‘Jesus Christ!’ Martin opened his eyes and the back of the seat in front of him came abruptly into focus. He reached out a hand to stroke the fabric of it, anxious to reassure himself that this time he really was awake. His trembling fingers found the leather pouch against his clammy chest; and when he turned, fearfully, it was to find Claudio Ormeto sleeping peacefully beside him. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered again and gave a long sigh of relief. He fumbled for his cigarettes and placed one in his mouth, which felt as dry as a desert. He leaned over and glanced back along the aisle, searching for the hostess. She came forward with an undisguised scowl on her face.
What is this charm I have? thought Martin dryly. She looks like she hates my guts.
Helen came and stood beside Martin’s seat. ‘Yes?’ she inquired mechanically; and Martin noticed that she was not even looking at him but that her eyes were fixed intently on the door to the pilot’s cabin.
‘I was wondering if I could have that drink now?’
‘Drink …?’ She seemed hardly to have registered what he had said. ‘I uh … what kind of …?’
‘Excuse me, but is there something wrong?’
She turned now to stare at him. ‘Wrong? What do you mean? Why should there be anything wrong?’
Martin shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t know. You just seem a little disturbed, somehow.’
Helen shook her head. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. I’m sorry, Mr …’
‘Martin. My name’s Martin.’
‘I’m sorry Mr Martin. Now what drink was it you wanted?’
He ordered a Scotch and soda and watched as the girl threw another intense look at the pilot’s door and then moved away. Probably had an argument with her old man. He glanced back at his sleeping companion, then at his watch. He had slept for just over an hour. He found his matches and lit the cigarette that still drooped from the corner of his mouth. When he got to Belém, he’d search out the best hotel and just climb into bed and stay there until it was time to pick up his flight to Europe. Right now, the luxury of sleeping between clean sheets in a soft double bed seemed the most incredible experience a man could wish for. Later he would think of much more imaginative pleasures.
A glass was pushed unceremoniously into his hand.
‘Er, thanks a lot.’ He gazed at the whisky. The contents were nearly slopping over the brim of the glass. There must have been nearly four shots in there. ‘Say lady, if you’re planning to send me back to sleep, you’re going the right way about it.’ He glanced up at her but she was staring apprehensively at that damned door. ‘Look, honey, what’s the matter? Is somebody in there giving you a hard time?’
She glared at him. ‘No,’ she snapped ungraciously. ‘Of course not!’ She turned and stalked away. Martin sighed.
‘If I carry on at this rate,’ he murmured to himself, ‘she’ll be wanting to marry me by the time we land.’ He chuckled and took a large swallow of his drink. It tasted warm and unpleasant, making him long for a handful of crushed ice.
He leaned across Claudio and stared out of the window. Below there was nothing but a wilderness of jungle, stretching in every direction as far as the eye could see.
What a Godforsaken place, he thought. Brazil must be the ass-hole of the world. Nothin’ down there but trees, snakes and savages … He felt suddenly very vulnerable, comparing the tiny, insect-like plane to the vast all-encompassing jungle far below.
Mike was getting desperate. The plane was fast approaching the point of no return and still the kid with the gun had not let his guard down enough for the pilots to risk jumping him. He stood just at the back of their seats, tense and watchful, swinging his gun from right to left at the merest sound from either of them, and he would question every little move they made towards the control panel. It was clear that at some time the boy had received extensive training on the subject of aircraft and it would clearly be unwise to try and hoodwink him in any way. There was only one point in Mike’s favour. The boy did not know about the shotgun tucked away by the pilot’s feet. But to have the gun there was one thing; to use it quite another. It would take several seconds to snatch the gun up, swing it around and fire – no need to aim of course, in the cramped confines of the cabin, but without some kind of diversion, it was folly to even attempt it. The boy’s gun was already aimed and he was jumpy enough to fire at the slighest movement. Besides, there was Ricardo to consider. So Mike just kept asking questions, hoping to needle the boy into making a mistake.
‘Look kid, why don’t you tell me about this organization you’re workin’ for, huh?’
‘I don’ work for no organization,’ the boy sneered.
‘Well, whatever you call it. If I’m gonna fly all this way on account of something, I figure I ought to know what it’s all about.’
‘You don’ need to know nothin’! Just keep doin’ what you’re doin’.’
Mike turned to grin at Ricardo. ‘Helpful kind of guy.’
‘Sure is.’ Ricardo fixed Mike with a curious stare, trying to transmit a silent message in his eyes. The copilot’s gaze moved rapidly across and down to the area at Mike’s feet, then came back to glare encouragingly at him. Mike stiffened, because he had recognized the message and he didn’t like it. It seemed to say: ‘I’m going to try something. Back me up.’
Mike framed the word no with his lips, but Ricardo was already starting.
‘Hey kid, listen, I gotta go take a leak, you know? It’s been ages …’ As he spoke, he began to unbuckle his safety belt, as though taking it for granted that the boy would give him permission to leave.
The gun swung across to cover him. ‘You just stay right where you are, senhor.’
‘Hey, but look, you know … we’ve been flying for over three hours. We’ve still got a long way to go. What am I supposed to do, piss in my pants?’
‘Yeah, if you have to. I sure as hell ain’t gonna let you go out back.’
‘Hey, but look, I gotta go real bad …’
Surreptitiously, Mike reached his hands into his lap and unclipped his seat belt. Ricardo was still talking, half-rising from his chair, his arms outstretched. Mike began to lean slightly forward, so he could reach down to touch the butt of the shotgun.
‘Hey you, whatcha doin’?’
Mike turned his head to look back at the boy. ‘Nothin’, just stretching a little …’
‘You hold still!’ He waved the gun at Ricardo. ‘And you, I’m tellin’ you to sit down. Do it now!’
Ricardo would not let the idea alone. He began to move forward, out of his seat, his hands held up above his head. ‘I tell you what, I’ll make a deal with you –’
That was as far as he got. The boy stepped forward and brought the barrel of his pistol down with sickening force against the side of the co-pilot’s head. He reeled back and collapsed against his seat. He was out cold.
‘You little bastard!’ snapped Mike. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Because he was trying something, that’s why.’ The boy prodded Ricardo’s inert form with his right foot.
‘You could have killed