you will come with me, Salbatore. Both of you will. I need you to fight back against these bastards!’

‘The helicopter will be here soon,’ Callas told him. ‘We should go now, before the rebels move on Miraflores.’

‘I’ll get some men,’ said Machado, hurrying into the anteroom.

Suarez stood, gathering up documents. ‘Don’t worry, Tito,’ said Callas reassuringly. ‘We’ve seen days like this before. We’ll get through it together.’

Suarez gave him a faint smile. ‘I’m glad to have you behind me, Salbatore.’ He shoved the documents into a folder and snapped it shut. ‘All right. Let’s go.’

They left the room, waiting briefly for Machado as he finished issuing orders by telephone. The two militiamen outside the doors fell into step behind the group as they moved through the palace. ‘A squad will meet us at the west exit,’ Machado reported.

‘The helicopter only has eight seats,’ said Callas. ‘It can take the three of us, plus five of Vicente’s men. Everyone else will have to stay.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Suarez said dismissively, his own well-being now dominating his thoughts. They reached the outer doors, where a gaggle of armed militiamen awaited them. Machado selected five to accompany them to the helicopter, and ordered the rest to defend the building. With the uniformed men flanking them, the high-ranking trio set out across the grounds.

Callas heard echoing cracks of gunfire from the surrounding city, but his attention was fixed on another noise – the rising roar of rotors. The helicopter was approaching. He slowed slightly, falling a couple of steps back so that neither Suarez nor Machado could see what he took from a pocket.

A pair of earplugs. He quickly pushed the soft silicone into his ears, sound dulling as if he were underwater.

A spotlight stabbed down from the sky, darting over the trees before finding the helipad. Callas followed it up to its source. A Hind, descending for a landing. It passed through the lights illuminating the palace. The Venezuelan tricolour stood out proudly on its flank.

The eight men held back as the Hind dropped on to the pad. Its rear hatch slid open . . .

Six figures dressed in black leapt out.

Callas shut his eyes and turned away, clapping his hands over his ears. Even with the plugs in, he knew that what was about to come would be loud—

The new arrivals, faces concealed behind balaclavas, had timed everything perfectly. The first man to emerge had already pulled the pin from a stun grenade, the fuse burning away as he threw it. It exploded in mid-air a second later – at head height right in front of Suarez and his group. The blinding flash and earsplitting detonation hit the unprepared men as solidly as a physical blow, obliterating all senses.

The utter helplessness of their victims didn’t encourage mercy from the attackers. Two men opened fire with suppressed, laser-sighted M4 assault rifles, short, controlled bursts slicing down four of the militiamen. The other survived only by chance, having tripped in his dizzied state and fallen into some bushes.

Callas lowered his hands. Even prepared and protected, the stun grenade’s blast had still been painful. But he ignored his ringing ears, instead drawing his gun.

Suarez staggered, groping blindly. Machado had managed to bring an arm up in time to block the flash, but was still reeling. He opened his eyes, and saw the general standing contemptuously before him—

A single shot from Callas’s pistol hit him in the forehead, blowing out the back of his skull in a gruesome spray.

One of the men in black ran to Callas. Though he was holding an M4, the gleam of his holstered pistol instantly told the general who he was: Stikes. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ Callas replied, pulling out the earplugs.

‘Good. Get Suarez aboard. We’ll cover you.’

Callas grabbed Suarez by the collar and hustled him along.

Even though the mercenaries’ rifles were silenced, the grenade and Callas’s gunshot had attracted attention. More militia were running towards the helipad. The surviving member of the presidential escort pushed himself to his knees, feeling for his gun—

One of the mercs, a muscular colossus, grabbed him by both ankles and yanked him off the ground as easily as if he were a doll. The giant spun like a hammer-thrower, whirling the man round – and letting go. The Venezuelan flew screaming over the bushes, slamming down like a human bomb on the leading militiamen and knocking them flat.

Stikes’s other men used more lethal weapons. The flat thuds of suppressed fire mingled with screams as they picked off other targets.

Callas pushed Suarez to the Hind’s hatch. The President was starting to recover from the blast, and resisted. Callas jammed his pistol’s still hot muzzle under his chin and forced him inside.

Shouts from above. Two militiamen ran along one of the palace’s rooftop balconies, carrying a heavy machine gun. Stikes fired at them, but his shots cracked against the thick stonework as they ducked. One man slammed the gun’s bipod down on the parapet, his companion already loading a belt of ammunition as they prepared to fire on the mercenaries—

A black-clad man fired first. Not a rifle, but an RPG-7 rocket launcher. The warhead streaked up at the roof, blasting the parapet and the men behind it to pieces. Chunks of masonry rained down on people running out of the building.

‘Let’s go!’ shouted Stikes. The group retreated to the helicopter. He fired another burst, sending a man flailing to the ground, and followed.

He jumped into the cabin, slamming the hatch. Gurov, piloting from the rearmost of the two bulbous cockpits, increased power. The Hind lurched into the air.

A piercing clang echoed through the cabin: a bullet hit. Stikes hurriedly strapped himself into the seat beside Suarez, Callas holding the President at gunpoint on the other side. The helicopter was heavily armoured, but not invulnerable. He pulled off his balaclava and donned a headset. ‘Okay!’ he yelled. ‘Hose them down!’

In the forward cockpit, the Hind’s gunner – an Armenian, Krikorian – grinned and pulled a trigger.

The helicopter’s nose cannon pivoted, unleashing a fearsome stream of fire from its four rapidly spinning barrels. Through the infrared display in the gunner’s helmet visor, the Miraflores palace was transformed almost into a video game, human beings a hot white against the greys and blacks of the grounds. All he had to do was look at each target, sweeping a cursor over them – and the human shapes exploded into glowing chunks as the blazing Gatling gun followed his movements. Bullets clonked off the cockpit canopy and hull, but the Hind’s armour shrugged off the 7.62mm rounds spitting from the militia’s AK-103s. The men firing at him were picked out by brighter flashes from their weapons; like a modern-day Gorgon, he killed them with a glance.

The Hind wheeled over the palace. Men on the upper balconies opened fire, only to be cut to pieces by more storms of gunfire. The helicopter kept rising, turning southeast and sweeping past skyscrapers.

‘What’s our status?’ Stikes said into the headset. ‘Did we take any damage?’

‘No, we’re okay,’ Gurov replied. ‘Did you get him?’

‘We got him. How long until we land?’

‘We can be there in – yah!’ He recovered from his surprise and muttered in Russian before returning to English. ‘We have company. Another krokodil.’

Crocodile was the Russian nickname for the Hind. ‘Where?’ Stikes demanded.

‘Left side, ten o’clock.’

Stikes loosened his seatbelt so he could look through the hatch window. Formation lights blinked in the darkness over Caracas – the other Hind.

Catching part of Stikes’s conversation with the pilot, Callas put on headphones. Still pressing his gun against his president’s chest, he peered through the window. ‘Do they know we have Suarez aboard?’

‘Yes,’ said Stikes calmly. ‘Otherwise they would have shot at us by now.’

Gurov’s voice came over the headsets. ‘They are on the radio . . . they are ordering us to fly ahead of them to a military base, where we will surrender and turn over Suarez.’

‘Will we now?’ Stikes said. He pulled his straps tight once more, giving his client a sly smile. ‘General, you’ve spent a lot on this helicopter. I think it’s time you got your money’s worth.’

Callas’s own smile was more predatory. ‘Yes. Do it.’

‘Gurov, Krikorian,’ the Englishman said into his headset. ‘Our friends out there – show them the quickest way to the ground.’

‘Okay, roger!’ replied Krikorian, excitement clear in his voice.

The Hind banked towards the Venezuelan gunship. Gurov spoke again. ‘They are back on the radio – this is our last warning. If we do not turn—’

‘I don’t waste time with warnings,’ Stikes snapped. ‘Krikorian, take them down. Now!’

Krikorian switched weapon modes, activating the Russian ‘Igla’ missile mounted on one of the Hind’s wing pylons. The surface-to-air weapon had not been designed for an aerial launch, but the mercenary ground crew had wired it to the helicopter’s systems. A warbling tone in his headphones told him that the improvised connection was working – the missile had found a heat source in the night sky.

The other Hind was almost directly ahead, closing fast.

He pulled the trigger.

The Igla shot from its launch tube, searing past the cockpit on a pencil of orange flame. The heavy, clumsy Venezuelan chopper had no time to dodge—

The missile hit the Hind practically head-on at supersonic speed. The explosion blasted apart the rear cockpit, instantly killing the pilot. Shrapnel ripped through the twin engines’ air intakes, shattering compressor blades and smashing turbines.

Power lost, the crippled Hind nevertheless hung in the air, supported by its main rotor as it continued to auto-rotate . . . then its great weight dragged it downwards, spinning out of control to explode on top of an apartment building.

‘Well?’ said Stikes impatiently. ‘Did you get it?’

‘We got it,’ Krikorian reported with glee.

‘Good. Gurov, get us back to the Clubhouse.’ He leaned back with a satisfied expression as the Hind resumed its course to Valle Arriba.

22

Lying behind the bushes, Eddie watched the soldiers in the Clubhouse’s grounds with rising frustration and concern. The sounds of fighting from the city were growing in intensity, so Callas’s coup attempt was well under way – and seemed to be succeeding. He could see Rojas listening to messages over a walkie-talkie, and from his satisfied body language it appeared they were what he wanted to hear.

