River of Death

by Alistair MacLean

  Hamilton, no more than another shadow in his shadowy place of concealment, listened to the rapidly approaching footsteps. Serrano, almost running now, looked neither to right nor to left but just peered anxiously ahead in quest of his suddenly and mysteriously vanished quarry. He was still peering anxiously ahead when he passed the alleyway entrance. Hamilton, a shadow detaching itself from the deeper shadow behind, stepped out swiftly and in silence brought his locked hands down on the base of Serrano’s neck. He caught the already unconscious man before he could strike the ground and dragged him into the dark concealment. From Serrano’s breast pocket he removed a well-filled wallet, extracted a gratifying wad of cruzeiro notes, pocketed them, dropped the empty wallet on top of Serrano’s prone form and continued on his way, this time without a backward glance. He had no doubt that Serrano had been on his own.

  Back in his tumbledown hut, the guttering oil lamp lit, Hamilton sat on his cot and pondered the reason for his being shadowed. That Serrano had acted under Hiller’s instructions he did not for a moment doubt. He did not think that Serrano had intended to waylay or attack him for he could not doubt that Hiller was almost desperately anxious to have his services and an injured Hamilton would be the last thing he would want on his hands. Nor could robbery have been a motive—although they may well have seen the bulges of the two pouches in his shirt pockets—and Hamilton had been well aware that Serrano had been watching him through the hut window—comparatively petty theft would not have interested Hiller; what he was after was the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow and only he, Hamilton, knew where that rainbow ended.

  That Hiller and his boss Smith had dreams Hamilton did not for a moment doubt: what he did doubt, and profoundly, was Hiller’s version of those dreams.

  Hiller had wanted to find out if he had been going to contact his two young assistants or other unknown parties. Perhaps he thought that Hamilton might lead him to a larger and worthwhile cache of gold and diamonds. Perhaps he thought Hamilton had gone to make some mysterious phone call. Perhaps anything. On balance, Hamilton thought, it was just because Hiller was of a highly suspicious nature and just wanted to know what, if anything, Hamilton was up to. There could be no other explanation and it seemed pointless to waste further time and thought on it.

  Hamilton poured himself a small drink—the nondescript bottle did in fact contain an excellent Highland malt which his friend Curly had obtained for him—and topped it up with some mineral water: the Romono water supply was an excellent specific for those who wished to be laid low with dysentery, cholera, and a variety of other unpleasant tropical diseases.

  Hamilton smiled to himself. When Serrano came to and reported his woes to his master, neither he nor Hiller would be in any doubt as to the identity of the assailant responsible for the sore and stiff neck from which Serrano would assuredly be suffering. If nothing else, Hamilton mused, it would teach them to be rather more circumspect and respectful in their future dealings with him. Hamilton had no doubt whatsoever that he would be meeting Serrano—officially—in the very near future and would thereafter be seeing quite a deal of him.

  Hamilton took a sip of his drink, dropped to his knees, ran his hand over the floor under the table, found nothing and smiled in satisfaction. He crossed to the shelving, picked up a solitary cassette, examined it carefully and smiled in even wider satisfaction. He drained his glass, turned out the light and headed back into town.

  In his room in the Hotel Negresco—the famous hotel in Nice would have cringed at the thought that such a hovel should bear the same name-Hiller was making—or trying to make—a telephone call, his face bearing the unmistakable expression of long-suffering impatience that characterised any person so foolhardy as to try to phone out of Romono. But at long last his patience was rewarded and his face lit up.

  ‘Aha!’ he said. His voice, understandably, had a note almost of triumph in it. ‘At last, at last! Mr Smith, if you please.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The drawing-room of Joshua Smith’s villa—the Villa Haydn in Brasilia—demonstrated beyond all question the vast gulf that lay between a multi-billionaire and the merely rich. The furnishings, mainly Louis XIV and not the shadow of an imitation in sight, the drapes, from Belgium and Malta, the carpets, ancient Persian to the last one, and the pictures, ranging all the way from Dutch Old Masters to the Impressionists, all spoke not only of immense wealth but also a hedonistic determination to use it to its maximum. But for all that vast opulence there was nonetheless displayed an exquisite good taste in that everything matched and blended in something very, very close to perfection. Clearly, no modern interior decorator had been allowed within a mile of the place.

