after overthrowing the bourgeois imperialist puppets in Lima,’ said the Englishman, still amused, ‘give me a call. In the meantime, I’d like to check the general’s new acquisition.’ Pachac nodded, and Stikes marched to the Hind. Its pilot – a Caucasian – climbed out and saluted him, then took him on an inspection tour of the gunship.
Pachac’s reluctance to give up the helicopter was clear. ‘The damage we could do if we could make its weapons work again! I would give you back your money, and more.’ Revolutionary fervour faded, replaced by businesslike pragmatism. ‘But speaking of money . . . ’
Callas signalled to a waiting soldier, who lugged a pair of canvas holdalls, one large, one small, to the two men. ‘Here. The rest of your payment. Two million US dollars, in cash.’
The Peruvian opened the large bag, revealing bundles of banknotes. ‘I’m sure Chairman Mao would be proud,’ Nina muttered.
Pachac heard her, and glared up at the truck’s occupants. ‘Who are these yanquis?’
‘Prisoners,’ said Callas. ‘Don’t worry about them, they will not be here for long. And speaking of prisoners, I have a gift for you, Inkarrí. Two gifts, in fact. I think you will like them both.’ He gave an order to the soldier, and the man jogged away to a nearby hut. By the time Pachac had satisfied himself that the holdall contained everything due to him, the soldier was returning with a comrade, between them hauling a third man, a bound civilian with a bloodied face.
Even through his swollen, purpled eyes he saw Pachac, and gasped in fright, trying to break free. One of the soldiers punched him. The two men dropped him at their commander’s feet.
Pachac clapped in cruel delight. ‘Cayo! Ah, Cayo, it has been a while since I last saw you.’ His voice became a snarl. ‘Since you betrayed me. Since you stole half a million dollars of my drugs and gave them to de Quesada, along with your loyalty.’ He kicked the helpless man in the chest. ‘You shit!’
‘He was caught crossing the border with two others,’ said Callas. ‘And ten kilos of cocaine. He tried to pass himself off as one of your smugglers, but used an old password. So my men arrested him.’
‘The others?’
A shrug. ‘They had unfortunate accidents. They will never be found.’
‘And the cocaine?’
‘Confiscated, of course. Venezuela does not tolerate drug smugglers. Ones who don’t pay, anyway.’
Pachac looked at the nearby soldiers. ‘Are all the men on this base . . . yours?’
Callas nodded. ‘They are all loyal to me, yes. You may do what you wish with this man.’
‘Very good.’ Pachac crouched beside Cayo and produced a folding knife, opening it with a loud metallic snick. The man jerked up his head, whimpering in fear. ‘Yes, you know that noise, don’t you? You have heard it before when I have dealt with traitors.’ He was still speaking in English, glancing up at Nina and the others as if revelling in the opportunity to perform for a new audience. Cayo wailed and begged for mercy, but Pachac shoved him down on to his back. ‘Now, I will deal with you!’
Even with her hands over her eyes, Loretta still screamed at the sound of Pachac stabbing the knife deep into Cayo’s torso just below his sternum. His cries became an almost animalistic screech as the blade sawed down his body. Blood gushed from the lengthening wound.
Pachac worked the knife to the struggling man’s waistband, then sharply withdrew it. ‘And now,’ he said, with almost some twisted form of reverence, ‘capacocha.’
Osterhagen was too revolted to look, but still reacted to the word with shock. ‘My God . . . ’
‘What does it mean?’ asked the equally appalled Nina.
‘It is the Inca ritual . . . of human sacrifice.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ she gasped, sickened.
Pachac locked his blood-slicked hands round Cayo’s neck. His victim’s eyes bulged horribly as he struggled to breathe, coughing up blood. The Peruvian pushed down, cartilage crackling inside Cayo’s throat. His legs thrashed, blood spouting from the gaping wound with each kick . . .
Then his movements became weaker, slower.
And stopped.
Pachac released his hands. There was a gurgling hiss from the dead man’s mouth, a last release of trapped air, and he was still. His killer lowered his head, speaking in a language Nina didn’t recognise, then retrieved his knife and wiped off the blood on the corpse’s clothing.
‘So that was capacocha?’ said Callas, having watched the hideous exhibition with an expression of no more distaste than if