Wilson pushed the oars away. He looked about, his face gaunt under the stubble of his beard, his chest rising and falling. “We’ll come out,” he said quietly, discouragedly. “We’ll come out whether he runs us down or not … I won’t stay here.”
Da Silva leaned forward, gripping the gunwale of the dinghy with excitement, his eyes widening in astonishment. “Wilson! There he is! He’s going to try and come in after us!”
They stared in disbelief; the Valente was curving in the direction of the channel entrance, its engines rising in pitch, the broad prow flinging sheets of water symmetrically in arched fountains to each side. The growl of the diesels grew louder.
“He’s crazy!” Wilson whispered. “It’s far too shallow. He’ll never make it!”
“He doesn’t know it’s shallow,” Da Silva said, watching the charging monster with half-shut, glittering eyes. He clamped his jaw and added under his breath, “Impetuous …!”
The sheer idiocy of his scheme seemed to have struck Jorge at that moment, but by now it was far too late. The engines lowered their growl suddenly; the bow bent desperately as Jorge tried to swing about, but the heavy, low launch carried forward, plowing the sea broadside, slamming into the channel, wedging itself against the unburned bank, slapping the wall of bushes and trees there in a furious impact. The engines roared again, this time in reverse, frantically attempting to squirm free of their trap. To the fascinated watchers in the bobbing dinghy the squat frame seemed to rear up, pulling madly against the locking sand. The engines screamed in the still morning air and then coughed themselves into sudden and fateful silence.
And then they came, the snakes, maddened by the sound and the heat and the uproar, enraged by this invasion of their millennium-old privacy. They came swarming from the leafy boughs that brushed and overhung the launch; giant jararacas, corals a yard in length, reptiles of every size and color, dropping against this wooden evil that had shaken them and angered them and frightened them. They came for their revenge, swarming up from the rocks and over the sand, down from the trees, scaling the rails and slithering over the hatch and into the engine well, wriggling up the ladder to the bridge, coiling themselves about the stanchions and the capstans, winding about the davits, biting madly on rope and wood and steel. From the bridge the terrified screams came higher and higher, carried on the still air to the horrified watchers in the dinghy. They could clearly see Jorge, peaked cap carried off, beating about himself wildly, his arms windmilling madly in the open doorway. The glass of the small bridge shattered; an arm came through and then slumped, convulsing. The screams rose in a crescendo, wavered and returned, fainter but more desperate. And still the snakes came, hundreds of them, and more hundreds, falling half-coiled from the overhanging branches to the tangled deck. Wilson leaned over the side of the dinghy and vomited steadily into the lagoon.
Da Silva closed his eyes. When he opened them the hysterical screaming had stopped. He shook his head slowly, moistened his dry lips, ran his hand weakly over his unshaven face. “God!”
Wilson looked up, white-faced, and wiped his lips shakily. “What a way to die!”
“Even Jorge!” Da Silva shuddered and his jaw tightened. “He killed four men and caused the death of his own brother, but … It’s a quicker judgment than I would have given him.” He suddenly shook his head briskly, as if to cast away the scene they had witnessed. “We have our own problems. We’ll have to pass it to get out …”
Wilson reached for the pinga, but the bottle was empty. He raised his arm and flung it far away. It slapped into the water and then gaily bobbed away. He leaned back wearily. “That’s going to be pleasant …”
“There’s no other way. But we still have the flame thrower.”
They stared at the narrow space between the silent launch and the charred trees on the bank. “They’ll fall from the launch into the dinghy,” Wilson said quietly. “We won’t have a chance. There are too many of them.”
Da Silva took up the flame thrower, hefting the cylinders, calculating the weight of remaining fuel. He set them back, picking up the nozzle. “We’ll have a chance,” he said quietly. “You take us through. I’ll keep this on the launch. You’ll have to pole; there isn’t room between the launch and the shore to swing oars.”
