‘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?’
‘Yeah, I see where this is going,’ said Eddie, holding his ground — but also eyeing up exit routes. Behind Santos, the two junior officers brought their hands closer to their holstered weapons.
Zane also sensed the impending trouble. ‘Is there a problem, sir?’ he asked, trying to defuse it.
But Eddie already knew they would not be able to talk their way out. Santos and his men had been ready for a fight from the moment they entered. ‘I’m going to guess that he’s a Falklands veteran,’ he told the Israeli, ‘and that he’s not a bygones-be-bygones type.’
‘They are the Malvinas!’ barked Santos. ‘They belong to Argentina, but you English stole them! And when we tried to take back what was ours, you fought like cowards, sank our ships — killed my friends!’
‘Nothing to do with me, mate,’ said Eddie. ‘I was only about six years old when it all kicked off.’
‘You are all the same,’ the cop growled. He took out the cigar — and spat a thick brown-flecked glob of phlegm on to Eddie’s foot.
‘Don’t do anything,’ Zane said urgently. ‘He’s trying to provoke you. Don’t give him an excuse to arrest us.’
‘They don’t need an excuse,’ Eddie replied. The Argentinian wore an almost gloating expression, waiting for his response. ‘Even if we don’t do anything, you’re still going to arrest us on some bullshit charge and beat the crap out of us, aren’t you?’