chiefs, on being told that the plunderers had come
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seeking gold, took what little they had, melted it down,
and poured it down the throat of a Spanish prisoner. It
seems they had a sense of humor not very different
from my own.
Anyway, Almagro said to hell with it and decided to
turn back. The problem was how. Rather than risk an-
other suicidal march through the Andes, he decided to
go the desert route. And he made it, without the loss of
another single life, on sheer stubbornness and guts.
Years ago I had read my way through the six-
teenth-century chroniclers who wrote Almagro's jour-
ney up, because I was interested in finding out how he
did it. Not only how he survived, but how he managed
to keep his men going. He had no secrets, no tricks,
only an iron will. Someday I might have to pull off a
similar stunt. But I hoped it wasn't going to be in the
same blistering desert, and I hoped it wasn't going to
be now.
However, just then the beautiful blue Pacific came
into sight, the white fringe of surf along the rocky
coastline looking like sugar icing on a cake.
Felipe got up and went forward to get the gun. We
swooped down and landed on a short stretch of bumpy,
cracked tarmac a couple of hundred yards from the
beach.
This time we all got out of the plane. T stood on a
thin layer of drifted sand, which sent a scorching wave
of heat through the soles of my shoes, and helped
Carla down. We had come to rest on a small, bulging
peninsula set between two larger headlands covered
with hillocks of guano. The soft, powdery bird dung
looked like snow and stung like hell when the sea
breeze blew it into my eyes.
It was a strange place for someone to have wanted
to build a makeshift landing strip. Then I caught sight
of a battered signboard, on which sheet-tin letters
spelled out ANGLO-CHILEAN NITRATE COMPANY, still
standing like a forgotten sentinel at the far end of the
field. Beyond that, a few wooden shacks tottered in
ruin. Nitrates had been big business for Chile until the
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ermans came up with a cheap synthetic chemical mix
for fertilizer. This long-abandoned airstrip was a relic
of one of the big combines that had gone bust after
that.
The new pilot we had taken on in Salta lit up a ciga-
rette and glanced anxiously at his watch. Even though
we were on the edge of the ocean, and theoretically it
was the middle of winter down here, the stifling wind
was like a blast from an open furnace. No welcoming
party had come to meet us. Felipe was busy talking to
the blond, babyfaced flyboy, and Carla stayed close to
me.
"Nick," she said eagerly, "you know that other pilot,
the one with the fat belly? I've met him before. His
name is Emilio. He used to come out to the island with
-the man they called Egon, and they would stay, the
two of them, for a couple of days."
"Listen, then," I told her. "l want you to go over to
him and try to get a conversation going if you can.
Make like you're frightened and worried out of your
mind. Find out where we are, how many more stop-
overs we've got to make, but most of all find out what
Steyer has in mind for us at the end of the line. Any
details you can. It might not be so very nice hearing
about it all in advance, but it might give me a chance
to do something about it."
"Okay," she said dubiously. "If you think it's neces-
sary
I walked around to the other side of the plane so I
wouldn't seem to be watching her. After a few minutes,
the rumble of some kind of moving vehicle came from
beyond the sand dunes. The plump pilot heard it too
and abruptly walked away from Carla.
It was a brown diesel truck with a canvas-topped
carriage, and it scrambled into low gear to make it up
the steep gradient of sand that had kept it out of our
sight. It pulled up close to the Cessna, and two men
came out of the cab. The pilot whose name, Carla had
said, was Emilio went up to them and started talking.
It sounded as if he was bawling them out. When he fin-
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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
ished, T saw that he passed the driver a thick wad of
money. The driver undid the rubber band from the roll
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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
ished, T saw that he passed the driver a thick wad of
money. The driver undid the rubber band from the roll
and took his time counting the American dollars. The
second man began unloading ten-gallon jerricans of
gasoline from the back of the truck.
