Empire of Gold

’

‘And then,’ said Nina, ‘we find El Dorado.’

26

Colombia

Francisco de Quesada leaned against the door frame, hoping the view would calm his frustration and anger. It wasn’t so much the scenery he was admiring – though the impossibly blue sweep of the Caribbean beyond the clifftop edge of his palacio’s infinity pool was certainly something to behold – as the occupants of the pool itself, a pair of stunningly beautiful women who had responded to his click of the fingers by entering a passionate, lip-locking embrace, making a show of unfastening each other’s bikini tops. There was normally nothing like a pair of twenty-year-old bisexual models to take his mind off life’s burdens.

Not today, though. The weight hanging over him was too heavy to ignore. Annoyed, he turned back to his guests, who were studiously attempting to ignore the display in the pool. ‘I don’t see why you can’t make this go away,’ he snapped. ‘You have done before – why not now?’

His visitors shifted uncomfortably, and not solely because they were wearing formal suits in the humid heat. ‘The thing is,’ said Corwin Bloom, the bald and doleful chief representative of the American law firm de Quesada had on permanent standby, ‘with all the previous charges against you, the evidence could be made out to be tainted and therefore inadmissible, or witnesses, ah . . . dealt with. But on this occasion you were seen by millions of people on national television making a deal with General Callas.’

‘That was in Venezuela, not Colombia. Surely that doesn’t count as admissible evidence?’

‘The DEA submitted it,’ said Bloom’s assistant, Alison Goldberg, a starchy young woman in black-rimmed glasses and stiletto heels. ‘Under the rules of Plan Colombia, evidence obtained by the DEA, no matter from where in the world, is admissible in Colombian narcotics-related cases.’

Bloom put down his briefcase on a table and opened it, handing a document to the drug lord. ‘This is a memo we, ah, obtained from within the Ministry of Justice, from the minister himself.’ De Quesada began to read it, his expression rapidly darkening as he flicked through the pages. ‘To summarise, they think they have you.’

The Colombian hurled the papers to the floor. ‘No one has me!’ he snarled, snapping his fingers angrily at a broad-shouldered bodyguard standing near a drinks cabinet. By the time de Quesada reached him, the man had poured a large glass of Scotch and soda filled with clinking ice cubes. He downed half the amber liquid in a single gulp, and crunched a cube between his teeth.

‘We also learned there is a plan in motion to take you into custody,’ said Goldberg.

De Quesada whirled on her. ‘And you didn’t tell me this the moment you came through my door?’ He looked in alarm at the bodyguard, who hurried away to alert his comrades.

‘They’re waiting for the final warrants to be signed,’ said Bloom. ‘We have a source inside the Ministry who will alert us as soon as this happens. You’ll have ample warning.’

‘Not if they’re already here.’ He crossed to a window and looked suspiciously out at the cliffs across the channel.

‘We didn’t see anyone when we arrived,’ said Goldberg.

‘No. You wouldn’t.’ De Quesada finished his drink, chewed another ice cube, then waved for the Americans to follow him. ‘Tell me what my options are.’

They entered a broad hall, the walls decorated with artworks old and new – and the khipu, pinned to a board like a giant bedraggled moth. ‘There is the usual ploy of dragging the matter out in court, of course,’ said Bloom. ‘Challenging of evidence and witnesses and so forth—’

‘I don’t want this to even get to court,’ de Quesada growled. ‘I meant, what are my options for leaving the country?’

‘Limited,’ Goldberg told him. ‘It would give the American government the excuse it needed to freeze your assets worldwide. And then there’s the issue of extradition . . .’ She tailed off as the Colombian went into a white- tiled room – and unzipped his fly.

‘What? Haven’t you ever seen a man take a piss before? Keep talking,’ he demanded. But both lawyers had been left speechless by the bizarre nature of his bathroom. Rather than a lavatory, the room housed a sunken square four feet to a side. Incredibly, set into its floor was the stolen sun disc. An unimaginable fortune in gold, a priceless cultural treasure . . . now acting as a urinal.

Hearing no further legal advice forthcoming, de Quesada looked over his shoulder. ‘Oh, this?’ he said, anger briefly diminishing as he took the opportunity to boast. ‘A little trinket I bought in Venezuela. I thought it would take weeks to arrive, but my new shipping company was very efficient. Now every time I take a piss, I’m pissing on the culture of my old friend Arcani Pachac! I may even send him a picture – although I doubt he has good cell reception in the mountains of Peru.’

‘Ah . . . quite,’ said Bloom, as de Quesada shook himself off and zipped up. ‘But on the subject of extradition—’ His phone trilled. ‘Excuse me.’

Now de Quesada was all business, watching intently as the lawyer listened. ‘Was that your man?’ he said as Bloom terminated the call.

‘I’m afraid so. The warrant has been signed.’

‘This way,’ the drug lord ordered, pushing past them and continuing down the hall.

Two of his men met the trio. ‘Jefe!’ said one. ‘I just talked to someone in the village. He said some trucks went down your road and haven’t come back.’

‘When?’

‘About two hours ago.’

De Quesada glared accusingly at the two lawyers. ‘I told you, we didn’t see anyone,’ Goldberg said, trying to conceal her sudden nervousness.

De Quesada whispered to the bodyguards, who nodded and jogged back to the room overlooking the infinity