Matthew Reilly - Temple

‘What?’

‘To get their technical knowhow, like. You ask me, man, those Freedom Fighters are a bunch of cocksuckers, but they do know their technology. I mean, shit, messages to the world on VCD. You think I went out and bought this player?’

‘The Texans merged with the Freedom Fighters…’ Demonaco said.

‘Holy shit.’ Bluey was still yapping. ‘It’s all the Japs, you see. Ever since they got here, those slopeheads’ve been telling Earl that if he wants to fuck up the world, he’s gonna need some serious hardware. Not guns and shit, but bombs and shit. Nukes. And then when they found out about that Super nova thing, well…’

But Demonaco wasn’t listening anymore. He turned to Mitchell. ‘The Texans absorbed the Freedom Fighters. That’s why your boss Aaronson didn’t find any body at the Freedom Fighter locations. They don’t exist anymore. God, no wonder they used tungsten bullets. They bought themselves time by framing a terrorist group that no longer exists. The Texans and the Freedom Fighters weren’t fighting a turf war. They were merging…”

‘What are you saying?’ Mitchell asked.

‘I’m saying that we have just witnessed the union of three of the most dangerous terrorist organisations in the world. One is a brilliantly organised fighting unit, the second is perhaps the most technologically advanced paramilitary group in America, and the third is a doomsday cult from Japan. ‘You add all that up,’ Demonaco said, ‘and you got yourself one hell of a problem, because those are the guys who stole your Supernova, and judging from that video we just saw, they’re out there now trying to get themselves some thyrium.’

In the soft predawn light of the foothills, a banquet was being prepared. After he had defeated the caiman, Race had politely begged off the adulation of the Indians and asked to rest. A sound sleep had followed—God, he needed it, it had been nearly thirty-six hours since he’d last slept—and he awoke just before the dawn. The platter that was laid down before him was fit for a king. It was an assortment of raw jungle food set out on wide green leaves. Grubs, berries, corn. Even some raw caiman meat. It was raining lightly but no one seemed to care. Race and the Army people sat in a wide circle on the section of open ground that lay in front of the upper village’s shrine, eating underneath the watchful gaze of the real idol as it sat proudly in its ornate wooden alcove. Although the natives had returned their weapons to them, there was still a slight aura of suspicion in the air. A dozen or so Indian warriors stood ominously outside the circle of people, armed with bows and arrows, watching Nash and his people carefully—as they had been doing all night.

Race sat with the tribe’s chieftain and the anthropologist, Miguel Moros Marquez.

‘Chieftain Roa would like to express his utmost gratitude to you for coming to us,’ Marquez said, translating the words of the old chieftain.

Race smiled. ‘We’ve gone from thieves in the night to honoured guests.’

‘More than you know,’ Marquez said.

‘More than you know. If you hadn’t survived your encounter with the caiman, your friends would have been sacrificed to the rapas. Now your friends bask in your glory.’

‘They’re not really my friends,’ Race said. Gaby Lopez sat on the other side of the little anthropologist, her excitement at being in the presence of a legend obvious. After all, as she had said to Race on their first day in Peru, nine years ago Marquez had entered the jungles to study primitive Amazonian tribes—and had never returned.

‘Doctor Marquez,’ she said, ‘please, tell us about this tribe. Your experiences here must have been fascinating.’

Marquez smiled. ‘They have been. These Indians are a truly remarkable people, one of the last remaining untouched tribes in the whole of South America. Although they tell me that they have lived in this village for centuries, like most of the other tribes in this region they are nomadic. Often the whole village will just up and move to another location—in search of food or a warmer clime—for six months or even a year at a time. But they always return to this village. They say that they have a connection with this area—a connection with the temple in the crater and the cat gods that dwell inside it.’

‘How did they come to possess the Spirit of the People?’

Race asked interjecting. ‘I’m sorry, I do not understand?’

‘According to the Santiago Manuscript,” Race said, ‘Renco Capac used the idol to seal the rapas inside the temple. Then he shut himself inside the building with them. Did these Indians at some stage enter the temple and get the idol out?’ Marquez translated what Race had said for the Indian chieftain, Roa. The chieftain shook his head and said something quickly in Quechuan. ‘Chieftain Roa says that Prince Renco was a very clever and brave man, as one would expect of the Chosen One. The chieftain also says that the members of this tribe take a special pride in being his direct descendants.’

