Empire of Gold_A Novel

by Andy McDermott

  Receding. The trucks were already heading away down the logging track.

  “Shit!” He stopped, forcing back his anger, trying to think. There was only one road, and it took a long and circuitous route back to Valverde and the spur leading to the base. It would take a couple of hours for Callas’s convoy to get there. The base itself was about five miles to the northwest …

  Eddie already knew there was only one course of action he could take.

  He raised his wrist, turning in place until the hour hand of his watch pointed at the sun. South, he knew from his military training, was exactly halfway between the hour hand and the twelve o’clock position on the watch face. With that established, it only took a moment to work out which way was northwest. One last look after the vehicles carrying his wife and friends, then he set off at a run into the trees.

  FOURTEEN

  The bumpy drive from the ruins took two hours, Nina and the others sweating in the back of the troop truck. Ahead and behind it were the Land Cruisers. Kit and Valero looked after Becker, while Macy tried, with limited success, to comfort the weeping, terrified Loretta. Nina’s fleeting thoughts of leaping over the tailgate to escape into the jungle were tempered by the AK-103s pointed at her companions—and the presence of Cuff’s body. Loretta’s hysteria at the sight had forced the soldiers to cover it, but the huddled shape was a constant reminder of Callas’s ruthlessness.

  She knew he would display that trait again soon enough. The general’s greed had convinced him to keep her alive—for the moment—in the hope she could lead him to even greater riches … but he had no cause to spare the others. They had witnessed his plundering of Paititi, something he wanted to keep secret even after successfully completing his “operation.”

  They would have to be silenced.

  The little convoy turned off the road to Valverde on to a narrower, even rougher track. A warning sign read PROHIBIDA LA ENTRADA: ZONA MILITAR. Callas’s domain, a private kingdom. Here, he could do whatever he wanted to his prisoners, and nobody would ever know.

  The truck slowed. Nina looked ahead, seeing a chain-link fence topped with coils of razor wire stretching into the vine-draped trees to each side. A soldier opened a gate to let the vehicles through. They rumbled on for a short way before emerging in a large rectangular space bulldozed out of the jungle.

  The military base.

  The Mi-17 was parked on a concrete helipad, being refueled. The crate containing the Inca treasure rested beside it. At the facility’s heart was a giant rectangular radar antenna, aimed toward the Colombian border. The rest of the base was less imposing: an assortment of prefabricated control and administration huts, and tents for the troops luckless enough to be stationed in the sweltering green hell.

  The lead Land Cruiser stopped beside the helipad and Callas got out to check the crate. The other two vehicles pulled up behind it. Stikes emerged from the second Toyota and strolled to the truck. “Everyone comfortable in there?” he asked mockingly.

  “For God’s sake,” said Nina, indicating Becker’s injured leg, “he needs a doctor.”

  “At least give him something for the pain,” Kit added.

  “He’ll get something for the pain soon enough, don’t worry.” Stikes looked away at a distant noise. “Ah! Excellent timing. My new toy has arrived.”

  Nina followed his gaze. Off to the southwest was the dot of an approaching helicopter—two helicopters, she realized, picking out a smaller one flying alongside.

  Callas joined Stikes by the truck. “I wasn’t actually sure this friend of yours could live up to his promises,” Stikes said to him. “For once, I’m pleased to be wrong.”

  The Venezuelan spat. “Pachac is no friend of mine. Maoist scum! If I could do this without him—or that drug-dealing pig, de Quesada—I would, but I need their money. For now, at least. After we succeed, I think I will change the deal. It is time Venezuela was … cleaned.”

  “Well, if you need my services again, you have my card,” said Stikes. Callas smiled darkly, then watched the helicopters.

  Valero frowned as they neared, puzzled. “What is it?” Nina asked.

  “The big helicopter—it is a gunship, Russian. You yanquis call them Hinds.” Nina looked more closely as the two choppers prepared to land. The subject of Valero’s confusion was, she suspected, every bit as deadly as it was ugly, stubby wings bearing rocket pods and a huge multibarreled cannon beneath its nose. “We have them here in Venezuela—but this one is from Peru.”

  “Peru?” Now it was Nina’s turn to be bewildered. “But that’s Colombia over there. Peru’s four hundred miles away.”

