Empire of Gold

26


Colombia


Francisco de Quesada leaned against the door frame, hoping the view would calm his frustration and anger. It wasn’t so much the scenery he was admiring – though the impossibly blue sweep of the Caribbean beyond the clifftop edge of his palacio’s infinity pool was certainly something to behold – as the occupants of the pool itself, a pair of stunningly beautiful women who had responded to his click of the fingers by entering a passionate, lip-locking embrace, making a show of unfastening each other’s bikini tops. There was normally nothing like a pair of twenty-year-old bisexual models to take his mind off life’s burdens.

Not today, though. The weight hanging over him was too heavy to ignore. Annoyed, he turned back to his guests, who were studiously attempting to ignore the display in the pool. ‘I don’t see why you can’t make this go away,’ he snapped. ‘You have done before – why not now?’

His visitors shifted uncomfortably, and not solely because they were wearing formal suits in the humid heat. ‘The thing is,’ said Corwin Bloom, the bald and doleful chief representative of the American law firm de Quesada had on permanent standby, ‘with all the previous charges against you, the evidence could be made out to be tainted and therefore inadmissible, or witnesses, ah . . . dealt with. But on this occasion you were seen by millions of people on national television making a deal with General Callas.’

‘That was in Venezuela, not Colombia. Surely that doesn’t count as admissible evidence?’

‘The DEA submitted it,’ said Bloom’s assistant, Alison Goldberg, a starchy young woman in black-rimmed glasses and stiletto heels. ‘Under the rules of Plan Colombia, evidence obtained by the DEA, no matter from where in the world, is admissible in Colombian narcotics-related cases.’

Bloom put down his briefcase on a table and opened it, handing a document to the drug lord. ‘This is a memo we, ah, obtained from within the Ministry of Justice, from the minister himself.’ De Quesada began to read it, his expression rapidly darkening as he flicked through the pages. ‘To summarise, they think they have you.’

The Colombian hurled the papers to the floor. ‘No one has me!’ he snarled, snapping his fingers angrily at a broad-shouldered bodyguard standing near a drinks cabinet. By the time de Quesada reached him, the man had poured a large glass of Scotch and soda filled with clinking ice cubes. He downed half the amber liquid in a single gulp, and crunched a cube between his teeth.

‘We also learned there is a plan in motion to take you into custody,’ said Goldberg.

De Quesada whirled on her. ‘And you didn’t tell me this the moment you came through my door?’ He looked in alarm at the bodyguard, who hurried away to alert his comrades.

‘They’re waiting for the final warrants to be signed,’ said Bloom. ‘We have a source inside the Ministry who will alert us as soon as this happens. You’ll have ample warning.’

‘Not if they’re already here.’ He crossed to a window and looked suspiciously out at the cliffs across the channel.

‘We didn’t see anyone when we arrived,’ said Goldberg.

‘No. You wouldn’t.’ De Quesada finished his drink, chewed another ice cube, then waved for the Americans to follow him. ‘Tell me what my options are.’

They entered a broad hall, the walls decorated with artworks old and new – and the khipu, pinned to a board like a giant bedraggled moth. ‘There is the usual ploy of dragging the matter out in court, of course,’ said Bloom. ‘Challenging of evidence and witnesses and so forth—’

‘I don’t want this to even get to court,’ de Quesada growled. ‘I meant, what are my options for leaving the country?’

‘Limited,’ Goldberg told him. ‘It would give the American government the excuse it needed to freeze your assets worldwide. And then there’s the issue of extradition . . .’ She tailed off as the Colombian went into a white-tiled room – and unzipped his fly.

‘What? Haven’t you ever seen a man take a piss before? Keep talking,’ he demanded. But both lawyers had been left speechless by the bizarre nature of his bathroom. Rather than a lavatory, the room housed a sunken square four feet to a side. Incredibly, set into its floor was the stolen sun disc. An unimaginable fortune in gold, a priceless cultural treasure . . . now acting as a urinal.

