‘This time I mean it, believe me, Mike. I’ve waited for you nearly a year now and that’s as long as I’m prepared to wait for anyone. Besides, I … I’ve had another offer of work. A better offer as it happens.’
He glared at her. ‘From who?’ he demanded.
‘Felix Walsh over at WBA.’
‘Walsh?’ Mike sneered. ‘Yeah, I might have known. Jumped-up little creep, throwing his old man’s money around. Give me three months and Stone’s airlines will be pushing Walsh’s off the airlanes. That jerk probably just wants to get you into the sack.’
Helen smiled wryly. ‘Sure he does. But then that’s his privilege. He isn’t married.’
‘Goddammit, Helen!’ Mike smacked his fist down heavily on the dashboard of the jeep. ‘What money is Walsh offering you? I’ll match anything that he can put up.’
‘You jughead. It’s nothing to do with money, surely you can see that?’
‘Well listen, honey, you’ve got to give me a little more time, that’s all …’
Mike slowed the jeep as he approached the entrance to the airport. The guards recognized him, pushed back the high wire-mesh gate and waved him through. He glanced at his watch in silent irritation and then accelerated through the gate and out onto the airfield. ‘We’ll talk about this in Belém,’ he said quietly.
‘There’s no point in discussing it further.’
‘We’ll talk about it,’ he repeated forcefully; and then they both lapsed into moody silence. Mike headed over to the corrugated iron hanger at the edge of the airfield decorated with the SA logo. The word Stone was hardly one to engender confidence in the air. The Gooney was already out in position, its silvered metal surface glittering in the harsh sunlight. The fuel trucks were pulling away but Willy was still fussing around in his sweat-stained overalls, making a few last-minute checks. Mike clambered out of the jeep and stalked across to the plane leaving Helen to stroll along behind.
Willy glanced up as Mike approached. The mechanic was a grizzled monkey-like man who looked much older than his forty-five years. He was wearing an oily Boston Red Sox baseball cap the wrong way round on his slightly balding head, so that the peak would shield his neck from the sun; and the habitual stump of a foul-smelling cigar was clenched tightly in his teeth. He gave a scowl which in Willy’s world passed for a friendly grin.
‘Punctual as ever,’ he observed. A complete stranger meeting Willy for the first time would deduce that the man had an enormous chip on his shoulder, from the way he snapped out sarcastic comments but actually this was just his way of doing things. The fact of the matter was that he thought of Mike almost as the son he had never had. Willy was the archetypal crusty old bachelor, yet beneath his rough surface there really was a heart of pure gold. He was the most generous of men and ever sensitive to the moods of those around him.
‘Ricardo here yet?’ Mike asked.
‘Sure. He’s been here a half hour. Some people believe in being on time.’ Willy jerked his thumb in the direction of the cockpit where Ricardo Ramirez, the co-pilot, was already going through the flight check. Willy glanced at Helen. ‘Morning, Trojan,’ he said. This was Willy’s perpetual term of endearment for the girl and had something to do with Helen of Troy.
‘Morning, Willy. How’s Matilda this morning?’
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