Empire of Gold (16 page)
Authors: Andy McDermott
‘Hi, Kit,’ she said. ‘Have you got something?’
‘I think I may have,’ he said, riffling through the pages. ‘As well as the files on West’s memory card, we also got a warrant for his phone records. A lot of international calls, as you’d expect – and many were to Venezuela. Most were mobile numbers, but there were also some to a landline in a town in the south of the country, a place called Valverde.’
‘Valverde?’
‘I already looked it up – it’s near the Orinoco river, about twenty-five kilometres from the Colombian border. Right on that line you put on the map in your office.’
‘What about the smuggled artefacts?’ she asked, with growing excitement. ‘Did they come from Venezuela originally?’
‘It looks that way. West was dealing directly with the seller. I think this is well worth investigating – another Interpol/IHA mission.’ Now it was the turn of Kit’s enthusiasm to rise. ‘I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that the Inca artefacts are coming from a region that is exactly in the direction you are looking. There’s a good chance we could find the source of the artefacts and shut down their black market sales,
and
find the third statue at the same time.’
and
find the third statue at the same time.’
‘Raleigh thought the lost city was somewhere along the Orinoco,’ said Nina. ‘The Incas might have hidden the third statue near Valverde! I’ll talk to Sebastian, get him to speak to the Venezuelans about an expedition. I think you’re right, Kit – I doubt this is a coincidence. If we find Paititi, we might be able to kill two birds with one stone.’
‘So long as we don’t get killed ourselves,’ said Eddie. ‘Somebody else must have found this place already, remember?’
‘I’m sure we’ll be able to arrange some local security. And you’ll be there to look after us too.’
‘And so will I,’ said Kit. ‘You can make the archaeological discoveries while Interpol stops these smugglers. We have already caught their middleman, and now we can catch them as well.’
‘Great,’ said Nina. ‘Better brush up on my Spanish, I suppose . . . ’
8
Venezuela
A
s it turned out, Nina didn’t need to work on her language skills in the four days it took to make the arrangements with the Venezuelan government. The moment she heard about the plan, Macy practically begged to volunteer her services. Though initially dubious, Nina knew one area where Macy’s abilities far outclassed her own: with her part-Cuban heritage, the young woman was completely fluent in Spanish. And, she had to admit, while Macy could sometimes be annoying, she was usually fun company.
s it turned out, Nina didn’t need to work on her language skills in the four days it took to make the arrangements with the Venezuelan government. The moment she heard about the plan, Macy practically begged to volunteer her services. Though initially dubious, Nina knew one area where Macy’s abilities far outclassed her own: with her part-Cuban heritage, the young woman was completely fluent in Spanish. And, she had to admit, while Macy could sometimes be annoying, she was usually fun company.
Which right now was more than she could say of her husband. Though things had thawed, there was still the uncomfortable feeling of tiptoeing over eggshells around each other. Nina hated it – and was sure that Eddie did too – but neither was willing to make the first move and apologise to the other.
That said, there were larger matters on her mind. The United States and Venezuela were not close at the best of times, but over recent months the Venezuelan president, Tito Suarez, had made increasingly vocal accusations of US interference in his country’s affairs. The State Department, conversely, had noted increasing civil unrest in Venezuela’s cities, to the extent of issuing a suggestion – not quite a warning, but the subtext was clear – that American citizens should postpone all but essential visits to the Bolivarian Republic until the situation improved.
From the penthouse balcony of her Caracas hotel, however, Nina saw little evidence of brewing revolution in the city below, only cars and billboards and a giant video screen on the front of what she assumed from the mast on its roof was a television station. Despite her being an American, the Venezuelan government had rolled out the metaphorical red carpet for the IHA’s director and her expedition. She had a shrewd idea why; considering her past record, the prospect of her discovering a legendary city in the jungle would be irresistible, bringing the nation both international prestige and tourist money. She had never visited the country before, and had been surprised and impressed by its capital, a bustling and in places strikingly modern metropolis. There was clearly a lot of money at work.
However, it was also clear that, even under an ostensibly socialist government, that wealth was far from evenly spread. Beyond the skyscrapers, great chunks of the city were packed tight with ramshackle little structures: the
barrios
, home to millions of the urban poor. Yet between these cramped slums were towering condominiums, expansive villas, even golf courses. With a gap so large financially and small physically between rich and poor, it was easy to imagine resentments simmering away until they boiled over.
barrios
, home to millions of the urban poor. Yet between these cramped slums were towering condominiums, expansive villas, even golf courses. With a gap so large financially and small physically between rich and poor, it was easy to imagine resentments simmering away until they boiled over.