“The launch will burn,” Wilson said. “There are fuel tanks aboard …”
Da Silva looked at him steadily. “It’s the chance we’ll have to take. There’s no other way.…”
Wilson took a deep breath, gathering his courage. “So what are we waiting for?” He suddenly smiled at Da Silva. “Zé, one last thing. Of all the idiotic adventures you ever got us involved in, this is the most stupid. And I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. So I hereby will you my entire cognac collection.”
Da Silva smiled back; there was real affection in the glance the two exchanged. “I honestly thought there would be hat-check girls,” he said with a grin. “And as for your miserable two bottles of brandy, I’ll remember your words when you die fifty years from now.”
Wilson grinned back and settled himself back on the seat of the dinghy. He rowed closer to the swarming launch; the smiles of the two men faded. The situation suddenly struck them, made particularly vivid by the sight of the limp arm hanging from the bridge window. A jararaca was coiling down from the roof, its mouth open to clamp on the dead hand. Wilson tore his eyes away and laid one oar in the bottom of the dinghy. He clambered behind, fixing the other firmly in the bed of the channel. His feet firmed; he murmured a small prayer. “Ready?”
Da Silva wiped his face, muttered to himself, and gripped the nozzle. “Ready,” he said. “Let’s go!”
There was a sudden lurch as Wilson dug with all his strength; the little dinghy shot forward and then veered for a second, scraping the side of the launch. Da Silva nearly tumbled at the impact; his hand automatically shot out to ward off the slimy planks. There was an angry hiss from above; without thought his hand tightened on the trigger, spraying the flame upward. A wavering pyre of flame was balancing on the burning rail. Wilson cursed and threw himself into the oar. They scraped along the hull as the blazing form fell heavily into the water behind them. They both found themselves screaming curses. Da Silva washed the flame back and forth while Wilson heaved and strained behind him. The sparks were falling now, burning their clothes; it seemed that they had been in the horror of fire for hours. The heat beat back at them; the smoke of the burning launch blinded them. And then a final heave of maddened desperation sent them free of the binding hull, out into the sea, swaying and nearly capsizing. Wilson was still stabbing frantically. The drop of the beach left clear water beneath him, and he fell to the bow of the dinghy, panting and sobbing.
Da Silva dropped the flame thrower and flung himself forward, scooping sea water and throwing it over the burning prow of the dinghy. The flames winked out. They rolled, exhausted, on the seats, too tired even to watch the holocaust they had left behind. Wilson pulled himself to his feet and dropped on the center seat, fitting the oars into the thwarts.
“It will blow up soon,” he said with no expression on his face at all, and began to row listlessly to sea. Da Silva lay back, catching his breath, making no reply, his eyes open but seeing nothing.
The fuel tanks of the Valente caught with a roar; the blast of burning air beat against the two scarecrows in the dinghy, sending the little boat bouncing. Wilson laid down the oars and they both turned their heads for a last look at the launch.
The entire edge of the island was aflame. Spreading from the blazing Valente, the fire was catching at the trees, throwing mountains of sparks into the air. The crackling and snapping grew as new trees were added to the sweeping holocaust; smoke billowed up, eddying in the morning breeze, hiding the doomed launch and the tiny beach. Wilson turned away, reaching for the oars.
“Let’s go,” he said dully. “Somewhere out there, beyond these islands, there ought to be a customs boat.…”
Da Silva attempted a smile. “
Imagine,” he said. “An American looking for a customs boat …” But there was no humor in his voice, or any smile on his lined, pockmarked, smudged face, as he turned for one last look at the blaze behind them on the Ilha das Cobras.
They climbed aboard the customs cutter too tired to drag their milk can with them. One of the sailors dropped into the dinghy and looped a rope about the awkward container; two others began pulling it bumpily up the ship’s side. Despite his weariness Da Silva’s eyes opened in surprise. Senhor Monteiro was nodding to him importantly from the side of the lieutenant who commanded the boat. Trust these civilian types to get into the act after the work is done, Da Silva thought sourly, and tried to put politeness into his handshake.
