14
The bumpy drive from the ruins took two hours, Nina
and the others sweating in the back of the troop truck. Ahead and
behind it were the Land Cruisers. Kit and Valero looked after
Becker, while Macy tried, with limited success, to comfort the
weeping, terrified Loretta. Nina’s fleeting thoughts of leaping
over the tailgate to escape into the jungle were tempered by the
AK-103s pointed at her companions – and the presence of Cuff’s
body. Loretta’s hysteria at the sight had forced the soldiers to
cover it, but the huddled shape was a constant reminder of Callas’s
ruthlessness.
She knew he would
display that trait again soon enough. The general’s greed had
convinced him to keep her alive – for the moment – in the hope she
could lead him to even greater riches . . . but he had no cause to
spare the others. They had witnessed his plundering of Paititi,
something he wanted to keep secret even after successfully
completing his ‘operation’.
They would have to be
silenced.
The little convoy
turned off the road to Valverde on to a narrower, even rougher
track. A warning sign read Prohibida La
Entrada: Zona Militar. Callas’s domain, a private kingdom.
Here, he could do whatever he wanted to his prisoners, and nobody
would ever know.
The truck slowed.
Nina looked ahead, seeing a chain-link fence topped with coils of
razor wire stretching into the vine-draped trees to each side. A
soldier opened a gate to let the vehicles through. They rumbled on
for a short way before emerging in a large rectangular space
bulldozed out of the jungle.
The military
base.
The Mi-17 was parked
on a concrete helipad, being refuelled. The crate containing the
Inca treasure rested beside it. At the facility’s heart was a giant
rectangular radar antenna, aimed towards the Colombian border. The
rest of the base was less imposing: an assortment of prefabricated
control and administration huts, and tents for the troops luckless
enough to be stationed in the sweltering green hell.
The lead Land Cruiser
stopped beside the helipad, Callas getting out to check the crate.
The other two vehicles pulled up behind it. Stikes emerged from the
second Toyota and strolled to the truck. ‘Everyone comfortable in
there?’ he asked mockingly.
‘For God’s sake,’
said Nina, indicating Becker’s injured leg, ‘he needs a
doctor.’
‘At least give him
something for the pain,’ Kit added.
‘He’ll get something
for the pain soon enough, don’t worry.’ Stikes looked away at a
distant noise. ‘Ah! Excellent timing. My new toy has
arrived.’
Nina followed his
gaze. Off to the southwest was the dot of an approaching helicopter
– two helicopters, she realised,
picking out a smaller one flying alongside.
Callas joined Stikes
by the truck. ‘I wasn’t actually sure this friend of yours could
live up to his promises,’ Stikes said to him. ‘For once, I’m
pleased to be wrong.’
The Venezuelan spat.
‘Pachac is no friend of mine. Maoist scum! If I could do this
without him – or that drug-dealing pig, de Quesada – I would, but I
need their money. For now, at least. After we succeed, I think I
will change the deal. It is time Venezuela was . . . cleaned.’
‘Well, if you need my
services again, you have my card,’ said Stikes. Callas smiled
darkly, then watched the helicopters.
Valero frowned as
they neared, puzzled. ‘What is it?’ Nina asked.
‘The big helicopter –
it is a gunship, Russian. You yanquis
call them Hinds.’ Nina looked more closely as the two choppers
prepared to land. The subject of Valero’s confusion was, she
suspected, every bit as deadly as it was ugly, stubby wings bearing
rocket pods and a huge multi-barrelled cannon beneath its nose. ‘We
have them here in Venezuela – but this one is from
Peru.’
‘Peru?’ Now it was
Nina’s turn to be bewildered. ‘But that’s Colombia over there.
Peru’s four hundred miles away.’
‘I know. And this
Pachac, I have heard of him. He is a communist revolutionary, but a
dangerous one, a killer – even the Shining Path threw him out. He
is also a drug lord.’
‘Sounds like a nice
guy,’ said Macy.
‘If he has got a
gunship, that is bad. If he has brought it to my country to give to
mercenaries, that is worse! I do not like this.’
‘You’re not the only
one,’ said Nina. The Hind moved over the pad, blowing dust and grit
in all directions as it touched down beside the Mil, tripod landing
gear compressing under its armoured weight. The smaller helicopter,
a civilian Jet Ranger, followed suit.
