‘You er … must be Mr … Taggart,’ she ventured quietly.
He nodded and she ticked the final name.
‘It appears that I cut things a little fine there,’ he observed.
‘You could say that.’ She motioned him into the plane’s interior and signalled to the attendants to remove the steps, then pulled the door shut, moving the heavy bar down and across to seal it. When she pressed a buzzer beside the door, a signal that everything was ready, the plane began to taxi away.
Martin moved down the centre aisle. The seats were nearly all taken, but about halfway along he found Claudio sitting by himself.
‘Ah, senhor! I was beginning to think you were having trouble back there!’
Martin forced a smile. ‘I was.’ He settled into the vacant seat and patted his stomach. ‘Something I ate back at the hotel, I think. Sea-food.’
Claudio raised a hand in sympathy. ‘You do not have to tell me, Mr … forgive me, I still do not know your name.’
Martin smiled. Now he was on his way, he saw little reason to be cagy about his name and it seemed unwise to offer one that differed from what was on his passport.
‘It’s Taggart. Martin Taggart.’
‘Ah, Senhor Taggart, you do not have to tell me about sea-food. When it is good for you, it is like swallowing little pieces of heaven; and when it is bad for you, it is like throwing up several acres of hell.’ He chuckled. ‘Are you nervous of flying, senhor?’
‘Me? No, not at all.’
‘Me neither. I only wish the view was better.’
Martin glanced across the aisle and saw the heavy, grey-bearded figure of Carlos Machado sitting in the opposite seat. He had evidently placed his daughter by the window so that she could observe the wild scenery over which they would fly.
‘In the old days, cattle always travelled in freight cars,’ Claudio observed, making no attempt to lower his voice. ‘These days they go by aeroplane. It makes no sense to me!’ For a moment, Machado glanced at Claudio with a kind of smug, distant aloofness that seemed to suggest that the man’s wealth made him somehow above the retribution of ordinary people. Then he turned away and whispered something to his daughter that elicited a high-pitched giggle.
The plane had come to a halt at the top of the runway. Helen moved along the aisle, asking everybody who had not yet done so to fasten their seat belts. She paused beside Martin. ‘Your belt, Mr Taggart,’ she reminded him.
He glanced up at her, grinned wickedly. ‘Well now, I tell you what the problem is. I can never seem to get the damn thing fixed together. Perhaps you could show me?’
She gazed at him coolly. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to work it out.’
Martin laughed and winked at Claudio. ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying.’
‘Oh, no, to be sure. And I guess you’ve been starved of pretty girls for a long time now.’
A sharp twinge of suspicion cut into Martin’s voice. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh … only that a garimpeiro does not have much opportunity to see pretty girls, that is all.’
‘I never said anything to you about being a garimpeiro. I didn’t say anything about my work at all.’
Claudio nodded easily. ‘You didn’t have to, senhor. It is all written in your hands.’
‘My hands?’ Martin glanced at his outstretched palms and then he understood. Those scarred, calloused, iron-hard hands could belong to only one profession.
‘Tell me,’ he muttered wryly. ‘Is everybody in Brazil a natural detective?’
Claudio laughed. ‘No,’ he retorted. ‘It’s just that we practise all the time.’
Martin’s reply was drowned as the two one-thousand-horsepower engines roared abruptly into life. The plane accelerated along the runway, its momentum pushing the passengers back in their seats. Within a surprisingly short distance, the glittering silver fuselage began to lift upwards into the empty air, leaving nothing but a fleeting black shadow on the hot surface of the runway to mark its passing.
Martin leaned over to peer out of the window, watching in fascination as the buildings, vehicles and people below dwindled to the size of children’s playthings. A few moments later, the plane was banking around towards the north-east and there, far below, perched on the edge of the glittering South Atlantic Ocean, was the famous sugar-loaf mountain, a strange humped shape dwarfed by the vast stretch of blue water. From this height, it looked somehow inconsequential, like a half-melted cake that had collapsed at the edges. He settled into his seat with a sigh of content. Now at last he felt he was really on his way to freedom. He glanced up as the stewardess came walking down the aisle.
‘Say, Miss, can I get a drink now?’
She shook her head. ‘Not just yet, Mr Taggart. I’ll announce when the bar is open.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’ He grinned at her but she turned away, her face expressionless, and continued to the front of the plane. Martin studied the rhythmic sway of her buttocks beneath the tight blue fabric of her skirt.
‘I think you’re right, Claudio,’ he murmured. ‘It is too long since I’ve seen a pretty girl. Now why do you suppose that one is so unfriendly?’
Claudio grinned. ‘Maybe because you made her late,’ he suggested. ‘Or maybe just because she figures you are a little too fresh with her.’
‘Fresh? Well, I oughta be fresh. I’ve been keeping it on ice for the best part of six years. The dame sure is a looker though. What’s the betting she’s the captain’s personal piece of ass?’
‘She could just as easily be a respectable married lady,’ reasoned Claudio.
Martin shook his head. ‘Maybe you’re not such a great detective after all,’ he retorted. ‘For one thing, the lady ain’t wearing a wedding ring; and besides, women who look the way she does are never married. You know why? Because men are afraid to trust them, that’s why. If I was married to a broad like that I wouldn’t be able to sleep nights, worrying about some other guy sniffing around when my back was turned. That’s why most men are married to ugly women and get their fun chasing around.’
Claudio shrugged. ‘I am afraid I am no expert on the subject,’ he said. ‘I have no wife.’
‘Hell, neither have I!’ Martin watched as the stewardess opened the door that led to the pilot’s cabin and went inside, closing it behind her. ‘Don’t plan to have one either. Got a lot of fun to catch up on.’ He glanced at his companion. ‘Oh, just for the record, Claudio. I was a garimpeiro for six years and I never killed a single damned Indian in that time. Didn’t mistreat one, so far as I can recall, though I’ll admit I’ve seen it happen from time to time. It was never my style.’
Claudio nodded, waved his hand in dismissal. ‘There are good and bad in all walks of life, senhor. I had no suspicions, I can assure you; and look, don’t go thinking I’m some kind of plaster saint. It’s just my job and I do it the best I can.’
‘What happens when you get up to Belém?’
‘Oh … I charter a boat, head down the Amazon. I am already friends with some of the chiefs around the headwaters. Wherever civilization is advancing, I try to be just a little ahead of it. I talk to the people, organize immunization, try to prepare them for the shock that is coming. You might say my function is that of a cushion. I try to push myself between the axe and