‘It should be easy enough to find,’ agreed Zane.
Silva began to look worried. ‘It – it would be better for you not to go to the Enklave. The people, they do not like visitors . . .’
‘That’s okay, we won’t bother them,’ said Eddie. ‘Unless they bother us.’
‘Really, there is nothing—’ The hotelier broke off as the front door opened.
Eddie turned – and snapped to full alert. Someone had called the cops.
Three uniformed men entered the room, the cold and empty stares of mirrored aviator glasses sweeping over its occupants. The drinkers were suddenly fascinated by the bubbles in their beer. The trio swaggered towards the men at the bar.
Eddie assessed them. Two young men flanked the leader – whom he instantly knew was the greatest threat. The head cop was in his fifties, a big bear of a man who even though somewhat overweight was still packed with muscle. He had a thick moustache that drooped down around his mouth, one side of which was filled by the gnarled stub of a cigar. Heavy gold rings glinted on both hands . . . the right one hovering close to his holstered gun.
‘Ah, Eduardo!’ said Silva. He stepped forward to meet the cops. ‘This is Eduardo Santos,’ he told Zane and Eddie, ‘our comandante of police. Or El Jefe, as we sometimes call him. Heh-heh.’ The chuckle was strained.
‘The Chief?’ asked Eddie. ‘If you’re the mayor, shouldn’t that be your nickname?’ There was no reply.
Santos turned his mirrored gaze to the two visitors. ‘Who are you?’ he growled, rolling the cigar between his teeth. ‘What do you want here?’
‘We’re photographers,’ said Zane, giving the cops a friendly smile. ‘We’re travelling through Argentina to take pictures of the landscape.’
‘You have come to a beautiful place, eh?’ was the sarcastic reply. ‘There is nothing worth taking photographs of here. You should find somewhere else.’
‘Always thought beauty was in the eye of the beholder, myself,’ Eddie said. ‘Looks pretty nice to me.’
The big man’s blank stare locked on to him, hostility jumping from barely veiled to open. ‘You are English?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘Show me your passports. Both of you.’
Zane complied, taking out the fake US passport under which he had been travelling. He opened it to show the cop his photo – and a pair of folded fifty-dollar bills poking from the page below. ‘I think everything’s in order.’
The Argentinian took it, giving it a cursory glance as the banknotes disappeared into his hand. However, to Zane’s growing concern, he didn’t return it, instead waiting for Eddie to follow suit. ‘Come on. Now.’
Eddie found his own passport. ‘Here you go.’
Santos snatched it from him, but didn’t even open it, instead staring at the golden emblem on its cover: a lion and unicorn, the royal coat of arms of the United Kingdom. Finally he looked back at Eddie, taking off his sunglasses. The dark, deep-set eyes revealed beneath were anything but friendly. ‘You know what I did when I was young, English?’
‘Pressed flowers and painted sunsets?’ Eddie offered.
The cop did not smile at the joke. ‘I joined the army. I supported El Proceso – the junta – because I believe that to be great, a country, or a person, must have strength, power.’ He leaned closer, blowing cigar smoke into the Englishman’s face. ‘The strength and the power to take what belongs to them. You know?’
‘Yeah, I see where this is going,’ said Eddie, holding his ground – but also eyeing up exit routes. Behind Santos, the two junior officers brought their hands closer to their holstered weapons.
Zane also sensed the impending trouble. ‘Is there a problem, sir?’ he asked, trying to defuse it.
But Eddie already knew they would not be able to talk their way out. Santos and his men had been ready for a fight from the moment they entered. ‘I’m going to guess that he’s a Falklands veteran,’ he told the Israeli, ‘and that he’s not a bygones-be-bygones type.’
‘They are the Malvinas!’ barked Santos. ‘They belong to Argentina, but you English stole them! And when we tried to take back what was ours, you fought like cowards, sank our ships – killed my friends!’
‘Nothing to do with me, mate,’ said Eddie. ‘I was only about six years old when it all kicked off.’
‘You are all the same,’ the cop growled. He took out the cigar – and spat a thick brown-flecked glob of phlegm on to Eddie’s foot.
‘Don’t do anything,’ Zane said urgently. ‘He’s trying to provoke you. Don’t give him an excuse to arrest us.’
