Читать книгу The Tarantula Stone - Philip Caveney - Страница 10

Mike Stone pushed his foot firmly down on the accelerator, urging the old jeep up to its top speed. The engine growled a noisy mechanical protest, the wheels leaped and bucked over the uneven surface of the road. However, such measures were entirely necessary. Mike was late; he was usually late for something; and there was still a considerable distance to the airport. He sat hunched behind the wheel, his grey eyes fixed on the way ahead. Despite the heat, he wore the scuffed leather flying jacket that was the uniform of his profession. Occasionally, he turned to glance slyly at the woman in the passenger seat, but she was still ignoring him. She leaned back, her eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, her long naturally curly red hair trailing in the wind. In the white cotton blouse and tight navy blue skirt her slim but curvacious body looked particularly inviting. Mike wondered wryly if he’d be able to last out the long trip to Belém without going crazy for her. Her name was Helen Brody; she was Mike’s stewardess and had been for nearly a year now. The two shared several things: a similar sense of humour, a tough, tenacious ability to survive; and on the regular overnight stops in Recife and Belém, a single hotel room and a double bed. It would have been a perfect arrangement but for one major problem: the wife and two children that Mike supported in his home on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro. That was the main reason why Helen had not spoken a word since he had picked her up an hour earlier. Mike appreciated her troubles but didn’t feel inclined to do anything about them.

Like most airmen, Mike had found himself at the end of the war with few prospects. His role in the affair had not been a martial one though he had seen plenty of action in the South Pacific. He had flown ‘Gooney Birds’, the rugged, ubiquitous and ever dependable DC3 airliners, hauling troops and equipment to wherever there was a suitable runway hacked out of the jungle. The surrender of the Japanese in ’forty-five had left him somewhat out on a limb. What was there for a man whose only ability was to fly a battered old crate around the airways of the world? The answer should have been obvious, but oddly enough, he had never even considered the idea until Willy Borden had suggested it. Willy was a ground crewman, a little fellow with big ideas and a tidy sum of money put away for safe-keeping. What Willy had in mind was a charter airline; oh, nothing fancy, mind you, just a single plane to begin with, perhaps a couple more in time if things went well. It would be a way of utilizing the particular talents that the war had given them and, as Willy was so quick to point out, one thing that there was bound to be a lot of at a time like this was surplus equipment. So, they had pooled their resources, purchased a Gooney and sought out a stretch of the earth’s surface where there were guaranteed transport problems. Mike’s wife, Mae, was loyal enough to go wherever work might be found and willing to take two young toddlers with her. Things had gone surprisingly smoothly and the only item missing was a capable stewardess.

Helen had answered the advertisement.

From the moment he saw her, Mike had wanted her and she had felt pretty much the same way about him. Helen was the daughter of some stuff-shirted diplomat at the American embassy in Rio. She had grown tired of attending boring functions and opted for making her own way in the world. As she’d told Mike at the interview, she’d never done this kind of work before, but she figured she could turn her hand to just about anything. Helen had got the job and, shortly afterwards, had got Mike. The affair was by now a fixture and, typically, everybody knew about it but Mae.

A horsedrawn wagon appeared in the road ahead of the jeep, a rickety vehicle loaded with cans of latex. A lone driver dozed at the reins while his skinny horse plodded placidly to some unknown destination. Mike did not slow the jeep for an instant but accelerated around the rear of the wagon, cutting perilously close to the side of it. Startled, the horse reared up with an indignant snort and a couple of cans of raw rubber went hurtling back into the road. A stream of livid Portuguese curses were flung in the jeep’s wake but Mike just grinned, rejoicing in the petty annoyance he had stirred up.

Helen glanced at him contemptuously. ‘Big shot,’ she sneered.

Mike glanced at her in mock surprise. ‘Say, you do speak!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was beginning to think it would be like this all the way to Belém.’

She scowled at him. ‘Grow up,’ she advised.

‘All right, all right, I get the message. I’m not the world’s most popular man today, am I? You want to talk about it?’

She shrugged. ‘What’s the use? It never gets us anywhere. I mean, I talk to you and talk to you, but sometimes I wonder if you ever hear a damned word. It’s obvious you didn’t tell Mae.’

‘Hell no I didn’t! It isn’t that damned easy, believe me! I … wanted to tell her but …’

‘The trouble with you is you want everything, Mike. You want me on a string so you can have your fun when it pleases you. And you want Mae and the kids to be there waiting for you when you fly home, to make you feel like a big man back from the war. But what about what I want, Mike? I’ve been patient for a long time now … surely you could have brought yourself to –’

‘Aww, it’s easy for you to say!’ retorted Mike. ‘You’re unattached, you don’t know how difficult it is. You can’t just slap somebody in the face like that, not after all the years we’ve had. Mae’s been a good wife to me.’

