Алистер Маклин - River of Death

Hamilton said: ‘Not in the best condition, wouldn’t you say?’

Smith, his eyes wide, was obviously appalled. ‘Good God in heaven. That’s suicide. Only a madman would go on it. Do you expect me to risk my life on that?’

‘Of course not. Why on earth should you? You’re only here for the story, for the pictures. You’d be crazy to risk your life just for that. Tell you what. Give me your camera and I’ll take the pictures for you. And don’t forget – the people over there may not be welcoming to trespassers.’

Smith was silent for some time, then said: ‘I’m a man who sees things through to the end.’

‘Maybe the end is closer than you think. It’s dark enough now. I’m going first.’

Navarro said: ‘Señor Hamilton. I am much lighter–’

‘Thank you. But that’s just the point. I’m a heavy man and I’m carrying a heavy pack. If it takes my weight – well, you should all be okay.’

Ramon said: ‘A thought occurs to me.’

‘And to me.’ He moved towards the straw bridge.

‘What was that meant to mean?’ Maria said.

‘He thinks, perhaps, that they will have a welcome mat out over there.’

‘Oh. A guard.’

Hamilton moved steadily across the straw bridge. That is, he made steady progress. The bridge itself was shockingly unsteady, swaying from side to side. Hamilton was now more than half-way across. The bridge sagged so badly in the middle that he had to haul himself up a fairly steep incline. But he was experiencing no great difficulty. He arrived safely on a platform similar to the one he had left on the other side of the gorge. He crouched low, for the platform was only a few feet lower than the plateau. Cautiously, he lifted his head.

There was, indeed, a guard, but he was not taking his duties too seriously. He was smoking a cigarette and, of all things, relaxing in a deck chair. Hamilton’s bent arm was raised to shoulder level. His handkerchief-wrapped hand held the blade of his heavy sheath knife. The guard drew deeply on his cigarette, clearly illuminating his face. He made no sound as the haft of the knife struck him between the eyes, just tipped to one side and fell out of his chair.

Hamilton turned and flashed his torch three times. Within minutes he was joined one by one by eight people who had not enjoyed their passage across the rope bridge.

Hamilton said: ‘Let’s go and see the boss man.’ He could find his way blindfolded and led them silently through the ancient ruins. Shortly he stopped and pointed.

There was a large and fairly new wooden hall with lights showing. The sound of voices carried.

‘Barracks,’ Hamilton said. ‘Mess hall and sleeping accommodation. Guards.’

Tracy said: ‘Guards? Why?’

‘Guilty conscience somewhere.’

‘What’s that noise?’ Smith said.

‘Generator.’

‘Where do we go from here?’

‘There.’ Hamilton pointed again. At the foot of the giant ziggurat was another but much smaller wooden building. Lights also shone from that building.

‘That’s where the guilty conscience lives.’ Hamilton was silent for a few moments. ‘The man who every night feels dead feet trampling over his grave.’

Silver said: ‘Mr Hamilton–’

‘Nothing, nothing. Ramon, Navarro. I wonder if you see what I see?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Ramon said. ‘There are two men standing in the shadow of that porch.’

Hamilton seemed to ponder for a few moments. ‘I wonder what they could be doing there?’

‘We’ll go and ask them.’

Ramon and Navarro melted into the shadows.

Smith said: ‘Who are these two? Your assistants, I mean. They are not Brazilian.’

‘No.’

‘European?’

‘Yes.’

Ramon and Navarro returned as silently and unobtrusively as they had left.

‘Well,’ Hamilton said. ‘What did they say?’

‘Not a great deal,’ Navarro said. ‘I think they may tell us when they wake up.’

Inside the smaller wooden house was a large dining-cum-living-room. The walls were much behung with flags, banners, portraits, swords, rapiers, guns and pictures, all German. Behind a table a large, rather red-faced, heavily jowled man was eating a solitary meal to be washed down by beer from a pewter litre mug beside him. He looked up in amazement as the door crashed open.

Hamilton, pistol in hand, entered. He was followed by Smith, then the others.

‘Guten abend,’ Hamilton said. ‘I’ve brought an old friend along to see you.’ He nodded towards Smith. ‘I think old friends should smile and shake hands and say “hallo”, don’t you? You don’t?’

Hamilton’s pistol fired, gouging a hole in the seated man’s desk.

‘Nervous hands,’ Hamilton said. ‘Ramon?’

Ramon went behind the desk and removed a gun from an already half-opened drawer.

‘Try the other drawer,’ Hamilton said. Ramon did so and came up with a second gun.

‘Can’t really blame you,’ Hamilton said. ‘There are thieves and robbers everywhere these days. Well. Embarrassing silences bother me. Let me introduce you to each other. Behind the desk, Major-General Wolfgang von Manteuffel of the S.S., variously known as Brown or Jones. Beside me, Colonel Heinrich Spaatz, also known as Smith, also of the S.S., Inspector General and Assistant Inspector General of the north and central Polish concentration and extermination camps, thieves on a colossal scale, murderers of old men in holy orders and despoilers of monasteries. Remember, that’s where you last met – in that Grecian monastery where you cremated the monks. But, then, you were specialists in cremation, weren’t you?’

They weren’t saying whether they were or not. The stillness in the room was total. All eyes were on Hamilton with the exception of those of von Manteuffel and Spaatz: they had eyes only for each other.

‘Sad,’ Hamilton said. ‘Very sad. Spaatz came all this long way to see you, von Manteuffel. Admittedly, he came to kill you, but he did come. Something, I believe, to do with a rainy night in the Wilhelmshaven docks.’

There came the sharp crack of a small-bore automatic. Hamilton looked at Tracy who, gun loose in an already nerveless hand, was sinking to the floor and from the state of his head it was clear he would never rise again. Maria had a gun in her hand and was very pale.

Hamilton said: ‘My gun is on you.’

She put her automatic back in her bush jacket pocket. ‘He was going to kill you.’

‘He was,’ Ramon said.

Hamilton looked at her in bafflement. ‘He was going to kill me , so you killed him?’

‘I was waiting for it.’

Navarro said thoughtfully, ‘I do believe the young lady is not all that we thought she was.’

‘So it would seem.’ Hamilton was equally thoughtful. He said to her: ‘Whose side are you on?’

‘Yours.’

Spaatz at last looked away from von Manteuffel and stared at her in total incredulity. She went on quietly: ‘It is sometimes quite difficult to tell a Jewish girl from other girls.’

Hamilton said: ‘Israeli?’

‘Yes.’

‘Intelligence?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah! Would you like to shoot Spaatz too?’

‘They want him back in Tel Aviv.’

‘Failing that?’

‘Yes.’

‘My apologies, and without any reservations. You’re becoming quite unpopular, Spaatz. But not yet in von Manteuffel’s class. The Israelis want him for obvious reasons. The Greeks’ – he nodded to Ramon and Navarro in turn – ‘those two gentlemen are Greek army intelligence officers – want you for equally obvious reasons.’ He looked at Hiller. ‘They supplied me with those gold coins, by the way.’ He turned back to von Manteuffel. ‘The Brazilian government want you for dispossessing the Muscia tribe and for the killing of many of them and I want you for the murder of Dr Hannibal Huston and his daughter, Lucy.’