‘They don’t need an excuse,’ Eddie replied. The Argentinian wore an almost gloating expression, waiting for his response. ‘Even if we don’t do anything, you’re still going to arrest us on some bullshit charge and beat the crap out of us, aren’t you?’
Santos smiled, the tip of the cigar glowing as he took another drag. ‘That’s right, English. We don’t like outsiders who—’
Eddie punched him in the face. ‘Thought so!’
The unexpected blow sent Santos reeling. He collided with the younger and more slender of the other cops, knocking him down. The comandante regained his balance, but was left choking and spitting – the crushed cigar had been driven into his mouth.
The remaining cop jumped back, startled, then fumbled for his gun—
Zane’s leg swept up. His foot caught the cop’s hand just as the weapon cleared the holster, sending the pistol spinning across the room. The man screeched in pain.
Silva gasped, then fled for his office. The other patrons also scrambled for cover. Eddie ignored them and ran for the main entrance. ‘Jared!’
But the Mossad agent was still fighting the third cop, delivering another brutal kick to his chest that sent him crashing against the bar. ‘Come on!’ Eddie yelled. Zane’s gaze flicked between the Englishman and the dropped passports – then he ran after his companion.
The police chief spat out the remains of his cigar and drew his gun. The Israeli immediately changed course, rolling on to a table and grabbing its edge with one hand as he slid off the other side. His weight pulled it over behind him, the hefty wooden top slamming against the floor.
Santos fired twice. The bullets hit the table’s underside – but didn’t fully penetrate, the varnished surface cracking.
Zane flinched as splinters hit him. His impromptu shield had saved him, but now he was trapped behind it, cut off from the exit. And the cop was already moving to get a clear shot—
Santos was suddenly sent sprawling as a chair smashed on his shoulders.
Eddie had returned. ‘Have a seat!’ The Argentinian fell to the floor, broken wood clattering around him. Zane jumped up and sprinted for the door. Eddie turned to follow—
Someone grabbed him from behind.
The youngest cop was back on his feet and trying to tackle him. He didn’t have the mass or muscle to overpower the Englishman, but he was still wiry enough to hold him while his comrades recovered.
Sharp jabs to the chest from Eddie’s elbows made the cop gasp, but he didn’t let go. Changing tactics, Eddie pulled up his legs. The young man lurched with the shift of weight. Eddie kicked down again, twisting to ram his attacker against the counter—
The cop released him – not because he had realised what Eddie was about to do, but simply because he lacked the strength to maintain his grip. Both men hit the bar, the cop collapsing with a pained squawk beside his winded companion. Eddie grunted as he took the blow, using his momentum to roll over the countertop. Bottles went flying. The barman, who had watched the brawl with dumbstruck confusion, finally broke free of his paralysis and ran for the stairs.
Eddie stood. Harsh daylight glared through the door as Zane threw it open. ‘Eddie!’ he shouted. ‘Get to the car!’
; Two heads popped up on the other side of the counter. Both the young cops were now back in the fight, the beefier of the pair red-faced with anger. He clawed at his holster, only to find it empty. ‘Dispárale!’ he bellowed. The thinner man fumbled for his own gun.
Santos was also recovering. He was between Eddie and the exit. If the Englishman tried to go around him, he would be tackled – or shot.
Which left—
Eddie vaulted on to the bar and ran along it – then veered towards Santos and leapt . . .
Grabbing a chandelier.
Light bulbs flashed and popped as the jolt broke their filaments, but he ignored the sparks as he swung across the room – bringing up both feet to catch the startled police chief in the chest. Santos tumbled backwards, scattering chairs as Eddie flew over him. The Yorkshireman landed with a bang on the scuffed wooden floor and raced through the door.
Zane was already in the Jeep. Eddie jumped in as he started it. ‘So much for subtle!’ the Israeli shouted as he put the 4x4 into gear and floored the accelerator.
‘Well, at least now we know we’re in the right place!’ Eddie turned, seeing the three cops barrelling out of the hotel. ‘So you can call your Mossad mates and – whoa, incoming!’
