Moon Mask (43 page)

The flying boat banked into a wide valley, its shadow passing over the remote and isolated settlement below like some stalking bird of prey. Looming above the town, the iconic summit of Cerro Chaltén, renamed Mount Fitz Roy for the captain of the famous H.M.S.
Beagle
, stood like an ancient citadel belonging to the legendary Giants of Patagonia. Long since explained by science as being members of the Selk’nam tribe whose average height was greater than their European ‘discoverers’, the legend nevertheless enticed the imaginations of those who dared to venture into the wild and haunting lands at world’s end.

There were no airfields or landing strips anywhere near the town of El Chaltén and so the Black Cat ploughed on through the valley, catching only limited interest from those below. It climbed over a mountain ridge, out of sight of the settlement, and then dived steeply towards the fifty mile long blue expanse of Laguna Viedma. Its hull splashed into the frigid waters of the glacial lake, sending up an enormous spray as the pilot wrestled with the controls, bringing the plane around the three mile long terminus of the Viedma Glacier.

From above, King had seen the enormous tongue of sprawling ice carving its way through the mountains, unstoppable and impenetrable. But now it loomed above them, dwarfing the Black Cat, sheer cliffs of glistening blue and white ice. With a torturous wrenching sound, an enormous chunk of the glacier calved away from the terminus. It slammed into the lake with far more force than the plane’s touch down, giving birth to yet another ice berg which slowly drifted deeper into the lake, constantly feeding it.

“Hold on,” the pilot’s voice warned as the powerful ripple caused by the calving ploughed into the flying boat’s hull. The plane slid down the edge of the wave and bounced over the preceding, smaller ripples until the water was still once more.

Then, all King could do was sit silently as the pilot headed towards the deserted shore and lined up with a jetty ordinarily used to ferry tourists out to the glacier. It was empty, the ferry nowhere to be seen, possibly undergoing maintenance during the winter months before the tourist boom of the summer.

With the whirring of gears, the rear loading ramp of the plane descended, coming almost level with the rickety wooden jetty.

“Let’s go, Ben,” Bill barked.

His body felt leaden as he rose to his feet. His hands and feet had been untied and he considered making a move against the mercenaries but forced himself not to. The time wasn’t right and, now, he feared it would never be right.

“I said, move it,” Bill snapped.

He turned and breathed in the fresh and clear mountain air blowing gently in through the rear opening before looking at Sid. Her lovely big eyes locked onto his, pleadingly.

Don’t leave me,
they seemed to say.

But he didn’t have a choice. Bill’s lackey roughly grabbed his arms and hauled him towards the two motorbikes locked in front of the loading hatch. He struggled weakly against him, looking over his shoulder at Sid the whole time. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

I’ll be back for you,
he silently vowed with a weak smile. She seemed to understand. Words weren’t necessary but he couldn’t leave without saying something to her.

“I love you.”

“Good,” Bill cut in before Sid could voice her response. “Then you’ll remember what I told you.”

How could he forget? It was clear to King that Bill was worried. When he had landed in Jamaica, he’d had eight men in his team. Now, all he had was two; the pilot and the unnamed lackey. An escape plan had quickly formed in his mind. Once they were on solid ground, two against three weren’t such bad odds. Maybe an opportunity would arise and he and Sid could get away, alert the authorities.

But such hopes had been quickly dashed when Bill announced that Sid would be staying on board the Black Cat with the pilot while he and his lackey took King into town to find the map. He’d be checking in with the pilot every fifteen minutes. If the pilot didn’t hear from him, he was ordered to shoot Sid in the head, no questions asked.

With a sense of dread clutching at his heart, King mounted one of the bikes behind Bill’s minion. Then, on another bike, Bill kicked the ignition, twisted the throttle and shot off at startling speed, up the incline of the ramp and onto the jetty. King’s driver lurched after him, King casting a final glance over his shoulder at Sid.

His obsession had got her into this. Now he had a new obsession.

He wouldn’t stop until he got her out of it.