‘I could be a better one,’ replied Helen calmly. ‘You said yourself that you no longer make out with her.’

‘Sure, but there’s more to a marriage than that. You don’t know the half of it, that’s your trouble. How old are you, twenty-three, twenty-four? Mae’s given up a lot for me. Heck, she’s trailed halfway round the world hanging on to my shirt-tails; she’s had my kids; she …’ His voice trailed away into a long sigh. He glanced at Helen reassuringly. ‘I will tell her, honey, but I need time, that’s all.’

‘There is no time,’ she told him. ‘This is the last flight, Mike.’

He chuckled, shook his head. ‘You said that last time,’ he observed.

‘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 cigarette. He gave Martin an apologetic grin.

‘Forgive me, senhor. But I was afraid you would sleep through and miss your call for the plane … and also, I am out of matches.’

Martin nodded, reached in his pocket and handed the matches to the man.

‘Thank you, senhor. You are English, yes?’

‘No, American.’

‘Ah.’ The Portuguese lit his cigarette, exhaled smoke and nodded enthusiastically. ‘I wish myself one day to visit your country. Allow me please to introduce myself. Claudio … Claudio Ormeto.’ He indicated the seat opposite Martin. ‘May I?’

Martin shrugged. ‘It’s a free country.’

Claudio sat down. He was obviously not going to let his enthusiasm be dampened by Martin’s aloofness. ‘You are going to Belém, yes?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is it … how do they say it in American movies … er, business or pleasure?’

Martin smiled. ‘Well now, I don’t think I’ve quite figured that out yet. How about yourself ?’

‘Oh business, business … To be honest, senhor, there’s not a great deal of pleasure to be found in Belém. But my work sends me there. I work for the Brazilian Government in the capacity of an Indian observer. At this time, there are many reports of bad treatment filtering in to our agency. Garimpeiros and seringuiros – rubber tappers – are travelling down the headwaters of the Amazon and laying claim to land in the interior … Indian land. It seems that these men are simply killing off any Indians who oppose them.’

Martin nodded. ‘Yeah, that sounds likely enough. From what I hear, the Indians have always had a rough time of it, ever since the Conquistadores first came over and started kicking them around.’

Claudio nodded. ‘If you had seen the reports that arrived this month … women raped, men strung up and cut open with axes. It’s hard to believe that men can be capable of such things. Now, of course, the big fazendeiros are becoming aware that there are vast areas of jungle land that they can buy up for a few cruzeiros an acre. Certain government departments turn a blind eye to the deal and that only makes our job more difficult. I heard last week of a mateiro – a forester – who has been travelling amongst many of the tribes, distributing clothing to them.’

‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’ inquired Martin.

‘The clothing had come from a smallpox hospital in Belém. A clever man that mateiro. He knows only too well that the Indians have no immunity to such diseases. They die like flies, whole villages at a time … and then the fazendeiros move in to pick up the pieces. So neat, so efficient. There can be no murder charges when the assassin is a microbe or a virus. I’ve seen a common dose of influenza decimate a village in a few hours. And what frightens me, senhor, is that this is just the tip of the iceberg. In time, the problem will get worse … much worse.’ Claudio shook his head, looked abstracted for a moment. ‘Ah, but you must forgive me,’ he continued. ‘Always I talk too much about troubles that others may not wish to share. You are staying in this country for long, senhor?’

Martin shook his head. ‘Just passing through,’ he replied. ‘Fact is, I took this flight as something of a last resort. I don’t aim to be staying in Belém for long.’

‘Well, amen to that my friend.’ Claudio leaned forward slightly as if to impart a secret. ‘It is a pity we cannot choose our fellow travellers, eh?’

Martin frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ he inquired.

Claudio nodded in the direction of two people sitting at a table on the far side of the lounge. Martin glanced at them from out of the corner of his eye. One was a middle-aged man dressed in an expensive-looking black suit. He was a short, rather tubby fellow and would have looked insignificant if it were not for a rather distinguished grey beard that seemed to lend him an air of dignity. He was smoking a huge Havana cigar and had one arm draped protectively around a young girl who sat beside him. She was a pretty, frail-looking girl, with straight blond hair and a pair of large blue eyes that seemed to hold a perpetually startled expression. She was surely no more than eighteen years old, dressed in a rather revealing white cotton dress. She was nursing a drink in one hand whilst glancing nervously around at her fellow travellers.

‘Look at that pig,’ muttered Claudio with undisguised hatred.

‘Who is he?’ inquired Martin.

