Empire of Gold

  Eddie grinned. ‘No harm in looking.’

  ‘There will be if I catch you doing it again.’ She panned along the house to the crossing. While it seemed solidly built, it was still merely a footbridge, too narrow to accommodate vehicles. The drug lord’s cars were kept in a garage on the mainland, outside which an SUV had stopped and disgorged a suited man and woman about twenty minutes earlier.

  She moved her view back to the island. At each end of the bridge were tall and stout wooden poles, a cable that she guessed was a power line hanging between them. Near the far pole was the house’s main entrance – the doors of which suddenly opened. ‘Someone’s coming out.’

  It was the suited couple. ‘De Quesada’s lawyers,’ said Baker.

  ‘They don’t look happy.’ The pair were in the midst of an agitated discussion.

  ‘I think I know why.’ Nina looked round to see Kit, holding several sheets of paper, and Probst slipping through the bushes. ‘This just came through over the mobile fax.’

  Baker took the pages. ‘Outstanding.’

  ‘The warrant?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘Signed, sealed and delivered. We now have full authority to go in and get that son of a bitch. Okay, Mr Jindal, Dr Wilde, Mr Chase, wait here until we’re done. Walther, are the snipers covering the jetty?’

  Probst nodded. ‘We can take out the boats any time.’

  ‘Great. Okay, time to kick ass . . . ’ He stopped, seeing that the lawyers had come to a standstill three-quarters of the way across the bridge. ‘Now what the hell are those two doing?’

  The answer came as the man called out in American-accented Spanish. ‘Well, shit!’ exclaimed Baker.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Eddie asked.

  The DEA agent shook his head in disgust. ‘They want to talk to us. Guess they heard about the warrant.’

  ‘So much for the element of surprise,’ Nina said gloomily. ‘Now what do we do?’

  Probst surveyed the house. ‘I don’t like it. It could be a trap.’

  ‘We outnumber them three to one,’ Baker said dismissively, ‘we’ve got an elevated position and superior firepower, and all their escape routes are cut off. That son of a bitch is just trying to buy time so he can destroy anything incriminating. Mr Cruz!’ he called. The head of the Colombian SWAT team, who had been standing beside a six-wheeled truck giving last-minute instructions to his men, hurried over. ‘You and four of your guys, come with me. We’ll see what these clowns have to say. Get the rest ready to move in. Walther, keep your guys on lookout.’

  Cruz signalled to his unit, and four black-clad cops joined him. Baker summoned four more DEA agents, and the ten men, weapons at the ready, headed for the bridge. Probst and Kit moved away to organise the Interpol team.

  ‘Not keen on this,’ Eddie muttered.

  ‘You think it’s a trap too?’ asked Nina. The two lawyers were still waiting on the bridge.

  ‘Yeah, but . . . I don’t know what this arsehole’s got planned. And that worries me.’ He took the binoculars back from Nina and checked the villa once more.

  Inside the house, de Quesada looked back at him through his own binoculars from behind a Venetian blind on the upper floor. One of his bodyguards had spotted movement in the trees. With their cover blown, the intruders were less concerned about secrecy.

  Which could be their fatal mistake. ‘How many?’ he asked.

  ‘At least fifteen people,’ his bodyguard replied, hefting his M16 assault rifle. ‘Probably more.’

  The drug lord clicked his tongue, not liking the odds even with his contingency plan ready to go. ‘They’ll be watching the boats . . .’ He stopped when he picked out a dash of contrasting colour amongst the greenery. A woman, her fiery red hair standing out clearly.

  A familiar woman. ‘What’s she doing here?’ he asked himself, recognising Nina Wilde from their meeting at the Clubhouse. Why would an archaeologist be accompanying a police raid?

  The answer was obvious. ‘Wait here and get ready to shoot,’ he ordered as he headed downstairs to the hall. Two more armed bodyguards lurked near the front door; he ignored them, instead going to one of the artworks.

  The khipu. He plucked it from the board, then hurried back to his office, glancing into the bathroom as he passed. The sun disc was obviously far more valuable, almost certainly the main reason for Wilde’s presence, but unlike the khipu it could hardly be slipped into a pocket. Wilde had told him that the lengths of string were potentially worth millions to the right buyer; he might soon need the cash.

  But first, he had to make sure he remained free. He entered his office, where he found the dark-haired Alicia and the blonde Sylvie waiting for him. He gave their naked breasts an appreciative look. ‘You know what to do?’

  ‘Yeah, babe,’ said Alicia, raising her imposing weapon: an AA-12 automatic shotgun, its twenty-round drum magazine making it look like a futuristic gangster’s Tommy gun. Sylvie was similarly armed, and both women’s wide-eyed, hyper expressions told him they had just snorted considerable amounts of confidence-boosting cocaine off the marble table. ‘We won’t let anyone in until you’re done.’

  ‘Good.’ He kissed her, then did the same to Sylvie before going through the hidden door.

  It was a shame to lose such hot companions, he thought as he placed a small thermite block on top of the computer containing his financial records. But then, he could always find more.

