“I didn’t know who else to come to.”
“You don’t need to worry, Susan. My door’s always open to you.”
Nathalie Johnson had been a member of the Nexus for eleven years. In that time, she had built up a huge business empire selling low-cost computer hardware, mainly to schools and youth clubs. The newspapers called her the female Bill Gates. She found the description sexist and irrelevant.
“Matthew Freeman is still lost,” Susan Ashwood continued. “But it’s now been confirmed that there was a gun fight near Jorge Chávez Airport. Richard Cole was kidnapped but Matt managed to get away. As far as we know, he hasn’t been seen since.”
“We sent him to Peru because we wanted something to happen,” the American woman said. “It seems that we got more than we bargained for.”
“None of us could have expected this.”
“What shall we do?”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I was hoping you might be able to help. You have business interests in South America…”
“I could talk to Diego Salamanda if you like.”
“You said you’d had dealings with him.”
“I’ve never met him but we’ve spoken often on the telephone.” Nathalie Johnson paused. “But I think we should be careful. Salamanda is our number one suspect. It seems more than likely that he’s the one who’s trying to open the gate.”
“Fabian is trying to find Matthew,” Susan Ashwood continued. “He’s worried sick about him and blames himself for not driving personally to the airport. He’s already spoken to the police but he’s not sure he can trust them. He’s suggested an advertising campaign in the national press.”
“Like, ‘Have you seen this boy?’” The idea seemed to amuse Nathalie.
“Someone must know where he is. An English teenager on his own in Peru…”
“Assuming, of course, he’s still alive.” The American put down her wine glass. “I’ll pay for advertisements if that’s what you want,” she said. “My New York office can organize it.”
“There’s something else…” The blind woman paused, trying to collect her thoughts. Her face was grim. “I’ve been thinking about what happened,” she went on. “First there was the business with William Morton. We were the only ones who knew where he was going to be and he told us only twenty-four hours before Matthew met him. But someone still managed to follow him to St Meredith’s. They killed him and took the diary.
“And then there’s Matthew and Richard Cole. They travelled to Peru under false names but it seems that somebody knew they were coming. There was an ambush. Fabian’s driver was almost killed. Richard Cole was taken.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“That our enemy knows what we’re doing. Someone is telling him our every move.”
Nathalie Johnson stiffened. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I’ve come to you because I’ve known you for a long time and my instincts tell me I can trust you. I haven’t said this to anyone else. But I think we need to be careful. If there is a traitor inside the Nexus, we could all be in danger.”
“What should we do?”
“First of all we have to find Matthew Freeman. He’s our main priority. The second gate is going to open very soon and he’s the only one who can prevent it. It doesn’t matter what happens to us, Miss Johnson. If we don’t find the boy, we’ve lost.”
The bus station was like a crazy outdoor circus, a jumble of colour and noise with people and packages everywhere, street vendors shouting, old women in shawls sitting behind little piles of papayas and plantains, children and dogs chasing each other around the rubble – and the ancient buses themselves, rumbling at their stands. Nobody was going anywhere yet but everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Great sacks and cardboard packages were being passed from hand to hand before being thrown up, to be tied in towering piles on the buses’ roofs. There were old tickets strewn all over the ground like confetti and fresh ones being sold from cubicles hardly bigger than Punch and Judy stalls. There was an Indian woman cooking cau cau – tripe and potato stew – in a large metal can at the edge of the bus yard and some of the travellers were squatting on their haunches, eating from plastic bowls, the smell of the food fighting with the exhaust fumes.
Matt took this all in as he approached the bus station with Sebastian and Pedro. They had walked here from Poison Town, leaving just after five o’clock. Sebastian already had the tickets and had announced that he would be coming with them as far as Ica. Although he had been drunk when he went to bed, he seemed clear-headed enough when he woke up. In his own way, he was even cheerful.
“There is almost no chance that you will find your friend in Ica,” he had said. “But after you have given your compliments to Señor Salamanda, you can continue down to Ayacucho. I will be waiting for you there.”
They walked past a row of shops and, looking through an open door, Matt noticed a boy standing there watching him. He was his own age, dressed in a bright-green T-shirt with jeans that stopped a few inches below his knees. He had no socks and wore black rubber sandals. The boy had black hair cut in a straight line across his forehead, and dark skin. He was completely dishevelled and dirty.
He moved and so did the boy. It was only then that Matt saw he was actually looking at a full-length mirror. The boy was a reflection of himself.
Sebastian had seen what had happened. “You didn’t recognize yourself,” he chuckled. “Let’s hope it’s the same for them.”
He glanced in the other direction and Matt felt his mouth go dry as two policemen appeared, both carrying semiautomatic machine guns, walking through the bus yard. They could have been here for any number of reasons, but instinctively Matt knew that they were looking for him. Pedro asked something in Spanish and Sebastian reassured him. From the moment the other boy had woken up, Matt had known that he, too, had remembered the dream conversation of the night before. He might not be happy but he wasn’t going to leave Matt.
“Remember, keep yourself hunched,” Sebastian whispered. “Your height will give you away. And here – take this…”
Sebastian handed Matt a large bundle, tied in white sacking. Matt didn’t know what was inside. He wasn’t even sure if it was luggage or merely a sort of prop, to make them seem more like real travellers, but he understood Sebastian’s strategy. Doubled over, with the bundle balanced on his shoulders and the back of his neck, Matt looked like a servant carrying the luggage for his master. It disguised his true height and, fixing his eyes on the floor, his face was also hidden.
The three of them made their way forward. The policemen moved slowly through the crowd, which parted to let them pass. People were careful to avoid their eyes.
“This way,” Sebastian said, quietly.
