Empire of Gold

  And the spark had just arrived. ‘Get him back inside before some sniper blows his fucking head off,’ he told Macy. Now that Suarez was here, a confrontation was practically inevitable.

  Macy pulled the President into the cabin. Mac took his place, searching for the Hind. The helicopter had turned above the boulevard, the image on the big screen changing as the cameraman tracked it. He jumped back down. ‘Chopper’s coming straight at us!’

  The crowd reacted in confusion, not sure what to make of the aircraft. Clarification rapidly came as it fired two rockets, which exploded short of the APC and sent bodies and pieces of bodies spinning into the air. Eddie flinched. ‘Jesus!’

  The survivors broke away in panic, people trampling each other as they tried to escape the battle. Taking it as a signal, the soldiers opened fire into the crowd. The television camera zoomed in to record the carnage.

  The Hind fired again, this time with its gun. Tracer lines seared down at the V-100, blasting off more chunks of armour. Eddie swerved as he accelerated towards the line of troops, the bullet hits stitching a new line down the APC’s left flank—

  Blam!

  A deeper detonation shook the vehicle, the steering wheel jerking in his hands. The armoured car veered to one side. One of the huge tyres had finally succumbed to the assault and blown out. Its reinforced structure was just about holding it together – but every revolution was shredding it, and total failure was inevitable.

  ‘We’re gonna crash!’ he yelled—

  The tyre disintegrated, pitching the wheel down on its steel run-flat insert – which had also been damaged by the gunfire. The hub sheared away from the axle.

  Unbalanced, the V-100 toppled heavily on its side. It ground along the road in a huge shower of sparks, narrowly missing a fleeing group of civilians, then continued towards the soldiers.

  The troops also ran from the sliding slab of steel – and the fusillade of fire spraying down from the Hind. Then the blaze stopped as the gunship passed overhead. The APC crashed into one of the Tiunas, bowling the military 4×4 over before finally coming to a stop.

  For a moment, everything was unnaturally still, people on both sides paralysed by shock. Even the gunfire had ceased. The only thing moving was the Hind, which increased power and gained height to turn for another pass.

  Then a figure crawled from the overturned APC. Suarez.

  The civilians and militia saw him first, immediately surrounding the armoured car to protect him. The soldiers held their fire, unsure what was going on and waiting for orders.

  More people emerged from the wrecked V-100. Kit flopped out of the rear hatch, Macy following Suarez from the parapet. Hands lifted them up; anyone who had helped rescue the President would get the same protection as their leader. Next out of the top hatch was Mac, crawling, one trouser leg dragging limply behind him – the straps securing his artificial leg had broken in the crash, the prosthesis still in the cabin.

  He was followed by Eddie. ‘Evening,’ he said blearily to the two men who picked him up, wincing as he realised his forehead was bleeding from a deep cut. He looked for his friends. All were in similarly beaten states.

  Where was Nina?

  He shook off the supporting hands and staggered to the APC’s mangled rear to find Kit, a palm pressed against his bloodied head. ‘Where’s Nina?’ he asked the Interpol officer.

  ‘I – I thought she was behind me.’

  Eddie pushed past him. ‘Nina!’ he shouted as he looked through the hatch, fearing what he might see . . .

  A hand held up the case containing the statues. ‘Hold this, will you?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Eddie grumbled as he took it. Nina clambered out, her clothes ripped and smeared with blood from several cuts. ‘We’re in the middle of a fucking warzone, and you still make me carry stuff for you!’

  She gave him a pained but genuine smile. ‘Love you too, honey.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ He gave her back the case and pulled her to the throng surrounding Suarez. The Hind was coming back. ‘Macy, we’ve got to get into that TV station now.’

  Macy passed on the message. Suarez nodded, then exhorted the crowd to come with him, rousing cheers and yells of ‘Viva Tito! Viva el Presidente!’ Their leader at their centre, his followers moved en masse towards the building, Nina, Macy and Kit going with him.

  ‘I think I’ll stay here,’ said Mac, sitting back against the wrecked V-100. He looked morosely at his left leg. ‘A hopping man’s not much use in a situation like this.’

  ‘You still kicked arse even with only one leg,’ Eddie assured him. ‘See you soon.’

  ‘Fight to the end, Eddie.’

  ‘Fight to the end.’ He shared a look of brotherhood with the older man, then pushed through the mass to join Nina.

  ‘They’re out of the car,’ Stikes told Callas. ‘Krikorian, use the rockets, take out everybody within fifty metres—’

  ‘No!’ the general cut in. ‘If we do that, it will turn the people against me – even some of my soldiers.’

  ‘In that case,’ said the mercenary commander through his teeth, ‘we should destroy the TV station, and then take out the crowd.’

  Callas shook his head. ‘No. Land this thing. I will take command of my forces from the ground. We can still capture Suarez – then I can make him turn power over to me legally. On television, in front of the whole world. No one will be able to challenge me.’

