care much for us, do you?’
‘A man has to be alone at times.’
‘Evasion, evasion.’ She shook her head again. ‘You’re always alone. Married?’
‘No.’
‘But you were.’ It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
Hamilton looked at her, at the remarkable brown eyes which reminded him painfully of the only pair he’d ever seen like them. ‘You can tell?’
‘I can tell.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Divorced?’
‘No.’
‘No? You mean—’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh! Oh, I am sorry. How—how did she die?’
‘Come on. Plane to catch.’
‘Please. What happened?’
‘She was murdered.’ Hamilton stared out across the river, wondering what had caused him to make this admission to a total stranger. Ramon and Navarro knew, but they were the only two in the world he’d told. Perhaps a minute passedbefore he became conscious of the light touch of finger-tips on his forearm. Hamilton turned to look at her and knew at once that she wasn’t seeing him: the big brown eyes were masked in tears. Hamilton’s first reaction was one of an almost bemused incomprehension: this was totally out of character with the image she—ably abetted by Smith—projected of herself as a worldly-wise, street-wise cosmopolitan.
Hamilton gently touched the back of her hand and at first she didn’t appear to notice. Perhaps half a minute passed before she wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand, disengaged her other hand, smiled apologetically and said: ‘I’m sorry. What must you think of me?’
‘I think I may have misjudged you. I also think that in some way, some time, you may have suffered a lot.’
She had nothing to say to this, just wiped her eyes again, rose and turned away.
‘Battered’ is the adjective invariably, and perhaps inevitably, used to describe vintage and superannuated DC3s and this one was no exception: if anything it was an epitome, a prime example. The gleaming silver fuselage of yesteryear was but a fond and distant memory, the metal skin was pitted and scarred and appeared to be held together chiefly by large areas of rust: the engines, when started up, were a splendid complement to the rest of the plane, coughing, spluttering andvibrating to such an extent that it seemed improbable that they would not be shaken free from the airframe. But the plane lived up to its reputation of being one of the toughest and most durable ever built. With what seemed a Herculean effort-it couldn’t have been, it was under-loaded—it clambered off the runway and headed east into the late afternoon sky.
There were eleven people in the plane, Hamilton’s party, the pilot and co-pilot. Heffner, as was customary, was taking counsel with a bottle of Scotch: the aluminium flask, presumably, was being held as an emergency reserve. Seated across the aisle from Hamilton, he turned to him and spoke or, rather, shouted, for the rackety clamour from the ancient engines was almost deafening.
‘Wouldn’t kill you to tell us your plans, would it, Hamilton?’
‘No, it wouldn’t kill me. But what does that matter? How’s that going to help you?’
‘Curiosity.’
‘No secret. We land at Romono airstrip about the same time as the helicopter and hovercraft. Helicopter refuels—even those big birds have only a limited range—takes the hovercraft downstream, leaves it, returns and takes us down to join it in the morning.’
Smith, sitting in the seat next to Hamilton and listening, put a cupped hand to Hamilton’s ear and said: ‘How far downstream and why?’
‘I’d say about sixty miles. There are falls about fifty miles from Romono. Not even a hovercraft could negotiate them so this is the only way we can get it past there.’
Heffner said: ‘Do you have a map?’
‘As it happens, I have. Not that I require it. Why do you ask?’
‘If anything happens to you it would be nice to know where we are.’
‘You better pray nothing happens to me. Without me, you’re finished.’
Smith said into
‘A man has to be alone at times.’
‘Evasion, evasion.’ She shook her head again. ‘You’re always alone. Married?’
‘No.’
‘But you were.’ It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
Hamilton looked at her, at the remarkable brown eyes which reminded him painfully of the only pair he’d ever seen like them. ‘You can tell?’
‘I can tell.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Divorced?’
‘No.’
‘No? You mean—’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh! Oh, I am sorry. How—how did she die?’
‘Come on. Plane to catch.’
‘Please. What happened?’
‘She was murdered.’ Hamilton stared out across the river, wondering what had caused him to make this admission to a total stranger. Ramon and Navarro knew, but they were the only two in the world he’d told. Perhaps a minute passedbefore he became conscious of the light touch of finger-tips on his forearm. Hamilton turned to look at her and knew at once that she wasn’t seeing him: the big brown eyes were masked in tears. Hamilton’s first reaction was one of an almost bemused incomprehension: this was totally out of character with the image she—ably abetted by Smith—projected of herself as a worldly-wise, street-wise cosmopolitan.
Hamilton gently touched the back of her hand and at first she didn’t appear to notice. Perhaps half a minute passed before she wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand, disengaged her other hand, smiled apologetically and said: ‘I’m sorry. What must you think of me?’
‘I think I may have misjudged you. I also think that in some way, some time, you may have suffered a lot.’
She had nothing to say to this, just wiped her eyes again, rose and turned away.
‘Battered’ is the adjective invariably, and perhaps inevitably, used to describe vintage and superannuated DC3s and this one was no exception: if anything it was an epitome, a prime example. The gleaming silver fuselage of yesteryear was but a fond and distant memory, the metal skin was pitted and scarred and appeared to be held together chiefly by large areas of rust: the engines, when started up, were a splendid complement to the rest of the plane, coughing, spluttering andvibrating to such an extent that it seemed improbable that they would not be shaken free from the airframe. But the plane lived up to its reputation of being one of the toughest and most durable ever built. With what seemed a Herculean effort-it couldn’t have been, it was under-loaded—it clambered off the runway and headed east into the late afternoon sky.
There were eleven people in the plane, Hamilton’s party, the pilot and co-pilot. Heffner, as was customary, was taking counsel with a bottle of Scotch: the aluminium flask, presumably, was being held as an emergency reserve. Seated across the aisle from Hamilton, he turned to him and spoke or, rather, shouted, for the rackety clamour from the ancient engines was almost deafening.
‘Wouldn’t kill you to tell us your plans, would it, Hamilton?’
‘No, it wouldn’t kill me. But what does that matter? How’s that going to help you?’
‘Curiosity.’
‘No secret. We land at Romono airstrip about the same time as the helicopter and hovercraft. Helicopter refuels—even those big birds have only a limited range—takes the hovercraft downstream, leaves it, returns and takes us down to join it in the morning.’
Smith, sitting in the seat next to Hamilton and listening, put a cupped hand to Hamilton’s ear and said: ‘How far downstream and why?’
‘I’d say about sixty miles. There are falls about fifty miles from Romono. Not even a hovercraft could negotiate them so this is the only way we can get it past there.’
Heffner said: ‘Do you have a map?’
‘As it happens, I have. Not that I require it. Why do you ask?’
‘If anything happens to you it would be nice to know where we are.’
‘You better pray nothing happens to me. Without me, you’re finished.’
Smith said into
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