Durell felt the shaking vibration of the deck as the paddlewheels were reversed to check their momentum. "The channel is out. I think O'Hara is right. Better get Agosto."
"I wish Belmont was here."
Durell said nothing to that. There was a small fleet of fishing canoes on the red sand beach, but no Indians were present, and in the clearing beyond, where slanted stalls of palm-thatched roofs were scattered, no children played, no women did marketing. At this time of day, the men who worked the river's teeming fishbeds should have been hauling in their catch—
"Manoel," he said sharply. "Sheer off."
When the pilot hesitated, Durell seized the big wheel and spun it savagely to port, hoping to turn the bow off the approaching dock. The reversing paddles helped, but not enough. The steamboat had almost lost way. He felt the push of the river current, made stronger by the falls just around the bend. There was only a foot of freeboard between the main deck and surface of the water. Foam churned from the paddlewheel housings. His left hand shot out to the engine-room signal, but the Indian engineer down there had already shut down, anticipating the landing. The Duos Irmaos drifted helplessly toward the broken-down dock.
The stutter of an automatic rifle stitched through the heat of the afternoon air. Glass broke and flew wickedly from the shattered pilothouse windows. O'Hara gave out a thunderous curse and threw himself on the deck behind the wheel. Durell turned to Willie Wells.
"Use the dynamite, Willie."
O'Hara yelled, "Hey, wait—my boat—"
More rifles opened up. Wood splinters whistled through the air. More glass crashed. Durell ducked from the narrow door and ran around the pilot house to where he could see the dock. Men had come out of its black shadows, all armed, and ran down the pier. The steamboat hit the first pilings with a shudder that knocked Durell from his feet. He was up again, crouching, in a moment. Willie Wells slid down the ladder to the hurricane deck, his feet not touching the treads, and a bullet slammed into a post near him as he ducked out of sight.
The boat crashed helplessly against the dock, splintering planks in a shower of broken, flying timbers. More than a dozen armed men came running to board the vessel while others appeared from the shacks and sheds along the beach. The Duos Irmaos shuddered to a stop.
Someone, perhaps Manoel, pulled the ship's whistle and its piercing blast overwhelmed the quick rattle of automatic rifle fire. Durell did not fire in return. There were really two groups of attackers, he saw. One group of men were Western-dressed Europeans. Russians, he guessed. The other group, coming toward the bow, were Chinese, wearing slacks and dark shirts and sneakers. Each side had appointed flankers to keep a wary eye on the other. Durell yelled up to Manoel to blow the whistle again. At the same time, Willie Wells returned with several sticks of dynamite. Two of the crewmen stuck their heads out and were shot at. The Chinese came over the bow, onto the deck. Four of them. The Russians leaped aboard amidships.
"Vladim Vodaniev!" Durell called.
The tallest Russian paused, his head jerking up to look at Durell’s level gun. "Ah. You must be the Cajun. We are taking your ship."
"And your friends from Peking?"
"We are allies—for the moment."
"You don't have a ship to take," Durell said. "In two minutes it will be blown sky-high."
"You bluff, Cajun."
"Try me. You're welcome to stay aboard. Inocenza! O'Hara!"
The firing stopped. The Chinese came cautiously along the main deck, their weapons ready. Agosto appeared, herding Inocenza and O'Hara. The girl looked angry and frightened as she saw the men who had boarded the vessel. She came to Durell and stood beside him, but he did not look at her.
"Agosto, get Prince Tim and Sally. Depressa! Quick!"
A muffled explosion came from deep inside the engine room. O'Hara groaned and cursed in Portuguese. There was a smell of fire and oil in the air. The Russian, Vodaniev, took a step backward. "You are speaking truly?"
"Truly," Durell said grimly.
"We will go ashore. You and your people go with us."
The four Chinese looked angry. One of them lifted his rifle at Durell, and another knocked it aside with a quick word. Then the Chinese said, "Mr. Durell, we only wish some transportation. We are all marooned here. We have a common destination, a common purpose, a deadline. Who knows who will win the thing we each want, if we are not there on time?"
"Yes, but you don't go on this boat," Durell said.
