“I need your help,” he said.
“Yes?” The younger of the two receptionists sounded surprised, as if helping wasn’t part of her job description.
“My name is…” Matt hesitated. What name should he give? He decided not to bother. “I was meant to meet someone here.”
“Who are you meeting, please?”
“His name is Mr Fabian.”
The receptionist tapped at the keyboard of a computer hidden just below the level of the desk. Her nails clacked against the keys. A moment later, she looked up. “I’m sorry. There is nobody of that name staying at the hotel.”
“He may not be staying here.” Matt tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. “I arrived at the airport yesterday. I was on the way here to meet him. But I got delayed.”
“Where are you from?”
“From England.” Matt took out his passport and laid it on the desk. He hoped the cover, with its gold lettering, would impress the girl more than he could.
The girl opened it and looked at the name underneath the photograph. “Paul Carter?” She glanced at him strangely, as if she had been expecting him. The other girl picked up a telephone and dialled a number. “Where is your brother?” she asked.
“My brother?” Matt realized that they were talking about Richard. So he was right. They were expected. “I don’t know. Where is Mr Fabian?”
“Mr Fabian is not here.”
Next to her, the second girl had been connected. She spoke briefly in Spanish, then put the phone down.
A side door opened.
Four men came out, walking purposefully towards him. There was something menacing about the way they walked. They could have been coming out of a bar, half drunk, looking for a fight. If it weren’t for the police cars parked outside, Matt would have assumed they were soldiers. They were wearing grey trousers, tucked into their boots, dark-green jackets that zipped up the front and caps. Their leader was a huge, pot-bellied man with a heavy moustache and leathery, pock-marked skin. His hair was dark. Was there a single man in Peru who didn’t have dark hair? He had the body of a wrestler. His hands were enormous. Everything about him seemed brutal and oversized and Matt had to remind himself that he was the one who needed the police, that he hadn’t himself committed any crime.
Or so he thought.
“You are Paul Carter?” the policeman asked. Even from the four words, Matt could tell that his English was good. He had a heavy Spanish accent but there was a certain rhythm to the way he spoke. And despite his looks, his voice was soft.
“Yes. My name is Captain Rodriguez. I have been waiting for you. Where is your friend …” He smiled unpleasantly. “…Robert Carter?”
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
Matt was becoming increasingly nervous. The policeman had referred to Richard as his friend, not as his brother – which was what he was supposed to be. And he had spoken the names as if he already knew they were false. Pedro had warned him not to go into the hotel and Matt was beginning to wish that he’d listened. He certainly hadn’t been expecting this degree of hostility. The senior policeman was standing right in front of him. The other three had moved to surround him. They weren’t treating him as if he needed help. It was more as if he was a suspect, a wanted criminal.
“Did Mr Fabian call you?” Matt asked.
“Fabian? Who is Fabian?”
“Listen … I was attacked last night. I need help.”
“Your name is Paul Carter?”
“Yes.” Even as Matt spoke the word, it died on his lips. The policeman knew who he was. He had only asked the question to test him. Slowly, he reached for the passport and turned it around, handling it as if it was something dirty. Then he picked it up and opened it. For a long moment, he squinted at the photograph at the back.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“It’s my passport.” Matt felt a nameless terror opening up beneath him.
“This passport is a forgery.”
“No…”
“Tell me your true name.”
“I just told you. It’s Paul Carter. Didn’t you hear what I said? I was attacked last night. There were men with guns. You have to ring Mr Fabian…”
The girls at the reception desk were watching all of this, their eyes filled with fear. One of the policemen rapped something at them and they hurried away, disappearing down a corridor. Another policeman went over to the main door and stood there, making sure nobody could see in. It was still early in the morning. None of the guests had got up yet. There was nobody to witness what happened next.
The senior policeman – the one who called himself Captain Rodriguez – punched Matt. He barely had time to see the huge fist swing in an arc towards him before it had made contact with his stomach, throwing him off his feet. If he’d eaten anything in the past twelve hours, he would have been sick. As it was, he felt the breath explode out of him as he crashed backwards onto the floor. Darkness shimmered in front of his eyes as he hovered at the edge of consciousness and he had to fight with all his strength simply to breathe again. He felt the cold marble against his cheek. He needed it. It helped fight the dark away.
“You are lying to me,” Rodriguez said and Matt knew that he was in more trouble than he could begin to imagine. The policeman knew everything. He had been waiting for Matt at the hotel. Perhaps he had been there all night. “You think, perhaps, that I am an idiot? You think that the police officers of Peru are not worthy of your respect?”
“No…” Matt tried to speak but he still hadn’t caught his breath and he was in too much pain. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. He forced himself to go on. “I want…” he began. He was a British citizen. It didn’t matter what he’d done. They couldn’t treat him like this.
Captain Rodriguez swung a foot almost lazily and Matt yelled out as it came into contact with his ribs. A new wave of pain seared through his body. For a few seconds, the hotel went red and he wondered if they were going to kill him, here and now, in this upmarket hotel.
