was a familiar one, though Martin had not seen it for over six years. It was the pistoleiro who called himself Agnello, the same man, in the ill-fitting black suit, who on the occasion of that last meeting had been working for a certain Mr Caine.
Agnello’s face broadened into an ugly grin. ‘Ah, Senhor Taggart,’ he said, in slow, toneless English. ‘I have been looking for you everywhere.’
The boy pushed his way impatiently through the crowds of people that surrounded the reception desks, his dark eyes glancing nervously this way and that. He was perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, a thin rangy caboclo – half-breed Indian – who looked very out of place in his grubby, too-large cotton shirt and baggy trousers. He wore cheap rope-soled sandals that flapped as he walked and the airline ticket that he clutched in his right hand was damp with perspiration.
He moved out from the press of noisy tourists waiting for international flights and hurried over to the quieter desks that handled domestic routes, finding the right place and joining a short queue of latecomers. His eyes strayed again and again to the face of the large clock that overhung the reception area; he had not meant to cut things so fine and he was aware that in the departure lounge anxious eyes would be looking for him in vain. The trouble was he had been too confident, wanting to give his companions the impression that he had everything under control; and then it had all gone wrong, a stupid mistake that he had not even envisaged. The car he’d stolen to get him to the airport had simply broken down on him. In a blind panic, he had been forced to hitch a lift from a passing stranger, a farmer in an old pickup truck that had got him to his destination with only minutes to spare. Diabo, what a fool he’d look if he were to miss that plane!
The queue moved forward a step and the man in front of him, a tubby drawling American tourist, began to flirt with the girl at the desk as though there was all the time in the world. The boy sweated uncomfortably. The barrel of the gun was rubbing his flesh raw where it was tucked into the waistband of his trousers, the heavy butt obscured by the loose folds of his shirt. He noticed with a sense of unease that a uniformed security man was lounging against the wall, just behind the receptionist. His job, no doubt, was to run a critical eye over everyone and question any whose face did not seem to fit. For the first time since he had set out, the boy felt acutely aware of the shabbiness of his clothes. He had been advised more than once to purchase new ones, but had argued against it, maintaining that he would look even more out of place in a business suit. He had the face of a poor man and no amount of fancy clothing could disguise the fact. Better, he had concluded, to present himself as he really was. After all, poor men did sometimes travel by plane … didn’t they? Now he was almost at the moment of truth, the argument seemed somehow less convincing.
‘Take it easy,’ he warned himself; but his stomach gave an abrupt lurch and he had to close his eyes a moment and will his frayed nerves back into some kind of order.
‘Sim, senhor?’
He took a deep breath. Everything would be all right so long as he kept his nerve. He’d gone over every detail again and again, allowing for anything that might conceivably go wrong. All that remained was to get himself onto the plane and the rest … the rest would …
‘Senhor?’
He opened his eyes abruptly, realizing that the girl was talking to him. The American had disappeared and now the receptionist regarded him irritably. Behind her, the security man was smiling mockingly, his eyes inscrutable behind the dark lenses of a pair of sunglasses. Flustered, the boy shuffled forward and handed his ticket to the girl. She took it gingerly, holding it between thumb and forefinger as though it were daubed with excrement. She laid it on the counter, gave it a cursory check and rubber-stamped it with a sigh. Then she glanced up at him as though reflecting on the strangeness of a scruffy young caboclo’s possessing such a ticket.
‘Baggage?’ she inquired.
‘Nao.’ He shook his head and somehow could not meet her gaze. ‘I travel light,’ he mumbled; and instantly wished he had said nothing. The security man had stepped forward, still smiling dangerously. The boy wished he would take off those damned glasses. You needed to see a fellow’s eyes to know what he was thinking. He glanced at the black butt of a heavy pistol that jutted from a holster around the man’s waist as he leaned forward over the girl’s shoulder to look at the ticket.
‘Kind of young to be travelling alone,’ he observed.
The boy shrugged. ‘Old enough, I guess,’ he replied.
‘What takes you to Belém?’
‘I’ve got a job waiting for me there. A cousin of mine is a big man with a mining company. He’s promised to give me a good start …’ With an effort, he wrenched his gaze up to stare right back at the man. ‘I can’t seem to find anything that suits me in Rio.’
There was a long uncomfortable pause, broken only by the distant echoing drone of a flight announcement. The security man seemed to be thinking and it was impossible to tell whether his eyes were on the boy’s face or searching the folds of his cotton shirt for a tell-tale bulge; but then, inexplicably, his mouth lapsed into a friendly smile.
‘You’d better hurry on through,’ he said. ‘The flight will be leaving any minute now.’
The boy smiled, nodded, had to suppress a long sigh of relief. He turned and began to walk in the direction of the departure lounge.
‘Um momento, senhor!’
He froze in his tracks. The man’s voice was suddenly terse and rigid with authority. The friendliness had been simply a ploy to put him off guard. The boy’s blood seemed to run cold. He turned slowly, fully expecting to see the guard’s pistol pointing at his chest… but the man was grinning at him and holding out his ticket.
‘You won’t get very far without this.’
‘Nao … nao, of course not …’ The boy grabbed the ticket and hurried down the short corridor that led to the departure lounge. He went in just in time to hear the first call for flight SA119 to Belém and followed the stream of passengers that were already moving towards the open doorway at the end of the room. Before he stepped out into sunlight, he raised his right hand in an exaggerated fashion and wiped the back of his neck, a sign to those who were watching that nothing had gone wrong.
Out on the tarmac, the plane waited and the boy strolled towards it, whistling to himself. He knew all about this kind of plane, had devoted a year of his life to learning everything he could about it. He knew its range, its weight, the intimate workings of its navigation systems, anything and everything that could be gleaned from books on the subject. He had never actually been inside one before but was fairly confident that, should it become necessary, he could even fly it to its destination. But that would only be if something went wrong. He did not intend to make any more mistakes.
Martin winced as the point of a switchblade knife dug painfully into the freshly shaved flesh at the side of his throat.
‘Put your hands onto the basin,’ advised Agnello calmly. ‘If you try anything fancy, I’ll slit your throat.’
Martin stayed absolutely rigid, gazing sullenly down at the carpet bag by his feet. His pistol was inside. He cursed his carelessness as Agnello’s large left hand searched methodically up and down the length of his body and, predictably, discovered the leather sheath strapped to his right shin. The knife was quickly removed and tossed contemptuously to the other side of the room.
‘Now you can turn around,’ announced Agnello; and the pressure of the knife blade slackened momentarily. Martin turned slowly, his stomach lurching with fear. Agnello regarded him with silent disgust. ‘An amateur,’ he said tonelessly. ‘Where the hell did you think you were going?’
Martin forced his voice to respond, as he desperately tried to play for time. ‘You were quick,’ he murmured.
‘We