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.