High Citadel

I

The bell shrilled insistently.

O’Hara frowned in his sleep and burrowed deeper into the pillow. He dragged up the thin sheet which covered him, but that left his feet uncovered and there was a sleepy protest from his companion. Without opening his eyes he put his hand out to the bedside table, seized the alarm clock, and hurled it violently across the room. Then he snuggled into the pillow again.

The bell still rang.

At last he opened his eyes, coming to the realization that it was the telephone ringing. He propped himself up on one elbow and stared hatefully into the darkness. Ever since he had been in the hotel he had been asking Ramón to transfer the telephone to the bedside, and every time he had been assured that it would be done tomorrow. It had been nearly a year.

He got out of bed and padded across the room to the dressing-table without bothering to switch on the light. As he picked up the telephone he tweaked aside the window curtain and glanced outside. It was still dark and the moon was setting — he estimated it was about two hours to dawn.

He grunted into the mouthpiece: ‘O’Hara.’

‘Goddammit, what’s the matter with you?’ said Filson. ‘I’ve been trying to get you for a quarter of an hour.’

‘I was asleep,’ said O’Hara. ‘I usually sleep at night — I believe most people do, with the exception of Yankee flight managers.’

‘Very funny,’ said Filson tiredly. ‘Well, drag your ass down here — there’s a flight scheduled for dawn.’

‘What the hell — I just got back six hours ago. I’m tired.’

‘You think I’m not?’ said Filson. ‘This is important — a Samair 727 touched down in an emergency landing and the flight inspector grounded it. The passengers are mad as hornets, so the skipper and the hostess have sorted out priorities and we’ve got to take passengers to the coast. You know what a connection with Samair means to us; it could be that if we treat ’em nice they’ll use us as a regular feeder.’

‘In a pig’s eye,’ said O’Hara. ‘They’ll use you in an emergency but they’ll never put you on their timetables. All you’ll get are thanks.’

‘It’s worth trying,’ insisted Filson. ‘So get the hell down here.’

O’Hara debated whether to inform Filson that he had already exceeded his month’s flying hours and that it was only two-thirds through the month. He sighed, and said, ‘All right, I’m coming.’ It would cut no ice with Filson to plead regulations; as far as that hard-hearted character was concerned, the I.A.T.A. regulations were meant to be bent, if not broken. If he conformed to every international regulation, his two-cent firm would be permanently in the red.

Besides, O’Hara thought, this was the end of the line for him. If he lost this job survival would be difficult. There were too many broken-down pilots in South America hunting too few jobs and Filson’s string-and-sealing-wax outfit was about as low as you could get. Hell, he thought disgustedly, I’m on a bloody escalator going the wrong way — it takes all the running I can do to stay in the same place.

He put down the hand-set abruptly and looked again into the night, scanning the sky. It looked all right here, but what about the mountains? Always he thought about the mountains, those cruel mountains with their jagged white swords stretched skywards to impale him. Filson had better have a good met. report.

He walked to the door and stepped into the corridor, unlit as usual. They turned off all lights in the public rooms at eleven p.m. — it was that kind of hotel. For the millionth time he wondered what he was doing in this godforsaken country, in this tired town, in this sleazy hotel. Unconcernedly naked, he walked down towards the bathroom. In his philosophy if a woman had seen a naked man before then it didn’t matter — if she hadn’t, it was time she did. Anyway, it was dark.

He showered quickly, washing away the night sweat, and returned to his room and switched on the bedside lamp wondering if it would work. It was always a fifty per cent chance that it wouldn’t — the town’s electricity supply was very erratic. The filament glowed faintly and in the dim light he dressed — long woollen underwear, jeans, a thick shirt and a leather jacket. By the time he had finished he was sweating again in the warm tropical night. But it would be cold over the mountains.

From the dressing-table he took a metal flask and shook it tentatively. It was only half full and he frowned. He could wake Ramón and get a refill but that was not politic; for one thing Ramdz4inb5kjgón did not like being wakened at night, and for another he would ask cutting questions about when his bill was going to be paid. Perhaps he could get something at the airport.

O’Hara was just leaving when he paused at the door and turned back to look at the sprawling figure in the bed. The sheet had slipped revealing dark breasts tipped a darker colour. He looked at her critically. Her olive skin had an underlying coppery sheen and he thought there was a sizeable admixture of Indian in this one. With a rueful grimace he took a thin wallet from the inside pocket of his leather jacket, extracted two notes and tossed them on the bedside table. Then he went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

II

When he pulled his battered car into the parking bay he looked with interest at the unaccustomed bright lights of the airport. The field was low-grade, classed as an emergency strip by the big operators, although to Filson it was a main base. A Samair Boeing 727 lay sleekly in front of the control tower and O’Hara looked at it enviously for a while, then switched his attention to the hangar beyond.

A Dakota was being loaded and, even at that distance, the lights were bright enough for O’Hara to see the emblem on the tail — two intertwined ‘A’s, painted artistically to look like mountain peaks. He smiled gently to himself. It was appropriate that he should fly a plane decorated with the Double-A; alcoholics of the world unite — it was a pity Filson didn’t see the joke. But Filson was very proud of his Andes Airlift and never joked about it. A humourless man, altogether.

He got out of the car and walked around to the main building to find it was full of people, tired people rudely awakened and set down in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. He pushed his way through the crowd towards Filson’s office. An American voice with a Western twang complained loudly and bitterly, ‘This is a damned disgrace — I’m going to speak to Mr Coulson about it when I get back to Rio.’

O’Hara grinned as he pushed open the door of the office. Filson was sitting at his desk in his shirt-sleeves, his face shiny with sweat. He always sweated, particularly in an emergency and since his life was in a continual state of crisis it was a wonder he didn’t melt away altogether. He looked up.

‘So you got here at last.’

‘I’m always pleased at the welcome I get,’ observed O’Hara.

Filson ignored that. ‘All right; this is the dope,’ he said. ‘I’ve contracted with Samair to take ten of their passengers to Santillana — they’re the ones who have to make connections with a ship. You’ll take number one — she’s being serviced now.’ His voice was briskly businesslike and O’Hara could tell by the way he sonorously rolled out the words ‘contracted with Samair’ that he saw himself as a big-time air operator doing business with his peers instead of what he really was — an ageing ex-pilot making a precarious living off two twenty-five-year-old rattling ex-army surplus planes.

O’Hara merely said, ‘Who’s coming with me?’

‘Grivas.’

‘That cocky little bastard.’

‘He volunteered — which is more than you did,’ snapped Filson.

‘Oh?’

‘He was here when the 727 touched down,’ said Filson. He smiled thinly at O’Hara. ‘It was his idea to put it to Samair that we take some of their more urgent passengers, so he phoned me right away. That’s the kind of quick thinking we need in this organization.’

‘I don’t like him in a plane,’ said O’Hara.

