River of Death

by Alistair MacLean

  Hamilton nodded in acknowledgment. ‘That could well be. In this particular instance I could well believe you.’ Smith looked taken aback at Hamilton’s concession, then his expression changed to one of speculation. Hamilton smiled. ‘You’re doubtless trying to figure out what I’ve figured out as the other motivation. You need not concern yourself for that in no way concerns me. Now, transportation?’

  ‘What? What was that?’ Smith had been caught off-balance by the sudden switch in topic which he should not have been as it was a favourite tactic of his own. ‘Ah! Transportation.’

  ‘Yes. What kind of transportation—air and water, we can forget land—do your companies have available?’

  ‘A great deal, as you can imagine. What we don’t have we can hire although I should think the need would be unlikely. Tracy has all the details. Tracy, by the way, is both a qualified pilot and helicopter pilot.’

  ‘Helps. Where are the details?’

  ‘Tracy has the details.’ Smith said this in such a way as to convey the impression that he was not the man to be concerned with details, which was probably quite an accurate impression for he was famous for his gift in picking top-flight lieutenants and delegating the bulk of the executive work to them. Tracy, who had been following the conversation closely, rose, crossed to where they were standing and handed Hamilton a folder. The expression on Tracy’s face bespoke a marked lack of affection: managing directors do not take kindly to being called nosey bastards. Hamilton appeared to notice nothing amiss.

  He took the folder, read rapidly through the loose-leaf contents, pausing briefly now and again as something in particular caught his attention, then closed the folder. One could have been forgiven for assuming that Hamilton had already absorbed the contents: he probably had. For once, Hamilton seemed fairly impressed.

  ‘Quite an air/sea fleet, haven’t you? Everything from a Boeing 727 to a Piper Comanche. Double rotor freight helicopter—this is a Sikorsky Skycrane?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And a hovercraft. Can the helicopter lift the hovercraft?’

  ‘Naturally. That’s why it was bought.’

  ‘Where’s the hovercraft? Corrientes?’

  Smith said: ‘How the devil do you know?’

  ‘Logic. Wouldn’t be much good to you here or in Rio, would it? I’ll take this folder. See you this evening.’

  ‘This evening?’ Smith looked unhappy. ‘Damn it, man, we have to draw up our plans and—’

  ‘I’ll draw up the plans. I’ll explain them when I return with my assistants this evening.’

  ‘Damn it all, Hamilton, I am putting up all the money. The man who pays the piper calls the tune.’

  ‘This time out, you’re second fiddle.’

  Hamilton left, leaving behind him a brief but profound silence. Tracy said: ‘Well. Of all the arrogant, hard-nosed, intransigent bastards—’

  ‘Agreed, agreed,’ Smith said. ‘But he holds the cards, all of them.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Enigma. Rough, tough, but dresses well, speaks well, obviously at home in any territory. Nuances, clever nuances. At ease in my drawing-room. Not many strangers are. Come to that, nobody is.’

  Tracy said: ‘And he’s come to the conclusion that this Lost City is so dangerously inaccessible that he’s not prepared to try the same route again. So—a helicopter. Or hovercraft.’

  ‘I wonder.’ Smith was still looking thoughtful. ‘Why else would a man like that throw in his lot with us?’

  ‘Because he’s convinced he can eat us alive,’ Maria said. She paused. ‘Maybe he will at that.’

  Smith looked at her without expression then crossed to the dining-room window. Hamilton was just moving away in his black Cadillac. A chauffeur stopped polishing a nondescript Ford, glanced towards Smith’s window, nodded, climbed into his car and followed the Cadillac.

  Hamilton was driving down one of Brasilia’s broad boulevards. He consulted his rear mirror. The Ford was about two hundred yards behind. Hamilton increased his speed. So did the Ford. Both cars were now travelling well above the speed limit. A police car appeared behind the Ford, switched on the siren, overtook and flagged the Ford to a stop.

  The Ministry of Justice was a rather splendid building and the large airy office in which Hamilton sat across a polished leather table from Colonel Ricardo Diaz was suitably sumptuous. Diaz, in an immaculately cut uniform, was large, tanned and looked competent to a degree, which indeed he was. Diaz took a sip of some indeterminate liquid and sighed.

