Temple of the Gods

‘Yeah,’ he told her. ‘Don’t know exactly how many, but a lot, about a hundred. Banga and his people got them out of there.’

‘And what about…’ Her voice dropped. ‘What about Boodu?’

Even as a whisper, the hated name still caught the attention of others nearby. More people approached Eddie. ‘Did you catch him?’ a man demanded. ‘Did you bring the Butcher?’

‘Some of him. Here.’ Eddie brought something out from behind his back. ‘Let me give you a hand.’

Everyone recoiled in instinctive shock and disgust before they realised the significance of the distinctive ring on one stiffening finger. ‘It… it’s his,’ said Japera softly. ‘It’s the Butcher’s hand.’ She raised her voice to her companions. ‘It is the Butcher’s hand!’

The man who had spoken stared at it, then his mouth widened into a grin. He took the lifeless hand and held it aloft. ‘You killed the Butcher! He’s dead! The Butcher is dead!’ The call was taken up by the others, delight and relief spreading through the little crowd.

Japera’s response was more muted, a tear beading in one eye. ‘You killed Gamba Boodu,’ she said quietly to Eddie. ‘Thank you. My family… can rest now. Thank you.’ She squeezed his hand. He nodded in silent acknowledgement. After a moment, she released him. ‘I will get your money.’

‘Don’t give it to me,’ he said, to her surprise. ‘TD can have most of my share — I don’t think getting her plane fixed’ll be cheap. And Max can have the rest.’ He nodded towards the huge Russian, who was surrounded by cheering Zimbabweans and looking bemused but pleased by the attention. ‘All I need is enough to cover some expenses. Plane fares, mainly.’

Japera tried to hide her disappointment. ‘You are leaving? So soon?’

‘I’ve got somewhere to go. All I need is to find out where. Excuse me.’ He headed back to the plane to meet Strutter, who had just planted both feet on solid ground with huge relief.

‘Eddie, Eddie, Eddie!’ said the Kenyan, rubbing his brow. ‘We made it — you saved me!’

‘Yeah, well, don’t expect me to make a habit of it. Like I said, if you tell me what I need to know, we’ll be all square.’

‘No problem. I will find your friend, don’t you worry.’

‘He’s not a friend,’ said Eddie, expression turning cold. ‘You know Alexander Stikes?’

Strutter nodded. ‘Of course. Ex-SAS like you, runs his own PMC — although I heard he suddenly shut it down not long ago and started working for someone full time. I had some dealings with him; arranged for him to hire mercenaries for certain jobs, people like Maximov. But he’s a dangerous man. In honesty, I’m happy he’s gone.’ He regarded Eddie curiously. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for someone you don’t like. Why do you want to find him?’

Eddie’s face became even harder. ‘So I can kill him.’

2 New York City

Nina Wilde looked disconsolately out across her hometown from her office in the United Nations building. Today marked a date she had no desire to celebrate; it was exactly three months since she had last seen her husband.

With a quiet sigh, the redhead turned away from the view and returned to her desk. A framed photograph beside the phone was a reminder of far better times: herself and her partner at an infinitely less depressing anniversary, the party thrown to mark the first year of their marriage. The picture was less than two years old, but a lot had happened since then.

A lot of people had died.

One of them was the subject of the email she had just received, the grim reminder prompting her melancholy reflectiveness at the window. It was from an Interpol officer named Renee Beauchamp, in charge of investigating the death of another member of the multinational police organisation. The victim was Ankit Jindal, head of Interpol’s Cultural Property Crime Unit — and also a friend, who had worked with Nina on two of her previous archaeological expeditions.

The prime — in fact, the only — suspect was Eddie Chase. Her husband.

That would have been bad enough on its own. But things were worse: she had been a witness. And despite her unwillingness to believe it, the only conclusion she could draw, no matter how many times she replayed events in an attempt to find evidence to the contrary… was that Eddie had cold-bloodedly murdered Kit.

The memory returned, unbidden. Peru, three months ago to the day. A gas pipeline in a pumping station south of Lima had ruptured and flames spread rapidly to the rest of the facility. The catwalk on which Eddie and Kit were standing had partially collapsed, leaving the Indian dangling above a searing jet of fire. As Nina reached the scene, she saw Kit struggling to hold on, grasping for a handhold on a pipe—

And Eddie kicking Kit in the face and sending him plunging into the inferno below.

She snapped back to the present. The image was as clear and vivid as if it had just happened.

No gun.

Eddie had insisted that Kit had tried to kill him, that he had being going for a gun. But there was no gun in her memory, just Kit trying to save himself from a deadly fall. A fall that came anyway, just moments later.

Beauchamp’s email was an update on the search for the wanted man. Somehow, her murder suspect had managed to escape Peru undetected, and been sighted in England, India, South Africa and most recently Zimbabwe — but never in time for local Interpol agents to catch him. He was always a step ahead: a shadow, a ghost. It hadn’t taken long for the investigators to suspect that he was receiving help.

That didn’t surprise Nina in the least. From their first meeting, Eddie had astonished her with the sheer number of his friends and contacts around the globe, all of whom seemed willing to do him favours far beyond simply picking him up at the airport. Some would be more useful in his current situation than others: the forger, for example, an Australian ex-military colleague, could have provided him with a fake passport. But she couldn’t bring herself to pass on her suspicions to Interpol.

Eddie was still her husband. And she knew him well enough to be sure that whatever she had witnessed, he believed that Kit had a gun. Since he wasn’t prone to hallucinations or confabulation, that had provided her with the seed of doubt she needed to think that he was telling the truth. That he was innocent.

And if he was innocent, she couldn’t help his hunters track him down.

Other facts had arisen in Beauchamp’s investigation which suggested that more had been going on than anyone had realised. Kit had told Nina that he was going to the pumping station on Interpol authority to meet a representative of mercenary leader Alexander Stikes. The British former soldier had stolen archaeological treasures from the ruins of the lost city of El Dorado; according to Kit, he was willing to return them in exchange for legal immunity.

Kit had been lying. Interpol knew nothing about it.

Eddie had gone to the gas plant after him because he believed Kit and Stikes were working together — thereby directly involving Kit in the murder of Eddie’s friend and mentor, Jim ‘Mac’ McCrimmon. And Nina herself had glimpsed a man who might have been Stikes fleeing the burning station in a helicopter. Could Kit have been corrupt? It seemed unlikely — Stikes had tortured him for information after doing the same to Nina to learn more about the search for El Dorado — but now that the seed had been planted…

She leaned forward, head in her hands. Suspicions didn’t help Eddie. While he was ahead of the police for now, they were catching up. Eventually he would be caught. Charged with murder. Tried.

And based on the evidence to date, found guilty.

Her phone rang, an internal call. With another sigh, she picked it up. ‘Yes?’

‘Nina?’ Lola Gianetti, her personal assistant. ‘Matt asked me to tell you that they’re waiting for you in the conference room.’

She looked at her watch. Damn! There was an important meeting scheduled on the hour, and it was now ten