Another squawk and gabble of an incoming message. Rojas issued orders, some of his men hurrying round the mansion. Eddie ducked, but they went past, heading for the helipad. Rojas followed at a more relaxed pace, talking in Spanish over the radio. Eddie couldn’t be certain, but the voice on the other end sounded like Callas. The Venezuelan paused to check the breaking news on the TV by the pool, then muted the sound and carried on after the troops.

Eddie stayed low, watching the soldiers as they reached the helipad, awaiting an arrival. Callas himself, most likely, returning to his command post.

His guess was soon proved correct. The thunder of a helicopter overpowered the chatter of gunfire in the city below, the aircraft sweeping in over the golf course. A Hind – the one Eddie had seen at the base near Paititi, repainted in Venezuelan colours. So why had Callas needed it when he had control over the country’s own gunships?

The answer came once the helicopter settled on the pad. A man dressed in black combat gear emerged. Blond hair, a Jericho glinting at his waist. Stikes. Of course – Callas needed a gunship crew on whom he could rely one hundred per cent. Even men who thought they were committed to the cause might baulk at opening fire on their own people. So what had they been doing?

More mercenaries emerged, wearing balaclavas – then Callas himself, pushing another man at gunpoint.

Eddie recognised him. Tito Suarez.

‘Jesus . . . ’ he whispered, impressed despite himself at the sheer balls of the plan. They had kidnapped the President, probably right out of Miraflores. And by using Stikes and his mercenaries, Callas had eliminated the risk of any soldiers switching their allegiance when challenged face to face by their leader, as had happened with the capture of Hugo Chavez over a decade earlier.

Stikes donned his beret and spoke to his masked men, who grabbed the struggling Suarez and hauled him into the mansion. Rojas delivered a report to his superior. Callas nodded, then issued orders. Rojas saluted and relayed them over his radio, then turned and jogged back round the building. The soldiers followed him.

The two men guarding the corner of the house joined the group as it passed. Eddie’s heart jumped. They were redeploying - with Suarez’s capture, Callas probably wanted to secure a wider perimeter around the Clubhouse. This could be his chance to get inside . . .

He watched and waited. The main gates opened and a Tiuna drove out on to the street, followed by a squad of soldiers. One of the armoured cars started up with a diesel roar: the six-wheeled V-300, carving up the grass as it made a wide turn and left the grounds.

Voices nearby. He looked round, seeing Callas and Stikes walking past the swimming pool. The general paused to lift the lid off a dish on a catering trolley near the TV and pop a piece of food into his mouth. ‘You want some?’ he asked Stikes.

The mercenary shook his head. ‘Are you sure you want to set up roadblocks so far out from the Clubhouse? If they were nearer, it would be a tighter defence.’

‘I want to cover the intersections,’ Callas replied. ‘Besides, now that the coup is under way, I no longer care about upsetting the neighbours.’ He replaced the lid, then continued with Stikes into the house.

Eddie checked his surroundings. The soldiers at the rear of the Clubhouse were still looking outwards across the golf course, while those at its front were grouped round the vehicles near the main gate. There was a chance someone might glance back at the side of the house, but he would have to take the risk . . .

He broke from cover and ran across the lawn.

No shouts of alarm. He hadn’t been seen – yet. The single door was almost directly ahead, but he couldn’t just charge in - he had to make sure the room beyond was empty. At the gate, a soldier looked round—

And saw nothing. The headlights of the parked Tiunas had wrecked his night vision.

Eddie reached cover and pressed against the wall. He drew his knife and went to the door.

There was light inside, but only dim. He peered through the window. A darkened kitchen, the illumination coming through a half-open door at the far end. He tried the handle. It turned. He slipped inside.

Where would the prisoners be kept? A cellar, most likely. He crept to a closed door in the hope that it led to a lower floor, but instead found a lounge with French windows opening on to the poolside. ‘Arse,’ Eddie muttered, realising he would have to search the whole house. He went to the other door, seeing a hallway beyond.

He was about to go through when he heard boots clumping on the polished floor. He pulled back, watching through the crack as someone approached. One of the mercenaries . . .

Eddie felt a shock of recognition. Kevin Baine. He hadn’t seen the former SAS man for over nine years. Stikes had obviously remembered him, though – and recruited him.

Baine’s steps faded as he rounded a corner. Eddie entered the hall, heading in the opposite direction. An open door led back into the lounge, so he ignored it, checking that the passage round a corner was empty before proceeding.

A narrow staircase went upwards. A closed door was at its foot. Cellar steps? He reached for the handle—

The door opened.

Eddie found himself face to face – or rather, face to chest – with a huge black-clad man. Another mercenary, a holstered pistol and a stun grenade on his combat webbing. He looked up. Surprised eyes stared down at him through the holes in the balaclava.

He drew back the knife, about to stab the merc in the stomach—

The eyes widened in recognition. ‘Little man!’ said a delighted Russian voice.

Eddie arrested his strike, jerking the blade out of sight behind his back. He knew the voice, but couldn’t believe he was hearing it. ‘Maximov?’

The giant peeled off the balaclava to reveal a bearded, heavily scarred face, the worst injury a gnarled knot of tissue at the centre of his forehead. ‘What are you doing here?’ said Oleg Maximov, grinning at the Englishman.

It was two years since Eddie had last met the huge ex-Spetsnaz soldier, first as a foe, later an uneasy ally during the search for Excalibur. He had then been in the service of a Russian billionaire; that he was here now suggested he had looked further afield for employment. ‘Didn’t Stikes tell you I was coming?’ he said, desperately improvising.

Maximov looked puzzled. ‘No. When did you join company?’

He feigned nonchalance. ‘Oh, I’ve known Stikes for years – we were in the SAS together. I had sort of an open invitation to join 3S, but didn’t get the chance to take it up until recently. I’ve been busy with the IHA – plus getting married, stuff like that.’

‘You finally picked a day? Congratulations!’ Maximov slammed a meaty hand down on Eddie’s shoulder. ‘To the pretty redhead, da? Hey, I saw her on TV. In the Sphinx. What is she doing now?’

So Maximov didn’t know that Nina was here? ‘Archaeological stuff. Kind of boring, which is why I decided to see if old Stikesy had anything exciting on the cards. Got to admit, regime change in Venezuela was more than I was expecting!’

‘Me too,’ said Maximov, nodding. ‘But job is job, money is money, hey?’

‘I know what you mean. Oh,’ he added, sensing an opportunity, ‘can you come with me to talk to President Suarez? That’s why Stikes wanted me here – I’ve, er, met him before, so I might be able to get him to tell me the information Callas needs.’

He knew that the more he elaborated on his story, the more danger there was of falling into a hole – but he also knew that Maximov had not been hired for his brainpower. The name-dropping seemed to have convinced the Russian that he was here legitimately. ‘Okay,’ said the big man, nodding.

‘So,’ Eddie said, stepping back and ushering him into the hallway, ‘what’ve you been doing since the business with Jack Mitchell?’

‘Mitchell?’ Maximov growled as he headed back the way Eddie had come. ‘That little shit, I should have crushed him. What happen to him, anyway?’

‘He’s dead. Very, very dead. Stabbed, electrocuted, drowned, in that order.’

‘Ha! Good. I work a lot in Africa recently. Always little wars, da?’

‘Do you know Strutter?’ Eddie asked, gambling that the small world of the mercenary might provide common ground - and a way to keep Maximov distracted.

‘Strutter, yeah! A zhópa, but I meet Stikes through him, so not all bad.’ They passed the kitchen, the Russian going to another door. ‘Okay, here.’

Eddie decided not to feel too annoyed that he would have found the stairs to the cellar immediately if he had turned right instead of left to begin with, instead following Maximov down into the mansion’s bowels. His new companion could have his uses, even if only as a human shield. He turned the knife in his hand.

Maximov led the way along a white-painted passage, his elbows brushing both walls, and stopped at a door. ‘When did you meet Suarez?’ he asked as he opened it.

‘Year or so back, at some United Nations thing,’ Eddie said, taking in the room. Three small cells had been installed, metal bars reaching from floor to ceiling – and each was occupied. Suarez in the middle, Kit to one side . . . and Nina lying on the floor at the other.

There was also a guard, who stood and gave the two men a suspicious look. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked.

‘To talk to him,’ said Maximov, pointing at Suarez. Then he saw Nina and reacted in surprise. ‘Hey! It’s you!’ She in turn jumped up in astonishment.

The soldier saw her unexpected reaction. ‘What are—’

Eddie stepped behind him and with a quick, deadly motion drove the knife deep into the base of his skull.

The Venezuelan collapsed instantly, the hilt buried in his neck. Eddie grabbed the soldier’s AK-103 off his shoulder as he fell and pointed it at Maximov. ‘Okay, drop your gun. And the grenade.’

‘Little man!’ said Maximov, sounding shocked and even hurt by the sudden betrayal. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Rescuing my wife.’ He nodded towards Nina, then Kit. ‘And my friend.’

Suarez pushed his face against the bars. ‘Y a mi?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Nope, sorry, mate,’ said Eddie as Maximov reluctantly dropped his weapons to the floor.

‘Oh.’ Now it was the President’s turn to look offended.

‘Eddie, we have to rescue him,’ Nina insisted. ‘And by the way: Eddie! Oh my God!’ She broke into a huge smile. ‘I – I thought you were dead! How did you find us?’

‘Long story, and it’ll have to wait.’ He nudged the soldier’s twitching body, jingling his keys. ‘Okay, Max – let them out.’