  With barely contained contempt, Stikes said, ‘As you wish. We’ll circle to give you fire support if you need it.’ Callas nodded impatiently. ‘Okay, Gurov, find us a place to touch down.’

  Nina looked back in dreadful anticipation, expecting the Hind to attack, and was startled to see it instead moving in for a landing. ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Callas must want to finish us off personally,’ Eddie replied. ‘Macy!’ he shouted. ‘Tell him to move faster!’

  She did so. Suarez boomed out more orders, and the multitude ahead parted to clear a path to the studio entrance. The big screen above showed the scene from an elevated angle, the movement looking almost like a zip being teasingly unfastened.

  The soldiers could see what was happening too. ‘Stay close,’ Eddie warned Nina as he pushed up behind Suarez.

  The Hind landed, rotors still whirling ready for a quick takeoff as Callas jumped out. Soldiers ran to meet him. He jabbed a hand towards the studios, ordering them to move in and take the building – and Suarez.

  Alive if possible . . . dead if necessary.

  Stikes watched Callas head away with his troops, then turned to Maximov. ‘You get out too.’

  The giant Russian stared back, bewildered. ‘Boss? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I don’t employ idiots. This is all your fault – if you hadn’t let Chase trick you, Suarez wouldn’t have escaped. You’re fired. Get out.’

  ‘But—’

  Baine pointed his M4 at Maximov and flicked off the safety. ‘You heard him. On yer bike.’

  Maximov’s scarred face tightened angrily, but he unfastened his seatbelt and squeezed out of the cabin. ‘Zhópa,’ he growled. ‘What am I supposed to do now?’

  ‘I think we can rule out a career in rocket science,’ said Stikes with a mocking smile. ‘Gurov, take us up.’

  The Hind left the ground, blasting Maximov with dust. He shook an angry fist at the departing chopper, then looked round. The soldiers nearby regarded him with suspicion. The Russian hesitated, then turned the other way and hurried along the boulevard, disappearing into the approaching crowd.

  The group was almost at the entrance. Nina saw the big screen tracking their approach. The shouts of Suarez’s name had become almost a ritual chant. The last clump of people in front of the building pushed back to make way for them—

  Someone stumbled, almost knocking her over. The case was wrenched from her grip as the man fell. She tried to go back for it, but the crowd swept her along like driftwood. ‘Eddie! The case!’ she cried, but she had
lost sight of it . . .

  Kit held it up. He shoved past the fallen man to her. ‘I think you dropped this,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to lose the statues after everything we’ve been through.’

  ‘Or the disc,’ she added as he handed the case back to her.

  He seemed almost to have forgotten about it. ‘Or the disc, yes!’

  They reached the doors. They opened, station employees hurriedly pulling away their makeshift barricades of desks and vending machines. Eddie looked back as they entered. The soldiers were advancing. No shots had been fired . . . yet. But the two opposing forces would meet in seconds.

  Clutching the case, Nina pushed through the doors behind Suarez. There were about twenty people in the lobby. ‘Can anyone speak English?’ she called.

  ‘I can,’ said a middle-aged man in a yellow tie. He did a double-take. ‘Are you Nina Wilde?’

  ‘Yeah, I am – but never mind that!’ She held up the case. ‘I’ve got a DVD in here – there’s a recording on it that’ll destroy General Callas. You’ve got to get it on the air as soon as you can!’

  Shots cracked outside, people screaming. ‘Shut the doors!’ Eddie yelled.

  Suarez joined Nina, adding his own instructions as she took out the DVD. ‘How long will it take you to start broadcasting?’ she asked.

  ‘Two minutes, less,’ said the man. ‘What is on it?’

  Nina shrugged helplessly. ‘I dunno – just something really bad for Callas.’

  He looked uncertain, then took the disc and ran for a set of double doors. Suarez followed as the staff restored the blockade.

  There were several large plasma screens in the lobby, all showing the station’s current output: a view of the street outside. Eddie joined Nina and watched, seeing a phalanx of soldiers driving through the crowd, clubbing them with their rifle butts. The protesters pushed back, throwing stones and garbage.

  More shots. Muzzle flashes flickered across the screens, people falling dead to the ground. Nina gasped and clutched Eddie’s hand. Macy put a hand to her mouth in horror, looking away. Some of those nearest the soldiers tried to retreat, but the weight of people behind them left them with nowhere to go. Others, trapped, threw themselves at the troops, armed with nothing more than their fists and feet. They were brutally battered to the ground as other soldiers fired into the mob.

  One screen briefly showed a test pattern before switching to a studio. The image jerked about before the camera operator finally fixed on a chair. Someone ran up to it, waving – then Suarez appeared. He took the seat, holding his wounded arm with the blood clearly visible. The camera tipped up as if to frame it out, but Suarez shook his head. The picture tilted back, making sure the injury the President had sustained – and seemingly shaken off – was in plain view. Even in a crisis, Suarez still knew the value of creating an iconic image.

  Nina looked at another screen showing the fighting outside. The soldiers were much closer. ‘This barricade won’t keep them out, will it?’

