Her eyes were bland and unfathomable, meeting his. Nothing like a woman scorned, he thought grimly. His rejection of her, and the hours he had shared in the hammock with Sally, had changed her passion into something akin to hate. She tried to hide it, but he saw it there behind her dark, solemn eyes.
Chapter Ten
They slogged on for two more hours, following the long curves of the old roadbed, working their way among the trees and vines that sometimes almost obliterated where the railway had been. Water shimmered on either hand below the embankment. The sun came out in full force and hammered at them with implacable fury. Their clothes steamed, and sweat stung their eyes. A sullen exhaustion gripped them all. Hostility became more evident in the grim, dubious faces that followed Durell. Now and then they had to stop and clear the trees and vines that blocked their way. It had to be done by main force, since they had neither axes nor machetes. The work was done resentfully, under Durell's orders. He took time to check the Browning that Agosto had given Belmont for him. The firing pin had recently been removed. Touches of rust and verdigris covered most of the mechanism, but there were bright sharp scratches where the pin had been forced out. The gun had been meant to give him a sense of false security-. He watched Belmont, but saw nothing in the man's gaunt face that looked suspicious. It was Agosto, he thought. Again a number of puzzling pieces fell into place in his mind. None of it helped Durell's humor. His sense of anger and outrage grew more intense with each struggling step forward.
The sun and the insects now were murderous. The others in the small safari straggled farther and farther behind, until they took up almost a quarter of a mile between Durell at the head and Atimboku at the rear. The Russians plodded grimly along; the Chinese displayed an impassivity toward their hardships. None of them had eaten since leaving the desolate church. Atimboku's complaints were loud and bitter, drifting up from the tail of their column. Mostly, he swore at Durell for burning the steamboat that could have taken them up the river in comfort.
All of them now openly displayed the weapons they had pretended to abandon during the truce agreement. It was the world of trickery and deceit in microcosm, Durell thought grimly. A macabre jest, to test their capacity to survive in this untamed, menacing Amazon wilderness.
Belmont moved up beside him. His face was gray, his cheeks sunken, his eyes too bright. He murmured, "So you don't think it was Stepanic who fixed Andy Weyer in Belem?"
"Not likely," Durell said.
"Are you thinking about our teammate, Agosto? He sold us out, didn't he?"
"He was never one of us."
"But you accepted him in Belem," Belmont objected.
"It was necessary. Part of the game plan we were supposed to follow."
"You knew it, but didn't do anything about it?" There was a sharp edge of danger in Belmont's voice.
"Take it easy. I think Andy was able to recognize him. Maybe Andy could tell who he really was. So he was wiped. It's only an educated guess, however."
"But Agosto tried to kill you. It makes no sense," Belmont argued. "If he was one of them, they need you, they want you to bid for this goddam formula, they want Uncle Sam's taxpayers' money. So why try to kill you?"
"I don't know." Durell took off his sunglasses and stared at the tall man's bitter face. "Andy's death just made room on our team for Agosto. That's plain enough. That Portuguese intelligence man I mentioned long ago— shouldn't call him Portuguese, really, except that was his first passport, issued in Goa—he played tricks like that in Angola and in Mozambique, in Africa. Tested and taunted the guerillas and terrorists. Just to measure their mettle against his. A twisted sense of humor, perhaps. An incredible self-confidence, a sureness for survival. We'll see about that."
"I'm going to kill him," Belmont said, speaking between his teeth.
"That's an oversimplified answer. Save your breath. It's getting hotter, and we're all thirsty and hungry. Maybe getting a bit irrational. Take it easy."
The break came about two hours before sundown. They were moving slower now, concentrating on each forward step. Every movement had become an enormous effort. They no longer tried to swipe away the vicious clouds of flies and mosquitos that attacked them. Several times in the last few minutes, Inocenza staggered and fell, and it was always Willie Wells who came promptly to her side to encourage her and help her up. Afterward, the girl clung to the black American's arm for support. However, without O'Hara, they had proceeded more steadily. A few rubber trees, very old and tall, came into sight, and the height of the causeway on which they trudged lowered markedly until it was almost at a level with the surrounding land. The rubber trees thickened. Here and there, an old rusted fence made an incongruous geometric line through the wilderness of what had been an extensive plantation of many scores of square miles. It was about three o'clock when they heard the jeeps coming.
