Kingdom of Darkness (24 page)

‘That does not matter for now,’ said Kroll. ‘Show me the general area – that will be enough to start making plans.’

‘Okay, then.’ Nina put her finger on Alexandria, at the map’s bottom left. ‘So here’s the tomb. We go north to thirty-seven degrees and thirty-seven minutes,’ she moved her hand upwards, ‘and then east until we’re above the Alborz mountains.’ She sidestepped, sliding her fingertip over the paper. ‘So through Turkey, above Syria and Iraq, across northern Iran to . . . oh.’

Rasche whirled to face Kroll. ‘I knew she was wasting our time!’

The Nazi leader’s flabby jaw trembled with fury. ‘I warned you what would happen if you tried to deceive us!’

‘I wasn’t!’ Nina protested.

‘Then explain
this
!’ He stabbed his forefinger at the map. Her path across it had trailed to a stop in the Caspian Sea, many miles off shore.

‘I can’t! You saw the numbers – you read them out to us! That’s the result we got.’

‘Then your work was wrong,’ said Rasche. ‘We do not tolerate mistakes!’ He addressed Kroll again. ‘I should kill one of them as a warning.’

The obese Nazi glared at Nina, considering his subordinate’s suggestion . . . then shook his head. ‘No. They would not dare give us false results – it would be too easy for us to check their calculations.’

‘The numbers were right,’ Nina insisted. ‘Which means something else is wrong. We need to go through the Greek text on the fish again, see if there’s something we missed.’

‘The Arab had a translation when we captured him,’ said Rasche.

‘Bring it; it will save time,’ Kroll said. ‘No, wait. It is late – take them to the prison,’ he decided instead. ‘Dr Banna will read the text during the night. We shall begin again in the morning.’

Rasche’s reply in German was disapproving. ‘Even prisoners need food,’ Kroll snapped. ‘Take them away.’

Rasche issued orders, and the guards escorted Nina, Macy and Banna from the room. As they left, Kroll spoke. ‘Dr Wilde? I do not make empty threats. You
will
locate the Spring of Immortality . . . or you will suffer extreme consequences. Do you understand?’

‘Yeah, I do,’ said Nina, trying to conceal her fear.

‘Gross,’ said Macy, pushing away the metal tray containing the half-eaten remains of her meal. ‘This stuff tastes like it
came
from World War Two.’

‘At least they gave us
something
,’ Nina replied. She had been hungry enough to eat the whole of the unappetising mash of boiled potatoes, shredded cabbage and grey mystery meat.

‘Yeah, it’ll help us keep up our strength so we can bust out. Oh no, wait, we’re in frickin’ Alcatraz!’ The young woman swept a hand around their cell. The door was a heavy slab of metal with a small peephole, while the only opening in the concrete walls was a ventilation slot high on one wall, too narrow to fit even an arm through. ‘And they’re not going to let us go – whatever deal you made with them,’ she added sharply. ‘You really think they’ll give you a lifelong supply of magic water? They’re using you, Nina! Kroll wants you to believe you’ve got a chance of being cured so you’ll find the spring!’

‘You think I don’t know that?’

Macy blinked. ‘Wait, you do?’

‘Of course I do! I don’t trust him any farther than I could throw him, and . . . well, the guy’s a frickin’ blimp!’

‘So you do not want to find the water?’ Banna asked, looking up from his translation notes.

‘Are you kidding? Obviously I want to find it, if there’s any chance at all that it might help me. Right now, though, I’m just trying to keep us all alive. The longer we can string them along, the more chance we have of getting out of this.’

‘So you weren’t
really
going to cooperate with these Nazis?’ Macy asked, now considerably happier. ‘I knew it!’ Nina gave her a questioning glance. ‘Well, I was fairly sure. Pretty much.’

‘Thanks for your confidence,’ said the redhead with light sarcasm.

Macy blushed. ‘Well, you did sound convincing.’

‘The hard part was trying not to convince myself. I mean, he was offering me a possible cure. I can’t deny that I considered it.’

