“I knew it. There’s someone here,” Cloutard whispered.
Hellen could see it now, too, and together they peeped over the edge of the gallery. Several flashlights wandered through the chamber below, illuminating it vaguely. Only now did they realize the vastness of the underground cavern.
“Okay, one last check, vámonos,” they heard a voice shout, and seconds later the space lit up brightly. Floodlights mounted on tripods were set up around the massive chamber, probably powered by a generator outside.
Cloutard and Hellen ducked for cover, but Hellen’s curiosity was too strong. Again and again, she risked a peep over the edge of the gallery. She saw two men close one of several open crates before lifting it onto a hand truck. The crates were all filled with gold—the hall had been picked clean.
“We’re too late,” Hellen hissed.
“Damn it,” Cloutard said. “The noise from the flare gun. We need to get out of here. Someone is sure to have heard it.”
“You are right about that, Señor.” Hellen and Cloutard spun around and raised their hands.
63
Somewhere in the jungle west of Belize City, on the Guatemalan border
Tom took out his phone. He had no illusions about trying to call or use the Internet, but the compass app should at least work. But when he looked at the display he frowned. The needle was going crazy. There was something here that could make a compass go haywire . . . was that one of the reasons no one had ever found El Dorado? Tom had read just recently that gold had magnetic properties—at the nanometer scale, true, but still. He put his phone away and kept on in the direction he thought would lead him to where Hellen and Cloutard had come down.
He made sure to follow a straight path: hard enough even in a normal forest, and the jungles of Belize were definitely not a “normal” forest. Most people lost their way in a forest because they only thought they were traveling in a straight line. Along with their hands, every human being has a dominant and a less dominant leg, which makes it impossible to travel straight ahead without a fixed reference point. Additionally, some might fall victim to false knowledge—that moss always grows on the north side of a tree trunk, for instance, or that trees, attracted to the sun, tend to lean toward the east. Among the most reliable real ways to orient oneself was to line up three trees and stick to that line. That way, one could avoid the risk of simply walking in a circle.
Tom pushed on through the undergrowth and soon stumbled onto a narrow dirt track. To call it a road would have been exaggeration, but Tom could see that one or more heavy trucks had come this way recently. The track did not lead in the direction he was heading, but he decided to follow it for now. It had to lead somewhere.
After following it for a while, he could smell it before he actually saw it: in the distance, the trees thinned out and he came to the spot ravaged by fire not long ago. He crept into the forest at the edge of the blackened area. In front of him, a narrow ravine marked where the fire had stopped. On the other side of the divide, a little uphill from where he was crouched, the upper part of a Mayan pyramid rose from the earth. Someone had built a makeshift bridge over the ravine with two steel beams and a row of wooden planks.
Tom couldn’t see much from his position, but in front of the pyramid stood an old Russian military truck, a ZIL-131N. The loading area of the truck was hidden under a canvas canopy, and a man with a cap on his head and an Uzi slung over his shoulder was standing nearby, smoking a cigarette.
When the man disappeared behind the truck, Tom saw his chance. He dashed across the bridge and hid behind a burned-out tree stump on the other side. He was about to creep closer when he heard voices and ducked back into hiding. A man emerged from the pyramid, and Tom was shocked to see that he was holding Hellen and Cloutard prisoner.
I can’t leave you alone for one minute, he said to himself. He readied himself to switch to combat mode, but paused. Hellen and Cloutard, their hands clasped behind their heads, were marching in front of their captor, who slammed Cloutard repeatedly in the back with the butt of his Uzi: the Frenchman couldn’t keep his mouth shut and was clearly starting to get on the thug’s nerves. He and the man in the cap forced both of the prisoners into the back of the truck.
In the meantime, two more armed men came out of the pyramid, wheeling a long wooden crate on a hand trolley. With visible difficulty, they heaved the crate with into the rear of the truck and jumped up after it, while the other two climbed into the cab. The driver started the engine, and a black cloud of smoke belched from the exhaust of the six-wheeled behemoth. The truck would have to turn around before it could drive out.
