Empire of Gold

40


Station fourteen of the natural gas pipeline that ran along the Pacific coast towards Lima squatted behind a high chain-link fence, a cluster of dull grey metal tanks and rumbling pumps. It was a lonely outpost, a few kilometres beyond San Bartolo in the crumpled foothills of the Andes, and the sense of isolation was increased by its being completely automated. The status of the pumps was monitored from Lima, only closed-circuit television cameras watching over the remote compound.

The cameras were just one of Kit’s concerns as he turned off the Panamerica Highway and drove his car, a loaner provided by Interpol, down the access road. If he were caught on video, it might raise questions he would rather not answer. But then he noticed that the chain securing the gate had been cut – and that the gate was in plain view of a camera. Presumably Stikes had sabotaged or hacked the CCTV in some way.

All the same, he kept his head down to conceal his face as he left the car. This close, he could hear not only the thrum of machinery, but a continual low rushing sound – the noise of hundreds of cubic metres of gas flowing through the great stainless steel pipeline every second. He looked through the chain-link for any sign of Stikes. The tallest tanks were at the northern end, a catwalk running round them above numerous pipes and valves. The walkway continued above the main pipeline to what he guessed was a control station. The whole facility was bordered to its east by a low escarpment, and a flight of metal steps led up it from the controls. He now realised why Stikes had chosen this particular place to meet: the plateau served as a helicopter landing pad.

The empty pad wasn’t for the mercenary’s Hind, though. It was for the person the Interpol officer would soon be summoning . . . if Stikes lived up to his end of the deal.

Where was he? Kit surveyed the pumping station. Since it was automated, there were only a few lights, and they were more for the benefit of the surveillance cameras than visitors. Reflections glinted off pipes, picking out a steel maze amongst the shadows . . .

Stikes came into view, climbing a ladder up to the central catwalk. He gestured impatiently for Kit to approach. With a wary glance at the nearest camera, Kit opened the gate and crossed the dusty ground to the machinery. He ascended a ladder, feeling the pulse of the pumps through the metal.

Stikes waited for him, dressed in dark military fatigues, beret on his head. The Jericho gleamed in its holster. At his feet was the case he had taken from El Dorado. ‘You’re late,’ he said.

‘I had to organise a car,’ Kit explained.

Stikes regarded the Indian’s vehicle. ‘Did you come alone?’

‘Yes, of course. Are you alone?’

‘Of course not.’ The Englishman smiled coldly. ‘Two of my men are covering you with rifles. See if you can spot them.’

Kit turned nervously, eyes darting across the pipework. So many hiding places . . . but a sniper would need to be in an elevated position to avoid having his aim blocked by the steelwork. He raised his gaze, finally seeing one of the men: a ladder led up one of the smaller gas tanks to a narrow platform on top of it. A dark shape was barely visible against the clear night sky, the station’s lights reflecting faintly off a rifle barrel.

‘One on the tank,’ he said, continuing his search, ‘and . . . ’ He was forced to admit defeat. ‘I can’t see the other.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ said Stikes. ‘Gurov’s outside the fence.’ His gaze briefly flicked towards the escarpment.

‘So are they going to shoot me?’

‘Only if you don’t give me what I want. So.’ Stikes straightened, putting his hands on his hips. ‘Am I going to be introduced to the Group?’

‘Have you brought the statues?’

Stikes nudged the box forward. Kit crouched and opened it. The three statues were inside; two intact, one split in half, but both the pieces present. He picked one up, feeling the weight of the stone, the texture of the ancient carving. They were genuine.

Finally reunited.

‘Well?’ Stikes demanded. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Yes,’ said Kit, standing.

‘Good.’ He produced a satellite phone. ‘Make the call. I’m sure you remember the number.’

The meeting with the president of Peru had been relatively brief and, to Nina’s mind, entirely unnecessary, accomplishing nothing that couldn’t have waited until the following day. Though ostensibly to congratulate her on discovering El Dorado, it was actually a far more political affair, the country’s leader firmly planting the flag of Peru on the lost city and the incredible wealth it contained, while simultaneously making it clear that the IHA’s role would be downplayed as much as he could get away with. Zender and the Peruvian archaeologists had already been elevated to the status of national heroes, brave explorers who had sacrificed their lives to bring the incredible find to the world.

Nina was too tired to raise more than a token objection, but in truth was neither surprised nor particularly bothered by the land-grab. She had experienced similar attempts by governments to claim credit for her discoveries – the Algerians for the Tomb of Hercules, the Egyptians for the Pyramid of Osiris – but so long as she could put her own account out via the UN, the countries involved could spin events however they liked. Ultimately, what mattered was not who had found a treasure thought lost to time, but that it had been found at all.