The admission caught the young woman by surprise. ‘Oh, wow. God, yeah; it must have been hard for you. I’m sorry.’ She took Nina’s hand in sympathy.

Nina smiled, grateful. ‘Thanks.’

‘Okay, so . . . what the hell do we do now?’

‘All we can do is delay locating the spring for as long as possible and hope someone finds us.’

Banna shook his head miserably. ‘What chance is there of that? We are not even on the same continent any more!’

‘There are some very resourceful people looking for us. The IHA, the UN – and Eddie.’ The mere thought of her husband gave her a surge of hope. He would move heaven and earth to rescue her – and probably destroy large chunks of both if necessary.

Banna seemed unconvinced, so she switched subjects, trying to keep the Egyptian’s mind occupied. ‘Have you found out anything new about Alexander’s route – like where he crossed the Alborz mountains?’

He flicked back through the notes. ‘He went east of Damavand – the tallest mountain in Iran. There is also a reference to a pass, but I am not sure which one. A map would help me identify it.’

‘Work out as much as you can,’ Nina told him. ‘Then try to stretch the rest out as long as possible before telling Kroll—’

A faint scrape of metal, then: ‘Dr Wilde?’

The voice was male, whispered. Everyone turned in alarm to its source – the ventilation slot. ‘Shit,’ Nina whispered. If the spy had heard them plotting and reported them to Kroll . . .

‘Dr Wilde, are you there?’ The voice was still low, and strained, as if the speaker were afraid of being overheard.

Bewildered, Nina replied: ‘Yeah?’

‘Please, quiet! I do not want the guards to know I am here.’

She stepped up on to the bed to look through the little opening. The metal cover at its other end had been lifted. A pair of blue eyes peered nervously back at her. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

‘You
are
Nina Wilde?’

‘Who’s asking?’

‘Please, I must be sure!’ The eyes glanced away as if checking for sentries, then back at her.

‘Yeah, I’m Nina Wilde,’ she said, curiosity taking hold. ‘And you are?’

Relief was clear even on the small visible part of the man’s face. He was young, Nina could tell; no older than twenty, if that. ‘I thought it was you when I saw you outside the Führer’s house. I recognised you from your photographs on the Internet. My name is—’

‘Koenig,’ she cut in, remembering the youth she had seen while being marched to Kroll’s residence – the twin of Jaekel’s victim in Los Angeles. ‘You’re Volker Koenig’s brother!’

‘Yes, I am Roland.’ His surprise turned to hopefulness. ‘You have seen Volker?’

‘Yeah, I saw him.’

‘Where is he? He told me he would find you, but . . . I did not think that you would come here.’

‘Right, we
came
here. That’s why we’re sitting in a prison cell,’ said Nina, her voice overflowing with sarcasm. ‘Your brother found me in Los Angeles. He wanted me to stop your people from raiding the tomb of Alexander the Great.’

Roland’s expression told her that while he knew something about his brother’s intentions, he had not been aware of the whole story. ‘Where is he?’

As much as she hated the Nazis, she couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for the youth, knowing what she was about to tell him. ‘Your brother, Volker . . . he’s dead.’

Roland flinched in shock. ‘
Nein
– no, no. That cannot be.’

‘He was gunned down in the street by one of your leaders! A guy called Jaekel – big scar on his face.’

‘Herr Jaekel, yes, of course. But – no, he would not have killed Volker.’

‘It happened right in front of me. And then Jaekel tried to kill me too.’

‘Then . . . where is Herr Jaekel?’

‘On a slab. Dead,’ she clarified; Roland’s English was good, but he apparently didn’t understand slang. ‘The police shot him.’

He drew back. ‘I . . . I do not believe you.’

‘Why? Your brother came looking for me; he never came back, but I’m here as a prisoner instead. What does that tell you?’

There was no answer. The vent cover clanked into place. ‘No!’ Macy gasped, jumping up beside Nina. ‘Don’t go, please!’

A pause . . . then the plate rose again. Roland looked back at the cell’s occupants. ‘Who else is there?’