Tom had to hurry. He ducked into the ravine and ran back to the bridge, staying out of sight beneath the thick planks. A man steering a fifty-year-old monster of a truck over a homemade bridge had to be crazy, but a man hiding underneath waiting for the right moment to emerge and board that truck was even crazier. But that was precisely what Tom had in mind. As the truck rumbled slowly over the bridge, Tom pulled himself up and grabbed hold of the undercarriage. Once the truck had crossed the ravine, he climbed up between the cab and the loading area, a space about eighteen inches wide, and made himself as comfortable as possible. Wherever they were going, it would be a bumpy ride. A pistol in his hand, he kept a close watch on the small window at the back of the cab.
64
Burrell Boom, a village outside Belize City.
Hours later, after a jolting drive through the jungle, they reached the small historic village of Burrell Boom, just outside Belize City. Founded in the 18th century, it was little more than a stop for tourists on the way to the nearby baboon sanctuary.
Tom was exhausted. Every inch of his body ached. During the drive, he had risked a quick glance under the tarpaulin to see how Hellen and Cloutard were faring. They sat on one side of the truck, hands bound, while the two formidable-looking thugs with their Uzis sat opposite. Around them were several long, narrow wooden crates with rough rope handles. Tom was tempted for a moment to free his friends on the spot. He had the element of surprise on his side, after all. But they seemed to be in no danger at the moment, and he decided to wait. He wanted to know where they were going.
In the distance, on the edge of the village and situated directly beside the Belize River, Tom saw a modern factory complex. The bottling plant Vice President Pitcock was talking about, he thought. The truck was heading directly toward it. Tom scrambled back underneath the truck to avoid detection, holding on tightly to the undercarriage. He would not be able to hold out for long in that position, but fortunately the truck was waved through the gate quickly and rolled to a stop moments later. Tom slowly lowered himself onto the ground beneath the truck and waited, out of sight between the dual rear wheels. The two thugs in the back jumped down from the loading area while the other two climbed out of the cab.
“Bájate, bájate!” one of them shouted.
Cloutard was already helping Hellen down from the truck. “Patience is a virtue, Messieurs,” he said, earning himself another sharp prod in the back with the butt of an Uzi. Tom shook his head, grinning.
Three of the men led Hellen and Cloutard into the factory complex while one man stayed with the truck, the guy with the cap who’d been smoking earlier. You should give those things up. They’ll kill you sooner or later, he mentally chided the man. He was about to roll out from under the truck on the other side when there was a sudden flurry of activity. He paused, watching as the factory gate opened and two black SUVs with tinted windows drove onto the grounds and pulled up next to the truck.
From where he lay, Tom could see only the legs of the people who got out of the SUVs. Four of them wore black trousers and sturdy leather shoes. Definitely security, he thought. But the next pair of legs wasn’t like the others—even Tom recognized the red soles of Louboutin pumps. It was Yasmine Matthews, the woman in charge of the entire operation. And things became clearer still when she turned to the last man to emerge.
“Come, Mr. von F
alkenhain. Let me show you the filling plant,” Matthews said.
Tom was thunderstruck. Friedrich von Falkenhain was still alive? That bald-headed bastard’s impossible to kill, he thought angrily.
“You travel with a lot of bodyguards,” the Kahle remarked.
“An unfortunate necessity. As I’m sure you can imagine, our company has been the victim of a number of kidnappings. Over the years, we’ve had to pay several million dollars in ransom to various guerrillas to set our employees free. If it were up to me, I would not pay a cent for anyone stupid enough to get themselves kidnapped, but our PR people seem to think that we can’t afford the bad press. That’s the price you have to pay, I guess, if you want to exploit the absurdly cheap labor in these regions. It still works out cheaper.”
Yasmine Matthews more than lives up to her reputation, Tom thought. As head of the world’s biggest food company in the world, her ruthlessness was legend—a British journalist had once described her as a “cold-hearted bitch.”
