green nothing around there – jungle and swamps, probably.’
Nina looked at the photographs, then across at the case containing the two statues. ‘There’s something else there. Let’s hope we can find it.’
Two days later, the expedition assembled in the little jungle town of Valverde, where Nina discovered to her surprise that their Venezuelan guide and pilot were the same person. Oscar Valero was a heavy-set man in his forties, proudly dressed in the olive-green fatigues and cap of the Bolivarian Militia; it was also clear from his not exactly subtle questions that he had been told to keep a close watch on the yanquis.
Osterhagen, meanwhile, had been joined by his assistants – three of them, giving Nina the feeling that he was trying to match the numbers of ‘her’ team. Ralf Becker, gangling and thatch-haired, was another German and Osterhagen’s deputy, while the other two were Americans: Loretta Soto, a plump and shy Hispanic woman, and Day Cuff, a long-faced young man with a pretentious little triangular ‘soul patch’ beard. Cuff’s eyes had immediately locked on to Macy – more specifically, her chest – and it seemed nothing short of a nuclear strike would draw them away.
They met in the bar of the optimistically named Hotel Grande, mostly for the practical reason that it was Valverde’s only hotel, but also because of its connection to the Interpol investigation: a payphone in its lobby was the landline through which Stamford West had communicated with his local contact. Like the hotel, though, the payphone was the only one in Valverde. The stream of people using it seemed to rule out any chance of spotting an obvious suspect.
‘Lot of soldiers around here,’ Eddie noted as another uniformed man made a call. There had also been a visible military presence on the streets.
‘There is a base near here, to watch the border,’ explained Valero. ‘To keep out the drug-running dogs and the Colombian puppets of the gringo imperialists. No offence,’ he added with a cheery smile at Nina.
‘None taken,’ she replied icily. ‘You know what we need you to do for the aerial survey, right?’
‘Sí, no problem. If there’s something out there, we’ll find it. You wanna start now?’
The way Osterhagen leaned forward expectantly told Nina that she wasn’t the only one impatient to begin the search. ‘No time like the present.’
Becker sprang to his feet. ‘Great, okay, let’s go!’ he said enthusiastically as he donned a hat – a rather familiar-looking fedora.
Eddie grinned. ‘He thinks he’s Indiana Jones,’ he whispered to Nina.
‘All archaeologists think they’re Indiana Jones,’ Nina replied as she stood, equally amused. ‘Well, except the ones who think they’re Lara Croft.’
He regarded the tall, bony German. ‘I’m glad he went for the Indy look. I wouldn’t want to see him in Lycra and hot pants.’ His smile widened. ‘Now Macy, on the other hand . . . ’ His wife batted his arm.
Valverde was about two kilometres south of the Orinoco, its airstrip between the two. It was only a ten-minute walk from the Grande to what passed as a terminal, a hut with radio masts rising not quite vertically from its roof. The expedition members had been flown in by government helicopters, but the waiting aircraft was considerably more basic – a Cessna Caravan, a single-propeller, nine-seater light plane that was as unexciting and utilitarian in appearance as its name suggested.
‘Oh,’ said Cuff in sneering disappointment. ‘That’s what we’re flying in? I was hoping for something a bit less prehistoric.’
Valero seemed insulted. ‘It’s only twenty-five years old, perfectly safe. What did you expect? A jumbo jet?’
Cuff wasn’t satisfied. ‘Whatever, it’d better be well maintained if you expect me to set foot in it. Although somehow I doubt Venezuelan airworthiness testing is quite up to FAA standards . . .’
Eddie had already taken a dislike to the smug twenty-something, and decided he wasn’t going to put up with an entire flight of whining. ‘Hey, Dave, how about not pissing off the guy we need to keep us from a fiery screaming death?’
The already nervous Loretta looked even more upset at the thought, but Cuff responded with a haughty huff. ‘It’s not Dave. It’s Day. Day F. Cuff.’
‘Oh, of the Boston Cuffs, no doubt,’ Eddie said in his Roger Moore voice, guessing that he was supposed to be impressed. ‘Well, since it’s going to be a long flight, either stop moaning or F. Cuff off.’
‘Eddie,’ Nina chided, trying to conceal her amusement.
Cuff’s mood was far more readable. ‘You know, Leonard,’ he said