The woman nodded. “It will all be done,” she said. Her English was worse than his, and heavily accented. “But I am needing soon the…” It took her a minute to find the word. “I must have the co-ordinates,” she said.
Now Matt understood. The woman was German and spoke no Spanish. The man was Spanish and spoke no German. They were using English as a common language.
“You will have the co-ordinates as soon as I have them myself,” the man went on. “My agents have been into the Nazca Desert but they have still failed to find the platform.”
“The diary did not give you the position?”
“It gave me the approximate position and it is possible that we now know enough to place the swan exactly where it is meant to be. But I prefer to leave nothing to chance. We have to be careful, but the search continues. Just so long as everything is ready at your end.”
“Of course, Herr Salamanda. Everything will be as you ask…”
That was the end of it. Matt was listening in with his head pressed against the wall, right next to the French window. Pedro was slightly behind him. So he was the one who heard the clunk of boots on wood and realized that at least two guards were making their way towards them, patrolling the full length of the veranda. They were still out of sight, round the front of the house, but in a few seconds they would turn the corner and the two boys would be discovered.
There was only one thing to do. Pedro pushed Matt and the two of them flitted across the open doorway, past the dining room. Matt hoped they wouldn’t be seen in the growing darkness – or if they were, that none of the people in the room would realize they weren’t meant to be there. He heard the woman talking as he went past and wished he could have stayed longer to hear more. But he and Pedro had moved only just in time. A second later, the guards appeared, both of them dressed in loose-fitting khaki overalls and armed with rifles hanging from their shoulders. The veranda was empty.
Matt and Pedro didn’t stop moving until they had reached the back of the house, where they came upon an inner courtyard, immaculately laid out with antique benches surrounding a well and a single, dark-green molle tree in the very centre. There were two more wings to the house, one on each side. Matt noticed that here, some of the windows on the upper floor were barred. Perhaps these were the cells he had been imagining. Could Richard Cole be sitting in one of them right now?
He needed a way up – and saw one, on the opposite side of the yard. An open staircase with a series of arches over a wooden banister, running up to a gallery. But before he could move, a third guard appeared, coming through a doorway on the first floor and making as if to come down. Matt cursed himself. Had he really thought he could just walk in here, find his friend and walk out with him? Was it likely that one of the richest and most powerful men in Peru wouldn’t make sure he had plenty of protection? Sebastian had been right. This was stupid. Worse than that, it was suicide. He and Pedro were going to get caught. They would be handed back to Captain Rodriguez. And neither of them would ever be seen – in Ayacucho or anywhere else – again.
Pedro had obviously had the same thought. Coming here had been a bad idea. He glanced at Matt, who nodded. They would get out of the house and wait. Maybe later, in the middle of the night, it would be safer to take a look around.
Together, they crept round the side of the courtyard, keeping well into the shadows. There were lights on inside the rooms and they could see moths dancing in the doorways, but fortunately no lamps had yet been turned on outside. There was a door leading into the study that they had already seen from the front. They could pass through here and out the other side.
They entered the study.
Matt quickly took in his surroundings. This must be where Diego Salamanda worked. There was a grandeur about the room, the rich tapestries on the walls, the expensive rugs on the floor. A sudden thought occurred to him. If this was Salamanda’s private office, perhaps the diary of St Joseph of Cordoba might be here. He hadn’t thought about the diary since Richard had disappeared. His entire mind had been focused on finding his friend. But suppose he did stumble across it? If he could get his hands on it, perhaps he could use it as a bargaining tool. The diary for Richard. The Nexus would love that – but he didn’t care. Salamanda and the Old Ones could do what they liked. All he wanted was to get out of Peru.
Pedro was already halfway across the room.
“Wait!” Matt whispered.
Pedro stopped and watched in dismay as Matt began to search the desk. It was an ugly piece of furniture, heavier and bigger than it had any right to be, with a leather square let into the surface and gold rings on the drawers. Matt tried one of them. It wasn’t locked but it made so much noise as it was opened, wood creaking against wood, that it could surely be heard throughout the house.
“Que estas haciendo?” Pedro hissed. What are you doing?
“The diary…” Matt replied and Pedro understood. The word was almost the same in English and Spanish.
Pedro went over to the side of the room, where a number of shelves stretched above a modern photocopier. Some of the shelves contained books, but before he could examine them, he noticed a sheet of paper, in the top of the machine.
“Matteo,” he called.
Matt abandoned the desk – most of the drawers were empty and the rest contained nothing of any interest. He came over to the photocopier and took the paper. It was covered in writing, possibly made with an old-fashioned pen or even a quill. Could it have been taken from the diary? Matt cursed quietly. The words were in Spanish. He couldn’t understand them. And Pedro couldn’t read, so he wouldn’t be able to translate them. How much more useless could this break-in have been?
He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. Maybe he would be able to make sense of it later.
There was a movement at the door.
Pedro had seen it first. He stopped where he was, his eyes widening in disbelief. Matt saw the look on his face, turned round and froze. A shiver, as tangible as an electric shock, ran through him. He felt it travel through his arms and up the back of his neck.
He couldn’t see the man who was standing on the other side of the doorway, shrouded in darkness. But he could make out his shape and knew at once that his head was impossibly large, twice as long as it should be, monstrous. The man was holding onto the frame of the door and Matt understood why. He needed help to stand up straight. His neck simply wasn’t strong enough to support his head on its own.
“I thought it was you,” the man said. He was still speaking in English. His voice sounded strained, as if someone were strangling him. “I heard you on the veranda as you went past. But it wasn’t just that. I knew you were there. I have been feeling your presence all evening, just as I feel it now. One of the Five. Two of the Five! Here, in my hacienda! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? What do you want?”
There was no point denying who he was. The man had seen right through Matt’s disguise. He seemed to know everything about him.
“Where’s Richard?” Matt demanded.
“Your friend, the journalist?” Matt could see the lips twist into something that resembled a smile. But this was a face that would never smile properly. “What makes you think I have him? Why should he be here?” Salamanda looked genuinely puzzled. “How did you even find your way to me?”
Matt said nothing. There was no point in answering.
Salamanda turned to Pedro. “Como te llamas?” he demanded.
Pedro spat. Whatever he had been asked, that was his reply.
“What fun I’m going to have with the two of you,” Salamanda muttered. “It’s almost too good to be true. A gift, if you like – and perfectly timed. A week from now, it will all be over. The gate will have opened and not one but two of the Gatekeepers will be mine. I never thought it would be so easy.”