Anne Mather - The High Valley

The pilot came and sat beside Morgana in the place Vittorio had vacated. He was a man of average height and build, greying slightly at the temples, and there was a strained worn expression on his face.

“Por deus!” he murmured, speaking Portuguese. “This is too much!”

Morgana compressed her lips. “Relax,” she said, quietly. “There's nothing you can do. There's nothing any of us can do.”

The pilot sighed and fumbled in his pocket for cigarettes. He offered one to Morgana and although she seldom smoked she took one gratefully, glad of the diversion. They smoked in silence for a while and then the pilot said: “Do you know where we are?”

Morgana bent her head. “Actually, yes. One of – of the men told me.”

The pilot stared at her. “Go on!” he said.

“We're at a place called La Nava , the high valley,” she said. “In Monteraverde.”

The pilot looked perturbed. “La Nava!” he echoed softly. “Yes, I have heard of it, senhorita , but its actual whereabouts are unknown. It is reputed to be the headquarters of O Halcão , the Hawk, leader of the guerilla forces in Monteraverde.”

Morgana frowned. Where had she heard that name before? But her brain wouldn't function properly and she shook her head impatiently. “You look worried,” she said. “Don't you think they will let us go?”

“Do you?” asked the pilot, crediting her intelligence.

She shivered. “I don't know. I don't know what to think. Why have they brought us here? What possible reason could they have?”

“I can think of several. Either there are arms hidden on the plane, or they need us as hostages, or possibly they need the plane itself.”

Morgana stubbed out her cigarette. “And we have no radio contact?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“The authorities will think we've crashed. Is there no way we can make contact?”

The pilot heaved a sigh. “How? With guns at every angle. No, Senhorita?”

“Mallory,” she supplied. “How many of us are there?”

The pilot frowned. “Well, Senhorita Mallory, we will have to wait and see what they intend to do with fifty-seven of us!”

“So many?” Morgana bit her lip. “They – they wouldn't kill us all?” She looked at him intently. “Would they?”

The pilot shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. But I shouldn't think it would serve much purpose if they did.”

“But can they let us go?”

The pilot frowned. “That's what troubles me. If they were going to let us go why did they tell you where we were? It seems out of character.”

“That's what I thought,” murmured Morgana uneasily. “Is – is the undercarriage badly damaged?”

“Any damage to the undercarriage is serious,” said the pilot. “After all, it is the mainstay of landing and takeoff.”

“Yes.” Morgana tried to calm herself. “So – in your opinion we're here for some time.”

Her companion lifted his shoulders. “It seems the most likely suggestion,” he agreed. “ Deus , I am tired!”

Morgana saw him close his eyes and tried to relax herself. The lights in the cabin had been lowered and the darkness was comforting. The men, in the gloom, looked less menacing, their guns almost hidden from view in the darkness. But they were there, and everyone was aware of it.

About half an hour later, when everyone except the baby seemed to be drowsing, the door of the plane opened and one of the men came forward to the front of the plane. He spoke in an undertone to one of the men who had been put on guard and then came across to where Morgana and the pilot were sitting. The pilot opened his eyes swiftly at the sudden altercation, and Morgana thought for a moment they had come for him. But to her surprise and horror the man caught her arm and pulled her up out of her seat.

“Get your coat!” he commanded briefly, and Morgana was too astounded to protest.

There were one or two anxious murmurs as she was escorted from the plane and she was conscious that the pilot had protested volubly to the guard as she was hustled out. Then she was at the head of a flight of steps and the chill night air hit her hot cheeks and she swayed for a moment before her escort thrust past her and indicated that she should follow him. She thought of pushing him hard from behind and causing him to fall the length of the steps, but such an action was without use when there were so many of them.

The lights that had distinguished their landing had now been extinguished and only a faint glow was left. There was no moon and clouds scudded across a lowering sky. They crossed the gravelled surface of the strip to where a Land Rover was parked, another man behind the wheel.

Morgana was allowed to climb into the front beside him and her companion climbed into the back. Then they were off, driving across rough terrain that rocked and buffeted the vehicle violently and caused Morgana to cling to her seat for grim life. There was little to be seen in the glare of the vehicle's headlights, just a narrow track hedged about with thick foliage. They were descending into a valley, that much she could tell from the slant of the Land Rover, and she concentrated her eyes on the distant lights which could faintly be discerned below them. The men did not speak, and she had lost what little spirit she had possessed earlier. She admitted to herself honestly that she was afraid and she had no idea why she should have been singled out and brought here.

It was impossible to tell the size of the valley in the darkness, but from the lights below and the mountains all around, silhouetted against the skyline, it seemed quite impressive. As the road flattened out she could hear the sounds of animals on the still night air, and occasionally smell the scent of pine trees. Flying out to Rio from London she had worn a jersey suit and carried a sheepskin coat, but leaving Rio to fly to Los Angeles she had just worn a thin Crimplene dress. However, she had carried her sheepskin coat and now she was glad of its enveloping warmth. Here in the mountains the wind was cold and chilling, and the air after the temperate warmth of the coast was particularly clear and bracing. But she knew too that part of the shivering cold that enveloped her system was fear at what might lie ahead of her.

They were deep in the valley now and Morgana could hear the tumbling clarity of water over rocks, and presently they ran between adobe houses, dimly lit, where on verandahs men and women could be seen staring curiously at their progress. Morgana clasped her hands tightly together. They were nearing their destination, and her knees had begun to tremble again. Then she remembered Vittorio Salvador and a little of her terror left her. He was part of this and somehow she sensed he was an honourable man.

The Land Rover swung to a halt before a larger dwelling. Morgana supposed it was a hacienda with its hanging eaves and white painted exterior. The windows had shutters which were presently closed, but a mesh door stood wide before a narrow paved passageway that ran from front to back.

“Come!” The man indicated that Morgana should get out and she climbed down nervously, wrapping her coat closer about her.

They crossed the verandah and entered the passageway, the man indicating that Morgana should follow him. The hall was dimly lit and not much warmer than outside, and Morgana wished she had been wearing trousers instead of such a short skirt.

The man halted outside a door about halfway along this passage and knocked before gaining admittance, so it seemed apparent that he was not in command here. He pushed Morgana before him into a large room, brightly lit by hanging lamps and the blaze from a log fire burning in the hearth. It was a comfortable room, full of furniture all of which served some specific purpose. Easy chairs were drawn near the fire while across the room a table still held the remains of a meal that had been taken there. As well as the shutters outside, heavy drapes covered the windows, and a desk, liberally strewn with papers, stood in an embrasure. On one side of the desk stood a cabinet, and on top of this was a tray of bottles and glasses. One wall was almost completely filled with book-shelves, and as well as the books there were maps and mapping equipment. Morgana's first impression was one of warmth and intimacy, but even while her gaze took in these superficial impressions, she saw a man rise from his seat in front of the fire and turn to regard her gravely; a tall, dark man, with a thin face, dressed in close-fitting black suede pants which were thrust into knee-length leather boots, and a roll-collared black sweater. The dark clothes accentuated the dark tan of his features giving his face a brooding solemnity.