A hundred yards ahead the river curved to the right. Hamilton switched off the electric motor, the twins dipped paddles into the water and very soon, a paddle occasionally touching the bank, they rounded the bend.
The landing stage, less than two hundred yards ahead, projecte*d out into the river for a distance of twenty feet. Behind it, on land, there was a guardhouse which threw enough light to illuminate the cracked and splintered timber of the stage and two men, rifles shoulder-slung, maintaining a comfortable and relaxed guard on a couple of bentwood chairs. Both were smoking and they were sharing a bottle. They stood up as two other men came out from the guard-house. They talked briefly, then the two relieving guards took over their chairs — and the bottle — while the previous guards went inside the guard-house.
The dinghy grounded silently on the muddy bank of the river and was secured by its painter to the low-hanging branch of a tree. The three men disembarked and disappeared into the undergrowth.
After they had gone about ten yards Hamilton said to Navarro in a barely audible whisper: 'What did I tell you? No electrified fences.'
'Watch out for the bear-traps.'
There were four men inside the guard-house, all dressed in uniforms of the field-grey colour used by the Wehrmacht in the Second World War. Fully clad, they were lying on camp beds: three were asleep or appeared to be. The fourth was reading a magazine. Some instinct — there was certainly no sound — made him glance upwards and towards the doorway.
Ramon and Navarro were smiling benevolently at him. There was nothing particularly benevolent, however, about the discouragingly steady silenced Lugers held in their hands.
On the landing stage the two new guards were gazing out over the Parana when someone cleared his throat, almost apologetically, behind them. They immediately swung around. Hamilton wasn't even bothering to smile.
Inside the guard-house all six guards were securely bound beyond any hope of escape and were more than adequately gagged. Ramon looked at the two telephones then questioningly at Hamilton, who nodded and said: 'No chances.'
Ramon sliced through the wires while Navarro started to collect the prisoners' rifles. He said to Hamilton: 'Still no chances?'
Hamilton nodded. The three men left, threw the rifles into the Parana, then began to move up the road connecting the landing stage with Kolonie 555. The twins pressed in closely to the forest on the left-hand side of the road while Hamilton kept to the right. They moved slowly, with the stealth and silence of Indians: they had long moved at will through the disaffected tribes of the Mato Grosso.
When they were only yards from the compound Hamilton waved his two companions to a halt. The compound of the Kolonie was well lit by the moon. It was built in the basic form of a barrack square and was perhaps fifty yards across. Eight huts faced on to this central square. Most of those were extremely ramshackle, but one at the far left of the square was a solidly built bungalow. Close by that was an arched metal shed and, beyond that, a short runway. At the entrance to the compound, diagonally across the square from the bungalow, was a thatched hut which could well have been a guard-house, a probability reinforced by the fact that a solitary figure leaned against the entrance wall. Like his colleagues on the landing stage he was in para-military uniform and carried a slung rifle.
Hamilton gestured to Ramon, who waved back. The three men vanished into the undergrowth.
The sentry, still leaning against the wall, had his head tilted back, a bottle to his lips. There came the sound of a muffled blow, the sentry's eyes turned up in his head and three disembodied hands appeared from apparently nowhere. One took the bottle from the already powerless hand while the other two took him under the armpits as he began to sag.
'Where do you think they've gone?'
'We'll ask, shall we?' '
The three men entered the landing-stage guardhouse. Wordlessly, they sliced the ankle-bonds of one of the prisoners, removed his gag, dragged him to his feet and led him outside down to the river edge of the landing stage.
Hamilton said: 'Brown had three Piper Cubs. Where have the other two gone?'
The guard spat in contempt. At a signal from Hamilton, Navarro,cut the back of the guard's hand. The blood flowed freely. The guard was then led forward until he was teetering on the very edge of the landing-stage.
'Pirhana,' Hamilton said, 'can smell blood at a quarter of a mile. Ninety seconds and you'll be white bones. If a crocodile doesn't get you first. Either way, being eaten to death is unpleasant.'
The guard looked in horror at his bleeding hand. He was trembling. 'North,' he said. 'North to Campo Grande.'
'And after that?'
'I swear to God — '
'Throw him in.'
'Planalto de Mato Grosso. That's all I know. I swear to you —'
Hamilton said wearily: 'Stop your damned swearing. I believe you. Brown would never entrust his secrets to vermin.'
Ramon said: 'What do we do with the prisoners?'
'Nothing.'
'But — '
'But nothing. I daresay someone will happen by and free them. Take this character inside and hobble and gag him.'
Navarro looked doubtful. 'It's a pretty deep cut. He could bleed to death.'