‘So you’re a better pilot,’ said Filson reluctantly. ‘That’s why you’re skipper and he’s going as co-pilot.’ He looked at the ceiling reflectively. ‘When this deal with Samair comes off maybe I’ll promote Grivas to the office. He’s too good to be a pilot.’

Filson had delusions of grandeur. O’Hara said deliberately, ‘If you think that South American Air is going to give you a feeder contract, you’re crazy. You’ll get paid for taking their passengers and you’ll get their thanks — for what they’re worth — and they’ll kiss you off fast.’

Filson pointed a pen at O’Hara. ‘You’re paid to jockey a plane — leave the heavy thinking to me.’

O’Hara gave up. ‘What happened to the 727?’

‘Something wrong with the fuel feed — they’re looking at it now.’ Filson picked up a sheaf of papers. ‘There’s a crate of machinery to go for servicing. Here’s the manifest.’

‘Christ!’ said O’Hara. ‘This is an unscheduled flight. Do you have to do this?’

‘Unscheduled or not, you’re going with a full load. Damned if I send a half empty plane when I can send a full one.’

O’Hara was mournful. ‘It’s just that I thought I’d have an easy trip for a change. You know you always overload and it’s a hell of a job going through the passes. The old bitch wallows like a hippo.’

‘You’re going at the best time,’ said Filson. ‘It’ll be worse later in the day when the sun has warmed things up. Now get the hell out of here and stop bothering me.’

O’Hara left the office. The main hall was emptying, a stream of disgruntled Samair passengers leaving for the antiquated airport bus. A few people still stood about — those would be the passengers for Santillana. O’Hara ignored them; passengers or freight, it was all one to him. He took them over the Andes and dumped them on the other side and there was no point in getting involved with them. A bus driver doesn’t mix with his passengers, he thought; and that’s all I am — a bloody vertical bus driver.

He glanced at the manifest. Filson had done it again — there were two crates and he was aghast at their weight. One of these days, he thought savagely, I’ll get an I.A.T.A. inspector up here at the right time and Filson will go for a loop. He crushed the manifest in his fist and went to inspect the Dakota.

Grivas was by the plane, lounging gracefully against the undercarriage. He straightened when he saw O’Hara and flicked his cigarette across the tarmac but did not step forward to meet him. O’Hara crossed over and said, ‘Is the cargo aboard?’

Grivas smiled. ‘Yes.’

‘Did you check it? Is it secure?’

‘Of course, Señor O’Hara. I saw to it myself.’

O’Hara grunted. He did not like Grivas, neither as a man nor as a pilot. He distrusted his smoothness, the slick patina of pseudo good breeding that covered him like a sheen from his patent leather hair and trim toothbrush moustache to his highly polished shoes. Grivas was a slim wiry man, not very tall, who always wore a smile. O’Hara distrusted the smile most of all.

‘What’s the weather?’ he asked.

Grivas looked at the sky. ‘It seems all right.’

O’Hara let acid creep into his voice. ‘A met. report would be a good thing, don’t you think?’

Grivas grinned. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said.

O’Hara watched him go, then turned to the Dakota and walked round to the cargo doors. The Dakota had been one of the most successful planes ever designed, the work-horse of the Allied forces during the war. Over ten thousand of them had fought a good war, flying countless millions of ton-miles of precious freight about the world. It was a good plane in its time, but that was long ago.

This Dakota was twenty-five years old, battered by too many air hours with too little servicing. O’Hara knew the exact amount of play in the rudder cables; he knew how to nurse the worn-out engines so as to get the best out of them — and a poor best it was; he knew the delicate technique of landing so as not to put too much strain on the weakened undercarriage. And he knew that one day the whole sorry fabric would play a murderous trick on him high over the white spears of the Andes.

He climbed into the plane and looked about the cavernous interior. There were ten seats up front, not the luxurious reclining couches of Samair but uncomfortable hard leather chairs each fitted with the safety-belt that even Filson could not skip, although he had grumbled at the added cost. The rest of the fuselage was devoted to cargo space and was at present occupied by two large crates.

O’Hara went round them testing the anchoring straps with his hand. He had a horror that one day the cargo would slide forward if he made a bad landing or hit very bad turbulence. That would be the end of any passengers who had the ill-luck to be flying Andes Airlift. He cursed as he found a loose strap. Grivas and his slipshod ways would be the end of him one day.

Having seen the cargo was secured he went forward into the cockpit and did a routine check of the instruments. A mechanic was working on the port engine so O’Hara leaned out of the side window and asked in Spanish if it was all right. The mechanic spat, then drew his finger across his throat and made a bloodcurdling sound. ‘De un momento a otro.’

He finished the instrument check and went into the hangar to find Fernandez, the chief mechanic, who usually had a bottle or two stored away, strictly against Filson’s orders. O’Hara liked Fernandez and he knew that Fernandez liked him; they got on well together and O’Hara made a point of keeping it that way — to be at loggerheads with the chief mechanic would be a passport to eternity in this job.

He chatted for a while with Fernandez, then filled his flask and took a hasty gulp from the bottle before he passed it back. Dawn was breaking as he strode back to the Dakota, and Grivas was in the cockpit fussing with the disposal of his briefcase. It’s a funny thing, thought O’Hara, that the briefcase is just as much a part of an airline pilot as it is of any city gent. His own was under his seat; all it contained was a packet of sandwiches which he had picked up at an all-night café.

‘Got the met. report?’ he asked Grivas.

Grivas passed over the sheet of paper and O’Hara said, ‘You can taxi her down to the apron.’

He studied the report. It wasn’t too bad — it wasn’t bad at all. No storms, no anomalies, no trouble — just good weather over the mountains. But O’Hara had known the meteorologists to be wrong before and there was no release of the tension within him. It was that tension, never relaxed in the air, that had kept him alive when a lot of better men had died.

As the Dakota came to a halt on the apron outside the main building, he saw Filson leading the small group of passengers. ‘See they have their seat-belts properly fastened,’ he said to Grivas.

‘I’m not a hostess,’ said Grivas sulkily.

‘When you’re sitting on this side of the cockpit you can give orders,’ said O’Hara coldly. ‘Right now you take them. And I’d like you to do a better job of securing the passengers than you did of the cargo.’

The smile left Grivas’s face, but he turned and went into the main cabin. Presently Filson came forward and thrust a form at O’Hara. ‘Sign this.’

It was the I.A.T.A. certificate of weights and fuel. O’Hara saw that Filson had cheated on the weights as usual, but made no comment and scribbled his signature. Filson said, ‘As soon as you land give me a ring. There might be return cargo.’

O’Hara nodded and Filson withdrew. There was the double slam as the door closed and O’Hara said, ‘Take her to the end of the strip.’ He switched on the radio, warming it up.

