Viper's Nest Read online

  The call over, Dave stared at Cate, a serious expression on his face. ‘They’ve traced the owner of the truck. Am I right in thinking that the name “Burt Tyler” means something to you?’

  CHAPTER 8

  Cate lay stretched out on the large bed, watching the early-morning surfers playing like dolphins out in the ocean, marvelling as they swooshed and swooped over the silvery-blue swell before gliding in to the white sand.

  For a few minutes she allowed herself to be drawn into their acrobatics, fantasising about taking a walk to the surf school and signing up for lessons.

  She grinned wryly to herself. Fat chance of that now. After the events of the previous day, a laid-back fun-filled holiday seemed even further away than ever.

  Dave Osbourne had dropped Cate off at the hotel with an ominous, ‘We’ll see you tomorrow,’ and while she had been way too tired to even query his remark she knew exactly what that meant. He – and IMIA – weren’t finished with her yet.

  She checked her phone. There were several texts from Arthur telling her to call him and one from Ritchie which very sweetly asked if she was OK, making no mention of his own head injury. Cate smiled. She was beginning to really like that guy. She had a message too, a number she didn’t recognise. She dialled voicemail and then sat up in shock as Johnny James’s silkily smooth tones purred into her ear.

  ‘Cate, Ritchie told me about your awful experience last night. I am so, so sorry that this happened to you after you left my house. Thank God you are safe. Novak has had to make an emergency family visit to New York, but as soon as he gets back I assure you he will be on the case and I promise we’ll leave no stone unturned in looking for the culprits. In the meantime, please, please, if you need anything – anything at all – don’t hesitate to call me on this number.’

  Wow, thought Cate, a girl really couldn’t ask for a better start to the day. Johnny James being concerned about her! Unable to help herself, Cate listened to the message four times before catching sight of her stupidly grinning face in the mirror and pulling herself together. She pushed back the soft linen sheets and headed for the bathroom where, for a good ten minutes, she soaked herself under the power shower, listening to the local radio, smiling at the cheery, upbeat style of the presenter.

  Back in the room, she pulled on her soft tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, and rummaged around for her tablet in her rucksack. She juiced up a mango, a banana and a punnet of blueberries she found in the fridge, pouring in a tub of natural yogurt to complete her breakfast concoction.

  Perfect, she thought, taking an appreciative slurp as she carried the tall glass out on to the already-warm balcony.

  She sat down in one of the deep wicker baskets facing the sun, flicked on her tablet, and headed for Amber’s Facebook page. It was time to do some research.

  For twenty minutes or so, Cate scoured Amber’s page. She had around two hundred and fifty friends, but as far as Cate could see they were mainly fellow students and some eco-warriors. Cate also had a friend request from Ritchie on her page, which she accepted. She noted, with a strange feeling of satisfaction, his status was single.

  Next, Cate looked at Amber’s wall. It seemed to be made up of the usual gossip, personal messages to friends, the odd snippet of news about the dig and how hard, yet satisfying, it was. Cate kept looking for something – anything – that would give some clue about what had led to the students’ disappearance. Then she noticed that on Monday there was a posting saying, The best day EVER, yesterday. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life. Ritchie had said she’d been very excited when she texted him. What had happened on Sunday?

  She logged on to Twitter. The last tweet by Jade had been on Tuesday at nine p.m. local time, just a few hours before she disappeared, Cate reckoned. It was nothing special, just a happy birthday message for a fellow tweeter and before that a mention of a fab fish meal she had cooked. Cate scrolled back down through the tweets. Jade had been reasonably prolific, sometimes tweeting up to six or seven times a day – mostly on mundane matters: the weather, the wildlife she had seen, the things she was missing about home. Nothing stood out and Cate was just about to give up when suddenly one tweet, posted on Sunday, caught her eye.

  Thor was so wrong, yet so right. All will be revealed shortly twerps.

  Cate stared at the message, trying to make sense of it. And who – or what – was Thor? He was the Viking god of war, Cate knew, and it was a common Scandinavian name. But how did that relate to anything? Or was it even mistyping?

  Cate blew out her cheeks and switched off the tablet. It was time for a break. She drank the last few drops of her smoothie and sat back in the chair, feeling the sun on her face. She breathed deeply, enjoying the sensation of the fresh ocean air in her lungs and felt herself relaxing, drifting slowly back to sleep.