  Eddie shook his head. ‘Just hope whatever’s on that DVD does the trick.’

  Suarez started to speak. All but one of the screens changed to show him, the broadcast going out live to the country. His voice echoed from the loudspeakers outside. Macy gave a running translation, despite her nervous glances at the doors. ‘People of Venezuela, today has been a dark day for our country. Traitors have attacked Miraflores, and tried to kill me.’ He held up his injured arm. ‘A man I thought was a friend, Salbatore Callas, led this revolt . . . funded by criminals and drug lords. I have the proof – and now I will show it to you.’

  Suarez then spoke in English. ‘Dr Nina Wilde . . . I hope you are right.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ said Nina. ‘Now if it turns out to be Callas’s boudoir tapes, I get the blame!’

  The president gestured to someone off-camera. The image changed.

  Nina recognised the Clubhouse balcony where she had met de Quesada. The drug lord was seated at the very edge of the picture, almost out of shot and distorted by the fisheye effect of a wide-angle lens; the video had been shot on a concealed camera amongst his belongings. Callas, however, was almost dead centre, instantly recognisable in his uniform.

  De Quesada had apparently edited the raw footage down to the most incriminating highlights. Again, Macy translated. ‘So, just to be perfectly clear about our deal,’ she said as de Quesada spoke, ‘in return for twenty per cent of the value of my drugs that cross Venezuela, you will give them completely unrestricted passage from the Colombian border to the ports where they are shipping to America and Europe. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, agreed,’ said Callas.

  ‘And what about the DEA? If you take power from Suarez—’

  ‘When I take power.’

  ‘When you take power,’ de Quesada corrected himself, ‘you will not let them back into your country?’

  Callas smiled. ‘I only want the Americans’ money, not their policemen.’

  A cut, the Colombian leaning forward in his seat. ‘And what about Venezuelan drug policy under your rule?’ he asked. ‘It’s not a big market, but it’s still worth millions of dollars a year. Since I’m helping you, I don’t want to have my . . . subcontractors being arrested.’

  ‘Your dealers will have immunity,’ said Callas, though with evident distaste. ‘Providing they keep a low profile.’

  ‘They will be very discreet, I assure you.’ De Quesada smiled again, then stood. ‘So,’ he said, extending his right hand, ‘we have a deal?’

  Callas shook it. ‘We have a deal.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The screens went black, then Suarez returned, looking off to one side at a monitor and seeming as astounded by what he had just seen as those in the lobby. But Nina was more interested in the one TV still showing what was happening outside. ‘Eddie, look!’

  The soldiers were staring up at the big screen beneath the cameraman’s vantage point. The protesters were doing the same, everyone’s attention captured by the broadcast. The camera zoomed in on the troops. Confusion was clear on their upturned faces . . . quickly turning to shock and outrage.

  Eddie watched as the new emotions rippled through Callas’s forces. ‘This should be interesting . . . ’

  Callas, standing with a group of his commanders amongst the military vehicles, struggled to conceal his dismay as Suarez returned to the giant screen. Part of him knew that the game was over; the incriminating recording had just been broadcast to the entire country, and more worryingly to his forces outside the television station. While he was using carefully chosen corrupt men to ensure that narcotics traffic across the Orinoco followed his rules, he knew that the vast majority of Venezuela’s soldiers despised the drug lords.

  But another part refused to give up. He had come so close! And Suarez was inside the building. He could still be captured, some fairy tale about the recording being faked with computer graphics and a vocal impersonator concocted. ‘Well?’ he snapped. ‘What are you waiting for? We’ll take the building – I want Suarez to pay for these lies!’

  A young captain faced him. ‘General, was that – real?’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t real!’ But Callas could see that doubt had taken root. He decided that sheer volume was the best way to overcome it. ‘You idiots! This is exactly what Suarez wants, for you to think I’m in league with drug lords.’

  ‘But that was the Clubhouse, I recognised it.’ Other men nearby voiced agreement.

  ‘Never mind that.’ He jabbed an angry finger at the studios. ‘I want Suarez captured, now!’ Nobody moved. ‘Do what I tell you!’

  Other soldiers closed in, faces dark, betrayed. Another officer spoke. ‘We want an explanation, general. Did you really make a deal with some Colombian so he could sell drugs to our children?’

  ‘Get back,’ Callas warned. The advance continued, more troops surrounding him. ‘I’m warning you, do as I say!’

  ‘Get him,’ growled the captain.

  Several men lunged at Callas
. He grabbed for his sidearm, but they pinned his arms behind his back. ‘You bastards!’ he snarled. ‘Suarez will wreck the entire country – I’m its only hope! Everything I do is for the good of Venezuela!’

  The captain stood before him, lips tight. ‘Let’s find out who is telling the truth.’ He nodded to the men holding the general. ‘Bring him.’

  Stikes observed the scene below through binoculars as the Hind continued its orbit. ‘Looks as though we’re out of pocket on this job, boys,’ he said coldly as he watched Callas being frogmarched through the crowd. ‘Gurov, get us out of here.’