  “I know. And this Pachac, I have heard of him. He is a communist revolutionary, but a dangerous one, a killer—even the Shining Path threw him out. He is also a drug lord.”

  “Sounds like a nice guy,” said Macy.

  “If he has got a gunship, that is bad. If he has brought it to my country to give to mercenaries, that is worse! I do not like this.”

  “You’re not the only one,” said Nina. The Hind moved over the pad, blowing dust and grit in all directions as it touched down beside the Mil, tripod landing gear compressing under its armored weight. The smaller helicopter, a civilian Jet Ranger, followed suit.

  A man climbed from the Jet Ranger, bending low beneath the still-spinning rotors even though his short stature meant he was in no danger of decapitation. Like Stikes, he wore a military beret, this one blood red. Giving the Hind an almost longing look, he approached Callas and Stikes.

  “Ah, Inkarrí!” cried Callas, suddenly exuding warmth and friendliness toward the new arrival, who responded with similar, not entirely sincere, enthusiasm. He was not of Hispanic descent, instead having the broad features of a native Indian. While far from tall, he had a powerful chest and muscular arms, his sun-weathered skin showing that his physique was the result of long outdoor labor rather than a gym. The two men briefly conversed in Spanish, then Callas switched to English. “Alexander Stikes, meet Arcani Pachac.”

  Stikes and Pachac shook hands. “The mercenary,” said the Peruvian with vague disapproval.

  “I simply provide a service,” said Stikes. “Once the job’s done, I leave. Quick, clean, and efficient, with no messy differences of ideology to cause problems afterward.” A hint of a smile. “So, how are your relations with the Shining Path at the moment?”

  Pachac’s eyes widened with anger. “Do not mention those traitors! Counter-revolutionary bastards!”

  “Well, should you need help to clean house after overthrowing the bourgeois imperialist puppets in Lima,” said the Englishman, still amused, “give me a call. In the meantime, I’d like to check the general’s new acquisition.” Pachac nodded, and Stikes marched to the Hind. Its pilot—a Caucasian—climbed out and saluted him, then took him on an inspection tour of the gunship.

  Pachac’s reluctance to give up the helicopter was clear. “The damage we could do if we could make its weapons work again! I would give you back your money, and more.” Revolutionary fervor faded, replaced by businesslike pragmatism. “But speaking of money …”

  Callas signaled to a waiting soldier, who lugged a pair of canvas carryalls, one large, one small, to the two men. “Here. The rest of your payment. Two million US dollars, in cash.”

  The Peruvian opened the large bag, revealing bundles of banknotes. “I’m sure Chairman Mao would be proud,” Nina muttered.

  Pachac heard her and glared up at the truck’s occupants. “Who are these yanquis?”

  “Prisoners,” said Callas. “Don’t worry about them, they will not be here for long. And speaking of prisoners, I have a gift for you, Inkarrí. Two gifts, in fact. I think you will like them both.” He gave an order to the soldier, and the man jogged away to a nearby hut. By the time Pachac had satisfied himself that the carryall contained everything due to him, the soldier was returning with a comrade, between them hauling a third man, a bound civilian with a bloodied face.

  Even through his swollen,
purpled eyes he saw Pachac. He gasped in fright, trying to break free. One of the soldiers punched him. The two men dropped him at their commander’s feet.

  Pachac clapped in cruel delight. “Cayo! Ah, Cayo, it has been awhile since I last saw you.” His voice became a snarl. “Since you betrayed me. Since you stole half a million dollars of my drugs and gave them to de Quesada, along with your loyalty.” He kicked the helpless man in the chest. “You shit!”

  “He was caught crossing the border with two others,” said Callas. “And ten kilos of cocaine. He tried to pass himself off as one of your smugglers, but used an old password. So my men arrested him.”

  “The others?”

  A shrug. “They had unfortunate accidents. They will never be found.”

  “And the cocaine?”

  “Confiscated, of course. Venezuela does not tolerate drug smugglers. Ones who don’t pay, anyway.”

  Pachac looked at the nearby soldiers. “Are all the men on this base … yours?”

  Callas nodded. “They are all loyal to me, yes. You may do what you wish with this man.”

