by Anne Mather
Morgana was glad of the glass of wine in her fingers. It gave her something to do with her hands. “I think so,” she replied quietly. “But it was only a dance!”
Michael frowned. “Yes. I wonder why he chose you.”
Morgana's colour deepened. “So do I,” she said.
CHAPTER II
THE airport at Galeao was cool and air-conditioned after the heat outside the building, and Morgana sat with Ruth in the airport bar, sipping iced lager and waiting for her flight to be called, with pleasurable regret that her holiday was over. These two weeks in Rio had been quite delightful, and she was sorry she had to leave. Yet for all that, in some ways she would be glad to get away. Rio, Brazil, South America; these things were synonymous in her mind with other, more disturbing memories, and she longed to get back among familiar things and familiar people. Of course, she was flying to Los Angeles first, to join her father, but soon afterwards they would be en route for London and home.
Her faint dissatisfaction with her holiday and with herself had stemmed from that eventful night at the Monteraverdian Embassy, and she had found it difficult preventing her thoughts from turning continually to the Salvador brothers. It was ridiculous, of course, and yet she had wondered whether Ricardo might try to get in touch with her. He knew she was staying with the Dennisons, and there were such things as telephones, but no one had called, and she had been unable to dispel the disappointment this had aroused in her. Not, she told herself firmly, that she would have accepted any invitation which might have been offered, but just to satisfy herself that Ricardo had not been using her as Luis had said he was.
Now, Ruth regarded her regretfully, and said: “I shall miss you, Morgana. These two weeks have been marvellous for me. Having someone to go about with, someone to share things with.”
Morgana smiled. “They've been wonderful for me, too, Ruth,” she replied, warmly. “You must persuade your parents to allow you to come to England and stay with us. Not that I can promise you a very exciting life at Friars Warren, but at least we could go to concerts and the theatre, and there are several young men, suitably unattached, I could introduce you to.”
Ruth chuckled. “Now when would a young man notice me with you around?” she enquired, with resigned amusement.
Morgana frowned. “Don't be silly, Ruth, I'm serious. I should hazard a guess that you'd be quite a sensation in our small town with all that russet-coloured hair, and that marvellous tan!”
Ruth sighed. “We'll see.” She traced the pattern in the wood of the bar counter. “I would like to take you up on that some time, though. I'd like to see your father again.”
Morgana raised her eyebrows. “Indeed? I shall begin to think it's my father you're most interested in shortly!” she laughed.
Ruth shrugged. “Well, he is unattached, isn't he”
Morgana stared at her incredulously. “Are you serious?”
“Of course.” Ruth smiled. “No, don't worry, Morgana, I'm sure your father isn't interested in me.”
Morgana shook her head. “I never suspected,” she exclaimed.
“What? What was there to suspect? I guess it was just that he was there, and I was young enough to become enamoured of him. Don't alarm yourself. He did not give me any encouragement. He just regarded me, as he regarded you, I suppose.”
Morgana cupped her chin in her hand. “Thank you for confiding in me. Don't you think though it was just a schoolgirl crush? After all, we're twenty-two now, and you haven't seen him for three years.”
“I know.” Ruth bent her head. “Maybe you're right. In retrospect, though, those times I spent at Friars Warren seem the most happy times of my childhood.”
Morgana frowned. “I don't believe it. Why, your parents used to take you everywhere in the long summer vac. I remember you going to Switzerland and Italy, even to the States.”
“Yes, but that's not the same, is it? I mean, they didn't talk to me, not like your father talked to you. Somehow Mummy and Daddy have always seemed remote from childish contact. We went everywhere, as you say, but just as in Rio they attend these continual social functions when we were abroad they attended others. You see – wherever they go, they have friends, and they give parties …” She sighed. “I suppose now I'm supposed to appreciate it, too, and to a certain extent I do, but just now and then I wish we had an ordinary life, like you and your father.”
