Читать книгу The Tarantula Stone - Philip Caveney - Страница 9

Even in the relative cool of the airport lounge, Martin Taggart could not stop sweating. Directly above his head, a large electric fan clicked rhythmically round, beating the humid air into some kind of restless motion; but the perspiration still trickled from his armpits, making dark stains against the fabric of his khaki shirt. It oozed in a viscous stream down the gully of his spine, glued his collar to the back of his neck and made the soft leather pouch that hung round it stick like an island against the tanned flesh of his chest.

For perhaps the hundredth time that morning, Martin’s right hand came up to touch the pouch, his fingers probing the round hard shape that nestled in there. The diamond seemed bigger every time he touched it. It was the size of a chicken’s egg and Martin could only begin to guess at its true value. It would make him rich, that was for sure … provided he could get away with it.

He glanced nervously around the lounge, momentarily afraid that somebody might be reading his thoughts, but the motley assortment of passengers were, just like him, waiting impatiently for their flight to Belém. Out on the brilliantly sunlit concrete of the runway, the plane already stood like a great silver queen bee, attended by the restless assembly of gasoline trucks and maintenance men; but glancing at his watch, Martin could see that there were still twenty-five minutes to wait. It would be the longest twenty-five minutes of his lifetime. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. Extracting one from the damp packet, he struck a match with visibly unsteady hands and inhaled deeply. Then he leaned back in his seat, let the smoke out in a thin stream and watched as it rose for a short distance in a straight column and then went berserk as it was caught in the rush of air from the fan.

He had not wanted to think too much about Caine, because he was nervous enough as it was. But sitting there in the crowded lounge he couldn’t help letting his thoughts drift back to the very beginning, the chain of events that had brought him to where he was now.

He had never had what might be called a steady job, because he had never much liked working. It was a fact that he acknowledged but not something that bothered him overmuch. As a youth, he’d travelled a great deal, taking work when he needed it and wherever he could get it. He had been born in Wyoming and, as far as he knew, his family still lived there; but he’d left home at the age of seventeen and never gone back to visit. More by accident than design, he had gravitated southwards and had spent most of his years in the territory of New Mexico, driving trucks for local contractors and doing the odd spot of manual work whenever his finances got dangerously low. He lived in cheap hotels and rented rooms, slept rough when he needed to and had no ambitions beyond staying alive. He was in his late twenties when two things happened to change all that.

Firstly, it became apparent that America would soon be entering the Second World War; and around the same time, Martin came across an article in the local newspaper that described the recent boom in diamond prospecting in Brazil. There were vast fortunes to be made there. All a man had to do was make his way over and dig it out with his bare hands. For Martin, it was an easy decision. He had always detested the mindless stupidity of patriotism and he wasn’t about to get his ass blown away for any damned cause. South America seemed as good a place as any to hide himself from the draft board and, besides, he was feeling lucky around that time. So he buckled down for a month or so, worked himself like a dog and managed to raise just enough cash to buy himself a one-way ticket to Rio de Janeiro. Leaving was easy. There were no ties for him in New Mexico, no family, no special girl who might have a hold on him. Of course, he had no idea about how to go about becoming a garimpeiro – diamond prospector – but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

And so it was that he had arrived in Rio with nothing but a few dollars and the clothes he stood up in. He had wasted little time in making inquiries in the local bars and eating places. Of course, there had been problems. The native language hereabouts was Portuguese and few people could speak more than the odd word of English. His ‘inquiries’ usually consisted of his saying the one word, garimpeiro (he had picked it up from the newspaper article and did not have the least idea how to pronounce it), whilst striking himself repeatedly on the chest. He was rewarded with blank stares, sad shakes of the head and, occasionally, a string of Portuguese jabberings with accompanying gestures that meant absolutely nothing to him. At last, on his third day out, sunburned and riddled with mosquito bites after sleeping rough in the open, he had some kind of success. He met an old man in a dingy cantina who could speak passable English and seemed to know exactly what to do.

‘If you wish to be a garimpeiro, senhor, you will need a patron, patrão. Senhor Caine is the top patrão around here. For fifty cruzeiros, I will take you to him.’

Martin shook his head. ‘I don’t have any cruzeiros, old man.’

The man’s grizzled face had split into a wide, gummy grin. ‘Not yet,’ he admitted. ‘But Senhor Caine will give you money. For now, a promise is good enough.’

Martin frowned. It sounded too good to be true. ‘Well, I tell you what. This guy gives me any dough, the fifty Cs are yours.’

He had followed the old man through the sprawling ghettos of Rio, observing, as he passed, the awful poverty that existed away from the clean, well-ordered main streets where the richest people in the world came to squander their money in the elegant stores, casinos and night clubs. Back here, reality was the sight of a skinny Indian woman begging in the streets while three emaciated children clung to her skirts. The old man led Martin to a large crumbling office building. At a paint-blistered door, he rang a bell and, shortly after, a thick-set swarthy man in an ill-fitting black suit appeared. He stared disdainfully for a moment and then leaned forward so that his ear might be whispered into. He gazed thoughtfully at Martin for a moment, as though appraising him.

‘Wait here,’ he barked suddenly in toneless, heavily accented English. He slammed the door and the old man turned back to Martin with a reassuring grin.