He was steering Matt towards a bus that was already half full. The two policemen hadn’t noticed them. Matt reached the door and his heart missed a beat. A third policeman had appeared, stepping off the bus. Matt had almost knocked right into him. Bent underneath the bundle, he couldn’t see the man’s face – just his leather boots and the barrel of his gun. But then the policeman said something and with a hollow feeling in his stomach, Matt knew that he had just asked him a question. He said nothing. The policeman repeated what he had just said.
And then a hand grabbed hold of the bundle and tore it off his back. For a terrible moment he thought it was the policeman. But it was Sebastian. He was shouting at Matt in Spanish and before he could react, Sebastian had slapped him, hard, on the side of the face. Sebastian hit him a second time, then threw him into the bus. Matt was sent flying onto the floor. Behind him he heard Sebastian talking to the policeman and laughing. There were about twenty people in the bus, all staring at him. With the skin of his face burning – with pain and embarrassment – he stumbled forward and found himself a free seat.
Pedro got onto the bus and Sebastian followed him. The man sat next to Matt but didn’t say anything. More people got on, some with tethered goats, others
with baskets packed with live chickens. Soon every seat was taken and the aisle was filled with people squatting on the floor. Finally the driver arrived. He swung himself into his seat and turned on the engine. The entire bus began to rattle and shake.
The driver slammed the engine into gear and the bus lurched forward and began to cross the yard. Looking out of the window, Matt saw the policeman walking away.
“That was close,” Sebastian growled. He went on in a low voice, “I had to hurt you because the policeman was becoming suspicious. I told him you were my nephew and that you were an idiot. I said you had brain damage which is why you hadn’t shown him more respect.”
“Was he looking for me?”
“Yes. He told me just now. They’re offering a huge reward – many hundreds of dollars – for your discovery. They’re still saying that you’re involved with terrorists.”
“But why? They’re the police! Why are they doing this?”
“Because someone has paid them. Why do you think? Maybe Ayacucho won’t be so welcoming for you. You’ll never be safe so long as you’re in Peru, and without a passport there’s no way you’re going to get out.”
The bus rattled along a track and joined the main road. As it turned the corner, the passengers swayed in their seats and the various animals cried out. Then the driver hit the accelerator and the engine roared. They had begun the long journey south.
SALAMANDA
Ica was a small, busy town, full of dust and traffic. Matt’s first impression, as he climbed down from the bus, was that every building had been painted a uniform white and yellow, giving the place an artificial look. It reminded him of a film set, perhaps from an old western. But real life was all around him. It was there in the rubbish piles, the washing flapping on lines high above the rooftops, the graffiti that seemed to have spread across every wall. All around were advertisements for Nike and Coca-Cola, names of politicians and their parties and public warnings applied with a spray can. And it was there in the old men and women, blinking on benches out in the sun, the chollo – taxis – buzzing in and out of the main square, the money changers in their bright-green jackets, following the tourists who were taking pictures of all this with cameras that must have cost more than most of the local people would earn in a year.
Sebastian had walked with them to the main square. He bought them shish kebabs and rice and sat on the kerb with them as they ate.
“I don’t like these provincial towns,” he said. “Lima may be a stink-hole … but at least you know where you are. I can never tell what country people are thinking. Maybe they’re not thinking anything. They’re just indios.” He used the abusive term for native Indians. “They’ve got nothing in their heads.”
“What do we do now?” Matt asked.
“What do we do now? I’ll tell you what I do now, Matteo.” Sebastian had lit another cigar. It occurred to Matt that he had hardly ever seen him without one in his mouth. “I go on to Ayacucho. If you make it there alive, come to the main square. I’ll have people looking out for you. They’ll bring you to me.”
“Aren’t you going to help us get into the hacienda?”
Sebastian laughed unpleasantly. “I’ve helped you enough already and besides, I enjoy living too much. I’ll show you where it is. After that, you’re on your own.”
After they had finished eating, he walked with them, over a river and on to the edge of the town. He talked to Pedro as they went. He seemed to be giving him advice. Gradually the houses fell away behind them until they came to a dirt track leading off from the main road.
“The hacienda is five miles down this way,” he said. “I hope you’ll find your friend there, Matteo, but I’ve already told you, I doubt it. Maybe you and I will meet again in Ayacucho. I doubt that, too. But I hope so.”
“I thought you didn’t like me,” Matt said.
“Pedro tells me that maybe I’m wrong about you, that you’re not the same as other rich kids in the west who have everything and never think about people like us.” He shrugged. “Anyway, you are an enemy of the police and that is enough to make you my friend.”
He reached into his pocket and took out a cloth bag.
“I have some money for you. It’s a hundred soles. That’s a lot … almost twenty pounds in your currency. And before you thank me, it’s Pedro’s. He was the one who stole it – not me. Maybe it’ll help keep the two of you alive.”
Pedro said something in Spanish. Sebastian went over to him and spoke at length. When he had finished talking, he reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair. Suddenly he was looking sad.
“I had a son once,” he said. He shook his head. “You know how to find me.”
He turned and walked away.
Matt glanced at Pedro, who nodded. They still couldn’t talk to one another but they seemed to understand each other more and more. Together, they set off.
The track that Sebastian had showed them ran through agricultural land. Some of the fields were planted with maize, beetroot and asparagus while others held cattle, chewing at the rough, spiky grass. Following Sebastian’s advice, the two boys kept to the very edge of the track, ready to drop out of sight if any cars appeared. Once, an open-backed truck came rattling past and they threw themselves under a low shrub and waited until it had disappeared, kicking up clouds of dust. The afternoon was swelteringly hot. Pedro had fished two plastic bottles out 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.
“Qué 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.