The High Valley. Anne Mather

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. What 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?

      The latter seemed unlikely. Vittorio might be old but he had all the alertness and cunning of a younger man, she was sure, and he was not the kind of man to say anything carelessly. But before more doubts formed in her troubled mind, the plane banked sharply and the woman at the back who had screamed before uttered a shrill cry.

      “We'll crash, we'll crash!” she shouted, hysterically. “We're all doomed!” Her voice collapsed into sobbing, and Morgana glanced at her companion. Vittorio's gnarled fingers closed over the hand that rested on the arm of her seat, and he said: “Do not worry, little one. The will of God will guide us to our destination.”

      Morgana's fingers gripped the arms of her seat very tightly. She was not wholly convinced that any will could secure their certain safety, and when she saw flares below them her heart leapt nauseously into her mouth. Such a narrow plateau confronted them, brilliantly lit by torches whose flames leapt high into the air, and beyond rose the ragged peaks into whose jaws plunged sudden death. She closed her eyes, feeling the sweat standing out on her forehead, and the dampness of the palms of her hands.

      “Courage, little one,” said Vittorio, again, and a moment later the wheels of the aircraft hit the solid surface of the plateau.

      They were rushing madly towards a wall of rock that loomed in front of them. Surely the air brakes would never stop them in time. Morgana stared blindly in front of her, dreading the moment when the grinding of metal would tell them that they were doomed.

      But the grinding never came, only a sudden violent tilting of the aeroplane, and a grim striking sound as the fuselage scraped along a gravelled surface and finally brought them to an abrupt halt. There had been a strange silence in the plane during that terrifying landing, and now the passengers seemed to come to life with relieved speed.

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