Temple

by Matthew Reilly

  As Race ran down the path, his radio earpiece suddenly burst to life:

  “—an Lewen, report. Repeat. Cochrane, Reichart, Van Lewen, report—”

  It was Nash. Their radios were working again. The Nazis must have turned off their jamming system, or at least taken it out of range.

  Van Lewen spoke as he ran. “Colonel, this is Van Lewen. We’ve lost Reichart and Cochrane is wounded. But the Nazis have the idol. Repeat. The Nazis have the idol. I have Professor Race with me now. We’re on our way back to the village.”

  “You lost the idol?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get it back,” was all Nash said.

  Race and Van Lewen came to the western log-bridge. They stepped cautiously over it, guns up.

  The village was deserted, cloaked in fog. No Nazis in sight. No rapas either.

  Immediately in front of them, they saw the dark shape of the ATV turned up on its side. To their left, they could see the shadows of the various buildings of Vilcafor rising out of the fog.

  Van Lewen took a step toward the ATV.

  “Colonel . . . ?” he said.

  He was answered by gunfire—G-11 gunfire from the three-man Nazi demolition squad who had been left behind in the village to plant Anistaze’s chlorine charges.

  Race dived left, Van Lewen dived right, both of them raising their M-16s, but it was no use. They couldn’t see a thing in this mist.

  Race clambered back to his feet just as he saw a Nazi commando burst around the side of the ATV, his G-11 raised and ready.

  Then suddenly—bam!—a loud, single gunshot rang out from somewhere behind Race and the Nazi’s head just snapped backward in a spray of blood and all Race could do was stare in stunned awe as his assailant fell to the ground, dead.

  “What the—” he turned in the direction of the gunshot.

  Suddenly a rapa burst out of the fog right in front of him, bared its teeth and leapt at his throat—

  Bam!

  The rapa jolted sideways in mid-flight as it was hit in the side of the head by another speeding bullet—killed instantly. The big animal’s carcass slid to a halt inches away from Race’s feet.

  What the hell was going on!

  “Professor!” Doogie’s voice cut through the mist. “Over here! Come on! I’ve got you covered!”

  Squinting through the fog, Race caught a glimpse of the roof of the citadel, and there—perched on top of it with a sniper rifle pressed against his shoulder—he saw the silhouette of Doogie Kennedy.

  From his position on the roof of the great stone fortress, Doogie had a great view of the village.

  Through the thermal sights of his M-24 sniper rifle, he could see everyone in the town as if it were daytime. Each figure appeared on his scope as a multi-colored blob—from the vaguely human-shaped blobs of Race, Van Lewen and the two remaining members of the German demolition team, to the trapezoidal but heatless shape of the ATV; to the ominous, four-legged shapes of the cats.

  The cats.

  With the disappearance of the Nazi troops and their weaponry, the cats were now free to move throughout the village again.

  They were back. And they were looking for blood.

  Race spun where he stood, saw Van Lewen standing over by the upturned ATV.

  “Professor, get out of here!” the Green Beret sergeant yelled. “Doogie’ll cover you! I’ve got to get this thing upright again!”

  Race didn’t have to be told twice. He immediately hurried off through the village, surrounded by fog. As soon as he did so, however, he heard quick muddy footsteps splashing through the grayness behind him.

  Getting closer, gaining on him.

  And then suddenly—bam-smack-splat.

  It was the sound of another of Doogie’s gunshots—bam—followed by the sound of the bullet smacking into one of the Nazis—smack—followed by the sound of the Nazi hitting the ground—splat.

  Another rapa slid out in front of him, prepared to pounce—bam!—its head just exploded, nailed by Doogie. The rapa’s body began to convulse. Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! The body went still.

  Race couldn’t believe it.

  It was like navigating your way through a fog-enshrouded maze while being protected by a guardian angel. All he could do was just keep running—keep moving forward—while Doogie took care of the dangers all around him, dangers which he himself couldn’t see.

  He heard more muddy footsteps—heavier this time—the four-legged variety.