Willie Wells came up from the engine hatch and ran down the deck. His face was sweaty. He still held two of the dynamite sticks. One of them, on a long fuse, was sputtering. Durell looked at it calmly.
"Let's dispense with all weapons, shall we?"
5
The steamboat burned furiously. There were two more explosions that toppled her twin stacks with tremendous splashes into the river. Flame gouted from her cabins. The black smoke silted the sky. The heat of the fire drove them all from the dock, into the empty town. People appeared, timidly, men and women and children. Dogs barked in the streets. The bell in the dome of the plastered Portuguese church kept tolling.
"Did you get to O'Hara?" Durell asked.
Willie Wells nodded. "I gave him a fresh bottle. He won't talk to anyone. And Agosto is sticking close to him."
"Good. Then come with me."
Sally stood beside her royal brother, Prince Atimboku, who looked disdainfully at the small knot of Russians under Vodaniev. Farther off, beyond the shed, stood the four Chinese, talking in quiet voices. No need for their weapons now, Durell thought grimly, with the Duos Irmdos burning to the waterline. The heat of the late afternoon sun scorched the back of his neck, and he took his sunglasses from his shirt pocket. Vodaniev was the best man the Soviets had—a shrewd agent whose cover as economic commissioner had given him espionage advantages all over Europe and Africa. Vodaniev watched him warily. Prince Tim held Sally by the wrist as she looked toward Durell for help. Atimboku dragged her up the main street of Sao Felice and loudly began to demand a truck from a frightened man in dirty white pants and a straw hat. The man simply stared at the burning steamboat, his mouth open. A last explosion made a thick gout of flame and smoke gush from the hurricane deck. Durell watched the vessel bum with curious emotions. She had been the sister ship of the vessel in Bayou Peche Rouge where he had been brought up, where old Grandpa Jonathan still lived. He felt a nostalgia and a sense of guilt, which he quickly shook off as Vladim Vodaniev approached him.
''Gospodin Durell." The Russian's broad face smiled, full of wrinkles and creases. "It is an ironical situation, nyet? You and T—and the rich African imperialist potentate—and Mr. Soo Piao Kim, a gentleman from the Blue Lotus, Peking's military intelligence—always at odds with the Black House in Peking, eh? We all have the same objective. We must have a truce now. You have efficiently stranded us all here by destroying the vessel. We had intended, of course, to reach the auction without you. Now we must decide how to go on."
"How can you decide," Durell said, "when you don't know the final destination?"
The Russian hesitated, shrugged chunky shoulders, and looked at Mr. Soo, the Chinese. "We must be honest with each other. Do you know where the next directive was to take us?"
"I do. And I'm the only one who knows," Durell said.
Willie Wells came up behind him, standing a bit to his left where his drawn gun was aimed at Vodaniev's stomach. There was a watchful waiting from Mr. Soo and his Chinese. Up the street, Atimboku still raged at the local man, demanding a vehicle, and then the African prince took off with a long stride toward the church. The bell had stopped tolling. Chickens scattered from Atimboku's path as he dragged Sally with him.
Durell said, "I agree we must have a truce. Get rid of your arms, and I'll take you where we all want to go."
"But it is you who must cooperate!"
"Do you think your weapons will force me to talk?"
Mr. Soo approached, wincing at the heat that billowed at them from t
he burning ship. "I believe Mr. Durell is correct. After all, we are on a legitimate mission, all of us."
"But there's an illegal group from the Black House, somewhere about," Durell said. "And an Albanian, named Stepanic."
"Yes, we know." The Chinese was impassive. "Did you mean it, sir, when you said you know our destination? How did you get such information?"
"Does it matter?" Durell's manner was cold. These were top men, brilliant and dedicated to the business. It was inevitable on this job that their trails would cross. They were not rogue groups, like Stepanic's, or half-mad with a lust to get the formula, like Atimboku. He glimpsed Inocenza helping two crewmen carry O'Hara into the shade of the shed by the river. A flock of brilliant forest birds suddenly flew like a rainbow across the hot sky. O'Hara was singing in a raucous voice. His beard bristled as he threw back his head and bellowed his bawdy verses. Inocenza's concern for O'Hara puzzled him. He turned back to Vodaniev and Mr. Soo.