Scowling, Maximov took the keys and unlocked Nina’s cell. She rushed out to embrace her husband, but he waved her back. ‘Get the gun,’ he told her. ‘Can’t have post-rescue sex until we’re actually post-rescue.’

‘I wasn’t planning on dropping my pants right here in the cells,’ she said as she picked up the pistol. Maximov opened the other cells, eyeing a fire alarm on one wall, but a wave of Eddie’s gun discouraged him from activating it. ‘What about the others? Is Macy okay?’

‘Macy’s fine – she’s waiting for us with Mac.’

‘What? Mac’s here too?’

‘Yeah. I called for some help. Left Osterhagen and Becker at a hospital down south – hopefully Callas’s lot didn’t find them. Oscar’s dead, though. So’s Loretta.’

The news muted Nina’s joy at being released. Kit collected the stun grenade. ‘Eddie, what’s happening outside? If they’ve kidnapped the President, I assume things are not good.’

‘We’ve got a full-blown military coup under way,’ Eddie told him, gesturing with the AK for Maximov to enter a cell. He slammed the door behind the furious Russian and locked it, then turned to Suarez. ‘Okay, Mr Presidente – looks like you’re coming with us, so where’s the best place for us to head for?’

Suarez stared at him in incomprehension. ‘Qué?’

Eddie looked to the ceiling in dismay. ‘Oh, fucking great. He’s from Barcelona!’

‘It’s your accent,’ Nina said testily. ‘I don’t think he’s spoken to many Yorkshiremen.’ She faced the Venezuelan, talking slowly and clearly. ‘Mr President, do you speak English?’

‘I speak, ah, ah . . .’ He held his thumb and forefinger a short distance apart. ‘A little, sí?’

‘Okay, we’re going to get you out of here – where should we go?’

He nodded at the door. ‘We go, yes, go!’

‘No, go where?’

‘Qué dijiste?’

‘I said – ugh! Dammit, we need Macy.’

‘Let’s go and meet her, then,’ said Eddie. ‘Nina, give Kit the gun – you take that stun grenade, we might need it on the way out. Once we reach the car, Macy can ask el Prez here where to go. If we can meet the militia, he might be able to drum up some support against Callas.’ He started for the door.

Nina tugged his sleeve. ‘Eddie, wait – we need to get something first.’

He halted and pursed his lips. ‘You’re going to say we need to pick up those fucking statues, aren’t you?’

‘Well, ah, yeah . . . but they’re not the main thing!’ she hastily clarified. ‘Callas and Stikes met with a guy called de Quesada—’

‘De Quesada?’ echoed Suarez with distaste, clearly familiar with the name.

‘Yeah, he’s a drug lord, and he’s helping fund Callas’s coup. But de Quesada is blackmailing Callas too. He’s got a video recording of something – I don’t know what, I didn’t see, but it made Callas mad as hell. And the disc is still here!’

‘If it was broadcast, if the people of Venezuela had proof that Callas was working with drug lords,’ Kit immediately realised, ‘it would cripple his support.’

‘And Callas was worried that it would force the US to intervene,’ Nina added. ‘We have to get it.’

Eddie frowned, but Kit was right. It could destroy Callas – if they lived to show it to anyone. ‘Where’s the disc?’

‘A room upstairs, overlooking the golf course.’

The small staircase he had seen was at the rear of the house - and would also hopefully see less foot traffic than the main stairs. ‘Okay, I know a way up there. Kit, watch our backs.’

Maximov banged a fist angrily against his cell door, rattling the bars. ‘I kill you for this, little man! I thought you were good guy!’

‘I am,’ Eddie told the giant. ‘Nothing personal, Max, but you’re on the wrong side. You should find someone better than Stikes to work for.’ The glowering Russian wasn’t impressed by his career advice. ‘Okay, come on.’

They left the makeshift prison, closing the thick wooden door behind them, and moved quickly to the stairs. Eddie paused at the top. The hall was empty. He went through, the others following.

Clung.

A deep metallic thump from the cellars. And another. ‘Shit!’ said Eddie, realising what it was. Maximov was trying to use his enormous strength to rip the bars out of the floor.

‘Should I go back and stop him?’ Kit asked, raising the gun.

Eddie closed the door. The sound dropped, becoming barely audible. ‘No time. Let’s just get that disc – and hope those bars were cemented in properly!’ They hurried to the staircase and went up it.

Nina recognised her surroundings from earlier in the day. ‘Through there.’

AK-103 at the ready, Eddie went to the door Nina had pointed out. He shoved it open and darted through. Nobody there.

Nina and the others entered, Eddie remaining on guard at the entrance. ‘Callas threw it over here somewhere,’ she said, starting to search. Suarez, meanwhile, hurried to the windows and looked out in dismay across the city. The lights of Caracas glistened before him . . . as did the ominous red glows of fires, speckling the vista like sores.

‘Nina,’ said Kit, from the other side of the room. ‘I’ve found the statues.’ He picked up the case.

‘Great,’ Eddie said impatiently, ‘but what about that disc?’

Nina dragged a potted plant away from the wall to find the DVD behind it. ‘Here!’ she cried, snatching it up. There was a scuff mark and several greasy fingerprints, but it hadn’t been chipped or cracked by its flight.

Kit opened the case. ‘Put it in here,’ he said. Nina found a place where it would be cushioned by the foam without being scratched by the statues, then closed the lid.

‘We ready?’ Eddie demanded. Nina nodded. ‘Good, let’s go. Oi, Manuel!’ he called to Suarez. ‘Vamanos!’

They hurried out, Suarez complaining in Spanish – though whether about the state of the city or the Englishman’s less than respectful attitude the others weren’t sure. Eddie led the way back to the stairs. ‘Okay,’ he said as they made a quick descent, ‘we’ll go out past the pool and climb over the wall to the next house.’ Suarez spoke again; Eddie glanced back at him as he reached the bottom of the stairs – and ran into someone.

‘Hey, watch—’ said Baine – only to freeze in shock. ‘Chase?’

The collision had knocked Eddie’s gun down across his stomach at an awkward angle; not enough space between the two men for him to bring it round and shoot. Instead he whipped it upwards against Baine’s chin with a crack of teeth. Before Baine could recover, Eddie swung the AK and hit him in the temple with its stock. He fell against the wall. A boot to his stomach knocked him to the floor.

Eddie was about to finish him off, but Nina and Suarez were already rushing for the lounge. ‘Shit, wait!’ he hissed, kicking Baine in the head to make sure he stayed down and starting after them—

A loud bang from deep in the building. Metal falling on concrete. Maximov was free.

A moment later, the strident clamour of a bell filled the hallway. He had reached the alarm.

23

Nina and Suarez stopped at the door to the pool. The TV at the poolside showed a view from a building’s upper floor of soldiers warily facing off against a crowd of civilians. ‘Which way?’ Nina asked.

Eddie took the lead. ‘Over that wall,’ he said, pointing the way as he ran outside – to find three soldiers pounding towards him, less than fifteen feet away.

The Venezuelans were surprised by his sudden appearance. He swept round the AK to cut them down—

The gun fired only once. A soldier tumbled into the pool, trailing blood, but the other two brought up their own Kalashnikovs when they realised his had jammed. The magazine had been jarred loose when he hit Baine, only the already chambered round firing.

Beside him, Nina saw the gunmen – and kicked the catering trolley. Plates flew as it skittered across the poolside and hit the nearer of the soldiers. The impact knocked him back against his partner. Both men toppled into the pool, arms flailing almost comedically.

Eddie wasn’t laughing, though. They still had their guns, and a Kalashnikov could fire even after being submerged. He yanked his own rifle’s charging handle. A round was wedged in the receiver, refusing to come loose. ‘Kit!’ he shouted, but Suarez had frozen in the doorway, blocking the Interpol agent inside.

The men surfaced, spluttering angrily. One shook the water from his AK, swinging it towards the group—

Eddie booted the television into the pool.

There was a bang and a sizzling crackle. The soldiers writhed and spasmed as power surged through their bodies with heart-stopping force. After a moment they fell still, bobbing in the electric-blue water.

‘Don’t say it,’ Nina warned Eddie.

‘What, shoc—’

‘I said don’t.’

‘You’re no fun.’ He finally managed to eject the stuck round, the next slotting into the chamber with a reassuring clack.

Kit shoved past Suarez. ‘Eddie, look out!’ More soldiers were running from the helipad, alerted by the gunshot.

There was no way they could reach and climb the wall before being shot. ‘Come on, round the front!’ Eddie shouted, pushing the President in the right direction. ‘Nina, give me that grenade!’

Stikes and Callas rushed into the Clubhouse’s entrance hall, finding several soldiers milling in confusion – and Maximov, barging them aside as he ran to his employer. ‘Boss, boss!’ he called over the noise of the alarm. ‘The cells – it was Eddie Chase!’

‘What?’ Stikes couldn’t conceal his shock. Chase was a resilient little bastard, but the idea that he could not only have survived a plane crash, but then found his way to Caracas and penetrated Callas’s headquarters, was almost too much to accept. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, yes! I know him – he said he knew you!’

‘What about Suarez?’ Callas demanded.

‘He let him go!’ Callas’s eyes widened in dismay. ‘And the others too. He tricked me!’

‘Not exactly the hardest thing he’s done recently,’ Stikes growled. The big Russian was a recent recruit to 3S – and, it seemed, the company could have found better. ‘How long ago?’

‘Just a minute or two. And boss, they said they had to find some . . . some disc, I don’t know what.’

