disappointment, the interior, a single room with no other entrances apart from a small window, was wrecked. Rotted remains of the wooden roof were strewn across the floor, plants sprouting from the rich compost that had built up as leaves fell through the open ceiling. Fragments of broken pottery poked from the loam. She nudged one with her boot, then saw something more interesting – a stone sphere, slightly smaller than a tennis ball. A length of thick rope was knotted through a hole in its centre. A bolas? She gingerly lifted the ball, tugging the weapon’s other two cords clear of the soil - and felt the mouldering rope start to fall apart.
‘Oops! Shit,’ she gasped, hurriedly returning it to its resting place and going back outside – to see Osterhagen jumping down from the ruined stairway, Becker and Cuff descending behind him.
‘What did you find in there?’ he asked, eagerly approaching her. ‘Are there any surviving artefacts?’
Nina ignored his question, trying to block his path. ‘What are you doing? Eddie told you to wait up there.’
‘He told you the same thing,’ Cuff sniffed.
Now Macy and Kit were climbing down too. ‘Sorry, Nina,’ said Macy. ‘I tried to tell everyone to stay up there, but only Loretta listened.’
Nina looked up to see Loretta peering over the top of the wall. ‘Well, at least one person’s got some sense. Okay, look – everybody stay here until Eddie and Oscar come back. This place has been waiting since the sixteenth century, so a few more minutes won’t make any difference.’
Eddie and Valero moved cautiously through the ruined town. The Englishman had already confirmed that they were not the first explorers, spotting broken stems where people had forced their way through the vegetation reclaiming the settlement.
None of the damage seemed recent, though; more like weeks or even months old.
He had a theory: the loggers had trampled through the whole place searching for valuables. After picking the outlying buildings clean, they had no reason to return, instead concentrating on the central buildings that Osterhagen said would have contained the greatest treasures. The men whose trail he had spotted in the jungle were probably guarding the remainder of the hoard.
And they were close by. Eddie stopped, waving for Valero to do the same, as the tang of cigarette smoke reached him. He listened intently, picking out the muted sound of men talking in Spanish.
He peered round the corner of a building. Before him was a plaza, dotted with trees that had forced their way up through the cracked stone flags. At the western end, a broad flight of steps led up to the rounded building that Osterhagen had called the Temple of the Sun.
Something less imposing but more modern dominated his attention, though. A small canvas hut had been set up near the steps, its walls a jungle-green camouflage pattern. The entry flap was half open, giving him a glimpse of equipment inside.
So where were its occupants?
He leaned out further. In a gap between the trees was a large, oddly proportioned crate resembling a giant pizza box, about five feet square but less than a foot thick. Beside it were the two guards.
Soldiers.
Both men wore Venezuelan army fatigues, in the same camo pattern as the tent. They were armed with AK-103 assault rifles, updated and locally made versions of the venerable AK-47; one had his gun slung loosely over his back, the other had propped his weapon against a nearby tree. It was obvious from their relaxed stances that they weren’t expecting trouble.
Eddie signalled for Valero to take a look. He reacted in surprise. ‘What is the army doing here?’ he whispered. ‘I don’t understand. If the government knows about this place, why weren’t we told?’
‘I don’t think your government does know,’ Eddie replied grimly. ‘This is someone’s private little operation. Probably run from that base – it’s only about five miles from here.’ He nodded to the northwest. ‘They take any treasures they find to Valverde, and then they get sold on the black market.’
‘But – but that is treason!’ said Valero, outraged. ‘They are stealing from the people of Venezuela, their own brothers!’
‘Family doesn’t count for much when there’s big money involved.’
One soldier flicked away his cigarette and ambled back towards the tent, skirting patches of mud where the flagstones had subsided. The other checked his watch, then picked up his AK and followed.
Eddie moved back. ‘We should leave.’
‘No,’ Valero insisted. ‘As a member of the Bolivarian Militia, if a crime is