River of Death

'Life's a great teacher,' Hamilton said absently. 'But it beats me how a citizen of Romono could be so damned stupid. Okay, Hiller, when do we leave?'

Hiller had already turned towards a glass-fronted wall cupboard. 'Scotch?' he said. 'No firewater. Guaranteed.' He showed Hamilton a famous proprietary brand of Scotch with the seal, unbroken.

'Thanks.'

Hiller's gesture had not been motivated by an undiluted spirit of hospitality. He had turned his back on Hamilton to conceal what he knew must have been a momentary flash of triumph in his face; moreover, this was definitely a moment for celebration. Back in the bar of the Hotel de Paris he had been sure that he had his fish hooked: now he had it gaffed and landed.

'Cheers,' he said. 'We leave at first light tomorrow.'

'How do we go?'

'Bush plane to Cuiaba.' He paused then added apologetically: 'Rickety old bus of cardboard and wire but it's never come down yet. After that, Smith's private jet. That's something else again. It will be waiting for us at Cuiaba.'

'How do you know?'

Hiller nodded towards the phone. 'Carrier pigeon,'

'Pretty sure of yourself, weren't you?'

'Not really. We like to arrange things in advance. I just go on probabilities.' Hiller shrugged. 'One call to fix things, then another call to cancel. Then from Cuiaba to Smith's private airfield in Brasilia.' He nodded towards Serrano. 'He's coming with us.'

'Why?'

'Why ever not?' Hiller even managed to look puzzled. 'My friend. Smith's employee. Good jungle man.'

'Always wanted to meet one of those.' Hamilton looked consideringly at Serrano. 'One can only hope that he's a little bit more alert in the depths of the Mato Grosso than he is in the alleys of Romono.'

Serrano had nothing to say to this but he was, clearly, thinking: prudently he refrained from voicing his thoughts.

Smith, it would seem, was both a considerate man and one who thought of everything. Not only had he stocked his Lear with a splendid variety of liquor, liqueurs, wines and beers, he'd even provided an exceptionally attractive stewardess to serve them up. All three men — Hamilton, Hiller and Serrano — had long, cold drinks in their hands. Hamilton gazed happily at the green immensity of the Amazonian rain forest passing by beneath them.

'This fairly beats hacking your way through that lot down there,' he said. He looked round the cabin of the luxuriously appointed jet. 'But this is for the carriage trade. What transport is Smith thinking of using when we make our trip into the Mato Grosso?'

'No idea,' Hiller said. 'Matters like that, Smith doesn't consult me. He's got his own advisers for that. You'll be seeing him in a couple of hours. I suppose he'll tell you then.'

'I don't think you quite understand,' Hamilton said in an almost gently explanatory tone. 'I only asked what transport he was thinking of using. Any decisions he and his experts have made are not really very relevant.'

Hiller looked at him in slow disbelief. ' You are going to tell him what we're to use?'

Hamilton beckoned the stewardess, smiled and handed over his glass for a refill. 'Nothing like savouring the good life — while it lasts.' He turned to Hiller. 'Yes, that's the idea.'

'I can see,' Hiller said heavily, 'that you and Smith are going to get along just fine.'

'Oh, I hope so, I hope so. You said we'd be seeing him In two hours. Could you make it three?' He looked disparagingly at his wrinkled khaki drills. 'These look well enough in Romono, but I have to see a tailor before I go calling on multimillionaires. You say we're being met when we arrive. You think you can drop me off at the Grand?'

'Jesus!' Hiller was clearly taken aback. 'The Grand — and a tailor. That's expensive. How come? Last night in the bar you said you had no money.'

'I came into some later on.'

Hiller and Serrano exchanged very peculiar looks. Hamilton continued to gaze placidly out of the window.

As promised a car met them at the private airport in Brasilia. 'Car' was really too mundane a word to describe it. It was an enormous maroon Rolls-Royce, big enough, one would have thought, to accommodate a football team. In the back it had television, a bar and even an ice-maker. Up front — very far up front — were two uniformed men in dark green livery. One drove the car: the other's main function in life appeared to be opening doors when the back seat — seats — passengers entered or left. The engine, predictably, was soundless. If it were part of Smith's pattern to awe visitors he most certainly succeeded in the case of Serrano.

Hamilton appeared quite unimpressed, possibly because he was too busy inspecting the bar; Smith had somehow overlooked providing a stewardess for the rear of the Rolls.

They drove through the wide avenues of that futuristic city and pulled up outside the Grand Hotel. Hamilton dismounted — the door having magically been opened for him, of course — and passed swiftly through the revolving door. Once inside, he looked out through the glassed-in porch. The Rolls, already more than a hundred yards away, was turning a corner to the left. Hamilton waited until it had disappeared from sight, left by the revolving door by which he had entered and started to walk briskly back in the direction from which they had come. He gave the impression of one who knew the city, and he did: he knew Brasilia very well indeed.

Five minutes after dropping Hamilton the Rolls, pulled up outside a photographer's shop. Hiller went inside, approached a smiling and affable assistant and handed over the film that had been taken from Hamilton.

'Have this developed and sent to Mr Joshua Smith, Haydn Villa.' There was no need for Hiller to add the word 'immediately'. Smith's name guaranteed immediacy. Hiller went on: 'No copy is to be made of this film and neither the person who develops it nor any other member of your staff is ever to discuss it. I hope that is clearly understood.' 'Yes, sir. Of course, sir.' The smile and the affability had vanished to be replaced by total obsequiousness. 'Speed and secrecy. Those are guaranteed, sir.'

'And a perfect print?'

'If the negative is perfect so will the print be.' Hiller couldn't think of how else he could threaten the now thoroughly apprehensive assistant so he nodded and left.

Another ten minutes later and Hiller and Serrano were in the drawing-room of the Villa Haydn. Serrano was seated, as were Tracy, Maria and a fourth and as yet unidentified man. Smith talked somewhat apart with Hiller — 'somewhat apart' in that huge drawing-room meant a considerable distance — glancing occasionally in Serrano's direction.

Hiller said: 'Of course, I can't vouch for him. But he knows an awful lot that we don't and I can always see to it that he'll make no trouble. Come to that, so would Hamilton. Hamilton has a rough way of dealing with people who step out of line.' Hiller went on to tell the sad tale of Serrano's mugging.

'Well, if you say so, Hiller.' Smith sounded doubtful and if there was one thing Smith didn't like it was being doubtful about anything. 'You certainly haven't let me down so far.' He paused. 'But your friend Serrano seems to have no history, no past.'

'Neither have most men in the Mato Grosso. Usually for the 'simple reason that they have too much of a past. But he knows his jungle — and he knows more Indian dialects than any man except maybe Hamilton. Certainly more than any man in the Indian Protection Service.'

'All right.' Smith had made up his mind and seemed relieved for that. 'And he's been close to the Lost City. Could be a useful back-up man.'

Hiller nodded towards the unidentified person, a tall, very heavily built, darkly handsome man in his mid- thirties.

'Who's that, Mr Smith?'

'Heffner. My chief staff photographer.'

Hiller said: 'Mr Smith!'

'Hamilton would think it extremely strange if I didn't take a staff photographer along on this historic trip,' Smith said reasonably. He smiled slightly. 'I will confess, though, that he can use one or two instruments other than