“Must be an important case,” the lieutenant said, only half jokingly. “All the top people from Interpol …”
“Well, I thought I ought to see how the case was going,” Monteiro said, bouncing up and down on his stubby legs. “My responsibility, and all that, you know …” He peered up at the pock-marked, swarthy face at his side and added hastily, “Not that I don’t have full confidence in Captain Da Silva.” His eye fell on the can bumping over the ship’s rail. “What’s this?”
“That’s what the case is all about,” Da Silva said dryly, and then added, “sir.”
“Oh yes.” Monteiro nodded vigorously and then suddenly paused, his brow wrinkling. “It was? You mean the dead snake and that dead man, and all?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll explain it all later. Right now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get this can open.”
“Do you think we ought to do it here?” Monteiro asked, unconsciously glancing with a bit of worry in the direction of the customs lieutenant. Da Silva stared at him and he coughed. “Oh, I suppose it will be all right. It’s Interpol property, in a way, but …” He frowned in sudden thought. “By the way, what’s in it?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Da Silva admitted, and scratched at his beard.
Wilson, tired as he was, could not help himself. “Milk, do you suppose?” he asked. The lieutenant stared at him as if he were mad. Maybe I am, he thought. After last night it would be strange if I weren’t.
“I’d suggest the wardroom,” the lieutenant said a bit eagerly, and led the way below.
They sat around the small wardroom while the ship’s carpenter chipped steadily at the strip of solder holding the cover. Despite his interest, Da Silva found his eyes closing. When this is over, he thought, I’m going to sleep for a month. Wilson, dull-eyed and filthy, grinned as if he could read Da Silva’s thoughts.
The cover twisted slightly as the last of the solder parted; the carpenter stood up in satisfaction. The other four leaned forward eagerly. The lieutenant twisted the cover; it came off with a snap. Within, protected by a plastic bag neatly tied at the mouth, was some powder that slumped against the sides of the can, more than half filling it. The lieutenant stripped away the transparent covering and dipped a finger experimentally into the mass below, bringing it slowly to his tongue. His eyebrows raised; he carefully repeated the experiment and then stared at the others with a frown on his face.
“I really wouldn’t want to hazard a guess …” he began.
Da Silva snorted. He reached over and repeated the lieutenant’s experiment. His mouth puckered at the sharp taste. “I’ll hazard a guess,” he said. “I’ll say it’s heroin!”
“Possibly.” The lieutenant still looked doubtful. “But there must be over forty-five pounds here. I never heard of that quantity together in one place before. We got orders to search large freighters from stem to stern if there’s a rumor they might be carrying ten or fifteen ounces. Of course,” he added carefully, “it might be cut …”
“Cut?” The conversation was getting beyond Senhor Monteiro. “What do you mean, cut?”
“Diluted,” the lieutenant said, his eyes still fixed on the can of powder. “They dilute it with things that look like heroin but aren’t.”
“Can our laboratories check it for purity?” Monteiro asked.
Da Silva nodded. “Certainly, sir.”
“I’d best lock it in our ship’s safe until we get to port,” the lieutenant suggested slowly. He fixed the cover carefully on the can and, lifting it, carried it from the room. Monteiro turned to Da Silva.
“Captain, I’m afraid this is still pretty confusing to me. Could you explain it?”
“Well,” Da Silva said wearily, leaning back, “you have my reports from Santos and São Paulo, sir. After we got back to Urubuapá, these two brothers—their names were Jorge and Luis—picked me up and took me out to the island. They were going to get the details of the map out of me by torture, but Wilson here …” he smiled affectionately at the bedraggled figure across from him “… Wilson came through in great style. Well, after we took care of those two, we took the dinghy and checked out the map we had seen …” He yawned deeply.
“Took care of them? What do you mean? What happened?”
“They’re dead, sir.” He stared somberly at the other. “There are six dead as a result of that can …”
“And the Valente?”
“Burned on a sand bar, sir. Full of dead snakes …” He shuddered and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll have it all in my report, sir. I’m too groggy to make sense right now.”
“Of course, Captain.” Monteiro also arose and smiled at the large detective. “It was a fine job, Captain, and I’ll see that you get a commendation for it!” A puzzled frown crossed his face. “I’m not exactly sure how you go about getting commendations for people, but certainly somebody in the organization ought to know.”
