she said, tugging notes out of their compartment. ‘Money for you—to let me go.’ She thrust the cash at the man with the moustache. ‘It’s all I’ve got, really.’
The man inspected the cash, nodded with a sad smile, and handed it back.
‘I haven’t any more,’ she tried again desperately. ‘I’m not rich.’
Or were all tourists deemed to be millionaires in the face of the poverty she saw around her? Maybe so.
But if they didn’t want her money—what did they want? Her mind quailed from the obvious answer.
The road was little more than a track now, and the jeep rocketed along, taking pot-holes and tree roots in its stride. It occurred to Charlie that if and when she emerged from this adventure it would be with a dislocated spine.
The driver was whistling cheerfully through one of the gaps in his teeth, and the sound made her shiver.
He glanced at her and nodded. ‘Boat soon.’
She said wearily, ‘The bloody boat’s in the other direction,’ no longer caring whether they understood or not.
The track forked suddenly, and they were plunged deeper into the forest. It was like entering a damp green tunnel. Animal and bird cries echoed raucously above the sound of the engine, and tall ferns and undergrowth scratched at the sides of the vehicle as they sped along.
Charlie had a feeling of total unreality. This couldn’t be happening to her, she thought. Presently she would wake up and find herself safely in her hammock on board the Manoela. And when she did her first action would be to tear up Fay Preston’s letter.
The jeep began to slow, and Charlie saw a dark gleam of water ahead of them. Perhaps there was going to be a miracle after all, she thought incredulously. Maybe this was just a very roundabout way to the dock, and the Manoela would be there, waiting for her.
But the age of miracles was definitely past. Journey’s end was a makeshift landing stage, at which a small craft with an outboard motor was moored.
The driver nudged Charlie. ‘Boat,’ he said triumphantly.
‘But it’s the wrong boat,’ she said despairingly. ‘Um engano.’
They looked at each other, and shook their heads as if in pity. Charlie dived for her wallet again.
‘Look,’ she said rapidly, ‘turn the jeep round, and take me back to Mariasanta, and I won’t tell a living soul about all this. You can take the money, and there’ll be no trouble—I swear it. But—please—just—let me go …’
The driver said, ‘Boat now, senhorita,’ and his voice was firm.
She walked between them to the landing stage. They didn’t touch her, or use any form of restraint, and she was tempted to make a run for it—but where?
People, she knew, had walked into the Brazilian jungle and never emerged again. And by the time she managed to make it back to Mariasanta, if she ever did, Captain Gomez would have sailed anyway. He waited for no one.
For the first time in her life she understood why extreme danger often made its victims passive.
You clung to the hope, she thought, that things couldn’t possibly be as bad as they seemed—or get any worse—right up to the last minute.
She could always dive into the river, she thought almost detachedly, except that she was a lousy swimmer. And the thought of the shoals of piranha and other horrors which might lurk under the brown water was an equally effective deterrent.
She got into the boat and sat where they indicated, watching as they fussed over the unrolling of a small awning set on poles.
If she was going to a fate worse than death it seemed she was going in comparative comfort.
The motor spluttered into life then settled to a steady throb, and the mooring rope was released.
And as they moved away upstream Charlie heard in the distance, like some evil omen, the long, slow grumble of thunder.
THE STORM STRUCK an hour later. Charlie had been only too aware of its approach—the sullen clouds crowding above the trees, the occasional searing flash followed by the hollow, nerve-jangling boom. But she’d hoped, childishly, that they’d have reached whatever destination they were heading for before its full force hit them.
She’d experienced an Amazon storm her first day on the Manoela, but at least there had been adequate shelter. The awning provided no protection at all against the apparently solid sheet of water descending from the sky.
There were other problems too. This was obviously the latest in a series of storms, and the river was badly swollen. The boat was having to battle against a strong, swirling current, as well as avoid the tree branches and other dangerous debris being carried down towards them.
Charlie wondered fatalistically if this was where it was all going to end—on some anonymous Amazon tributary, among total strangers, with her family forever wondering what had happened to her.
Her clothes were plastered to her body, and her brown hair was hanging in rats’ tails round her face. She felt numb, but couldn’t decide whether this was through cold or fear. Probably both.
Her companions were clearly concerned at the situation, but no more than that, and she supposed she should find this reassuring.
At that moment the boat’s bow turned abruptly inshore, and Charlie, blinking through wet lashes, saw another landing stage. They seemed to have arrived.
She was too bedraggled and miserable to worry any more about what was waiting for her. All she wanted was to get out of this … cockleshell before some passing tree trunk ripped its side away or tore off the motor.
Muffled figures were waiting. They were expected, she realised as hands reached out to help her on to shore, and a waterproof cape, voluminous enough to cover her from head to toe, was wrapped round her.
She was hurried away. Swathed in the cape, she had no idea where they were heading, only that she was being half led, half carried up some slope. There were stones under her feet as well as grass, and she stumbled slightly, her soaked canvas shoes slipping on the sodden surface. A respectful voice said, ‘Tenho muita pena, senhorita.’
Did kidnappers really apologise to their victims? she wondered hysterically.
The battering of the rain stopped suddenly, although she could still hear it drumming close at hand. She could hear women’s voices—an excited gabble of Portuguese. Her cape was unwrapped, and Charlie looked dazedly into a plump brown face whose smile held surprise as well as welcome.
‘Pequena.’ The woman, tutting, touched Charlie’s dripping hair. ‘Venha comigo, senhorita.’
She found herself in a passage lit by oil lamps. She could hear her shoes squelching on a polished wood floor as she walked along. But she was aware of a faint flicker of hope inside her. Her