The burly cop had recovered his gun, and he and Santos both aimed at the retreating Jeep. The third man protested, but a double crack of gunfire as Eddie ducked showed that his objections had been ignored. One bullet whipped past, the other striking the rear door.
Zane slammed the steering wheel hard over, hurling the Jeep into an evasive weave. Eddie was thrown against the door. ‘Jesus!’ he yelped – before being flung the other way as the 4x4 swerved again.
More shots. The rear windscreen shattered. Zane spun the wheel again to send the Jeep down a side street, out of the line of fire—
A bullet ruptured the front tyre.
The Jeep slithered off course. Zane tried to pull it back in line, but the 4x4’s back end had already skidded wide.
Choking dust gushed in through the broken rear window. Coughing, the Israeli forced the wheel to full lock and applied more power to catch the skid. But the flat tyre was dragging on the dirt road. By the time he compensated, it was too late—
The 4x4 pounded sidelong into the corner of a building. Plaster exploded and stone cracked, but the Jeep came off worse, the rear wheel ripping from the axle. Zane’s head struck the driver’s window hard enough to crack it, leaving a bloody smear on the glass.
Eddie sat up painfully. ‘Jared? We need to move.’ He squinted at his companion, who was slumped against the door. ‘Jared!’
For a moment it seemed he was either unconscious or dead, but then the Israeli opened an eye. ‘Benjamin?’
‘No, it’s me, Eddie.’ The Englishman pulled him upright, wincing when he saw the damaged window. At best, the Mossad agent would have a splitting headache; at worst, concussion or even a subdural haematoma. ‘They’ll be here any second – we’ve got to—’
A shout told him they were out of time. Santos and his two subordinates charged towards the wrecked Jeep, guns raised. Eddie thought about running, but by the time he got out of the car they would be upon him. Even if he had been able to make a break for it, he was unwilling to leave a wounded man behind.
All he could do was surrender. He raised his hands.
‘Get out!’ Santos bellowed, gun pointed at Eddie’s head. The more aggressive of his comrades circled the crashed vehicle to cover its driver, while the third man held back, uncertain.
Eddie stepped warily from the 4x4, facing Santos. The big man’s sunglasses were back on, eyes unreadable. Was he going to kill him there and then?
‘Jefe!’ cried the youngest man with the same fear. ‘No puedes matarlo!’
The mirrored eyes remained locked on Eddie, his reflection staring back at him twice over behind the gun’s muzzle . . . then the weapon twitched downwards. ‘On the ground,’ Santos snarled.
Eddie reluctantly lowered himself to his knees. ‘Hands behind you,’ said Santos. ‘Miranda, espósalo.’
The young policeman took a pair of handcuffs from his belt and snapped them around Eddie’s wrists. ‘Vargas?’ called Santos. A reply came as the third cop dragged the semi-conscious Zane from the Jeep and cuffed him. The chief looked back at Eddie. ‘So, English. You thought you could get away? Only your friend is not a good driver.’
‘Yeah, he crashed a Ferrari the other day,’ Eddie replied, already tensing himself for what he knew was coming. ‘Don’t think I’ll let him drive again.’
‘I think that is a good idea.’ Santos glanced at Zane, lying at Vargas’s feet . . . then his face twisted with anger as he drove a savage kick into the Englishman’s side.
Eddie fell, writhing in agony – then another blow hit him in the stomach. Vomit burned the back of his throat and he gasped for breath.
‘Bastardo inglés!’ The Argentinian drew back his foot again – but Miranda darted in front of him, waving his hands and pleading for him to stop. Santos glowered at him, but withdrew. Miranda sighed in relief – only to reel away as the older man punched him hard in the face. ‘No me digas cómo ejecutar mi ciudad!’ Santos growled. He looked around. Some of the town’s inhabitants, Julieta amongst them, had come to investigate the commotion, but they all shrank away under the police chief’s empty stare. Pablo Silva might be the mayor, Eddie realised, but there was no doubt who was really in charge of Lago Amargo.
Even so, Santos apparently still felt the need to show at least a pretence of working by the book. ‘You are both under arrest for attacking an officer, and resisting arrest,’ he told the handcuffed men.
‘Yeah, and possession of an English accent,’ Eddie gasped. ‘This how your Nazi bosses up at the Enklave keep their secret, is it? They pay you to beat the shit out of visitors?’