  Bam.

  Smack. Splat.

  Up on the citadel, Doogie swore.

  That last hit had run him dry. He was out of ammo. He ducked behind the parapet and frantically began to reload.

  Over by the river, Van Lewen grabbed a nearby log and jammed it under the upturned ATV, leaning on it with all his weight, using it as a lever, conscious of the fact that there were rapas out there in the mist behind him.

  “Get your weight up higher!” he called to Nash and the others inside the vehicle. “We’ve got to tip it over!”

  They moved instantly and almost immediately the ATV—already precariously balanced on its side—began to tip over.

  Van Lewen quickly scurried around it, just as—whump—the big eight-wheeler landed on its tires and he hurried for the door on its side.

  Race was still running hard through the mist when suddenly, like a curtain being drawn, to reveal a stage, the veil of fog before him parted and he beheld the citadel.

  It was then that he heard the clack-clack of a safety being released on a G-11 somewhere nearby and he froze—and slowly turned—and saw the last Nazi commando standing in the fog behind him, his G-11 aimed squarely at Race’s head.

  Race waited for the now-familiar report of Doogie’s sniper rifle. But it never came.

  Why wasn’t he firing anymore?

  And then abruptly there came an almighty roar, which Race translated as the roar of one of the cats.

  But it wasn’t the roar of a cat.

  It was the roar of an engine.

  The next instant, the ATV came exploding out of the mist and slammed into the Nazi commando’s back.

  The soldier fell, crushed beneath the big all-terrain vehicle, and even Race himself had to dive out of the way as the ATV rumbled past him and skidded to a halt in front of the citadel—stopping right in front of the fortress’s entrance, aligning itself so that its sliding left-hand door opened flush onto the citadel’s doorway.

  A second later, Race saw the rear hatch of the ATV pop open and Van Lewen’s head appear.

  “Hey, Professor, you coming or what?”

  Race leapt up onto the back of the vehicle and dived headfirst into its hatch. No sooner was he inside than Van Lewen slammed the steel hatch shut behind him with a loud resounding thud.

  “They got the idol,” Van Lewen said, sitting on the floor of the citadel, surrounded by the others, in the half-light of their flashlights. The open door of the ATV was behind him, completely filling the wide stone doorway of the citadel.

  “Fuck,” Lauren said. “If they get that thyrium to a workable Supernova we’re screwed . . .”

  “What are we going to do?” Johann Krauss said.

  “We’re going to get it back,” Nash said flatly.

  “But how?” Troy Copeland said.

  “We have to go after them now,” Van Lewen said. “They’re at their most vulnerable right now. They came here to grab the idol and then, presumably, take it back to wherever it is they’re keeping their Supernova. But on a snatch-and-grab mission like the one they just pulled, you’re at your most vulnerable when you’re in transit from the target objective.”

  “So where is their home base?”

  “It has to be close,” Race said firmly, surprising everyone with his conviction, including himself. “Judging by the way they got here.”

  “And how exactly did they get here, Professor?” Copeland said disbelievingly.

  “I don’t know for sure,” Race said, “but I think I can make a pre
tty good guess. One, they got here using a method of transport that avoided detection by your fancy SAT-SN network, so they didn’t fly. Two, aside from flying and traveling on foot, what’s the quickest and easiest way to get a force of about thirty men through the rainforest?”

  “Oh, damn, why didn’t I think of that . . .” Lauren said.

  “What?” Copeland said irritably.

  “The rivers,” she said.

  “Exactly,” Race said. “They came here by boat Which means their base of operations can’t be too far aw—” He cut himself off.

  “So where is it?” Nash said. “Where is their base of operations?”

  But Race wasn’t listening. Something had just clicked in the back of his mind.

  Base of operations . . .

  Where had he heard those words before?

  “Professor Race?” Nash said.

  No, wait. He hadn’t heard them at all.

  He had seen them.

  And then suddenly it hit him.