A man climbed from
the Jet Ranger, bending low beneath the still spinning rotors even
though his short stature meant he was in no danger of decapitation.
Like Stikes, he wore a military beret, this one blood-red. Giving
the Hind an almost longing look, he approached Callas and
Stikes.
‘Ah, Inkarrí!’ cried
Callas, suddenly exuding warmth and friendliness towards the new
arrival, who responded with similar, not entirely sincere,
enthusiasm. He was not of Hispanic descent, instead having the
broad features of a native Indian. While far from tall, he had a
powerful chest and muscular arms, his sun-weathered skin showing
that his physique was the result of long outdoor labour rather than
a gym. The two men briefly conversed in Spanish, then Callas
switched to English. ‘Alexander Stikes, meet Arcani
Pachac.’
Stikes and Pachac
shook hands. ‘The mercenary,’ said the Peruvian with vague
disapproval.
‘I simply provide a
service,’ said Stikes. ‘Once the job’s done, I leave. Quick, clean
and efficient, with no messy differences of ideology to cause
problems afterwards.’ A hint of a smile. ‘So, how are your
relations with the Shining Path at the moment?’
Pachac’s eyes widened
with anger. ‘Do not mention those traitors! Counter-revolutionary
bastards!’
‘Well, should you
need help to clean house after overthrowing the bourgeois
imperialist puppets in Lima,’ said the Englishman, still amused,
‘give me a call. In the meantime, I’d like to check the general’s
new acquisition.’ Pachac nodded, and Stikes marched to the Hind.
Its pilot – a Caucasian – climbed out and saluted him, then took
him on an inspection tour of the gunship.
Pachac’s reluctance
to give up the helicopter was clear. ‘The damage we could do if we
could make its weapons work again! I would give you back your
money, and more.’ Revolutionary fervour faded, replaced by
businesslike pragmatism. ‘But speaking of money . . .
’
Callas signalled to a
waiting soldier, who lugged a pair of canvas holdalls, one large,
one small, to the two men. ‘Here. The rest of your payment. Two
million US dollars, in cash.’
The Peruvian opened
the large bag, revealing bundles of banknotes. ‘I’m sure Chairman
Mao would be proud,’ Nina muttered.
Pachac heard her, and
glared up at the truck’s occupants. ‘Who are these yanquis?’
‘Prisoners,’ said
Callas. ‘Don’t worry about them, they will not be here for long.
And speaking of prisoners, I have a gift for you, Inkarrí. Two
gifts, in fact. I think you will like them both.’ He gave an order
to the soldier, and the man jogged away to a nearby hut. By the
time Pachac had satisfied himself that the holdall contained
everything due to him, the soldier was returning with a comrade,
between them hauling a third man, a bound civilian with a bloodied
face.
Even through his
swollen, purpled eyes he saw Pachac, and gasped in fright, trying
to break free. One of the soldiers punched him. The two men dropped
him at their commander’s feet.
Pachac clapped in
cruel delight. ‘Cayo! Ah, Cayo, it has been a while since I last
saw you.’ His voice became a snarl. ‘Since you betrayed me. Since you stole half a million dollars
of my drugs and gave them to de Quesada, along with your loyalty.’
He kicked the helpless man in the chest. ‘You shit!’
‘He was caught
crossing the border with two others,’ said Callas. ‘And ten kilos
of cocaine. He tried to pass himself off as one of your smugglers,
but used an old password. So my men arrested him.’
‘The
others?’
A shrug. ‘They had
unfortunate accidents. They will never be found.’
‘And the
cocaine?’
‘Confiscated, of
course. Venezuela does not tolerate drug smugglers. Ones who don’t
pay, anyway.’
Pachac looked at the
nearby soldiers. ‘Are all the men on this base . . .
yours?’
Callas nodded. ‘They
are all loyal to me, yes. You may do what you wish with this
man.’
‘Very good.’ Pachac
crouched beside Cayo and produced a folding knife, opening it with
a loud metallic snick. The man jerked
up his head, whimpering in fear. ‘Yes, you know that noise, don’t
you? You have heard it before when I have dealt with traitors.’ He
was still speaking in English, glancing up at Nina and the others
as if revelling in the opportunity to perform for a new audience.
Cayo wailed and begged for mercy, but Pachac shoved him down on to
his back. ‘Now, I will deal with you!’
Even with her hands
over her eyes, Loretta still screamed at the sound of Pachac
stabbing the knife deep into Cayo’s torso just below his sternum.
