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Night of the Condor
Sara Craven
Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE view from her hotel bedroom window would have been panoramic, except for the fog.
Leigh could hardly believe it. Only a relatively short time ago, her plane had been circling the Jorge Chavez International Airport in brilliant sunshine. She had looked down in wondering delight at the city beneath her, and the foam-capped breakers of the Pacific Ocean beyond, with the great ridge of the Andes forcing its way to the shore like a giant, clenched fist.
Now, suddenly, it was all gone. The sunshine, the view, even the feeling of excitement and exhilaration which had filled her were all muffled under a damp, dismal blanket of grey mist.
The bell-boy who had carried up her bags had shrugged philosophically. ‘It is the garua, señorita. The curse of Lima. It comes, and when it is the will of God, it goes.’
‘I see,’ Leigh muttered. She wasn’t sure she believed in curses, or that changes in climatic conditions were necessarily the workings of Divine Providence, but at the same time she wished the sun had kept shining a little longer. The garua seemed like a bad omen, she thought, then immediately chided herself for being over-fanciful.
Activity, she told herself briskly. That’s what I need. Something to do.
She unlocked her cases, and started to hang her things away in the generous cupboard space provided. She smiled a little, as her hands touched the fabrics—silk, pure cotton, and the finest, softest wool—all her favourites, and most of them brand-new. Almost a trousseau—but then that was really the idea, she thought, her heart lifting.
This enforced separation from Evan had gone on quite long enough. She wasn’t sure what the rules regarding the marriage of foreigners in Peru were, but Evan, she was certain, would be able to find out.
She had been disappointed when he hadn’t been there to meet her at the airport, although she knew she was being unrealistic. Even supposing all the right messages had been passed along the line at all the right times, and she had been told how unlikely that was, Evan still probably wouldn’t be able to drop everything at Atayahuanco and dash to Lima to see her. She had already resigned herself to the fact that she would have to go to him instead. But if this fog was going to persist, leaving Lima would be no great hardship anyway, she told herself, grimacing.
She looked restlessly round the suite, her unpacking completed. It was comfortable, and well appointed, and she might as well make the most of it, because Atayahuanco would be the total opposite. Evan had mentioned conditions there in his letters many times, jokingly at first, then, later, with increasing bitterness and resentment. And she had felt resentful, on his behalf. Evan hadn’t deserved to be sent halfway round the world to some forgotten valley in the Andes to grub about in dirt and stone.
His only sin had been to fall in love with her, Leigh Frazier, her father’s only daughter, and heiress to Frazier Industries and the network of companies and interests it controlled.
And to Justin Frazier, a self-made man who was proud of his achievements, an intended son-in-law who had neither money nor a steady job was an affront.
‘But that isn’t his fault!’ she had raged, once Evan’s departure for Atayahuanco was inevitable, and only days away.
‘It’s not a question of fault,’ her father had returned. ‘I feel he should be given a chance to prove himself—see what he’s made of.’
‘In South America—as some cross between an archaeologist and a social worker?’ she had protested.
‘It’s a worthwhile project,’ Justin Frazier had replied tersely. ‘Evan’s a history graduate, and he’s always had a lot to say about poverty, and the dignity of labour. Well, Atayahuanco will give him a chance to study both of them at first hand.’ He paused. ‘He wants work. I’ve given it to him.’
‘There are other jobs …’
‘There could be—if this one works out.’ He stood up, a tall man with a craggy face. Evan called him formidable, and she supposed he was. ‘But not yet awhile.’ He put a hand on her shoulder, and his voice gentled. ‘You’re young, Leigh, and so is your man. You need a breathing space, both of you, before embarking on anything as serious as marriage. If you really love each other, and he’s the right man for you, then a year’s wait—eighteen months even—isn’t going to make a radical difference.’ He paused. ‘Unless you doubt him—or yourself.’
Which, of course, was unanswerable, as well as unthinkable, and he knew it.
Evan had been stoically philosophical. ‘It might not be too bad.’ He put his arms around her, drawing her close. ‘And if it convinces your father that I don’t simply see you as a meal-ticket for life, it will be worth any hassle.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Leigh protested hotly. ‘I don’t think my father remembers