‘What did I tell you, senhor. Senhor Caine is an important man. He’ll fix you up. The … the money … you would not break a promise to an old man, senhor?’

‘Relax.’ Martin slipped off his battered slouch hat for a moment and mopped at his brow with a bandana. The heat was intense. After a few moments, the door opened again and the thick-set man reappeared. He ushered Martin inside.

Beyond the doorway, Martin followed the man in the black suit along a gloomy roach-ridden hallway. There was a vile smell in the air that suggested bad sanitation. They moved on, up a rickety flight of wooden stairs and through another doorway at the top. A small metal plaque bore the legend Charles Caine Incorporated. Martin’s companion opened the door and stood aside to let the American enter. He found himself standing in a small airless office; at the desk a fat man in an expensive but badly crumpled suit appeared to be busy with a jumble of papers. He had a pale, almost baby-like face and what little hair was left on his head had been teased into an oily series of black curls that drooped down onto his forehead. His eyes were small and piggish, but they glittered with a low animal cunning. Behind him stood an impassive stooge in a suit that must have been run up by the same tailor who had garbed the man who answered the door and who now moved round the desk to join his opposite number. The two stood flanking the fat man like attendant flunkies waiting on an emperor. Martin could see quite clearly the bulges under their left armpits where gun holsters nestled. He frowned and turned his attention back to Charles Caine.

His first reaction was one of instant distrust. An old garage mechanic Martin had known back in New Mexico had once told him, ‘Never trust a guy who looks like he eats better than you do.’ Caine was the first overweight man Martin had encountered since his arrival in Rio. Most people here had the sallow, hunted look of those who did not know where their next meal was coming from. Not so Mr Caine. He looked content as only a wealthy man can, and there was something about the shrewd little eyes gazing abstractedly at the rows of figures before him which suggested that this man should be trusted only as far as he could be thrown. Martin’s nostrils twitched as a smell reached them, the sickly sweet odour of lavender water.

Caine glanced up as if noticing Martin for the first time, but of course this had all been a calculated ploy intended to belittle the newcomer. At any rate, it didn’t cut much ice. When Caine spoke, his voice had a strange, piping, high-pitched tone, but his accent was shot through with the unmistakable tones of a cultured Englishman.

‘So … er … Mister …? I’m sorry, I believe we have not yet …?’

‘Taggart. Martin Taggart.’

‘Mr Taggart. An American. Moreover, an American who wants to become a garimpeiro. An interesting break from tradition, but then we get all kinds in here.’ He grinned, displaying a set of even white teeth that looked too immaculate to be real. ‘I would have thought, Mr Taggart, that like all true-blooded Americans you would be busy preparing yourself for the er … glorious struggle with Japan and Germany; but then, perhaps you find the whole business of war as trivial and tiresome as I do.’ He studied Martin for a moment as if expecting a reply to this, then continued in a different tone. ‘Ah well, a man’s reasons are his own, I suppose. At least it will prevent your running back to your country for a while. The call-up brigade have never been well known for their understanding of those who evade them.’

Martin had to try hard not to register a reaction. The fat boy was obviously a good deal sharper than he looked. It hadn’t taken him more than a few moments to figure out the lie of the land. ‘A garimpeiro,’ Caine continued, pretending that he was unconcerned whether his arrow had hit home or not. ‘Yes, well, you might do at that. You look hungry enough … you look as though you can handle yourself in a tight spot. Show me your hands, please.’

Martin stepped obediently closer to the desk, extended his hands, palms uppermost. Caine reached out suddenly and took them in his own.

‘Ah, now look at these hands, Agnello,’ he purred, half-turning to address the man in the black suit. ‘Here is a fellow who has done some hard work in his time. Not like your lily-white hands, Agnello, hands that have done nothing more than pull a trigger or wield a knife; and not like mine either, hands that have only signed papers and … counted money.’ He gave a little giggle, a rather unpleasant sound; and he gazed for a moment at his own pudgy, stubby hands, the fingers of which glittered with a series of ostentatious diamond rings. Martin took the opportunity to pull his own hands away from Caine’s grasp. The fat man smiled at him a moment, a trace of mockery in his expression. Then he nodded.

‘Yes, well, Mr Taggart, I am after all a patron; I have many garimpeiros in my employ, hundreds. What’s more, I am always ready to take on more, regardless of their nationality. Good fortune owes allegiance to no flag, my friend.’

‘I’d say you’re proof of that, Mr Caine. How does an Englishman come to be a patron in Rio de Janeiro?’

Caine shook his head. ‘Oh, a long story, that one; and a strange and muddy path from the playing fields of Eton to this weird backwater. Let us just say that I am by nature an opportunist, Mr Taggart. It’s not just diamond prospecting that I have interests in. I have my fat fingers in a whole series of delectable pies dotted about this great continent; and as you can see from the shape of me, I never tire of trying out new flavours.’ He laughed drily. ‘But I digress. Let’s get back to the business in hand. I take it you have no money?’

Martin shrugged. ‘About five cruzeiros,’ he replied.

‘Five cruzeiros!’ Caine leaned back in his chair and cackled gleefully. ‘Well, you aren’t quite destitute, but you’re not far away! Let me see now, you will need to buy yourself the necessary equipment, you will need your fare up to the garimpo – the diamond field – and you will need a gun. I think ten thousand cruzeiros will suffice.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a thick wad of money. With the slow relish of a man who loved the feel of paper, he counted out the agreed sum. Then he indicated to Martin that he should take it.