She wasn’t planning on staying long in Caracas, however. Returning to the suite – though it was a beautiful day, the stench of smog was stinging her sinuses – she joined Eddie, Macy and Kit to await their visitor.
He finally arrived over half an hour late, which could have been down to the gridlocked streets, but Nina suspected was just as likely due to his displeasure at being there at all. Dr Leonard Osterhagen, a burly German in his fifties with a trim salt-and-pepper goatee that matched his hair, worked for not the IHA but one of the other United Nations cultural organisations – and in very short order made his opinion of the newer agency plain. ‘I do not see why the IHA has assumed control of this expedition,’ he said. ‘And I resent being shanghaied from our dig in Peru.’
‘You weren’t shanghaied, Dr Osterhagen,’ said Nina in a placatory tone. ‘It was simply a request for inter-agency cooperation.’
‘Cooperation! It was an order, I think. When the IHA makes a demand, everyone else must dance for it.’
‘I’ll have to disagree with that interpretation,’ she said, her patience already wearing thin.
‘Well, of course you do. You are the one who benefits. The IHA takes money away from other agencies, diverts funds from serious research and puts it into grand exhibitions, like Atlantis. Our work is not supposed to be a fairground show.’ He gestured at Kit. ‘And we are archaeologists, not policemen! Why is Interpol involved?’
Nina passed a folder to Osterhagen. ‘Take a look.’
He scowled and flipped it open . . . and his expression became first one of shock, then wonder. Inside were the photographs of the black market artefacts Kit had shown her in New York. He shuffled back and forth through them before looking up at Nina in amazement. ‘Where were these found?’
‘That’s the thing,’ Nina said, relieved by his abrupt change of attitude. ‘They’d been sold on the black market, which is why Interpol got involved, but they were found here. In Venezuela. And that’s why I
requested
this meeting. You’re one of the world’s foremost experts in Inca history, so I thought you might be interested. But if you’d prefer to leave it to the IHA . . . ’
requested
this meeting. You’re one of the world’s foremost experts in Inca history, so I thought you might be interested. But if you’d prefer to leave it to the IHA . . . ’
Sourness crept on to Osterhagen’s face as his displeasure at being played and his lust for knowledge fought it out, but the latter was quickly victorious. ‘The site these came from . . . you think it may be . . . ?’ He mouthed a word.
Nina spoke it for him. ‘Paititi. Somewhere in the south of the country, along the middle Orinoco.’
‘Paititi! In Venezuela? But – of course, Raleigh and the Manoans, Juan Martinez being set adrift. Twenty days’ travel along the Orinoco. It could be . . . ’ His gaze went right through Nina as he focused on the images in his mind.
‘So, Dr Osterhagen,’ she said, ‘are you interested in joining the expedition?’
He blinked, returning to the present. ‘I think . . . it would be best if you had an expert like myself accompanying you, yes. In the interests of inter-agency cooperation.’
She smiled thinly. ‘I’m glad you agree.’
Osterhagen regarded the photographs again. ‘I will need my assistants, of course.’
‘I’ll make the arrangements,’ Nina told him. The German gave her the details, then departed – with an almost pained look as he was made to return the photos of the Inca treasures.
‘Wow,’ said Macy. ‘I didn’t realise some people had such a problem with the IHA.’
‘Experts get very territorial,’ said Nina. ‘Especially when there’s funding involved.’
Eddie laughed. ‘Thank God you’ve never got stroppy with anyone who’s stepped on your turf, eh?’ He went to a large map of Venezuela laid out on a desk. ‘So we’ve got the expert on board. What about local support?’ He tracked the Orinoco river south along the Venezuelan-Colombian border until it turned back east into the former country, picking out the tiny dot that marked Valverde.
‘The Venezuelans are giving us a guide, and a pilot,’ said Nina, slightly annoyed by his jibe.
Kit joined Eddie at the map. ‘Military?’
‘Militia, I think.’
‘What’s the difference?’ asked Macy.
‘The militia’s loyal to
el Presidente
,’ said Eddie. ‘The military’s loyal to the country. Not always the same thing.’ He looked more closely at the map. ‘Better take plenty of bug repellent. That’s a big load of green nothing around there – jungle and swamps, probably.’
el Presidente
,’ said Eddie. ‘The military’s loyal to the country. Not always the same thing.’ He looked more closely at the map. ‘Better take plenty of bug repellent. That’s a big load of green nothing around there – jungle and swamps, probably.’
