The Shrunken Head

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “Now take her down,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “You...” The pilot was staring at him in shock; his face was white, his hands were trembling. His eyes dropped to the gruesome sight sprawled in the other seat; he closed them a moment, fighting nausea. The acrid smell of cordite filled the small compartment.

  The pistol was steady in the large hand; the face above was completely expressionless.

  “A co-pilot's a luxury on one of these planes anyway,” Orlando said cruelly. “Take her down. And no tricks. If I have to, I can do it myself, and you'll look like him.” His head jerked downwards to indicate the bloody body before him. The pistol came up, implacable.

  The pilot turned back to his controls in a daze, his jaws clamped on the sour bile that rose in his throat. His reactions were automatic, the result of his many years of experience. The throttles were slowly retracted, the control wheel was depressed. The plane nosed evenly for the river. The gun pointed at him unwaveringly. It's a dream, he thought dully. It didn't really happen; it's just a terrible dream....

  João Cardoza, in the passenger compartment, felt the sudden yaw, and his hand tightened spasmodically on the gun in the duffel bag. Had something gone wrong? They were flying erratically, pushed by the air currents. His hand withdrew the gun, and he looked about nervously. The other two passengers were still dozing comfortably. He half arose, wondering if Orlando required help, but at that moment the roar of the engines diminished slightly. Then the plane swung back under control and the nose began to edge downwards. He sat back in relief, his tight grip on the gun in his lap relaxing. Once they were down on the water...

  Their descent continued smoothly; the river seemed to be rushing up at them now. The nose bent downwards at a greater angle. He's coming in too steep, João thought, again nervous, and then forced himself to relax. Orlando was up there, and Orlando knew what he was about. João leaned back, waiting, his feet braced, the pistol gripped tightly in his lap. The air scoops pulled in the hot, sticky air, washing it against his sweaty face. He reached up with his free hand and wiped his forehead.

  They struck with a sharp jar, the motors suddenly louder in the vibrating plane, and bounced high before settling down. The jolt threw Wilson against the window frame; he sat up, rubbing his arm, staring with amazement through the window at the muddy flood swirling just below, washing the fuselage. His eyes swung to the rear: Da Silva appeared to be still asleep, one arm dangling loosely between the chicken coops. Maybe he had been knocked unconscious by the unexplained landing! With a muttered curse Wilson started to pull himself to his feet when a voice behind him froze him in place.

  “Don't move!”

  Wilson turned in surprise. The seringueiro was facing him, crouched in the aisle, a gun in his hand. Wilson cursed himself. They had allowed themselves to be trapped like children, with Da Silva apparently knocked out in the bargain!

  The seringueiro spoke again, softly.

  “Keep your hands in sight. Don't attempt to reach for anything.” He raised his voice, calling to the figure in the back of the plane. “You! Da Silva! Get up here! And don't try anything, or your friend will be a dead man!”

  Wilson swallowed; anger at himself suffused his face. Stupid, stupid, stupid! To be caught asleep—really asleep! He glared at the crouching figure.

  “What do you want?”

  João Cardoza stared at him a moment. “You'll find out soon enough.” He held the gun muzzle on Wilson steadily. Where was Orlando? How long did it take to tie up a couple of men anyway? And why even tie them up? The entire bunch was going down with the plane, and a floating body would be unrecognizable bones in minutes in any event, with the piranhas. He raised his voice without taking his eyes from the rigid figure of Wilson.

  “All right! You in the back! Quit faking and get up here!”

  There was a sudden unearthly screech from the rear of the plane. João Cardoza's eyes came up and then widened in shock; his mouth dropped open. A whirlwind of black feathers was flying through the air at him, followed in an instant by a second. Needle-sharp spurs flashed madly as the two fighting cocks tumbled, crowing raucously, struggling against terror and gravity, their clipped wings beating the air frantically. The narrow space was filled with a nightmare of wildly twisting claws and flapping wings. A piston like leg gyrated in a frenzied effort to find footing; the raking spur shredded João's shirt, cutting through his shoulder to the bone. He came to his feet, screaming in terror, throwing his arms up to protect his eyes. Wilson half arose, but before he could make a move there was a sharp spat of a revolver. João Cardoza turned sharply and fell twistingly into a seat, his head crashing against the seat arm.