  “Lauren, do we still have that telephone transcript here? The one with the Nazis’ ransom demand on it. The telephone conversation that the BKA intercepted between a cellular phone somewhere in Peru and Colonia Alemania.”

  Lauren spun and immediately began rummaging through the equipment in the darkened citadel.

  “Got it.” She handed a sheet of paper to him.

  Race looked at the transcript that he’d seen earlier.

  VOICE 1: —ase of operations has been established—rest of the—will be—mine—

  VOICE 2: —about the device?—ready?

  VOICE 1: —have adopted hourglass formation based on the American model—two nuclear detonators mounted above and below a titanium-alloy inner chamber. Field tests indicate that—device—operational. All we need now—the thyrium. VOICE 2: -—don’t worry, Anistaze’s taking care of that—VOICE 1: What about the message?

  VOICE 2: —will go out as soon as we get the idol—to every Prime Minister and President in the EU—plus the President of the United States via internal emergency hotline—ransom will be one hundred billion dollars U.S.—or else we detonate the device . . .

  Race’s eyes zeroed in on the first two lines of the transcript.

  VOICE l: —ase of operations has been established—rest of the—will be—mine—

  “Will be mine . . .” Race said aloud. “Mine . . . the mine.” He turned to Lauren. “What was the name of that abandoned gold mine we saw from the Huey on our way here? The one that was all lit up? The one that didn’t look all that abandoned anymore.”

  “The Madre de Dios gold mine,” Lauren said.

  “Is it situated on a river?”

  “Yes, on the Alto Purus. Nearly all the open-cut mines in the Amazon are situated on rivers, because seaplanes and boats are the only way to get the gold out of here.”

  “How far away is it from here?”

  “I don’t know. Sixty, seventy miles.”

  Race turned to Nash. “That’s where they’re going, Colonel. The Madre de Dios gold mine. By boat.”

  Heinrich Anistaze crashed through the undergrowth, forging his way eastward until at last he pushed aside the final branch and was confronted by a truly spectacular sight.

  The Amazon rainforest spread out before him like a lush green carpet running all the way to the horizon.

  Anistaze was standing at the edge of the tableland—at the top of a sheer, foliage-covered cliff that overlooked the rainforest. To his immediate right was a magnificent two-hundred-foot waterfall that flowed out over the tableland, the end product of the caiman-infested river that ran alongside Vilcafor.

  Anistaze ignored the waterfall.

  Of more importance to him was what lay at its base, in the wide section of river down there.

  He smiled at the sight.

  Yes . . .

  Then, with the idol under his arm, he quickly began to climb down the set of ropes that snaked their way up the cliff-face, heading down to the river.

  “All right, then,” Copeland said, “so how are we going to catch these bastards? They’ve got a fifteen-minute head start on us and just in case anyone has forgotten, there are rapas out there—”

  “If their boats are where I think they are, then there’s another way to get to them,” Race said. “A route that avoids having to go past the cats.”

  “What route?” Nash asked.

  Race immediately dropped to his knees and began sweeping his hands across the earthen floor of the citadel.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m looking for something.”

  “What?”

  Race searched the floor for it. According to the manuscript, it should be here somewhere. The only question was whether or not the Incas had used the same symbol to mark it—

  “This,” he said suddenly, as he swept his hand across the earthen floor and revealed a stone slab beneath the thin layer of mud and dirt.

  Inscribed in the corner of the slab was a symbol—a circle with a double “V” in it.

  “Here, help me,” he said.

  Van Lewen and Doogie came over, got ahold of the slab and heaved on it.

  The slab rumbled against its neighbors as it slowly slid out of its resting place—revealing an inky black hole beneath it.

  “It’s the quenko,” Race said.

  “The what?” Nash said.

  “I read about it in the manuscript. It was a maze dug into the rock beneath the village, an escape route, a tunnel system that leads to the waterfall at the edge of the tableland—if you know the key to the maze.”

  “And you know that key?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “How?” Troy Copeland asked mockingly.

  “Because I’ve read the manuscript,” Race said.

  “So who goes?” Lauren said.