His cries became an almost animalistic screech as the blade sawed
down his body. Blood gushed from the lengthening
wound.
Pachac worked the
knife to the struggling man’s waistband, then sharply withdrew it.
‘And now,’ he said, with almost some twisted form of reverence,
‘capacocha.’
Osterhagen was too
revolted to look, but still reacted to the word with shock. ‘My God
. . . ’
‘What does it mean?’
asked the equally appalled Nina.
‘It is the Inca
ritual . . . of human sacrifice.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ she
gasped, sickened.
Pachac locked his
blood-slicked hands round Cayo’s neck. His victim’s eyes bulged
horribly as he struggled to breathe, coughing up blood. The
Peruvian pushed down, cartilage crackling inside Cayo’s throat. His
legs thrashed, blood spouting from the gaping wound with each kick
. . .
Then his movements
became weaker, slower.
And
stopped.
Pachac released his
hands. There was a gurgling hiss from the dead man’s mouth, a last
release of trapped air, and he was still. His killer lowered his
head, speaking in a language Nina didn’t recognise, then retrieved
his knife and wiped off the blood on the corpse’s
clothing.
‘So that was
capacocha?’ said Callas, having watched
the hideous exhibition with an expression of no more distaste than
if he had discovered a fly on his food.
‘Only the
strangling,’ Pachac told him. ‘The other part is mine. But when I
come to power in Peru as the Inkarrí, it will be how traitors and
the bourgeois are executed.’
‘He’s mad,’ the
trembling Osterhagen whispered to Nina.
‘What does it mean?’
she asked. ‘What’s the Inkarrí?’
‘An Inca myth – a
prophecy, of a leader who will restore the Inca empire to glory. My
God! He really thinks he’s the Inkarrí reborn!’ The German buried
his head in his hands.
Callas gestured to
the two soldiers, who picked up Cayo’s body and slung it into the
back of the truck. Loretta was now too far gone even to scream
again, curled up tightly and rocking back and forth as Macy held
her. Nina, nauseated, looked away from the still bleeding corpse to
see Stikes and the pilot returning from the Hind. ‘Well,’ the
Englishman announced, ‘everything seems in order.’
‘It is ready?’ Callas
asked.
‘It’ll need some
minor maintenance before the operation, but nothing Gurov can’t
handle.’ He nodded at the pilot. ‘It may have been decommissioned,
but everything except the weaponry is still working. And we can
have the fire control systems reinstalled in twenty-four hours. All
it needs is a lick of paint, some ammunition, the transponder code,
and we’re good to go.’
‘Good. Good!’ Callas
beamed. ‘Arcani, I cannot thank you enough. This helicopter is
crucial to Venezuela’s future. Your support is beyond
price.’
‘Unlike the safe
passage of my drugs through your country,’ Pachac replied
sharply.
‘For your help, you
will get a very big discount on the percentage you pay me! But I
told you I have another gift.’ He presented the smaller holdall to
the Peruvian. ‘Here.’
Pachac, not sure what
to expect, opened the bag. Inside was a polished wooden box, about
eight inches square. He lifted the lid – and gasped.
Nina craned her neck
for a better look. She was almost as impressed as Pachac by the
box’s contents: a smaller version of the golden sun disc, with
elaborate tongues of ‘fire’ spiralling out from its
edges.
‘An Inca treasure,’
said Callas. ‘I thought you should have it.’
Pachac’s wonder
quickly faded, resentment surfacing. ‘While you sell the other lost
treasures of my people to anyone who has the dollars.’
‘They were found in
Venezuela,’ Callas said patronisingly. ‘So they belong to my
people, not yours. And you could have bid for any of them – if your
followers in the True Red Way did not mind you spending millions of
dollars of the cause’s money on golden trinkets . . .
’
The Peruvian snapped
the box shut and turned angrily away, taking in the crate next to
the Venezuelan helicopter for the first time. Realisation dawned as
its odd dimensions suggested what it might contain. He whirled back
to Callas. ‘That – that is—’
‘The Punchaco, yes,’
Callas replied. ‘Two tons of Inca gold.’
‘You must let me have
it. You must.’ Pachac was almost
pleading. ‘It is the greatest symbol of the Incas – of my people.
We must have it back!’
‘The gold alone is
worth more than you can afford, Inkarrí.’ The general’s use of the
title now held more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘And because it
is an Inca treasure, it is even more
valuable. But I have found a buyer.’
