Evil Star

SALAMANDA

Ica was a small, busy town, full of dust and traffic. Matt’s first impression, as he climbed down from the bus, was that every building had been painted a uniform white and yellow, giving the place an artificial look. It reminded him of a film set, perhaps from an old western. But real life was all around him. It was there in the rubbish piles, the washing flapping on lines high above the rooftops, the graffiti that seemed to have spread across every wall. All around were advertisements for Nike and Coca-Cola, names of politicians and their parties and public warnings applied with a spray can. And it was there in the old men and women, blinking on benches out in the sun, the chollo – taxis – buzzing in and out of the main square, the money changers in their bright-green jackets, following the tourists who were taking pictures of all this with cameras that must have cost more than most of the local people would earn in a year.

Sebastian had walked with them to the main square. He bought them shish kebabs and rice and sat on the kerb with them as they ate.

“I don’t like these provincial towns,” he said. “Lima may be a stink-hole… but at least you know where you are. I can never tell what country people are thinking. Maybe they’re not thinking anything. They’re just indios.” He used the abusive term for native Indians. “They’ve got nothing in their heads.”

“What do we do now?” Matt asked.

“What do we do now? I’ll tell you what I do now, Matteo.” Sebastian had lit another cigar. It occurred to Matt that he had hardly ever seen him without one in his mouth. “I go on to Ayacucho. If you make it there alive, come to the main square. I’ll have people looking out for you. They’ll bring you to me.”

“Aren’t you going to help us get into the hacienda?”

Sebastian laughed unpleasantly. “I’ve helped you enough already and besides, I enjoy living too much. I’ll show you where it is. After that, you’re on your own.”

After they had finished eating, he walked with them, over a river and on to the edge of the town. He talked to Pedro as they went. He seemed to be giving him advice. Gradually the houses fell away behind them until they came to a dirt track leading off from the main road.

“The hacienda is five miles down this way,” he said. “I hope you’ll find your friend there, Matteo, but I’ve already told you, I doubt it. Maybe you and I will meet again in Ayacucho. I doubt that, too. But I hope so.”

“I thought you didn’t like me,” Matt said.

“Pedro tells me that maybe I’m wrong about you, that you’re not the same as other rich kids in the west who have everything and never think about people like us.” He shrugged. “Anyway, you are an enemy of the police and that is enough to make you my friend.”

He reached into his pocket and took out a cloth bag.

“I have some money for you. It’s a hundred soles. That’s a lot… almost twenty pounds in your currency. And before you thank me, it’s Pedro’s. He was the one who stole it – not me. Maybe it’ll help keep the two of you alive.”

Pedro said something in Spanish. Sebastian went over to him and spoke at length. When he had finished talking, he reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair. Suddenly he was looking sad.

“I had a son once,” he said. He shook his head. “You know how to find me.”

He turned and walked away.

Matt glanced at Pedro, who nodded. They still couldn’t talk to one another but they seemed to understand each other more and more. Together, they set off.

The track that Sebastian had showed them ran through agricultural land. Some of the fields were planted with maize, beetroot and asparagus while others held cattle, chewing at the rough, spiky grass. Following Sebastian’s advice, the two boys kept to the very edge of the track, ready to drop out of sight if any cars appeared. Once, an open-backed truck came rattling past and they threw themselves under a low shrub and waited until it had disappeared, kicking up clouds of dust. The afternoon was swelteringly hot. Pedro had fished two plastic bottles out of a bin and filled them with water from a tap, but Matt doubted it would be enough. He could feel his bottle, leaking in his jeans pocket. He was tempted to drink it all now.

As soon as the truck was out of sight, they stood up and trudged on in silence. Matt would have liked to talk – there was still so much he didn’t understand – and it seemed mad to him that they would only be able to communicate when they were asleep. They were two of the Five. He wondered what languages the others spoke. The two boys and the girl that he had seen on the beach had been white and fair-haired but they could be Russian, Scandinavian – or even Martian for all he knew. And what happened when they did finally meet? Was that the end of the adventure or the beginning of something worse?