‘What’s the catch first?’ Martin inquired tonelessly.

‘The catch.’ Caine feigned wide-eyed innocence for a moment. ‘The catch, Mr Taggart? Did you hear that, Agnello? Paco, did you hear? Such a suspicious nature this young fellow has. Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he didn’t trust us!’ He fixed Martin with a calculating look. ‘The “catch”, Mr Taggart, is a simple enough idea and one that, I can assure you, you will find the same wherever you inquire around Rio. Of anything and everything that you find at the garimpo, I take fifty per cent.’

Martin returned the gaze calmly. ‘Fifty per cent, huh? That’s a little steep, isn’t it?’

Caine shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is, by some standards. But you see, by lending you the necessary money I’m running the risk of your never finding a thing.’

‘Some risk,’ muttered Martin.

‘I’m afraid that’s the way things work here. Without money for equipment, I don’t see how you can become a garimpeiro at all. Perhaps you may find a friendly backer who will loan you the money you require with no strings attached; but, somehow, I seriously doubt that. If you’d rather forget the whole thing …’ He made as if to put the money back in the drawer, but Martin stepped quickly forward and put his hand down on top of Caine’s wrist. It was an unwise move. The two pistoleiros on either side of the fat man went for their guns. In an instant, Martin found himself looking down two barrels aimed straight into his face. He backed quickly away, his hands in the air.

‘Hey, hold it, hold it! I was only going to say that I accept the terms …’

There was a long and terrible silence. Martin’s body crawled as he imagined the terrible impact of those unseen bullets. But then Caine spoke, his voice like warm oil. ‘You must forgive my boys, Mr Taggart. They tend to be a little overprotective sometimes. You see, I pay them a great deal of money to keep my interests uppermost in their minds. They can be very excitable. You wouldn’t believe the trouble it can cause.’ He waved the guns away with a delicate motion of his fat hands and the pistols were grudgingly returned to their holsters. Then he indicated that Martin should pick up the thin wad of money from the desk. ‘Spend it wisely,’ he advised as Martin slipped the cash into his pocket. ‘Here is a list of the equipment you will need. Go to the address at the top of the page and you will receive a special discount. Also, here are a set of instructions about how to get to the garimpo. The rest, Mr Taggart, is up to you. I wish you luck.’

Caine returned to his papers, seeming to have dismissed Martin completely.

‘Is that it?’ demanded Martin incredulously.

Caine glanced up in surprise. ‘Was there anything else?’ he inquired.

‘Well, uh … that’s for you to say. I figured there’d be some papers to sign … some kind of a contract.’

Caine chuckled, seemingly amused by the notion. ‘Oh, we have no need of any contract, Mr Taggart. That’s not the way things are done in Rio.’

‘Yeah, but … supposing I do strike it rich out there. I mean, what’s to stop me from just taking off with whatever I find?’

Now it was the turn of the two pistoleiros to laugh. They leaned back their heads and guffawed unpleasantly, revealing teeth that were riddled with dark metal fillings.

Caine gave a slow, expressive shrug. ‘Nothing at all, Mr Taggart. Nothing at all. In fact, many others have tried the same thing in the past. There’s a big graveyard out on the edge of the city. You’ll find every one of them there. In fact, why don’t you pay the place a visit before you leave for the garimpo. I’m sure you’d find it most interesting.’

Martin glanced from Caine to the two laughing pistoleiros. He studied their ill-fitting suits for a moment, with particular reference to the strange bulges beneath their left arms. He nodded slowly.

‘Just remember one thing,’ added Caine, beaming up at him. ‘I know everything that happens at the garimpo. You may think it’s a long way from there to this office desk but, believe me, my friend, distance does not matter when a fellow has as long a reach as I have. Once again, I wish you luck.’

Martin said nothing more. He turned and made his way out of the room, closely escorted by Agnello. They retraced their steps down the evil-smelling staircase.

Stepping out from the gloom of the hallway, he was momentarily dazzled by the harsh sunlight in the street. The old man was waiting, his little black eyes glittering greedily. ‘The fifty cruzeiros, senhor …’

‘Sure, sure, here …’ Martin peeled off fifty from the wad and pressed it into the old man’s skinny hand. He stood gazing at it for a moment, as though he could scarcely believe his luck. Then he glanced quickly round to ensure that nobody else had witnessed his good fortune. He grinned and scuttled abruptly away, diving headlong into the nearest alleyway. Martin was left alone in sun-baked silence. He tipped his hat back on his head a little and reached for his cigarettes.

He had come to Rio to become a garimpeiro and now he had the money to enable him to do it; but he didn’t like the set-up one bit. Caine had been too confident of himself to be making idle threats. There was little doubt that those who had tried to cheat the patron really were out in the graveyard he had mentioned. Martin was going to have to keep his nose clean from now on.