Pachac’s face paled.
‘No . . . ’ he whispered, then more forcefully, with rising anger:
‘No! Not him!’
‘Yes, your old friend
- your old partner, Francisco de
Quesada. He can afford it. And anything else he desires. You could
have been the same, if you had concentrated on business and not
politics . . . ’
The Maoist’s teeth
clenched in rage. ‘He only wants it to insult me! And you cannot
even get it to him. My contacts told me that your smuggler, West,
was arrested. Without him, it will never get through customs – and
what else can you do, drive it through the jungle? There are many
bandits round here. On both sides of the border.’ He gave Callas a
pointed look. ‘You cannot give it to him.’
Callas laughed. ‘I am
not giving it to him. He has already
paid me the first twenty million dollars!’
Pachac looked down
sharply at the bundles of banknotes. ‘You are paying me with that
bastard’s money?’ A burst of invective, again in the unfamiliar
language. ‘Give me the Punchaco, or this deal is off!’
‘The deal has been
agreed, Arcani,’ said Callas.
‘I am not leaving
without the Punchaco.’ Pachac’s right hand slipped inside his
camouflage jacket.
The soldiers snapped
up their AK-103s. Callas’s face was now stone. ‘Remember where you
are, Pachac,’ he growled. ‘You have your money, my thanks, and even
my gift. Take them, and have your revolution. But do not challenge
me in my own country. It will be painful.’
The shorter man
glared at him, breathing heavily. Finally, he zipped up the
holdall, then picked it up and, the wooden box under one arm,
strutted without a word back to the Jet Ranger.
‘Communist scum,’
snarled Callas once the Peruvian was aboard.
Stikes appeared
entertained by the whole confrontation. ‘I did rather enjoy the
hypocrisy, though. A man who’s such a hard-core Maoist that he
thinks the Shining Path are counter-revolutionary, making millions
by selling drugs. Holding two completely conflicting viewpoints at
the same time? No wonder he’s insane.’
‘He did have a point,
though,’ Callas admitted. ‘Without West, getting the Punchaco to de
Quesada will be very difficult. And I need the rest of his payment
– even after the operation succeeds, there will be chaos. The only
way to calm it will be with money to the right people. Lots of
money.’
An odd smile crept on
to Stikes’s face, and he gave Nina a calculating look. ‘I think I
may have a way.’
Callas regarded him
questioningly, but before he could speak the Jet Ranger took off,
sweeping more dust across the helipad. Stikes brushed grit from his
sleeves and addressed the Russian pilot. ‘Gurov, take the Hind to
the staging area and restore the weapons. General,’ he said to
Callas as Gurov returned to the gunship, ‘we should get back to the
Clubhouse – there are still tactical issues to
discuss.’
Callas nodded, then
looked at the prisoners in the truck. ‘First we deal with them. Dr
Wilde is the only one we need alive. The others—’
‘Jindal too,’ Stikes
interrupted.
‘What?’ Callas asked,
confused, as Nina and Kit exchanged shocked looks. ‘The Interpol
agent? Why him?’
‘I have my reasons.’
He let the words hang in the air as he regarded Kit
thoughtfully.
‘Get them down,’
Callas ordered. The soldiers in the truck forced Nina and Kit to
their feet.
‘Let them go,’ Nina
demanded. ‘If you kill them, you might as well kill me too, because
I’ll never tell you what you want to know.’
The Venezuelan
smiled, a chilling crocodile grin. ‘That sounds like a challenge,
Dr Wilde. And as I told Pachac, challenging me results in pain.
Great pain.’
He shouted more
commands in Spanish: for a forklift to load the crate containing
the Punchaco aboard the Mil; two men to take a Jeep to Valverde and
clear out any personal effects from the expedition’s hotel rooms;
the prisoners to be driven to ‘the hole’. Whatever it was, it was
clear that the trip would be one way. Callas began to walk
away—
‘Bastardo!’ yelled Valero. He dived for one of the
soldiers’ weapons, only to be clubbed down and kicked repeatedly in
the head and chest. Macy jumped up, shouting for them to stop, but
was shoved to the bloodstained floor.
‘Let them go,’ Nina
repeated. This time, it was not a demand but a plea for
mercy.
None was forthcoming.
Callas waved a hand, and the truck drove away, the prisoners at
gunpoint in its back.