  The door to the pilot's compartment was flung open. Orlando stood there, drawn tightly to one side, his pistol raised. The tempest of whirling feathers and shrill cackling made him pause for one fatal second; it was more time than he had to waste. Again the sharp report came from the rear of the plane. The tall man in white seemed to hesitate a moment, emerging from his shelter slowly; then the arm with the pistol came down. He bent slightly and then crashed to the aisle. The two fighting cocks descended, their wings beating insanely as they ripped and slashed at each other, their claws inadvertently tearing the dead body that served as their arena, but only for an instant. Then Da Silva was there, tucking his gun into his shoulder holster. He plucked the two cocks from the body expertly, catching them by the claws and locking the spurs into each other. A beady eye, red with anger and frustration, turned upon him; a sharp beak was drawn back to strike. With a sharp swing he dashed the two heads against the bulkhead, turned, and carried the half stunned birds back to their cages. He flung them in, latched the coops, and came back down the aisle.

  The entire action had taken only seconds. Wilson raised his startled eyes to the tall man standing before him. He shook his head and swallowed convulsively.

  “What... ?”

  The pilot emerged from the cockpit, his face blanched.

  Wilson's eyes came up from the torn body lying spreadeagled in the aisle. He looked around, saw the pilot, and attempted to recover.

  “Where's the co-pilot?”

  “Dead.” The pilot stared with dazed eyes at the two bodies in the aisle. He pointed. “He ... he shot him.”

  Da Silva nodded. He reached into his side pocket and came up with a small flask. He handed it over to the pilot.

  “Take some of this. Can you get this plane to Manaus alone?”

  “Of course.” The pilot closed his eyes, bent back his head, and drank deeply of the flask. His head came down. “You'll have to move him from in there. And give me a few moments.” He drank again.

  Da Silva took the flask from the clutching fingers.

  “You go ahead with your job. We'll clean this mess up in here.” He slipped the flask back into his pocket, bent, dragged the two slumped bodies from the aisle, and dumped them unceremoniously into seats. He straightened up and found himself looking into Wilson's blank eyes.

  “What... ? How... ?”

  Da Silva reached into his pocket once again and offered the flask to Wilson. As he watched the other drink, a faintly sardonic smile crossed his Indian-like features.

  “I told you the tail of the plane was the safest place,” he said quietly. He took back the flask and upended it, draining the few remaining drops.

  They were sitting at a table in the dining room of the Hotel Amazonas in Manaus that evening. Several drinks had eased the strained tension that had accompanied the remainder of their flight. The pilot was at police headquarters giving an account of the confused affair. The bodies of Orlando and João Cardoza had been prepared for immediate burial. Explanations could—and usually did—wait in the heat of the mid-tropics; burial could not.

  Dinner was finished, and they were sipping after-dinner brandies. By mutual consent, discussion of the afternoon's events had been postponed; now, twisting the stem of his glass contemplatively, Wilson looked across to Da Silva.

&nbs
p; “I suppose you're going to tell me you knew all the time we were going to be attacked.”

  Da Silva paused in his task of lighting a cigarette. Around them the tables in the dining room of the famous hotel were beginning to empty; adieus could be heard in the many languages so common to that small but quite cosmopolitan city. He cocked a humorous eye at his companion, finished lighting his cigarette, and dropped the matchstick negligently into an ashtray.

  “Would it make you any happier if I said I did?”

  “No.”

  “In that case.” Da Silva said with a smile, “I might as well tell the truth. Until Santarém I had no idea at all. But as soon as we came back to the dock after lunch I knew something was up. As soon as that tall one, Orlando, said that the little farmer was going off on a party and didn't mind missing the plane.”