‘His name is Carlos Machado. He’s a fazendeiro, one of the richest in Brazil; owns a fancy villa up in the city. He’s currently in the market for buying land and it’s well known that he isn’t too particular how he comes by it. I don’t doubt for one moment that he’s heading up to Belém to pull off some shady deal.’

Martin raised his eyebrows. ‘Nothing you can do about him?’ he inquired.

Claudio grimaced. ‘In Brazil, my friend, a man is considered beyond the reach of the law when he has enough money to buy himself out of trouble; and Machado has money enough for a thousand men. Money can buy most everything a man requires.’

Martin nodded. He glanced at Machado again. The man was now stroking the girl’s hair with slow sensuous movements of his left hand, and occasionally she giggled as he whispered some remark into her ear.

‘How else would a middle-aged guy like him get hold of a pretty little kid like that one,’ agreed Martin.

Claudio chuckled. ‘Oh, that’s one thing he has not had to buy, senhor. You see, that is his daughter.’

Martin turned back to face Claudio, a look of mild disbelief on his face. ‘His daughter? Say, you don’t think …?’

‘What would I know, senhor? Maybe they are just very close. But a slug like Machado, I would think that he is capable of much that would make a decent man sick to his stomach.’ Claudio sighed, then smiled apologetically. ‘You must forgive me. I do not mean to sound this bitter but somehow … ah, the hell with it!’ He made a conscious effort to change the subject. ‘What time do you have by your watch, please?’

‘Oh, it’s er … a little after twenty past twelve. They’ll be calling us in a few minutes. I think I’ll go and freshen up a little.’

‘Oh, senhor, I hope my foolish talk has not upset you. Believe me, I am not usually a vindictive man. It is just that –’

‘Forget it!’ Martin got up from his seat. ‘We’ll talk some more on the plane.’ He turned and made his way in the direction of the washroom. Now that he had assured himself that Claudio meant no harm, Martin was glad to have somebody to talk to. It took his mind off the doubts and worries that were assailing him. He followed the signs for the men’s toilets, pushing through a swing door set in the end wall of the lounge, and found himself in a short, poorly lit corridor with another swing door at the top end of it some twenty feet ahead. After the comparative bustle of the lounge, it seemed strange to be alone again. He strolled forward, whistling tunelessly to himself, and then pushed through the second door. The washroom was completely empty. Martin moved towards a handbasin. He set down his carpet bag and let the basin fill with cold water. Meanwhile, he examined his face in the mirror above the taps: he had aged terribly in the six years at the garimpo. There were crow’s feet etched into the sunburned skin around his eyes. He raised one hand to finger them thoughtfully for a moment. Little matter, he was still young enough to enjoy the benefits that the diamond would bring. With a sigh, he leaned forward, lowering his face until it was completely immersed in the water. The coldness was a delicious, tingling shock to his sleep-dulled senses. Now he put his hands into the basin, splashing more water around his neck and shoulders, smoothing handfuls of it back through his hair. When he heard the slight creak of the door opening behind him, he willed himself to act normally. Of course, he reasoned, other people would come here, it was a public facility. No reason to stiffen or jerk around in alarm. He went on splashing the water into his eyes for a few moments and then straightened up, giving his head a flick to remove the last traces of liquid from his hair. He felt revived now, fully awake.

And then he became aware of the second reflection in the mirror in front of him. A man’s face was peering intently over his shoulder and there was a terrible silence in the room. The face was a familiar one, though Martin had not seen it for over six years. It was the pistoleiro who called himself Agnello, the same man, in the ill-fitting black suit, who on the occasion of that last meeting had been working for a certain Mr Caine.

Agnello’s face broadened into an ugly grin. ‘Ah, Senhor Taggart,’ he said, in slow, toneless English. ‘I have been looking for you everywhere.’

The boy pushed his way impatiently through the crowds of people that surrounded the reception desks, his dark eyes glancing nervously this way and that. He was perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, a thin rangy caboclo – half-breed Indian – who looked very out of place in his grubby, too-large cotton shirt and baggy trousers. He wore cheap rope-soled sandals that flapped as he walked and the airline ticket that he clutched in his right hand was damp with perspiration.

He moved out from the press of noisy tourists waiting for international flights and hurried over to the quieter desks that handled domestic routes, finding the right place and joining a short queue of latecomers. His eyes strayed again and again to the face of the large clock that overhung the reception area; he had not meant to cut things so fine and he was aware that in the departure lounge anxious eyes would be looking for him in vain. The trouble was he had been too confident, wanting to give his companions the impression that he had everything under control; and then it had all gone wrong, a stupid mistake that he had not even envisaged. The car he’d stolen to get him to the airport had simply broken down on him. In a blind panic, he had been forced to hitch a lift from a passing stranger, a farmer in an old pickup truck that had got him to his destination with only minutes to spare. Diabo, what a fool he’d look if he were to miss that plane!