“What do you want?” Rodriguez taunted him, imitating his voice. “You want to confess? I think that would be a good idea, my friend. I think you should tell me who you really are and why you have come here. I think you should tell me now!”
He lashed out again. Matt saw the boot coming and was able to ride with it, rolling over and over across the marble floor. The other policemen laughed.
Rodriguez walked over to him, one slow step at a time.
“You should not have come here, my friend,” he crowed.
“I … haven’t … done … anything … wrong.”
“You have no papers. You have no nationality. You have entered this country illegally.” Rodriguez reached down and grabbed Matt’s hair. He tugged it so hard that Matt cried out. He could feel the tears being squeezed from his eyes. “Maybe you are a terrorist. Yes. You are young, it is true. But there are others who are younger. Are you prepared to tell me the truth?”
Matt nodded. What else could he do? He would tell this man everything.
“Where is Richard Cole?” Rodriguez asked.
So the charade was over. The policeman knew who they were. He had known from the start.
“Where is he?” Rodriguez pulled even harder.
“I don’t know!” Matt screamed. He was sure the hair was going to be torn from his scalp. There was blood trickling from his nose and down the corner of his mouth. “He said he’d meet me here! I don’t know where he went.” It was a lie – but it didn’t matter. He just had to say anything to stop the pain.
He heard the sound of a bell and the lift doors opened. A businessman had appeared, on his way to an early meeting. He stepped out of the lift and saw the four policemen, the boy lying on the floor between them. Nobody said anything. The businessman blinked and disappeared back into the lift. Matt could imagine that he wouldn’t even draw breath until he was back in his room.
r /> But at least Captain Rodriguez had let go of his hair. Matt lay where he was, sprawled out on the floor like one of those drawings the police make after there’s been a murder. He wondered if some of his ribs had been broken. His entire body was in pain.
Rodriguez dropped down next to him and cupped a hand under his cheek. For a moment he could have been a father, consoling an injured son, but every word he spoke dripped with venom and hate. “You are a very foolish child,” he muttered. “You have come, uninvited, to my country and nobody can help you. Because, you see, you are ‘Paul Carter’. You do not exist. Nobody knows that you are here and nobody will know when you disappear. For that is what will happen to you, my friend. We have places here that nobody knows about. Prisons far away where you can go in and never come out. It would be easy to kill you. I could kill you now and go to have my breakfast and not think twice. But that is not what is going to happen to you, Matthew Freeman. You are going to be buried alive in a concrete cell far beneath the ground and you are going to be left to rot and nobody is going to hear from you again.”
He raised Matt’s head a little further so that his lips were almost touching his ear. And then the final words came, a whisper of sheer hatred.
“Diego Salamanda sends you his regards.”
He let the head fall and Matt felt another spasm of pain as his skull came into contact with the marble floor.
Rodriguez must have given a signal. The other three policemen closed in on him and scooped him up. Between them, they dragged him out of the hotel. Matt didn’t even try to resist. He could feel his feet, toes downwards, sliding along behind him. His vision was blurred. He could just make out the reception desk with Rodriguez standing in front of it, but both of them were out of focus. He was bundled out through the door. There was no sign of the doorman. Like the businessman, he must have got out of sight as quickly as he could. Matt remembered the two cars parked at the front. They had been waiting for him! And he had just walked in and given himself up.
They dragged him across to the first car and one of the policemen fumbled in his pockets for his keys. That left just two of them supporting Matt. Did he have the strength left to fight back? No. They were holding him too tightly. What about his powers? Briefly Matt remembered the chandelier exploding at Forrest Hill. It felt as if it had happened a century ago. He wondered if he could do something similar now. Turn on the power and make the police car blow up. Send these two men spiralling away like puppets in the wind. But it wasn’t as easy as that. There was no switch he could throw. Whatever power he had, it still wasn’t under his control.
But then the policeman holding him on the side nearest to the car cried out and suddenly let go. Looking up, Matt saw blood pouring down his face. Had he done that to him? Matt was so shocked that for a moment he thought he had. But then he saw a fist-sized stone come flying through the air and the second policeman staggered back, his hand clutching his face. Matt was free. He fell against the car and looked away from the hotel, down towards the main street. And there was the answer.
Pedro. He was holding a slingshot made from a strip of some sort of black material – rubber or leather. He had used it twice with deadly accuracy, bringing down both policemen. But that still left one more: the one with the car keys. Matt shouted a warning as the man reached for his holster and pulled out a gun.
But before it had come halfway out, Pedro swung the slingshot a third time. Another rock flashed through the air and slammed into the third policeman, catching him just above the eye. The man swore and dropped the gun.
“Matt!” Pedro called out his name.
Matt looked back at the hotel doorway. Captain Rodriguez had appeared, alerted by the cries of his men. His own gun was in his hand. Quickly, he took in what had happened. His men were hurt. The English boy was free, leaning against the car that should have been taking him away. And there was another boy, with a catapult. Rodriguez took aim at this second boy.