If Callas’s eyes had been wide before, they were now practically bugging from their sockets. ‘De Quesada’s DVD – it’s still upstairs! If they get it to a TV station . . .’

Rojas ran in through the front door, shouting urgently in Spanish. ‘Shots from the side of the house,’ the general reported to Stikes. He started to issue orders—

A piercing bang came from outside, followed by screams.

‘Get in!’ Eddie yelled, pointing at the armoured car in front of the house. A soldier had been leaning through its open rear hatch, asking others nearby what was happening – until the stun grenade tossed into the middle of the group blasted their senses into oblivion.

Eddie ran for the V-100, unleashing a burst of fire at the guards near the gate to force them into cover behind the parked Tiunas, then blew away a soldier running through the mansion’s front door. He hurdled the man who had fallen from the hatch and took up a defensive position as Nina, Suarez and finally Kit piled into the vehicle.

‘There’s a guy in here!’ Nina shouted. The V-100’s driver was still in his seat, hands clamped to his ears in agony.

Kit shoved the case containing the statues and DVD under a narrow metal bench. ‘I’ll get him.’ He and Suarez dragged the driver from his seat, then bundled him past Nina and threw him out of the back.

Eddie shot another soldier lurking in the doorway, then hopped into the V-100 and hauled the heavy hatch shut. ‘I’ll drive,’ he said, making his way to the front. He couldn’t help noticing that the armoured car had an extremely vulnerable spot; part of its roof was completely open so that a gunner could stand on a step to operate the machine gun. A grenade tossed into the parapet would kill them all.

He would have to make sure nobody got close enough to throw one. ‘Hold tight!’ he warned as he dropped into the driver’s seat. He had driven similar armoured vehicles in the past; the controls would be heavy, but once it got moving it would be almost impossible for anyone – or anything – to stop it.

The engine was already running. He put it into gear and stepped on the gas.

The Commando’s acceleration wouldn’t break any records, the vehicle weighing over nine tons. Eddie swung it towards the gate, peering through the narrow slot of toughened glass that acted as a windscreen. The men ahead had regrouped, taking up positions behind the Tiunas.

Rifles ready. Flames blossomed ahead as they opened fire.

Nina shrieked and ducked as bullets clanged off the V-100’s sloping front and ricocheted into the night. More impacts struck the APC’s rear as soldiers poured out of the mansion and joined the attack. The noise was like being trapped in a steel drum during a hailstorm.

Despite this, Eddie almost laughed. ‘Takes more than an AK to get through this much armour.’

Kit looked through one of the small rear windows as the V-100 picked up speed. ‘I think they have something more!’

Stikes’s mercenaries emerged from the Clubhouse, pushing the soldiers aside. Their M4s were, if anything, less powerful than the Venezuelans’ AK-103s – but the M203 grenade launchers beneath their barrels were another matter entirely.

Eddie couldn’t see what was happening to the rear, the V-100 lacking mirrors, but from Kit’s alarm he could make an educated guess. Foot pressed hard on the accelerator, he spun the wheel back and forth. More shots grazed the APC’s flanks as it swung from side to side. The armour might be able to withstand a grenade impact, the hull angled to deflect incoming fire away - but he was more worried about the wheels. They could still run on the reinforced tyres even if they were punctured by bullets, but a grenade explosion would destroy them.

Kit dropped flat. ‘Incoming!’

Eddie hunched down, Nina and Suarez shielding their heads as an M203 round hit the back of the armoured car – and spun away to explode on the lawn. The hull had done its job.

But they might not get lucky a second time. Eddie yanked the wheel hard over, the Tiunas looming—

Another grenade hit, this time solidly. The explosion rocked the vehicle, shockwaves through the metal causing scabs of paint to spit across the cabin like razor-sharp splinters. Kit cried out as one sliced the back of his head, another catching Suarez’s hand. The V-100 rang like a gong.

But it was now too close to the soldiers ahead for the mercenaries to risk firing any more grenades. Eddie raised his head as more bullets banged off the forward armour – then the firing ceased as the Venezuelans realised he wasn’t stopping and bolted. ‘Hang on!’

The APC was barely doing thirty miles an hour, but with nine tons of weight behind it even the bulky Tiuna might as well have been a matchbox. The V-100’s prow bowled the Jeep on to its roof before the armoured vehicle crushed it beneath its huge wheels. The Commando’s occupants were thrown about the cabin, Eddie clinging to the steering wheel.

The gate was right ahead—

If the Tiuna had been a matchbox, the gate was made from toothpicks, bursting apart as the V-100 ploughed through it. Eddie brought the vehicle into a hard turn.

Lights flashed in a driveway, and Mac’s rented Fiat came into view. Eddie braked to meet it. ‘Open the side hatch, quick! It’s Mac and Macy – let ’em in!’ He hopped from the seat as Nina and Kit levered the hatch open. ‘Get in here!’

‘No, you get in here!’ Mac yelled back at him.

Holding his bleeding hand, Suarez looked through the rear window – and saw the second Tiuna peel out of the ruined gate. ‘Vienen!’

‘Shit!’ Nina yelped, glimpsing the approaching 4×4. ‘If that means “they’re coming”, then yeah, they’re coming!’

‘Get fucking in here, now!’ Eddie roared, before jumping back into his seat.

By now, both the Fiat’s occupants had seen the Tiuna and hurriedly evacuated their vehicle, racing for the open hatch. ‘No need to be rude, Eddie,’ Mac chided as he pushed Macy inside, then clambered up behind her.

Eddie set off as Kit shut the hatch. ‘Sorry, but we’re in kind of a rush! Grab on to something—’

A storm of bullets struck hammer-blows against the armoured car’s rear, harder and louder than before. The rear window crazed into a spiderweb with a frightening crack.

Nina risked a look through the damaged glass. Rojas was standing in the Tiuna’s top hatch, blasting away with a pintle-mounted machine gun. The spray of gunfire hit the Fiat, blowing out its windows and puckering the bodywork with holes, and then the ruptured fuel tank caught fire and exploded, flipping the flaming car on to its side.

Mac looked in chagrin through a porthole. ‘There goes my damage deposit.’

‘That Hertz,’ said Eddie.

More rounds hit the V-100 – lower down. ‘He’s shooting at the tyres!’ Kit warned.

A machine gun had a much greater chance of chewing up the reinforced rubber. ‘Mac!’ Eddie called, looking over his shoulder. ‘There’s a fifty-cal up there – get on it.’

Mac peered up through the hole. The parapet was essentially a box of armour plate eighteen inches high around its top. ‘It’s a little exposed.’

‘We’ll be more exposed if he knocks out a wheel and chucks in a grenade!’

Mac grimaced and grabbed a handrail to lift himself on to the step. ‘I’ll see what— Eddie, look out!’

Eddie whipped back round – to see the V-300 that had left the Clubhouse earlier blocking the road ahead. Its turret turned to track the APC with its main gun.

Nowhere to go, high walls hemming them in on both sides . . .

He spun the wheel regardless – and drove the V-100 through a wall.

The impact was far more punishing than the collisions with the Tiuna or the gate. Only Mac’s grip on the handrail prevented him from being flung against a bulkhead. Behind him, Macy screamed as she was thrown to the floor, Suarez landing on top of her. Smashed brickwork bounced off the APC’s prow, fragments clattering into the cabin through the open roof.

The dust cleared, revealing another well-kept lawn around a mansion rivalling the Clubhouse in extravagance. Beyond it, the hillside dropped away to the golf course. ‘Mac, are they still following?’

Mac looked cautiously over the parapet. ‘That Jeep’s coming through the hole in the wall after us.’

‘What about the armoured car?’

A crash from outside gave him the answer. ‘It made its own hole,’ Mac reported – then, with considerably more urgency: ‘Gun tracking!’

Another pull on the wheel, Eddie turning the V-100 to present the smallest possible target—

A loud boom from behind, something searing past just inches from the Commando’s side – and an explosion blew a hole in the mansion’s front wall as the 90mm shell detonated. Eddie swore. His vehicle could withstand bullets, but a direct hit from a gun that size would blow it to pieces.

Beside the house was a garage, room for at least four cars inside. ‘Hang on!’ he shouted. ‘Ramming speed!’

Everyone scrambled for handholds as the armoured car thundered at the garage—

The metal door folded like cardboard as the V-100 hit it. Eddie caught the briefest glimpse of a bright yellow Ferrari California before the crumpled door rode up over the windscreen, the jolt of a collision telling him that the sports car had been batted aside like a toy. Another, harder impact – then they burst back out into the open, more pieces of brick and wood raining down through the roof.

Eddie swerved, trying to shake off the metal blocking his view. ‘Mac, I can’t see! What’s in front of us?’

Mac pulled himself up to look over the parapet, then hurriedly dropped down again. ‘Wall!’

‘Shiiit!’ They were at the edge of the hill above the golf course. Eddie stamped on the brake—

Too late. Another eruption of shattered bricks as the armoured car ploughed through the obstacle, then tipped sharply downwards. The door blocking his view fell away, bushes and trees rushing at him in the V-100’s headlights. He yelled, pumping the brake and swinging the heavy vehicle between the trunks.

The Commando crashed back on to level ground in a shower of torn turf. They were on a long fairway, city lights visible in the distance beyond the green. ‘Macy!’ Eddie shouted. ‘Ask el Prez where to go! We’ve got a DVD that can fuck Callas up – where’s the best place to take it?’