So many questions, but Matt could only walk on in silence, feeling the sun as it beat down on his shoulders. He still hadn’t got used to his own smell, to the unfamiliar shape of his hair and the dye, dark and sticky all over his skin. His clothes no longer disgusted him but they felt strange, like some sort of unpleasant fancy dress. And he kept on stumbling over his ill-fitting rubber sandals. Worst of all, he was worried about Richard. He had to admit that Sebastian was right. The chances of the journalist turning up at this hacienda were probably one in a million. But he had nowhere else to go, no other clues to follow. He had to start somewhere and it might as well be here.

Pedro stopped and took a quick drink. Matt did the same, wondering if the Peruvian tap water would make him sick. The other boy was doubtless used to it. He had been drinking it all his life. The water was warm and tasted metallic but Matt didn’t care. He had to stop himself from draining the bottle.

After that, Matt’s thoughts wandered. Five miles might not seem much to Pedro but it was a long way for him, particularly in the heat and in sandals that seemed to be trying to trip him up every few paces. A car passed, this time coming the other way, and once again the two of them had to dive for cover. How much security would there be at the hacienda? Sebastian hadn’t said anything but it occurred to Matt that anyone as rich and powerful as Salamanda would be sure to have guards.

The sun began to set and a cool breeze crept into the air. Matt’s legs were beginning to ache and he had hardly any water left when they turned a corner and Pedro raised a hand in warning. They ducked back into the undergrowth, crouching low. There was a house directly ahead

… not just a house but an entire complex complete with barns, storerooms, stables and even, incredibly, a sixteenth-century church carved out of white stone, complete with its own soaring bell tower. This was where the track had brought them – all five miles of it. There was nothing more beyond. Two stone pillars and a twisted metal gate marked the entrance. The gate was open but somehow Matt didn’t feel it was inviting them in.

Carefully, he edged closer and peered round, searching for any sign of life. All the buildings were grouped around a flower-filled courtyard with an elaborate ornamental fountain in the middle. A huge acacia tree grew next to it. The tree had four separate trunks and branches that spread out to provide a natural shade from the sun. There was a tractor parked outside one of the barns. A man, dressed in white, came out, pushing a wheelbarrow. Apart from the soothing tinkle of water in the fountain, everything was silent.

“Matteo…” Pedro tapped Matt’s arm and pointed.

Matt looked into the distance and saw a guard tower, constructed at the edge of the complex. At the same time, a man appeared with a rifle strapped across his back. He stopped and lit a cigarette, then kept on walking. So Matt had been right. This hacienda might be in the middle of nowhere but Salamanda left nothing to chance. The place was guarded, and Matt was sure there would be plenty of other security around too.

“Que hacemos ahora?” Pedro asked.

“We wait.” The meaning of Pedro’s question was obvious. He wanted to know what they were going to do. Matt looked up. The sun was already setting behind the palm trees that grew tall behind the house. The night might still be an hour away but the shadows were spreading out. They would help. Two dark-skinned boys in dark clothes in the dark. It wouldn’t be too hard to slip inside.

The house itself seemed to be unguarded. Three wide, wooden steps led up to a veranda that ran its full length. There was nobody in the courtyard, no sign of movement in the guard tower. Security cameras? Matt hadn’t seen any and besides, there was always a chance that they might not operate in this low light. He would just have to risk it. The thought that Richard could be here, perhaps only a few metres away, spurred him on. He nudged Pedro and then, keeping low, ran through the gate and across one corner of the courtyard, making for the side of the house.

Nobody saw them. Nobody shouted. Matt stopped, breathless, his back against the wall just below the veranda. Pedro was next to him. The Peruvian boy wasn’t looking happy. He shook his head as if to say, “This is a crazy idea and I don’t want any part of it.” But at the same time, he was still sticking by him and Matt was grateful that right now he wasn’t alone.