Da Silva smiled wearily. “Thank you, sir. To tell the truth, right now I think I’d settle for a wash.”
The lieutenant had returned quietly to the room, and at these words he came forward eagerly. “Certainly, Captain. We can handle that.”
“And then a ride back to Urubuapá, where frankly I intend to sleep for at least two days.”
“Take a week,” Monteiro said genially. “You’ve earned it, Captain.”
“And after your wash, sir,” said the lieutenant, “I can offer you gentlemen …” He looked knowing. “It’s not regular, I know, but I just happen to have in my locker, my own private …” He flashed a grin at the others. “Some real French cognac taken from a smuggler only last week …”
Da Silva’s face lit up. Not even exhaustion could conceal the honest delight that swept the blackened face and saturnine eyebrows at this most welcome suggestion. “I certainly would,” he said heartfeltly. “I certainly would! French, you said, eh? As a matter of fact, I’ve gone without a wash this long, I guess a few minutes more won’t hurt.”
They all turned to look at Wilson. The nondescript man coughed apologetically. “I know it’s a silly question, but you wouldn’t happen to have any pinga you picked up recently, would you?” he asked, almost wistfully. “It’s awful stuff, I grant, but somehow I seem to have suddenly developed a taste for it …”
They clumped up the cobbled street leading from the Urubuapá beach, the morning sun hot on their shoulders, their feet dragging from weariness. Wilson carried his crumpled clothing from the tilted sloop loosely under one arm; a trouser leg had fallen free and dangled behind him. A small boy was kicking the tires of their taxi in a combination of boredom and destructiveness; one look at the two battered figures approaching and he fled up the deserted street, looking back over his shoulder, and then paused as the two turned into the hotel entrance.
They stopped at Wilson’s room. The stocky man dumped his clothing unceremoniously to the floor and dropped onto the bed. He stared up at Da Silva with red-rimmed eyes. “Go away,” he said tonelessly. “Go find your own bed. This one is reserved.” He pulled off his shoes and fell back against the pillow. “Call me next spring.”
Da Silva grinned at him. “Right.”
He closed the door softly behind him and went down the hall to his own room. He slumped onto the bed and rubbed the back of h
is neck. God, he was tired! No need for red Jaguar fire engines to induce sleep today! He bent down to unlace his shoes, the very emptiness of the room a pleasure to be enjoyed. A far cry from last night, he thought, when I was in this room facing Jorge and Luis, and when I was also facing torture on the Valente! Well, he said to himself, slipping off his shoes, let’s forget about the Valente. Today let’s dream about hat-check girls.
He lay back gratefully against the pillow, letting drowsiness sweep over him. The Valente … why wouldn’t that damn ship go away from his thoughts? Go away, you scabby wreck, he willed. Go away and let me sleep. Jorge, do me a favor; take the Valente out about two miles from shore and kindly scuttle it. Sorry, Jorge, I forgot; you can’t take it out. And, Luis, you can’t either. All right then, here’s an order: Senhor Monteiro, you take the Valente out and scuttle it. And hang onto the anchor while it’s going down. Tightly, you civilian.
He rolled over, clutching the pillow. Let’s forget the Valente. If we can’t dream about hat-check girls, let’s at least dream of something else pleasant. Let’s dream about the customs cutter, and … the Valente …
His eyes suddenly opened, his mind racing. His sleepiness fled; with a muffled curse he swung his feet over the edge of the bed, slipping his feet hastily into his waiting shoes. What a stupid idiot he was! He tied the laces and jumped up, heading for Wilson’s room.
The stocky man was sprawled across the bed, snoring evenly. Da Silva grabbed his arm, tugging. “Wilson! Wake up! Get up! We’ve got to get going!”
Wilson rolled over, curling into a ball without missing one snore.
“Wilson! Damn it, wake up, or I’ll …” Da Silva’s eye caught the water glass on the table. Without hesitation he picked it up and flung the contents into the puffy face on the pillow.
Isle of the Snakes Page 17