The Inca Prophecy (36 page)

‘And the cardinals will actually live there until they reach a decision?’

‘Not quite. They used to, sleeping in cells adjacent to the chapel, but in 1996 the Vatican built a new residence on the edge of Vatican City. The cardinals will be bused to and from the chapel for the twice-daily voting sessions. It’s an improvement on the previous sleeping quarters, but it’s not a five-star hotel,’ Campioni added with a smile.

‘In your article, Luigi, you indicated that the Church is heading for a lot of controversy, and there’s been speculation as to what sort of a leader they will need to restore confidence … Given your inside knowledge, is there any one candidate who stands out?’

‘There are a number of likely candidates,’ Campioni intoned diplomatically, ‘but if it comes down to an Italian, then it will likely be a choice between Cardinal Felici, the Camerlengo and Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, and Cardinal Sabatani,
the Secretary of State.’

‘And is this likely to be a lengthy process?’

Campioni looked to the heavens and shrugged. ‘It can be. The conclave in 1268 went for nearly three years, even after they rationed the cardinals’ food supplies. It was only when angry locals began to tear the roof off the meeting room that they elected Gregory X. The election of Pius XII in 1939, however, lasted less than a day.’

‘Luigi Campioni, thank you very much for joining us tonight.’

Across the Atlantic, Wiley’s mood had not improved. Rodriguez was still alive, threatening to bring him undone, although he took some satisfaction from the fact that she was still in a coma. And he was relieved that the Italian authorities were no closer to solving the mysterious speedboat chase on Lake Como, which had destroyed the marina at Sala Comacina, along with a dozen luxury cruisers. He scanned his encrypted emails and opened the one marked
immediate
from his counterpart in the Entity. Felici might be tied up in a conclave, but as Camerlengo, he was still managing to keep tabs on Tutankhamun, it seemed. Wiley read the latest intelligence report from Rome:

O’Connor and Weizman headed for Puno. Expect on return that pair may travel to Machu Picchu.

Wiley headed down to the ops room. ‘Get me Lima on the video link, now,’ he ordered Davis.

Megan Becker observed Wiley with interest. The longer O’Connor evaded capture, the more obsessive the DDO became. There was a desperation about his hunt for O’Connor that fascinated her. A few years back, she’d met O’Connor at a conference in Moscow, where they’d connected in more ways than one. They’d wangled a few days off afterwards for a blissful break in a secluded dacha in the mountains overlooking stunning Lake Baikal in Russia. He was a good man, and an even better agent. As ‘Jarhead’ appeared on screen, Becker silently willed O’Connor on.

‘Tutankhamun and Nefertiti are headed for Puno. I want an asset down there immediately,’ barked Wiley.

Cameron Reyes nodded numbly. ‘Yessir.’

The Lima chief of station looked exhausted, and Megan sympathised with him. As the failures mounted, sleep had been in short supply even in Washington.

‘If you can’t take them out in Puno, I want someone in Machu Picchu, and this time I don’t want any fucking mistakes!’

‘Yessir.’

Wiley strode from the room, leaving Becker wondering about the source of his intelligence.

Chapter 43

‘Whatever the world might think of Israeli politicians,’ O’Connor said, after they had booked into an unremarkable hotel in Puno, the harbour town nestled on the Peruvian shores of Lake Titicaca, ‘Shaked and his Mossad people will be here within the hour. At grassroots level, they’re outstanding.’

‘Not so outstanding when they steal innocent Israelis’ passports and identities so they can assassinate someone in a Dubai hotel,’ Aleta shot back.

‘That island doesn’t accept any outsiders,’ the old boatman protested. It was early in the morning, and the city of Puno was just waking up. A light mist floated over Lake Titicaca. At 4200 metres above sea level, it was the highest navigable lake in the world and
the largest in South America. The mists drifted amongst the forty natural islands between Puno and the eastern shores of Bolivia, but after discussions with Shaman Diego, it was only one of the man-made islands that O’Connor and Mossad were interested in.

Eli Shaked waved a large wad of nuevo sol in front of the old boatman. ‘I’m sure we can convince you otherwise,’ he said.