Where would Richard be and how could they possibly find him in a house crawling with guards? There was no obvious prison in the complex, no windows covered with bars. A basement or cellar perhaps? That would be the most likely place. But first they had to get in.

At least that wasn’t going to be too difficult. Now he was closer, Matt could see that the veranda continued all the way around the back. On one side was a handrail, separating the house from the garden and the courtyard. The house had tall, elegant windows standing at regular intervals, about five metres apart. The windows reached down almost to the floor and all of them were open. Matt glanced at Pedro, giving him one last chance to back out.

Pedro nodded, as if to say, “I’m with you.”

Matt reached up and used the handrail to pull himself onto the veranda. Now he was as good as inside the house. The roof with its heavy, red tiles stretched over him. Matt waited until Pedro had joined him, then crept round the side.

Almost at once, he heard voices. There was a meeting going on in one of the rooms but in the stillness of the evening the sounds carried. Matt gestured and the two of them crept along the veranda past more sofas and some terracotta pots. They came to an open French window. A man was speaking on the other side. Carefully, inching his way, Matt peered round the corner and looked in.

It was a dining room with a vast wooden table that seemed to have been cut from a single tree. The floor was also made of polished wood and there were wooden panels set into the walls. An iron chandelier – it must have weighed a ton – hung down, illuminating the room not with electric bulbs but with about a hundred candles, each one in its own holder.

There were three men and a woman sitting around the table. Matt recognized one of them instantly and stopped dead, feeling the ground might open beneath him. It was Rodriguez, the police captain who had beaten him up at the hotel in Miraflores. He was in uniform. The other two men wore suits. The woman wore a simple black dress. All of them were listening attentively as they were given their instructions.

The man who was speaking was sitting in a tall wicker chair with his back to the window. Matt could see nothing of him apart from one arm and a hand, resting on one of the chair arms. He had long fingers and seemed to be wearing a linen suit. He was speaking quickly, in good English, only stumbling occasionally over the odd word. Matt whistled very softly to Pedro and nodded his head towards the room. Why were they using his own language? If he listened long enough, he might find out.

“I do not care what is a possibility and what is not,” the man was saying. “I give you the instructions and you will obey. The silver swan must be… en la posicion… in position, five days from now. At midnight exactly. You will have the responsibility for this. You understand, Miss Klein?”

The woman nodded. “It will all be done,” she said. Her English was worse than his, and heavily accented. “But I am needing soon the…” It took her a minute to find the word. “I must have the co-ordinates,” she said.

Now Matt understood. The woman was German and spoke no Spanish. The man was Spanish and spoke no German. They were using English as a common language.

“You will have the co-ordinates as soon as I have them myself,” the man went on. “My agents have been into the Nazca Desert but they have still failed to find the platform.”

“The diary did not give you the position?”

“It gave me the approximate position and it is possible that we now know enough to place the swan exactly where it is meant to be. But I prefer to leave nothing to chance. We have to be careful, but the search continues. Just so long as everything is ready at your end.”

“Of course, Herr Salamanda. Everything will be as you ask…”

That was the end of it. Matt was listening in with his head pressed against the wall, right next to the French window. Pedro was slightly behind him. So he was the one who heard the clunk of boots on wood and realized that at least two guards were making their way towards them, patrolling the full length of the veranda. They were still out of sight, round the front of the house, but in a few seconds they would turn the corner and the two boys would be discovered.

There was only one thing to do. Pedro pushed Matt and the two of them flitted across the open doorway, past the dining room. Matt hoped they wouldn’t be seen in the growing darkness – or if they were, that none of the people in the room would realize they weren’t meant to be there. He heard the woman talking as he went past and wished he could have stayed longer to hear more. But he and Pedro had moved only just in time. A second later, the guards appeared, both of them dressed in loose-fitting khaki overalls and armed with rifles hanging from their shoulders. The veranda was empty.

