‘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
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—’
