Empire of Gold (67 page)

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Authors: Andy McDermott

BOOK: Empire of Gold
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He leaned forward, thinking. If there was one person in the world he trusted to give a completely accurate account of events, even on the brink of death, it was his former commanding officer. Mac was right. Therefore Macy had to be wrong.
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ he said. He hadn’t meant to say it angrily, but the image of Mac’s bloodied, pain-twisted face as his life ebbed away put a harsh edge to his voice.
Macy pulled away. ‘I’m not lying! I know what I saw.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I wasn’t saying that you were lying . . . ’ He tailed off.
Mac. Kit. Macy. Three different accounts of the same events. But two of them contradicted each other. He had assumed that Macy’s was the odd one out.
What if it wasn’t?
To him, Mac’s version was the inviolable truth. What about the others?
Macy first. She saw the helicopter take off and leave the cavern, then encountered Kit, who told her he was looking for Mac. The next time she saw him, he had been shot – and so had Mac.
Now Kit. He was with Mac when Pachac and his men attacked, shooting the Indian in the arm – and the Scot in the back.
But Mac had been shot
before
the gunship took off.
The idea that someone might have lied about events simply hadn’t occurred to him until Macy put it into his mind. Why
would
anyone lie? It made no sense.
But nor did the contradiction. And Pachac had denied killing Mac. He’d had every reason to, considering his situation at the time . . . but his confusion at the accusation had been genuine.
And the revolutionary leader and his men had already escaped the cave and reached their vehicles by the time Eddie started in pursuit – but the gap between his hearing the gunshots and finding Mac had been maybe thirty seconds. Even taking into account the time he spent with the Scot as he spoke his last words, Pachac couldn’t have got so far ahead so quickly. Which meant he had to have left earlier.
Which meant he couldn’t have killed Mac.
Eddie felt a cold tightness close around his chest. If Pachac hadn’t killed Mac . . . that left only one other possibility.
Kit.
Mac had been shot in the back. And Kit had been behind him. Shot in the arm . . . the
left
arm. Kit was right-handed. And the injury was only a flesh wound, a single shot. Mac had taken two fatal bullets.
Ten bullets left in the Steyr he had taken from Kit, out of fifteen. Five used; one for the flesh wound, two fired off as decoys . . . and the first two, before Kit encountered Macy, used to kill Mac.
It couldn’t be true, though.
Why?
What reason could he have?
His thoughts went wider . . . and came up with more questions. Kit had been pulled out of the group by Stikes, not once, but twice – with a very feeble excuse the second time. And Stikes himself had initially wondered why Kit was on the mission at all.
Why
was
the head of Interpol’s Cultural Property Crime Unit personally accompanying an archaeological expedition? His interest had been . . .
The statues.
It was Kit who had suggested – no,
pushed
a link between Nina’s discovery at Glastonbury and South America, responding immediately to the IHA’s report. Kit who had proposed a joint Interpol/IHA mission. Kit who had been determined to accompany the explorers to El Dorado even though the smuggling case was closed. Kit whose first concern when an apparent earthquake shook the cave was the statues.
And Kit who had gone to follow a lead on the location of those same statues.
Which had been stolen by Alexander Stikes.
‘The statues . . .’ Eddie jerked upright as realisation struck him. ‘The fucking statues!’
‘What?’ Macy asked, startled. ‘What is it?’
He ignored her, the answer burning in his mind. It was the only possible explanation for what had happened at El Dorado.
Kit and Stikes were working together.
Stikes had already announced that he was going to take the Interpol agent with him, giving weak reasons that not even Pachac believed, when Nina flooded the cave. Then, as Stikes tried to escape in the Hind, Mac had been about to destroy the gunship – until Kit shot him in the back. To save Stikes and the statues.
And now . . . they were about to meet again.
Eddie stood and ran from the room, the bewildered Macy following him. ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Hey, housekeeping! Miss Maid, are you there?’
The maid nervously emerged from a side room. ‘Yes?’
‘Look, I’m sorry I shouted at you. And don’t worry about the chair, I’ll clean it up later. I just need to ask you something. Do you know where . . .’ He struggled to recall Kit’s half-heard telephone conversation. ‘San Barn, Bart . . . San Bartolo. Do you know where San Bartolo is?’
She nodded, still timorous. ‘It is a town on the sea. About thirty, thirty-five kilometres south of the city.’
‘Does it have a railway station?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, so do you know what station fourteen is? What kind of station is it?’
‘Station? I don’t know, it . . . ’ She thought, then her face lit up. ‘No, I know. A gas station.’
‘Gas station? What, selling petrol?’
‘No, no. The gas, the . . .’ She made a hissing sound. ‘The gas, in the pipes! To cook with.’
‘A gas pipeline?’
‘Yes, yes! My brother, he work on the pipeline. It comes all the way from the jungle to Lima. There are stations on it, they pump the gas.’
‘Get me a taxi,’ he ordered. ‘And make sure it’s someone who’s willing to break the speed limit.’ The maid scurried away.
‘Eddie, what’s going on?’ Macy asked.
His expression was now utterly cold, determined – just as it had been when he went after Pachac. ‘I’m going to look for Kit. If I find what I think I’m going to . . .’ He didn’t need to complete the sentence for Macy to be fully aware that it was a threat.
‘I’m coming with you.’
He fixed her with a look so chilling that she felt genuine fear. His voice made it clear that he would not accept – or even tolerate – any argument. ‘No. You’re not. Stay here.’
Eddie turned away, leaving an unnaturally quiet Macy with the frightening feeling that she had just seen the face his enemies saw – before he killed them.
40
S
tation 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.’

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