Matt and Pedro didn’t stop moving until they had reached the back of the house, where they came upon an inner courtyard, immaculately laid out with antique benches surrounding a well and a single, dark-green molle tree in the very centre. There were two more wings to the house, one on each side. Matt noticed that here, some of the windows on the upper floor were barred. Perhaps these were the cells he had been imagining. Could Richard Cole be sitting in one of them right now?

He needed a way up – and saw one, on the opposite side of the yard. An open staircase with a series of arches over a wooden banister, running up to a gallery. But before he could move, a third guard appeared, coming through a doorway on the first floor and making as if to come down. Matt cursed himself. Had he really thought he could just walk in here, find his friend and walk out with him? Was it likely that one of the richest and most powerful men in Peru wouldn’t make sure he had plenty of protection? Sebastian had been right. This was stupid. Worse than that, it was suicide. He and Pedro were going to get caught. They would be handed back to Captain Rodriguez. And neither of them would ever be seen – in Ayacucho or anywhere else – again.

Pedro had obviously had the same thought. Coming here had been a bad idea. He glanced at Matt, who nodded. They would get out of the house and wait. Maybe later, in the middle of the night, it would be safer to take a look around.

Together, they crept round the side of the courtyard, keeping well into the shadows. There were lights on inside the rooms and they could see moths dancing in the doorways, but fortunately no lamps had yet been turned on outside. There was a door leading into the study that they had already seen from the front. They could pass through here and out the other side.

They entered the study.

Matt quickly took in his surroundings. This must be where Diego Salamanda worked. There was a grandeur about the room, the rich tapestries on the walls, the expensive rugs on the floor. A sudden thought occurred to him. If this was Salamanda’s private office, perhaps the diary of St Joseph of Cordoba might be here. He hadn’t thought about the diary since Richard had disappeared. His entire mind had been focused on finding his friend. But suppose he did stumble across it? If he could get his hands on it, perhaps he could use it as a bargaining tool. The diary for Richard. The Nexus would love that – but he didn’t care. Salamanda and the Old Ones could do what they liked. All he wanted was to get out of Peru.

Pedro was already halfway across the room.

“Wait!” Matt whispered.

Pedro stopped and watched in dismay as Matt began to search the desk. It was an ugly piece of furniture, heavier and bigger than it had any right to be, with a leather square let into the surface and gold rings on the drawers. Matt tried one of them. It wasn’t locked but it made so much noise as it was opened, wood creaking against wood, that it could surely be heard throughout the house.

“Que estas haciendo?” Pedro hissed. What are you doing?

“The diary…” Matt replied and Pedro understood. The word was almost the same in English and Spanish.

Pedro went over to the side of the room, where a number of shelves stretched above a modern photocopier. Some of the shelves contained books, but before he could examine them, he noticed a sheet of paper, in the top of the machine.

“Matteo,” he called.

Matt abandoned the desk – most of the drawers were empty and the rest contained nothing of any interest. He came over to the photocopier and took the paper. It was covered in writing, possibly made with an old-fashioned pen or even a quill. Could it have been taken from the diary? Matt cursed quietly. The words were in Spanish. He couldn’t understand them. And Pedro couldn’t read, so he wouldn’t be able to translate them. How much more useless could this break-in have been?

He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. Maybe he would be able to make sense of it later.

There was a movement at the door.

Pedro had seen it first. He stopped where he was, his eyes widening in disbelief. Matt saw the look on his face, turned round and froze. A shiver, as tangible as an electric shock, ran through him. He felt it travel through his arms and up the back of his neck.

He couldn’t see the man who was standing on the other side of the doorway, shrouded in darkness. But he could make out his shape and knew at once that his head was impossibly large, twice as long as it should be, monstrous. The man was holding onto the frame of the door and Matt understood why. He needed help to stand up straight. His neck simply wasn’t strong enough to support his head on its own.