That afternoon, he purchased the equipment he required – a pick and shovel, several round pans with wire mesh bases for sifting rubble, a good pistol and some spare ammunition, a knife and as many packs of cigarettes as he could conveniently carry. All these things could be purchased up at the garimpo, the storeholders told him, but would cost very much more. The following morning, before dawn, he took a train through the jungle to Garimpo Máculo. It was a three-hour ride through dank, humid forest and the interior of the train was like a Turkish bath. It was packed with hopeful prospectors of every nationality, each, like Martin, sent out by a patron. For the most part they were a tough, hard-bitten bunch of men, most of them running away from something – the police, the war, or just their own poverty. There was no friendliness between any of them. They began the journey as they meant to continue, as rivals.

One thick-set bearded Englishman asked loudly if anybody could tell him what maculo meant. A Portuguese on the other side of the compartment shouted back in slow, heavily accented tones that maculo was the Portuguese word for the diarrhoea caused by dysentery and that the camp was named after it because the disease was rife there. But this was the only conversation of the journey. Martin was relieved when the train finally came to a stop and the passengers spilled out onto a muddy deserted halt in the middle of the jungle. From here, it was only a short trek across open scrubland to the garimpo.

Martin’s expectations of the place had never been very high and yet he was unprepared for what he saw; a great ugly gash in the surface of a wide stretch of red rock which not so long before had been covered with dense jungle; and, within the gash, countless numbers of man-made pits, each with a single occupant grubbing his way frantically deeper with pick and shovel. There were hundreds of men working here, tough, scowling, sunburnt men dressed in rags who greeted the arrival of the newcomers with nothing more than a sidelong sneer. Round the edges of the garimpo were the living quarters, a description that was little more than a bad joke when applied to the tumble-down, ramshackle collection of squalid huts, lean-tos and canvas shelters that the garimpeiros called home. As Martin and his companions disembarked from the train, a little weasel-faced man in a filthy suit and a shapeless panama hat moved amongst them, announcing that he was the fazendeiro on whose land the garimpo was situated. If anybody wanted to dig here, they would have to pay him, Senhor Mirales, ten per cent of anything they found. The man was an irritating little insect and would normally have been swatted aside like a troublesome mosquito; but, predictably, he was backed up by three venomous-looking pistoleiros and the newcomers were too dazed and numbed from their journey to make much trouble. They milled about in confusion while specially appointed men moved amongst them, offering accommodation for hire. The prices demanded were exorbitant but nobody was in any position to refuse. Martin was billeted in a filthy little wooden shack with no windows, no door, no toilet, not even any running water. There was simply a rough bed made out of boards with a single filthy blanket lying on it. Water could be obtained from a hand-pump on the other side of the clearing or, failing that, from the stretch of muddy river that ran alongside the perimeter of the garimpo. Food could be purchased from the nearby barraca at about four times the going rate elsewhere and would have to be cooked on open fires outside the shelter. Also from the barraca would come any equipment that needed replacing and the cachaça with which a weary miner might drink away the misery of a long fruitless day’s work. For those with a little more money to spend, there was a brothel situated next to the store, haunted by a collection of dead-eyed, gaunt and miserable-looking Indian girls. They were plain and, for the most part, rife with venereal disease but, after a few months of unrelenting toil, it was surprising how attractive they could look.

Martin threw himself into the work with silent dedication, rising every morning at first light to go and hack away the ground in the place which had been allocated to him. The first few weeks were terrible. His skin blistered in the sun, he was bitten half to death by a multitude of insects, he suffered a dose of malaria that turned his skin grey and racked him with uncontrollable bouts of shivering. His hands blistered and scarred against the hard wooden shaft of the pick and at night he staggered back to the stinking little shack to sleep only to find it crawling with rats and cockroaches. And, worst of all, in all this time he found nothing, not the smallest trace of a stone. Others found diamonds. Every few hours a wild shout would go up from some corner of the garimpo and there would be a sudden rush of men, anxious to see what had been discovered. A few moments later, the same men would trudge grimly back to their own claim and continue to hack at the hard, indifferent, unyielding soil. Men went down with the maculo, the debilitating diarrhoea that left them little more than weak skeletons. Others contracted typhoid. The sick who had any money left took the train back to Rio, the others simply died and were buried in shallow graves out in the scrub jungle by men who were well schooled in the art of digging and had no time for prayers.

When a man did grub a diamond from the earth, the word spread like wildfire through the camp; and a short time later, a buyer – a comprador – would appear, a professional man usually employed by the patron or the fazendeiro. He would examine the stone with his eyepiece while the finder looked hopefully on; and then he would make his offer with calm, well-practised disdain. ‘It is not much of a stone; a good size, I grant you, but badly flawed. I could not offer you anything more than ten thousand cruzeiros for it.’ The price offered was always a fraction of the stone’s true value, but the presence of the ever-watchful pistoleiros in the background prevented any possibility of argument. The ‘lucky’ finder would take his share of the money and promptly go on a binge, getting blind drunk, spending a couple of nights fulfilling his tawdry fantasies in the brothel, brawling with his fellow garimpeiros; and a few days later he would be back at his accustomed place, hacking savagely into the soil, fuelled by the conviction that what had happened once could happen again. Sometimes really large diamonds were discovered, so big that even the comprador’s lousy offer would amount to a sizeable sum. Then all kinds of madness would break loose. Martin came to hate the garimpeiros and their stupid macho philosophy which dictated that it was a great loss of face not to squander any money that they had earned in the shortest possible time. One man who had found a good diamond went to the lengths of having a Cadillac shipped in from the United States, piece by piece, so that it could be brought in to the garimpo by train. Once everything had arrived, he had it put together and delighted for a few days in driving the expensive vehicle round and round the perimeter at breakneck speed, its interior packed with yelling drunken men who normally would not have bothered to talk to him. This went on until the car ran out of petrol and the owner was running short of money. Soon he was back at work and the rusting, dilapidated hulk of the car still stood at the edge of the jungle, an incongruous intruder in this remote corner of the world. Other diamond finders had more unfortunate ends. Sometimes a man was knifed in the back at the height of some drunken brawl and the remainder of his money appropriated by the killer. Others simply drank too much cachaça, went berserk and plunged yelling and shrieking into the jungle. Either the Indians got them or wild animals; they were never seen again.

