The entire line of men rose up from the desert floor and began to move forward. At the same time, the men from the truck had slipped into the guard house: the barrier was raised and the electronic gates slid open to let them in. Matt’s mouth was dry. It seemed almost too easy. Was there nobody in the compound keeping a lookout? But the guards in the watch-towers were already dead and – he reminded himself – the Incas were all wearing dark clothes. Even if anyone did happen to be looking, the army would blend into the grey emptiness of the desert. They were silent and just about invisible.
Pedro was the first in. Then came Atoc and the others, spreading out across the roads and walkways, finding shelter against the nearest walls. The compound lay ahead of them and for the moment there was nobody in sight. Only the lights behind the windows and the distant hum of machinery warned them that they were not alone. Richard and Matt were among the last to enter. So they had the clearest view of what happened next.
A group of four Incas ran over to the radio mast and began to climb it. Atoc and the others were covering them, looking out for anyone who might approach. Still nobody knew they were there. But then, at the very last minute, a dead man gave them away. It was the guard in the watchtower who had been shot. Quite suddenly he fell forward, plunged through the air and hit a corrugated roof with a thunderous crash. Nobody moved. Nobody even breathed. Was it possible that such a loud noise could have gone unheard?
A klaxon rang out, shattering the still of the night. At the same time, searchlights exploded into life, and what a few moments before had been no more than a gathering of dark shadows and half-seen shapes was instantly blazing white. Every one of the Incas was exposed. Matt and Richard, crouching together in a flat, open area of asphalt and rubble, were the worst placed of all. Doors crashed open. Guards appeared. A machine gun began to chatter. Pieces of brickwork were blown out of the walls. A whole group of Incas were sent flying to the ground, rolling in a hail of bullets. Richard grabbed Matt and pulled him across to a pile of fuel drums. Part of him knew that it was insane to hide behind gallons of petrol during a gunfight. Another part told him that surely Salamanda’s men wouldn’t be mad enough to fire in this direction.
The Incas were scattering, trying to find cover. More shots were being fired. There were guards on the roofs. The door of the largest building opened and a man stepped out, a pistol clasped in one hand. Seemingly unconcerned by the chaos all around him, he took careful aim and fired. One of the climbers who had made it half-way up the radio mast cried out and fell to the ground. Matt felt his blood go cold. He knew the man who had just fired the shot. It was Rodriguez, the police captain he had met in Lima. As Matt watched, he took cover in the doorway, at the same time barking out an order to someone behind him. What was the police chief doing in the compound? It was no surprise that he was working for Salamanda. But it seemed he had now abandoned his normal duties completely, to take over security here.
Something glinted in the hard light and a spear hurtled past Rodriguez, burying itself in the door. Rodriguez laughed, showing bared teeth, and fired a second shot. Matt saw something go whirling across the empty space in front of a building: three copper balls, tied together with cords. They vanished into the darkness and a moment later a guard stepped off the roof, the cords wrapped around his throat. He crashed down in front of the police chief and lay twitching on the ground.
More machine-gun fire. There seemed to be guards everywhere, pouring out of doors and taking up positions across the compound. Matt’s heart sank. They were obviously outnumbered. And where was Pedro? He was beginning to regret coming here with the Incas. He couldn’t help them. There was nothing he could do. Or was there? He and Richard were in front of a small brick building with a skull and crossbones painted on the side and the same word he had seen at the airport. Peligro. Danger. There was some sort of machinery humming inside.
“Richard!” he called.
Richard understood. He drew back his foot and, using all his strength, kicked open the door. Matt hurried in. The building was filled with machines and heavy-duty fuse boxes, each one with silver handles set in the ON position. Together, Richard and Matt began to turn them off. If they could cut the power supply to the compound, perhaps they could interrupt the signals being sent into space.
There was a buzz and a crackle of electricity. The klaxon fell silent and darkness returned to the compound. Richard and Matt had managed to disconnect the security system and this gave the Incas the advantage they needed. Spending their lives high up in the mountains, they were accustomed to the darkness and now they used it, flitting in and out of their hiding places, taking out Salamanda’s men one by one.
“Let’s get inside,” Matt said and without waiting for Richard to reply, he ducked out of the generator room, underneath the radio mast and into the building on the other side.
It was the main control centre. It stood right next to the radio mast, with its various satellite dishes connected by thick cables that looped through the air. Matt didn’t know what he was going to find inside. He wasn’t armed and he knew that he was taking a terrible risk. But he couldn’t just watch as the Incas fought his battle for him. Somewhere in his mind it had occurred to him that if he and Richard could find the controls, they might be able to re-direct the satellite, send it flying off into a different orbit. Or he might find Salamanda. There had been no sign of him so far but surely he would want to be here now. This was meant to be the night of his triumph. He wouldn’t just stay at home.
Trying to make as little noise as possible, Matt made his way into a large, fully enclosed chamber. He looked up and took in the glass dome that he had seen from outside. On the other side, he could make out the night sky and the radio mast with its satellite dishes towering above.
All the walls were covered with plasma screens, some filled with digital read-outs, some showing what must surely be live footage of the night sky. Mainframe computers stood beneath them and there were twenty or more workstations at intervals along a ledge that curved the whole way round. There were about a dozen tables and chairs in the centre, arranged like a classroom. They were covered in charts and other papers, some of which had been scattered onto the floor. The staff must have left when the fighting began. The whole place had been abandoned. But one man had stayed behind. He was sitting alone at one of the tables, busily scribbling away at a pile of papers. As Matt approached, he turned slowly round.
It was Fabian.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Fabian broke the silence. “Matthew!” he exclaimed. “Mr Cole! What are you doing here?”
“I think we should be asking you that,” Richard said.
But it was obvious, really, when Matt thought about it. A driver – Alberto – had been sent to the airport to pick him up and deliver him to the police at the Hotel Europa. He had always assumed that the driver had worked for Captain Rodriguez. In fact, he had been working for Fabian – and Fabian had admitted as much the last time they had spoken, on the phone in Cuzco. And that telephone call had almost been Matt’s undoing. The moment he had told Fabian where he was, the information had been passed on to Salamanda and the police.
He was the traitor. He always had been.
Fabian seemed to have shrunk since they had last seen him. As always, he was wearing an expensive suit – but this time he had no tie. His clothes hung loose and he hadn’t shaved. He had been drinking. There was a half empty bottle on the table and his eyes were glazed. Staring at Richard and Matt, he blinked nervously -more embarrassed than scared or surprised.