  The owner matched up magnificently to all this magnificence. He was a large, well-built and dinner-suited man of late middle age who looked absolutely at home in one of the huge armchairs that he occupied close to a sparkling pine log fire.

  Joshua Smith, still dark in both hair and moustache, the one brushed straight back, the other neatly trimmed, was a smooth and urbane man, but not too smooth, not too urbane, much given to smiling and invariably kind and courteous to his inferiors which, in his case, meant just about everybody in sight. With the passage of time, the carefully and painstakingly acquired geniality and urbanity had become second nature to him (although some of the original ruthlessness had had to remain to account for his untold millions). Only a specialist could have detected the extensive plastic surgery that had transformed Smith’s face from what it once had been.

  There was another man in his drawing-room, and a young woman. Jack Tracy was a young-middle-aged man, blond, with a pock-marked face and a general air of capable toughness about him. The toughness and capability were undoubtedly there—they had to be for any man to be the general manager of Smith’s vast chain of newspapers and magazines.

  Maria Schneider, with her slightly dusky skin and brown eyes, could have been South American, Southern Mediterranean or Middle Eastern. Her hair was the colour of a raven. Whatever her nationality she was indisputably beautiful with a rather inscrutable face but invariably watchful penetrating eyes. She didn’t look kind or sensitive but was both. She looked intelligent and had to be: when not doubling—as rumour had it—as Smith’s mistress she was his private and confidential secretary and it was no rumour that she was remarkably skilled in her official capacity.

  The phone rang. Maria answered, told the caller to hold and brought the phone on its extension cord across to Smith’s armchair. He took the phone and listened briefly.

  ‘Ah, Hiller!’ Smith, unusually for him, leant forward in his armchair. There was anticipation in both his voice and posture. ‘You have, I trust, some encouraging news for me. You have? Good, good, good. Proceed.’

  Smith listened in silence to what Hiller had to say, the expression on his face gradually changing from pleasure to the near beatific. It was a measure of the man’s self-control that, although apparently in a near transport of excitement, he refrained from either exclamations, questions or interruptions and heard Hiller through in silence to the end.

  ‘Excellent!’ Smith was positively jubilant. ‘Truly excellent. Frederik, you have just made me the happiest man in Brazil.’ Although Hiller claimed to be called Edward, his true given name would have appeared to be otherwise. ‘Nor, I assure you, will you have cause to regret this day. My car will await you and your friends at the airport at eleven a.m.’ He replaced the receiver. ‘I said I could wait forever. Forever is today.’

  Moments passed while he gazed sightlessly into the flames. Tracy and Maria looked at each other without expression. Smith sighed, gradually bestirred himself, leaned back into his armchair, reached into his pocket, brought out a gold coin, and examined it intently.

  ‘My talisman,’ he said. He still didn’t appear to be quite with them. ‘Thirty long years I’ve had it and I’ve looked at it every day in those thirty years. Hiller has seen this very coin. He says the ones this man Hamilton has are identical in every way.
Hiller is not a man to make mistakes so this can mean only one thing. Hamilton has found what can only be the foot of the rainbow.’

  Tracy said: ‘And at the far end of the rainbow lies a pot of gold?’

  Smith looked at him without really seeing him. ‘Who cares about the gold?’

  There was a long and, for Tracy and Maria, rather uncomfortable silence. Smith sighed again and replaced the coin in his pocket.

  ‘Another thing,’ Smith went on. ‘Hamilton appears to have stumbled across some sort of an El Dorado.’

  ‘It seems less and less likely that Hamilton is the kind of man to stumble across anything,’ Maria said. ‘He’s a hunter, a seeker—but never a stumbler. He has sources of information denied other so-called civilised people, especially among the tribes not yet classified as pacified. He starts off with some sort of clue that points him in the right direction then starts quartering the ground, narrowing the area of search until he finally pinpoints what he’s after. The element of chance doesn’t enter into that man’s calculations.’

  ‘You might be right, my dear,’ Smith said. ‘In fact you’re almost certainly right. Anyway, what matters is that Hiller says that Hamilton seems to have located some diamond hoard.’