"We're just outside of Iquique," Carla reported,
when no one was paying much attention to us. "This
air-striphas been abandoned for years, and they've got
a real airport closer to the city anyway. That's all I
could learn about this place. Next stop is somewhere in
Peru. Overnight. Then, sometime late tomorrow or early
the next day, we should be in Colombia. But it's not
Cartagena where José Luis is going to meet us, like that
man said before. It's in Riohacha. That's a nice old
colonial town near the border with Panama, on the
sea."
"And then what's supposed to happen to us?"
Carla looked down at the ground and shuffled some
sand back and forth with her foot. "I don't know," she
muttered without looking up. "He started to say that
José Luis was very anxious to have me back, the last
time he saw him. But it was ugly the way he said it,
like it was all a big joke or something. When I met him
before, you know, I actually thought he was nice—
What's the matter?"
Nothing." In fact, I was getting annoyed. Not with
her, but with myself. Annoyed and disappointed. After
two tries, I still hadn't learned anything of real use to
me. Obviously, Steyer didn't confide in his minions,
and that was to be expected, I had learned nothing that
would do me any good, unless I could manage to get
word to Hawk and he could have AXE's counterpart
of the 7th Cavalry waiting in Riohacha.
Felipe came over then with a gun and a dirty look.
"Get moving," he snapped nervously. "Back in the
plane until they finish emptying out those jerricans.
We're going to be taking off again in a few minutes.
Come on, move it."
When we were in the air and climbing. T told Carla
under my breath to play it very cautious with Felipe.
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"We're getting on his nerves," I whispered, 'tand he
was never very bright to begin with. He's fed up and
ready to explode. If one of us sets him off, he may do
something stupid."
Carla nodded. r hoped she understood. She slid to
the other end of the seat and stayed there, very prim
and proper, throughout the next and longest lap.
We followed the coastline north at first, then banked
east and inland at the point where the continent starts
bulging out like a turnip. Within minutes, we were
back over the Andes. Then the Andes were over us—
literally; some of them shot up twenty-two thousand
feet or more, and those were the ones that didn't even
rate a small-print caption on the survey maps. The
Cessna climbed and dived, swerved and zigzagged im-
possible turns in and out among the towering stone
ramparts. For a time, on a slightly smaller scale, my
stomach did the same.
We were on a roller coaster two miles high, and
someone had forgotten to install the tracks. Jutting
overhangs of ice seemed to flail out at the mosqui-
to-sized airplane. Tier upon tier of dull gray ice and
dark rock flashed by like a movie that's jumped its
sprockets, giving brief glimpses here and there of omi-
nous clefts and shadows. The pilot took her low under-
neath the wispy cloud cover to avoid the high-altitude
winds that could batter us a hundred feet in either
direction against a cliff face. Down below, in one of the
greenest green valleys I've ever seen, the Indians living
in these parts had run bridges of plaited rope across
the steep ravines connecting one terraced slope with
another, just as their Inca herdsmen ancestors had
done a thousand years before.
Nightfall was an hour behind us before we were
completely clear of the bad stretch, but as it was get-
ting dark we were cruising over a fairly low spur end
of the range and no further acrobatics were called for.
Felipe's face was a pale shade of green.
I said, "There's one sure, quick cure for what you've
got, amigo, short of the barf bag that your boss forgot
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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
to provide you with, and it's simple and easy. Just take
a look at yourself in a mirror, a good, long look. You'll
feel better instantly. It's never been known to fail."
He winced and pretended not to hear—or not to
care. It didn't matter, because Carla started giggling.
That was the idea, to break up the cloud of tension
hanging over us caused by the harrowing flight and the
long, tedious silence we had gone through. The giggling
went on for a minute or so, and it had a slightly hys-
terical edge to it, but it helped her a little, I think.
It wasn't funny, of course, not at all, but between
giggles Carla pulled me toward her and said, "Is that
really true, Nick? Does it work? I've never heard of
that before, but it sounds like a great idea."
"Sure," I said, and tried to force a smile. Her cheek
was soft and supple against my scraggly stubble. For a
few minutes, at least, you would think we had nothing
else in the world to worry about.
..Вождь, когда ему сказали, что грабители пришли в поисках золота, взял то немногое, что у них было, переплавил его и залил в глотку испанскому пленнику. Похоже, у них было чувство юмора, не сильно отличающееся от моего собственного.