Nina looked at the photographs, then across at the case containing the two statues. ‘There’s
something
else there. Let’s hope we can find it.’
something
else there. Let’s hope we can find it.’
Two days later, the expedition assembled in the little jungle town of Valverde, where Nina discovered to her surprise that their Venezuelan guide and pilot were the same person. Oscar Valero was a heavy-set man in his forties, proudly dressed in the olive-green fatigues and cap of the Bolivarian Militia; it was also clear from his not exactly subtle questions that he had been told to keep a close watch on the
yanquis
.
yanquis
.
Osterhagen, meanwhile, had been joined by his assistants – three of them, giving Nina the feeling that he was trying to match the numbers of ‘her’ team. Ralf Becker, gangling and thatch-haired, was another German and Osterhagen’s deputy, while the other two were Americans: Loretta Soto, a plump and shy Hispanic woman, and Day Cuff, a long-faced young man with a pretentious little triangular ‘soul patch’ beard. Cuff’s eyes had immediately locked on to Macy – more specifically, her chest – and it seemed nothing short of a nuclear strike would draw them away.
They met in the bar of the optimistically named Hotel Grande, mostly for the practical reason that it was Valverde’s only hotel, but also because of its connection to the Interpol investigation: a payphone in its lobby was the landline through which Stamford West had communicated with his local contact. Like the hotel, though, the payphone was the only one in Valverde. The stream of people using it seemed to rule out any chance of spotting an obvious suspect.
‘Lot of soldiers around here,’ Eddie noted as another uniformed man made a call. There had also been a visible military presence on the streets.
‘There is a base near here, to watch the border,’ explained Valero. ‘To keep out the drug-running dogs and the Colombian puppets of the gringo imperialists. No offence,’ he added with a cheery smile at Nina.
‘None taken,’ she replied icily. ‘You know what we need you to do for the aerial survey, right?’
‘
Sí
, no problem. If there’s something out there, we’ll find it. You wanna start now?’
Sí
, no problem. If there’s something out there, we’ll find it. You wanna start now?’
The way Osterhagen leaned forward expectantly told Nina that she wasn’t the only one impatient to begin the search. ‘No time like the present.’
Becker sprang to his feet. ‘Great, okay, let’s go!’ he said enthusiastically as he donned a hat – a rather familiar-looking fedora.
Eddie grinned. ‘He thinks he’s Indiana Jones,’ he whispered to Nina.
‘
All
archaeologists think they’re Indiana Jones,’ Nina replied as she stood, equally amused. ‘Well, except the ones who think they’re Lara Croft.’
All
archaeologists think they’re Indiana Jones,’ Nina replied as she stood, equally amused. ‘Well, except the ones who think they’re Lara Croft.’
He regarded the tall, bony German. ‘I’m glad he went for the Indy look. I wouldn’t want to see him in Lycra and hot pants.’ His smile widened. ‘Now
Macy
, on the other hand . . . ’ His wife batted his arm.
Macy
, on the other hand . . . ’ His wife batted his arm.
Valverde was about two kilometres south of the Orinoco, its airstrip between the two. It was only a ten-minute walk from the Grande to what passed as a terminal, a hut with radio masts rising not quite vertically from its roof. The expedition members had been flown in by government helicopters, but the waiting aircraft was considerably more basic – a Cessna Caravan, a single-propeller, nine-seater light plane that was as unexciting and utilitarian in appearance as its name suggested.
‘Oh,’ said Cuff in sneering disappointment. ‘That’s what we’re flying in? I was hoping for something a bit less prehistoric.’
Valero seemed insulted. ‘It’s only twenty-five years old, perfectly safe. What did you expect? A jumbo jet?’
Cuff wasn’t satisfied. ‘Whatever, it’d better be well maintained if you expect me to set foot in it. Although somehow I doubt Venezuelan airworthiness testing is
quite
up to FAA standards . . .’
quite
up to FAA standards . . .’
Eddie had already taken a dislike to the smug twenty-something, and decided he wasn’t going to put up with an entire flight of whining. ‘Hey, Dave, how about not pissing off the guy we need to keep us from a fiery screaming death?’
The already nervous Loretta looked even more upset at the thought, but Cuff responded with a haughty huff. ‘It’s not Dave. It’s Day. Day F. Cuff.’
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