The two bikes raced along the jetty then hit the shore, tearing up a steep rutted track which led away from a cluster of abandoned sheds before joining the main highway. The air was cold, shockingly so following the sauna of Jamaica, and it bit into King’s exposed hands and face as the bikes hurtled along at shocking speeds. The scenery shot by in a blur, the lake to their left, a line of grey and white mountains to the south. Ahead lay another barrier of snow-capped peaks, the sprawling, snake-like body of another glacier burrowing through them in the distance.

Veering around to the right, the lake was cut off from view behind them by the line of mountains as the road followed the meandering waters of the Rio de las Vueltas and began descending towards the village of El Chaltén.

Built in the eighties in response to Argentina’s border disputes with Chile, El Chaltén was little more than a scattering of ugly box-shaped prefabs dotted upon the beautiful landscape, nestling at the foot of Cerro Fitzroy. In fact, Mount Fitzroy and its surrounding peaks and glaciers were the settlement’s only lifeline, the entire village existing now solely to service hikers, climbers and backpackers. It was virtually cut off from the modern world, devoid of cell phone reception and broadband, the local hostels relying on expensive and slow satellite link ups to allow their guests to attempt to keep in touch with the modern world. Hundreds of miles from the nearest major town by rutted, pothole infested roads, El Chaltén existed in a state of near total seclusion and isolation, far from civilisation, far from the short arm of the law, and far, far from help.

Not exactly the best place to mount a daring escape, King thought darkly as the bikes slowed on the outskirts of town. King thought he saw Bill speak into his radio, checking in with the pilot he presumed, and realised, his hopes sinking further still, that it had taken roughly fifteen minutes to ride from the lake to the village.

“Damn,” he cursed under his breath. Even if he could escape from Bill and his henchman, would he make it back to the plane before Sid was murdered?

With a growl, the bikes started forward again, rolling menacingly around a sharp corner upon which sat a grocery store. A group of young people, backpackers judging from their clothes, exited the store carrying boxes of cheap Vino Tinto. To either side of the road sat independent little buildings, most of them remarkably smart yet looking little more than wooden summerhouses like he had seen in gardens back in Oxford. How they kept out the cold, King could only guess, yet they had been put to good use, some being used as restaurants and bistros, others as telephone cabinas. One even housed a small bookshop.

They continued up the main street, passing another, smaller corner shop to the right before finally coming to a halt outside of the largest building King had yet seen, this one constructed out of bricks and mortar and standing three stories high. A large yellow overland truck, a Scania lorry which had been converted into a giant passenger vehicle, sat on the main drive, its cab tilted forward while its driver worked on its engine. Another lorry, painted blue and white, was parked next to it.

Parking the bikes on the side of the road, Bill led King and his guard towards the main entrance. His guard walked closely behind him, the silencer of his gun occasionally jabbing him in the kidneys as a reminder not to try anything stupid.

Stepping into the hostel, King was struck by the heat and the sudden smell of cooking reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in close to twenty four hours.

The main floor of the hostel was large and square, cluttered with numerous tables which were occupied by noisily chatting groups of people, mostly in their twenties or thirties but he noted a few older faces. All were backpackers, hikers or climbers and, despite himself, King found himself analysing each of them, searching for any potential allies.

“Don’t even think about it,” Bill warned quietly, as though reading his thoughts. “Remember, one word to my man on my plane and your pretty little-”

“I got the memo,” King shot back.

Bill glowered for a moment longer before returning his gaze to the busy hostel. A stairway led from the centre of the floor, curling up to a balcony where more tables were arrayed around chunky computers and a scattering of beanbags. A door at the back of the ground floor led to a self-catering kitchen where the clatter of pots and pans echoed. Straight ahead there stood a wooden bar with a window behind it leading into a professional kitchen and King realised that was where the smell of cooking was coming from, Argentine waiters delivering sizzling plates to tired looking hikers back from a day on the mountain.

Bill ignored all else and stepped up to the window of the main reception where a young woman greeted him with a wide smile.

“Hola,” she said pleasantly.

“I’d like to speak to Mister Adjo, please,” Bill requested curtly, assuming the Argentinean woman spoke English.

“Can I help?” she asked, proving that she did indeed speak English.

“Not unless you are called Mister Adjo.”