  ’About Smith, Mr Hamilton, you know as much as we do—everything and nothing. His past is a mystery, his present an open book that anyone is welcome to read. The dividing line between the present and the past can’t be precisely delineated but it is known that he appeared—or, rather, emerged or surfaced in Santa Catharina, a province with a traditionally heavy Germanic settlement, in the late forties. Whether he is of similar origin is not known: his English is as immaculate as his Portuguese but, as far as is known, he has never been heard to speak German.

  ’His first business venture was to produce a newspaper aimed primarily at the native German speakers in the province but printed in Portuguese: it was conservative and strongly pro-establishment and marked the beginning of a long and close association with the government of the time, an association that has persisted, despite changes of government, until this day.

  ‘He then branched out into the fields of early plastics and early ball-point pens. Smith was never an innovator—he was and remains a takeover specialist and a share manipulator of genius. Both the publishing and the industrial sides of his businesses expanded at a remarkable speed and within ten years he was, by any standards, a very wealthy man.’

  Hamilton said: ‘He couldn’t have been without the odd cruzeiro to begin with.’

  ‘Agreed. Expansion on a scale such as Smith’s must have called for a great deal of capital.’

  ‘And the source of capital is unknown?’

  ’Totally. But that’s nothing to hold against any man. In this country—as in many others—we don’t care to enquire too closely into those things.

  ‘Now we come to Tracy. He is indeed the general manager of Smith’s publication division. Very tough, very able, nothing known about him in the criminal line, which could mean that he’s either honest or very clever. The best you can say of him is that he’s a soldier of fortune. The police are certain that the bulk of his activities are illegal-diamonds have an odd habit of disappearing when he’s in the neighbourhood—but he’s never been arrested far less convicted. Serrano is a small-time crook, not too bright and a fearful coward.’

  ‘He can’t be all that cowardly if he ventures alone into the rainforests of the Mato Grosso. Not many white people would.’

  ‘That thought, I admit, has also occurred to me. I’m merely passing on reported reputation, accuracy not guaranteed. Now, Heffner. Heffner’s the joker. Wouldn’t recognise a camera if he tripped over one. Well known to the New York police. Associated with crimes of violence and alleged gangland killings, but he’s always beaten the rap. Not too surprising really—no police in any country are going to come over all zealous and excited when one hoodlum dispatches another. Curious fellow. Usually well spoken and civilised enough—look at those pillars of society, the Mafia bosses—but the veneer vanishes when he gets next to a bottle of bourbon. And he has a weakness for bourbon.’

  ‘And all this leaves Smith unaffected?’

  ‘Nothing known against him, as I said, but you can’t associate with characters like Hiller, Heffner and Tracy without some tar rubbing off. Could well be the other way round, of course.’ He looked up as a knock came at the door. ‘Come in, come in.’

  Ramon and Navarro entered. The twins were clad in khaki suits and smiling cheerfully. Diaz looked at them and winced.

  ‘The famous Detective-Sergeant Herera and the famous Detective-Sergeant Herera. Or infamous. You are far from home, gentlemen.’

  ‘Senor Hamilton’s fault, sir.’ Ramon spr
ead his hands apologetically. ‘He’s always leading us astray.’

  ‘Mary’s little lambs. Ah. Major.’

  A young officer entered and unrolled on the table a map of Southern Brazil. It was marked with legends of varying kinds. Differently coloured flags in circles and squares indicated different tribes, races and languages. Other symbols indicated the state of hostility or friendliness of the tribes.

  The major said: ‘This is the most up-to-date picture the Indian Protection Service can give you. There are some places, you understand, where even the Service do not care to investigate too closely. Most of the tribes are friendly—pacified, if you like. Some are hostile. Nearly always the white man’s fault. A very few cannibal tribes. Those are known.’

  ‘And to be avoided, of course. The Chapates, Horenas and Muscias especially.’

  Hamilton pointed at a town on the map and looked at Diaz. ‘Corrientes. Smith has a hovercraft there—for obvious reasons. It’s at the junction of the Paraná and Paraguay rivers and he must be pretty sure the Lost City lies near the head-waters of one of those. I’m going up the Paraguay. I don’t know it well, there may be bad rapids for all I know, but the helicopter can help if there are.’