Eventually, Martin found a diamond; not a particularly big one, but a diamond nonetheless; and though he had sneered in the past at the brutish excesses of his workmates, he found himself acting in just the same way. Long months of loneliness and frustration spilled out of him and there was nothing he could do to stop himself. He drank himself insensible at the barraca, he beat up some man who was too slow to get out of his way and, that night, in one of the grubby beds of the brothel, he rutted with an Indian girl who barely acknowledged his presence. The next morning, sick at heart, ashamed of his stupidity and suffering from the worst headache in all of creation, he was back at work, ignoring the jeers of men working alongside him.

Time passed with slow, relentless monotony. The long rains of his second year came, when there was nothing to do but lie in the shelter and stare out at the sorrowful yellow waters, swirling ankle deep around the garimpo and across the floor of the shack, bringing with it all manner of creatures – snakes, rats, scorpions. Vast swarms of mosquitoes and plague flies hovered in the air and fed on the abundance of human flesh. At a time like this, a man had to obtain credit to get those things that would keep him alive. There was always an interest rate and the next year was begun with the miner heavily in debt.

Martin had worked on, stubborn, indefatigable. The third and fourth years, he did better, found six diamonds in all, a couple of them of reasonable size. This time he forced himself to follow some kind of a plan. From each sale he put a little money aside, hiding it in the heel of his boot, and then went ahead and squandered the rest, in the usual flamboyant style, managing to convince his workmates that he had spent everything. He dared not let anybody know he was keeping some back, because inevitably a greedy man would come in the night and take it from him with the blade of a knife. He feigned poverty, asking for credit at the store, even though he no longer needed it. His plan was simple. To amass enough money to escape from the garimpo to something better. It might take him years but there was always the chance that he really would make it good, that he might find a diamond that was big enough to risk running with.

The news that the war had come to an end deepened his resolve. Now he should be able to get back to … or at least pass through, his homeland. The long rains came again. He bided his time. Sometimes, as he lay in the hammock he had constructed as a safer alternative to sleeping close to the water level, an image would come to his mind, an image of Charles Caine, fat and scented with lavender water, growing steadily rich on the proceeds he obtained by selling his diamonds on the international market; and a calm powerful hatred would come to Martin, a hatred and a hunger for revenge. But then he would remind himself that he had only himself to blame for this misery. He himself had wanted to become a garimpeiro; Caine had only provided the one-way ticket. There were men working at the garimpo who had been here for years and, what’s more, it was plain they would remain here till they died.

‘But not me,’ vowed Martin silently. ‘No, not me. I’m going to get out of this.’

And so the sixth year had begun. Martin’s money stash had now become too big to keep in his shoe. Instead he had made himself a crude money belt out of a discarded piece of canvas, working at the dead of night by the light of a candle. He found another two diamonds that year and treated the money as he had done before, creaming off a little for his nest egg and frittering away the rest. He took to hiding the money belt in a small gap behind one of the roof beams of his shack, afraid that somebody might search him when he was drunk. He carried his gun with him at all times and would have been prepared to use it without a moment’s hesitation, should the necessity arise.

And then the miracle occurred, the moment of destiny to which his whole life had been geared. It was late July and he was digging in the merciless glare of the midday heat. He was about four feet down into the latest of a seemingly endless series of excavations. Having broken up a large amount of rubble, he scooped it up in his pan, clambered out of the hole and strolled down to the river to sift through the contents. The yellow stagnant water washed round his ankles and he dropped the sieve unceremoniously beneath the surface, gave the rubble a quick swirl and then heaved the contents back onto the firm mud of the shore. He left them for a moment to soak through, strolling back to the hole to continue digging for a while. This was his usual procedure. After about twenty minutes, he clambered back out of the hole and wandered down to examine what he had. He did not hurry himself, since this was only one of hundreds of similar loads that he examined every day. He picked up a piece of stick from the bank and began to sort through the collection of mud and rock, poking systematically.

For an instant, something seemed to glitter, catching the rays of the sun; but then more mud slid downwards and the light was gone. Martin frowned. He probed with the stick again and found a hardness that seemed far too big to be anything but rock. He pushed his fingers experimentally into the rubble and pulled something free that was the size of a duck egg. He grunted disgustedly and was about to fling the object aside, when another flash of light caught his attention. He gave the object an exploratory wipe with the flat of his left hand, revealing a crystalline, transparent surface below. It was a diamond, the biggest he had ever seen; and he had very nearly thrown it away.