Morgana regarded her sympathetically. “Well, as soon as I get home we'll get something arranged,” she promised, gently. “I can't promise you my father's company though. Since he joined the university he's been kept pretty busy.”
“He must be clever,” said Ruth, with interest. “I mean – Daddy's work is so – so boring.”
Morgana smiled. “Economics are not exactly exciting,” she commented dryly.
Ruth squeezed her arm. “Oh, any minute now they're going to call your flight. Couldn't you ring your father and tell him you've been delayed, or something, and stay another couple of days?”
Morgana shook her head regretfully. “No, I've got to go. But I'll write, just as soon as I get home.”
Ruth nodded. “See you do.” She looked round the bar speculatively. “I wonder if all these people are waiting for your flight?”
Morgana looked about her. “Maybe,” she was saying casually, when her palms suddenly moistened, and the colour drained from her cheeks. A man was standing across from them with his back to them. His height and the set of his shoulders were remarkably like those of the Salvador brothers, but then he turned and Morgana saw that he was a stranger.
Ruth had noticed Morgana's sudden tension, and glanced round quickly. “Who is it? What's wrong, Morgana?” she exclaimed.
Morgana let out a deep breath, unaware until that moment that she had been holding it. “Why – nothing,” she denied, awkwardly.
Ruth frowned and looked round again. “It was that man, wasn't it? That dark man. You thought it was Ricardo Salvador.”
Morgana lifted her shoulders indifferently, the colour returning to her cheeks. Sipping her lager, she said: “So what if I did?”
“Well, he had some effect on you, didn't he? What did he say to you that should cause you such a degree of tension? You never did say much about that affair.”
“There was nothing to say,” replied Morgana, wishing she had not caused this topic to be raised.
“No?” Ruth looked sceptical. “And you turn pale at the suggestion of sight of him? Honestly, Morgana, what do you take me for?”
Morgana bent her head. Ruth had been honest with her about Morgana's father. She deserved honesty in return. “It – it wasn't Ricardo Salvador I was concerned about,” she said, slowly. “It was Luis.”
“Luis!” Ruth stared at her in astonishment. “But you don't know Luis, do you?”
Morgana sighed. “Only slightly. I danced with him, too.”
“I see. So that's why you were so long.” Ruth nodded. “And – and was he – well – fresh with you?”
Morgana could have laughed, but there was no mirth in this situation. “Oh, no,” she said. “No, not at all.”
Ruth was intrigued. “Then I simply don't understand,” she said, frowning.
Morgana looked at her through her long lashes. “Well, nor do I, actually,” she confessed wryly.
As Ruth would have said more, the tannoy system came into operation and Morgana's flight was called. Morgana finished her drink and slid off her stool. But when Ruth would have accompanied her, she shook her head. “No, please,” she said. “Don't come with me. I hate goodbyes. Let's just say cheerio here, and I'll see you in London – soon.”
Ruth compressed her lips. “If that's what you want, Morgana,” she agreed. “Until – until London then!”
“That's right. Goodbye, Ruth.” Morgana squeezed her hand gently, and then turned and walked blindly through the tables to the exit.
The aircraft was barely half full when it took off from Galeao. It was a smaller plane than the one which had b
rought Morgana from New York after she had left her father to fly on to California and she was lucky enough to have a window seat. Looking down on the sweep of shore line that bordered the thickly populated environs of Rio de Janeiro, she felt a pang of regret at leaving so much beauty behind. There was poverty, too, of course, but the rugged coves that could be found only a few miles’ drive out from the city centre with their white beaches and foaming surf more than compensated for the ugliness of the favellas. And yet the remarkable thing was that despite deplorable housing conditions and lack of amenities the people maintained a wholly vital spirit that no amount of misery could destroy. The massive statue of Christ passed away below them and the plane turned inland to cross the jagged peaks of the sierras. Faint patches of cloud dispersed slowly below them as the shadows lengthened and Morgana could distinguish the arid slopes,’ sun-burned above the lush foliage below. It was a panorama of grey and brown and blue, the valleys shadowed by the high slopes of the ranges that towered one above the other. It seemed impossible that the sun should ever penetrate those tropical forests that bordered swiftly running rivers and she felt a quiver of excitement pass through her.
