Kingdom of Darkness (25 page)

‘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. ‘Okay, 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.

Eddie whirled, but found Vargas’s pistol pointed at him. He froze, helpless, as Santos hit Zane again, following it with a kick to his abdomen. The Mossad agent curled up in agony.

Santos turned his gun on the other prisoner. ‘Now you, English. Right hand behind your back.’

‘Get fucked,’ Eddie growled.

The automatic did not waver. ‘Do it, or I shoot you.’ Vargas was prepared to fire; his boss was actively looking forward to doing so. Eddie had no choice. More handcuffs clamped painfully hard around his wrists.

Santos examined them, then smiled.

Even knowing the attack was coming, Eddie could do nothing to counter it. Searing pain exploded in his skull as the gun hit him. He crumpled against the wall, trying to dodge the inevitable kick.

He failed. The cop’s boot slammed into his stomach. Eddie doubled up, a sickening dizziness overwhelming him as he gasped for air.

Santos indicated Zane. ‘Put him in my car,’ he told his men. ‘I will take him to the Enklave. The other one . . .’ A cruel smile. ‘Take him to the cemetery.’

Miranda regarded him first with confusion, then dismay. ‘But – but that is not what we do.’

‘He is not leaving town,’ said Santos. ‘Ever.’

Miranda started to protest, but his words were cut off as Santos slammed him against the bars. ‘That is twice in one day you have challenged me! Do not do it three times, or you will join him!’ His fingers closed around Miranda’s windpipe. ‘Do you understand?’

All the terrified cop could do was nod. Santos blew smoke into his face, then released him. ‘Good. Now, do as I say.’

Vargas and the quivering Miranda dragged Zane from the cell. Santos watched them go, then took a long drag on his cigar. ‘Just you and me now, eh, English?’

‘Fuckin’ wonderful,’ Eddie rasped. ‘So this is how you treat tourists? No wonder that hotel was empty.’

Santos chuckled. ‘We usually run visitors out of town. It is strange, we always find drugs on them, even the respectable ones! But they pay their, ah, “fine” and go, and never come back. You, though . . .’ His expression turned stony. ‘You came looking for the wrong people, English. When someone does not want to be found, they are willing to pay to make sure nobody
does
find them.’

‘You know they’re fucking
Nazis
, right?’ said Eddie. ‘Escaped war criminals?’

A dismissive huff, smoke wafting across the cell. ‘Perón and then El Proceso were happy for them to be here. They want the same thing – strength and power. And I believe that also. Argentina would be much better with a strong government again. Maybe we do not have that in the whole country . . . but we do have it here. Lago Amargo is
my
town, English. And I will not let you or anyone else take it from me.’

Vargas reappeared and spoke to him. The corrupt cop nodded, then addressed Eddie once more. ‘Time to go. Your friend wants to see the Enklave, so now he will. As for you, our graveyard is not very beautiful, but you should make the most of it. It is the last place you will see.’ He started for the door – then whipped back around to kick his prisoner hard in the chest. ‘Goodbye, English.’ He walked out, leaving Eddie paralysed by pain.

Vargas and Miranda hauled the Englishman from the cell. They took him outside and shoved him into the back of an elderly Chevrolet police car. Eddie glimpsed a few onlookers before his head was pushed down, but no one moved to help him.

Miranda took the wheel, Vargas pointing his gun at Eddie. ‘You make trouble, I shoot you,’ he snarled as the car set off.

‘We should not be doing this,’ said Miranda. ‘This is wrong! We have never killed anyone before.’

Vargas responded in irate Spanish. ‘Yes, he attacked us,’ Miranda continued, ‘but we were going to arrest them for no reason! El Jefe did not even try to hide drugs on them.’

The young cop’s continued use of English was both confusing and angering his companion. ‘
Hable en español, pendejo!
’ he barked. Miranda gave Eddie an apologetic glance, but caved in, the argument continuing in Spanish.

The car headed into the hills overlooking the little town. Somewhere up there was the graveyard, in which Eddie would become the latest nameless resident.

Zane was also going into the hills, but along a different route. He had been dumped in the trunk of Santos’s own car, a half-decade-old Mercedes that nevertheless was probably the newest and most luxurious vehicle in the region. After several minutes of jolting along rough tracks, the car stopped. He squinted as the trunk lid opened and dust hit his eyes. ‘Get out,’ ordered Santos, dragging him on to the stony ground.

They were on what had once been the lake’s shore, the water now just a shimmering line in the distance beyond a flat pan of exposed silt. Zane made out indistinct tracks on the surface – had an aircraft landed on the dry lake?

Closer by were the weathered remains of a jetty, the wood and stone structure extending out from the old shoreline. The rusted lines of a narrow-gauge railroad track ran to it. He turned his head to follow them, seeing that they led up the rising slope to a tall metal gate, high barbed-wire fences extending into the distance on each side.