Macy shook brick dust from her hair, then pulled herself out from under the Venezuelan president and spoke to him in Spanish. ‘He says we should take it to the state TV building,’ she told Eddie. ‘It’s in the same part of town as our hotel.’

‘I remember it,’ said Eddie. ‘What’s the quickest way?’

Another rapid discussion in Spanish. ‘He says to go north until we get off the golf course and he’ll direct us from there.’

The great dark mass of a mountain north of the city was an unmissable landmark. Eddie accelerated along the fairway, swerving to avoid a bunker.

‘Eddie, they’re coming down the hill!’ Nina shouted.

Mac hopped back up into the parapet. ‘Two Jeeps!’ The Tiuna that had departed earlier had caught up with Rojas’s vehicle, both 4×4s slithering on to the fairway in pursuit.

‘What about the armour?’ Eddie demanded.

‘Still at the top of the hill – shit! Incoming!’ He dropped back into the cabin, bracing himself as Eddie swerved.

The V-300’s 90mm gun roared again.

Even though it only scored a glancing impact, the shell still delivered a punishing blow. The V-100 lurched violently, the force of the explosion almost smashing the suspension – had it been an unyielding road beneath the wheels rather than soft earth, it would have been crippled.

It still took damage, though. The hull buckled, rear windows shattering and the aft hatch bursting open, and shockwaves through the armour causing more than mere paint chips to spall away.

Coin-sized shards of shrapnel clanged through the cabin, one stabbing metal splinters into Nina’s shoulder as it shattered against the cabin wall, another punching a hole through the shin of Mac’s prosthetic leg.

A third hit Suarez.

The President screamed as the chunk of metal ripped a bloody inch-wide gash from his left forearm. Macy shrieked. ‘Keep hold of it!’ Nina ordered over her own pain. ‘Stop it from bleeding.’ With deep reluctance, Macy gripped the wound, blood oozing around her fingers.

Eddie regained control, looking back to check on the condition of his passengers – and his vehicle. A glance told him that everyone was still alive, but of more immediate concern was the rear hatch. It had opened about a foot before the deformation of the hull jammed it; more than enough for their pursuers to spray bullets into the cabin if they found the right firing angle.

Which they were trying to do. Rojas’s machine gun chattered again, rounds clonking off the armour.

‘Mac!’ Eddie yelled. ‘Get on that fifty and take out those fucking Jeeps!’

‘You know, my retirement’s been more dangerous than my career thanks to you!’ the Scot snapped as he climbed into the parapet once more. The .50-cal was mounted on a semicircular track running around one side of the opening; he pulled back a spring-loaded pin to free it, then slid it to the rear of the armoured pulpit. A round spanged off the protective plating; Mac ducked, but it was just a stray, Rojas concentrating his fire on the vulnerable hatch.

He looked over the top. The Tiunas were practically side by side, gaining fast. Further back, he saw the V-300’s lights as it rolled down the slope.

Rojas released another burst, and Mac saw a man in the top hatch of the second 4×4 about to join in the attack. Both Tiunas were angling across the fairway, trying to shoot through the open door—

Mac swung the machine gun round and opened fire.

The flash and recoil from the thudding .50-cal made it almost impossible for him to aim accurately, but with this amount of firepower even a single hit would be horribly destructive – and he scored several as he hosed the Tiunas with thumb-sized bullets. Rojas had seen him aim the weapon, and yelled for his driver to brake and duck behind the other vehicle, which took the onslaught’s full force.

Rounds smashed through the engine block, meaning the Tiuna’s pursuit was already over, but another bullet punching through the windscreen, the driver’s chest, his seat, the leg of the standing soldier, his seat and the fuel tank hammered the fact home in no uncertain manner. The 4×4 slewed off course, then plunged nose first into a bunker and exploded, sending blazing wreckage cartwheeling down to the next tee.

‘That’ll affect his handicap!’ Mac cried, hauling the gun towards his other target.

Rojas fired first. Mac ducked, a bullet singeing his grey hair. More rounds struck the armour, knocking dents into it with piercing clangs. The Scot fired blindly, but this time without success – and if he raised his head to find Rojas, he would get it blown off.

‘Slight problem,’ he told Eddie as he bent back down into the cabin.

‘Only one?’ Nina hooted.

‘Nope, more than that.’ Eddie saw the green coming up fast. Beyond the circle of perfectly manicured turf were trees – then buildings. ‘We’re out of course!’

The V-100 sliced across the green, bounding over the rougher ground beyond as it ripped up bushes. More shots hammered against the rear hatch. A wooden fence disintegrated into splinters, and the APC was in a garden behind a house. There was a driveway down one side of the building; Eddie swerved for it, barging a Mercedes aside before bringing the APC squealing on to a residential street.

Kit looked back at the sound of another collision. The Tiuna shoved past the crumpled Mercedes and skidded after them.

Quickly gaining. On a paved road, it could reach its top speed, which was considerably higher than that of the vehicle it was chasing. Rojas aimed his gun at the damaged hatch. ‘Eddie, he’s right on us,’ the Indian warned.

No way to outrun or evade. Instead, Eddie braked hard. The V-100 screeched to a standstill. The Tiuna’s driver was forced to swerve past it.

Eddie saw the vehicle overtake, Rojas clinging to the machine gun to avoid being thrown off. ‘Mac, now! Get him!’

Mac tried to slide the .50-cal back to its original position, and found that the pin locking the gun in place had stuck. He turned the weapon on its mount, but it only had a hundred and eighty degree firing arc. He couldn’t bring it to bear.

The Tiuna made a shrieking handbrake turn to point back at the stationary V-100. Rojas righted himself and opened fire once more.

Mac hurriedly retreated into the cabin. ‘I can’t bring it round, it’s jammed!’

‘Eddie, that tank’s back!’ Nina gasped. The V-300 crashed out of a driveway, scattering shrubs and garbage cans.

Eddie made a split-second decision and shoved the V-100 back into gear, putting his foot to the floor. Rojas aimed at the armoured car’s slit-like windscreen. More rounds thunked off the forward armour – and the toughened glass began to craze.

The crazing became cracks, cracks spreading and widening—

Eddie ducked as the pane blew apart, glass chunks slashing at his face. Everyone dropped as low as they could as the gunfire continued.

It suddenly wavered, the stream of bullets sweeping across the V-100’s front—

The Tiuna’s driver had remembered what had happened to its sister vehicle at the Clubhouse when confronted by a charging Commando and set off again, jolting Rojas. Eddie popped his head up. The 4×4 was coming at him, trying to swing past on one side.

He turned hard—

The two vehicles hit head on at a closing speed of over sixty miles an hour. The Tiuna took the brunt of the collision, the vastly heavier V-100 flipping it up over its wedge-shaped prow to smash down, inverted, on the still moving APC’s roof. The .50-cal was crushed, its severed ammo belt whipping down into the cabin like a brass snake.

Something else had come through the hole. Rojas. He hung upside down from the wrecked Tiuna’s top hatch, by some fluke having landed squarely on top of the open parapet. Dazed, he tried to wriggle free – then his eyes snapped into shocked focus as he realised he was looking directly at Suarez.

The wounded President stared back at him. For a moment everyone in the cabin was frozen . . .

Then Rojas yanked his pistol from its holster and pointed it at Suarez’s head.

24

Eddie stomped on the brake. The V-100 screeched to a stop, tossing its occupants forward – and sending the mangled Tiuna sliding off its roof.

Rojas had just enough time to scream before the 4×4 dragged him away with it, breaking his back against the parapet – and slicing off his outstretched arm. The vehicle crashed down in front of the APC, the severed limb landing with a thump before Suarez. The President hesitated, then plucked the gun from its dead fingers.

‘Okay, he’s disarmed,’ said Eddie, restarting the Commando and flattening what remained of the Tiuna and its passengers. ‘Nina, where’s that tank?’

She searched for the V-300. ‘Behind us!’ The six-wheeled armoured car was thundering up the street in pursuit.

Eddie threw the APC into a turn on to another road as the V-300 fired, the shell shrieking past and blasting a crater out of the tarmac. Suarez spoke urgently, Macy translating for Eddie. ‘He says to take the next left – we’ve got to cross a bridge.’

Eddie swung the V-100 left at the next junction, the V-300 briefly coming back into view. ‘He’s still following,’ Nina warned.

‘Ask him which way once we’re over this bridge,’ said Eddie, getting directions in return. ‘Okay, we – bollocks!’ The bridge ahead was blocked, troops manning barriers across it. A small crowd faced them, but the soldiers’ weapons deterred them from advancing.

Mac looked into the parapet. ‘We’ve lost the fifty.’

‘Just have to go straight through, then.’ He examined the controls. ‘Does this thing have a horn?’

‘I think they know we’re coming,’ said Mac. The crowd hurriedly parted as the V-100 charged at them. Bottles and bricks thudded off its armoured hide. ‘Hrmm. Seems we’re not popular.’

‘This ought to change their minds.’ Eddie aimed the APC directly at the barricade. The soldiers fled as the hulking machine demolished it and swept across the bridge. Cheers rose in its wake.

Suarez spoke, drawing Macy into a brief argument. ‘He wants to put his head out the top so everyone can see him,’ she complained.

‘Might be useful at the right time,’ said Mac. ‘Not just yet, though.’

Nina looked back. The crowd was running for the bridge, only to scatter before the oncoming V-300. ‘It’s still coming!’

Eddie turned again to keep out of the larger armoured vehicle’s line of fire. But they were still a couple of miles from the TV station – and would almost certainly encounter better-defended roadblocks along the way.