For an instant, he was struck numb, frozen to the spot. Then he opened his mouth to scream, but snatched the sound away before it left his throat, realizing that other men were working only a few yards away. He closed his hand round the diamond, stood up and kicked out with his boot at the discarded pile of rubbish, scattering it in all directions.

‘Nothing but shit!’ he announced bitterly. Then he moved down to the river again, crouched down in the shallows and feigned the act of splashing water on his face, while with his spare hand he doused the diamond in the water, rubbing the remains of the mud from it. He was shaking with emotion and he felt his eyes fill with tears. He dashed them away with muddy water and allowed himself the luxury of a sly glance down at his prize. He had not dared to believe that it could all be diamond, expecting that its size had been increased by lumps of rock adhering to it. He almost cried out a second time. It filled the palm of his hand and was unquestionably the biggest diamond found at Garimpo Maculo, perhaps the biggest ever discovered in the continent of South America. Even sold locally it would make him a rich man. On the international market, it would sell for millions of dollars.

Realizing that to linger there much longer might make his fellow workers suspicious he slipped the gem into the pocket of his trousers, testing the lining first with his fingers to ensure that there was no hole through which the precious object might slip. Then, composing himself with an effort, he mopped his face on his bandana and forced himself to return to his digging place, keeping his face stony and impassive. He hefted his pick and went on with his work, digging methodically and taking the rubble down to the water’s edge every so often. At the back of his mind was the belief that, where one diamond had been, other lesser stones might occur. But all through that long afternoon, perhaps the longest of his life, he found no sign of anything else. As he worked, he considered the possibilities open to him. There was no way he would announce this find to the compradors. It was the discovery of a lifetime and he would either escape with the diamond or die trying. Once, he thought he saw the man working at the next dig staring at him suspiciously; but he assured himself that this was just the product of his overworked imagination.

When the brief tropical dusk came, he gathered up his equipment and trudged back to his shack. Impatiently, he waited for full darkness to fall and then, lying in his hammock, by the light of a single candle, allowed himself the luxury of a first proper look at the diamond. There was a curious shock in store for him. The stone was every bit as big as his first impressions had suggested; but what he could never have guessed was the fine, weird beauty of the rough gem. It was quite translucent and when he held it close to the candlelight, he gave a little gasp of surprise. For within the cool depths of the diamond a strange flaw had created a perfectly symmetrical and highly familiar shape. It was exactly like a spider, a tarantula, etched in a slightly grey series of veins within the heart of the stone.

He knew that shape only too well, for in the rainy season the creatures tended to seek sanctuary in the dusty corners of the hut. Though Martin knew that the bite of a tarantula was rarely very harmful, still he had a horror of their thick, hairy bodies and wriggling legs.

He replaced the diamond in his pocket and began to draw up his plans. Any man here at the garimpo would readily kill to possess such a stone, so he did not intend to linger. In three days’ time, the regular train back to Rio would depart in the early hours of the morning, but to leave suddenly would inevitably cause suspicion. At Garimpo Maculo, there were only two reasons for leaving, death or sickness. So Martin decided that he would become sick that night. It would not be hard to fake. He suffered from recurring bouts of malaria and it would simply be a question of exaggerating the symptoms. That night he sat up sewing an old scrap of leather he had been saving to make a tobacco pouch into a bag in which he could keep the tarantula stone. He fixed a strong loop of rawhide to the bag, double testing it by wrenching the finished article with all his strength. Satisfied at last that it would not break, he hung the pouch round his neck, tucking it beneath the loose khaki fabric of his shirt. With the hard, rough shape of the diamond pressing reassuringly against his chest, he finally snatched a few hours’ sleep, but he was troubled by an awful dream.

He was climbing a remote mountainside, clutching precarious holds on some sheer granite rocks. Far below, the jungle spread out in every direction, the huge trees dwarfed by distance. He had no idea what he was doing in this place, nor what he had come to find. He only knew he had to go on.

Reaching a particularly tricky section, he was obliged to put up both hands in order to pull himself onto a ledge. He began to do this, reluctantly lifting his feet up from their holds and letting his legs dangle above a terrifying chasm, and started to haul himself up; and then, with a sense of shock, he felt a movement under the fabric of his shirt, against his naked chest. Glancing down in terror, he saw that beneath the fabric something was moving, wriggling, pushing against the folds. Martin opened his mouth to yell but the sound died in his throat as he saw something dark and horribly furry begin to edge out from beneath the shirt. His fingers were aching on the ledge, a thick sweat bathed every inch of his body, but he could not move so much as a muscle; he could only hang helplessly as first one leg, then another, came creeping out into full view. Then there was a squat, heavy body and a whole series of quivering tiny jaws. He knew suddenly, with a terrible conviction, that the tarantula was going to crawl up onto his face.

Martin woke, his body caked in acrid sweat. The first light of day was spilling through the open doorway of his shack. Remembering his plan, he stayed in his hammock much later than was his usual custom and then, after several hours of this, collected his tools and stumbled down to his digging place. He wore two layers of clothing to give the impression that he felt cold and of course this made him sweat profusely. The only difficulty was faking the shivering attacks, but even though nobody was taking a great deal of notice of him, he kept the act up all through the day, getting very little work done.