Hearing no further legal advice forthcoming, de Quesada looked over his shoulder. ‘Oh, this?’ he said, anger briefly diminishing as he took the opportunity to boast. ‘A little trinket I bought in Venezuela. I thought it would take weeks to arrive, but my new shipping company was very efficient. Now every time I take a piss, I’m pissing on the culture of my old friend Arcani Pachac! I may even send him a picture – although I doubt he has good cell reception in the mountains of Peru.’

‘Ah . . . quite,’ said Bloom, as de Quesada shook himself off and zipped up. ‘But on the subject of extradition—’ His phone trilled. ‘Excuse me.’

Now de Quesada was all business, watching intently as the lawyer listened. ‘Was that your man?’ he said as Bloom terminated the call.

‘I’m afraid so. The warrant has been signed.’

‘This way,’ the drug lord ordered, pushing past them and continuing down the hall.

Two of his men met the trio. ‘Jefe!’ said one. ‘I just talked to someone in the village. He said some trucks went down your road and haven’t come back.’

‘When?’

‘About two hours ago.’

De Quesada glared accusingly at the two lawyers. ‘I told you, we didn’t see anyone,’ Goldberg said, trying to conceal her sudden nervousness.

De Quesada whispered to the bodyguards, who nodded and jogged back to the room overlooking the infinity pool. ‘In here,’ the Colombian said, leading the Americans to a set of arched double doors. He opened them to reveal a large room that was a combination of luxurious lounge and office, leather armchairs and couches laid out before a black chrome desk with a top of polished granite. Along one wall was a bar with hundreds of different bottles arranged behind it – and above them a large, yet seemingly empty, aquarium.

Goldberg regarded the glass tank curiously, but de Quesada passed a second archway to the hall and went behind the bar to the shelves at its end. He pulled out one particular bottle – which only slid so far before stopping with a click. ‘My vault,’ he told the intrigued pair. ‘There are some documents I don’t want them to find, you understand?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Bloom.

‘Good.’ He swung the shelves away to reveal a small room hidden behind them. Goldberg tried to peer inside, but at his stare switched her attention back to the aquarium. ‘You like my pets?’ he asked. Both lawyers were puzzled, seeing nothing. ‘There, in the middle.’

Goldberg stepped behind the bar, finally spotting one of the tank’s occupants: a little yellow octopus, two of its suckered tentacles holding it to the transparent wall. She leaned closer, hesitantly tapping the glass. The octopus leapt away, turning a far brighter yellow with rings of black and vivid blue appearing all over its body. Eight limbs pulsing in unison, it shot towards the surface.

‘Don’t stand too close,’ said de Quesada. ‘It’s a blue-ringed octopus – one of the world’s deadliest creatures. If it bites you . . . you’ll die.’

‘The glass looks quite thick,’ she said, covering her brief shock with haughty indifference.

‘Maybe, but the tank has no top – and they can climb.’

She hurriedly retreated. De Quesada laughed harshly. ‘Now, here is what I want you to do,’ he said. ‘Wait on the bridge for them to arrive, and do not let them pass. Say you need to check the warrant, any legal shit you can think of, just hold them up for as long as you can.’

‘This . . . isn’t really what you hired us for,’ said Goldberg.

‘I hired you to keep me out of prison, and I pay you a lot of money to do it. So do it. Consider it part of your client service.’ The bodyguard entered, carrying Bloom’s briefcase. ‘Take your case and go. Keep them busy.’ When they didn’t move immediately, he barked: ‘Now!’

Affronted, Bloom collected his case and the lawyers departed. The bodyguard waited until they were gone, then went to the bar. ‘Did you do it?’ de Quesada asked.

‘Yes, jefe.’ He handed the drug lord a small remote control unit. ‘Everything is set.’

‘Good. Tell the others to arm up. And bring Alicia and Sylvie here – I want them as my last line of defence.’ A cruel smirk. ‘No man would dare shoot them.’ He returned to the hidden vault. ‘I have to destroy the hard drives. Get ready – they will be coming!’