The noise of the engines seemed alien after so many hours of chattering, cawing, squawking forest sounds. Durell halted. The others behind him sank down with groans of relief. Only Mr. Soo, among his Chinese, remained standing, listening. It would be a few moments, Durell judged, before the vehicles arrived. Sally walked up to where he stood.
"Is it over?" Her lips were swollen from insect bites. "Is it really over?"
"I think it's just begun."
"But we are all late for the auction, aren't we?"
His eyes were gentle. "You seem very tired, Sally. Don't give up yet. You'll soon be able to rest."
She sighed and shrugged. Her clothing was torn, and although her skin was the color of clear amber, she had been painfully sunburned during the hours of the afternoon.
"Atimboku is too cheerful now," she said. "Too sure of himself. It makes me afraid of what he's planning to do. I don't understand him at all, anymore."
"Has he threatened you directly?"
"Many times. He wants to rule Pakuru alone, of course. Our old tribal ways give me a lot of power back home. Maybe he plans for me never to get back there. He laughs when I beg him to give up this whole thing."
"Don't worry, he won't get the Zero Formula."
"How can you be so confident, Sam?" When he did not reply, she smiled with sudden wistfulness. "It was so beautiful last night—in the hammock—"
He said, "Here come the Jeeps."
2
There was one armored scout car and two gray-painted Jeeps, each mounting a .50 mm machine gun. The Indians who manned the vehicles also carried new automatic rifles. They wore uniforms of a sort—khaki slacks, low jungle boots, white shirts, and ponchos. Their faces were hard and alert under their wide straw hats. They seemed familiar with their weapons and knew how to handle them. The scout car carried six men, and seated beside the driver was the neatly uniformed Agosto.
"Senhor Durell! Come forward, please. The rest of you stand together. Do not try anything foolish. Is it understood? Durell?"
He stepped toward the scout car. A vicious-eyed harpy eagle was tied by a length of light chain to a bar behind the windshield. The bird eyed him with ravenous hostility, and he briefly thought of Connie Drew, the girl he had contacted in Paramaguito. Agosto climbed down from the vehicle. He seemed no different from the mild-mannered agent who had joined them in Belem. His white teeth gleamed in his bronzed face.
"You are not surprised, Senhor Durell?"
"Nothing surprises me in our business. Where is O'Hara?"
"Happily drinking himself into a stupor with some bottles I provided for him. It was amusing, to see him watch you discover the old grave of your grandmother in this remote place. But of course, O'Hara was the one who buried her here, after kidnapping her and taking her with him to Brazil, where he was hired by Don Federico. These things happened many, many years ago, but his fear of vengeance always haunted him. It made him easy to handle, at times. The poor girl was ashamed to go back to your grandfather, so long ago, after O'Hara had ravished her, I suppose. Morality is different today, eh?"
"Perhaps not," Durell said.
"You still show no surprise. You have no questions? You do not wonder about me?"
"I know all about you," said Durell. "You masterminded this whole thing, didn't you? You planned our routes, tested us for your private amusement by creating problems and roadblocks for us. A game of chess, in a way. I figured, in the very beginning, there were only a few ex-intelligence officers in the business who would arrange this as you have done."
"Ah? Then you know my real name is not Agosto?"
Durell nodded. "And I know it was you who killed Andy Weyer in Belem to get on our team. The job had your particular mark of depravity on it."
"But then you know my name?"
"You've been known by many names, not just Agosto Laurentino de Mello. But you are, of course. Colonel Paolo Bom Jesus de Santana, born in Goa, India, and most recently of Portuguese Mozambique and Angola. You were the famous designer of the Lumaganga trap where some seventy-three guerillas were coldly massacred. Yes, I know you. But you didn't design the Zero Formula, did you? You arranged for the 'demonstrations' in different countries that could pay your price. You're the one who thought of the idea of an auction, to have us all bid against each other so you could market it at the highest price. You've been playing fun and games with us all. It didn't bother me, however, until you killed Andy Weyer."