When Matthews and the Kahle disappeared into the factory with two of Matthews’ bodyguards, Tom rolled out from beneath the truck. The other two bodyguards had moved away and were standing by an outbuilding about thirty feet from Tom, talking. Cautiously, Tom peeked over the hood of the truck to see what the smoker was up to. With a soft whistle and a “Hey,” Tom lured the man to him. A sharp blow, a hard chokehold, and after a brief struggle the man slumped unconscious.
Tom took the man’s cap and jacket and slung the Uzi over his shoulder. Then he rolled his body under the truck. He fished the cigarettes out of the jacket pocket, stuck one between his lips, pulled the cap low over his face and casually wandered over to the door the others had used to enter the factory. He knocked and turned his back to the door. It was opened by one of the thugs.
“Qué pasa?”
“Tienes fuego?” Tom asked.
The man dug around in his pocket for a lighter and held it out to Tom. A moment later, he realized that the man in front of him was not his buddy, but it was already too late. Tom stepped sharply toward the man and forced him back inside, simultaneously bringing his hand up to press the point of his knife under the man’s chin.
“Shhh,” Tom hissed, and closed the door behind him. He knocked the man out, then tied and gagged him, and deposited him out of sight behind a few pallets. The two bodyguards at the SUV hadn’t noticed a thing. With the Uzi at the ready, Tom crept deeper into the factory.
It wasn’t long before he caught up with them. He stayed out of sight behind a conveyor and assessed the situation across the endless procession of bottles sliding past in front of him. Hellen and Cloutard were kneeling about thirty feet away in front of the two thugs, who kept their weapons aimed at his friends’ heads. Matthews and the Kahle stood opposite, their backs toward Tom. The bodyguards were standing some distance off to one side. The group was in the center of the bottling plant, surrounded by a maze of conveyors on which thousands of bottles clinked and rattled their way around the various levels of the factory.
To free his friends, Tom was going to need a distraction. He unslung the small sports bag that had almost cost him his life in the jungle. Looking inside, he had an idea.
65
NutriAm water-bottling plant, Burrell Boom, outside Belize City
“What have you done with all the gold you found in the pyramid?” Hellen snapped angrily at Yasmine Matthews. “Those are priceless historical objects. They belong in a museum.”
Cloutard pinched his eyes closed and shook his head imperceptibly. But Matthews only laughed and went over to a large steel container strapped to a pallet. She lifted the lid and pushed it aside. Then she reached in and picked up a handful of the gold dust it contained, ostentatiously letting it trickle through her fingers.
“Very simple. We’ve processed it,” she said with a nasty smile. Hellen’s heart almost stopped and she began to gasp for breath.
“You . . . you . . . you what?”
“Sacré!” said Cloutard.
Matthews moved a few steps away and rubbed her hands together to brush off the last of the gold. Then she picked a water bottle, its label printed in gold, out of a box and took it over to Hellen.
“Liquid Gold” Hellen read on the stylish label. Matthews crouched in front of her and went on in a saccharine voice.
“Take a look. Two years ago, someone brought a scientist, Dr. Emanuel . . . something,” she began, waving her hand vaguely in the air. “I’ve forgotten his name. Anyway, he was brought to my attention. Apparently, he’d rediscovered an orchid, the Orchidea espagnola, which had long been thought to be extinct. And along with it, he also found an ancient Mayan recipe. When an essence from that orchid is mixed with gold dust, a door opens to the human unconscious. It took quite a while, I can tell you. And we did go through a number of guinea pigs. But we finally discovered that we can use this to make people highly suggestible, not just turn them into bestial killers.” She paused. “Oh, so much blood.” She waved it off, disgusted at the memory, and went on. “It all comes down to the dosage. And at the beginning, we were using the wrong kind of gold. It only works with a special kind of gold: the gold from El Dorado. Don’t ask me the details, I’m no chemist, but what makes it special is a certain magnetic impurity, something at the nano scale.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you went looking for El Dorado and turned all that gold into dust because of that?”