  “Why?” Wilson asked curiously. A twinkle appeared in his eyes. “Aren't the farmers up this way addicted to the same sports as Interpol officials? Don't they go off on parties with girls?”

  “And leave fighting cocks? A prime pair of fighting cocks?” The very idiocy of the suggestion wiped all humor from Da Silva's voice. He shook his head decisively. “Never!”

  “I'll never understand you Brazilians,” Wilson said. “You're going to have to make me a list of protocol—which chicken comes first.” His voice sobered. He raised his eyes. “Do you have any idea at all of what this is all about, Zé?”

  “None.” Da Silva frowned at his glass of brandy. “But it must be something very big. Not just because of Bailey's head or because of the attempt on our lives. It's simply...” He shook his head in a puzzled manner. “It's simply that they seem to have such a complete intelligence organization. They knew us by name, and I'd bet they knew why we were there.”

  “They're better than we are, then,” Wilson said. "We don't know why we're here.”

  Da Silva grinned and changed the subject. “Did you get the supplies I asked you to?”

  Wilson nodded. “While you were arranging the steamer.”

  “Good,” Da Silva said. “Except that I didn't arrange any steamer. Freitas, who runs this boat I was telling you about, left here for the west the day before yesterday. And there isn't another steamer for three days. If we could get a plane, we could catch Freitas upriver.”

  “Our Embassy has a mission up here right now,” Wilson said thoughtfully. “I can arrange to borrow their plane for the trip, if you want. As far as Teffé, that is. That's about as far as the pilot can take us if he wants to get back safely.”

  “Teffé would be perfect,” Da Silva said. “We can wait for Freitas there. O.K., you arrange it.” He sipped his brandy, thinking. “Can you get hold of them tonight? I'd like to leave at first daylight tomorrow.”

  “Why the rush? We'll still be there before Freitas. Let's get a decent night's sleep.”

  Da Silva looked at him. “People are shooting at us, friend. And it's a foolish chicken that sleeps with its head on a chopping block.” He finished his brandy and leaned back. “Now maybe you can understand why I didn't want Elena along on this junket. These people play for keeps. They're serious and dangerous.”

  Wilson raised his eyes to call the waiter; they widened at the sight they saw over Da Silva's shoulder. “Shut the doors,” he said softly. “They're coming through the windows.”

  Da Silva swung about to discover the cause for this crypticism and found himself watching a calm but determined Elena marching towards them between the tables. He waited as she came up to stand beside them.

  “Hello, Captain,” she said icily. “Did you honestly believe that I would be sitting at Santos Dumont Airport until you finally returned to Rio?”

  Da Silva swallowed. He rose belatedly, drew out a chair, waited until Elena had haughtily seated herself, and then sat down again. He looked at her and sighed.

  "No," he said honestly. “I only hoped that the Foreign Office would use their heads for once; but, after my past experience with them, I'll admit I should have known better.” He stared at her, intrigued as always by her beauty. He tried to hide the admiration he knew his eyes were showing; he forced hardness into his voice. “What do you think you're going to do up here?”

  She caught her breath. “What am I going to do up here?” She stared at him. “I'm going to complete my assignment. And you, Captain, are going to help me. And I might mention that you will hear from the Foreign Office about that little stunt at the airport.”

  “We were just talking about you,” Wilson said mildly. He smiled. “You look lovely. Let's not spoil our reunion with recriminations.”

  Despite herself, Elena allowed a smile to begin to form at the corners of her mouth. “Well ... all right. But, believe me, you two won't escape again. The next steamer is three days from now, and until it leaves you can expect constant feminine companionship.”

  Wilson grinned at her. “That's bad?”

  “Now see here, Elena...” Da Silva began, but the girl had already come to her feet.

  “Don't let me interrupt your dinner any longer,” she said. “I ate on the plane, and I'm tired and I'm going to bed.” She smiled at them sweetly. “I'll see you two at breakfast.”

  The two men watched her walk away. Wilson sighed.

  “She's beautiful when she's angry, isn't she?” he asked reflectively.