"We can all go together if you put down your arms. I won't help you with a gun in my back. Otherwise, you're welcome to try the forest trails yourselves. You won't get far."
He had only Willie Wells to support him, and everything hung in the balance. These others outnumbered him three to one. He felt a cold sweat on the nape of his neck as he met Mr. Soo's bland eyes. It would mean nothing to either the Chinese or the Russian if they killed him. He had to break the impasse quickly.
He said, "Willie, there seems to be a kind of general store over there." He pointed to the hot, dusty plaza of Sao Felice, where the brown churrch stood. "Pick up some blankets, hammocks, axes. Throw your gun in the river first. Take mine, too."
"Sam—"
"Do as I say. Tell Agosto to get rid of his, also."
The black man shrugged. "You're the boss, Cajun."
Mr. Soo said mildly, "Do you plan to walk from here?"
"It may take three days. There are no roads now. Prince Atimboku is looking for a vehicle that will only prove useless." He watched Wells throw their guns in the river. "Gentlemen?"
Vodaniev said, "You will lead us, then?"
"Only if you get rid of your weapons."
At that moment, he saw Belmont coming down the dusty street of Sao Fehce.
6
The tall, cadaverous man was alone. He wore a ragged straw hat, white trousers hitched up with a length of rope, and sandals; he dragged along an unwilling goat with another piece of rope. His shirttails were dirty, flapping around his waist. There was a yellow cloth tied around his throat as a neck band. He looked tired, slow-moving, as he turned to curse at the goat in Portuguese. When he looked up briefly, under the wide brim of his straw hat, he gave no hint of recognition. Durell did no more than glance at him, but Willie Wells stirred.
"We will need someone as a guide," Durell said.
Vodaniev said, "You claim you know the way."
"I said I know our destination. It will not be easy to reach through the forests. One day's journey could lose us all, going around in circles."
The Russians and the Chinese conferred again. Belmont settled himself fifty yards away, in the shade of the big shed, tethering the goat. If Belmont was still armed, it could prove the ultimate ace in the hole. Not that he expected the others to totally disarm themselves, either.
Wells came back with three men from Sao Felice, carrying bundles that contained hammocks, extra boots, packs of food, and indeterminate supplies. A decision was suddenly made.
"Very well," Vodaniev said. "We will all go together. Mr. Soo?"
"Yes."
At that moment a frustrated Atimboku came down the main street with his two men guarding an angry, frightened Sally.
Durell looked into the girl's pleading eyes.
"We'll take them, too," he said.
Mr. Soo said gently, "Oh, but that is not necessary."
"We'll take everyone," Durell insisted. "And a guide. I'll talk to that man over there, with the goat."
He walked toward Belmont.
Chapter Eight
DURELL knelt beside O'Hara, near the feeble little smudge fire that each party had made for itself. The night was filled with shrilling, chirping, humming insects.
"We should have left him in Sao Felice," he said.
Inocenza looked up. "He'll get better. He is a very hard —very tough—old man."
"Not that tough. He can't walk much farther."
"He will rest tonight. Tomorrow he will be better. No more liquor for him, please."
He looked at the girl curiously. "I thought you hated him, Inocenza."
"I do. But can one leave him to die? You destroyed his boat. It was his livelihood. It was all he had. I think he maybe died with it. He loved the Duos Irmaos like he never loved me—or any other woman." She studied Durell's shadowed figure in the dim firelight. "Besides, he truly knows the way, whatever you told those others." She gestured with contempt toward the Russians, Chinese, and Atimboku. "They know nothing. Neither do you. It is O'Hara who can take you to Don Federico's."
"Have you ever been there?"
"No. But O'Hara talked much of it. The best time of his life was when he worked for Don Federico."
"Has he been back there lately?"
She pushed back her thick hair. "One month ago, I think. I was glad to be rid of him for a few days. Manoel and I, we ran the ship. It was a beautiful ship, in its way."
"What did O'Hara say when he got back?"
"Nehouma cousa," she said. "Not a thing. But he was happy. He had a lot of money. He bought me the gold chain and crucifix." She touched herself between her breasts and looked up at him ruefully. "It was the only real present he ever gave to me, you understand."