  She woke with a start. A screeching, bellowing noise roared through the powerful speakers and out on to the balcony.

  For a few crazy seconds she was convinced she was hallucinating. Then she jumped to her feet and, hands over her ears, stumbled back into her room. Perched on the white leather stool behind the mixing desk, his dark face framed with the Beat headphones, glowing with pride and sporting a grin from ear to ear was none other than Marcus, her handler, the man who had introduced her to IMIA.

  Cate paused, marched over to the mixing desk and, without a word, leaned behind it and pulled out the plug. As the silence fell on the room, Marcus’s face took on a hurt expression.

  ‘Hey, Cate,’ he said mournfully. ‘You trashed my sounds. Just as I was getting into the swing of it as well.’

  Cate shot him a withering look. ‘I’d like to know just what you think you’re doing breaking into my room? It’s illegal, in case you didn’t know. And how on earth did you know I was here, anyway? Ohhh, I get it. Did Dave Osbourne call you?’

  Marcus pulled off his headphones reluctantly. ‘Cate! So many questions. And not even a “Hello and nice to see you, Marcus” first.’

  He got up slowly from the desk, walked over to the balcony doors and shut them.

  ‘Marcus, I’m on holiday – visiting my mum, who will be here to pick me up any minute now.’

  ‘No, she won’t,’ Marcus said calmly. ‘Right now she’s sitting waiting for a rescue truck on the road just north of San Diego. Her van has had a puncture. Or rather two. Just to be on the safe side.’ He chuckled. ‘We wanted to make sure we had enough time to talk to you. If you check your phone you’ll probably find a text from her telling you that she’s been delayed for a couple of hours. Oh and how are you enjoying the Erin? It’s where all the cool kids hang out, by the way – that’s why we chose it for you.’

  Cate sat down on the bed and frowned, remembering the Asian woman in the restaurant. Of course. That was IMIA all over, always one step ahead of her, making her feel like a complete pawn in their games.

  She fought back a sharp retort. She knew that it was a waste of energy to try to fight them – it was far better to go along with them, listen to what they had to say and then find other ways of asserting herself.

  There was a quiet knock at the door and Dave Osbourne came into the room. He nodded at Cate and perched himself on one of the high stools by the kitchen bar. Behind him, his familiar, solid bulk filling up the doorway, was Henri Sorenzi, former CIA, Mossad and MI5 agent and now the much revered and rather scary head of IMIA.

  Whatever this is about, it must be important, thought Cate, as she watched him check out the room, his dark, piercing eyes swooping and searching around. Henri didn’t usually make personal calls – people mostly came to him.

  ‘Good morning, Cate,’ Henri said finally in his perfect English accent and then, without waiting for a reply, added, ‘Is the room clean, Marcus? We need to be completely sure before we talk.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘No bugs. Checked everywhere. Cate, here, slept through it all like a baby.’

  Henri shook his head, tutting loudly. ‘Bit careless, Cate. Letting Marcus walk in like t
hat. Making sure your accommodation is secured is pretty much basic stuff for any of my agents. Must try harder.’

  Cate stared at him crossly. ‘Er, Henri, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m actually on holiday. And since when was I one of your agents again?’

  There was a silence. Henri and Cate eyeballed each other. Cate could hear Dave Osbourne shuffling uncomfortably behind her and then, as he had done so many times before, Marcus stepped in to break the impasse.

  ‘Hey, guys.’ He juggled some oranges in the air. ‘Fancy a juice while we catch up? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a pretty good chef.’

  Henri grunted and dropped his gaze.

  ‘Cate, I thought you might want to know,’ Dave said, ‘we didn’t find the thugs at Topanga beach, but the picture you took on your phone looks very similar to a mugshot we have of one Gabriel Montanez. His piercings alone gave him away. He’s a nasty piece of work, well known to the cops here. Local, a hired thug, been in and out of prison since he was a kid. He’s currently on probation for car theft with extreme violence. I’m told he’s also a hired gun. That is, he’ll do pretty much anything for money. He’s not stupid, either.’

  ‘Have you arrested him?’ asked Cate.

