River Of Death

'So. How the multi- — or is it bulti-? — millionaire travels into the boondocks. But good, really excellent.'

Smith visibly relaxed.

'But there's one exception, though.'

'Indeed?' One has to be very wealthy before one can — or is permitted to — raise one's eyebrows in the proper fashion. 'And what might that be?'

'Nothing missing, I assure you. Just some items surplus to requirements. Who are those guns and pistols for?'

'Us.'

'No deal. Ramon, Navarro and I carry weapons. You don't. None of you do.'

'We do.'

'Deal's off.'

'Why?'

'You are children in the rain-forests. No popguns for kids.'

'But Hiller and Serrano -'

'I admit they know more than you do. That doesn't mean very much. In the Mato Grosso they might even rate as adolescents. Forget what they've ever told you.'

Smith lifted his shoulders, looked at the rather splendid armoury of weapons he had assembled, then back at Hamilton. 'Self-protection -'

'We'll protect you. I don't much fancy the prospect of you lot going around shooting harmless animals and innocent Indians. Even less do I fancy the prospect of being shot in the back when I've finally shown you where the Lost City is.'

Heffner stepped forward. He obviously had no doubt that the reference had been to himself. His fingers were actually clutching and unclutching, his face dusky with anger. 'Look here, Hamilton —'

'I'd rather not.'

'Stop it.' Smith's voice was cold and incisive but when he spoke again the tone had changed to one of bitterness and left no doubt that he was addressing Hamilton. 'If I may say so, you have a splendid capacity for making friends.'

'Oddly enough, I do. I have quite a few in this city alone. But before I make a man my friend I have to make sure he's not my enemy or potential enemy. Very sensitive about those things, I am. But so's my back - sensitive, I mean, sensitive to having a knife stuck in it. I should know, I've had it done twice to me. I suppose I should have you all searched for flick-knives or some such toys but in your case I really don't think I'll bother. The ha'rmless animals and innocent Indians are safe from any ill intentions you may develop, for, quite frankly, I can't see any of you lot taking on an armed Indian or a jaguar with what is, after all, little more than a pen-knife.' He made a small gesture with his right hand, as contemptuous as it was dismissive, and from the sudden tightening and whitening of Smith's lips, it occurred to Hamilton, not for the first time, that Smith might well and easily be the most dangerous man of them all.

Hamilton gestured again, this time towards the very considerable pile of equipment lying on the garage floor. 'How did those arrive — the packaging, I mean?'

'Crates. We crate them up again?'

'No. Too damned awkward to handle aboard a helicopter or hovercraft. I think —'

'Waterproof canvas bags.' He smiled at the slight surprise on Hamilton's face. 'We thought you might require something like that.' He pointed towards two large cardboard boxes. 'We bought them at the same time as we got the equipment. We're not mentally retarded, you know.'

'Fine. Your plane, a DC6,1 understand — what's its state of readiness?'

'Superfluous question.'

'I suppose. Where are the hovercraft and helicopter?'

'Almost at Cuiaba.'

'Shall we join them?'

The DC6 parked at the end of the runway of Smith's private airfield may not have been in the first flush of youth but if the gleaming fuselage were anything to go by its condition would have ranked anywhere as immaculate. Hamilton, Ramon and Navarro, aided by an unexpectedly helpful Serrano, were supervising the loading of the cargo. It was a thorough, rigorous, painstaking supervision. Each canvas bag in turn was opened, its contents removed, examined, returned and the bag then sealed to make it waterproof. It was a necessarily lengthy and time-consuming process and Smith's patience was eroding rapidly.

He said sourly: 'Don't take many chances, do you?'

Hamilton glanced at him briefly. 'How did you make your millions?'

Smith turned and clambered aboard the aircraft.

After half-an-hour's flying time out from Brasilia the passengers, with the exception of Hamilton, were all asleep or trying.to sleep. No-one, it seemed, felt philosophical enough or relaxed enough to read: the clamour from the ancient engines was so great as to make conversation virtually impossible. Hamilton, as if prompted by some instinct, looked around and his gaze focused.

Heffner, sprawled in his seat, appeared, from his partly opened mouth and slow deep breathing, to be asleep, a probability lent credence by the fact that his white drill jacket, inadvertently unbuttoned, lay so as to reveal under his left armpit a white felt container which had obviously been designed to accommodate the aluminium flask inside. This did not give concern to Hamilton: it was perfectly in character with the man. What did concern him was that on the other side of his chest could just be seen a small pearl-handled gun in a white felt under-arm holster.