…’ The girl scanned her lists thoughtfully. ‘There’s a place tomorrow night on –’
‘Tomorrow night is too late!’ Martin snapped.
‘Well then, senhor, I’m afraid that …’
Martin did not hear the rest of her words. He nodded at her, but her voice did not reach him. This was something he hadn’t figured on. He’d just assumed he’d be able to clamber aboard a plane and take off. If he was obliged to hang around Rio till tomorrow night, he might as well go straight to Caine’s office and turn himself in. He moved away from the desk, his mind turning over furiously. Whatever happened, he had to put as much distance between Rio and himself in the shortest possible time. An internal flight perhaps? Yes, that might be the answer. Brazil was a big country; a simple hop up the coast involved a trip of several thousand miles. Lighting a cigarette, Martin manoeuvred his way across to the local flight desks. Various details were chalked up on blackboards. He found details of a domestic flight to Belém on the north-east coast, at the mouth of the Amazon. There was an overnight stop first at Recife, an eight-hour haul up the coast from Rio; and the second leg across to Belém would involve a journey that was barely shorter. While it was nothing like the distance that Martin wanted to put between himself and Caine it should at least buy him time to wait around for a flight to Europe. Best of all, this flight was due to depart in just under an hour’s time. He inquired at the desk and was relieved to find that there were still a few seats available. He purchased a ticket and strolled gratefully through to the small lounge at the far end of the building. It was quieter here, with only fifteen or so other passengers to worry about. At last he began to feel that his plan could succeed.
The fan above his head came back into focus. He had drifted for a moment into a half-sleep and his mind was a hazy jumble of confused thoughts. Instinctively, he lifted a hand to stroke the hard shape beneath his shirt. The touch was reassuring, but he was suddenly uneasy. Something had woken him and, sleep-dazed as he was, he could not direct his thoughts to identify whatever it had been. He yawned cavernously, shook his head to clear away the last shreds of sleep. Then the something happened again, making the blood in his veins turn to ice.
It was the firm, powerful grip of someone’s hand on his shoulder.
Mike Stone pushed his foot firmly down on the accelerator, urging the old jeep up to its top speed. The engine growled a noisy mechanical protest, the wheels leaped and bucked over the uneven surface of the road. However, such measures were entirely necessary. Mike was late; he was usually late for something; and there was still a considerable distance to the airport. He sat hunched behind the wheel, his grey eyes fixed on the way ahead. Despite the heat, he wore the scuffed leather flying jacket that was the uniform of his profession. Occasionally, he turned to glance slyly at the woman in the passenger seat, but she was still ignoring him. She leaned back, her eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, her long naturally curly red hair trailing in the wind. In the white cotton blouse and tight navy blue skirt her slim but curvacious body looked particularly inviting. Mike wondered wryly if he’d be able to last out the long trip to Belém without going crazy for her. Her name was Helen Brody; she was Mike’s stewardess and had been for nearly a year now. The two shared several things: a similar sense of humour, a tough, tenacious ability to survive; and on the regular overnight stops in Recife and Belém, a single hotel room and a double bed. It would have been a perfect arrangement but for one major problem: the wife and two children that Mike supported in his home on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro. That was the main reason why Helen had not spoken a word since he had picked her up an hour earlier. Mike appreciated her troubles but didn’t feel inclined to do anything about them.
Like most airmen, Mike had found himself at the end of the war with few prospects. His role in the affair had not been a martial one though he had seen plenty of action in the South Pacific. He had flown ‘Gooney Birds’, the rugged, ubiquitous and ever dependable DC3 airliners, hauling troops and equipment to wherever there was a suitable runway hacked out of the jungle. The surrender of the Japanese in ’forty-five had left him somewhat out on a limb. What was there for a man whose only ability was to fly a battered old crate around the airways of the world? The answer should have been obvious, but oddly enough, he had never even considered the idea until Willy Borden had suggested it. Willy was a ground crewman, a little fellow with big ideas and a tidy sum of money put away for safe-keeping. What Willy had in mind was a charter airline; oh, nothing fancy, mind you, just a single plane to begin with, perhaps a couple more in time if things went well. It would be a way of utilizing the particular talents that the war had given them and, as Willy was so quick to point out, one thing that there was bound to be a lot of at a time like this was surplus equipment. So, they had pooled their resources, purchased a Gooney and sought out a stretch of the earth’s surface where there were guaranteed transport problems. Mike’s wife, Mae, was loyal enough to go wherever work might be found and willing to take two young toddlers with her. Things had gone surprisingly smoothly and the only item missing was a capable stewardess.
Helen had answered the advertisement.
From the moment he saw her, Mike had wanted her and she had felt pretty much the same way about him. Helen was the daughter of some stuff-shirted diplomat at the American embassy in Rio. She had grown tired of attending boring functions and opted for making her own way in the world. As she’d told Mike at the interview, she’d never done this kind of work before, but she figured she could turn her hand to just about anything. Helen had got the job and, shortly afterwards, had got Mike. The affair was by now a fixture and, typically, everybody knew about it but Mae.
A horsedrawn wagon appeared in the road ahead of the jeep, a rickety vehicle loaded with cans of latex. A lone driver dozed at the reins while his skinny horse plodded placidly to some unknown destination. Mike did not slow the jeep for an instant but accelerated around the rear of the wagon, cutting perilously close to the side of it. Startled, the horse reared up with an indignant snort and a couple of cans of raw rubber went hurtling back into the road. A stream of livid Portuguese curses were flung in the jeep’s wake but Mike just grinned, rejoicing in the petty annoyance he had stirred up.
Helen glanced at him contemptuously. ‘Big shot,’ she sneered.
Mike glanced at her in mock surprise. ‘Say, you do speak!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was beginning to think it would be like this all the way to Belém.’
She scowled at him. ‘Grow up,’ she advised.
‘All right, all right, I get the message. I’m not the world’s most popular man today, am I? You want to talk about it?’
She shrugged. ‘What’s the use? It never gets us anywhere. I mean, I talk to you and talk to you, but sometimes I wonder if you ever hear a damned word. It’s obvious you didn’t tell Mae.’
‘Hell no I didn’t! It isn’t that damned easy, believe me! I … wanted to tell her but …’
‘The trouble with you is you want everything, Mike. You want me on a string so you can have your fun when it pleases you. And you want Mae and the kids to be there waiting for you when you fly home, to make you feel like a big man back from the war. But what about what I want, Mike? I’ve been patient for a long time now … surely you could have brought yourself to –’
‘Aww, it’s easy for you to say!’ retorted Mike. ‘You’re unattached, you don’t know how difficult it is. You can’t just slap somebody in the face like that, not after all the years we’ve had. Mae’s been a good wife to me.’
‘I could be a better one,’ replied Helen calmly. ‘You said yourself that you no longer make out with her.’
‘Sure, but there’s more to a marriage than that. You don’t know the half of it, that’s your trouble. How old are you, twenty-three, twenty-four? Mae’s given up a lot for me. Heck, she’s trailed halfway round the world hanging on to my shirt-tails; she’s had my kids; she …’ His voice trailed away into a long sigh. He glanced at Helen reassuringly. ‘I will