Martin took two quick steps forward, threw his left hand up to cover the man’s mouth and with his right hand slammed the long blade of the knife into the small of the garimpeiro’s back. The man’s fat body shuddered with the force of the blow and Martin began to lever the blade upwards, searching for the heart; but then the bearded man’s right hand let go of the cheese wire and he brought his elbow savagely upwards into Martin’s face, knocking him back across the room. The man spun round like an overweight dancer doing a macabre pirouette, his hand clawing ineffectually at the handle of the knife that protruded from his back. He was making a strange guttural noise deep in his throat and the length of cheese wire still dangled uselessly from his left hand. Knocked half senseless, Martin leapt in again, terrified that the man’s noises might alert the rest of the garimpo. He grabbed the wooden peg at the end of the cheese wire, whipped the man’s left arm upwards round his own neck and, when the wire grew taut, gave it a quick turn round the garimpeiro’s throat, pulling it tight until the sounds he was making ceased with an abrupt gurgle. The man stood in the centre of the room, thrashing hideously for a moment with his free arm. Then he gave a last jolting spasm, his head tilted sideways and he fell into Martin’s arms. Snatching the rubbish free of the hammock with one hand, Martin man-handled the body into its place, pausing only to wrench the knife free of its fleshy sheath. He wiped the blade thoughtfully on the dead man’s shirt, rolled him over onto his back and threw the blanket across him so that there would be no need to look into those glazed, staring eyes again that night.
Martin sighed. He undid the bandana round his neck and mopped his face dry of sweat. It was too bad that it had to happen this way. Now it would be obvious why he had left and of course people would be looking for him. He would have to move quickly as soon as he got to Rio. At least the body in the hammock would buy him some time. People would simply think he was lying in, suffering with his malaria. Only Hernandez at the barraca knew of his intention to leave next morning and he never came down to the diggings. It should be hours before anybody bothered to glance in at his shack, and by then, with any luck, he would be on his way to Europe. He had already decided that Rotterdam would be the best place to sell the diamond; and, with careful planning, he figured he had just enough money put by to pay his fare to there. That was surely one place where even Caine couldn’t reach him.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was just a few hours to dawn. He remained seated in the corner of the hut, chain-smoking, and gradually the light began to brighten. Now Martin could make out the hunched shape in the hammock and the dark red stain that was spreading across the underside of the fabric. A swarm of plague flies buzzed curiously round the stain, settling and resettling upon it. He felt no sense of guilt at the killing. The man had come to steal a diamond and had paid for his greed in the most fitting way.
Glancing at his watch again, Martin saw it was time to make his move. He stubbed out his cigarette, reached up to the gap behind the roof beam where he kept the canvas money belt and tied the device in place beneath the loose fabric of his khaki shirt. Then, collecting his carpet bag, he ducked out of the doorway of the hut, glancing cautiously around in the half light. There were few people about yet, but he made his way slowly to the railway halt, walking as though with great difficulty. He left the great ugly scar of the garimpo behind him and moved on through the brief stretch of scrub jungle that bordered the trail to the railway halt. The vegetation was sodden with morning dew and the legs of his trousers were soon soaked through. Once he reached the rough earth banking that passed for a platform, he settled down to wait. His pistol was tucked in the waistband of his trousers, in case anybody should challenge him; but the only other people to arrive were a couple of feeble garimpeiros who were genuinely sick. Martin wisely kept his distance from them. Off to the east, lost somewhere in jungle, a few unidentified birds greeted the rising of the sun with a distant squawking. Then, at last, he heard the wheezing of the rusty old train as it came lumbering up out of the jungle. It clanged to a halt in a spasm of steam and ancient metal, disgorging a motley collection of would-be fortune-hunters, a pack of arrogant, snarling tough guys who had yet to be broken by the jungle. Martin watched them pass by, remembering his own arrival here six years earlier. More human fuel for the furnaces of men like Caine. The newcomers strode noisily away towards the garimpo, where the fazendeiros and their henchmen were waiting to greet them.
Martin hauled himself aboard the train and took his place on one of the hard wooden seats. The carriage stank of a mixture of sweat, cachaça and urine, but to Martin it was the vehicle that would carry him away from the living hell that was Garimpo Maculo. An impassive Indian guard came along collecting fares; and a few moments later the train lurched into motion, heading back into the dark, mysterious jungle. Martin sat quietly through the journey, staring out of the dust-streaked window.
Arriving at Rio three hours later was something of a shock. It was six years since he had seen anything of the trappings of civilization and clambering off the train to be swallowed whole by a sea of humanity in the process of hurrying to work was a weird experience. It seemed inconceivable that Rio de Janeiro, with its great glittering skyscrapers of glass and concrete, its traffic-jammed streets and its bewildering mixture of races, could actually have been here all the time, perched on the edge of the jungle like a bizarre oasis on the perimeter of a vast green wilderness. But now was the time to move fast. Martin’s first step was to seek out a cheap clothing store where he purchased a new khaki shirt and trousers to replace his rotting rags. Then he went to a public wash-house, where he was able to bath and shave himself. He was, all the time, horribly aware that the hours were passing and that each minute he wasted would bring him nearer to discovery; but he also realized the stupidity of turning up at the airport looking like a tramp. Once he was satisfied that he looked fairly presentable, he dumped his old clothes in a trash can and hailed a passing cab, directing the driver to take him straight to the airport.
A short while later, he was pushing his way through the crowds of people inside the main building. The presence of so many strangers made him nervous; every couple of moments, he glimpsed a man who could well be one of Caine’s pistoleiros. He made his way to the check-in desk and impatiently tagged himself onto the end of a long queue. When he finally reached the desk, he was met with an engaging smile from the pretty, dark-haired receptionist.
‘You er … speak English?’ he inquired.
‘Yes, senhor.’
‘Fine. Well now, I need to get to Zürich just as soon as possible. I er … had a telegram this morning, a friend of mine is seriously ill.’
The girl looked taken aback. She shook her head. ‘I am sorry, senhor, but … do you not have a reservation?’
‘No. See, I only found out this morning. When could you find me a seat?’
Again she shook her head. She gestured vaguely at the papers in front of her.
‘Now is a very busy time for us. There is certainly nothing until early next week, for sure. Of course, there may be cancellations … Have you perhaps a phone number where I could contact you?’
‘No, you don’t understand. I have to leave right away, today. You see, my friend … is dying, he …’
‘I’m very sorry, senhor, but –’
‘Is there no other way I could go today? I don’t have to go directly