Grivas was still sulky and would not talk. He made no answer as he revved the engines and the Dakota waddled away from the main building into the darkness, ungainly and heavy on the ground. At the end of the runway O’Hara thought for a moment. Filson had not given him a flight number. To hell with it, he thought; control ought to know what’s going on. He clicked on the microphone and said, ‘A.A. special flight, destination Santillana — A.A. to San Croce control — ready to take off.’

A voice crackled tinnily in his ear. ‘San Croce control to Andes Airlift special. Permission given — time 2.33 G.M.T.’

‘Roger and out.’ He put his hand to the throttles and waggled the stick. There was a stickiness about it. Without looking at Grivas he said, ‘Take your hands off the controls.’ Then he pushed on the throttle levers and the engines roared. Four minutes later the Dakota was airborne after an excessively long run.

He stayed at the controls for an hour, personally supervising the long climb to the roof of the world. He liked to find out if the old bitch was going to spring a new surprise. Cautiously he carried out gentle, almost imperceptible evolutions, his senses attuned to the feel of the plane. Occasionally he glanced at Grivas who was sitting frozen-faced in the other seat, staring blankly through the windscreen.

At last he was satisfied and engaged the automatic pilot but spent another quarter-hour keeping a wary eye on it. It had behaved badly on the last flight but Fernandez had assured him that it was now all right. He trusted Fernandez, but not that much — it was always better to do the final check personally.

Then he relaxed and looked ahead. It was much lighter in the high air and, although the dawn was behind, the sky ahead was curiously light. O’Hara knew why; it was the snow blink as the first light of the sun caught the high white peaks of the Andes. The mountains themselves were as yet invisible, lost in the early haze rising from the jungle below.

He began to think about his passengers and he wondered if they knew what they had got themselves into. This was no pressurized jet aircraft and they were going to fly pretty high — it would be cold and the air would be thin and he hoped none of the passengers had heart trouble. Presumably Filson had warned them, although he wouldn’t put it past that bastard to keep his mouth shut. He was even too stingy to provide decent oxygen masks — there were only mouth tubes in the oxygen bottles to port and starboard.

He scratched his cheek thoughtfully. These weren’t the ordinary passengers he was used to carrying — the American mining engineers flying to San Croce and the poorer type of local businessman proud to be flying even by Andes Airlift. These were the Samair type of passengers — wealthy and not over fond of hardship. They were in a hurry, too, or they would have had more sense than to fly Andes Airlift. Perhaps he had better break his rule and go back to talk to them. When they found they weren’t going to fly over the Andes but through them they might get scared. It would be better to warn them first.

He pushed his uniform cap to the back of his head and said, ‘Take over, Grivas. I’m going to talk to the passengers.’

Grivas lifted his eyebrows — so surprised that he forgot to be sulky. He shrugged. ‘Why? What is so important about the passengers? Is this Samair?’ He laughed noiselessly. ‘But, yes, of course — you have seen the girl; you want to see her again, eh?’

‘What girl?’

‘Just a girl, a woman; very beautiful. I think I will get to know her and take her out when we arrive in — er — Santillana,’ said Grivas thoughtfully. He looked at O’Hara out of the corner of his eye.

O’Hara grunted and took the passenger manifest from his breast pocket. As he suspected, the majority were American. He went through the list rapidly. Mr and Mrs Coughlin of Challis, Idaho — tourists; Dr James Armstrong, London, England — no profession stated; Raymond Forester of New York — businessman; Señor and Señorita Montes — Argentinian and no profession stated; Miss Jennifer Ponsky of South Bridge, Connecticut — tourist; Dr Willis of California; Miguel Rohde — no stated nationality, profession — importer; Joseph Peabody of Chicago, Illinois — businessman.

He flicked his finger on the manifest and grinned at Grivas. ‘Jennifer’s a nice name — but Ponsky? I can’t see you going around with anyone called Ponsky.’

Grivas looked startled, then laughed convulsively. ‘Ah, my friend, you can have the fair Ponsky — I’ll stick to my girl.’

O’Hara looked at the list again. ‘Then it must be Señorita Montes — unless it’s Mrs Coughlin.’

Grivas chuckled, his good spirits recovered. ‘You find out for yourself.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said O’Hara. ‘Take over.’

He went back into the main cabin and was confronted by ten uplifted heads. He smiled genially, modelling himself on the Samair pilots to whom public relations was as important as flying ability. Lifting his voice above the roar of the engines, he said, ‘I suppose I ought to tell you that we’ll be reaching the mountains in about an hour. It will get cold, so I suggest you wear your overcoats. Mr Filson will have told you that this aircraft isn’t pressurized, but we don’t fly at any great height for more than an hour, so you’ll be quite all right.’

A burly man with a whisky complexion interjected, ‘No one told me that.’

O’Hara cursed Filson under his breath and broadened his smile. ‘Well, not to worry, Mr — er...’

‘Peabody — Joe Peabody.’

‘Mr Peabody. It will be quite all right. There is an oxygen mouthpiece next to every seat which I advise you to use if you feel breathing difficult. Now, it gets a bit wearying shouting like this above the engine noise, so I’ll come round and talk to you individually.’ He smiled at Peabody, who glowered back at him.

He bent to the first pair of seats on the port side. ‘Could I have your names, please?’

The first man said, ‘I’m Forester.’ The other contributed, ‘Willis.’

‘Glad to have you aboard, Dr Willis, Mr Forester.’

Forester said, ‘I didn’t bargain for this, you know. I didn’t think kites like this were still flying.’

O’Hara smiled deprecatingly. ‘Well, this is an emergency flight and it was laid on in the devil of a hurry. I’m sure it was an oversight that Mr Filson forgot to tell you that this isn’t a pressurized plane.’ Privately he was not sure of anything of the kind.

Willis said with a smile. ‘I came here to study high altitude conditions. I’m certainly starting with a bang. How high do we fly, Captain?’

‘Not more than seventeen thousand feet,’ said O’Hara. ‘We fly through the passes — we don’t go over the top. You’ll find the oxygen mouthpieces easy to use — all you do is suck.’ He smiled and turned away and found himself held. Peabody was clutching his sleeve, leaning forward over the seat behind. ‘Hey, Skipper...’

‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr Peabody,’ said O’Hara, and held Peabody with his eye. Peabody blinked rapidly, released his grip and subsided into his seat, and O’Hara turned to starboard.

The man was elderly, with an aquiline nose and a short grey beard. With him was a young girl of startling beauty, judging by what O’Hara could see of her face, which was not much because she was huddled deep into a fur coat. He said, ‘Señor Montes?’

The man inclined his head. ‘Don’t worry, Captain, we know what to expect.’ He waved a gloved hand. ‘You see we are well prepared. I know the Andes, señor, and I know these aircraft. I know the Andes well; I have been over them on foot and by mule — in my youth I climbed some of the high peaks — didn’t I, Benedetta?’

