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The two of them reached the front of the queue and found themselves facing a tired-looking official with suspicion etched on his face. Presumably that was his job. To be suspicious of everyone. But Matt felt his heartbeat quicken as Richard handed over their documents. He glanced away. Part of the hall was held up by scaffolding and there was a large sign hanging below: NO CRUZAR. AREA DE PELIGRO. Richard had followed his eyes.

“Don’t cross. Danger area…” he translated.

Matt nodded, wondering if the words might be prophetic.

The border guard had run both the passports through a machine and was studying a monitor. Now he looked up. “What is the purpose of your visit?” He must have asked the same question ten thousand times.

“We’re here on holiday,” Richard lied.

The stamp came down twice more. That was it. They were through and Matt was annoyed with himself for being even slightly worried in the first place.

It had been agreed that Fabian wouldn’t come to the airport himself to collect them. Again, there was always the chance that he might be recognized and followed. Instead, he would send a driver – and sure enough there was a stocky Peruvian in a white, short-sleeved shirt waiting for them after they had picked up their luggage. He was holding up a sign with their false names: Paul and Robert Carter. Two brothers on holiday. Nothing at all to do with Matt Freeman and Richard Cole who had come here to save the world.

“Buenos dias,” he said, reaching out to take the cases for them. “I am Alberto. Mr Fabian sends you his good wishes. I hope you had a good flight.”

“It was long,” Richard said.

The driver laughed. “Long flight. Yes. You have come very far. But Mr Fabian is near. I take you to him.”

He led them out of the airport, pushing through a crowd of noisy people who immediately surrounded them, shouting, “Taxi! Taxi!” and trying to snatch at their luggage. Matt was feeling really tired now. It was early evening and a heavy darkness hung in the sky. The air was warm and smelled of diesel. He hoped it wouldn’t take them too long to reach their destination.

Their car was a brand-new people carrier and as the door slid shut and the driver turned on the engine, Matt felt the welcome chill of the air-conditioning. He sank back in the leather seat with Richard beside him.

“Peru,” Richard muttered.

“Yeah.” Matt didn’t know what to say.

“It’s not as Peruvian as I’d imagined. Shouldn’t there be llamas?”

“We’re in the middle of an airport, Richard.”

“Well there ought to be something.” Richard closed his eyes.

Alberto put the car into gear and they moved off.

Matt gazed out of the window. After an endless journey and all the uncomfortable hours spent in the air, it was difficult to believe that he had finally arrived. He was in South America! Not just a foreign country but a whole new continent. A different world.

They drove past some sort of naval base – the airport was close to the sea – and joined a six-lane motorway, blending in with about a thousand other vehicles rushing along on all sides. Brightly coloured buses, just big enough for twenty passengers but carrying twice as many, rumbled past. Toyota vans, also crammed with people, swerved in and out of the traffic, horns blaring. On each side of the road there was a wide strip of wasteland, rubble strewn with old tyres, oil drums and rubbish. Broken walls covered with graffiti dotted the way, along with ancient watchtowers, some of them sprouting the red-and-white Peruvian flag. To Matt it seemed as if a war had been fought here, but a very long time ago, and the people were still clearing up the mess.

Somehow, the tangle of dust, graffiti, traffic and concrete managed to tumble together into something vaguely resembling a city. As they drew closer to the edge of Lima, Matt saw a row of modern office blocks, a garage with its name – REPSOL – flashing in neon, a few shops, still open, with people lolling around outside; signs of everyday life. Green and red taxi-bikes buzzed past them, their own horns blasting out angry little tunes. Billboards carrying advertisements for computers and mobile phones sprung up, blocking the view. And then they turned off and came back once again to the sea, grey and uninviting, breaking against sand that seemed to have been mixed with cement, forming a beach that was barely more attractive than a building site.

“How far is it to Fabian’s house?” Richard asked.

The driver looked up nervously, meeting Richard’s eyes in the mirror. “We don’t go to the house,” he said.

“Why not?”

“We go to the Hotel Europa in Miraflores. Is not far. Mr Fabian meet you there.”

Richard glanced at Matt. He was puzzled by the change of plan: nobody had said anything about a hotel.

They stopped at traffic lights, where the noise was worse than ever. All around them, drivers were leaning on their horns, furious at being kept waiting. There was the crunch of buckled metaclass="underline" a van colliding with the back of a car. The shrill scream of a whistle as a policeman in a dark-green uniform tried to take control. The jangle of a ghetto-blaster on the back of a motorbike. A figure stepped in front of the car. It was a boy, about his own age, dressed in filthy jeans and a T-shirt, juggling with three balls. He seemed to be enjoying himself, sending the balls spinning in a circle over his head. He performed for a few seconds, then bowed and held out a cupped hand, begging for money. Alberto shook his head and at once the boy was transformed, his face contorted with anger. He swore briefly and spat at the window. The lights changed and they moved off again. Matt was relieved. He had never been anywhere like this before. What had he got himself into?

Now they were driving down a quieter, more residential street, moving away from the sea. Matt had the feeling they were getting close to the hotel.

“What time is it?” he asked Richard.

“I don’t know.” Richard turned his wrist to look at his watch. Matt realized that he had just nodded off. Both of them were half asleep, half awake, caught somewhere between the two. “My watch is still on English time. But right now it’s…”

He never finished the sentence.

The car stopped abruptly. Both Matt and Richard were thrown forward. The driver rapped out something guttural in Spanish. Matt saw what had happened. A blue van had driven at speed out of a side street, blocking the way ahead. At first, he thought it was just an accident, but then he saw the doors of the van open. Four men piled out and began to run towards them and at that moment he knew there was nothing accidental about it. They had driven into some sort of trap. These people had been waiting for them.

Alberto knew it too. With a sense of unreality, Matt saw him reach into the glove compartment and bring out a gun. Fabian must have been afraid of it from the start. He must have suspected that they might be attacked on the way into the city. Maybe that was why he had changed their destination. And why else would he have ensured that his driver was armed?

He wasn’t the only one. Two of the men coming at them from the van were carrying handguns. Everything was happening so quickly that Matt only glimpsed their faces – dark and determined, with long black hair. They were wearing jeans and open-necked shirts, the sleeves rolled up. Then somebody fired a shot and the front windscreen became a frosted maze of cracks with a single hole, a deadly eye, at the centre. Alberto cried out. He had been hit in the shoulder. His blood splattered against the back of his seat. But now he brought his own gun round and fired three times. The front window collapsed, the glass cascading onto the bonnet. The men from the van hesitated, then took cover.