“I thought it was you,” the man said. He was still speaking in English. His voice sounded strained, as if someone were strangling him. “I heard you on the veranda as you went past. But it wasn’t just that. I knew you were there. I have been feeling your presence all evening, just as I feel it now. One of the Five. Two of the Five! Here, in my hacienda! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? What do you want?”

There was no point denying who he was. The man had seen right through Matt’s disguise. He seemed to know everything about him.

“Where’s Richard?” Matt demanded.

“Your friend, the journalist?” Matt could see the lips twist into something that resembled a smile. But this was a face that would never smile properly. “What makes you think I have him? Why should he be here?” Salamanda looked genuinely puzzled. “How did you even find your way to me?”

Matt said nothing. There was no point in answering.

Salamanda turned to Pedro. “Como te llamas?” he demanded.

Pedro spat. Whatever he had been asked, that was his reply.

“What fun I’m going to have with the two of you,” Salamanda muttered. “It’s almost too good to be true. A gift, if you like – and perfectly timed. A week from now, it will all be over. The gate will have opened and not one but two of the Gatekeepers will be mine. I never thought it would be so easy.”

Salamanda stepped into the light and Matt saw his colourless eyes, his babyish mouth, his blotched, horribly stretched skin. It was enough.

“Go!” Matt shouted.

Pedro didn’t need encouraging. The two boys turned and ran, away from the door and out through the window, back towards the outer courtyard. They had no plan. Their only desire was to get away – from this house and from the monster that inhabited it. But even as they jumped down from the veranda and made for the main gate, the church bells sounded, metal striking metal and echoing into the night. Searchlights that they hadn’t even noticed sprang to life, turning black to white and half blinding them in the glare. At the same time, they were aware of guards, half a dozen of them, closing in from all sides. Two of them had Alsatians, straining on thick chains, snapping at the air. Captain Rodriguez had reappeared at the side of the house, watching in anger and disbelief. The strange thing was that nobody seemed to be in a hurry. Two intruders had been discovered. The alarm had been raised. But the guards were almost strolling towards them, deliberately taking their time.

Matt understood why. With a growing sense of hopelessness, he realized that they had nowhere to go. Even if they could escape from the immediate compound, there was a five-mile walk back to the main town, with no other building in sight and nowhere to hide. They could run all they wanted; they would simply be hunted down like rats. Matt swallowed, recognizing the bitter taste of defeat. He had been warned not to come here but he hadn’t listened and as a result he had doomed them both.

He began to raise his hands in surrender – but then everything changed. He saw it first on the faces of the guards, heard it a moment later himself. There was the roar of an engine and as he turned round, a car burst through the gateway and into the courtyard. For a moment, Matt assumed it must belong to Salamanda, another of his men cutting off their last way of escape. But at the same time he knew that something was wrong. The guards had stopped in their tracks. Rodriguez had taken out his gun and was shouting orders.

The car slid to a halt.

“Get in!” a voice called out through the window, first in English, then in Spanish. “Suba al coche!”

There was a burst of gunfire and suddenly it was as though Matt was back in Lima, on his way from the airport. He had never been shot at in his life. Now it had happened twice in the space of a week. Two shots had been fired from the watchtower that he had seen earlier. One bullet hit the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. The other hit the bonnet of the car. That told him everything he needed to know. Whoever was in the car was on his side.

Matt ran forward. There were more shots. The guards seemed to be shooting at the car rather than at Pedro and himself. Were they obeying instructions from Salamanda? It seemed they were wanted alive. Then he saw that the dogs had been released. They were bounding forward, their eyes aflame, their jaws wide open to reveal white, vicious teeth. He and Pedro might not get shot, but if they didn’t reach the car soon they would be torn apart.

“Faster!” the driver shouted.

Pedro got there first. He opened the back door and threw himself onto the seat. Matt dashed for the passenger door. And despite the guns still firing all around him, despite the dogs bounding ever closer through the brilliant, electric light – he froze.

He knew the driver of the car.