  Maria said: ‘Part of the war loot?’

  ‘Overseas investments, my dear, overseas investments. Never war loot. In this case, however, no. They are uncut—rough-cut, rather-Brazilian diamonds. And Hiller is an expert on diamonds—God knows he’s stolen enough in his lifetime. Anyway, it appears that Hamilton has fallen for Hiller’s story, hook, line and sinker—in Hiller’s rather uninspired phrase. Two birds with one stone—he’s found both the European gold and the Brazilian diamonds. Looks as if this is going to be even easier than we thought.’

  Tracy looked vaguely troubled. ‘He hasn’t the reputation for being an easy man.’

  ‘Among the tribes of the Mato Grosso, agreed,’ Smith said. He smiled as if anticipating some future pleasure. ‘But he’s going to find himself in a different kind of jungle here.’

  ‘Maybe you overlook one thing,’ Maria said soberly. ‘Maybe you’re overlooking the fact that you’ve got to go back into that jungle with him.’

  Hiller, in his room in the Hotel Negresco, was studying a gold coin which he held in his hand when he was disturbed by an erratic knock on the door. He pulled out a gun, held it behind his back, crossed to the door and opened it.

  Hiller put his gun away: the precaution had been unnecessary. Serrano, both hands clutching the back of his neck, swayed dizzily and practically fell into the room.

  ‘Brandy!’ Serrano’s voice was a strangled croak.

  ‘What the hell’s happened to you?’

  ‘Brandy!’

  ‘Brandy coming up,’ Hiller said resignedly. He gave a generous double to Serrano who downed it in a single gulp. He had just finished his third brandy and was pouring out his tale of woe when another sharp rat-tat-tat came on the door, this knocking far from erratic. Again Hiller took his precautionary measures and again they proved unnecessary. The Hamilton who stood in the doorway was scarcely recognisable as the Hamilton of two hours previously. Two hours in the Hotel de Paris’s grandiloquently named Presidential Suite-no president had ever or would ever stay there, but it had the only bath in the hotel not corroded with rust—had transformed him. He had bathed and was clean-shaven. He wore a fresh set of khaki drills, a fresh khaki shirt without a rent in sight and even a pair of gleaming new shoes.

  Hiller glanced at his watch. ‘Two hours precisely. You are very punctual.’

  ‘The politeness of princes.’ Hamilton entered the room and caught sight of Serrano who was busy pouring himself another large brandy. By this time it was difficult to judge whether he was suffering the more from the effects of the blow or the brandy. Holding the glass in one rather unsteady hand and massaging the back of his neck with the other, he continued the restorative process without seeming to notice Hamilton.

  Hamilton said: ‘Who’s this character?’

  ‘Serrano,’ Hiller said. ‘An old friend.’ It would have been impossible to guess from Hiller’s casual off-handedness that he’d met Serrano for the first time only that evening. ‘Don’t worry. He can be trusted.’

  ‘Delighted to hear it,’ Hamilton said. He couldn’t remember the month or the year when he last trusted anybody. ‘Makes a welcome change in this day and age.’ He peered at Serrano with the air of a concerned and kindly healer. ‘Looks to me as if he’s coming down with something.’

  ‘He’s been down,’ Hiller said. ‘Mugged.’ He was observing Hamilton closely but could well have spared himself the trouble.

  ‘Mugged?’ Hamilton looked mildly astonished. ‘He was walking the streets this time of night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hiller said and added in what he probably regarded as a rather pointed fashion: ‘You walk alone at night.’

  ‘I know Romono,’ Hamilton said. ‘Much more importantly, Romono knows me.’ He looked pityingly at Serrano. ‘I’ll bet you weren’t even walking in the middle of the road—and I’ll bet you’re that much lighter by the weight of your wallet.’

  Serrano nodded, scowled, said nothing and got back to his self-medication.

  ‘Life’s a great teacher,’ Hamilton said absently. ‘But it beats me how a citizen of Romono could be so damned stupid. Okay, Hiller, when do we leave?’