Belmont had been standing nearby, listening while he watched the Indians with their rifles. The rest of the party stood in an uncertain huddle down the abandoned track. Belmont's thin face was oddly gray as Durell spoke. Then Durell saw the thin flicker of a knife slide out of Belmont's ragged sleeve, like the slither of a deadly snake. At that moment, he knew that de Santana—or Agosto—could kill Belmont as casually as slapping at a mosquito. One of the Indian guards shouted and Durell jumped to knock up Belmont's arm. The knife flashed in a pinwheel of light, almost too quick for the eye to follow. His move threw Belmont's aim off. The knife clattered harmlessly against the heavy steel of the scout car. At the same time, one of the Indians impetuously triggered his automatic rifle. The racketing noise filled the hot, stifling air. Great clouds of brilliant birds, cockatoos, parrots, bee-catchers, exploded from the surrounding trees. Monkeys screamed and fled through the vines. Everyone in the Russian party fell flat. One of Atimboku's warriors fell backward, his body stiff, and hung as if crucified in the tough vines on the rail embankment.
Colonel de Santana smiled and raised his gun and pointed it at Belmont.
"Don't," Durell said sharply.
"Why not?" Agosto was calm. "He is one of your assassins, and when a killer lets his anger control him, then he is less than worthless."
"It was my fault," Durell said.
"Why did you not let him kill me, then?"
"Because I still need you, Agosto."
"But you know I am not the man you think of as Agosto. I am sorry, but Belmont must be punished."
The gun came up again in the man's hand. It was to be an execution, senseless except to satisfy the man's vanity. Belmont stood very still, helpless, his face pale, his hands empty. At the last moment, Durell jumped. His reaching fingers managed to strike the gun in the other's hand. It went off with a shattering roar. One of the armed Indians leaped down from the scout car and clubbed Durell with his rifle, drove him to his knees. A booted foot slammed into his ribs. Pain exploded in the back of his head. Another kick slogged into his groin. He rolled over, doubling up in the weeds. Dimly he heard Inocenza scream. Or perhaps it was Sally. Mr. Soo called out a plea in a high, calm voice, and then he forced himself up to his hands and knees.
Atimboku spoke urgently behind him. "Kill him, Colonel. Do it at once, or he will destroy you, sooner or later."
"Ah, Prince Tim! You are anxious for Durell to die? He did a foolish, astonishing thing, to save his man."
"I tell you, Durell is too dangerous! You have him now, you can be rid of him—"
"Ah, but can you bid higher than he? He represents the United States Treasury, at this moment. No, no. But Belmont can be eliminated with small loss."
Durell gathered himself again and lunged at de Santana's legs. His shoulder hit the man's thigh and they both fell against the scout car. For just that moment, he saw Belmont still standing as he was. He had a good look at de Santana's face. He would not have recognized it as the formerly friendly Agosto. The man's gun was leveled at his head. The Indians had come out of their vehicles now, herding the others toward the jeeps. The pain in Durell's belly made him want to double up. He thought of Andy Weyer and the way Weyer had died. He forced himself upward and remained on his feet. Sally was crying soundlessly, the tears staining her face. Inocenza looked fascinated, black eyes wide with satisfaction.
Let it end here, he thought.
De Santana's features changed into a mask of cruel humor. Durell saw movement from one of the Indian guards. He, tried to duck the blow from the rifle butt. Then he went down, his ears roaring, aware of the searing sun high above the trees. He was kicked again and again. Blood ran down his face. He struggled to get up again, and Belmont said in a strange voice, "Don't, Sam. Please. He doesn't know where the money is."
Suddenly the sun winked out and Durell fell into a deep dark place of cool silence.
Chapter Eleven
Voices buzzed like angry insects above and around Mm. He did not open his eyes. He was aware of a hammock under him, heard the hiss of a gasoline lantern that made shadows dance behind his closed lids. Someone applied a cool wet sponge to his face and squeezed a few drops on his parched lips. The sponge went down his chest and belly, wiping blood crusted on his skin. His groin, his stomach, his ribs ached. He felt as if someone had tried to tear his head off. He was naked, and he felt a momentary stir of alarm over that, too. Then someone said, "Sam? Sam, can you hear me?"
Willie Wells came in. "Leave him alone, both of you. They've brought his clothes. He's doing fine. Tony?"