‘I’m Macy, Macy Sharif. This is Ubayy Banna.’ The Egyptian stood and moved into Roland’s view. ‘We’re all archaeologists; we were kidnapped.’

Again the young man was shocked. ‘Kidnapped?’

‘You’ve got to get us out of here, please!’

‘I – I cannot. The front door is guarded. They will not let me in.’

‘Then get word to someone outside!’ said Nina. ‘Call my husband – or the United Nations in New York. There’s a man called Oswald Seretse; tell him where we are.’

Roland retreated again, agitated. ‘Only the Oberkommando may use the telephone, it is not permitted—’

‘
Screw
what’s permitted! Just do it!’

‘I am sorry, but – but I cannot help you . . .’ He jumped down from whatever he was standing on, and the cover clanged shut.

‘So, I guess he’s not going to bust us out of here,’ said Macy, breaking the glum silence that followed.

‘I guess not.’ Both women stepped down from the bed, the younger sitting heavily upon it. Nina, however, stalked across the cell in frustration. ‘Dammit! Nobody will even be looking for us here, but one frickin’ phone call would fix that. If Seretse knew we’d been taken from Egypt to Argentina, he could start searching in the right place—’

She broke off as her mind suddenly found the missing piece of the puzzle. ‘My God,’ she gasped. ‘How the hell did we miss it?’

‘Miss what?’ Macy asked.

‘I just realised why we can’t find the spring. We’ve been starting
our
search from the wrong place!’ Her companions looked mystified; she continued: ‘The text on the relic said to take a sun reading outside Alexander’s tomb – but it didn’t say
which
tomb. We all assumed it meant the one in Alexandria, because that’s where we found the statue of Bucephalus. But that wasn’t where Alexander was originally buried!’

‘Memphis!’ Banna exclaimed. ‘Of course – Ptolemy the Second moved the tomb from Memphis to Alexandria.’

‘Yeah – but Andreas didn’t know that when he made the fish! He went back to search for the spring after Alexander’s death, and evidently found it again, but the tomb was relocated while he was away. So all the clues, all the calculations you have to make using the relic to find the spring’s location . . . they use the
original
tomb as their starting point.’

‘Wow,’ said Macy. ‘Andreas must have been pissed when he got to Memphis to put the statue inside the tomb and found it wasn’t there any more.’

‘Maybe not. It actually worked to his advantage – it makes locating the spring even more of a challenge.’

Banna’s expression became thoughtful. ‘But
we
know. So now we can find it.’

‘Yeah. How far apart are Alexandria and Memphis?’

‘I do not know exactly,’ he said. ‘Memphis is south of Cairo, so . . . two hundred and fifty kilometres?’

‘We’ll need to work out the difference in degrees of latitude, though. And we can’t do that without a map.’ Nina paced across the cell, frustrated. ‘But now we know what we’ve got to do tomorrow. We string the Nazis along for as long as we can with the wrong starting point . . . while we work out where the spring really is using the
right
starting point. Then
when
,’ she placed deliberate emphasis on the word, to give hope to herself as much as her companions, ‘we get out of here? We’re going to find it ourselves.’

21

‘This is it,’ said Zane as the Jeep crested a low hill.

Eddie surveyed the landscape. ‘Christ, looks like we’re driving into a Clint Eastwood film. I should’ve brought a poncho.’ The scrubby plain rolled away to the distant Andean foothills. Winter had arrived, but for now the snow-capped peaks on the far horizon were keeping a jealous grip on their frozen moisture, everything a bleak, parched brown.

Zane checked a map. ‘The town’s on the west side of the lake.’

‘What lake?’ The Englishman searched for it. ‘That’s not a lake, it’s a puddle.’

‘Huh. It’s much bigger on the map.’

Surrounding the thin patch of water was an expanse of pale, flat ground. It was swathed in what Eddie at first thought was fog before closer observation revealed it as wind-blown dust. The lake had largely dried up, leaving behind a barren wasteland of silt. He guessed that the settlement had originally been built on the shore, but it was now at least half a mile from the water’s edge. Village and lake shared the same name: Lago Amargo – Bitter Lake. ‘So Kroll and his arsewipes are hiding out here?’