The sun went down in a blaze of glory, and darkness hid the majesty of the primitive land below their fragile craft. Morgana gave her attention to the magazines she had bought at the airport, and tried to relax. Across the aisle she saw the man from the airport bar, the dark-skinned man who had reminded her so vividly of the Salvadors. He looked her way and she encountered his gaze and looked swiftly away again, not wanting to appear inquisitive, and thereafter she concentrated on her books.
Dinner was served soon after, and she ate sparingly, enjoying the coffee that followed the meal. She was in the process of closing her eyes to try and sleep for a while when several things happened all at once which afterwards became inextricably tangled in her confused mind.
She remembered there was a cry from the rear of the plane. Some old man had had a heart seizure, or at least that was what everybody thought. The two stewardesses hastened back to attend to him and while Morgana, like everyone else, was curiously looking back in an attempt to see what was going on the dark-skinned man from across the aisle got to his feet and his companion went forward and entered the pilot's compartment. Morgana knew at once that something was wrong. For one thing, passengers simply did not enter the pilot's sanctum during the night, and she looked up to find the man beside her was holding a small, but very lethal-looking, revolver. She stifled the cry that rose in her throat as the man began to speak, first in Portuguese, and then in English. As the passengers turned to listen, and saw the weapon in his hands there were horrified gasps and one of the women screamed.
The man waited until there was a constrained silence and then went on: “Please do not panic! There is no need for anyone to get hurt.”
Morgana quelled her own fear and looking up at him said: “What do you intend to do? Have you taken over the plane?”
The man gave her a brief stare. “Indeed, senhorita, my comrade is now in command. I am assured the pilot will do as he is told or my companion will fire his gun, puncturing the body of the plane and possibly sending us all plunging down in a death spiral to the jagged slopes below!”
There were murmurs of protest from the passengers and Morgana thought with dismay how easy it was for a man with a gun to commandeer an aircraft. It was such a vulnerable means of transport relying so much on the infallibility of its pilot and the instruments he controlled.
Now the man stepped to one side as another man came forward from the back of the plane. Obviously, Morgana thought, the assumed illness of the old man had been a deliberate ruse to distract the stewardesses’ attention. Now the two girls were seated in rear seats and as helpless as any of the passengers.
Morgana tried to maintain a sense of calm. As the man had said, there was no point in panicking, and they still didn't know what was behind this show of force. The two men beside her spoke together, but they spoke too quickly for her to understand and their patios was indistinguishable. There was a nervous buzz of conversation from the rest of the passengers, and Morgana, sitting alone, felt isolated from their group. She refused to consider what might become of them, and instead looked up at the men beside her and said:
“Where are you taking us? Surely we have a right to know.”
The man who had spoken to the passengers looked down at her with narrowed eyes. “You are inquisitive, senhorita, and I do not have to tell you anything.”
Morgana lay back in her seat and looked out of the port despairingly. There was nothing to be seen in the blackness, only the faint flaring at the tail of the engines and the diamond glitter of a star. She wondered where the men were from. They were not Brazilians, or at least they did not speak like Brazilians. And besides, they most closely resembled the Salvadors who came from the middle regions of South America, near Bolivia and Paraguay. They could be Monteraverdians, themselves, part of the guerilla movement Mr. Dennison had talked about.
A few minutes later the pilot emerged from his cabin looking taut and weary. He was accompanied by the man who had entered the cabin earlier. The pilot stood at the head of the aisle and spoke to his passengers.
“We are bound for an airstrip somewhere in these cordilleras,” he said. “We will land there and allow these men to disembark, then we will fly on to Los Angeles.”