  Dave shook his head. ‘He was brought in early this morning for questioning. Unfortunately he has an alibi. Well, his girlfriend said he was at home with her all evening.’

  ‘What about the other guy? The one wearing the mask. Any news on him?’

  ‘Nothing. Sorry. To be fair we had very little to go on and Gabriel wasn’t helping.’ Dave looked annoyed. ‘He knows how to play the game. Forensics are going over the pick-up, but haven’t found any fingerprints. They’re looking for DNA traces, but until then we only have your word and your picture of him as evidence. I’m afraid his lawyer made light work of those. Said the picture didn’t give a clear location and could be fake, and that you would have been too traumatised by the road rage to be a reliable witness.’

  Cate felt her hackles rising. ‘So you let him go? He tried to run Ritchie and me into the ocean and you let him go?’

  Dave grimaced. ‘Not exactly. He’s out on a pretty large bail and we’ve taken his passport. Don’t worry, we’ll get him. It may just take a little time that’s all.’

  As he spoke, there was an almost imperceptible tap on the door. Marcus opened it to the receptionist, her blond dreadlocks glowing in the sun that was flooding in behind her.

  Cate got up. ‘Sorry about the noise,’ she said hurriedly. ‘And, erm, these guys are friends of mine. They were just in town and popped in to say hello. They’ll be going very soon.’

  Behind her Henri let out a snort of amusement. ‘Come in, Rosie. I would introduce you to Cate Carlisle, our youngest IMIA agent, but I believe you two have already met.’

  Cate stared in amazement as the receptionist stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. Cate was still staring as she shook hands with Marcus and Dave, then sat down on the bed.

  ‘Sorry, honey,’ she said to Cate. ‘I simply couldn’t let you know who I was until I got the word from Marcus. I have to say it was a bit of a thrill to learn that I would be helping out on a case with Cate Carlisle! I’m Rosie Collins, by the way.’

  Cate turned to Marcus who was pulling down the blinds on the window. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she pleaded, ‘will someone please put me out of my misery and tell me what’s going on?’

  The laptop flickered in the darkened room. On the screen Cate could see pictures of an ancient Mexican site, very similar to the one she and Ritchie had seen on the news the night before. The camera panned around the soaring pyramids and crept into darkened tunnels, before stopping in a large stone chamber.

  In the centre of the room, a gold-covered tomb was raised up on square boulders and, as the camera zoomed in, Cate let out a gasp of amazement. Piled almost haphazardly around the base of the tomb was treasure. Terrifying death masks with eye slits inlaid with turquoise lay on top of gleaming silver drinking cups; gold-tipped spears and dull metal shields were slung side by side on a heap of gold chains and coins.

  Behind the tomb, two squat young Mexican men with machine guns slung over their broad shoulders were grinning broadly at the camera, gesturing with a thumbs-up their delight at the sight in front of them.

  ‘Wow,’ said Cate to no one in particular. ‘Cool. Good old-fashioned treasure.’

  She heard Henri cough behind her. ‘Antiquities, Cate. Found at Christmas, in a secret tomb after the excavation of a pyramid in north-west Mexico. Objects dating back well over a thousand years, some of them older than that. All made by tribes and cultures that are long gone. They are priceless things of total beauty that, by rights, belong to the Mexican people and indeed, to all of us. The find was kept top secret, with just a handful of people who lived and worked on the site knowing about it. The treasures were due to be moved to a museum to be listed and catalogued and electronically tagged before being kept in a perfect protective environment – to preserve them for us and for future generations. Then this happened.’

  He stopped and reached down to the keyboard and another shot of the chamber appeared on the screen, but now the tomb was overturned, the treasure all but gone, just a few coins scattered across the floor. As the camera moved around the chamber, Cate saw with horror that the stone walls were now splattered with blood. In the corner were two bodies, their legs splayed at unnatural angles, dark stains seeping from beneath them. She looked away.

  ‘As you can see, despite the best efforts of those two brave guards and a top-notch security system, somehow this happened.’

  Cate forced herself to look at the screen again, noting the bullet holes that riddled the ceiling, the smashed stonework of the tomb. It was like a battle zone, in a darkened underground chamber. There would have been no hope of escape from the deadly bullets as they ricocheted off the walls, ripping indiscriminately through the bodies of the trapped men. She pushed the horrible image away and turned back to Henri, forcing herself to concentrate on what he was saying.