‘Si, tío,’ she said in a colourless voice. ‘But that was long ago. I don’t know if your heart...’

He patted her on the leg. ‘I will be all right if I relax; is that not so, Captain?’

‘Do you understand the use of this oxygen tube?’ asked O’Hara.

Montes nodded confidently, and O’Hara said, ‘Your uncle will be quite all right, Señorita Montes.’ He waited for her to reply but she made no answer, so he passed on to the seats behind.

These couldn’t be the Coughlins; they were too ill-assorted a pair to be American tourists, although the woman was undoubtedly American. O’Hara said inquiringly, ‘Miss Ponsky?’

She lifted a sharp nose and said, ‘I declare this is all wrong, Captain. You must turn back at once.’

The fixed smile on O’Hara’s face nearly slipped. ‘I fly this route regularly, Miss Ponsky,’ he said. ‘There is nothing to fear.’

But there was naked fear on her face — air fear. Sealed in the air-conditioned quietness of a modern jet-liner she could subdue it, but the primitiveness of the Dakota brought it to the surface. There was no clever decor to deceive her into thinking that she was in a drawing-room, just the stark functionalism of unpainted aluminium, battered and scratched, and with the plumbing showing like a dissected body.

O’Hara said quietly, ‘What is your profession, Miss Ponsky?’

‘I’m a school teacher back in South Bridge,’ she said. ‘I’ve been teaching there for thirty years.’

He judged she was naturally garrulous and perhaps this could be a way of conquering her fear. He glanced at the man, who said, ‘Miguel Rohde.’

He was a racial anomaly — a Spanish-German name and Spanish-German features — straw-coloured hair and beady black eyes. There had been German immigration into South America for many years and this was one of the results.

O’Hara said, ‘Do you know the Andes, Señor Rohde?’

‘Very well,’ he replied in a grating voice. He nodded ahead. ‘I lived up there for many years — now I am going back.’

O’Hara switched back to Miss Ponsky. ‘Do you teach geography, Miss Ponsky?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, I do. That’s one of the reasons I came to South America on my vacation. It makes such a difference if you can describe things first-hand.’

‘Then here you have a marvellous opportunity,’ said O’Hara with enthusiasm. ‘You’ll see the Andes as you never would if you’d flown Samair. And I’m sure that Señor Rohde will point out the interesting sights.’

Rohde nodded understandingly. ‘Si, very interesting; I know it well, the mountain country.’

O’Hara smiled reassuringly at Miss Ponsky, who offered him a glimmering, tremulous smile in return. He caught a twinkle in Rohde’s black eyes as he turned to the port side again.

The man sitting next to Peabody was undoubtedly British, so O’Hara said, ‘Glad to have you with us, Dr Armstrong — Mr Peabody.’

Armstrong said, ‘Nice to hear an English accent, Captain, after all this Spa—’

Peabody broke in. ‘I’m damned if I’m glad to be here, Skipper. What in hell kind of an airline is this, for godsake?’

‘One run by an American, Mr Peabody,’ said O’Hara calmly. ‘As you were saying, Dr Armstrong?’

‘Never expected to see an English captain out here,’ said Armstrong.

‘Well, I’m Irish, and we tend to get about,’ said O’Hara. ‘I’d put on some warm clothing if I were you. You, too, Mr Peabody.’

Peabody laughed and suddenly burst into song. ‘“I’ve got my love to keep me warm”.’ He produced a hip flask and waved it. ‘This is as good as any top-coat.’

For a moment O’Hara saw himself in Peabody and was shocked and afraid. ‘As you wish,’ he said bleakly, and passed on to the last pair of seats opposite the luggage racks.

The Coughlins were an elderly couple, very Darby and Joanish. He must have been pushing seventy and she was not far behind, but there was a suggestion of youth about their eyes, good-humoured and with a zest for life. O’Hara said, ‘Are you all right, Mrs Coughlin?’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Aren’t we, Harry?’

‘Sure,’ said Coughlin, and looked up at O’Hara. ‘Will we be flying through the Puerto de las Aguilas?’

‘That’s right,’ said O’Hara. ‘Do you know these parts?’

Coughlin laughed. ‘Last time I was round here was in 1912. I’ve just come down to show my wife where I spent my misspent youth.’ He turned to her. ‘That means Eagle Pass, you know; it took me two weeks to get across back in 1910, and here we are doing it in an hour or two. Isn’t it wonderful?’

‘It sure is,’ Mrs Coughlin replied comfortably.

There was nothing wrong with the Coughlins, decided O’Hara, so after a few more words he went back to the cockpit. Grivas still had the plane on automatic pilot and was sitting relaxed, gazing forward at the mountains. O’Hara sat down and looked intently at the oncoming mountain wall. He checked the course and said, ‘Keep taking a bearing on Chimitaxl and let me know when it’s two hundred and ten degrees true bearing. You know the drill.’

He stared down at the ground looking for landmarks and nodded with satisfaction as he saw the sinuous, twisting course of the Rio Sangre and the railway bridge that crossed it. Flying this route by day and for so long he knew the ground by heart and knew immediately whether he was on time. He judged that the north-west wind predicted by the meteorologists was a little stronger than they had prophesied and altered course accordingly, then he jacked in the auto pilot again and relaxed. All would be quiet until Grivas came up with the required bearing on Chimitaxl. He sat in repose and watched the ground slide away behind — the dun and olive foothills, craggy bare rock, and then the shining snowcovered peaks. Presently he munched on the sandwiches he took from his briefcase. He thought of washing them down with a drink from his flask but then he thought of Peabody’s whisky-sodden face. Something inside him seemed to burst and he found that he didn’t need a drink after all.

Grivas suddenly put down the bearing compass. ‘Thirty seconds,’ he said.

O’Hara looked at the wilderness of high peaks before him, a familiar wilderness. Some of these mountains were his friends, like Chimitaxl; they pointed out his route. Others were his deadly enemies — devils and demons lurked among them compounded of down draughts, driving snow and mists. But he was not afraid because it was all familiar and he knew and understood the dangers and how to escape them.

Grivas said, ‘Now,’ and O’Hara swung the control column gently, experience telling him the correct turn. His feet automatically moved in conjunction with his hands and the Dakota swept to port in a wide, easy curve, heading for a gap in the towering wall ahead.

Grivas said softly, ‘Señor O’Hara.’

‘Don’t bother me now.’

‘But I must,’ said Grivas, and there was a tiny metallic click.

O’Hara glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and stiffened as he saw that Grivas was pointing a gun at him — a compact automatic pistol.

He jerked his head, his eyes widening in disbelief. ‘Have you gone crazy?’

Grivas’s smiled widened. ‘Does it matter?’ he said indifferently. ‘We do not go through the Puerto de las Aguilas this trip, Señor O’Hara, that is all that matters.’ His voice hardened. ‘Now steer course one-eight-four on a true bearing.’

