of a bin and filled them with water from a tap, but Matt doubted it would be enough. He could feel his bottle, leaking in his jeans pocket. He was tempted to drink it all now.
As soon as the truck was out of sight, they stood up and trudged on in silence. Matt would have liked to talk – there was still so much he didn’t understand – and it seemed mad to him that they would only be able to communicate when they were asleep. They were two of the Five. He wondered what languages the others spoke. The two boys and the girl that he had seen on the beach had been white and fair-haired but they could be Russian, Scandinavian – or even Martian for all he knew. And what happened when they did finally meet? Was that the end of the adventure or the beginning of something worse?
So many questions, but Matt could only walk on in silence, feeling the sun as it beat down on his shoulders. He still hadn’t got used to his own smell, to the unfamiliar shape of his hair and the dye, dark and sticky all over his skin. His clothes no longer disgusted him but they felt strange, like some sort of unpleasant fancy dress. And he kept on stumbling over his ill-fitting rubber sandals. Worst of all, he was worried about Richard. He had to admit that Sebastian was right. The chances of the journalist turning up at this hacienda were probably one in a million. But he had nowhere else to go, no other clues to follow. He had to start somewhere and it might as well be here.
Pedro stopped and took a quick drink. Matt did the same, wondering if the Peruvian tap water would make him sick. The other boy was doubtless used to it. He had been drinking it all his life. The water was warm and tasted metallic but Matt didn’t care. He had to stop himself from draining the bottle.
After that, Matt’s thoughts wandered. Five miles might not seem much to Pedro but it was a long way for him, particularly in the heat and in sandals that seemed to be trying to trip him up every few paces. A car passed, this time coming the other way, and once again the two of them had to dive for cover. How much security would there be at the hacienda? Sebastian hadn’t said anything but it occurred to Matt that anyone as rich and powerful as Salamanda would be sure to have guards.
The sun began to set and a cool breeze crept into the air. Matt’s legs were beginning to ache and he had hardly any water left when they turned a corner and Pedro raised a hand in warning. They ducked back into the undergrowth, crouching low. There was a house directly ahead
… not just a house but an entire complex complete with barns, storerooms, stables and even, incredibly, a sixteenth-century church carved out of white stone, complete with its own soaring bell tower. This was where the track had brought them – all five miles of it. There was nothing more beyond. Two stone pillars and a twisted metal gate marked the entrance. The gate was open but somehow Matt didn’t feel it was inviting them in.
Carefully, he edged closer and peered round, searching for any sign of life. All the buildings were grouped around a flower-filled courtyard with an elaborate ornamental fountain in the middle. A huge acacia tree grew next to it. The tree had four separate trunks and branches that spread out to provide a natural shade from the sun. There was a tractor parked outside one of the barns. A man, dressed in white, came out, pushing a wheelbarrow. Apart from the soothing tinkle of water in the fountain, everything was silent.
“Matteo…” Pedro tapped Matt’s arm and pointed.
Matt looked into the distance and saw a guard tower, constructed at the edge of the complex. At the same time, a man appeared with a rifle strapped across his back. He stopped and lit a cigarette, then kept on walking. So Matt had been right. This hacienda might be in the middle of nowhere but Salamanda left nothing to chance. The place was guarded, and Matt was sure there would be plenty of other security around too.
“Que hacemos ahora?” Pedro asked.
“We wait.” The meaning of Pedro’s question was obvious. He wanted to know what they were going to do. Matt looked up. The sun was already setting behind the palm trees that grew tall behind the house. The night might still be an hour away but the shadows were spreading out. They would help. Two dark-skinned boys in dark clothes in the dark. It wouldn’t be too hard to slip inside.
The house itself seemed to be unguarded. Three wide, wooden steps led up to a veranda that ran its full length. There was nobody in the courtyard, no sign of movement in the guard tower. Security cameras? Matt hadn’t seen any and besides, there was always a chance that they might not operate in this low light. He would just have to risk it. The thought that Richard could be here, perhaps only a few metres away, spurred him on. He nudged Pedro and then, keeping low, ran through the gate and across one corner of the courtyard, making for the side of the house.
Nobody saw them. Nobody shouted. Matt stopped, breathless, his back against the wall just below the veranda. Pedro was next to him. The Peruvian boy wasn’t looking happy. He shook his head as if to say, “This is a crazy idea and I don’t want any part of it.” But at the same time, he was still sticking by him and Matt was grateful that right now he wasn’t alone.
Where would Richard be and how could they possibly find him in a house crawling with guards? There was no obvious prison in the complex, no windows covered with bars. A basement or cellar perhaps? That would be the most likely place. But first they had to get in.
At least that wasn’t going to be too difficult. Now he was closer, Matt could see that the veranda continued all the way around the back. On one side was a handrail, separating the house from the garden and the courtyard. The house had tall, elegant windows standing at regular intervals, about five metres apart. The windows reached down almost to the floor and all of them were open. Matt glanced at Pedro, giving him one last chance to back out.
Pedro nodded, as if to say, “I’m with you.”
Matt reached up and used the handrail to pull himself onto the veranda. Now he was as good as inside the house. The roof with its heavy, red tiles stretched over him. Matt waited until Pedro had joined him, then crept round the side.
Almost at once, he heard voices. There was a meeting going on in one of the rooms but in the stillness of the evening the sounds carried. Matt gestured and the two of them crept along the veranda past more sofas and some terracotta pots. They came to an open French window. A man was speaking on the other side. Carefully, inching his way, Matt peered round the corner and looked in.
It was a dining room with a vast wooden table that seemed to have been cut from a single tree. The floor was also made of polished wood and there were wooden panels set into the walls. An iron chandelier – it must have weighed a ton – hung down, illuminating the room not with electric bulbs but with about a hundred candles, each one in its own holder.
There were three men and a woman sitting around the table. Matt recognized one of them instantly and stopped dead, feeling the ground might open beneath him. It was Rodriguez, the police captain who had beaten him up at the hotel in Miraflores. He was in uniform. The other two men wore suits. The woman wore a simple black dress. All of them were listening attentively as they were given their instructions.
The man who was speaking was sitting in a tall wicker chair with his back to the window. Matt could see nothing of him apart from one arm and a hand, resting on one of the chair arms. He had long fingers and seemed to be wearing a linen suit. He was speaking quickly, in good English, only stumbling occasionally over the odd word. Matt whistled very softly to Pedro and nodded his head towards the room. Why were they using his own language? If he listened long enough, he might find out.
“I do not care what is a possibility and what is not,” the man was saying. “I give you the instructions and you will obey. The silver swan must be… en la posicion… in position, five days from now. At midnight exactly. You will have the responsibility for this. You understand, Miss Klein?”
The woman nodded. “It will all be done,” she said. Her English was worse than his, and heavily accented. “But I am needing soon the…” It took her a minute to find the word. “I must have the co-ordinates,” she said.
Now Matt understood. The woman was German and spoke no Spanish. The man was Spanish and spoke no German. They were using English as a common language.
“You will have the co-ordinates as soon as I have them myself,” the man went on. “My agents have been into the Nazca Desert but they have still failed to find the platform.”
“The diary did not give you the position?”
“It gave me the approximate position and it is possible that we now know enough to place the swan exactly where it is meant to be. But I prefer to leave nothing to chance. We have to be careful, but the search continues. Just so long as everything is ready at your end.”
“Of course, Herr Salamanda. Everything will be as you ask…”
That was the end of it. Matt was listening in with his head pressed against the wall, right next to the French
