Алистер Маклин - River of Death

Smith said: ‘What kind of use?’

‘With your permission, of course. You know that this hovercraft is the lynchpin to everything?’

‘I’m not a fool.’

‘The hovercraft will be anchored tonight in very dicey waters indeed. By which I mean that the natives on either side of the Rio da Morte range from the unreliable to the downright hostile. So, it must be guarded. I suggest that this is not a task for one man, Kellner, the pilot, to do. In fact, I’m not suggesting, I’m telling you. Even if a man could keep awake all night, it would still be extremely difficult. So, another guard. I suggest Hiller.’ He turned to Hiller. ‘How are you with automatic weapons?’

‘Can find my way around, I guess.’

‘Fine.’ He turned back to Smith. ‘You’ll find a bus waiting outside the terminal.’ He reboarded the plane and emerged two minutes later bearing two automatic weapons and some drums of ammunition. By this time Hiller was alone. ‘Let’s go to the hovercraft.’

Kellner, the hovercraft pilot, was standing by his craft. He was thirtyish, sun-tanned, tough.

Hamilton said: ‘When you anchor tonight don’t forget to do so in midstream.’

‘There’ll be a reason for that?’ Kellner, clearly, was an Irishman.

‘Because if you tie up to either bank the chances are good that you’ll wake up with your throat cut. Only, of course, you don’t wake up.’

‘I don’t think I’d like that.’ Kellner didn’t seem unduly perturbed. ‘Midstream for me.’

‘Even there you won’t necessarily be safe. That’s why Hiller is coming with you – needs two men to guard against an attack from both sides. And that’s why we have those two nasty little Israeli sub-machines along.’

‘I see.’ Kellner paused. ‘I’m not much sure that I care for killing helpless Indians.’

‘When those same helpless Indians puncture your hide with a few dozen darts and arrowheads, all suitably or perhaps even lethally poisoned, you might change your mind.’

‘I’ve already changed it.’

‘Know anything about guns?’

‘I was in the S.A.S. If that means anything to you.’

‘It means a great deal to me.’ The S.A.S. was Britain’s elite commando regiment. ‘Well, that saves me explaining those little toys to you, I suppose.’

‘I know them.’

‘One of my luckier days,’ Hamilton said. ‘Well, see you both tomorrow.’

The saloon of the Hotel de Paris, after closing hours, had six occupants. Heffner, glass in hand, was slumped in a chair, but his eyes were open: Hamilton, Ramon, Navarro, Serrano and Tracy were asleep or apparently so, stretched out on benches or on the floor. Bedrooms were, that night, at a premium in the Hotel de Paris. As they were all equally dreadful and bug-ridden, Hamilton had explained, this was not a matter for excessive regret.

Heffner stirred, stooped, removed his boots, rose and padded his noiseless way across to the bar, deposited his glass on the counter, then crossed silently to the nearest rucksack. It was, inevitably, Hamilton’s. Heffner opened it, searched briefly, removed a map, and studied it intently for some minutes before returning it to the rucksack. He returned to the bar, poured himself a generous measure of the Hotel de Paris’s Scotch. Wherever the birthplace of that particular brand was it hadn’t been among the highlands and islands of Scotland. He returned to his seat, replaced his shoes, leaned back in his chair to enjoy his nightcap, spluttered and emptied half the contents on the floor.

Hamilton, Ramon and Navarro, heads propped on hands, were regarding him with a quietly speculative air.

Hamilton said: ‘Well, did you find what you were looking for?’

Heffner didn’t say whether he had or not.

‘One of the three of us is going to keep an eye on you for the remainder of the night. You try to stir from that chair and I will take the greatest pleasure in clobbering you. I don’t much care for people who meddle in my private belongings.’

Hamilton and the twins slept soundly throughout the night. Heffner did not once leave his chair.

Just after dawn, the helicopter pilot, John Silver – generally known as Long John – was at the controls. The party of nine embarked and stowed their overnight luggage with the food and equipment that had been transferred from the DC3. Hamilton took the co-pilot’s seat. So cavernous was the interior of the giant helicopter that it seemed virtually empty. It rose effortlessly and flew more or less east, paralleling the course of the Rio da Morte. All the passengers had their heads craned, peering through what few windows there were: they were seeing for the first time the true Amazonian rainforest.

Hamilton turned in his seat and pointed forward. ‘That’s an interesting sight.’ His voice was a shout.

On a wide mud flat, perhaps almost a mile long, and on the left bank, scores of alligators lay motionless as if asleep.

‘Good God!’ It was Smith. ‘Good God! Are there so many ’gators in the world?’ He shouted to Silver: ‘Take her down, man, take her down!’ Then to Heffner: ‘Your camera! Quick!’ He paused, as if in sudden thought, then turned to Hamilton. ‘Or should I have asked the expedition commander’s permission?’

Hamilton shrugged. ‘What’s five minutes?’

The helicopter came down over the river in great sweeping, controlled circles. Long John was clearly a first-rate pilot.

The alligators, hemmed in the narrow strip between forest and river, seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. It was, depending upon one’s point of view, a fascinating, horrifying or terrifying spectacle.

Tracy said, almost in awe: ‘My word, I wouldn’t care to crash-land amongst that lot.’

Hamilton looked at him. ‘Believe me, that’s the least of the dangers down there.’

‘The least?’

‘This is the heart of the Chapate territory.’

‘That meant to mean something to me?’

‘You have a short memory. I’ve mentioned them before. It would mean something to you if you ended up in one of their cooking-pots.’

Smith looked at him doubtfully, clearly not knowing whether to believe him or not, then turned to the pilot.

‘That’s low enough, Silver.’ He twisted in his seat and shouted at the top of his voice: ‘God’s sake, man, hurry!’

‘Moment, moment,’ Heffner bawled back. ‘There’s such a damned jumble of equipment here.’

There was, in fact, no jumble whatsoever. Heffner had already found his own camera, which lay at his feet. In Hamilton’s rucksack he had found something that he had missed the previous night for the good enough reason that he hadn’t been looking for it. He held a leather-bound case in his hand, the one Colonel Diaz had given to Hamilton. He extracted the camera from the case, looked at it in some puzzlement, then pressed a switch in the side. A flap fell down, noiselessly, on oiled hinges. His face registered at first bafflement, then understanding. The interior of the camera consisted of a beautifully made transistorised radio transceiver. Even more importantly it bore some embossed words in Portuguese. Heffner could read Portuguese. He read the words and his understanding deepened. The radio was the property of the Brazilian Defence Ministry, which made Hamilton a government agent. He clicked the flap in position.

‘Heffner!’ Smith had twisted again in his seat. ‘Heffner, if you – Heffner!’

Heffner, radio case in one hand and his pearl-handled pistol in the other, approached. His face was a smiling mask of vindictive triumph. He called out: ‘Hamilton!’

Hamilton swung around, saw the wickedly smiling face, his own camera held high and the pearl-handled pistol and at once threw himself to the floor of the aisle, his gun coming clear of his bush jacket. Even so, despite the swiftness of Hamilton’s movement, Heffner should have had no trouble in disposing of Hamilton, for he had the clear drop on him and his temporarily defenceless target was feet away. But Heffner had spent a long night of agony in the Hotel de Paris. As a consequence, his hand was less than steady, his reactions were impaired, his co-ordination considerably worse.