‘This is where the IP address originated, yes.’

‘Assuming they didn’t route it through somewhere else first.’

‘It’s possible,’ Zane admitted, ‘but this part of the world was a popular hideout for Nazis after the war. We’re only about sixty kilometres from Bariloche, where there was a whole community of escapees – and there was a compound over the border in Chile, Villa Baviera, that was basically a cult founded by a Nazi. When the Chilean police raided it, they found huge caches of weapons, and even a tank.’

Eddie gave him a disbelieving look. ‘A tank? How the fuck did they get hold of a tank?’

‘These people can get hold of anything. They have the money they stole from Jews and others in the war, and middlemen like Leitz to supply it to them.’

‘Speaking of Leitz, he’s bound to have told that fat bastard about us by now.’

Zane nodded. ‘I spoke to the Mossad after we landed. He’s already left Italy and gone off the grid. We tried to access his computer remotely, but he’s stopped using it. He probably guessed it had been compromised.’

They drove on. Scrub gave way to fields, but from the derelict state of most of the farm buildings, it seemed that the former inhabitants had given up on their profession. ‘So what do we know about this place?’ Eddie asked.

‘Not much. It used to be a mining town, but the mines closed decades ago, so they turned to agriculture.’ Zane looked out across the desolate farmland. ‘Without much success, I’d guess. The population’s more than halved over the past twenty years. Beyond that, though, we couldn’t find much more information.’

‘How are we going to find these Nazis, then? I doubt we’ll get lucky and catch Kroll while he’s buying the morning groceries.’

‘That would save us a lot of time,’ Zane said. ‘But we should see if we can get access to the town records.’ He glanced at a boxy equipment case on the rear seat. ‘I’ve used the cover story of being a photographer before; it’s surprising how much people will open up to you if you tell them they have a pretty home.’

‘You’ll have to be bloody convincing for that to work here.’ They entered the settlement proper, passing a faded sign bearing the village’s name. More empty, crumbling buildings greeted them. They had gone a good hundred yards along the street before seeing their first sign of life: an old woman watching them warily from a doorway before retreating inside. Eddie whistled an ululating five-note tune, following it with ‘
Waah waah waaaahh . . .
’

‘What was that?’ Zane asked.

‘
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
.’ The Israeli regarded him blankly. ‘Come on, don’t tell me you haven’t seen it?’

‘It must have been long before my time.’

‘Tchah! Fucking kids.’ Ignoring Zane’s smirk, Eddie guided the Jeep through the village. The buildings became grander, faded relics of a more prosperous era. Before long, they reached the centre, a flaking white church on one side of a small square facing a hotel with a sign optimistically proclaiming it to be the Paradiso. None of the buildings looked anything less than a century old.

‘There’s the satellite link,’ said Zane. A large white dish was mounted on a mast on the hotel’s roof, a couple of smaller ones flanking it. ‘The town’s Internet hub must be in there. We might be able to track down the IP’s physical location if we can access it.’

The new arrivals were now drawing more attention. A couple of old men on a bench stared as the 4x4 passed, and a young woman peered with interest from one of the Paradiso’s upper windows before hurrying from sight. Eddie pulled up outside the hotel. ‘Let me do the talking,’ said Zane as they got out.

‘Why you?’ Eddie demanded.

‘For one thing, you’re English, and England and Argentina have some issues.’ They headed for the entrance.

‘What? The Falklands War was over thirty fucking years ago.’

‘The Second World War was
seventy
years ago, but we’re still hunting down people who fought in it. And for another, you’re not exactly subtle.’

‘Bollocks!’ Eddie protested loudly as they entered a large and dimly lit bar. He couldn’t help but imagine that he’d stepped through a time portal to the Wild West, so dated were the surroundings. Even the lights were wheel-like wooden chandeliers, one of the few concessions to modernity being electric bulbs. There were half a dozen unenthused patrons, and a single mournful member of staff behind the long counter. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ He marched to the middle of the room. ‘Oi! Anyone seen any Nazis?’

