The smoking soldier heard the commotion. He saw the guards hurrying into the street, and ran to investigate.
Eddie looked back at the ‘accident’. Mac was out of the car, hands raised in an expression of shock. Unsurprisingly, though the collision had been entirely the pedestrian’s fault, the soldiers were siding with the attractive young victim rather than the elderly motorist, one of them shouting angrily at the Scot. Even as he advanced along the stout branch, Eddie couldn’t help but be worried – if they decided that Mac was to blame and called the police, or, worse, took matters into their own hands . . .
Macy was back on her feet. She blocked the Venezuelans from reaching Mac, apparently telling them she was okay. This seemed to mollify the soldiers, who began competing with each other over who would help her.
The noise had attracted a couple of other men from the mansion’s far side, but Eddie was only concerned with the smoker. Seeing that everything was under control, he stopped - far enough away to give Eddie his chance.
The branch reached almost to the wall, having been trimmed to a stump to avoid encroaching on the neighbouring property. He jumped off it, briefly landing with both feet on the top of the wall, then dropped down on the other side and flattened himself behind an ornamental shrub. He peered through the leaves, hunting for the soldier . . .
The man had half turned to look back.
Some noise, the scuff of the Englishman’s boots on the wall or the thump of his landing, had caught his attention. Eddie froze. The soldier’s expression changed from confusion to a curious frown.
He started towards the bushes.
Eddie reached into his jacket. Getting hold of a gun in a country where he had no contacts had been impossible; the only weapon he had been able to obtain was a small survival knife from a sporting goods store in the mall. And unless the soldier obligingly walked right up to him without looking down, he would be spotted long before he could use it . . .
Cheers came from the television by the pool as the batter struck a home run. The soldier looked over to it – and then turned away, clearly assuming the noise he had heard had come from the TV.
Eddie returned the blade to his pocket and cautiously raised his head. The soldier was still retreating; at the gate, he saw Mac ushering Macy to his car. She was limping, but seemed otherwise unharmed. The soldiers reluctantly watched her go, then returned to their posts as the car drove away.
He was clear.
A quick check of the area. About sixty feet of lawn to cross to the pool, then round it to one of the entrances. Glass double doors were open at the poolside, but a single door further along the wall seemed the better choice, giving him more cover—
A distant boom, like thunder.
Only it wasn’t thunder. Eddie had heard enough explosions to know the difference. Another, sharper
And more, from a different direction. And a third harsh clatter, elsewhere again.
The coup had started.
Callas had put his forces into place throughout the city, waiting for the right moment – and that moment had come. A coordinated attack, aimed at taking control of the most vital strategic locations: key roads and intersections, radio and TV stations, centres of operation for the pro-Suarez Bolivarian Militia.
And President Suarez’s own residence, the Miraflores palace in the heart of Caracas.
That was what the men at the Clubhouse had been waiting for. Eddie ducked again as soldiers rushed from the building, carrying machine guns and ammo boxes, ready to defend the grounds against attack.
Someone shouted orders. Eddie recognised him from Paititi: Rojas, Callas’s right hand. Callas might not be here, but the Clubhouse was obviously a key part of his plans. The place was being fortified, surrounded by a ring of soldiers.
Not just soldiers. The front gates opened, vehicles entering the grounds. Three Tiunas, Venezuelan near- copies of the American army’s ubiquitous Humvee, ripped up the pristine lawn as they took up position by the entrance. They were followed by a pair of even larger and far more imposing pieces of military equipment: a brutish V-100 Commando armoured car with a soldier manning the .50-calibre machine gun mounted on its open parapet, and behind it an even bigger V-300, a six-wheeled slab of steel with a 90mm cannon on its tank-like turret. Both hulking machines pulled up outside the mansion.
As if things weren’t bad enough, two soldiers moved to the corner of the house – with a clear line of sight over the swimming pool. Eddie now had no way to get inside without being seen.
And no way to leave unseen, either. He was trapped – as civil war erupted on the streets of Caracas.
21
General Salbatore Callas suppressed a smile as he put down the phone. The first reports had come in to Miraflores of an uprising in the city . . . but the one he had just received was very different from those his agents in the Bolivarian Militia were feeding to the palace’s senior staff. The first accounts of events President Tito Suarez received would be vague, conflicting, uncertain even who was responsible for the explosions and gunfire across Caracas.
Callas, however, had accurate intelligence. His forces had struck exactly on schedule, and now controlled a long list of important locations. The only major target yet to fall was one of the state-run – and Suarez-supporting – television stations, where the approach of troops had roused a loyalist mob to defend it, but it would soon be taken.
He left his office and marched down a marble-floored hall to the double doors at its end. Two members of the Bolivarian Militia stood guard, eyeing him suspiciously – for the crime of wearing an army uniform rather than militia fatigues, even an old and trusted friend of
