The Tarantula Stone. Philip Caveney

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Willy reached out an oil-blackened hand to touch the silver flank of the plane with the fondness of a country squire stroking his favourite horse.

      ‘Well, she’s in one piece and that’s something, I suppose. Which reminds me, Mike, I’ve got a list here of those parts we need. We’ll have to order them just as soon as this trip is finished. The old girl isn’t going to hold up for ever you know.’

      ‘What’re you grouching about, Willy? She got through all the safety checks, didn’t she?’

      ‘Yeah, sure, this time. But things are changing, Mike, the war’s over now. People don’t fly by the seat of their pants any more. You’ve been pushing Matilda too hard on that first leg up to Recife. You’ve barely got a reserve of fuel as it is; it would only take some small problem and any one of these parts could give out. Sure the plane is sound, but it’s a helluva responsibility we’ve taken on here. It’s simply a question of keeping in a proper reserve …’

      ‘OK, OK, I get the general idea. You order whatever you need and I’ll sign the papers. Did you get that problem with the undercarriage straightened out?’

      Helen clambered up the couple of steps to the door and went inside to check that everything was tidy. She worked her way along the cramped interior and then went through the doorway into the cockpit. Ricardo glanced back at her with a good-natured grin on his tanned, handsome face. At twenty-six, with his thick jet-black hair, his dark hazel eyes and his perfectly spaced, even white teeth, he was probably regarded as the most eligible bachelor currently working the airlines. Happily though, he was a shy, unassuming boy who didn’t seem to have much time for fooling around. But he was genuinely fond of Helen, she was sure of that. Sometimes Helen wished that she could become interested in a younger man like Ricardo, but she always found herself gravitating back to the more mature male and, nine times out of ten, there was a wife tucked away somewhere, like a nagging conscience. Mature! That was a joke. Mike was the most immature man she had ever encountered but she was stuck on him anyway. Helen returned Ricardo’s smile. If nothing else, she enjoyed flirting with the boy.

      ‘Hello handsome,’ she said.

      ‘Hello, Trojan! How’s tricks?’

      ‘Not so bad. You know me, Ricardo, always a good girl.’

      He chuckled. ‘Yeah, that’s what I heard.’

      She tousled his hair affectionately. ‘Hey you, keep your mind on your work.’

      ‘I’ll try. Where’s our great captain?’

      ‘Outside, arguing with our great mechanic. Think there’s a chance we’ll get this crate up in the air on time, for once?’

      ‘Hey, now that would be something, wouldn’t it?’

      Mike appeared in the doorway. ‘What would be something, Ricky?’

      ‘Oh, we were just saying. Maybe for once we can take off on time.’

      Mike shrugged. ‘What’s the hurry?’ he muttered. ‘We don’t charge enough to make that worthwhile.’ He turned to say something to Helen, but she was already pushing past him, back into the passenger section. Mike frowned. He watched her for a moment as she prowled slowly along the length of the plane. Then he turned back to find Ricardo staring at him thoughtfully.

      ‘For God’s sake then,’ muttered Mike irritably. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’ He closed the door behind him and then clambered into his seat. As he lowered himself into place, his hand brushed automatically against the butt of the sawn-off shot-gun that rested alongside his leg space.

      ‘One of these days that things gonna go off and blow your foot away,’ observed Ricardo.

      Mike stared at him impassively. ‘Flight check,’ he announced tonelessly.

      ‘Oh, it’s all right. Everything’s fine, I’ve been through it.’

      Mike’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Flight check,’ he said again.

      Ricardo sighed. When Mike was in this kind of mood, there was no sense fighting it. He started the procedure again, right from the very beginning.

      Martin gazed up into the face of a stranger; but the expression on the face was a warm smile and, after a moment’s hesitation, he began to relax. The man was a stocky Portuguese dressed in crumpled khakis. His swarthy face was quite handsome, dominated by a pair of dark, intelligent eyes, and he wore an immaculately clipped Zapata-style moustache. In one hand he was holding an unlit cigarette. He gave Martin an apologetic grin.

      ‘Forgive me, senhor. But I was afraid you would sleep through and miss your call for the plane … and also, I am out of matches.’

      Martin nodded, reached in his pocket and handed the matches to the man.

      ‘Thank you, senhor. You are English, yes?’

      ‘No, American.’

      ‘Ah.’ The Portuguese lit his cigarette, exhaled smoke and nodded enthusiastically. ‘I wish myself one day to visit your country. Allow me please to introduce myself. Claudio … Claudio Ormeto.’ He indicated the seat opposite Martin. ‘May I?’

      Martin shrugged. ‘It’s a free country.’

      Claudio sat down. He was obviously not going to let his enthusiasm be dampened by Martin’s aloofness. ‘You are going to Belém, yes?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘Is it … how do they say it in American movies … er, business or pleasure?’

      Martin smiled. ‘Well now, I don’t think I’ve quite figured that out yet. How about yourself ?’

      ‘Oh business, business … To be honest, senhor, there’s not a great deal of pleasure to be found in Belém. But my work sends me there. I work for the Brazilian Government in the capacity of an Indian observer. At this time, there are many reports of bad treatment filtering in to our agency. Garimpeiros and seringuiros – rubber tappers – are travelling down the headwaters of the Amazon and laying claim to land in the interior … Indian land. It seems that these men are simply killing off any Indians who oppose them.’

      Martin nodded. ‘Yeah, that sounds likely enough. From what I hear, the Indians have always had a rough time of it, ever since the Conquistadores first came over and started kicking them around.’

      Claudio nodded. ‘If you had seen the reports that arrived this month … women raped, men strung up and cut open with axes. It’s hard to believe that men can be capable of such things. Now, of course, the big fazendeiros are becoming aware that there are vast areas of jungle land that they can buy up for a few cruzeiros an acre. Certain government departments turn a blind eye to the deal and that only makes our job more difficult. I heard last week of a mateiro – a forester – who has been travelling amongst many of the tribes, distributing clothing to them.’

      ‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’ inquired Martin.

      ‘The clothing had come from a smallpox hospital in Belém. A clever man that mateiro. He knows only too well that the Indians have no immunity to such diseases. They die like flies, СКАЧАТЬ