‘The guy may be a criminal,’ admitted Nina, ‘but he’s got a gorgeous house.’

The combined force from Interpol, the Drug Enforcement Administration and the Colombian police – and the two representatives of the International Heritage Agency – was concealed amongst the trees along the clifftop, looking at the little island below. De Quesada’s villa had been impressive enough in photos, but in reality it was magnificent; white walls gleaming in the sunlight.

‘Nice taste in bodyguards, too,’ said Eddie, taking a closer look through binoculars.

Nina could guess at what – or whom – he was looking. ‘Give me those,’ she snapped, wresting the binoculars from his grip as the two young women emerged from the infinity pool and padded, still topless, into the building. ‘And I’m pretty sure they’re way below your “half the man’s age plus seven years” rule.’

Eddie grinned. ‘No harm in looking.’

‘There will be if I catch you doing it again.’ She panned along the house to the crossing. While it seemed solidly built, it was still merely a footbridge, too narrow to accommodate vehicles. The drug lord’s cars were kept in a garage on the mainland, outside which an SUV had stopped and disgorged a suited man and woman about twenty minutes earlier.

She moved her view back to the island. At each end of the bridge were tall and stout wooden poles, a cable that she guessed was a power line hanging between them. Near the far pole was the house’s main entrance – the doors of which suddenly opened. ‘Someone’s coming out.’

It was the suited couple. ‘De Quesada’s lawyers,’ said Baker.

‘They don’t look happy.’ The pair were in the midst of an agitated discussion.

‘I think I know why.’ Nina looked round to see Kit, holding several sheets of paper, and Probst slipping through the bushes. ‘This just came through over the mobile fax.’

Baker took the pages. ‘Outstanding.’

‘The warrant?’ Eddie asked.

‘Signed, sealed and delivered. We now have full authority to go in and get that son of a bitch. Okay, Mr Jindal, Dr Wilde, Mr Chase, wait here until we’re done. Walther, are the snipers covering the jetty?’

Probst nodded. ‘We can take out the boats any time.’

‘Great. Okay, time to kick ass . . . ’ He stopped, seeing that the lawyers had come to a standstill three-quarters of the way across the bridge. ‘Now what the hell are those two doing?’

The answer came as the man called out in American-accented Spanish. ‘Well, shit!’ exclaimed Baker.

‘What’s he saying?’ Eddie asked.

The DEA agent shook his head in disgust. ‘They want to talk to us. Guess they heard about the warrant.’

‘So much for the element of surprise,’ Nina said gloomily. ‘Now what do we do?’

Probst surveyed the house. ‘I don’t like it. It could be a trap.’

‘We outnumber them three to one,’ Baker said dismissively, ‘we’ve got an elevated position and superior firepower, and all their escape routes are cut off. That son of a bitch is just trying to buy time so he can destroy anything incriminating. Mr Cruz!’ he called. The head of the Colombian SWAT team, who had been standing beside a six-wheeled truck giving last-minute instructions to his men, hurried over. ‘You and four of your guys, come with me. We’ll see what these clowns have to say. Get the rest ready to move in. Walther, keep your guys on lookout.’

Cruz signalled to his unit, and four black-clad cops joined him. Baker summoned four more DEA agents, and the ten men, weapons at the ready, headed for the bridge. Probst and Kit moved away to organise the Interpol team.

‘Not keen on this,’ Eddie muttered.

‘You think it’s a trap too?’ asked Nina. The two lawyers were still waiting on the bridge.

‘Yeah, but . . . I don’t know what this arsehole’s got planned. And that worries me.’ He took the binoculars back from Nina and checked the villa once more.

Inside the house, de Quesada looked back at him through his own binoculars from behind a Venetian blind on the upper floor. One of his bodyguards had spotted movement in the trees. With their cover blown, the intruders were less concerned about secrecy.

Which could be their fatal mistake. ‘How many?’ he asked.

‘At least fifteen people,’ his bodyguard replied, hefting his M16 assault rifle. ‘Probably more.’