O’Hara took a deep breath and held his course. ‘You must have gone out of your mind,’ he said. ‘Put down that gun, Grivas, and maybe we’ll forget this. I suppose I have been bearing down on you a bit too much, but that’s no reason to pull a gun. Put it away and we’ll straighten things out when we get to Santillana.’

Grivas’s teeth flashed. ‘You’re a stupid man, O’Hara; do you think I do this for personal reasons? But since you mention it, you said not long ago that sitting in the captain’s seat gave you authority.’ He lifted the gun slightly. ‘You were wrong — this gives authority; all the authority there is. Now change course or I’ll blow your head off. I can fly this aircraft too, remember.’

‘They’d hear you inside,’ said O’Hara.

‘I’ve locked the door, and what could they do? They wouldn’t take the controls from the only pilot. But that would be of no consequence to you, O’Hara — you’d be dead.’

O’Hara saw his finger tighten on the trigger and bit his lip before swinging the control column. The Dakota turned to fly south, parallel to the main backbone of the Andes. Grivas was right, damn him; there was no point in getting himself killed. But what the hell was he up to?

He settled on the bearing given by Grivas and reached forward to the auto pilot control. Grivas jerked the gun. ‘No, Señor O’Hara; you fly this aircraft — it will give you something to do.’

O’Hara drew back his hand slowly and grasped the wheel. He looked out to starboard past Grivas at the high peaks drifting by. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked grimly.

‘That is of no consequence,’ said Grivas. ‘But it is not very far. We land at an airstrip in five minutes.’

O’Hara thought about that. There was no airstrip that he knew of on this course. There were no airstrips at all this high in the mountains except for the military strips, and those were on the Pacific side of the Andes chain. He would have to wait and see.

His eyes flickered to the microphone set on its hook close to his left hand. He looked at Grivas and saw he was not wearing his earphones. If the microphone was switched on then any loud conversation would go on the air and Grivas would be unaware of it. It was definitely worth trying.

He said to Grivas, ‘There are no airstrips on this course.’ His left hand strayed from the wheel.

‘You don’t know everything, O’Hara.’

His fingers touched the microphone and he leaned over to obstruct Grivas’s vision as much as possible, pretending to study the instruments. His fingers found the switch and he snapped it over and then he leaned back and relaxed. In a loud voice he said, ‘You’ll never get away with this, Grivas; you can’t steal a whole aeroplane so easily. When this Dakota is overdue at Santillana they’ll lay on a search — you know that as well as I do.’

Grivas laughed. ‘Oh, you’re clever, O’Hara — but I was cleverer. The radio is not working, you know. I took out the tubes when you were talking to the passengers.’

O’Hara felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He looked at the jumble of peaks ahead and felt frightened. This was country he did not know and there would be dangers he could not recognize. He felt frightened for himself and for his passengers.

III

It was cold in the passenger cabin, and the air was thin. Señor Montes had blue lips and his face had turned grey. He sucked on the oxygen tube and his niece fumbled in her bag and produced a small bottle of pills. He smiled painfully and put a pill in his mouth, letting it dissolve on his tongue. Slowly some colour came back into his face; not a lot, but he looked better than he had before taking the pill.

In the seat behind, Miss Ponsky’s teeth were chattering, not with cold but with conversation. Already Miguel Rohde had learned much of her life history, in which he had not the slightest interest although he did not show it. He let her talk, prompting her occasionally, and all the time he regarded the back of Montes’s head with lively black eyes. At a question from Miss Ponsky he looked out of the window and suddenly frowned.

The Coughlins were also looking out of the window. Mr Coughlin said, ‘I’d have sworn we were going to head that way — through that pass. But we suddenly changed course south.’

‘It all looks the same to me,’ said Mrs Coughlin. ‘Just a lot of mountains and snow.’

Coughlin said, ‘From what I remember, El Puerto de las Aguilas is back there.’

‘Oh, Harry, I’m sure you don’t really remember. It’s nearly fifty years since you were here — and you never saw it from an airplane.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, unconvinced. ‘But it sure is funny.’

‘Now, Harry, the pilot knows what he’s doing. He looked a nice efficient young man to me.’

Coughlin continued to look from the window. He said nothing more.

James Armstrong of London, England, was becoming very bored with Joe Peabody of Chicago, Illinois. The man was a positive menace. Already he had sunk half the contents of his flask, which seemed an extraordinarily large one, and he was getting combatively drunk. ‘Whadya think of the nerve of that goddam fly-boy, chokin’ me off like that?’ he demanded. ‘Actin’ high an’ mighty jus’ like the goddam limey he is.’

Armstrong smiled gently. ‘I’m a — er — goddam limey too, you know,’ he pointed out.

‘Well, jeez, presen’ comp’ny excepted,’ said Peabody. ‘That’s always the rule, ain’t it? I ain’t got anything against you limeys really, excep’ you keep draggin’ us into your wars.’

‘I take it you read the Chicago Tribune,’ said Armstrong solemnly.

Forester and Willis did not talk much — they had nothing in common. Willis had produced a large book as soon as they exhausted their small talk and to Forester it looked heavy in all senses of the word, being mainly mathematical.

Forester had nothing to do. In front of him was an aluminium bulkhead on which an axe and a first-aid box were mounted. There was no profit in looking at that and consequently his eyes frequently strayed across the aisle to Señor Montes. His lips tightened as he noted the bad colour of Montes’s face and he looked at the first-aid box reflectively.

IV

‘There it is,’ said Grivas. ‘You land there.’

O’Hara straightened up and looked over the nose of the Dakota. Dead ahead amid a jumble of rocks and snow was a short airstrip, a mere track cut on a ledge of a mountain. He had time for the merest glimpse before it was gone behind them.

Grivas waved the gun. ‘Circle it,’ he said.

O’Hara eased the plane into an orbit round the strip and looked down at it. There were buildings down there, rough cabins in a scattered group, and there was a road leading down the mountain, twisting and turning like a snake. Someone had thoughtfully cleared the airstrip of snow, but there was no sign of life.

He judged his distance from the ground and glanced at the altimeter. ‘You’re crazy, Grivas,’ he said. ‘We can’t land on that strip.’

‘You can, O’Hara,’ said Grivas.

‘I’m damned if I’m going to. This plane’s overloaded and that strip’s at an altitude of seventeen thousand feet. It would need to be three times as long for this crate to land safely. The air’s too thin to hold us up at a slow landing speed — we’ll hit the ground at a hell of a lick and we won’t be able to pull up. We’ll shoot off the other end of the strip and crash on the side of the mountain.’

‘You can do it.’

‘To hell with you,’ said O’Hara.

Grivas lifted his gun. ‘All right, I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘But I’ll have to kill you first.’