The slightly feminine face. Long eyelashes. A thin face with sculpted cheeks, covered by the beginnings of a beard. A half-moon scar next to one eye.

It was one of the men who had kidnapped Richard.

“Get into the car or you will die!” the man shouted.

Two more bullets slammed into the metalwork. A third smashed one of the mirrors. Matt didn’t need any more telling. He dived forward and at the same time, the man slammed the car into reverse, skidding backwards and taking Matt with him. Matt was half in and half out, the door still open. Pedro was sitting, surprisingly calm, on the back seat. The car continued backwards. Matt saw a guard raising his gun. There was a terrible thump and the guard disappeared.

“The door…!” the man began.

There was a hideous snarling and Matt turned just in time to see one of the Alsatians leap at him. It half landed on his leg and he felt its teeth snapping, inches away from his thigh. With a cry, he drew back his other leg and then kicked out. His foot slammed into the dog’s head. It howled and fell back. Matt drew himself into the car and pulled the door shut. The driver had already changed gear. The car shot forward.

But it wasn’t over yet. As if afraid of losing them, the remaining guards all fired at once and Matt yelled as glass and bullets exploded over his head. Next to him, the driver jerked in his seat and Matt felt something wet splatter across his face. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and looked down. His fingers were covered in blood.

He hadn’t been shot. It was the driver. It was Lima all over again except that this time the roles had been reversed. The man with the scar wasn’t firing at them, he was helping him. And he was wounded. He had been hit twice: in the shoulder and the side of the neck. There was blood on the seat and on the dashboard. More blood was spreading rapidly down his shirt. But he was still gripping the wheel, his foot pressed on the accelerator. The car swerved round the courtyard and into the darkness. The driver reached out and turned on the headlamps. The car bounced and rattled back down the track.

“They’ll follow us!” Matt said. He expected to see Salamanda’s men already following in cars or trucks.

“I don’t think so.” The man was trying to keep the pain out of his voice, but Matt could see he had been badly hurt. The blood had spread all the way down to his chest. Soon the whole shirt would be red. He muttered a few words in Spanish. Pedro leant down. When he sat up again, he was holding a handful of wires and fuses. Matt smiled. Somehow the man had reached the hacienda ahead of them. And he had disabled all the vehicles he could find.

“Who are you?” Matt demanded.

“My name is Micos.”

“How did you find us? Where’s Richard?” There were a dozen more questions Matt wanted to ask.

“Not now. Later.”

Matt fell silent. He understood. Micos didn’t have the strength to drive and talk at the same time.

It seemed to take them for ever to reach the end of the dirt track. It was completely dark and the headlights illuminated only a small area ahead. Matt knew they were back on the main road only when the wheels began to turn smoothly, on an asphalt surface. A few moments later, Micos pulled over to the side and stopped.

“Listen to me,” he said, and with a jolt of alarm Matt saw that he had been wounded even more badly than he had feared, that he had very little time left. “You must go to Cuzco.” Micos coughed and swallowed with difficulty. More blood appeared, on his lower lip. “On Friday… the temple of Coricancha. In Cuzco. At sunset.”

He seemed to take a deep breath, as if preparing to tell them more.

“Please, tell Atoc…” he began. But that was all. He was still, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. Matt realized he had just died.

In the back seat, Pedro whimpered.

“We can’t stay here,” Matt said. He didn’t care if the other boy understood or not. “Salamanda will come after us eventually. We have to go.”

The two of them got out. The car was parked right on the edge of the road beside a slope leading into brushwood. Matt turned off the headlamps and released the hand brake. He gestured to Pedro and the two of them began to push the car. It rolled off the road, out of sight.

If anyone did drive out of the hacienda, they would think Matt and Pedro had driven away. They wouldn’t know they were once again on foot.

The moon had come out, lighting the way ahead. Ica couldn’t be more than half a mile away.

“Are you ready?” Matt asked.

“Yes.” Pedro had understood. And he had replied in English.

Together, they set off along the road.