Empire of Gold

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! F*ck 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 f*cking thing?’ Eddie exclaimed, after Mac had described his dealings with the British intelligence agency. ‘I knew you can’t trust a f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*ck’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.