“Of course. But time was of the essence. We couldn’t just go looking for it in the usual way—time is money, you know—so we decided to go straight to the source. The negotiations with the natives naturally came to nothing, so we had to—”
Hellen, completely beside herself, cut Matthews off. “What? What did you do to those poor people?” she stammered.
“She murdered them, probably,” Tom called from his hiding place.
The Kahle spun around. “Wagner? Where are you hiding now?”
“Here. But if I were you, I’d be careful.”
Tom stepped out of his hiding place, his hands raised. In his left hand, he held a grenade with no pin. In the other he carried the Glock. Five guns instantly swung in his direction.
“One false move and we all go up.” Tom waved the grenade meaningfully.
“Enfin!” Cloutard said, breaking into a smile.
“Tom!” Hellen’s spirits also instantly revived.
“I’m sorry I interrupted you. Please go on,” Tom said, and the thugs and security men looked at each other, unsure what to do. Matthews kept her composure amazingly well. She straightened up and signaled to her men and the Kahle to keep their cool.
“Later,” she hissed to the Kahle, who was obviously itching to pulling the trigger. “Mr. Wagner, I presume?”
“Thank you! Finally, someone who can pronounce my name.”
“As you can see, we have the upper hand. Yes, you have a grenade, but you won’t get all of us with it.” She signaled to her men to keep their guns on Hellen and Cloutard. “And before that thing explodes, your two friends here will be dead.” She paused, making sure everyone continued to keep calm. “If I’ve understood you correctly, you’d like to hear what became of the tribe that lived here? I’m afraid Mr. Wagner is right—”
“They’re probably rotting in a hole somewhere in the jungle, right?” Tom said, cutting off her monologue and taking control. “It was you who burned the jungle, too. Effective, I’ll give you that.”
She smiled, taking Tom’s words as a compliment.
“People like you are nothing but money-hungry scum,” Tom snarled. “That includes you, Voldemort. But I’ll get to you soon.”
The Kahle wanted to shoot, but Matthews held him back with a shake of her head.
“I just want to know one thing. How can you be sure that people will actually consume the stuff you’re making?” Tom had to stall a little longer. He strutted back and forth, staring into the barrels of Uzis and pistols and waving the grenade around.
“Gold has a long
tradition in the history of medicine. It has played a role for thousands of years. ‘Danziger Goldwasser’ was supposed to help against depression, and at the end of the 19th century, gold was used to fight syphilis and tuberculosis. People today are obsessed with Bach flowers and the laying on of hands. With the right testimonials, social media, and a few influencers behind us, selling it as the new miracle cure will be child’s play.”
“You talk a steaming pile of shit, lady,” Tom said, screwing up his nose.
“Maybe from your perspective. But you are only one tiny cog in our well-oiled machine. I don’t know what you hope to gain from this little show, but you have already lost. The first ship—” But she got no further. Her brain sprayed across the floor and she collapsed like a rag doll.
The Kahle had shot Yasmine Matthews in the back of the head. He swung his pistol to the right and cut down her two stunned bodyguards, too.
And just at that moment, a gigantic explosion shook the entire plant.
66
Secret prison complex, New Mexico
“I’m going to the restroom. Back in a minute,” said Isaac Hagen, now wearing the uniform of a prison guard. His partner nodded indifferently, his eyes not leaving the TV screen, one hand on the cup of coffee that got him through the night shift. As an Englishman, Hagen could not comprehend the Americans’ enthusiasm for what they called football.
Hagen stepped out of the room, reached into his breast pocket, and took out the ID card for the server room. He glanced at his watch and hoped for Shelley’s sake that she hadn’t messed things up. He took the fire escape down one floor and turned the corner just in time to see the IT guys going through their nightly handover and heading outside. Seconds later, he was in the server room. He took out a memory stick that Noah had given him and inserted it into a USB port. His phone pinged. A message from Noah: “I’m in.”
The Golden Path (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 4) Page 19