Matt dived forward and snatched up the dropped gun. He rolled over on his stomach and fired six shots in the direction of the hotel. He wasn’t sure if any of them hit Captain Rodriguez but he saw the senior policeman dive for cover behind a parked car. Behind him, the glass doors of the hotel shattered. At the same time, an alarm went off inside the hotel. Matt dropped the gun and got unsteadily to his feet.
The first policeman that Pedro had hit was already recovering. Matt took one look at him and then, finding some last hidden reserve of strength, lashed out with his foot. His toecap came into contact with soft flesh. He had kicked the man right between the legs and he crumpled without a sound.
Another rock sailed past. One of the other policemen was hit a second time and knocked off his feet, stumbling into the side of his car and setting off another alarm. The third had crawled away to hide.
“Matt!” Pedro called again.
Matt didn’t need any more encouragement. With his hands gripping his stomach, he lurched forward. The Peruvian boy waited for him, another stone ready in his slingshot in case anyone tried to follow. But nobody did.
Pedro reached out and grabbed Matt and together they ran off as fast as they could. The alarm bells were still jangling and now they were joined by the scream of sirens as more police cars approached. Seconds later, they pulled up in front of the hotel. Captain Rodriguez had reappeared, his face full of fury. But they were too late. The street was empty. The two boys had disappeared.
POISON TOWN
An hour later, they were still running.
Matt was astonished at how much energy Pedro seemed to have. After all, he looked as if he hadn’t eaten for a week. But he had kept up the same pace ever since they had left the hotel, pausing only when a dirty blue van with barred windows and the words POLICIA NACIONAL painted on the side came speeding past. Then Pedro ducked behind what seemed to be an abandoned lorry, dragging Matt with him. He took one look at Matt and signalled for him to rest. The two of them sat on the pavement.
As he regained his breath, Matt remembered what Rodriguez had told him. He had no papers. He had entered Peru illegally. At the time, when the Nexus had suggested it, forged passports had sounded like a good idea. But in fact he and Richard had been delivered, gift-wrapped, into enemy hands. Matt couldn’t prove who he was. There was no record of his arrival and if he disappeared, nobody would know or care.
“Debemos apresurarnos,” Pedro said, and stood up again. Matt understood. It was time to go.
They were in a wide, busy road, somewhere on the edge of Lima, standing in front of a row of shops and a restaurant, all of them missing their front windows and front doors. In fact they had no fronts at all. They were like open boxes with their insides spilling out onto the street, the smell of food mixing with the petrol fumes. Opposite them, a row of men in jeans and baseball caps sat slumped against a low, concrete wall, seemingly with nothing to do. There were also a couple of shoeshine boys with crude, wooden boxes strapped to their backs. The sight gave Matt a jolt. They were both about six years old.
“Where are we going?” Matt asked.
Either Pedro didn’t understand or he couldn’t be bothered to answer. He was already moving along the pavement. Matt was exhausted but he forced himself to follow. What else could he do?
They came to a set of traffic lights and Pedro’s face broke into a grin. It was the first time Matt had seen him smile. There was a truck waiting, carrying a load of building materials. Pedro had recognized the driver. He ran forward and began to talk, gesturing a couple of times in Matt’s direction. The lights changed to green and at once all the cars behind began to blast their horns. But the driver wasn’t in any hurry. He waited until Pedro had finished, glanced briefly at Matt, then jerked his thumb. Pedro signalled to him and with a huge feeling of relief, Matt climbed with him into the back.
They set off again.
Matt was desperately tired. He’d only managed a few hours of troubled sleep the night before. He was also in a bad way following his encounter with Rodrigu
ez. There was a sick pounding in his head and in his stomach and he was sure he’d broken a rib. The police had beaten him up. How could such a thing have happened – and in a public place, in the middle of a hotel? What sort of country was this?
The driver shouted something out of the window and Matt saw his hand appear, holding a small bunch of bananas. Pedro took them and broke some off, offering them to Matt. Matt shook his head. He was starving, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat. He was in too much trouble, too much pain. Pedro shrugged, peeled a banana and took a bite.
Matt wasn’t sure what to make of this boy. There was no doubt that Pedro had saved him by waiting outside the hotel with his slingshot, but it was hard to know exactly why. Right now he was ignoring him completely. It was as if Matt was nothing more than an annoyance, like a stray animal following him down the street. Certainly there was nothing very friendly about the boy. Quite the opposite. Matt had to remind himself that only a few hours before, Pedro had been trying to rob him – and he was still wearing his watch! Maybe he was still interested in Matt’s ten-pound note. No, that wasn’t fair. Matt had offered him the money earlier and Pedro had refused to take it. So where were they going now? Pedro must live somewhere in this great, unwelcoming city. Perhaps he had parents. Hopefully, he would know somebody who could help.
About twenty minutes later, the truck stopped and the two of them climbed out, Pedro waving and shouting at the driver. Matt found himself standing at the foot of a hill where an ugly township – a tangle of bricks and wires – sprawled its way up the slope. He had never seen anything like it. His first impression was that this was a community that had tumbled down the hillside, getting broken and jumbled up along the way. Then he realized that it had been built like this. It was a barrio –a shanty town, home to the poorest of the poor.