The Last Place God Made - Jack Higgins [64]
By then I not only didn't give a damn, I was past caring about anything. I was getting out and nothing on this earth was going to stop me. Let that be an end of it.
I changed into dry clothes, climbed into my hammock, hitched a blanket around my shoulders and was almost instantly asleep.
*
I don't know what time the rain stopped, but I awakened to a beautiful morning at eight o'clock, having slept for twelve solid hours. I was sore all over and cramp, that occupational disease of pilots, grabbed at my legs as I sat up. My face ached and I peered in the mirror Mannie had fixed to one of the roof posts; I saw that both cheeks were badly swollen and discoloured with bruising.
There was a step behind me and Mannie appeared, wiping his hands on some cotton waste. He was wearing his overalls and there was grease on his face. The Bristol was parked out on the airstrip.
'How do you feel?' he asked.
'Terrible. Is there any coffee?'
'Ready on the stove. Just needs heating.'
I turned up the flame. 'What have you been doing?'
'My job,' he said calmly. 'You've got a mail run this morning, haven't you?'
'That's right,' I said deliberately.
He nodded towards the Bristol. 'There she is. Ready and waiting for you.'
He turned away. I poured myself a mug of coffee and got ready to go. I had just finished packing my grip for the last time when Hannah arrived.
He looked terrible, the face badly bruised, the nose obviously out of alignment and the eyes were washed clean of all feeling. He wore his leather boots, breeches and an old khaki shirt, a white scarf looped around his neck. He carried the mail sack in his left hand.
He said calmly, 'Are you still going through with this?'
'What do you think?'
'Okay,' he said, still calm. 'Suit yourself.'
He walked across to the Bristol, climbed up and stowed the sack in the observer's cockpit. I followed slowly, my grip in one hand, zipping up my jacket with the other.
Mannie stayed in the hangar, which didn't make me feel too good, but if that was the way he wanted it, then to hell with him. Quite suddenly I had an overwhelming desire to get away from that place. I'd had Landro, I'd had Brazil.
I put my foot on the lower port wing and climbed into the cockpit. Hannah waited patiently while I fastened my helmet and went through my checks. He reached for the propeller, I began to wind the starting magneto and gave him the signal. And then he did a totally unexpected thing. He smiled or at least I think that's what it was supposed to be and called, 'Happy landings, kid.' Then he pulled the propeller.
It almost worked. I fought against the impulse to cut the engine, turned into the wind before I could change my mind and took off. As I banked across the trees the government launch moved in to the jetty, Figueiredo standing in the stern. He waved his hat to me, I waved back, took a final look at Landro then turned south.
*
I had a good fast run and raised Manaus in an hour and forty minutes. There were a couple of cars parked by the tower as I came in. A rather imposing black Mercedes and an Oldsmobile. As I taxied towards the hangar, they started up and moved towards me. When I stopped, so did they.
A uniformed policeman slid from behind the wheel of a Mercedes and opened the rear door for the comandante who waved cheerfully and called a good morning. Three more policemen got out of the Oldsmobile, all armed to the teeth. Hannah and that damned contract of ours. So this was why he had been so cheerful?
I slid to the ground and took the hand the comandante so genially held out to me. 'What's this? I don't usually rate a guard of honour.'
His eyes behind the dark glasses gave nothing away. 'A small matter. I won't keep you long, my friend. Tell me, Senhor Figueiredo has a safe at his place of business, you are aware of this?'
I knew at once that it was about as bad as it