wall as the plane banked practically on its side.
‘Hang on!’ Valero howled. They were far from out of danger. The plane was still at a low altitude – and getting lower by the moment. He shoved the stick back over to level out, throwing his passengers to the floor. The Orinoco wheeled ahead. The Cessna was only two hundred and fifty feet above it.
And still in a dive.
‘Oh, mierda!’ he wailed, yanking back the stick.
Eddie looked up, seeing nothing but water through the cockpit windows. Two hundred feet, the Caravan pulling up, but slowly, too slowly. Greenery on the far bank replaced the river as the plane’s nose rose, but they were still too low—
Whumph!
A slam of impact – and a huge spray of water came in through the open hatch.
But the plane was still in the air, even if only by inches. The landing gear had skimmed the great river, Valero levelling out just in time. The Venezuelan whooped in relief, then worked the controls to gain height again. The Caravan climbed, trailing sparkling raindrops from its wheels.
‘Everyone okay?’ Eddie gasped.
Osterhagen crawled back into a seat. ‘I feel . . . airsick.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Macy squealed. ‘I’m alive. You’re alive. We’re alive!’ She kissed the Englishman. ‘I can’t believe it, we’re all still alive!’ She kissed him again.
‘Steady on, love, I’m married,’ said Eddie. ‘Oscar, how’s the plane? Can we make it to Caracas?’
‘It will fly okay, but some of the instruments are broken.’ Valero gave him an almost apologetic look, indicating the bullet damage. ‘And so is the radio.’
‘What?’ Eddie sat up. ‘You’re fucking kidding me! How are we going to call the militia?’
‘More to the point,’ added Macy, ‘how are we going to land if we can’t talk to air traffic control?’
‘I can fly a distress pattern to tell the airport we have no radio,’ Valero assured her. ‘They will give us priority.’
‘How long will it take us to get there?’
‘About two and a half hours. Although it will be hard to know exactly.’ The Venezuelan shot an irate look at Eddie. ‘I can’t get a proper airspeed reading because you wouldn’t let me take the cover off the pitot tube.’
Eddie laughed a little. ‘So long as we get there, that’s the main thing.’ He stood. ‘First, can someone shut that hatch? It’s a bit draughty in here.’
17
The building nicknamed the Clubhouse was a mansion in the Caracan hilltop district of Valle Arriba, overlooking the perfectly kept greenery of a private golf course, and beyond it the great sprawl of the city itself. Even with the Venezuelan government’s increasingly militant push towards the redistribution of wealth, the enclave was reserved for money and privilege. No barrios here; even the smallest house was worth several million US dollars.
Nina very much doubted that she or Kit would enjoy the luxury, though.
Callas’s helicopter had flown north to the airbase at Puerto Ayacucho, where the group transferred to a military transport plane to travel on to Caracas. A convoy, two SUVs escorted by police outriders, completed the journey to the Clubhouse. Callas and Stikes were in the lead vehicle, Kit and Nina under heavy guard in the second. Nina looked out through the darkened glass as the vehicles turned on to the driveway. Two soldiers stood guard at the main gate, and she saw several others inside the grounds. Off to one side of the mansion she glimpsed a swimming pool and a private helipad. Not exactly a typical military facility.
The SUVs stopped at the front door. Nina and Kit were hustled out and taken down to the building’s cellars. One underground room had been converted into a makeshift prison, metal bars dividing it into three small cells. Nina was pushed into one, Kit another, an empty chamber separating them. A soldier locked the cell doors, then took up position on a chair to watch his prisoners.
After half an hour, footsteps echoed down the passage outside. The jailer looked round as the door opened, standing and saluting when Callas entered, accompanied by two more soldiers. Stikes followed them in, carrying the case containing the statuettes. ‘Dr Wilde,’ said Callas. ‘Mr Jindal. I hope you are both comfortable?’
‘I’m guessing this is as comfortable as we’re going to get,’ Nina replied.
‘That is up to you. And also to Mr Stikes. If you tell him what we want to know, your discomfort may be kept to a low level.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘You can work it out,’ said Stikes. ‘You’re an intelligent woman. Although your