Her smile still in place, the receptionist’s eyes nevertheless lost some of their warmth. “I’ll see if Mister Adjo is available,” she said, picking up an old fashioned telephone and speaking in quick Spanish into it. After several seconds she hung up and looked back at Bill. “Go to the top of the stairs then through the door directly in front of you. Mister Adjo will meet you there.”

The three of them followed the receptionist’s instructions, winding their way through the crowds of backpackers. The overland trucks could carry twenty or so people each on an organised trip around South America but the hostel was heaving with many more independent travellers.

At the top of the stairs they stepped across the balcony and through a doorway. A corridor in front of them led to the hostel’s many rooms but another door, marked with ‘No Entry. Staff only’ opened to their left and a man stepped through.

“You Mister Adjo?” Bill asked.

Dressed in a pair of black cargo trousers and a red fleece jumper, the forty three year old had pale olive skin, unlike the tepid white of most Argentines, and his dark eyes and narrow face smacked of Arabian descent, however distant.

“That’s right,” he man nodded. “How can I-”

He didn’t have time to finish the question as Bill suddenly slammed the muzzle of his pistol to Adjo’s temple and pushed the stunned man back through the door he had just exited before anyone else saw. King was ‘urged’ in behind him.

“What is the meaning of this? Who are you people?” Adjo demanded.

“Shut up, or I’ll shut you up,” Bill snarled.

“I demand-”

With a fierce jab, Bill slammed the butt of his gun against the side of Adjo’s face, almost knocking him over but he caught him and dragged him roughly up the set of stairs just inside the doorway, thrusting him out into an open plan living space at the top. An eruption of screams came from above and King rushed forward to see a woman, presumably Adjo’s wife, and two girls, no older than ten, scramble in horror away from the gunman.

“Oh my god,” King gasped, realising that he was responsible for leading the gunman to their home.

“Shut them up or I shoot them both!” Bill barked at the frantic woman. Adjo tried to scramble forward but Bill held tight. “Shut the little fuckers up now or-”

Adjo’s wife quickly collected the girls together, clamping a hand over their mouths to silence then, talking soothingly despite the sheer terror on her face.

“That’s better,” Bill sighed, then he tossed something to King who automatically caught it. It was a roll of duct tape. “Tie them up.” King didn’t move and so Bill levelled his gun towards the head of one of the girls. “Do it.”

King didn’t need to be told twice. He hurried towards Adjo’s wife and daughters. “And don’t try to be a hero, Ben.”

King felt sick as he tied the innocent woman and children’s hands and feet together and then, on Bill’s command, taped their mouths shut also. The words ‘I’m sorry’ escaped his lips but were met only by an angry glare from Adjo’s wife.

“Good,” Bill said, pushing Adjo away from him. Tears streaked his face and his terrified, helpless expression shot to King’s heart. If anything happened to this family, he was to blame.

“You have in your possession a map,” Bill said, his voice casual, relaxed. “A treasure map,” he added. “All I need is for you to give it to me, let my . . .
expert,
here,” he nodded in King’s direction, “verify it, then we’ll be on our way, with our sincere apologies for having disturbed you.”

“A map?” Adjo choked, his voice raw. King could see the man’s entire body trembling but it was not fear for himself, but for his family. “I don’t know anything about a map-”

Before he’d even finished his sentence there was a muted pop from the muzzle of Bill’s silencer, followed by an agonised squeal from Adjo’s wife as the bullet tore through her upper thigh. She writhed in agony, falling onto one side of the couch and knocking one of the girl’s to the floor.

“You bastard, I’ll kill you!” Adjo leapt forward, ignoring the guard’s pistol which was levelled at his head. Bill’s pistol, planting itself firmly against the girl who remained sitting, froze him mid-step, however. As always, Bill moved coolly and casually, as though the whole affair was part of daily normality for him.

“That was a warning shot, Mister Adjo,” he explained. “Now that you understand how serious I am, I’m sure that when I repeat my request, your answer will be much more satisfactory.”

King saw the look of rage on Adjo’s face morph into desperation. He sobbed, wanting to pull himself forward to protect his family despite Bill’s guard’s gun. “Please,” he blubbered, breaking down. “Don’t hurt them. Please. Don’t hurt my family.”