The gate was open. An old Jeep was parked just outside, two men walking from it towards the new arrivals.

One was a young blond man whom Zane didn’t recognise. But the other was all too familiar.

Rasche
.

Cruel glee crept on to the Nazi’s face at the sight of the handcuffed captive. ‘I saw you in Egypt,’ he said. ‘You killed some of my men.’

‘And I suppose you’re going to kill me,’ Zane replied, fighting to control his tension.

‘In time. But only after you have told us everything we want to know.’

Zane pushed out his chest in defiance. ‘I won’t tell you anything.’

Rasche smiled coldly. ‘Many have said that to me in the past. They were all mistaken. You will be no different,
kleiner Jude
.’

‘
Lech lehizdayen
.’

The insult produced only mocking amusement. ‘Many have said that to me too. It is anatomically impossible, I am afraid. But we shall see what is possible with
your
anatomy. I have seen Jews turned into all sorts of useful things.’

With a roar of fury, Zane jumped up – only to be pistol-whipped back down by Santos. Rasche stepped hard on the fallen man’s neck until vertebrae crackled. ‘The Final Solution did not stop in 1945,’ he said. ‘It was only . . .
paused
. We shall start it again, soon enough. Perhaps you will even have the honour of being the first of its new victims.’

Zane choked out each word. ‘You’ll be . . .
dead
 . . . before then.’

The Nazi let out a muted laugh. ‘Not by you.’ He drew something from inside his coat.

Not a gun. An SS dagger, a silver skull on its hilt. He stepped back, bent down – and stabbed it into Zane’s thigh. The Israeli screamed.

‘Leitz told me that the man I killed in Alexandria was your friend,’ said Rasche, voice low and gloating. ‘Benjamin Falk, a Mossad Nazi-hunter.’ He twisted the blade, blood running down Zane’s leg. ‘I was aiming at you, but one dead Jew is much like another.’ A last jab, Zane crying out again, then he withdrew the knife. ‘Do not worry – you will join him soon enough.’ He kicked the writhing man, then turned away.

His companion yanked Zane up, jamming a gun into his back and pushing him to the Jeep. ‘What about the other man who was with him?’ Rasche asked Santos.

The Argentinian savoured a mouthful of cigar smoke before replying. ‘If he isn’t dead already, he will be soon.’

Miranda halted the car. Vargas got out and opened the rear door. ‘Move.’

Eddie was pulled out to find himself on a hillside about a mile from the town. The wind had picked up, pale dust swirling up the slope from the dry lake bed.

Vargas turned him around – revealing the cemetery.

The plot was dotted with stunted, twisted trees between the graves. Far in the past, the inhabitants of Lago Amargo had had money to spare on the dead, small tombs and angelic statues standing amongst the gravestones. But the town’s decline over time was easy to see; the markers became smaller, plainer, before stone finally gave way to simple wooden crosses.

‘This is wrong!’ Miranda protested. ‘We are not murderers!’

‘Shut up,’ said Vargas. He pointed at a nearby mound of dirt, dusty tools lying beside it. ‘Get the shovel.’

The young cop threw up his hands. ‘I want no part of this.’

‘
Cobarde
,’ muttered Vargas. ‘You, English. Get it.’

Eddie’s arms were still cuffed behind his back. ‘How, with my fucking mouth?’

The cop made an exasperated sound. He spoke to Miranda, but the other man shook his head. ‘Don’t try anything,’ said Vargas as he poked his gun against Eddie’s back and fumbled for the handcuff key. He tried to push it into the hole on the left bracelet, metal clinking on metal before it found its home. He turned it, and the cuff came loose. ‘Okay, you’re going to dig—’

Eddie twisted at the waist, using his left elbow to slam the gun away from his body as his right arm whisked around to deliver a punch to Vargas’s face. ‘Dig
this
!’

It wasn’t as solid a blow as he had hoped, but it was enough to unbalance the Argentinian. Eddie shoulder-barged him, knocking him down.

But the cop still had his gun – and was already recovering. The Yorkshireman ran for the nearest row of gravestones. If he could get behind them, he would have at least partial cover . . .

Too slow. ‘
Bastardo!
’ Vargas shouted as he scrambled upright and took aim—

A shot – but it went wide. Eddie glanced back as he reached the first of the markers to see that Miranda had grabbed his partner’s arm. Vargas broke free – then clubbed the smaller man with his gun. Miranda fell against the car.

Eddie bent low and kept running, squinting as more gritty dust blew up the hillside. He swerved around a statue, intending to use it as a shield, but instead had to make a running jump as he almost fell into an open hole behind it, mud and a rusty shovel at the bottom of the half-dug old grave. He swore as he regained his balance on the other side, then hurried on. The next decent cover was a gnarled tree. He ran for it—