In the early afternoon, he was startled by the sound of a heavily accented voice just behind him. He turned and had to suppress a look of shock. Standing by his dig was the man who had been working opposite him the day before. He was Portuguese, a thick-set, bearded fellow with an enormous belly that jutted out over the belt of his jeans. He had moved to a new site that morning and Martin had not expected to see him again; but he stood now, his hands thrust into the back pockets of his jeans, regarding Martin with a calm, slightly mocking expression.

‘You are ill, senhor?’

Martin shrugged, mopped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Yeah … just a touch of malaria, that’s all. I get it from time to time …’ He turned away to recommence digging.

‘Funny … you don’t look so ill to me,’ the garimpeiro muttered. This was said in such a sly way that Martin was shocked; but he forced himself to continue digging grimly and when he turned round again, the man was gone. Back in the shack, Martin pondered the matter. Could the man have seen anything yesterday morning? Was his remark just coincidental? Was Martin himself becoming paranoid, seeing enemies at every turn? He did not sleep that night and the following morning his feeble attempts at digging were less of an act than they had been the day before. After a couple of hours of ineffectual fumbling, he gathered up his tools and stumbled off in the direction of the barraca. Behind the roughly made counter, he found Hernandez, the man who ran the store. Martin trudged slowly over to him and set the tools down in front of him, shivering violently as he did so.

‘You are ill, senhor?’ inquired Hernandez patronizingly.

‘Yeah … Hernandez, what’ll you give me for these tools?’

‘Tools?’ Hernandez glanced down at the well-worn equipment. ‘You are quitting, Senhor Taggart?’

‘I guess so. I’ve got to get back to Rio and sort out this damned malaria. I can’t take another rainy season feeling this way.’

Hernandez chuckled. ‘You should count yourself lucky, Senhor Taggart. At least you have not yet the maculo. That one, she is a real killer … malaria, a man gets to live with. You will see, in a day or so, the badness will pass …’

‘I ain’t planning on waiting a day or so. Come on, Hernandez, how much for these?’

Hernandez gazed at the tools disdainfully, prodding them with his fingers. ‘These … there is little life in them, eh, senhor? I give you fifty cruzeiros.’

‘Fifty! They damned near cost me five thousand!’

Hernandez shrugged expressively. ‘That is what they are worth to me, Senhor Taggart. Maybe you should keep them. You may decide to come back, eh? They say a garimpeiro never quits until he has made his fortune … or died trying for it.’ He chuckled unpleasantly.

‘I can buy more in Rio, if I ever decide to come back to this rat-hole. Come on, give me a hundred for them, at least.’ He shuddered violently and swore beneath his breath.

‘Sorry, senhor. Fifty. That’s my offer.’

‘All right, dammit, give me that! At least I’m not in debt to you for anything and I guess I can just about afford the train fare back to Rio.’ He accepted the notes that Hernandez counted out from a cigar box under the counter. Martin knew that Hernandez kept a double-barrelled shot-gun beside the box.

‘The senhor should try a bottle of my aguardente; it’s very good for the fevers.’

‘No thanks, Hernandez, I couldn’t afford your prices.’ Martin leaned forward across the counter. ‘Unless, of course, you were offering me a bottle free, out of the goodness of your heart …’

Hernandez shook his head. ‘Alas, senhor, nothing in this life is free.’

Martin sneered and turned away from the counter; he froze for an instant when he recognized the figure standing in the doorway: the bearded Portuguese who had questioned him the day before. He was gazing at Martin with interest, leaning against the edge of the doorframe.

Goddammit, thought Martin desperately. The bastard knows something! But he kept his face impassive as he pushed by the man and trudged slowly outside. The man turned and came quickly after him.

‘Senhor, wait a moment! You leave tomorrow, yes?’

‘Maybe.’ Martin did not pause or look back.

‘Sure, I hear you tell Hernandez! Hold up a moment …’

Martin turned round, his expression threatening. ‘So all right, I’m leaving. What the hell’s it got to do with you?’

The man nodded and an arrogant smile played on his lips. ‘Yes, I figured so … you found something, no?’

‘What? What are you talking about?’

‘A diamond, senhor. You found a diamond, two days ago when I was working near. I wasn’t sure then, but I had an idea … just … something in your face; so I say to myself, Orlando, you wait to see what he does next. He will show you yes or no. And now suddenly you are ill and you have to leave … it is for sure you found a diamond, a big diamond or you would not risk to run with it.’

‘You’re crazy,’ snapped Martin.

‘I don’t think so, senhor. Can I … have a look at it, huh? Listen, I’m not a greedy man, you know. We could be partners you and me … What do you say?’

‘I say you’re crazy. There is no diamond. I’m leaving because I’m sick.’

‘Oh yes, of course! The malaria. Well, senhor, you’re a good actor. But I have seen malaria many times. In cases as bad as this, the skin of the face turns grey … but yours now, senhor, looks perfectly good to me. So you tell me where is the diamond? Can I see it? You keep it on you somewhere, no?’ The man stepped forward and began to finger the fabric of Martin’s shirt; then he lurched backward with an oath as Martin’s right fist clipped him hard against the jaw. He stood there, smiling ruefully and massaging his chin. ‘A strong arm for a man with malaria,’ he observed.

