Stikes had already announced that he was going to take the Interpol agent with him, giving weak reasons that not even Pachac believed, when Nina flooded the cave. Then, as Stikes tried to escape in the Hind, Mac had been about to destroy the gunship – until Kit shot him in the back. To save Stikes and the statues.
And now . . . they were about to meet again.
Eddie stood and ran from the room, the bewildered Macy following him. ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Hey, housekeeping! Miss Maid, are you there?’
The maid nervously emerged from a side room. ‘Yes?’
‘Look, I’m sorry I shouted at you. And don’t worry about the chair, I’ll clean it up later. I just need to ask you something. Do you know where . . .’ He struggled to recall Kit’s half-heard telephone conversation. ‘San Barn, Bart . . . San Bartolo. Do you know where San Bartolo is?’
She nodded, still timorous. ‘It is a town on the sea. About thirty, thirty-five kilometres south of the city.’
‘Does it have a railway station?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, so do you know what station fourteen is? What kind of station is it?’
‘Station? I don’t know, it . . . ’ She thought, then her face lit up. ‘No, I know. A gas station.’
‘Gas station? What, selling petrol?’
‘No, no. The gas, the . . .’ She made a hissing sound. ‘The gas, in the pipes! To cook with.’
‘A gas pipeline?’
‘Yes, yes! My brother, he work on the pipeline. It comes all the way from the jungle to Lima. There are stations on it, they pump the gas.’
‘Get me a taxi,’ he ordered. ‘And make sure it’s someone who’s willing to break the speed limit.’ The maid scurried away.
‘Eddie, what’s going on?’ Macy asked.
His expression was now utterly cold, determined – just as it had been when he went after Pachac. ‘I’m going to look for Kit. If I find what I think I’m going to . . .’ He didn’t need to complete the sentence for Macy to be fully aware that it was a threat.
‘I’m coming with you.’
He fixed her with a look so chilling that she felt genuine fear. His voice made it clear that he would not accept – or even tolerate – any argument. ‘No. You’re not. Stay here.’
Eddie turned away, leaving an unnaturally quiet Macy with the frightening feeling that she had just seen the face his enemies saw – before he killed them.
40
Station fourteen of the natural gas pipeline that ran along the Pacific coast towards Lima squatted behind a high chain-link fence, a cluster of dull grey metal tanks and rumbling pumps. It was a lonely outpost, a few kilometres beyond San Bartolo in the crumpled foothills of the Andes, and the sense of isolation was increased by its being completely automated. The status of the pumps was monitored from Lima, only closed-circuit television cameras watching over the remote compound.
The cameras were just one of Kit’s concerns as he turned off the Panamerica Highway and drove his car, a loaner provided by Interpol, down the access road. If he were caught on video, it might raise questions he would rather not answer. But then he noticed that the chain securing the gate had been cut – and that the gate was in plain view of a camera. Presumably Stikes had sabotaged or hacked the CCTV in some way.
All the same, he kept his head down to conceal his face as he left the car. This close, he could hear not only the thrum of machinery, but a continual low rushing sound – the noise of hundreds of cubic metres of gas flowing through the great stainless steel pipeline every second. He looked through the chain-link for any sign of Stikes. The tallest tanks were at the northern end, a catwalk running round them above numerous pipes and valves. The walkway continued above the main pipeline to what he guessed was a control station. The whole facility was bordered to its east by a low escarpment, and a flight of metal steps led up it from the controls. He now realised why Stikes had chosen this particular place to meet: the plateau served as a helicopter landing pad.
The empty pad wasn’t for the mercenary’s Hind, though. It was for the person the Interpol officer would soon be summoning . . . if Stikes lived up to his end of the deal.
Where was he? Kit surveyed the pumping station. Since it was automated, there were only a few lights, and they were more for the benefit of the surveillance cameras than visitors. Reflections glinted off pipes, picking out a steel maze amongst the shadows . . .
Stikes came into view, climbing a ladder up to the central catwalk. He gestured impatiently for Kit to approach. With a wary glance at the nearest camera, Kit opened the gate and crossed the dusty ground to the machinery. He ascended a ladder, feeling the pulse of the pumps through the metal.
Stikes waited for him, dressed in dark military fatigues, beret on his head. The Jericho gleamed in its holster. At his feet was the case he had taken from El Dorado. ‘You’re late,’ he said.
‘I had to organise a car,’ Kit explained.
Stikes regarded the Indian’s vehicle. ‘Did you come alone?’
‘Yes, of course. Are
‘Of course not.’ The Englishman smiled coldly. ‘Two of my men are covering you with rifles. See if you can spot them.’
Kit turned nervously, eyes darting across the pipework. So many hiding places . . . but a sniper would need to be in an elevated position to avoid having his aim blocked by the steelwork. He raised his gaze, finally seeing one of the men: a ladder led up one of the smaller gas tanks to a narrow platform on top of it. A dark shape was barely