The boatman smiled, revealing gaps where four of his front teeth should have been, but he shook his head. ‘I can take you to one of the main islands,
señor
, but not that one,’ he said. ‘That island is off-limits.’

Shaked looked around. The pier was quiet. Most of the boat people were still asleep. Shaked reached inside his jacket and withdrew his pistol.

‘We go now,’ Shaked said quietly.

‘But my deckhand … he …’

‘We’ll handle the ropes. Now!’ Shaked emphasised, cocking his weapon.

‘
Si, señor. Si, si.
We go.’ The old boatman’s brown face paled visibly as he watched Shaked’s men file on board, followed by O’Connor and Aleta, both carrying bags of scuba gear.

The sniper had found a hotel away from the centre of Puno, on a peninsula overlooking the lake and the harbour. He stood on his private balcony, scanning the old wooden ferry through his binoculars, and shook his head in frustration. It might have been possible to take out one of the targets, but not both, and the company they
were in made him wary. The men looked like military. He’d been paid over 80 000 nuevo sol, but that wouldn’t be much use to him if he didn’t live to collect. He settled down to wait for a better opportunity.

The old boatman may have been scared, but he could have done it blindfolded. For decades he’d been ferrying tourists around the sacred waters, and he set course for the narrow channel through the reed beds and the open lake beyond.

‘They’re up early,’ O’Connor remarked, returning the waves of the locals.

‘They have to be,’ Aleta explained. ‘Have you been here before?’

O’Connor shook his head.

‘The islands are all manmade, constructed out of totora reeds, but they only last for about three months. The reeds on the bottom rot away and have to be replaced with new ones on top. These days the locals can’t afford to take a day off to do it, because they’d miss out on the tourist trade, so they work before the tourists arrive.’

‘And there’s three or four metres between the bottom of the islands and the bottom of the lake?’

‘Sometimes a little more. The islands are tethered to heavy poles driven into the lake bed.’

‘So there’s more than enough space to hide something underneath an island,’ O’Connor mused.

‘Yes … but when this is all over, we’ll come back here as well … for a holiday, and no guns,’ Aleta said, dropping her voice.

‘I’d feel very naked.’

‘If I’ve got anything to do with it, you will be.’ O’Connor didn’t respond, just touched her arm softly, his eyes locking onto hers.

The islands were a further five kilometres past the channel and as they passed, the locals waved, expecting the ferry to land their cargo of tourists. The women wore bright dresses and blouses of primary colours, and broad-brimmed felt hats. The houses, like the islands, were woven out of totora reeds, and smoke from the stone-enclosed cooking fires drifted across the lake.

They powered on towards the furthest island, which had been constructed a little away from the main group. As they approached, two men appeared at the edge of the reeds and angrily waved them away, shouting in the local dialect.

‘Not very happy to see us,’ O’Connor said, fingering his Glock.

The boatman brought his ferry alongside the totora amid a torrent of abuse, but the Mossad team ignored the locals’ protests. They fanned out and began to search the huts, angering the locals even further.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from one of the reed huts and stumbled towards a small dinghy moored at the side of the island. He was carrying a rifle, and paused to fire four quick shots in the direction of the ferry, one of them shattering the windscreen. The Israelis, the ferryman, O’Connor and Aleta dived for the reed ground.

‘We want him alive,’ Shaked cautioned his men as they began to leopard crawl towards the man, who had made it into the dinghy.

‘I’m losing count of the number of fire fights I’ve been in since I met you,’ Aleta said to O’Connor, as another volley of shots crackled overhead.

‘Ah yes, but it’s worth it. Stay down,’ O’Connor urged Aleta, and he ran towards the hut closest to the lake. The tinny had set off and was now gaining speed. O’Connor steadied his aim and fired once, and the rifle flew out of the man’s hand and the boat’s speed faltered. O’Connor dropped his Glock and took a running dive from the nearby reed jetty, surfacing in the water of the lake in time to grab the gunwale as the tinny drew level. The old man inside reached for an oar but O’Connor pulled on the flimsy craft, tumbling the black-cassocked figure into the lake. In an instant, he had the gasping man in a vice-like grip.

‘Struggle and I’ll kill you, Standartenführer,’ O’Connor hissed in von Heißen’s ear.