O’Hara looked at the black hole staring at him like an evil eye. He could see the rifling inside the muzzle and it looked as big as a howitzer. In spite of the cold, he was sweating and could feel rivulets of perspiration running down his back. He turned away from Grivas and studied the strip again. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked.

‘You would not know if I told you,’ said Grivas. ‘You would not understand — you are English.’

O’Hara sighed. It was going to be very dicey; he might be able to get the Dakota down in approximately one piece, but Grivas wouldn’t have a chance — he’d pile it up for sure. He said, ‘All right — warn the passengers; get them to the rear of the cabin.’

‘Never mind the passengers,’ said Grivas flatly. ‘You do not think that I am going to leave this cockpit?’

O’Hara said, ‘All right, you’re calling the shots, but I warn you — don’t touch the controls by as much as a finger. You’re not a pilot’s backside — and you know it. There can be only one man flying a plane.’

‘Get on with it,’ said Grivas shortly.

‘I’ll take my own time,’ said O’Hara. ‘I want a good look before I do a damn thing.’

He orbited the airstrip four more times, watching it as it spun crazily beneath the Dakota. The passengers should know there was something wrong by this time, he thought. No ordinary airliner stood on its wingtip and twitched about like this. Maybe they’d get alarmed and someone would try to do something about it — that might give him a chance to get at Grivas. But what the passengers could do was problematical.

The strip was all too short; it was also very narrow and made for a much smaller aircraft. He would have to land on the extreme edge, his wingtip brushing a rock wall. Then there was the question of wind direction. He looked down at the cabins, hoping to detect a wisp of smoke from the chimneys, but there was nothing.

‘I’m going to go in closer — over the strip,’ he said. ‘But I’m not landing this time.’

He pulled out of orbit and circled widely to come in for a landing approach. He lined up the nose of the Dakota on the strip like a gunsight and the plane came in, fast and level. To starboard there was a blur of rock and snow and O’Hara held his breath. If the wingtip touched the rock wall that would be the end. Ahead, the strip wound underneath, as though it was being swallowed by the Dakota. There was nothing as the strip ended — just a deep valley and the blue sky. He hauled on the stick and the plane shot skyward.

The passengers will know damn well there’s something wrong now, he thought. To Grivas he said, ‘We’re not going to get this aircraft down in one piece.’

‘Just get me down safely,’ said Grivas. ‘I’m the only one who matters.’

O’Hara grinned tightly. ‘You don’t matter a damn to me.’

‘Then think of your own neck,’ said Grivas. ‘That will take care of mine, too.’

But O’Hara was thinking of ten lives in the passenger cabin. He circled widely again to make another approach and debated with himself the best way of doing this. He could come in with the undercarriage up or down. A bellylanding would be rough at that speed, but the plane would slow down faster because of the increased friction. The question was: could he hold her straight? On the other hand if he came in with the undercarriage down he would lose airspeed before he hit the deck — that was an advantage too.

He smiled grimly and decided to do both. For the first time he blessed Filson and his lousy aeroplanes. He knew to a hair how much stress the undercarriage would take; hitherto his problem had been that of putting the Dakota down gently. This time he would come in with undercarriage down, losing speed, and slam her down hard — hard enough to break off the weakened struts like matchsticks. That would give him his belly-landing, too.

He sighted the nose of the Dakota on the strip again. ‘Well, here goes nothing,’ he said. ‘Flaps down; undercarriage down.’

As the plane lost airspeed the controls felt mushy under his hands. He set his teeth and concentrated as never before.

V

As the plane tipped wing down and started to orbit the airstrip Armstrong was thrown violently against Peabody. Peabody was in the act of taking another mouthful of whisky and the neck of the flask suddenly jammed against his teeth. He spluttered and yelled incoherently and thrust hard against Armstrong.

Rohde was thrown out of his seat and found himself sitting in the aisle, together with Coughlin and Montes. He struggled to his feet, shaking his head violently, then he bent to help Montes, speaking quick Spanish. Mrs Coughlin helped her husband back to his seat.

Willis had been making a note in the margin of his book and the point of his pencil snapped as Forester lurched against him. Forester made no attempt to regain his position but looked incredulously out of the window, ignoring Willis’s feeble protests at being squashed. Forester was a big man.

The whole cabin was a babel of sound in English and Spanish, dominated by the sharp and scratchy voice of Miss Ponsky as she querulously complained. ‘I knew it,’ she screamed. ‘I knew it was all wrong.’ She began to laugh hysterically and Rohde turned from Montes and slapped her with a heavy hand. She looked at him in surprise and suddenly burst into tears.

Peabody shouted, ‘What in goddam hell is that limey doing now?’ He stared out of the window at the airstrip. ‘The bastard’s going to land.’

Rohde spoke rapidly to Montes, who seemed so shaken he was apathetic. There was a quick exchange in Spanish between Rohde and the girl, and he pointed to the door leading to the cockpit. She nodded violently and he stood up.

Mrs Coughlin was leaning forward in her seat, comforting Miss Ponsky. ‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ she kept saying. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen.’

The aircraft straightened as O’Hara came in for his first approach run. Rohde leaned over Armstrong and looked through the window, but turned as Miss Ponsky screamed in fright, looking at the blur of rock streaming past the starboard window and seeing the wingtip brushing it so closely. Then Rohde lost his balance again as O’Hara pulled the Dakota into a climb.

It was Forester who made the first constructive move. He was nearest the door leading to the cockpit and he grabbed the door handle, turned and pushed. Nothing happened. He put his shoulder to the door but was thrown away as the plane turned rapidly. O’Hara was going into his final landing approach.

Forester grabbed the axe from its clips on the bulkhead and raised it to strike, but his arm was caught by Rohde. ‘This is quicker,’ said Rohde, and lifted a heavy pistol in his other hand. He stepped in front of Forester and fired three quick shots at the lock of the door.

VI

O’Hara heard the shots a fraction of a second before the Dakota touched down. He not only heard them but saw the altimeter and the turn-and-climb indicator shiver into fragments as the bullets smashed into the instrument panel. But he had not time to see what was happening behind him because just then the heavily overloaded Dakota settled soggily at the extreme end of the strip, moving at high speed.

There was a sickening crunch and the whole air frame shuddered as the undercarriage collapsed and the plane sank on to its belly and slid with a tearing, rending sound towards the far end of the strip. O’Hara fought frantically with the controls as they kicked against his hands and feet and tried to keep the aircraft sliding in a straight line.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Grivas turn to the door, his pistol raised. O’Hara took a chance, lifted one hand from the stick and struck out blindly at Grivas. He just had time for one blow and luckily it connected somewhere; he felt the edge of his hand strike home and then he was too busy to see if he had incapacitated Grivas.

The Dakota was still moving too fast. Already it was more than halfway down the strip and O’Hara could see the emptiness ahead where the strip stopped at the lip of the valley. In desperation he swung the rudder hard over and the Dakota swerved with a loud grating sound.