At the Clubhouse, Callas banged an angry fist on a table at another radio report. ‘They have crossed the river! This is insane! Why can’t we stop them?’

‘How far are they from this TV station?’ Stikes demanded.

‘Less than three kilometres – and we still do not have control of it. The crowd protecting it keeps growing.’

‘Then tell your men to fire into the crowd.’

The general’s expression went from rage to hesitancy. ‘If I don’t have popular support, I will not be able to hold on to power – the army is not strong enough to control the entire country by force.’ He pointed at a television showing a live broadcast from the government-controlled station – the stand-off between civilians and military outside it. ‘That is going out across the country – across the world. If my troops are seen slaughtering unarmed civilians, I will lose.’

‘So make sure they’re not seen doing it,’ said Stikes with growing impatience. ‘Destroy the transmitter.’

‘It’s on the roof,’ Callas snapped back. ‘And before you suggest using tanks to destroy it from the ground, they can’t get line of sight on it! There are too many other buildings nearby.’

‘Then destroy it from the air . . .’ Stikes began, before tailing off.

Callas saw his calculating look. ‘What is it?’

‘A way to kill two birds with one stone.’ He turned to Baine, who had a savage bruise across his jaw and cheek. ‘Tell Gurov and Krikorian to get the Hind ready for takeoff!’

Despite Eddie’s best efforts, he couldn’t shake off the V-300. The heavily armed vehicle was slowly but relentlessly gaining, its more experienced driver extracting every morsel of speed from his vehicle as he chased the smaller APC through Caracas. And the chaos in the city was not helping; Eddie had several times been forced to slow or swerve to avoid fleeing civilians, while the other vehicle ploughed on without a care for collateral damage.

Suarez’s directions, relayed through Macy, brought them on to an overpass bridging a wider avenue below. Traffic on the lower road was at a standstill, open doors where drivers had abandoned their vehicles showing that the situation was far worse than Caracas’s usual gridlock.

A roadblock ahead. The soldiers had been warned about the stolen APC and were readying weapons . . .

More vehicles emerged from behind buildings.

Very large vehicles.

‘Buggeration and fuckery!’ Eddie gasped as a pair of T-72 tanks clattered to a stop at the roadblock, chunks of torn asphalt spitting up from their tracks. The Russian behemoths were dated compared to modern Western armour, but there was a reason they had been in continuous production for four decades: they were still tough and deadly. Their turrets rotated, bringing their 125mm main guns to bear on the approaching V-100.

And there was no way to retreat. The V-300 reached the overpass, its own gun swinging towards its target.

A glimpse of red and white on the road below, a familiar logo on the side of a stationary truck . . .

Eddie swerved the V-100 towards the overpass’s low wall. ‘You’re probably getting sick of me saying this, but really, really hang on!’

He aimed for the trailer, bracing himself.

The V-100 smashed through the wall and plunged towards the road below.

Everyone screamed—

There was a colossal crump of metal as the APC landed on the trailer, nine tons of steel crushing it and blowing its contents apart in an explosion of brown liquid and froth. The truck was a Coca-Cola transporter, the trailer a forty-foot-long advertisement for its cargo, tens of thousands of cans stacked to the ceiling. The cans flattened and burst under the V-100’s immense weight – but, with so many pallets on top of each other, each layer cushioned the falling vehicle just a little bit more as it dropped.

Even so, the impact when the armoured car hit the floor was still shattering. The trailer’s suspension collapsed, and the trailer itself sheared in half behind the prime mover’s rear wheels. The unsupported end slammed down, digging a foot-deep gouge in the road surface. On a foaming carpet of squashed red and white aluminium, the V-100 slithered down the makeshift ramp until its wheels touched the avenue.

Dazed, Eddie lifted his head. ‘Wow. That actually worked.’ He put the APC back into gear. ‘Mac, what’re those tanks doing?’

Mac peered through the parapet as the V-100 ground out of the wreckage. One of the T-72s appeared on the bridge, its turret tracking them, but its gun couldn’t angle down far enough to lock on. ‘We’re too low for them to shoot.’

‘What about the other APC?’

Nina shouted in alarm. ‘You’re not gonna like this!’

The V-300 burst through the wall after them, intending to use the same trick to soften its landing—

It landed on the back of the crushed trailer with a colossal bang, flipping the front end up like a see-saw. Thousands of Coke cans flew into the air, metal confetti raining down on the tanks above. The first APC’s landing had mashed the trailer flat, leaving nothing to absorb the impact of its larger and heavier cousin. All six of the V-300’s wheels were ripped from their axles, the turret jolting out of its mount to clang down like an enormous hammer amidst a snowfall of cans.

Eddie looked back at his shaken passengers. ‘Well, that’s them sorted, so cheer up! Have a Coke and a smile.’

Macy regarded him woozily. ‘Only if they have Diet.’

‘Eddie, over there,’ said Mac, pointing at an exit.

The Englishman made the turn, barging cars out of his path. The T-72’s gun followed it, but still couldn’t angle low enough to take a shot. ‘Macy, I need directions.’

Suarez gave Macy instructions. She relayed them, then added, ‘He says it’s less than two kilometres to the TV station.’

Just over a mile. Eddie recognised some of the taller buildings ahead. People were still running through the streets, but there was no immediate sign of the military. They would have to break through the troops attempting to take the television station and the civilians and militia defending it, but with Suarez’s presence the latter would be easy. They might actually make it!

A basso rumble of thudding blades from above—

The road ahead exploded, sending a car barrelling through a store’s windows. Rubble showered the V-100.

Eddie knew the cause. Stikes’s Hind.

Stikes squinted into the wind as he looked down from the gunship’s open hatch. The stolen APC had just made a desperate turn to avoid the craters torn from the asphalt by the Hind’s rockets. Krikorian fired again, another two S-8 missiles streaking from their pod on the stub wing, but these missed by a wider margin, a van blowing apart in a sheet of flame. Panicked people scattered.

‘Did you get them?’ demanded Callas, strapped firmly into the seat beside him. Baine, Maximov and the other mercenaries craned their necks to watch events below.

Stikes shook his head, shouting ‘You’re too high!’ into his headset. The rockets weren’t guided, relying on the gunner’s skill to fire them when the pod was pointing directly at the target. ‘Go lower and line up properly.’

‘We’re already too low!’ protested Gurov from the cockpit. ‘We could hit a power line or a building.’

‘I hired you because you claimed to be good enough to avoid that,’ Stikes said scathingly. Nevertheless, he saw the Russian’s point; they weren’t far above the rooftops, and Caracas had enough high-rises to turn the sky into an aerial maze. ‘Krikorian, use the cannon,’ he ordered instead.

In the forward cockpit, Krikorian grinned and switched weapons, the targeting cursor flashing up in his helmet sights.

He brought it over the fleeing vehicle, then pulled the trigger.

Eddie swerved the V-100 to evade further rocket fire. But none came – maybe the Hind couldn’t get a lock amongst all the buildings—

That hope was shattered a moment later, along with a chunk of the Commando’s armour, as a stream of 12.7mm cannon fire hammered the vehicle’s rear. Nina screamed and dived away from the damaged hatch as metal fragments spat into the cabin. More scabs of steel peppered the APC’s occupants, dents appearing in the roof as round after round slammed down.

If any came through the open parapet . . .

Eddie turned sharply at a corner, not going round the building on it, but through it. The V-100 demolished the shop’s frontage, scattering shelves and shoes before bursting out of the other side.

Above, Stikes saw the armoured car’s destructive shortcut. ‘Must be Chase driving,’ he said. ‘Gurov, follow them.’

Despite the danger, Mac looked up through the parapet to find the new threat. The Hind roared into sight. ‘He’s coming!’

Eddie sent the V-100 lurching across the street as the gunship opened fire again. Everyone had retreated from the rear hatch, and with good reason: the buckled door juddered violently as more bullets struck it – then with a piercing screech and a spray of sparks it ripped loose and clanged along the road behind them.

The onslaught continued, weaving along the hull towards the open parapet—

A wall dead ahead. Eddie didn’t brake – instead he drove the APC straight into it.

Mac ducked as more debris and clouds of plaster dust showered through the open roof. Outside, the orange glow of sodium streetlights was replaced by the off-white of fluorescent tubes as the V-100 ploughed through an office. Desks were crushed under the APC’s wheels, a couple of late workers who had stayed inside when the violence started running for cover.

He saw an exterior door in the far wall and aimed for it. Another huge crash, and they were back in the night air, the wind quickly sweeping the whirling dust out through the gaping rear hatch.

Mac irritably tried to brush himself down. ‘Another suit ruined. I should start charging you for my expenses.’

‘We’ll pay for the dry-cleaning,’ said Eddie. He recognised a skyscraper ahead as being close to their hotel – and the television station. ‘We’re not far off. Get ready to run when we get there.’

‘If we get there,’ Nina said. The Hind came back into view, descending towards them. ‘The chopper’s coming!’

Eddie turned into the first street he came to, the V-100 demolishing a payphone as it rode over the corner of the sidewalk. They were out of the Hind’s sight, but that wouldn’t last long. Ahead was a wider, tree-lined boulevard – with people running in both directions, some trying to escape whatever was happening further along the avenue, others angrily racing towards it. Some jeered at the armoured car as it rumbled towards them.

More quickly joined in. ‘Shit, they’re not moving!’ Eddie gasped. The crowd was forming a human blockade, trying to stop the military vehicle from reaching the main road. He braked, knowing he could hardly mow them down – but also that the gunship was closing with every second.

