At last the rain had almost stopped. The rhythmic drumming on the jungle canopy far above had faded to a distant murmur. Only the sullen drip, drip, drop of water splashing into muddy pools disturbed the silence as a single shaft of sunlight broke through into the rainforest below.

Peering through the gloom, an inquisitive troop of howler monkeys clung to the lower branches of the trees. Their gaze followed the bright line of sunlight to where a bedraggled shape lay spread-eagled in a pool of light on the jungle floor. Every few minutes one let out a bloodcurdling bark and violently shook the branch on which it was sitting.

But the monkeys were beginning to lose interest in this strange hairless ape that lay so deathly still beneath them. This was no longer fun. When they had first begun hurling sticks down from the trees above, the hairless ape had tried to defend itself against the barrage of missiles. Once it had even barked back at them in their own language. But now it lay as unmoving as a lump of earth, no longer of interest. The time had come to move on.

As the noise of the monkeys slowly faded into the distance, a sigh that sounded almost human escaped from the inert form. Playing dead was not a survival strategy Beck Granger would normally use. Especially with a bumptious group of young howler monkeys. But with his body on the brink of exhaustion, he badly needed to look after what little energy he had left.

And somewhere not far off, a far worse threat still lurked. There was only one lord in the jungles of Colombia’s Sierra Nevada mountains and it was not human. As night began to fall, the mighty jaguar, king of the jungle cats, would be patrolling his territory once more.

All day long the young teenager had felt his spirit stagger under the combined assault of rain and heat and hunger. Drawing on every ounce of strength he still possessed, and using every shred of knowledge gleaned in a childhood spent learning the ways of survival, he had pushed himself onwards. Against all the odds he was still alive, and somewhere out there was the goal he was searching for.

In his fevered sleep he had come face to face with the Indian once more. He remembered the first time he had seen those gleaming eyes. How long ago it now seemed. The carnival. The twins. Don Gonzalo. That extraordinary night in the square. The start of the desperate quest to find the Lost City.

And then he remembered. Around his neck hung a muddied amulet in the shape of a golden toad, its eyes glistening in the sunlight, its mouth wide open. Adrenalin surged through Beck’s veins. He still had one final chance.

Taking a long deep breath, he put the amulet to his lips.

And blew.

CHAPTER ONE

Beck Granger strode onto the balcony of the five-star Hotel Casa Blanca and let out a low whistle. ‘This,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘is unreal.’ Cheered on by a boisterous crowd, an endless procession of carnival floats was flowing out of the narrow cobbled streets into the main square below.

Effigies of men with extravagant moustaches wearing doublets and ruffs swayed unsteadily above the crowd, while every few minutes a roar of approval went up as a particularly spectacular float came into view. Cartagena’s annual carnival was in full swing and the strains of salsa, congo, rumba and Caribbean steel bands floated up on the breeze.

GOLD OF THE GODS Behind Beck, in the ballroom from which he had just emerged, the scene could hardly have been more different. Elegantly dressed dignitaries chatted in small groups as waiters in starched whites passed silently between them. A four-piece string quartet was playing a jaunty waltz. Beck vaguely recognized the tune from his uncle’s stodgy old classical music collection.

‘Cool!’ he muttered for the umpteenth time that day. Colombia was certainly a different country. It was also a different world. His mind spun back to the previous week. No more drizzly mornings trudging into breakfast along the school avenue. No more Mr Braintree and double maths for a whole month. And Mrs Armington (Armour Plating, as the boys always called her) would have to make do with screaming at the pigeons in the school quadrangle now that the boys had broken up for the Easter holidays. Beck’s grin almost hurt.

‘Beck! Hola! Amigo! ’

Beck shook himself out of his daydream. The identical faces of two teenagers beamed mischievously back at him. The words had emerged simultaneously from under two matching mops of brown curls, high cheekbones and arching eyebrows. If it hadn’t been for the huge gold rings dangling from the ears of the face on the right, he would have sworn he was seeing double.

‘Marco. Christina. Buenos días.’

After just twenty-four hours in South America, Beck had already picked up a handful of useful Spanish phrases, but there was no danger yet of being mistaken for a local. Luckily the twins’ English was a little more advanced. They had only met for the first time the previous day, when the twins and their father had greeted Beck and his uncle at the airport. Even so, he already felt like one of the family.

‘I hope you’re enjoying our little party,

Señor Beck,’ said Marco. ‘That’s such neat timing, you and your uncle coming to stay with us right now. Our carnival is the best – we Colombians know how to party. But come back inside – Dad is about to make his speech. Now we can find out what this is all about.’

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