He braced himself for the crash.

The starboard wingtip hit the rock wall and the Dakota spun sharply to the right. O’Hara kept the rudder forced right over and saw the rock wall coming right at him. The nose of the plane hit rock and crumpled and the safety glass in the windscreens shivered into opacity. Then something hit him on the head and he lost consciousness.

VII

He came round because someone was slapping his face. His head rocked from side to side and he wanted them to stop because it was so good to be asleep. The slapping went on and on and he moaned and tried to tell them to stop. But the slapping did not stop so he opened his eyes.

It was Forester who was administering the punishment, and, as O’Hara opened his eyes, he turned to Rohde who was standing behind him and said, ‘Keep your gun on him.’

Rohde smiled. His gun was in his hand but hanging slackly and pointing to the floor. He made no attempt to bring it up. Forester said, ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’

O’Hara painfully lifted his arm to his head. He had a bump on his skull the size of an egg. He said weakly, ‘Where’s Grivas?’

‘Who is Grivas?’

‘My co-pilot.’

‘He’s here — he’s in a bad way.’

‘I hope the bastard dies,’ said O’Hara bitterly. ‘He pulled a gun on me.’

‘You were at the controls,’ said Forester, giving him a hard look. ‘You put this plane down here — and I want to know why.’

‘It was Grivas — he forced me to do it.’

‘The señor capitan is right,’ said Rohde. ‘This man Grivas was going to shoot me and the señor capitan hit him.’ He bowed stiffly. ‘Muchas gracias.’

Forester swung round and looked at Rohde, then beyond him to Grivas. ‘Is he conscious?’

O’Hara looked across the cockpit. The side of the fuselage was caved in and a blunt spike of rock had hit Grivas in the chest, smashing his rib cage. It looked as though he wasn’t going to make it, after all. But he was conscious, all right; his eyes were open and he looked at them with hatred.

O’Hara could hear a woman screaming endlessly in the passenger cabin and someone else was moaning monotonously. ‘For Christ’s sake, what’s happened back there?’

No one answered because Grivas began to speak. He mumbled in a low whisper and blood frothed round his mouth. ‘They’ll get you,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here any minute now.’ His lips parted in a ghastly smile. ‘I’ll be all right; they’ll take me to hospital. But you — you’ll...’ He broke off in a fit of coughing and then continued: ‘...they’ll kill the lot of you.’ He lifted up his arm, the fingers curling into a fist. ‘Vivaca...’

The arm dropped flaccidly and the look of hate in his eyes deepened into surprise — surprise that he was dead.

Rohde grabbed him by the wrist and held it for a moment. ‘He’s gone,’ he said.

‘He was a lunatic,’ said O’Hara. ‘Stark, staring mad.’

The woman was still screaming and Forester said, ‘For God’s sake, let’s get everybody out of here.’

Just then the Dakota lurched sickeningly and the whole cockpit rose in the air. There was a ripping sound as the spike of rock that had killed Grivas tore at the aluminium sheathing of the fuselage. O’Hara had a sudden and horrible intuition of what was happening. ‘Nobody move,’ he shouted. ‘Everyone keep still.’

He turned to Forester. ‘Bash in those windows.’

Forester looked in surprise at the axe he was still holding as though he had forgotten it, then he raised it and struck at the opaque windscreen. The plastic filling in the glass sandwich could not withstand his assault and he made a hole big enough for a man to climb through.

O’Hara said, ‘I’ll go through — I think I know what I’ll find. Don’t either of you go back there — not yet. And call through and tell anyone who can move to come up front.’

He squeezed through the narrow gap and was astonished to find that the nose of the Dakota was missing. He twisted and crawled out on to the top of the fuselage and looked aft. The tail and one wing were hanging in space over the valley where the runway ended. The whole aircraft was delicately balanced and even as he looked the tail tipped a little and there was a ripping sound from the cockpit.

He twisted on to his stomach and wriggled so that he could look into the cockpit, his head upside-down. ‘We’re in a jam,’ he said to Forester. ‘We’re hanging over a two-hundred-foot drop, and the only thing that’s keeping the whole bloody aeroplane from tipping over is that bit of rock there.’ He indicated the rock projection driven into the side of the cockpit.

He said, ‘If anyone goes back there the extra weight might send us over because we’re balanced just like a seesaw.’

Forester turned his head and bawled, ‘Anyone who can move, come up here.’

There was a movement and Willis staggered through the door, his head bloody. Forester shouted, ‘Anyone else?’

Señorita Montes called urgently, ‘Please help my uncle — oh, please.’

Rohde drew Willis out of the way and stepped through the door. Forester said sharply, ‘Don’t go in too far.’

Rohde did not even look at him, but bent to pick up Montes who was lying by the door. He half carried, half dragged him into the cockpit and Señorita Montes followed.

Forester looked up at O’Hara. ‘It’s getting crowded in here; I think we’d better start getting people outside.’

‘We’ll get them on top first,’ said O’Hara. ‘The more weight we have at this end, the better. Let the girl come first.’

She shook her head. ‘My uncle first.’

‘For God’s sake, he’s unconscious,’ said Forester. ‘You go out — I’ll look after him.’

She shook her head stubbornly and O’Hara broke in impatiently, ‘All right, Willis, come on up here; let’s not waste time.’ His head ached and he was panting in the thin air; he was not inclined to waste time over silly girls.

He helped Willis through the smashed windscreen and saw him settle on top of the fuselage. When he looked into the cockpit again it was evident that the girl had changed her mind. Rohde was talking quietly but emphatically to her and she crossed over and O’Hara helped her out.

Armstrong came next, having made his own way to the cockpit. He said, ‘It’s a bloody shambles back there. I think the old man in the back seat is dead and his wife is pretty badly hurt. I don’t think it’s safe to move her.’

‘What about Peabody?’

‘The luggage was thrown forward on to both of us. He’s half buried under it. I tried to get him free but I couldn’t.’

O’Hara passed this on to Forester. Rohde was kneeling by Montes, trying to bring him round. Forester hesitated, then said, ‘Now we’ve got some weight at this end it might be safe for me to go back.’

O’Hara said, ‘Tread lightly.’

Forester gave a mirthless grin and went back through the door. He looked at Miss Ponsky. She was sitting rigid, her arms clutched tightly about her, her eyes staring unblinkingly at nothing. He ignored her and began to heave suitcases from the top of Peabody, being careful to stow them in the front seats. Peabody stirred and Forester shook him into consciousness, and as soon as he seemed to be able to understand, said, ‘Go into the cockpit — the cockpit, you understand,’

Peabody nodded blearily and Forester stepped a little farther aft. ‘Christ Almighty!’ he whispered, shocked at what he saw.