  Diaz said: ‘Your friend has a helicopter?’

  ‘My friend, as you call him, has got everything. This is a giant—a Sikorsky Skycrane. Well enough named—it can just about lift any damn thing. We’ll base the helicopter at Asunción. The hovercraft can go up in three stages—to either Puerto Casado or Puerto Sastre in Paraguay, then into Brazil to Corumbá then finally to Cuiabá. From there the helicopter can airlift it to Rio da Morte.’

  ‘And you would like to have some units of the Federal army exercising near Cuiabá, is that it?’

  ‘If it can be arranged.’

  ‘That has already been done.’

  ‘I am in your debt, Colonel Diaz.’

  ‘It would be more accurate to say that we are in your debt. If, that is to say—’

  ‘If I come back?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Hamilton gestured towards the two young men. ‘With the heavenly two to watch my back, what harm can befall me?’

  Diaz looked at him briefly and doubtfully then pressed a button. An aide came in carrying a brown leather case, extracted what looked to be a large movie camera and handed it to Hamilton, who pressed a button on the base. There came the faint whirring noise typical of an electric-powered camera.

  Diaz said: ‘You won’t believe this, but it will even take pictures if you wish.’

  Hamilton smiled but without humour. ‘I don’t think I’ll be indulging in any photography this time out. What’s the radio transmitting range?’

  ‘Five hundred kilometres.’

  ‘Enough. Waterproof?’

  ‘Naturally. You leave tomorrow?’

  ‘No. We have to get provisions and jungle gear and fly them to Cuiabá. We must get the hovercraft on the move. More important, though, I must go ahead and check on our friend Mr Jones.’

  ‘Back to the Colony?’

  ‘Back to the Colony.’

  Diaz said slowly: ‘You are an extraordinarily persistent man, Mr Hamilton. God knows you’ve every right to be.’ He shook his head. ‘I greatly fear for the health of your travelling companions in your forthcoming expedition.’

  Hamilton had rejoined his travelling companions-to-be. Outside the uncurtained windows of the Villa Haydn’s drawing-room the sky was dark: the room itself was brightly but not harshly lit by the light from the three crystal chandeliers. There were nine people in the room, most of them standing, most of them with aperitif glasses in their hands. Present were Hamilton, the twin Sergeants Herera, Smith and his entourage. Heffner, to whom Hamilton had just been introduced, was slightly flushed of face, slightly loud of voice and was sitting on an arm of the chair Maria was occupying. Tracy was regarding him with disfavour.

  Smith said to Hamilton: ‘I must say your heavenly twins, as you call them, have an air of competence about them.’

  ‘They’re not much at home in drawing-rooms. But in the jungle, yes. They’re good. Squirrel-hunter’s eyes.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Either of them, with his rifle, can hit a playing-card at a hundred yards. Most people can’t even see a card at that distance.’

  ‘That meant to sound intimidating, threatening?’

  ‘Neither. Reassuring. Very useful accomplishment when wild boars or alligators or head-hunters or cannibals come at you. Let’s not confuse this coming trip with a Sunday school picnic.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’ Smith was trying to sound patient. ‘Well, your plan sounds reasonable. We leave in a couple of days?’

  ‘More like a week. I repeat, no picnic: you don’t go dashing off into the Amazonian rainforest at a couple of hours’ notice, especially when you are going to be passing through hostile territory—and, believe me, we will be. We have to allow several days for the hovercraft to get up to Cuiabá—we don’t know what difficulties it might encounter. Then we have to get all our provisions and equipment and fly them over to Cuiabá. At least, you will. I have some business to attend to first.’

  Smith raised an eyebrow. He was very good at raising eyebrows. ‘What business?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Hamilton didn’t sound sorry. ‘Where can one hire a helicopter in this city?’

  Smith took a deep breath then clearly made up his mind to ignore the outright rebuff. ‘Well, you know I have this freight Sikorsky—’

  ‘That lumbering giant? No thank you.’

  ‘I have a smaller one. And a pilot.’

  ‘Again, no thanks. Tracy’s not the only one who can fly a helicopter.’