The drug lord clicked his tongue, not liking the odds even with his contingency plan ready to go. ‘They’ll be watching the boats . . .’ He stopped when he picked out a dash of contrasting colour amongst the greenery. A woman, her fiery red hair standing out clearly.

A familiar woman. ‘What’s she doing here?’ he asked himself, recognising Nina Wilde from their meeting at the Clubhouse. Why would an archaeologist be accompanying a police raid?

The answer was obvious. ‘Wait here and get ready to shoot,’ he ordered as he headed downstairs to the hall. Two more armed bodyguards lurked near the front door; he ignored them, instead going to one of the artworks.

The khipu. He plucked it from the board, then hurried back to his office, glancing into the bathroom as he passed. The sun disc was obviously far more valuable, almost certainly the main reason for Wilde’s presence, but unlike the khipu it could hardly be slipped into a pocket. Wilde had told him that the lengths of string were potentially worth millions to the right buyer; he might soon need the cash.

But first, he had to make sure he remained free. He entered his office, where he found the dark-haired Alicia and the blonde Sylvie waiting for him. He gave their naked breasts an appreciative look. ‘You know what to do?’

‘Yeah, babe,’ said Alicia, raising her imposing weapon: an AA-12 automatic shotgun, its twenty-round drum magazine making it look like a futuristic gangster’s Tommy gun. Sylvie was similarly armed, and both women’s wide-eyed, hyper expressions told him they had just snorted considerable amounts of confidence-boosting cocaine off the marble table. ‘We won’t let anyone in until you’re done.’

‘Good.’ He kissed her, then did the same to Sylvie before going through the hidden door.

It was a shame to lose such hot companions, he thought as he placed a small thermite block on top of the computer containing his financial records. But then, he could always find more.

A CCTV monitor showed him the bridge, Bloom and Goldberg still standing partway across it. As he watched, the cops finally revealed themselves, ten armed men trooping to the crossing.

He tugged out a tab to light the thermite’s fuse and retreated to the bar, shielding his eyes. The block ignited, sparks spitting as the matchbox-sized incendiary device almost instantly melted through the plastic case, the hard drive inside it and the shelf on which the computer was sitting, and finally made a sterling effort to burrow into the concrete floor.

The girls gave him worried looks, but he smiled reassuringly and, wafting away the smoke, returned to the vault. In an ideal world he would have closed the door to ensure total security, but the stench of vaporised plastic and metal was choking in the confined space.

Another look at the screen. The SWAT team was now on the bridge, marching to meet the lawyers.

He gathered up the items he needed – a clutch of passports, a flash drive containing Swiss bank account details, an encrypted cell phone, a wad of high-denomination banknotes of assorted currencies, and the khipu – and sealed them in a watertight Ziploc bag, then held the remote. Any second now . . .

‘Are you with the DEA?’ asked Bloom, blocking the SWAT team’s path.

Baker tapped the huge DEA logo emblazoned across his body armour. ‘What gave it away?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Let us through.’

‘You’re not taking another step across this bridge until we see a warrant,’ Goldberg said firmly. ‘We have reason to believe that our client’s rights are being violated by the issuing of an illegal search order, and we demand to inspect said order before we allow you on his property.’

‘In accordance with the Colombian legal code,’ added Bloom.

Baker looked irritably to Cruz. ‘Is that right?’ The Colombian nodded. ‘Well, good thing I brought these.’ He thrust the faxed documents at the lawyer. ‘Read fast, ’cause one way or another, we’re crossing this bridge.’

Bloom handed the papers to his partner. ‘I need my reading glasses,’ he said, opening his briefcase.

It contained a laptop, several folders of documents, assorted pens and a spectacle case, for which Bloom reached . . . before he registered something extra amongst his belongings. A booksized block of a dull yellow putty-like substance, to which was taped a small electronic device, a red light glowing on it.

He stared at it in bewilderment. ‘What—’

The brick of C-4 plastic explosive detonated.