  “Van Lewen and Kennedy,” Nash said. “And anyone else who can carry a gun,” he added, looking at the two BKA agents and the German paratrooper, Molke. Renée, Schroeder and Molke all nodded.

  Nash turned to Copeland. “What about you, Troy?”

  “I’ve never held a gun in my life,” Copeland said.

  “All right, then. Looks like it’s just you five—”

  “I can handle a gun,” Race said.

  “What?” Lauren said.

  “You?” Copeland said.

  “Well,” Race shrugged, “some guns. My brother used to bring them home all the time. I’m not all that good at it, but—”

  “Professor Race can run with me any time,” Van Lewen said, stepping forward—exchanging a look with Race—and handing him a spare SIG-Sauer pistol. “Judging from what he did up on the rock tower.”

  He turned to Nash. “Is that it then, sir?”

  Nash nodded. “Do whatever you have to do, just get that idol. Our air support should be here any minute now. As soon as they get here, I’ll send them after you. If you can somehow get your hands on that idol and keep those Nazi bastards at bay for a while, the air support team should be able to get you out of there. You got that?”

  “Got it,” Van Lewen said, grabbing his M-16. “Then let’s go.”

  Van Lewen led the way, charging through one of the narrow stone passageways of the quenko beneath Vilcafor.

  He held his M-16 pressed against his shoulder, illuminating the cramped tunnel in front of them with the tiny flashlight that was attached to its barrel.

  Race, Doogie, Molke and the two BKA agents hurried along the dark stone passageway behind him. Doogie and the three Germans held M-16s in their hands. Race just carried the silver SIG-Sauer.

  Although he didn’t want to say it, Race was scared out of his mind. But he was where he wanted to be—with Van Lewen and Doogie and the Germans, going after the idol, going after the Nazis. Doing something.

  The quenko, however, didn’t help ease his mind.

  It was like some horrific kind of dungeon—a nightmarish subterranean maze with close stone walls and slippery muddy floors.

  Enor
mous hairy spiders scuttled away into dark crevices as the six of them hustled past, while obscenely fat snakes slithered through the stagnant mud on the tunnel floor, almost tripping them over. And it was claustrophobic—claustrophobic as hell—each slimy passageway that he saw was barely three feet wide.

  Van Lewen ran quickly in the lead.

  “Take the third tunnel on the right,” Race said from behind him. “And then zigzag, starting with the left.”

  At exactly the same time as Race and the others were dashing through the underground maze, Heinrich Anistaze was reaching the bottom of the tableland’s cliff-face.

  He strode over to the riverbank where he stepped straight into a rubber Zodiac speedboat.

  He keyed his radio mike. “Demolition team. Report.”

  He received no reply.

  Through the quenko they ran.

  Running hard, running fast, ducking left, cutting right, bursting through spiderwebs, tripping over forty-foot snakes, stumbling through the slick moss-covered tunnels of the ghastly subterranean maze.

  “Hey, Van Lewen,” Race said in between breaths as they jogged down a long section of tunnel.

  “Yeah?” Van Lewen replied.

  “What’s the 80s Club?”

  “The 80s Club?”

  “Cochrane mentioned it last night while you guys were unpacking the choppers, but he wouldn’t say what it was. I’d like to know what it is before I die.”

  Van Lewen snorted as he ran. “I can tell you, but it’s’ pretty, uh, unrefined.”

  ‘Try me.”

  “Okay . . .” Van Lewen said. “It goes like this. To become a member of the 80s Club, you must have had sex with a girl who was born in the 1980s.”

  “Oh, man!” Race said, cringing.

  “I told you it was unrefined,” Van Lewen said.

  They ran on.

  The six of them had been running for about seven minutes through the quenko when—abruptly—Van Lewen turned a corner and slammed into a solid stone wall.

  Only it wasn’t a wall at all.

  It was a doorstone.

  In fact, it was a doorstone not unlike the one in the doorway of the citadel itself—a square-shaped boulder with a rounded base that could be easily rolled open from the inside, but which was impregnable from without.