  A CCTV monitor showed him the bridge, Bloom and Goldberg still standing partway across it. As he watched, the cops finally revealed themselves, ten armed men trooping to the crossing.

  He tugged out a tab to light the thermite’s fuse and retreated to the bar, shielding his eyes. The block ignited, sparks spitting as the matchbox-sized incendiary device almost instantly melted through the plastic case, the hard drive inside it and the shelf on which the computer was sitting, and finally made a sterling effort to burrow into the concrete floor.

  The girls gave him worried looks, but he smiled reassuringly and, wafting away the smoke, returned to the vault. In an ideal world he would have closed the door to ensure total security, but the stench of vaporised plastic and metal was choking in the confined space.

  Another look at the screen. The SWAT team was now on the bridge, marching to meet the lawyers.

  He gathered up the items he needed – a clutch of passports, a flash drive containing Swiss bank account details, an encrypted cell phone, a wad of high-denomination banknotes of assorted currencies, and the khipu – and sealed them in a watertight Ziploc bag, then held the remote. Any second now . . .

  ‘Are you with the DEA?’ asked Bloom, blocking the SWAT team’s path.

  Baker tapped the huge DEA logo emblazoned across his body armour. ‘What gave it away?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Let us through.’

  ‘You’re not taking another step across this bridge until we see a warrant,’ Goldberg said firmly. ‘We have reason to believe that our client’s rights are being violated by the issuing of an illegal search order, and we demand to inspect said order before we allow you on his property.’

  ‘In accordance with the Colombian legal code,’ added Bloom.

  Baker looked irritably to Cruz. ‘Is that right?’ The Colombian nodded. ‘Well, good thing I brought these.’ He thrust the faxed documents at the lawyer. ‘Read fast, ’cause one way or another, we’re crossing this bridge.’

  Bloom handed the papers to his partner. ‘I need my reading glasses,’ he said, opening his briefcase.

  It contained a laptop, several folders of documents, assorted pens and a spectacle case, for which Bloom reached . . . before he registered something extra amongst his belongings. A booksized block of a dull yellow putty-like substance, to which was taped a small electronic device, a red light glowing on it.

  He stared at it in bewilderment. ‘What—’

  The brick of C-4 plastic explosive detonated.

  27

  In the vault, de Quesada pushed a button on the remote, and watch
ed the image of the bridge – and the twelve people on it – vanish in a flash of light. An explosion rattled the building. He smiled. ‘Now that’s what I call client service.’

  He pulled a cord on the back wall. Another concealed doorway opened, revealing a rocky passage descending steeply into the island’s heart. He started down it. Below, the sound of waves echoed through a large enclosed space.

  Eddie and Nina raised their heads. The bridge had been obliterated, only truncated stumps left at each end. The two power poles rocked, the cable flapping between them like a skipping rope.

  Of the people on the bridge, nothing remained but a red tint to the drifting smoke.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Eddie gasped. Half the assault force had been wiped out in a single blow.

  And the other half was under attack. Crackles of automatic gunfire came from the island. Nina shrieked and ducked again as bullets thwacked the vegetation around them.

  ‘It’s suppressing fire,’ Eddie realised. The drug lord’s men were trying to force the surviving SWAT members to stay down while they escaped.

  Probst, with three members of his team by the trucks, had reached the same conclusion. ‘Sniper unit!’ he shouted into his radio. ‘Take out the boats!’

  Further along the cliff, beyond the broken bridge, two more men lay in the concealment of a bush, their monstrous Barrett M82 rifles on bipods before them. While the huge weapons were generally used in a sniper role, they were also often applied to anti-materiel tasks; a single .50-calibre round could destroy the engine of any unarmoured vehicle, and quite a few armoured ones.

  The snipers already had targets. A jetty, reached by a zigzag path down the island’s less steep seaward side, had three speedboats moored along it. The first man targeted the outboard motor of the boat closest to shore. Even with the waves causing the vessel to bob in the water, at a range of less than three hundred metres it was a simple shot. ‘Firing,’ he said, warning his companion to brace himself as he pulled the trigger.

  A burst of flame eight feet long exploded from the Barrett’s muzzle. Looking back through his scope, the sniper saw a hole through the engine wide enough to see blue water. The speedboat wasn’t going anywhere.

  His companion lined up the next shot . . .

  A new sound over the bursts of fire from the house – a low, flat whoosh—

  They looked round – and an RPG-7 round struck the cliff between them, tearing both men apart.

  Eddie grimly watched the RPG’s smoke trail drift away. The snipers’ first shot had revealed their position, and de Quesada’s men had responded with immediate overkill.

  ‘Keep down,’ he told Nina, crawling through the bushes to Kit and Probst. ‘They got your snipers,’ he told the Interpol officers, who reacted with shock. ‘They’ll be going for the boats.’

  ‘I’ll tell the Coast Guard to intercept,’ said Kit, going to one of the group’s Ford Expedition SUVs.

  ‘How far away are they?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘There’s a cutter three kilometres off the coast.’ The Indian began speaking into the radio.