  “She certainly is,” Da Silva agreed. He grinned. “I wonder what she's like when she's furious. Like tomorrow morning, for example, when she comes down to meet us for breakfast.”

  Chapter 5

  IN THE LITTLE bar hidden in the Travessa Miguel Couto in Belém the Faca sat hunched tensely in the last booth, a cornhusk cigarette smoldering unnoticed between his fingers. A cryptic telephone call to the bar had announced the arrival at the Belém airport of the two key figures in the scheme—an arrival that had been planned only when everything was ready. The thought that the great coup might finally be set brought a tightness to his chest. He leaned over the small table his mind checking out and reviewing the many steps taken over the past two years, the numberless preparations, the endless waiting. It hardly seemed possible that at long, long last they might be actually ready. Time had come to make the preparations seem almost an end in themselves. Had anything been forgotten? Had any tiny gear in the vast machine been over-looked? He drew on his cigarette with tiny nervous puffs, staring into the thick smoke as if to draw a picture of the future in the swirling vapors.

  There was the sound of footsteps entering the bar. He half rose, turning in anticipation, and then slumped back. Two sailors were leaning over the bar, ordering beer. He crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another; the seconds seemed minutes, hours, days. There was the sound of glasses sliding across the marble bar top, followed by the ringing of the cash register. He leaned back, closing his eyes.

  Other footsteps suddenly sounded. He hesitated to look, fearing the sight of other strangers. The footsteps came toward the rear of the bar hurriedly; there was a scraping as two men slid into the booth opposite him. He looked up, steeling himself against falsely anticipating success.

  One look into the eyes of the two men across from him was all he needed. Without anyone's speaking, three right hands met in the center of the table, clutching each other, squeezing hard. Alameida drew in a deep breath tremulously.

  The larger of the two across from him nodded.

  “That's right,” he said softly. “We're finally ready.” He was a granite-faced man with a scar that dug into one cheek, giving him a permanent grimace.

  The second man nodded agreement, his eyes bright. He was a small man dressed in a black silk suit. Despite his slight stature, his clothes still seemed too tight for him.

  Alameida sighed, savoring the unbelievable moment. “They came in, then.”

  “Yes. Finally.” The granite-faced man withdrew his hand from the center of the table and reached up to scratch at his scar; it was apparently an automatic gesture. “It all depends on you now.”

  “I
'm ready,” Alameida said. His eyes were glinting with barely suppressed excitement. “I've been ready for over a month.” He smiled, relaxing. “You people down there almost ruined everything when you missed Da Silva on the beach.”

  There was an embarrassed clearing of a throat.

  “It was my fault,” the smaller man admitted. “I didn't know I had missed him. I was so sure I had hit him, the way he fell, I didn't even go back to check.”

  Alameida raised a hand. “Don't worry about it; he's been taken care of. He's making some piranhas a good meal right now. But it could have been bad, especially when we were this close.”

  The larger man shook his head, dismissing Da Silva from his mind. He had never considered the Interpol detective a very great threat in the first place.

  “Well,” he said, “what are the plans now? We're all set. How long before we can finish up?”

  “Not too long.” Alameida pursed his thin lips. “Five-six weeks.”

  “Why such a delay?”

  “Delay?” Alameida looked at him. “The boys are all up and down that part of the country, scattered along the rivers there. It takes time to get them together.”

  The scar-faced man shrugged. “You know best.” He reached into his pocket, brought out his wallet, and extracted a small pocket calendar from it. He studied it. “How about October 15?”

  Alameida reached across the table, took the thin sheet, and studied it, calculating. “Make it October 20. The signal will go out from Manaus radio at nine tomorrow night. We have our people there.”

  “Good.” The granite-faced man nodded. “October 20, then.” He smiled; with his scar, it gave his face a weird expression. “That's a day people are going to remember. This calls for a drink.” He looked over at the bar. “Is there any decent whiskey in this place?”

  Alameida smiled. “Not for customers. But for this occasion I think so.” He leaned over, calling; the bartender padded over. “I'll drink to success in vermouth. I've become accustomed to it.”