The queue moved forward a step and the man in front of him, a tubby drawling American tourist, began to flirt with the girl at the desk as though there was all the time in the world. The boy sweated uncomfortably. The barrel of the gun was rubbing his flesh raw where it was tucked into the waistband of his trousers, the heavy butt obscured by the loose folds of his shirt. He noticed with a sense of unease that a uniformed security man was lounging against the wall, just behind the receptionist. His job, no doubt, was to run a critical eye over everyone and question any whose face did not seem to fit. For the first time since he had set out, the boy felt acutely aware of the shabbiness of his clothes. He had been advised more than once to purchase new ones, but had argued against it, maintaining that he would look even more out of place in a business suit. He had the face of a poor man and no amount of fancy clothing could disguise the fact. Better, he had concluded, to present himself as he really was. After all, poor men did sometimes travel by plane … didn’t they? Now he was almost at the moment of truth, the argument seemed somehow less convincing.

‘Take it easy,’ he warned himself; but his stomach gave an abrupt lurch and he had to close his eyes a moment and will his frayed nerves back into some kind of order.

‘Sim, senhor?’

He took a deep breath. Everything would be all right so long as he kept his nerve. He’d gone over every detail again and again, allowing for anything that might conceivably go wrong. All that remained was to get himself onto the plane and the rest … the rest would …

‘Senhor?’

He opened his eyes abruptly, realizing that the girl was talking to him. The American had disappeared and now the receptionist regarded him irritably. Behind her, the security man was smiling mockingly, his eyes inscrutable behind the dark lenses of a pair of sunglasses. Flustered, the boy shuffled forward and handed his ticket to the girl. She took it gingerly, holding it between thumb and forefinger as though it were daubed with excrement. She laid it on the counter, gave it a cursory check and rubber-stamped it with a sigh. Then she glanced up at him as though reflecting on the strangeness of a scruffy young caboclo’s possessing such a ticket.

‘Baggage?’ she inquired.

‘Nao.’ He shook his head and somehow could not meet her gaze. ‘I travel light,’ he mumbled; and instantly wished he had said nothing. The security man had stepped forward, still smiling dangerously. The boy wished he would take off those damned glasses. You needed to see a fellow’s eyes to know what he was thinking. He glanced at the black butt of a heavy pistol that jutted from a holster around the man’s waist as he leaned forward over the girl’s shoulder to look at the ticket.

‘Kind of young to be travelling alone,’ he observed.

The boy shrugged. ‘Old enough, I guess,’ he replied.

‘What takes you to Belém?’

‘I’ve got a job waiting for me there. A cousin of mine is a big man with a mining company. He’s promised to give me a good start …’ With an effort, he wrenched his gaze up to stare right back at the man. ‘I can’t seem to find anything that suits me in Rio.’

There was a long uncomfortable pause, broken only by the distant echoing drone of a flight announcement. The security man seemed to be thinking and it was impossible to tell whether his eyes were on the boy’s face or searching the folds of his cotton shirt for a tell-tale bulge; but then, inexplicably, his mouth lapsed into a friendly smile.

‘You’d better hurry on through,’ he said. ‘The flight will be leaving any minute now.’

The boy smiled, nodded, had to suppress a long sigh of relief. He turned and began to walk in the direction of the departure lounge.

‘Um momento, senhor!’

He froze in his tracks. The man’s voice was suddenly terse and rigid with authority. The friendliness had been simply a ploy to put him off guard. The boy’s blood seemed to run cold. He turned slowly, fully expecting to see the guard’s pistol pointing at his chest… but the man was grinning at him and holding out his ticket.

‘You won’t get very far without this.’

‘Nao … nao, of course not …’ The boy grabbed the ticket and hurried down the short corridor that led to the departure lounge. He went in just in time to hear the first call for flight SA119 to Belém and followed the stream of passengers that were already moving towards the open doorway at the end of the room. Before he stepped out into sunlight, he raised his right hand in an exaggerated fashion and wiped the back of his neck, a sign to those who were watching that nothing had gone wrong.

Out on the tarmac, the plane waited and the boy strolled towards it, whistling to himself. He knew all about this kind of plane, had devoted a year of his life to learning everything he could about it. He knew its range, its weight, the intimate workings of its navigation systems, anything and everything that could be gleaned from books on the subject. He had never actually been inside one before but was fairly confident that, should it become necessary, he could even fly it to its destination. But that would only be if something went wrong. He did not intend to make any more mistakes.