  “Very good.” Pachac crouched beside Cayo and produced a folding knife, opening it with a loud metallic snick. The man jerked up his head, whimpering in fear. “Yes, you know that noise, don’t you? You have heard it before when I have dealt with traitors.” He was still speaking in English, glancing up at Nina and the others as if reveling in the opportunity to perform for a new audience. Cayo wailed and begged for mercy, but Pachac shoved him down onto his back. “Now I will deal with you!”

  Even with her hands over her eyes, Loretta still screamed at the sound of Pachac stabbing the knife deep into Cayo’s torso just below his sternum. His cries became an almost animalistic screech as the blade sawed down his body. Blood gushed from the lengthening wound.

  Pachac worked the knife to the struggling man’s waistband, then sharply withdrew it. “And now,” he said, with almost some twisted form of reverence, “capacocha.”

  Osterhagen was too revolted to look, but still reacted to the word with shock. “My God …”

  “What does it mean?” asked the equally appalled Nina.

  “It is the Inca ritual … of human sacrifice.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” she gasped, sickened.

  Pachac locked his blood-slicked hands around Cayo’s neck. His victim’s eyes bulged horribly as he struggled to breathe, coughing up blood. The Peruvian pushed down, cartilage crackling inside Cayo’s throat. His legs thrashed, blood spouting from the gaping wound with each kick …

  Then his movements became weaker, slower.

  And stopped.

  Pachac released his hands. There was a gurgling hiss from the dead man’s mouth, a last release of trapped air, and he was still. His killer lowered his head, speaking in a language Nina didn’t recognize, then retrieved his knife and wiped off the blood on the corpse’s clothing.

  “So that was capacocha?” said Callas, having watched the hideous exhibition with an expression of no more distaste than if he had discovered a fly on his food.

  “Only the strangling,” Pachac told him. “The other part is mine. But when I come to power in Peru as the Inkarrí, it will be how traitors and the bourgeois are executed.”

  “He’s mad,” the trembling Osterhagen whispered to Nina.

  “What does it mean?” she asked. “What’s the Inkarrí?”

  “An Inca myth—a prophecy, of a leader who will restore the Inca empire to glory. My God! He really thinks he’s the Inkarrí reborn!” The German buried his head in his hands.

  Callas gestured to the two soldiers, who picked up Cayo’s body and slung it into the back of the truck. Loretta was now too far gone even to scream again, curled up tightly and rocking back and forth as Macy held her. Nina, nauseated, looked away from the still-bleeding corpse to see Stikes and the pilot returning from the Hind. “Well,” the Englishman announced, “everything seems in order.”

  “It is ready?” Callas asked.

  “It’ll need some minor maintenance before the operation, but nothing Gurov can’t handle.” He nodded at the pilot. “It may have been decommissioned, but everything except the weaponry is still working. And we can have the fire-control systems reinstalled in twenty-four hours. All it needs is a lick of paint, some ammunition, the transponder code, and we’re good to go.”

  “Good. Good!” Callas beamed. “Arcani, I cannot thank you enough. This helicopter is crucial to Venezuela’s future. Your support is beyond price.”

  “Unlike the safe passage of my drugs through your country,” Pachac replied sharply.

  “For your help, you will get a very big discount on the percentage you pay me! But I told you I have another gift.” He presented the smaller carryall to the Peruvian. “Here.”

  Pachac, not sure what to expect, opened the bag. Inside was a polished wooden box, about eight inches square. He lifted the lid—and gasped.

  Nina craned her neck for a better look. She was almost as impressed as Pachac by the box’s contents: a smaller version of the golden sun disk, with elaborate tongues of “fire” spiraling out from its edges.

  “An Inca treasure,” said Callas. “I thought you should have it.”

  Pachac’s wonder quickly faded, resentment surfacing. “While you sell the other lost treasures of my people to anyone who has the dollars.”

  “They were found in Venezuela,” Callas said patronizingly. “So they belong to my people, not yours. And you could have bid for any of them—if your followers in the True Red Way did not mind you spending millions of dollars of the cause’s money on golden trinkets …”

  The Peruvian snapped the box shut and turned angrily away, taking in the crate next to the Venezuelan helicopter for the first time. Realization dawned as its odd dimensions suggested what it might contain. He whirled back to Callas. “That—that is—”

  “The Punchaco, yes,” Callas replied. “Two tons of Inca gold.”