Durell looked down at the exhausted fat man. The liquor had kept O'Hara going during the first leg of the trail out of Sao Felice. For a time, the villagers had followed their curious safari, but then one by one, as they passed into the gloom of forest and swamp beyond the falls, they had dropped away, crossing themselves. O'Hara had kept up his drunken singing until nightfall, and they had walked only by the light of a swollen, ochre moon. Then he had gone silent except for his panting and grumbling. Two hours later he needed to be helped, and Willie Wells stayed constantly at his side, keeping him from Vodaniev and Mr. Soo. Now Durell listened to the old man's breathing and felt a touch of worry.
"O'Hara?"
"Go to hell, sonny," O'Hara whispered. "Unless you can get another drink for me."
"There isn't another bottle with us. You said there was an old railroad bed we could follow," Durell persisted.
"That's right. Up at the river fork."
"How far is it from here?"
"I dunno. Where are we now? Near the river?"
"Yes, about twenty miles south of Sao Felice."
"Tomorrow morning, then. We hit it tomorrow. Now lemme alone," O'Hara grunted. "Lemme sleep. Inocenza, come on, bed down with me, be a good girl."
The girl sat down on the leafy forest floor beside the old man and held his hand.
Wells said quietly, "Better get some sleep, Cajun. I'll stand watch. You talked to Belmont yet?"
"I will, when it looks all right."
"He appears to have been through the wringer."
"He'll tell us all about it."
Wells hesitated. Durell sat down on the spongy forest floor and leaned back against a tree. The campfires of the Chinese and the Russians were flickering down. Clouds began to obscure the big moon. He hoped it wasn't going to rain. Then Wells said, "What do you make of O'Hara?"
"He hasn't told us all he knows."
"About this Don Federico's place?"
"About me. About Grandpa Jonathan."
Wells said, "I can't figure that Inocenza. Given another time and place, I'd go for that jungle kitten."
"Just keep your eye on Prince Tim's little group of murderers, Willie."
"You bet."
2
Belmont lay in a tattered hammock strung between two small trees away from the campfire. He h
ad thrown a mosquito netting over his face. The smell of swamp water pervaded the night. A wind had begun to stir in the high tree-tops, bringing with it the distant sound of the river.
"That Mr. Soo," Belmont said. "I think he's on to me. He came over and started asking questions. Very polite Chinese gentleman. He wanted to know about my wife and family and Sao Felice, how often I came into the forest, did I know of any special places of interest m the area. I pretended I couldn't understand half of what he said. Used pidgin English on him, some rough Portuguese, a bit of Tupamaca dialect."
"Where did you learn Tupamaca?" Durell asked.
"It's all in my files. I once worked this area—well, not exactly here, but farther along the river, at Manaus. That time we had our consul snatched by terrorists and held for ransom, back in '69."
"What about Stepanic? You didn't catch up with him?"
"No. And I don't think Stepanic shafted Andy."
"Why not?"
"It's a feeling I have, that's all."
"Any candidates to take Stepanic's place?"
Belmont lifted himself a bit in his hammock and looked at the glowing smudge fires of the other groups. Somewhere in the forest, someone or something coughed. One of the Russians got up and took a few steps into the bushes to relieve himself. Belmont waved a hand. "Take your pick, Cajun. I don't know why Andy's killing gravels me so much."
"It bothers me, too."
"I mean, why pick him out? It doesn't smell right. Have you been thinking about it?"
"All the way. Take it easy, Belmont. Where do you figure Stepanic is now?"
"Somewhere ahead of us. He came as far as Sao Felice. That was yesterday morning. Then he hiked out this way with his two Chinese rogue goons from the Black House. I had a good talk with the priest at Sao Felice. Friendly feller, from Rio, originally. He said two small planes flew over this area early yesterday morning, which would be about the time we were at Paramaguito. Private planes. He didn't think they were from the mineral surveyors, the Companhia Meridional. Didn't look like the ones they usually use. But he couldn't identify them."
"All right."
"You want me to take a watch?"
"Agosto will stand by, after Willie's trick."
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