'Dear oh dear,'
Navarro was thoughtfully silent for a moment then he said: 'My brother and I hate all they stand for. But you, Senor Hamilton, hate so much more.'
'I have the reason. But I don't hate them.'
Ramon and Navarro looked at each other in lost comprehension then nodded as if in understanding.
A Rolls-Royce and a Cadillac had been backed out of Smith's six-car garage to make storage room for what Smith regarded as being more important, however temporarily, than the two cars. Hamilton, in the company of the eight people who were going to accompany him, surveyed, with an apparently uncritical eye, the extremely comprehensive layout of the most modern and expensive equipment necessary for survival in the Amazonian rainforests. He took his time about it, so much so in fact that one or two of the watchers were beginning to look, if not apprehensive, then at least uncomfortable. Smith was not one of those. There was a slight tightening of the lips presumably indicative of a growing impatience. It was almost a law of nature that tycoons do not care to be kept waiting. Smith immediately proved that his patience was on a very short fuse indeed.
'Well, Hamilton? Well?'
'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.
Hamilton rose and made his way aft to the rear end of the compartment where the equipment, provisions and personal luggage were stored. It made for a very considerable pile, but Hamilton didn't have to rummage around to find what he was looking for — when loading he had made a mental note of where every item had been stored. He retrieved his rucksack, opened it, looked casually around to see that he was unobserved, removed a pistol and thrust it into an inside pocket of his bush jacket. He replaced the rucksack and resumed his seat up front.
The flight to Cuiaba airport had been uneventful and so now was the landing. The passengers disembarked and gazed around them in something like wonder, which was more than understandable as the contrast between Cuiaba and Brasilia was rather more than marked.
Maria was gazing around her in apparent disbelief. She said: 'So
Heffner had been walking in the direction of the airport building. Now he stopped, turned and looked at Hamilton with a languid, insolent air.
'Talking to me?'
'I'm looking at you and I don't squint. Where are you going?'
'Look, I can't see it's any of your business, — but I'm going to a bar. I'm thirsty. Any objections?'
'Every objection. We're all thirsty. But there's work to be done. I want all the equipment, food and luggage transferred to that DC3 there, and I want it done now. Two hours on and it will be too hot to work.'
Heffner glared at him, then looked at Smith, who shook his head. Sullenly, Heffner retraced his steps and approached Hamilton, his face heavy with anger. 'Next time I'll be ready, so don't be fooled by last time.'
Hamilton turned to Smith and said, almost wearily: 'He's your employee. Any more trouble or threats of trouble and he's on the DC6 back to Brasilia. If you disagree, I'm on the plane back there. Simple choice.'
Hamilton brushed contemptuously by Heffner who stared after him with clenched fists. Smith took Heffner by the arm and led him to one side, clearly having trouble keeping his anger in check. He said, low-voiced: 'Damned if I don't agree with Hamilton. Want to ruin everything? There's a time and a place to get tough and this is neither the time nor the place. Bear in mind that we're entirely dependent upon Hamilton. You understand?'
'Sorry, boss. It's just that the bastard is so damned arrogant. Pride cometh before a fall. My turn will come and the fall is going to be a mighty big one.'
Smith was almost kind. 'I don't think you quite understand. Hamilton regards you as a potential troublemaker — which, I have to say, you are — and he's the sort of man who will eliminate any potential source of trouble. God, man, can't you see? He's trying to provoke you so that he can have a reason, or at least an excuse, for disposing of you.'
'And how would he do that?'
'Having you sent back to Brasilia.'
'And failing that?'
'Don't even let us talk about such things.'
'I can take care of myself, Mr Smith.'
'Taking care of yourself is one thing. Taking care of Hamilton is another kettle of fish altogether.'
They watched, some of them with evident apprehension, as a giant twin-rotored helicopter, cables attached to four lifting bolts, clawed its way into the air, raising a small hovercraft with it. The hovercraft's rate of climb was barely perceptible. At five hundred feet, it slowly began to move due east.
Smith said uneasily: 'Those hills look mighty high to me. Sure they'll make it?'
'You'd better hope so. After all, they're your machines.' Hamilton shook his head. 'Do you think the pilot would have taken off unless he knew it was on the cards? Only three thousand feet. No trouble.'
'How far?'
'The head-waters of the Rio da Morte is only a hundred miles away. To reach the landing-strip? Perhaps eighty. In half-an-hour's time we'll leave in the DC3. We'll still be there before them.'
Hamilton moved off and sat by the side of the river, idly lobbing stones into the dark waters. Some minutes later Maria appeared and stood uncertainly beside him. Hamilton looked up, smiled briefly, then glanced indifferently away.