Philip Caveney - The Tarantula Stone

Martin nodded. ‘Yeah, that sounds likely enough. From what I hear, the Indians have always had a rough time of it, ever since the Conquistadores first came over and started kicking them around.’

Claudio nodded. ‘If you had seen the reports that arrived this month … women raped, men strung up and cut open with axes. It’s hard to believe that men can be capable of such things. Now, of course, the big fazendeiros are becoming aware that there are vast areas of jungle land that they can buy up for a few cruzeiros an acre. Certain government departments turn a blind eye to the deal and that only makes our job more difficult. I heard last week of a mateiro – a forester – who has been travelling amongst many of the tribes, distributing clothing to them.’

‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’ inquired Martin.

‘The clothing had come from a smallpox hospital in Belém. A clever man that mateiro . He knows only too well that the Indians have no immunity to such diseases. They die like flies, whole villages at a time … and then the fazendeiros move in to pick up the pieces. So neat, so efficient. There can be no murder charges when the assassin is a microbe or a virus. I’ve seen a common dose of influenza decimate a village in a few hours. And what frightens me, senhor , is that this is just the tip of the iceberg. In time, the problem will get worse … much worse.’ Claudio shook his head, looked abstracted for a moment. ‘Ah, but you must forgive me,’ he continued. ‘Always I talk too much about troubles that others may not wish to share. You are staying in this country for long, senhor ?’

Martin shook his head. ‘Just passing through,’ he replied. ‘Fact is, I took this flight as something of a last resort. I don’t aim to be staying in Belém for long.’

‘Well, amen to that my friend.’ Claudio leaned forward slightly as if to impart a secret. ‘It is a pity we cannot choose our fellow travellers, eh?’

Martin frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ he inquired.

Claudio nodded in the direction of two people sitting at a table on the far side of the lounge. Martin glanced at them from out of the corner of his eye. One was a middle-aged man dressed in an expensive-looking black suit. He was a short, rather tubby fellow and would have looked insignificant if it were not for a rather distinguished grey beard that seemed to lend him an air of dignity. He was smoking a huge Havana cigar and had one arm draped protectively around a young girl who sat beside him. She was a pretty, frail-looking girl, with straight blond hair and a pair of large blue eyes that seemed to hold a perpetually startled expression. She was surely no more than eighteen years old, dressed in a rather revealing white cotton dress. She was nursing a drink in one hand whilst glancing nervously around at her fellow travellers.

‘Look at that pig,’ muttered Claudio with undisguised hatred.

‘Who is he?’ inquired Martin.

‘His name is Carlos Machado. He’s a fazendeiro , one of the richest in Brazil; owns a fancy villa up in the city. He’s currently in the market for buying land and it’s well known that he isn’t too particular how he comes by it. I don’t doubt for one moment that he’s heading up to Belém to pull off some shady deal.’

Martin raised his eyebrows. ‘Nothing you can do about him?’ he inquired.

Claudio grimaced. ‘In Brazil, my friend, a man is considered beyond the reach of the law when he has enough money to buy himself out of trouble; and Machado has money enough for a thousand men. Money can buy most everything a man requires.’

Martin nodded. He glanced at Machado again. The man was now stroking the girl’s hair with slow sensuous movements of his left hand, and occasionally she giggled as he whispered some remark into her ear.

‘How else would a middle-aged guy like him get hold of a pretty little kid like that one,’ agreed Martin.

Claudio chuckled. ‘Oh, that’s one thing he has not had to buy, senhor . You see, that is his daughter.’

Martin turned back to face Claudio, a look of mild disbelief on his face. ‘His daughter? Say, you don’t think …?’

‘What would I know, senhor ? Maybe they are just very close. But a slug like Machado, I would think that he is capable of much that would make a decent man sick to his stomach.’ Claudio sighed, then smiled apologetically. ‘You must forgive me. I do not mean to sound this bitter but somehow … ah, the hell with it!’ He made a conscious effort to change the subject. ‘What time do you have by your watch, please?’

‘Oh, it’s er … a little after twenty past twelve. They’ll be calling us in a few minutes. I think I’ll go and freshen up a little.’

‘Oh, senhor , I hope my foolish talk has not upset you. Believe me, I am not usually a vindictive man. It is just that –’

‘Forget it!’ Martin got up from his seat. ‘We’ll talk some more on the plane.’ He turned and made his way in the direction of the washroom. Now that he had assured himself that Claudio meant no harm, Martin was glad to have somebody to talk to. It took his mind off the doubts and worries that were assailing him. He followed the signs for the men’s toilets, pushing through a swing door set in the end wall of the lounge, and found himself in a short, poorly lit corridor with another swing door at the top end of it some twenty feet ahead. After the comparative bustle of the lounge, it seemed strange to be alone again. He strolled forward, whistling tunelessly to himself, and then pushed through the second door. The washroom was completely empty. Martin moved towards a handbasin. He set down his carpet bag and let the basin fill with cold water. Meanwhile, he examined his face in the mirror above the taps: he had aged terribly in the six years at the garimpo . There were crow’s feet etched into the sunburned skin around his eyes. He raised one hand to finger them thoughtfully for a moment. Little matter, he was still young enough to enjoy the benefits that the diamond would bring. With a sigh, he leaned forward, lowering his face until it was completely immersed in the water. The coldness was a delicious, tingling shock to his sleep-dulled senses. Now he put his hands into the basin, splashing more water around his neck and shoulders, smoothing handfuls of it back through his hair. When he heard the slight creak of the door opening behind him, he willed himself to act normally. Of course, he reasoned, other people would come here, it was a public facility. No reason to stiffen or jerk around in alarm. He went on splashing the water into his eyes for a few moments and then straightened up, giving his head a flick to remove the last traces of liquid from his hair. He felt revived now, fully awake.

And then he became aware of the second reflection in the mirror in front of him. A man’s face was peering intently over his shoulder and there was a terrible silence in the room. The face was a familiar one, though Martin had not seen it for over six years. It was the pistoleiro who called himself Agnello, the same man, in the ill-fitting black suit, who on the occasion of that last meeting had been working for a certain Mr Caine.

Agnello’s face broadened into an ugly grin. ‘Ah, Senhor Taggart,’ he said, in slow, toneless English. ‘I have been looking for you everywhere.’

The boy pushed his way impatiently through the crowds of people that surrounded the reception desks, his dark eyes glancing nervously this way and that. He was perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, a thin rangy caboclo – half-breed Indian – who looked very out of place in his grubby, too-large cotton shirt and baggy trousers. He wore cheap rope-soled sandals that flapped as he walked and the airline ticket that he clutched in his right hand was damp with perspiration.