The police chief stared unreadably down at him – then his boot rushed at Eddie’s face, and everything went black.
22
The sickly metallic taste of blood was the first thing Eddie registered as he clawed his way back to consciousness. It was heavy on his tongue, coating his teeth . . .
Sharp pain blazed through his nerves, shocking him awake. The tip of his tongue had found a corner missing from one of his upper incisors, exposing the sensitive dentine beneath. ‘Arse-cocking fuck!’ he gasped.
A concerned face appeared before him: Zane. ‘Eddie! Are you okay?’
Eddie tried to come up with an answer. As well as the cracked tooth, his lips were swollen where Santos had kicked him, and a crusty blockage in one nostril suggested that his nose had been bleeding. Dull throbs from his torso were reminders of other impacts from the Argentinian’s boots. ‘Been better,’ he croaked, ‘but my dentist’ll be in a fucking good mood next time he sees me.’ He gave the Israeli a pained smile, the natural gap between his two front teeth now joined by a fresh one. ‘What about you?’
Zane showed him the side of his head. Rivulets of now-dried blood had run down around his left ear from a cut under his curly hair. ‘It hurts,’ he said, ‘but I think I’m okay.’
‘Needs washing, though.’ Eddie took in their surroundings, finding that he was on a bench inside a bare and dirty jail cell. Thick metal bars made up one whole wall. Beyond them was a short corridor with an open door at the end, through which he could see the police station’s main office. He sat up. ‘Oi! We need some water. Agua, por favor!’
A chair scraped, and heavy footsteps clomped towards the door. There was a gurgle of liquid, then Santos filled the frame, holding a plastic cup. ‘You want water?’ he said, moving to the bars. ‘Here!’ He tossed the cup’s contents over the two prisoners.
Zane was quick enough to catch some. ‘Thank you,’ he said politely, wiping the cut.
Eddie rubbed his wet face, then ran his hand back over his short hair. ‘Oka
y, now how about some shampoo?’ Santos grunted in dark humour.
‘Eduardo?’ called an agitated male voice. Santos responded, and after a moment Pablo Silva came into the corridor. He gave the battered prisoners a nervous look, then spoke to the police chief. Eddie couldn’t pick out much of the muted Spanish discussion, but gathered that the mayor was extremely unhappy about the situation.
Santos was less concerned, chewing on a fresh cigar. He clapped a heavy hand on Silva’s shoulder. ‘Vamos a hablar con Kroll, eh?’ Eddie tried not to display any visible reaction to the Nazi leader’s name. The two Argentinians returned to the office, closing the door.
‘We’re definitely in the right place,’ said Eddie. ‘You heard him mention Kroll, yeah?’
‘I did,’ Zane replied. ‘If I can call in a confirmation, the Mossad will send a full team here.’
‘Yeah, but somehow I don’t think we’ll get our one phone call.’
‘Nor do I.’ Santos and Silva were talking in the office, a third man’s voice echoing from a speakerphone. ‘I think that’s Kroll!’ Zane strained to listen, but the closed door was as much of a barrier to comprehension as the language. ‘What do you think they’re saying?’
Eddie gave him a grim look. ‘Nothing good.’
He was right.
The door opened again ten minutes later. Silva had gone, Santos now accompanied by the two younger officers, Vargas and Miranda. ‘You letting us go?’ said Eddie, knowing full well that was not the case. He and Zane stood, readying themselves for action.
Santos, though, was being cautious. ‘Turn around,’ he ordered, unholstering his gun. ‘Hands against the wall.’
The two captives reluctantly complied. As Vargas also drew his weapon, Miranda unlocked the cell door. ‘You, the tall one,’ said the police chief. ‘Put your right hand behind your back.’ Zane hesitated, then did as he was instructed. Miranda entered the cell and fastened a handcuff bracelet around his wrist. ‘Now your left hand.’
The second cuff clicked shut. Santos pushed Miranda out of the way. He gripped the handcuffs and squeezed until the metal cut into the skin. Zane flinched in pain. Santos stepped back – then struck the base of Zane’s neck a vicious blow with his gun. The Israeli collapsed to his knees.
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