  Smith looked at him in silence. His face was without expression but it was not difficult to guess what he was thinking: it would have been perfectly in keeping with Hamilton’s secretive nature, his policy of never letting his left hand know what his right was doing, to have flown his own helicopter over the Lost City, so that no other person could share his knowledge. At last Smith said: ‘Gracious, aren’t you? You don’t see a little friction arising when we set off on this search?’

  Hamilton shrugged indifferently. ‘It isn’t a search. I know where I’m going. And if you think some friction is going to arise, then why don’t you leave behind those liable to give rise to friction? It’s a matter of indifference to me who comes along.’

  ‘I’ll decide that, Hamilton.’

  ‘Will you, now?’ Again the same indifferent, infuriating shrug. ‘I don’t think you’ve quite got the picture yet.’

  It was significant of Smith’s perturbation that he actually went to the bar and poured another drink for himself. Normally, indeed invariably, he would have summoned his butler to perform such menial tasks. He returned to Hamilton and said: ‘Another point. You got your own way about making the plans—but we haven’t yet decided who’s going to be in charge of our little expedition, have we?’

  ‘I have. I am.’

  Smith’s impassive air deserted him. He looked every inch the multi-billionaire he was reputed to be.

  ‘I repeat, Hamilton, I’m the paymaster.’

  ‘The ship-owner pays his captain. Who’s in charge at sea? Even more importantly, who’s in charge in the jungle? You wouldn’t last a day without me.’

  There was a sudden silence in the room. The tension between the two men was all too obvious. Heffner rose from the arm of the chair, lurched once and then crossed to where the two men were standing. The light of battle was in his truculent and bloodshot eyes.

  ‘But, boss! You don’t seem to understand.’ Heffner didn’t speak the words, he sneered them. ‘This is the intrepid explorer himself. The one and only Hamilton. Haven’t you heard? Hamilton is always in charge.’

  Hamilton glanced briefly at Heffner then at Smith. ‘This is the kind of irritant I mean. Born to give trouble, bound to give rise to friction. What function does he perform?’

  ‘My chief staff photographer.’


  ‘Looks the artistic type. He coming along?’

  ‘Of course he is.’ Smith’s tone was glacial. ‘Why on earth do you think Mr Tracy and I brought him down here?’

  ‘I thought maybe he had to leave some place in a hurry.’

  Heffner took a step closer. ‘What does that mean, Hamilton?’

  ‘Nothing, really. I just thought that maybe your friends in the New York police department were beginning to take too close an interest in you.’

  Heffner was momentarily taken aback, then he took another menacing step forward. ‘I don’t know what the hell you mean. You wouldn’t think of stopping me, would you, Hamilton?’

  ‘Stopping you from coming along, dear me, no.’

  Ramon looked at Navarro. Both men winced.

  ‘Amazing,’ Heffner said. ‘All you require is twenty pounds over a man to make him see it your way.’

  ‘Provided, of course, that you’re half-way sober by that time.’

  Heffner gazed at him in alcoholic disbelief then swung a roundhouse right at Hamilton’s head. Hamilton moved inside it and brought up his own right in a wicked jab as Heffner’s fist swept harmlessly by his head. Grey-faced and doubled over, Heffner sank to his knees, his hands clutching his midriff.

  Ramon said thoughtfully: ‘I do believe, Senor Hamilton, that he’s half-way sober already.’

  ‘A short way with mutineers, eh?’ Smith was unmoved by the plight of his trusty chief photographer, and his irritation had given way to curiosity. ‘You seem to know something about Heffner?’

  ‘I read the occasional New York paper,’ Hamilton said. ‘Bit late when I get them, mind you, but that hardly matters as Heffner’s activities cover a fair period. What the Americans call a scofflaw. Suspected involvement in various crimes of violence, even gangland killings. He’s cleverer than he looks, which I don’t believe, or he has a clever lawyer. Anyway, he’s always beaten the rap so far. It is impossible, Mr Smith, that you had no inkling of this.’

  ‘I confess that there have been stories, rumours. I discount them. Two things. He knows his job and a man is innocent until proved guilty.’ Smith paused and went on: ‘You know anything to my detriment?’