‘His direct descendants,’ Race said. ‘But that would mean Renco got out of the temple…’

‘Yes, it would,’ Marquez replied cryptically, translating the chieftain’s words.

‘But how?’ Race said. ‘How did he manage to get out?’

At that, the chieftain barked an order to one of his Indian warriors and the warrior scurried off into a nearby hut. He returned moments later carrying something small in his hands. When the warrior arrived back at his chieftain’s side, Race saw that the object in his hands was a thin leatherbound notebook. Its binding looked positively ancient, but its pages appeared uncreased, untouched. The chieftain spoke. Marquez translated. ‘Mister Race, Roa says that the answer to your question lies in the construction of the temple itself. After Renco and Alberto’s

famous battle with Hernando Pizarro, yes, Renco did enter the temple—with the idol. But he also managed to get out of it—with the idol. The full story of what happened after Renco entered the temple is contained in this note book.’ Race looked at the notebook in the chieftain’s hands. He craved to know what was inside it. The chieftain handed the little notebook to Race.

‘Roa offers it to you as a gift,’ Marquez said. ‘After all, you are the first person in four hundred years to pass through this village who would actually be able to read it.’

Race opened the notebook immediately, saw about a halfdozen cream coloured pages filled with Alberto Santiago’s handwriting. He stared at it in awe. It was the real ending to Santiago’s story.

‘I have a question,’ Johann Krauss said suddenly, pompously, leaning forward from his place in the circle. ‘How have the rapas managed to survive for so long inside the temple?’

After consulting with the chieftain, Marquez replied, ‘Roa says you will find the answer to that question in the notebook.’

‘But—’ Krauss began. Roa cut him off with a sharp bark.

‘Roa says that you will find the answer to your question in the notebook,’ Marquez said firmly. Clearly, while Roa’s hospitality to Race was limitless, his grace toward his companions extended only so far. The rain began to fall more heavily. After a few minutes, Race heard the rumble of distant thunder over the horizon. Doogie and Van Lewen also turned at the sound.

‘Storm’s coming,’ Race said.

Doogie shook his head as he looked up into the sky. The rumbling of thunder grew louder. ‘No it isn’t,’ he said, grabbing his G11 out of the dirt.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That ain’t thunder, Professor.’

‘Then what is it?’

At that moment, before Doogie could answer him, a massive Super Stallion helicopter roared by overhead. It was closely followed by another, identical helicopter, swooping in low over the village, its rotors thumping loudly, shaking the trees with its powerful downdraft. Race, Doogie and Van Lewen leapt to their feet, while at the same time all of the Indians reached for their bows. The roar of the two Super Stallions hovering above the little village was deafening, all consuming. And then suddenly eight ziplines were hurled out from within each helicopter. In a second, sixteen men dressed in full combat attire began to slide quickly down the ropes, guns in their hands, ominous shadows against the predawn sky. Bullets spewed out from the guns of the men abseiling down from the helicopters. People ran every which way. The Indians dashed for cover in the foliage surrounding the village, snatching up their bows and arrows as they did so. Van Lewen and Doogie fired their G11s as gunfire from above raked the mud all around them. Race snapped about where he stood—saw Doogie take two brutal hits to his left leg— then he spun again just in time to see the German zoologist, Krauss, convulse violently as the whole front of his body—his face, his arms, his chest—became an indistinguishable mass of ragged bloody flesh, torn open by about a million rounds of devastating super machinegun fire. The two Super Stallions hovered about twenty feet above the village, razing it with their cannons. As he leapt to his feet, Race saw a single word emblazoned across their sides: NAVY. It was Romano’s team. They had arrived at last. And then—just then—as he ran for cover from the two enormous choppers hovering menacingly over the village, Race had an unusual thought. Wasn’t Romano supposed to be flying three Super Stallions… Abruptly, a spattering of gunfire strafed the ground all around him and Race scampered for the tree line, turning as he ran just in time to see Frank Nash hurry away from the shrine and dash off into the foliage beyond it with Lauren and Copeland right behind him. Race’s eyes zeroed in on the shrine. The idol was still there, sitting proudly in its alcove. Or was it? As the ground all around him exploded with bullet holes, Race hustled over to the shrine and grabbed the idol from its alcove, flipped it over in his hand. A cylindrical section had been cut out of the base of this idol. It was the fake.