Martin said nothing. He glanced quickly about. Nobody seemed to have observed the fight but there were people around who would come running if the thing escalated. He fixed the man with a contemptuous glare and said, ‘Just keep away from me. You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ And he turned and walked away, remembering to keep his gait slow and awkward, just in case anybody else was observing him. He was terrified.

Back at his shack, he threw his meagre belongings into an old carpet bag and made his plans. The Portuguese was wise to him, but what did he plan to do about it? It seemed likely that he’d try to get to Martin before the morning train arrived. Well, let him come; if he was foolish enough to try anything … But would he tell anybody else? Martin guessed not. The man was as greedy as any other garimpeiro and would not wish to share the diamond with any ‘partners’. Besides, he could have no idea how big this particular gem was. Martin could only hope that this reasoning was sound. If several men came after him in the night he wouldn’t stand a chance of holding them off. One man he figured he could handle.

When dusk fell, he bundled the carpet bag and whatever bits of rubbish that were lying about the place into the hammock and covered them with a blanket. He lit a candle and placed it a short distance away, so that it just about illuminated the shape. Then, taking his razor-sharp, big-bladed knife from its sheath, he dropped down into the shadows in the corner of the shack. As a last resort, he placed his pistol where he could grab it in an emergency but he was hoping there would be no need of it. A shot would alert everybody in the garimpo to the fact that he had something worth defending.

He resigned himself to a long, monotonous wait. The hours began their slow, laborious journey towards the dawn. He sat crosslegged in darkness, sweating in the stifling heat. Mosquitoes worried relentlessly at his forehead and bare neck but he remained stock-still, staring out at the slightly lighter rectangle of blue that was the doorway of the shack. The candle gradually burned its way downwards through the wax and from time to time a large moth fluttered jerkily round the halo of light before moving away to rest in darkness. Time seemed suspended and Martin began to wonder if he really had any reason to be afraid. He had slept little over the last couple of nights and now his eyelids grew heavy, his head inclined downwards by degrees until his chin rested against his chest. He slept, a deep, dreamless slumber of exhaustion.

And then he was awake, suddenly, with the intense conviction that something was about to happen. His legs were badly cramped and his mind woolly; but, glancing towards the doorway, he was aware of a shape moving there, crouched down by the floor to the left. For a moment he thought it was some animal that had wandered in from the jungle after food; but then the shape inclined upwards and Martin recognized the fat silhouette of the bearded garimpeiro. The man remained in the doorway for what seemed like an eternity, his gaze fixed to the huddled form in the hammock. The candle had burned very low now and the faint glimmer of light only just caressed the soft curve. Now the man moved slowly forward into the shack, placing his feet on the wooden boards without making a sound. He was obviously barefoot and Martin silently cursed the fact that he had not considered this. His own heavy boots would be sure to make creaking sounds on the warped planking, but there was no time to remove them now. The man was approaching the hammock and between his outstretched fists something glimmered faintly. It was a length of cheese wire. Martin shuddered at the thought of the wire slicing into the vulnerable flesh of his neck. Setting down his own feet with as much care as possible, he got up, using the wall of the shack for support. He did not have long. As soon as the man realized that the hammock was a decoy, he would be on his guard; and even now the assassin was leaning forward over the blanket.

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 to Zürich, you see. Perhaps I could go to some other place first … Britain, Paris … I could pick up another flight from there.’

‘Well …’ The girl scanned her lists thoughtfully. ‘There’s a place tomorrow night on –’

‘Tomorrow night is too late!’ Martin snapped.

‘Well then, senhor, I’m afraid that …’

Martin did not hear the rest of her words. He nodded at her, but her voice did not reach him. This was something he hadn’t figured on. He’d just assumed he’d be able to clamber aboard a plane and take off. If he was obliged to hang around Rio till tomorrow night, he might as well go straight to Caine’s office and turn himself in. He moved away from the desk, his mind turning over furiously. Whatever happened, he had to put as much distance between Rio and himself in the shortest possible time. An internal flight perhaps? Yes, that might be the answer. Brazil was a big country; a simple hop up the coast involved a trip of several thousand miles. Lighting a cigarette, Martin manoeuvred his way across to the local flight desks. Various details were chalked up on blackboards. He found details of a domestic flight to Belém on the north-east coast, at the mouth of the Amazon. There was an overnight stop first at Recife, an eight-hour haul up the coast from Rio; and the second leg across to Belém would involve a journey that was barely shorter. While it was nothing like the distance that Martin wanted to put between himself and Caine it should at least buy him time to wait around for a flight to Europe. Best of all, this flight was due to depart in just under an hour’s time. He inquired at the desk and was relieved to find that there were still a few seats available. He purchased a ticket and strolled gratefully through to the small lounge at the far end of the building. It was quieter here, with only fifteen or so other passengers to worry about. At last he began to feel that his plan could succeed.

The fan above his head came back into focus. He had drifted for a moment into a half-sleep and his mind was a hazy jumble of confused thoughts. Instinctively, he lifted a hand to stroke the hard shape beneath his shirt. The touch was reassuring, but he was suddenly uneasy. Something had woken him and, sleep-dazed as he was, he could not direct his thoughts to identify whatever it had been. He yawned cavernously, shook his head to clear away the last shreds of sleep. Then the something happened again, making the blood in his veins turn to ice.

It was the firm, powerful grip of someone’s hand on his shoulder.