  “You must let me have it. You must.” Pachac was almost pleading. “It is the greatest symbol of the Incas—of my people. We must have it back!”

  “The gold alone is worth more than you can afford, Inkarrí.” The general’s use of the title now held more than a hint of sarcasm. “And because it is an Inca treasure, it is even more valuable. But I have found a buyer.”

  Pachac’s face paled. “No …” he whispered, then more forcefully, with rising anger: “No! Not him!”

  “Yes, your old friend—your old partner, Francisco de Quesada. He can afford it. And anything else he desires. You could have been the same, if you had concentrated on business and not politics …”

  The Maoist’s teeth clenched in rage. “He only wants it to insult me! And you cannot even get it to him. My contacts told me that your smuggler, West, was arrested. Without him, it will never get through customs—and what else can you do, drive it through the jungle? There are many bandits ’round here. On both sides of the border.” He gave Callas a pointed look. “You cannot give it to him.”

  Callas laughed. “I am not giving it to him. He has already paid me the first twenty million dollars!”

  Pachac looked down sharply at the bundles of banknotes. “You are paying me with that bastard’s money?” A burst of invective, again in the unfamiliar language. “Give me the Punchaco, or this deal is off!”

  “The deal has been agreed, Arcani,” said Callas.

  “I am not leaving without the Punchaco.” Pachac’s right hand slipped inside his camouflage jacket.

  The soldiers snapped up their AK-103s. Callas’s face was now stone. “Remember where you are, Pachac,” he growled. “You have your money, my thanks, and even my gift. Take them, and have your revolution. But do not challenge me in my own country. It will be painful.”

  The shorter man glared at him, breathing heavily. Finally, he zipped up the carryall, then picked it up and, the wooden box under one arm, strutted without a word back to the Jet Ranger.

  “Communist scum,” snarled Callas once the Per
uvian was aboard.

  Stikes appeared entertained by the whole confrontation. “I did rather enjoy the hypocrisy, though. A man who’s such a hard-core Maoist that he thinks the Shining Path are counter-revolutionary, making millions by selling drugs. Holding two completely conflicting viewpoints at the same time? No wonder he’s insane.”

  “He did have a point, though,” Callas admitted. “Without West, getting the Punchaco to de Quesada will be very difficult. And I need the rest of his payment—even after the operation succeeds, there will be chaos. The only way to calm it will be with money to the right people. Lots of money.”

  An odd smile crept onto Stikes’s face, and he gave Nina a calculating look. “I think I may have a way.”

  Callas regarded him questioningly, but before he could speak the Jet Ranger took off, sweeping more dust across the helipad. Stikes brushed grit from his sleeves and addressed the Russian pilot. “Gurov, take the Hind to the staging area and restore the weapons. General,” he said to Callas as Gurov returned to the gunship, “we should get back to the Clubhouse—there are still tactical issues to discuss.”

  Callas nodded, then looked at the prisoners in the truck. “First we deal with them. Dr. Wilde is the only one we need alive. The others—”

  “Jindal, too,” Stikes interrupted.

  “What?” Callas asked, confused, as Nina and Kit exchanged shocked looks. “The Interpol agent? Why him?”

  “I have my reasons.” He let the words hang in the air as he regarded Kit thoughtfully.

  “Get them down,” Callas ordered. The soldiers in the truck forced Nina and Kit to their feet.

  “Let them go,” Nina demanded. “If you kill them, you might as well kill me too, because I’ll never tell you what you want to know.”

  The Venezuelan smiled, a chilling crocodile grin. “That sounds like a challenge, Dr. Wilde. And as I told Pachac, challenging me results in pain. Great pain.”

  He shouted more commands in Spanish: for a forklift to load the crate containing the Punchaco aboard the Mil; two men to take a jeep to Valverde and clear out any personal effects from the expedition’s hotel rooms; the prisoners to be driven to “the hole.” Whatever it was, it was clear that the trip would be one way. Callas began to walk away—