Morgana knew that the cordilleras were the high ranges and so apparently did many others of the passengers. A drawling American voice asked: “Aren't these the foothills of the Andes, man?”
His words caused consternation among some of the others. To contemplate landing a plane of this size on some plateau among these peaks was a terrifying prospect.
The pilot's face was drawn. “Sim,” he said heavily. He was a Brazilian himself and he knew the position they were in better than any of them.
Morgana twisted her fingers together. Unwillingly, she was feeling the first twinges of real fear.
The American spoke again. “You don't honestly expect to put a crate of this size down among these hills!” he said dryly.
The man beside the pilot spoke now. “There is no danger,” he insisted calmly. “The plateau has been used before. I repeat, there is no danger.”
Morgana didn't believe him and nor did anyone else, but what could they do?
The pilot spread his hands. “What would you have me do?” he asked helplessly. “Refuse? And have them crash the plane?”
The American sounded reluctantly agreeable and one or two of the other men asked questions, their voices revealing their doubts and anxieties.
When everyone had found out what they wanted to know the pilot returned to his cabin, still accompanied by the other man. As he was leaving, one of the older women said tremulously: “What about radio contact? Can we contact our families and tell them we are all right?”
The pilot shook his head, and the man with the gun said: “All radio contact has been cut. There will be no messages.”
Morgana looked up at him quickly. “But – but everyone will think the plane has crashed – that we are dead!” she protested.
“For a few hours, that is all,” returned the man calmly.
“But our families will be sick with worry!” exclaimed another woman. “It's inhuman to let people think we are dead!”
“Enough. I will answer no more questions!”
The man was curt and for a few taut moments there was absolute silence. Then, gradually, they began whispering together and Morgana wished she could feel less distrustful. She couldn't believe they would just touch down wherever their destination might lie and allow the pilot and crew to carry on knowing full well that they would be immediately reported. And anyway, why had they chosen this way to get to their destination? Why couldn't they have used the normal flights to Monteraverde, if that indeed was where they were taking them?
She thought of her father waiting patiently at the airport in Los Angeles, and imagined his painful anxiety. W
hat would the authorities do when they lost radio contact? Ruth and her parents might hear about it, too. They would imagine some terrible disaster.
She chewed her lower lip unhappily. She was more scared than she had ever been in her life before and a panicky feeling was invading her stomach. It was all right trying to be brave, but she of all of them seemed completely alone …
Presently the sign was illuminated that everyone should fasten their safety belts and they began to lose altitude. Morgana fumbled with her belt nervously, unable to co-ordinate her movements. She felt rather sick and slightly dizzy and her knees had begun to tremble.
Suddenly the belt was taken firmly out of her hands and secured in place by a man's hands, and she looked up incredulously into the face of Vittorio Salvador. “You – you were the old man –” she was beginning when he shook his head slightly and slid into the seat beside her, securing his own safety belt before speaking.
“I'm sorry, senhorita,” he said, lifting his shoulders expressively.
Morgana swallowed hard, some of her fears leaving her. Looking at him, she said, softly: “You – you are one of – of them?”
Vittorio nodded. “Yes, senhorita. Manoel, José, Felipe, they are my friends.”
Morgana shook her head in amazement. “But where are you taking us?”
The old man frowned. “We are going to La Nava, senhorita, the high valley of the Rio Quimera.”
Morgana stared at him. “The high valley,” she repeated, slowly. “In Monteraverde, I suppose.”
“Of a surety, senhorita.”
Morgana bent her head. She had suspected of course, and now her suspicions were verified. But why was he telling her where they were going? Didn't he care that she knew? Could she not just as easily betray their whereabouts when she got out of this?
A disturbing doubt invaded her mind. Surely these men or their leaders did not intend to keep them prisoners. Did this old man know their plans? Or was he merely betraying a confidence himself?