  ‘Why the fuck are they so far out?’

  ‘We didn’t want to alert de Quesada,’ said Probst in disgust. ‘For all the good that did.’ He turned to the other men. ‘We have to make sure nobody gets away. Get the rest and go along the cliffs. But keep spread out – they might have another rocket.’

  ‘Anything I can do?’ Eddie asked as the team moved off.

  ‘I’m not sure there is even anything we can do,’ the German replied, following his men.

  ‘Great,’ Eddie muttered. He checked the trucks in the hope of finding a spare weapon, but found only the now worthless tear-gas launchers.

  Kit finished his radio call. ‘The Coast Guard are on their way.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Six or seven minutes before they’re close enough to take any kind of action.’ He drew a pistol. ‘Stay here with Nina. I’ll be with Walther.’

  ‘Be careful, okay?’ said Eddie.

  A humourless smile. ‘I’m not wearing body armour. I will be very careful!’ He hurried after Probst.

  Eddie watched them go, frustrated. There had to be something he could do. But with the bridge destroyed, there was no way on or off the island except by boat . . .

  Something about that troubled him, but he wasn’t entirely sure why. He returned to Nina. ‘Have you seen anything?’

  She shook her head. ‘After that rocket fired, all the guys at this end took off.’

  ‘Going for the boats.’ He considered that. ‘Which . . . doesn’t make any fucking sense.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This de Quesada blew up the bridge deliberately, so the only way to escape is by boat – but the path down to them’s way too exposed. He must have known we’d try to cover ’em.’ As if to illustrate his point, more gunfire started, this time from the shore. The remaining members of the SWAT team had reached positions from where they could see the path down to the jetty, and opened fire. A scream echoed off the cliffs: one of de Quesada’s bodyguards had been hit. The drug lord’s men shot back, dust and chipped stones spitting from the clifftops.

  ‘So, what, you think he’s using his own men as a decoy?’ Nina said dubiously.

  ‘The guy’s a drug lord – he’d probably use his own grandma as a human shield. He wants us looking at that end of the island, so he can do something at this end.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe he’s not really leaving – he’s just going to hide in a panic room until everyone’s gone.’ He regarded the house – then stood.

  ‘Get down!’ Nina yelped, yanking at the sleeve of his battered jacket. ‘They’ll see you.’

  ‘There’s nobody there. They’re all by the boats to give de Quesada time to do whatever he’s doing. I need to get over there before he does it.’

  ‘And how are you going to do that?’ Even at its narrowest point, the channel was still over fifty feet across. ‘The bridge has gone, and I don’t think high-diving into the sea to swim across would be a good idea!’

  He pointed. ‘That cable. I can slide down it.’

  ‘Are you kidding? It’s probably got ten thousand volts running through it!’

  ‘Then I won’t touch it.’

  ‘If you don’t touch it, how are you going to slide down it?’

  Rather than answer, he hurried back to the parked vehicles and climbed into the truck’s bed. As well as carrying the Colombian SWAT team, it had also transported the weapons, including the Barretts. But it wasn’t their now empty cases Eddie was interested in; rather, the ratchet straps used to secure them. ‘Here we go,’ he said as Nina arrived, detaching one. It was six feet long, made from a heavy-duty polyester. ‘It’s insulated, so I can chuck it over the wire and use it as a zipline.’

  Nina wasn’t impressed. ‘And if the line doesn’t hold?’

  ‘Let’s not worry about that, eh?’ He headed for the stub of the bridge.

  She followed. ‘Oh, you know me, I worry about everything. Especially you!’

  Eddie reached the pole supporting the power line, looped the strap round the pole and held the ends tightly together. ‘Okay, stay low, just in case I’m wrong and there’s still someone over there. Once I’m across, use the radio in the truck to tell Kit what I’m doing. Back soon.’

  ‘How?’ she demanded. ‘You’re going to slide up the line?’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’ He kissed her, then, using the strap for support, climbed until he reached the metal pegs that acted as a ladder. Warily eyeing the power line on its ceramic insulators, he scooted round to the pole’s seaward side.

  It was his first clear view of the channel far below. Waves churned and frothed, and the rocks poking from the water suggested it was not especially deep. High-diving definitely wasn’t a good idea. The open sea was visible at the far end to his left; to the right, it curved out of sight towards the jetty. Gunfire was still being exchanged,
but less frequently than before – the two sides seemed caught in a stand-off.

  Which wouldn’t last long. Beyond the island, Eddie saw an approaching ship: the Colombian Coast Guard. The drug lord’s bodyguards would soon be forced to make a break for the boats, or be trapped.

  Which suited Eddie. Their attention would be focused well away from him. He hooked the strap over the power line, applying experimental pressure. It seemed secure. Nina watched anxiously from the trees; he gave her a thumbs-up.

  A deep breath, and he shifted his weight to the strap. The line pulled tight, but still held. He fixed his eyes on the house, not looking at the dizzying drop. ‘High voltage,’ he muttered. ‘Okay, let’s slide . . .’