A government car brought her back to the villa, where she met Osterhagen as he descended the stairs. The German looked utterly exhausted, apparently having slept from the moment he was shown to his room. He was still in the same crumpled, torn clothes, too weary even to undress before collapsing on the bed. ‘Nina,’ he yawned. ‘Where have you been?’

She gave him a precis of the meeting. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said with faint amusement, ‘I have experienced the same thing. An occupational hazard.’

‘Ain’t it just.’ Macy hurried into the lobby, looking anxious. ‘Hey, Macy. What’s up?’

‘It’s about Eddie.’ With an apologetic smile to Osterhagen, Macy hastily guided her away from the German archaeologist, who shrugged and went in search of the kitchen. ‘I’m worried about him.’

‘Me too. I think it’ll take a while before he can deal with everything that’s happened today.’

‘No, no, that’s the thing – the day’s not over. He’s gone!’

‘What? Gone where?’

‘Some place called San Bartolo. We were talking, and he suddenly went all weird, and started asking one of the staff how to get there.’

‘Weird how?’

‘I mean, he was pissed. But scary-pissed. Like he was so angry that it wasn’t showing on the outside, you know?’

Nina did know; she had seen that kind of cold fury before, not least earlier that day, and it never boded well. ‘Why was he angry? What were you talking about?’

‘About what happened at El Dorado – something to do with Kit. I told him what I was doing just before Mr McCrimmon got shot, and he got mad and kept saying I was remembering it wrong. Then he went quiet, like he was working something out, and then he found the maid and wanted to know how to get to San Bartolo.’ She thought for a moment. ‘No, not San Bartolo; somewhere near it, a pumping station on some gas pipeline. Station fourteen.’

‘What’s it got to do with Kit?’

‘I don’t know. But it seemed like he was comparing what I told him with what Kit told him, and then he said something about the statues – and that’s when he got angry. He took a cab.’

The statues. Nina made the connection. ‘Oh God.’

Eddie had somehow realised what Kit had been trying to keep from him: that Interpol was making a deal with Stikes to recover the statues. But Eddie would only be interested in revenge – for her torture, for Mac’s death. And he would be going after Stikes.

And if his anger was because he believed Kit had betrayed him by dealing with the mercenary – or worse, that he was somehow in league with him . . .

‘When did he leave?’ she asked Macy urgently.

‘I don’t know – a half-hour ago? What is it?’

‘I think Eddie’s about to do something he’ll regret. How do we get to this pumping station?’

‘That is it,’ said the taxi driver, pointing.

Eddie saw a handful of lights in the darkness off the Panamerica Highway. Gas tanks and pipes behind a fence, a small cliff beyond the facility. A car was parked outside the gate.

Except for the burning coal of his fury, his mind was completely analytical, assessing the scene from a tactical perspective. The car had to be Kit’s, and if he was there, Stikes would be too. But it was unlikely he would have come alone. So where would the other mercenaries be?

Elevated positions, where they could both cover their boss and watch the road. On top of the tanks, on the cliff. No way to know how many – but Stikes’s forces had been winnowed down at El Dorado, and it was unlikely he would have been able to drum up more at such short notice. He had left the cavern with only the Hind’s pilot and one other man . . .

The driver started to slow for the turning on to the dirt road. ‘No, keep going,’ Eddie told him. He looked down the highway, seeing taillights disappear round a curve in the distance. ‘Stop once we get round the next corner.’

He turned his attention to the rugged landscape. Scrubby bushes, small trees. Adequate cover. It would take him ten to fifteen minutes to make a stealthy crossing.

The taxi passed the pumping station. Eddie looked back, seeing movement. Two figures on an elevated walkway. Even at this distance, he recognised them both.

Stikes. And Kit.

His fears had been confirmed. They were working together.

The coal inside him burned hotter.

Stikes’s satellite phone warbled. The mercenary answered it, then gave Kit a crooked smile. ‘It’s for you.’

Kit took the phone, listened to the brief message, then disconnected. ‘The helicopter is on its way,’ he reported. ‘It should be here in about twenty minutes.’

Stikes checked his watch, then nodded. He noticed Kit looking towards the gate. ‘Something wrong?’

‘The security cameras. It could be hard for me to explain to Interpol what was going on if this is recorded – and the Group’s representative certainly won’t want to be seen.’