В общем, Альмагро решил: ну его к черту — и повернул назад. Проблема была в том, как именно. Чтобы не рисковать еще одним самоубийственным маршем через Анды, он выбрал путь через пустыню. И он справился, не потеряв ни единой жизни, на одном упрямстве и мужестве.
Много лет назад я зачитывался хрониками XVI века, описывающими путешествие Альмагро, потому что мне было интересно узнать, как он это сделал. Не только как выжил сам, но и как заставлял своих людей идти вперед. У него не было секретов или трюков — только железная воля. Когда-нибудь мне, возможно, придется провернуть нечто подобное. Но я надеялся, что это случится не в той же самой раскаленной пустыне, и уж точно не сейчас.
Однако как раз в этот момент в поле зрения показался прекрасный синий Тихий океан; белая бахрома прибоя вдоль скалистого побережья выглядела как сахарная глазурь на торте.
Фелипе встал и прошел вперед, чтобы забрать пистолет. Мы спикировали и приземлились на коротком отрезке разбитого, потрескавшегося асфальта в паре сотен ярдов от берега.
На этот раз мы все вышли из самолета. Я стоял на тонком слое нанесенного песка, который пропускал волны обжигающего жара сквозь подошвы моих ботинок, и помог Карле спуститься. Мы остановились на небольшом выступающем полуострове между двумя мысами, покрытыми холмиками гуано. Мягкий, порошкообразный птичий помет выглядел как снег, но чертовски жгуче колол глаза, когда морской бриз швырял его в лицо.
Странное место для постройки самодельной взлетной полосы. Затем я заметил обшарпанную вывеску, на которой жестяные буквы складывались в надпись: ANGLO-CHILEAN NITRATE COMPANY (Англо-чилийская селитренная компания). Она всё еще стояла, как забытый часовой, на дальнем краю поля. За ней виднелось несколько покосившихся деревянных лачуг. Селитра была прибыльным делом для Чили, пока немцы не придумали дешевую синтетическую смесь для удобрений. Эта давно заброшенная полоса была реликвией одного из крупных концернов, разорившихся после этого.
Новый пилот, которого мы взяли в Сальте, закурил и тревожно посмотрел на часы. Несмотря на то, что мы были на берегу океана и теоретически здесь была середина зимы, удушливый ветер ощущался как выхлоп из открытой печи. Никакой делегации нас не встречало. Фелипе был занят разговором с белокурым пилотом с лицом младенца, а Карла держалась поближе ко мне.
— Ник, — шепнула она, — вы знаете того другого пилота, толстого? Я встречала его раньше. Его зовут Эмилио. Он прилетал на остров с человеком по имени Эгон, и они оставались вдвоем на пару дней. — Слушай, — сказал я ей. — Я хочу, чтобы ты подошла к нему и попыталась завязать разговор, если сможешь. Притворись, что ты напугана и вне себя от беспокойства. Выясни, где мы, сколько еще остановок предстоит сделать, а главное — узнай, что Штайер задумал для нас в конце пути. Любые детали. Может, и не очень приятно знать об этом заранее, но это может дать мне шанс что-то предпринять. — Хорошо, — сказала она с сомнением. — Если вы считаете, что это необходимо...
Я обошел самолет с другой стороны, чтобы не казалось, что я слежу за ней. Через несколько минут из-за песчаных дюн донесся рокот какого-то транспортного средства. Полноватый пилот тоже услышал его и резко отошел от Карлы.
Это был коричневый дизельный грузовик с брезентовым верхом; он переключился на пониженную передачу, чтобы одолеть крутой песчаный склон, скрывавший его от наших глаз. Он подкатил к «Сессне», и из кабины вышли двое. Пилот по имени Эмилио подошел к ним и начал разговор. Похоже, он устроил им разнос. Когда он закончил, я увидел, как он передал водителю толстую пачку денег. Водитель снял резинку с рулона и не спеша пересчитал американские доллары. Второй человек начал выгружать из кузова десятигаллонные канистры с бензином.