Zane shook his head. ‘Yes, that was really subtle.’

‘Might as well get straight to the point and not piss around.’ He went to the bar and addressed the elderly man behind it. ‘Hi. We’re looking for some people who live around here. Germans, probably turned up around 1946?’

The barman gave him a look of bewilderment. ‘
Lo sentimos, pero no sé lo que estás diciendo
.’

‘
No habló inglés?
’ Eddie asked, to equal confusion.

‘You told him that
you
did not speak English,’ said an amused female voice. A young Hispanic woman came down the stairs. She was around eighteen, and had the flustered air of someone who had just given themselves a last-minute check in the mirror before hurrying to meet a guest.

‘Well, some people don’t understand me even when I
am
talking English,’ said Eddie. ‘You seem pretty good at it, though.’

‘I learned it from satellite TV,’ she said with pride. ‘And from the Internet.’

‘Hopefully only the nice parts.’

She giggled. ‘I heard you say you were looking for someone? I know everyone in town, I can help you find them.’

Zane cut in before Eddie could speak. ‘We’re photographers; we’re taking pictures of the whole country. But we also want to interview people about what it’s like to live here.’

The young woman gave them a look that revealed considerable perception for her age. ‘That would be easier if you spoke Spanish, yes?’

‘
I
speak Spanish,’ said Zane. ‘My assistant is only here to carry the cameras.’

‘Oi!’ Eddie objected. ‘Assistant, my arse.’

She ignored him, instead addressing Zane in rapid-fire Spanish. ‘I . . . yes?’ he eventually replied.

Another giggle. ‘Your Spanish is not as good as you think,’ she said. ‘Unless you
really
paint your toenails pink?’

‘Oh, he does,’ said Eddie. ‘You should see what he wears for a night out on the town an’ all. Lots of frills.’

‘Will you shut up?’ Zane snapped. Behind him, Eddie noticed one of the patrons heading for the exit – watching the visitors out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly wary, he surveyed the room. The remaining barflies hurriedly looked down at their drinks.

Zane picked up on Eddie’s concern – as did the woman. She lowered her voice. ‘You are not here to take photos – did Roland’s brother send you?’

‘Who’s Roland?’ Zane asked.

‘My boyfriend. His brother left here a week ago, but nobody has heard from him – and I have not seen Roland either. I am worried, I do not know what has happened to them.’

A thought came to Eddie. ‘This brother . . . what’s his name?’

‘
Julieta, qué estás haciendo?
’ said someone before she could answer.

The group turned to see a man emerge from a back room. He was in his late forties, with slicked-back black hair and a rakish moustache. The barman’s look of deference told Eddie that the new arrival was his boss.

The girl, Julieta, replied in Spanish, drawing a good-natured shrug and a sigh. ‘I hope my daughter is not bothering you,’ he said. ‘Not many people visit Lago Amargo, and she likes to get fresh news from the outside world.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ Zane assured him.

‘Good, good. Then can I do anything for you? I am Pablo Silva, the owner of this hotel – and also the mayor.’ He gave them a beaming smile. ‘Are you going to be our guests?’

‘Yes, we’ll probably be here for a day or two.’

‘Good! If you need anything, I am at your service. This may only be a small town, but we pride ourselves on our hospitality.’

‘It looks a lot smaller than it used to be,’ said Eddie.

Silva shook his head sadly. ‘Yes, a lot of the people have moved away. Since the lake dried up, many of the farms failed. It is hard to grow crops when there is not enough water.’

Julieta frowned and said something that clearly needled her father. ‘
No ahora
,’ he said, waving a dismissive hand.

Or was the gesture
concern
? ‘What happened to the water?’ Eddie asked.

‘There was enough for everyone,’ said Julieta, before Silva could respond, ‘until the people in the Enklave blocked the river to keep it for themselves!’

Eddie and Zane exchanged glances. Kroll had mentioned the name in his videoconference with Leitz. ‘Where’s this Enklave?’ asked the Yorkshireman.

‘It is a private estate,’ said Silva. ‘They own the land, so what they do there is their business.’