Stikes tutted. ‘Do you think I’m an amateur? The camera at the gate is sending a looped recording – and as long as we stay away from the pumps,’ he gestured at the machinery behind Kit, ‘none of the others can see us. I don’t particularly want to appear on Candid Camera either.’

‘I suppose not.’ He turned his gaze back to the gate and the road beyond, seeing a lone car pass out of sight round a bend.

‘You want me to wait?’ asked the taxi driver.

‘No, that’s fine,’ said Eddie, paying him and providing a generous tip before getting out. The driver shrugged, then drove away.

Eddie started uphill through the undergrowth towards the escarpment.

With no time to go through the rigmarole of obtaining a car through government or United Nations channels, Nina and Macy had followed Eddie’s example and got the maid to summon a taxi. It was now heading through Lima’s southern outskirts for the Panamerica Highway. ‘How long before we get to this station?’ Nina asked.

Macy put the question to the driver in Spanish. ‘About twenty-five minutes,’ she said after getting an answer. ‘And yes, I already told him that we’re in a rush.’

Nina tapped her foot in impatience – and worry. Would they get there in time to stop Eddie making a mistake?

Kit broke off from pacing the catwalk to check his watch. Over twenty minutes had passed since the phone call, and there was still no sign of a helicopter. The Group’s representative might simply be being cautious . . . but might also have decided that the risk was too great and abandoned the meeting.

And their operative. The thought twisted his stomach into a knot. He glanced at the gas tank. Stikes’s sniper was still lying on the platform. The Interpol officer had no doubts whatsoever that Stikes would kill him the moment he felt things had gone wrong . . .

A new sound over the unceasing rumble of the gas pumps. Rotor blades. The helicopter.

Unable to conceal a sigh of relief, he looked for the noise’s source, seeing strobe lights in the sky to the west.

Eddie also heard the incoming chopper, and froze behind one of the tanks. Stikes and Kit showed no signs of surprise or alarm, so they were expecting it. Who was aboard?

For now, that was irrelevant. What mattered was that it gave him a deadline: it was no more than two minutes away from touching down. He had to be finished before it arrived.

He set off again, moving through the pumping station’s shadows until he reached the ladder up one of the tanks. From here, the sound of the pumps was a steady, churning rumble, backed by the low-frequency hiss of gas rushing through the main pipeline. It would mask the sound of his climb – and better yet, he realised as he took hold of the ladder, there was a vibration running through the framework that would camouflage his steps.

He began to climb. The tank was about thirty feet high. As he approached its top he slowed, cautiously peering on to the platform.

A man dressed in black lay upon it, back to him.

One of Stikes’s men, armed with a SCAR rifle with a telescopic sight. He wasn’t looking through the scope, though; he was watching the approaching helicopter.

Eddie waited, poised at the top of the ladder. If he climbed any higher, the man might catch him in his peripheral vision and raise the alarm. The chopper was now only a minute out. Look away, dammit!

After another agonising few seconds, the man finally moved his eye back to the sight. Eddie carefully climbed the last few rungs to crouch on the platform just behind the sniper . . .

Then he lunged, grabbing the mercenary’s head and yanking it back as hard as he could, wrapping an arm tightly round his throat.

The sniper made a choked gurgling sound, dropping the SCAR and trying to claw at his attacker’s face. Eddie squeezed harder, twisting sharply – and a crunch of crushed cartilage came from the sniper’s neck, followed by the muffled snap of bone. The man went limp.

Eddie dropped him and caught the SCAR by its strap just before it tipped over the platform’s edge. He lay beside the dead man, recognising him as Voeker, and quickly and expertly checked the gun. A full load of thirty 5.56mm rounds, and the scope was a high-quality night vision unit, a sharp red chevron superimposed over the centre of the shimmering green image.

He lined up the chevron’s point on Stikes’s head. The mercenary leader was completely unaware of him, a sitting duck. All he had to do was pull the trigger . . .

It wasn’t mercy that stopped his finger from tightening – he had already decided that Stikes was going to die. Instead, it was the urge to find out what was going on, to catch everybody involved. The helicopter swung overhead, kicking up dust as it settled on the pad. Stikes picked up the case, and the two men on the catwalk headed for the metal stairs.

Eddie moved the sight to the helicopter. A young, beefy blond man in a dark suit climbed out. Was this the contact? No - he hurried round to the aircraft’s far side to open the door for another passenger.

At first, all he could see beneath the fuselage was a pair of black stiletto-heeled boots. Then the new arrival strode into view.

He was so shocked that he almost dropped the rifle.

The person meeting Stikes was someone he knew. Someone he thought was dead.

His ex-wife. Sophia.