River of Death by Alistair MacLean Read Free Book Online Page A

punctual.’
    ‘The politeness of princes.’ Hamilton entered the room and caught sight of Serrano who was busy pouring himself another large brandy. By this time it was difficult to judge whether he was suffering the more from the effects of the blow or the brandy. Holding the glass in one rather unsteady hand and massaging the back of his neck with the other, he continued the restorative process without seeming to notice Hamilton.
    Hamilton said: ‘Who’s this character?’
    ‘Serrano,’ Hiller said. ‘An old friend.’ It would have been impossible to guess from Hiller’s casual off-handedness that he’d met Serrano for the first time only that evening. ‘Don’t worry. He can be trusted.’
    ‘Delighted to hear it,’ Hamilton said. He couldn’t remember the month or the year when he last trusted anybody. ‘Makes a welcome change in this day and age.’ He peered at Serrano with the air of a concerned and kindly healer. ‘Looks to me as if he’s coming down with something.’
    ‘He’s been down,’ Hiller said. ‘Mugged.’ He was observing Hamilton closely but could well have spared himself the trouble.
    ‘Mugged?’ Hamilton looked mildly astonished. ‘He was walking the streets this time of night?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And alone?’
    ‘Yes,’ Hiller said and added in what he probably regarded as a rather pointed fashion:
‘You
walk alone at night.’
    ‘I know Romono,’ Hamilton said. ‘Much more importantly, Romono knows me.’ He looked pityingly at Serrano. ‘I’ll bet you weren’t even walking in the middle of the road—and I’ll bet you’re that much lighter by the weight of your wallet.’
    Serrano nodded, scowled, said nothing and got back to his self-medication.
    ‘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 fire-water. 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 Cuiabá.’ 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 Cuiabá.’
    ‘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 Cuiabá 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