Another squawk and gabble of an incoming message. Rojas issued orders, some of his men hurrying round the mansion. Eddie ducked, but they went past, heading for the helipad. Rojas followed at a more relaxed pace, talking in Spanish over the radio. Eddie couldn’t be certain, but the voice on the other end sounded like Callas. The Venezuelan paused to check the breaking news on the TV by the pool, then muted the sound and carried on after the troops.
Eddie stayed low, watching the soldiers as they reached the helipad, awaiting an arrival. Callas himself, most likely, returning to his command post.
His guess was soon proved correct. The thunder of a helicopter overpowered the chatter of gunfire in the city below, the aircraft sweeping in over the golf course. A Hind – the one Eddie had seen at the base near Paititi, repainted in Venezuelan colours. So why had Callas needed it when he had control over the country’s own gunships?
The answer came once the helicopter settled on the pad. A man dressed in black combat gear emerged. Blond hair, a Jericho glinting at his waist. Stikes. Of course – Callas needed a gunship crew on whom he could rely one hundred per cent. Even men who thought they were committed to the cause might baulk at opening fire on their own people. So what had they been doing?
More mercenaries emerged, wearing balaclavas – then Callas himself, pushing another man at gunpoint.
Eddie recognised him. Tito Suarez.
‘Jesus . . . ’ he whispered, impressed despite himself at the sheer balls of the plan. They had kidnapped the President, probably right out of Miraflores. And by using Stikes and his mercenaries, Callas had eliminated the risk of any soldiers switching their allegiance when challenged face to face by their leader, as had happened with the capture of Hugo Chavez over a decade earlier.
Stikes donned his beret and spoke to his masked men, who grabbed the struggling Suarez and hauled him into the mansion. Rojas delivered a report to his superior. Callas nodded, then issued orders. Rojas saluted and relayed them over his radio, then turned and jogged back round the building. The soldiers followed him.
The two men guarding the corner of the house joined the group as it passed. Eddie’s heart jumped. They were redeploying - with Suarez’s capture, Callas probably wanted to secure a wider perimeter around the Clubhouse. This could be his chance to get inside . . .
He watched and waited. The main gates opened and a Tiuna drove out on to the street, followed by a squad of soldiers. One of the armoured cars started up with a diesel roar: the six-wheeled V-300, carving up the grass as it made a wide turn and left the grounds.
Voices nearby. He looked round, seeing Callas and Stikes walking past the swimming pool. The general paused to lift the lid off a dish on a catering trolley near the TV and pop a piece of food into his mouth. ‘You want some?’ he asked Stikes.
The mercenary shook his head. ‘Are you sure you want to set up roadblocks so far out from the Clubhouse? If they were nearer, it would be a tighter defence.’
‘I want to cover the intersections,’ Callas replied. ‘Besides, now that the coup is under way, I no longer care about upsetting the neighbours.’ He replaced the lid, then continued with Stikes into the house.
Eddie checked his surroundings. The soldiers at the rear of the Clubhouse were still looking outwards across the golf course, while those at its front were grouped round the vehicles near the main gate. There was a chance someone might glance back at the side of the house, but he would have to take the risk . . .
He broke from cover and ran across the lawn.
No shouts of alarm. He hadn’t been seen – yet. The single door was almost directly ahead, but he couldn’t just charge in - he had to make sure the room beyond was empty. At the gate, a soldier looked round—
And saw nothing. The headlights of the parked Tiunas had wrecked his night vision.
Eddie reached cover and pressed against the wall. He drew his knife and went to the door.
There was light inside, but only dim. He peered through the window. A darkened kitchen, the illumination coming through a half-open door at the far end. He tried the handle. It turned. He slipped inside.