Empire of Gold

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. ‘F*ck 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 f*ck 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.