  ‘That heist happened three months ago,’ he explained gesturing at the screen, ‘but between then and now there have been three other similar raids across Mexico, stealing from on-site museums or displays. The antiques have simply vanished into thin air. In the last one before El Tajin, two Mexican tourists who were camping near the site heard a noise and went to investigate. They were found dead.’

  Henri sounded matter-of-fact, but Cate knew better. She had worked with IMIA long enough to know that, to them, every unnecessary death was a tragedy, every life was worth saving. That was what made them so good at their job and so sought after by every government in the world to solve their most difficult crimes.

  ‘So then you were called in. But why IMIA? You normally only deal with maritime crimes.’

  ‘We were already in this part of the world,’ said Marcus. ‘We’d heard that there was an Al Qaeda plot to blow up the entrance to the Panama Canal, but the information turned out to be dud. We were about to pack up and leave for Europe when a contact from the Mexican government approached us.’

  Marcus hit the keyboard again. A map of Mexico flashed up, studded with red dots. ‘Every raid has taken place on sites near to the coast,’ he said, pointing at the dots. ‘They wanted to explore the possibility that the antiquities may have been smuggled out by sea. We started to make enquiries, to put out feelers. Then El Tajin happened. The Mexican government is in utter panic. Up until then they managed to keep the heists quiet, but now the victims are US and European citizens. This takes it to a whole new level. It’s bad enough if a tourist wanders into the wrong area of town and gets caught in some crossfire, but when the actual tourist sites become the targets – well, that’s a very worrying trend. The Mexican government has seen what happened in Kenya when the Somalian bandits moved into the tourist areas. It decimated their tourist industry overnight.’

  ‘So you don’t believe that the twins – or any of the students – were invol
ved in the crime?’ Cate asked. She turned to Dave Osbourne. ‘That’s what Johnny James had heard.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘That sounds like a rumour put about to deflect from the real truth: that this gang is becoming more and more ruthless.’

  ‘When the students couldn’t be found, we thought there was a good chance that they had been smuggled out by sea, too,’ explained Marcus. ‘We sent up planes, checked all suspicious shipping, even sent down specially-equipped submarines to search underwater in case they had been taken out that way. We found nothing.’

  ‘What do you think has happened to them?’ Cate asked.

  Suddenly no one would look Cate in the eye.

  Outside, she could hear a dog barking and children laughing as they played on the beach below them. Her room was freezing cold now, the air conditioning set far too high, the warmth of the sunshine blocked out by the blinds.

  Cate looked at her watch – it was eight-twenty a.m. Less than twenty-four hours since she had landed in LA, and so much had happened. She felt as if she was at the start of a rollercoaster that was slowly but surely gathering speed, and she was stuck on it for the duration of the ride, no matter how wild and how scary it turned out to be.

  ‘Why are you undercover at this hotel?’ Cate suddenly asked Rosie, who was sitting quietly on the bed. ‘What’s so special about the Erin?’

  Marcus, not Rosie, replied. ‘When we said that the antiquities vanished into thin air, that wasn’t quite right. The major pieces, sure. They haven’t been seen since they were stolen. But a few weeks after the first robbery some smaller pieces – bits of jade, the odd bead necklace, a dagger – were already appearing on the black market. We put some of our internet experts on it and, sure enough, every few weeks something would pop up for sale on the dodgy trading sites where few questions are asked. At first we thought that they must be fakes. We couldn’t believe that anyone would be so dumb as to start selling off the goods from these huge heists. So last week we made an offer for a brooch, agreed a cash payment of ten thousand dollars, and were sent instructions for collecting it. We were told to wait outside the Erin at sundown,’ he continued. ‘A man arrived in his pick-up truck, came into the bar and went, as arranged, to the corner seats by the window. A good-looking guy, big, broad and very careful. He didn’t show us the brooch right away – but once he thought we were for real, he handed it over. It was genuine, all right – a one-thousand-year-old Mayan brooch from one of the sites that had been attacked. He told us there was more where this came from and that if we wanted to see him again all we had to do was leave a message at the Erin’s front desk. He was our one real lead, so there was no way we were going to arrest him – well, not then, anyway. So we just let him walk right out of the door and get back into his truck.’