He looked at Suarez. ‘Macy, tell el Presidente to get his arse up in the turret!’

‘What?’ said Macy, confused.

‘If he wants to make a speech to his people, now’s the time - they’re blocking the way!’ Stones clattered off the APC’s prow.

‘Let’s just hope they’re all on his side,’ said Kit as Macy hurriedly passed on Eddie’s instructions.

Still clutching his bloodied arm, Suarez stood. ‘I talk to them,’ he said.

Over the crowd’s shouts and the clonks of thrown stones, Nina heard the Hind’s rotor thrum. ‘He’d better make it a really short speech!’

A couple more rocks clanged from the parapet as Suarez emerged – then the barrage abruptly stopped. Even dishevelled and covered in dust, he was still one of the most recognisable people in the country. His name quickly spread through the crowd, first in shock and disbelief, then excitement.

Macy translating for the benefit of the armoured car’s occupants, Suarez’s well-practised orator’s voice boomed over the V-100’s idling rumble. ‘People of Venezuela, my friends! Yes, it is I, your president!’ He paused to take in the cheers – and a couple of boos, which were quickly silenced by kicks and punches. ‘Earlier tonight, I was kidnapped by traitors and murderers, who want to take power for themselves. But I escaped! I am free, I am here, and I need your help to fight back!’

The rotor noise grew louder. Nina made a frantic ‘wind it up’ gesture at Macy, who tugged the President’s sleeve and hissed at him to talk faster.

Suarez took the hint. ‘I need to get to the television station,’ he said, pointing down the boulevard, ‘to expose these traitors and tell the country that I am safe, and I am! Still! President!’ Another, louder cheer rose from the crowd. ‘First we retake the TV station, then we retake our country!’

A great roar told those in the APC that he had convinced the throng to help. ‘He’s bloody done it,’ said Eddie, almost surprised, as people cleared a path.

‘Yeah, but he’s left it too late!’ Nina cried. The gunship’s roar rose as it closed in – and shot overhead, disappearing again behind another building. The pilot had been aiming to intercept the APC further ahead, expecting them still to be moving, and had been caught out by its non-appearance.

‘They’ve lost us!’ cried Kit.

‘Not for long,’ Eddie said grimly as he turned on to the boulevard. Ahead, he saw the television station’s jumbotron screen. It showed a view of the street from one of the building’s upper windows, which ironically gave him a better idea of what was going on than he could get through the V-100’s narrow windows. The TV station was protected by a human ring of protesters and militia, facing off against soldiers backed by numerous Jeeps and Tiunas. The arrival of more people coming to join the studio’s defence meant that the soldiers were caught between two hostile groups: an almost certain flashpoint for violence.

And the spark had just arrived. ‘Get him back inside before some sniper blows his fucking head off,’ he told Macy. Now that Suarez was here, a confrontation was practically inevitable.

Macy pulled the President into the cabin. Mac took his place, searching for the Hind. The helicopter had turned above the boulevard, the image on the big screen changing as the cameraman tracked it. He jumped back down. ‘Chopper’s coming straight at us!’

The crowd reacted in confusion, not sure what to make of the aircraft. Clarification rapidly came as it fired two rockets, which exploded short of the APC and sent bodies and pieces of bodies spinning into the air. Eddie flinched. ‘Jesus!’

The survivors broke away in panic, people trampling each other as they tried to escape the battle. Taking it as a signal, the soldiers opened fire into the crowd. The television camera zoomed in to record the carnage.

The Hind fired again, this time with its gun. Tracer lines seared down at the V-100, blasting off more chunks of armour. Eddie swerved as he accelerated towards the line of troops, the bullet hits stitching a new line down the APC’s left flank—

Blam!

A deeper detonation shook the vehicle, the steering wheel jerking in his hands. The armoured car veered to one side. One of the huge tyres had finally succumbed to the assault and blown out. Its reinforced structure was just about holding it together – but every revolution was shredding it, and total failure was inevitable.

‘We’re gonna crash!’ he yelled—

The tyre disintegrated, pitching the wheel down on its steel run-flat insert – which had also been damaged by the gunfire. The hub sheared away from the axle.

Unbalanced, the V-100 toppled heavily on its side. It ground along the road in a huge shower of sparks, narrowly missing a fleeing group of civilians, then continued towards the soldiers.

The troops also ran from the sliding slab of steel – and the fusillade of fire spraying down from the Hind. Then the blaze stopped as the gunship passed overhead. The APC crashed into one of the Tiunas, bowling the military 4×4 over before finally coming to a stop.

For a moment, everything was unnaturally still, people on both sides paralysed by shock. Even the gunfire had ceased. The only thing moving was the Hind, which increased power and gained height to turn for another pass.

Then a figure crawled from the overturned APC. Suarez.

The civilians and militia saw him first, immediately surrounding the armoured car to protect him. The soldiers held their fire, unsure what was going on and waiting for orders.

More people emerged from the wrecked V-100. Kit flopped out of the rear hatch, Macy following Suarez from the parapet. Hands lifted them up; anyone who had helped rescue the President would get the same protection as their leader. Next out of the top hatch was Mac, crawling, one trouser leg dragging limply behind him – the straps securing his artificial leg had broken in the crash, the prosthesis still in the cabin.

He was followed by Eddie. ‘Evening,’ he said blearily to the two men who picked him up, wincing as he realised his forehead was bleeding from a deep cut. He looked for his friends. All were in similarly beaten states.

Where was Nina?

He shook off the supporting hands and staggered to the APC’s mangled rear to find Kit, a palm pressed against his bloodied head. ‘Where’s Nina?’ he asked the Interpol officer.

‘I – I thought she was behind me.’

Eddie pushed past him. ‘Nina!’ he shouted as he looked through the hatch, fearing what he might see . . .

A hand held up the case containing the statues. ‘Hold this, will you?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Eddie grumbled as he took it. Nina clambered out, her clothes ripped and smeared with blood from several cuts. ‘We’re in the middle of a fucking warzone, and you still make me carry stuff for you!’

She gave him a pained but genuine smile. ‘Love you too, honey.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ He gave her back the case and pulled her to the throng surrounding Suarez. The Hind was coming back. ‘Macy, we’ve got to get into that TV station now.’

Macy passed on the message. Suarez nodded, then exhorted the crowd to come with him, rousing cheers and yells of ‘Viva Tito! Viva el Presidente!’ Their leader at their centre, his followers moved en masse towards the building, Nina, Macy and Kit going with him.

‘I think I’ll stay here,’ said Mac, sitting back against the wrecked V-100. He looked morosely at his left leg. ‘A hopping man’s not much use in a situation like this.’

‘You still kicked arse even with only one leg,’ Eddie assured him. ‘See you soon.’

‘Fight to the end, Eddie.’

‘Fight to the end.’ He shared a look of brotherhood with the older man, then pushed through the mass to join Nina.

‘They’re out of the car,’ Stikes told Callas. ‘Krikorian, use the rockets, take out everybody within fifty metres—’

‘No!’ the general cut in. ‘If we do that, it will turn the people against me – even some of my soldiers.’

‘In that case,’ said the mercenary commander through his teeth, ‘we should destroy the TV station, and then take out the crowd.’

Callas shook his head. ‘No. Land this thing. I will take command of my forces from the ground. We can still capture Suarez – then I can make him turn power over to me legally. On television, in front of the whole world. No one will be able to challenge me.’

With barely contained contempt, Stikes said, ‘As you wish. We’ll circle to give you fire support if you need it.’ Callas nodded impatiently. ‘Okay, Gurov, find us a place to touch down.’

Nina looked back in dreadful anticipation, expecting the Hind to attack, and was startled to see it instead moving in for a landing. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Callas must want to finish us off personally,’ Eddie replied. ‘Macy!’ he shouted. ‘Tell him to move faster!’

She did so. Suarez boomed out more orders, and the multitude ahead parted to clear a path to the studio entrance. The big screen above showed the scene from an elevated angle, the movement looking almost like a zip being teasingly unfastened.

The soldiers could see what was happening too. ‘Stay close,’ Eddie warned Nina as he pushed up behind Suarez.

The Hind landed, rotors still whirling ready for a quick takeoff as Callas jumped out. Soldiers ran to meet him. He jabbed a hand towards the studios, ordering them to move in and take the building – and Suarez.

Alive if possible . . . dead if necessary.

Stikes watched Callas head away with his troops, then turned to Maximov. ‘You get out too.’

The giant Russian stared back, bewildered. ‘Boss? What do you mean?’

‘I mean I don’t employ idiots. This is all your fault – if you hadn’t let Chase trick you, Suarez wouldn’t have escaped. You’re fired. Get out.’

‘But—’

Baine pointed his M4 at Maximov and flicked off the safety. ‘You heard him. On yer bike.’

Maximov’s scarred face tightened angrily, but he unfastened his seatbelt and squeezed out of the cabin. ‘Zhópa,’ he growled. ‘What am I supposed to do now?’

‘I think we can rule out a career in rocket science,’ said Stikes with a mocking smile. ‘Gurov, take us up.’

The Hind left the ground, blasting Maximov with dust. He shook an angry fist at the departing chopper, then looked round. The soldiers nearby regarded him with suspicion. The Russian hesitated, then turned the other way and hurried along the boulevard, disappearing into the approaching crowd.