"Yes," said Belmont.
"You were lucky. We'll never know what made Agosto change his mind. Go outside and make sure we're alone."
"Willie, he kept me from being shot. I owe him—"
"Go on. He'll be all right."
A door opened and closed. Moist, warm air flowed briefly over Durell's naked body. He opened his eyes, stared at a roughly timbered ceiling that showed the underside of reddish tiles through it. He looked at the hissing gasoline lamp on a wooden table and said thinly, "Turn it off."
"What, Sam?"
"Turn off the lamp."
"Right. Whatever you say. Inocenza has some water for you. And some food. They've treated us all right, so far. The auction begins tonight, in an hour. But without you, I don't know what's going to happen."
"You say they've brought back my clothes?"
"Right. Taken apart, seam by seam. Looking for your letter of credit, I figure."
"My belt?"
"It's just a belt, Sam."
"No, it isn't."
Wells turned off the gasoline lantern. Moonlight filled the dusty, broken-down room. Inocenza brought him an enameled tray with a steaming mug of coffee, a small steak, some fresh white bread, a bottle of American bourbon. She regarded his nakedness with frank approval. Durell drank part of a tumbler of bourbon first, felt its warmth curl in his belly, then settled down to the steak and bread. The flatware was antique silver, elaborately monogrammed. Willie Wells handed him his watch. In the pale light that came through the bungalow windows, he saw it was still almost an hour before midnight. The moonlight came through gaps in the plank walls as well as the broken tiles of the roof. Everything was ebony and silver.
"They've started the bidding," Willie Wells said. "It's going on in the main plantation house."
"How is Belmont?"
"Sitting outside. Agosto didn't kill him, after you were knocked out. Are you sure you're okay, Cajun?"
"I'm fine. I heard you, Willie. The bidding has started. There is no hurry. How many got here?"
"Almost twenty. Make it eighteen. You've got a funny look on your face, Cajun
."
Durell poured himself another drink and finished the hot coffee with it. The bungalow they were in was roughly framed and timbered, showing some new repairs. It had obviously once been used as one of several bunkhouses on the old rubber plantation. Some effort had been made to refurbish and clean it up. There were straw rugs on the broomed floor, fresh linen on the bunks, a new plastic-topped table with folding legs and rattan chairs. Durell swung his legs carefully out of the lower bunk he was in and stood up. The room swung in a slow, dizzying circle around him for a moment. Inocenza looked concerned, but did not touch him. Then his vision steadied. He reached for his slacks, checked the wide black leather belt he had constantly worn. The seams had been partly ripped open as he expected, but the buckle and button attachment seemed to be intact.
"Give me a rundown, Willie."
The black man sat down on one of the wall bunks. "They had a doctor, of sorts, to look you over. No real damage, he said. You know you broke all the rules, busting loose like that for Belmont."
Durell walked to one of the square windows. The moonlight showed him a large compound with other bungalows scattered about. There was a horse corral, the dark loom of old rubber trees ranged in linear patterns as far into the gloom as he could see. A black strip of metal was just in the leftward limit of his vision. He swore softly. "Is that an airstrip, Willie?"
"Yup. There's a hangar holding a helicopter—a Bell, I think—and a Cessna six-seater. Some of the other bidders were flown in. De Santana's sense of humor sure got us here the hard way."
"Any sign of a radio transmitter?"
"Couldn't see much when we got here. They hustled us into this bungalow, locked the door for a while, sent in the Indian medic to look at you, then left us alone. The whole place is run like a military camp, seems Like. That would be de Santana's habit, from fighting terrorists in Portuguese East Africa, I reckon. But I saw some aerial wires on the main house—a big old hacienda, red tile roof, looking recently spruced up a bit, although one wing came tumbling down long ago. They've got a diesel generator in a separate building about fifty yards in this direction. So the radio, if there is one, must work, and there's power for a big house, so they can contact their planes. There's a newly built shed attached to the main house, too, that might be a laboratory. The thing is, Cajun, nobody has even offered a guess as to who actually invented the Zero Formula. It's a sure bet it wasn't Colonel Paolo Bom Jesus de Santana. Nothing in his dossier ever showed any studies in biological engineering."
Assignment - Amazon Queen Page 13