Coughlin was a bloody pulp. The cargo had shifted in the smash and had come forward, crushing the two back seats. Mrs Coughlin was still alive but both her legs had been cut off just below the knee. It was only because she had been leaning forward to comfort Miss Ponsky that she hadn’t been killed like her husband.

Forester felt something touch his back and turned. It was Peabody moving aft. ‘I said the cockpit, you damned fool,’ shouted Forester.

‘I wanna get outa here,’ mumbled Peabody. ‘I wanna get out. The door’s back there.’

Forester wasted no time in argument. Abruptly he jabbed at Peabody’s stomach and then brought his clenched fists down at the nape of his neck as he bent over gasping, knocking him cold. He dragged him forward to the door and said to Rohde, ‘Take care of this fool. If he causes trouble, knock him on the head.’

He went back and took Miss Ponsky by the arm. ‘Come,’ he said gently.

She rose and followed him like a somnambulist and he led her right into the cockpit and delivered her to O’Hara. Montes was now conscious and would be ready to move soon.

As soon as O’Hara reappeared Forester said, ‘I don’t think the old lady back there will make it.’

‘Get her out,’ said O’Hara tightly. ‘For God’s sake, get her out.’

So Forester went back. He didn’t know whether Mrs Coughlin was alive or dead; her body was still warm, however, so he picked her up in his arms. Blood was still spurting from her shattered shins, and when he stepped into the cockpit Rohde drew in his breath with a hiss. ‘On the seat,’ he said. ‘She needs tourniquets now — immediately.’

He took off his jacket and then his shirt and began to rip the shirt into strips, saying to Forester curtly, ‘Get the old man out.’

Forester and O’Hara helped Montes through the windscreen and then Forester turned and regarded Rohde, noting the goose-pimples on his back. ‘Clothing,’ he said to O’Hara. ‘We’ll need warm clothing. It’ll be bad up here by nightfall.’

‘Hell!’ said O’Hara. ‘That’s adding to the risk. I don’t—’

‘He is right,’ said Rohde without turning his head. ‘If we do not have clothing we will all be dead by morning.’

‘All right,’ said O’Hara. ‘Are you willing to take the risk?’

‘I’ll chance it,’ said Forester.

‘I’ll get these people on the ground first,’ said O’Hara. ‘But while you’re at it get the maps. There are some air charts of the area in the pocket next to my seat.’

Rohde grunted. ‘I’ll get those.’

O’Hara got the people from the top of the fuselage to the ground and Forester began to bring suitcases into the cockpit. Unceremoniously he heaved Peabody through the windscreen and equally carelessly O’Hara dropped him to the ground, where he lay sprawling. Then Rohde handed through the unconscious Mrs Coughlin and O’Hara was surprised at her lightness. Rohde climbed out and, taking her in his arms, jumped to the ground, cushioning the shock for her.

Forester began to hand out suitcases and O’Hara tossed them indiscriminately. Some burst open, but most survived the fall intact.

The Dakota lurched.

‘Forester,’ yelled O’Hara. ‘Come out.’

‘There’s still some more.’

‘Get out, you idiot,’ O’Hara bawled. ‘She’s going.’

He grabbed Forester’s arms and hauled him out bodily and let him go thumping to the ground. Then he jumped himself and, as he did so, the nose rose straight into the air and the plane slid over the edge of the cliff with a grinding noise and in a cloud of dust. It crashed down two hundred feet and there was a long dying rumble and then silence.

O’Hara looked at the silent people about him, then turned his eyes to the harsh and savage mountains which surrounded them. He shivered with cold as he felt the keen wind which blew from the snowfields, and then shivered for a different reason as he locked eyes with Forester. They both knew that the odds against survival were heavy and that it was probable that the escape from the Dakota was merely the prelude to a more protracted death.

VIII

‘Now, let’s hear all this from the beginning,’ said Forester.

They had moved into the nearest of the cabins. It proved bare but weatherproof, and there was a fireplace in which Armstrong had made a fire, using wood which Willis had brought from another cabin. Montes was lying in a corner being looked after by his niece, and Peabody was nursing a hangover and looking daggers at Forester.

Miss Ponsky had recovered remarkably from the rigidity of fright. When she had been dropped to the ground she had collapsed, digging her fingers into the frozen gravel in an ecstasy of relief. O’Hara judged she would never have the guts to enter an aeroplane ever again in her life. But now she was showing remarkable aptitude for sick nursing, helping Rohde to care for Mrs Coughlin.

Now there was a character, thought O’Hara; Rohde was a man of unsuspected depths. Although he was not a medical man, he had a good working knowledge of practical medicine which was now invaluable. O’Hara had immediately turned to Willis for help with Mrs Coughlin, but Willis had said, ‘Sorry, I’m a physicist — not a physician.’

‘Dr Armstrong?’ O’Hara had appealed.

Regretfully Armstrong had also shaken his head. ‘I’m a historian.’

So Rohde had taken over — the non-doctor with the medical background — and the man with the gun.

O’Hara turned his attention to Forester. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘This is the way it was,’

He told everything that had happened, right back from the take-off in San Croce, dredging from his memory everything Grivas had said. ‘I think he went off his head,’ he concluded.

Forester frowned. ‘No, it was planned,’ he contradicted. ‘And lunacy isn’t planned. Grivas knew this airstrip and he knew the course to take. You say he was at San Croce airfield when the Samair plane was grounded?’

‘That’s right — I thought it was a bit odd at the time. I mean, it was out of character for Grivas to be haunting the field in the middle of the night — he wasn’t that keen on his job.’

‘It sounds as though he knew the Samair Boeing was going to have engine trouble,’ commented Willis.

Forester looked up quickly and Willis said, ‘It’s the only logical answer — he didn’t just steal a plane, he stole the contents; and the contents of the plane were people from the Boeing. O’Hara says those big crates contain ordinary mining machinery and I doubt if Grivas would want that.’

‘That implies sabotage of the Boeing,’ said Forester. ‘If Grivas was expecting the Boeing to land at San Croce, it also implies a sizeable organization behind him.’

‘We know that already,’ said O’Hara. ‘Grivas was expecting a reception committee here. He said, “They’ll be here any minute.” But where are they?’

‘And who are they?’ asked Forester.

O’Hara thought of something else Grivas had said: ‘...they’ll kill the lot of you.’ He kept quiet about that and asked instead, ‘Remember the last thing he said — “Vivaca”? It doesn’t make sense to me. It sounds vaguely Spanish, but it’s no word I know.’

‘My Spanish is good,’ said Forester deliberately. ‘There’s no such word.’ He slapped the side of his leg irritably. ‘I’d give a lot to know what’s been going on and who’s responsible for all this.’

A weak voice came from across the room. ‘I fear, gentlemen, that in a way I am responsible.’

Everyone in the room, with the exception of Mrs Coughlin, turned to look at Señor Montes.