The group was almost at the entrance. Nina saw the big screen tracking their approach. The shouts of Suarez’s name had become almost a ritual chant. The last clump of people in front of the building pushed back to make way for them—

Someone stumbled, almost knocking her over. The case was wrenched from her grip as the man fell. She tried to go back for it, but the crowd swept her along like driftwood. ‘Eddie! The case!’ she cried, but she had lost sight of it . . .

Kit held it up. He shoved past the fallen man to her. ‘I think you dropped this,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to lose the statues after everything we’ve been through.’

‘Or the disc,’ she added as he handed the case back to her.

He seemed almost to have forgotten about it. ‘Or the disc, yes!’

They reached the doors. They opened, station employees hurriedly pulling away their makeshift barricades of desks and vending machines. Eddie looked back as they entered. The soldiers were advancing. No shots had been fired . . . yet. But the two opposing forces would meet in seconds.

Clutching the case, Nina pushed through the doors behind Suarez. There were about twenty people in the lobby. ‘Can anyone speak English?’ she called.

‘I can,’ said a middle-aged man in a yellow tie. He did a double-take. ‘Are you Nina Wilde?’

‘Yeah, I am – but never mind that!’ She held up the case. ‘I’ve got a DVD in here – there’s a recording on it that’ll destroy General Callas. You’ve got to get it on the air as soon as you can!’

Shots cracked outside, people screaming. ‘Shut the doors!’ Eddie yelled.

Suarez joined Nina, adding his own instructions as she took out the DVD. ‘How long will it take you to start broadcasting?’ she asked.

‘Two minutes, less,’ said the man. ‘What is on it?’

Nina shrugged helplessly. ‘I dunno – just something really bad for Callas.’

He looked uncertain, then took the disc and ran for a set of double doors. Suarez followed as the staff restored the blockade.

There were several large plasma screens in the lobby, all showing the station’s current output: a view of the street outside. Eddie joined Nina and watched, seeing a phalanx of soldiers driving through the crowd, clubbing them with their rifle butts. The protesters pushed back, throwing stones and garbage.

More shots. Muzzle flashes flickered across the screens, people falling dead to the ground. Nina gasped and clutched Eddie’s hand. Macy put a hand to her mouth in horror, looking away. Some of those nearest the soldiers tried to retreat, but the weight of people behind them left them with nowhere to go. Others, trapped, threw themselves at the troops, armed with nothing more than their fists and feet. They were brutally battered to the ground as other soldiers fired into the mob.

One screen briefly showed a test pattern before switching to a studio. The image jerked about before the camera operator finally fixed on a chair. Someone ran up to it, waving – then Suarez appeared. He took the seat, holding his wounded arm with the blood clearly visible. The camera tipped up as if to frame it out, but Suarez shook his head. The picture tilted back, making sure the injury the President had sustained – and seemingly shaken off – was in plain view. Even in a crisis, Suarez still knew the value of creating an iconic image.

Nina looked at another screen showing the fighting outside. The soldiers were much closer. ‘This barricade won’t keep them out, will it?’

Eddie shook his head. ‘Just hope whatever’s on that DVD does the trick.’

Suarez started to speak. All but one of the screens changed to show him, the broadcast going out live to the country. His voice echoed from the loudspeakers outside. Macy gave a running translation, despite her nervous glances at the doors. ‘People of Venezuela, today has been a dark day for our country. Traitors have attacked Miraflores, and tried to kill me.’ He held up his injured arm. ‘A man I thought was a friend, Salbatore Callas, led this revolt . . . funded by criminals and drug lords. I have the proof – and now I will show it to you.’

Suarez then spoke in English. ‘Dr Nina Wilde . . . I hope you are right.’

‘Oh, great,’ said Nina. ‘Now if it turns out to be Callas’s boudoir tapes, I get the blame!’

The president gestured to someone off-camera. The image changed.

Nina recognised the Clubhouse balcony where she had met de Quesada. The drug lord was seated at the very edge of the picture, almost out of shot and distorted by the fisheye effect of a wide-angle lens; the video had been shot on a concealed camera amongst his belongings. Callas, however, was almost dead centre, instantly recognisable in his uniform.

De Quesada had apparently edited the raw footage down to the most incriminating highlights. Again, Macy translated. ‘So, just to be perfectly clear about our deal,’ she said as de Quesada spoke, ‘in return for twenty per cent of the value of my drugs that cross Venezuela, you will give them completely unrestricted passage from the Colombian border to the ports where they are shipping to America and Europe. Yes?’

‘Yes, agreed,’ said Callas.

‘And what about the DEA? If you take power from Suarez—’

‘When I take power.’

‘When you take power,’ de Quesada corrected himself, ‘you will not let them back into your country?’

Callas smiled. ‘I only want the Americans’ money, not their policemen.’

A cut, the Colombian leaning forward in his seat. ‘And what about Venezuelan drug policy under your rule?’ he asked. ‘It’s not a big market, but it’s still worth millions of dollars a year. Since I’m helping you, I don’t want to have my . . . subcontractors being arrested.’

‘Your dealers will have immunity,’ said Callas, though with evident distaste. ‘Providing they keep a low profile.’

‘They will be very discreet, I assure you.’ De Quesada smiled again, then stood. ‘So,’ he said, extending his right hand, ‘we have a deal?’

Callas shook it. ‘We have a deal.’

‘Thank you.’

The screens went black, then Suarez returned, looking off to one side at a monitor and seeming as astounded by what he had just seen as those in the lobby. But Nina was more interested in the one TV still showing what was happening outside. ‘Eddie, look!’

The soldiers were staring up at the big screen beneath the cameraman’s vantage point. The protesters were doing the same, everyone’s attention captured by the broadcast. The camera zoomed in on the troops. Confusion was clear on their upturned faces . . . quickly turning to shock and outrage.

Eddie watched as the new emotions rippled through Callas’s forces. ‘This should be interesting . . . ’

Callas, standing with a group of his commanders amongst the military vehicles, struggled to conceal his dismay as Suarez returned to the giant screen. Part of him knew that the game was over; the incriminating recording had just been broadcast to the entire country, and more worryingly to his forces outside the television station. While he was using carefully chosen corrupt men to ensure that narcotics traffic across the Orinoco followed his rules, he knew that the vast majority of Venezuela’s soldiers despised the drug lords.

But another part refused to give up. He had come so close! And Suarez was inside the building. He could still be captured, some fairy tale about the recording being faked with computer graphics and a vocal impersonator concocted. ‘Well?’ he snapped. ‘What are you waiting for? We’ll take the building – I want Suarez to pay for these lies!’

A young captain faced him. ‘General, was that – real?’

‘Of course it wasn’t real!’ But Callas could see that doubt had taken root. He decided that sheer volume was the best way to overcome it. ‘You idiots! This is exactly what Suarez wants, for you to think I’m in league with drug lords.’

‘But that was the Clubhouse, I recognised it.’ Other men nearby voiced agreement.

‘Never mind that.’ He jabbed an angry finger at the studios. ‘I want Suarez captured, now!’ Nobody moved. ‘Do what I tell you!’

Other soldiers closed in, faces dark, betrayed. Another officer spoke. ‘We want an explanation, general. Did you really make a deal with some Colombian so he could sell drugs to our children?’

‘Get back,’ Callas warned. The advance continued, more troops surrounding him. ‘I’m warning you, do as I say!’

‘Get him,’ growled the captain.

Several men lunged at Callas. He grabbed for his sidearm, but they pinned his arms behind his back. ‘You bastards!’ he snarled. ‘Suarez will wreck the entire country – I’m its only hope! Everything I do is for the good of Venezuela!’

The captain stood before him, lips tight. ‘Let’s find out who is telling the truth.’ He nodded to the men holding the general. ‘Bring him.’

Stikes observed the scene below through binoculars as the Hind continued its orbit. ‘Looks as though we’re out of pocket on this job, boys,’ he said coldly as he watched Callas being frogmarched through the crowd. ‘Gurov, get us out of here.’

The gunship changed course, sweeping away into the darkness over the city.

‘It’s Callas!’ Nina said as the cameraman zoomed in on the man being forced towards the building. ‘They’ve arrested him!’

‘We’ll see,’ said Eddie, more wary. ‘It might be a trap.’ But the gunfire had stopped, and the soldiers were retreating to leave a space outside the entrance. The two sides genuinely seemed in a state of uneasy truce.

Suarez hurried into the lobby, followed by the man in the yellow tie, now powering up a professional video camera. The President ordered that the barricades be moved from the doors.

‘You sure that’s a good idea?’ Macy asked him.

‘I want to see him face to face,’ came the reply. ‘And the people have to see that I am still in charge.’ Then he addressed the little group of foreign visitors in English. ‘I have not said thank you – you saved my life. You saved my country. Thank you.’ He added something in Spanish, then strode to the doors as the blockade was cleared.

‘What did he say?’ asked Kit.

‘That we’re heroes of the socialist revolution, and we’ll all get medals,’ Macy told him. She grimaced. ‘That’s not something I’m gonna be wearing around Miami.’

‘I can see it wouldn’t be too popular,’ said Nina, amused.

Eddie huffed. ‘Can’t we just get money?’

The station personnel opened the doors. There was a moment of tension as Suarez was revealed to the world outside, standing in plain view of any potential assassin, but it passed. People began to cheer. Suarez waved his hands for silence as he stepped into the open. The cameraman bustled after him to record the scene.

The soldiers brought the struggling Callas to a stop in front of the President. Nina and Eddie watched as the two men faced each other. Suarez spoke first. ‘Salbatore. I never thought it would be you who turned against me.’