‘They have taken our water!’ Julieta protested. ‘You know they have. You are the mayor, and the Enklave is part of Lago Amargo – why have you not done anything about it?’

Her father’s tone became patronising. ‘It is more complicated than that.
Hablaremos de esto más tarde
.
En privado
,’ he added, glancing at the two travellers. ‘Now, I need to find rooms for these two gentlemen.’

With an angry huff, Julieta flounced up the stairs. Silva sighed again. ‘I apologise for my daughter.’

‘No problem,’ said Eddie. ‘So, this Enklave place – is it far?’

The mayor seemed unsettled by his return to the subject. ‘As I said, it is private property. The owners keep to themselves, but they pay their land taxes, so that is okay with me!’ A small laugh, with little humour.

‘But it must be upriver, right?’ Eddie pressed on. ‘Otherwise they couldn’t block off your water.’

‘It should be easy enough to find,’ agreed Zane.

Silva began to look worried. ‘It – it would be better for you not to go to the Enklave. The people, they do not like visitors . . .’

‘That’s okay, we won’t bother them,’ said Eddie. ‘Unless they bother us.’

‘Really, there is nothing—’ The hotelier broke off as the front door opened.

Eddie turned – and snapped to full alert. Someone had called the cops.

Three uniformed men entered the room, the cold and empty stares of mirrored aviator glasses sweeping over its occupants. The drinkers were suddenly fascinated by the bubbles in their beer. The trio swaggered towards the men at the bar.

Eddie assessed them. Two young men flanked the leader – whom he instantly knew was the greatest threat. The head cop was in his fifties, a big bear of a man who even though somewhat overweight was still packed with muscle. He had a thick moustache that drooped down around his mouth, one side of which was filled by the gnarled stub of a cigar. Heavy gold rings glinted on both hands . . . the right one hovering close to his holstered gun.

‘Ah, Eduardo!’ said Silva. He stepped forward to meet the cops. ‘This is Eduardo Santos,’ he told Zane and Eddie, ‘our
comandante
of police. Or El Jefe, as we sometimes call him. Heh-heh.’ The chuckle was strained.

‘The Chief?’ asked Eddie. ‘If you’re the mayor, shouldn’t that be
your
nickname?’ There was no reply.

Santos turned his mirrored gaze to the two visitors. ‘Who are you?’ he growled, rolling the cigar between his teeth. ‘What do you want here?’

‘We’re photographers,’ said Zane, giving the cops a friendly smile. ‘We’re travelling through Argentina to take pictures of the landscape.’

‘You have come to a beautiful place, eh?’ was the sarcastic reply. ‘There is nothing worth taking photographs of here. You should find somewhere else.’

‘Always thought beauty was in the eye of the beholder, myself,’ Eddie said. ‘Looks pretty nice to me.’

The big man’s blank stare locked on to him, hostility jumping from barely veiled to open. ‘You are English?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘Show me your passports. Both of you.’

Zane complied, taking out the fake US passport under which he had been travelling. He opened it to show the cop his photo – and a pair of folded fifty-dollar bills poking from the page below. ‘I think everything’s in order.’

The Argentinian took it, giving it a cursory glance as the banknotes disappeared into his hand. However, to Zane’s growing concern, he didn’t return it, instead waiting for Eddie to follow suit. ‘Come on. Now.’

Eddie found his own passport. ‘Here you go.’

Santos snatched it from him, but didn’t even open it, instead staring at the golden emblem on its cover: a lion and unicorn, the royal coat of arms of the United Kingdom. Finally he looked back at Eddie, taking off his sunglasses. The dark, deep-set eyes revealed beneath were anything but friendly. ‘You know what I did when I was young, English?’

‘Pressed flowers and painted sunsets?’ Eddie offered.

The cop did not smile at the joke. ‘I joined the army. I supported El Proceso – the junta – because I believe that to be great, a country, or a person, must have strength, power.’ He leaned closer, blowing cigar smoke into the Englishman’s face. ‘The strength and the power to take what belongs to them. You know?’