  Hiller had already turned towards a glass-fronted wall cupboard. ‘Scotch?’ he said. ‘No fire-water. Guaranteed.’ He showed Hamilton a famous proprietary brand of Scotch with the seal unbroken.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Hiller’s gesture had not been motivated by an undiluted spirit of hospitality. He had turned his back on Hamilton to conceal what he knew must have been a momentary flash of triumph in his face; moreover, this was definitely a moment for celebration. Back in the bar of the Hotel de Paris he had been sure that he had his fish hooked: now he had it gaffed and landed.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘We leave at first light tomorrow.’

  ‘How do we go?’

  ‘Bush plane to Cuiabá.’ He paused then added apologetically: ‘Rickety old bus of cardboard and wire but it’s never come down yet. After that, Smith’s private jet. That’s something else again. It will be waiting for us at Cuiabá.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Hiller nodded towards the phone. ‘Carrier pigeon.’

  ‘Pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you?’

  ‘Not really. We like to arrange things in advance. I just go on probabilities.’ Hiller shrugged. ‘One call to fix things, then another call to cancel. Then from Cuiabá to Smith’s private airfield in Brasilia.’ He nodded towards Serrano. ‘He’s coming with us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why ever not?’ Hiller even managed to look puzzled. ‘My friend. Smith’s employee. Good jungle man.’

  ‘Always wanted to meet one of those.’ Hamilton looked consideringly at Serrano. ‘One can only hope that he’s a little bit more alert in the depths of the Mato Grosso than he is in the alleys of Romono.’

  Serrano had nothing to say to this but he was, clearly, thinking: prudently he refrained from voicing his thoughts.

  Smith, it would seem, was both a considerate man and one who thought of everything. Not only had he stocked his Lear with a splendid variety of liquor, liqueurs, wines and beers, he’d even provided an exceptionally attractive stewardess to serve them up. All three men—Hamilton, Hiller and Serrano-had long, cold drinks in their hands. Hamilton gazed happily at the green immensity of the Amazonian rainforest passing by beneath them.

  ‘This fairly beats hacking your way through that lot down there,’ he said. He looked round the cabin of the luxuriously appointed jet. ‘But this is for the carriage trade. What transport is Smith thinking of using when we make our trip into the Mato Grosso?’

  ‘No idea,’ Hiller said. ‘Matters like that, Smith doesn’t consult me. He’s got his o
wn advisers for that. You’ll be seeing him in a couple of hours. I suppose he’ll tell you then.’

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ Hamilton said in an almost gently explanatory tone. ‘I only asked what transport he was thinking of using. Any decisions he and his experts have made are not really very relevant.’

  Hiller looked at him in slow disbelief. ‘You are going to tell him what we’re to use?’

  Hamilton beckoned the stewardess, smiled and handed over his glass for a refill. ‘Nothing like savouring the good life—while it lasts.’ He turned to Hiller. ‘Yes, that’s the idea.’

  ‘I can see,’ Hiller said heavily, ‘that you and Smith are going to get along just fine.’

  ‘Oh, I hope so, I hope so. You said we’d be seeing him in two hours. Could you make it three?’ He looked disparagingly at his wrinkled khaki drills. ‘These look well enough in Romono, but I have to see a tailor before I go calling on multimillionaires. You say we’re being met when we arrive. You think you can drop me off at the Grand?’

  ‘Jesus!’ Hiller was clearly taken aback. ‘The Grand -and a tailor. That’s expensive. How come? Last night in the bar you said you had no money.’

  ‘I came into some later on.’

  Hiller and Serrano exchanged very peculiar looks. Hamilton continued to gaze placidly out of the window.

  As promised a car met them at the private airport in Brasilia. ‘Car’ was really too mundane a word to describe it. It was an enormous maroon Rolls-Royce, big enough, one would have thought, to accommodate a football team. In the back it had television, a bar and even an ice-maker. Up front-very far up front—were two uniformed men in dark green livery. One drove the car: the other’s main function in life appeared to be opening doors when the back seat—seats—passengers entered or left. The engine, predictably, was soundless. If it were part of Smith’s pattern to awe visitors he most certainly succeeded in the case of Serrano. Hamilton appeared quite unimpressed, possibly because he was too busy inspecting the bar; Smith had somehow overlooked providing a stewardess for the rear of the Rolls.