“Sorry, sir. I should have warned you.”
“That’s all right.”
The tall mustached Brazilian suddenly found he could even smile in return. He looked down at the seascape below; there was nothing there but water. The sun seemed to have risen an incredible distance in the short time since they had taken off from the police pier in Bridgetown; it had lost its brilliant orange hue and was now becoming whiter, brighter, smaller. He was aware that the pilot had pulled slowly back on the stick and that they were rising, allowing for a greater field of vision. They leveled off; he suddenly found himself hungry. He twisted in his seat, reaching for the sandwiches, taking one and munching on it as he returned to his scanning of the sea below. He realized with a start his bad manners and turned to offer the pilot some of the food; the young man was speaking into the microphone. For one frightening moment Da Silva thought something had gone wrong with his hearing; then he saw the pilot push a switch beside him and the soft voice was back in his ear again.
“I was just talking to shore, sir. The other plane is out St. Vincents way, but they haven’t sighted anything either. I told them we were just about at the Abandoneds now.” He saw Da Silva’s gesture toward the sandwich in his hand, properly interpreted it, and shook his head. He pointed, instead, and then banked the plane sharply. From nowhere, it seemed, the jagged peaks of a tiny volcanic rock reached up at them from the sea, almost at their altitude, frightening in its sudden appearance. The pilot banked away from the peak, dropping lower, circling the small island, watching the rugged coast closely. From his side Da Silva had a view of the sheer cliffs of the peak, and the poor vegetation that clung to the black lava-pitted sides of the mountain. The pilot did a high bank, reversing his direction, allowing Da Silva the view to sea. A fine sand beach rimmed the sharp rocks, ill-affording hope of concealment; the trees were sparse, ill-nourished on the sandy soil. The pilot made one final tour of the coastline of the small rock and then pulled back on the stick, rising, banking toward a second island barely visible in the distance.
“Well, he isn’t here, that’s sure, sir.”
“What do they call that place?”
“This one? Barren Island. You can see why, sir.”
“And the one we’re heading for?”
“They call it Green Hell Island, sir. It’s deep along the coastline, narrow beach, lots of drops right into the sea. Seems to be a mating place for sharks, sir. Something about it attracts them. They come here in the thousands. McNeil won’t be here, but it is a lovely island, that it is, and while we’re here I thought you’d enjoy seeing it. Have to pass it getting to the last of the group in any event, sir.”
Da Silva frowned across the cockpit.
“Why wouldn’t he be here? If it’s deep along the coast he could tie up without difficulty; he wouldn’t have to get in the water to get ashore. And sharks don’t come up on land after you — or at least they don’t in Brazil...”
The pilot had switched to the shore channel, apparently in response to a flasher on his set, and was speaking into the microphone without Da Silva being able to hear. His hand remained firm on the stick, moving it as needed; his eyes kept track of their course perfectly. The small island came closer, its hills and narrow beaches in sharp contrast to the desolate rock they had just left. Here palm and banana plants seemed to cover a large portion of the island, running down the steep slopes to end in the sea, either abruptly or just stopping short to fringe a thin stretch of white beach. The pilot banked to keep his position over the island and flicked a switch. His voice returned to Da Silva.
“Told them we’d finished with Barren Island and were on our way. Nothing from the westerly plane.” He glanced down over his shoulder in admiration. “A beautiful island, eh, sir? Small, but lovely.”
“It is.” Da Silva raised his eyes from the thick vegetation beneath them. “It makes me think of some of our islands off Rio de Janeiro.” He looked over at the sergeant flying the plane. “I asked you before — though you were talking and couldn’t hear me — why wouldn’t he be on this island? Why should the sharks bother him if he comes in close enough to land by boat? He could practically walk ashore.” He turned, looking down over his shoulder, studying the lush verdure crowding the edge of the ocean. “It certainly looks ideal for hiding a boat.”
“Oh, it is that, mon. I mean, sir. Perfect for hiding a boat or anything else. And it isn’t the sharks that would keep the chap away either. It’s something I’m sure he’d think a lot worse.”
“Oh?” Da Silva stared at him. “What?”
The pilot grinned and told him. “He’s an ignorant man, sir. Uneducated — not like us today.”
Da Silva nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right, of course. Well, not much sense in wasting time here. Let’s go take a look at the last one. What’s that one called?”
“Split-Rock Island, sir. You’ll see why when we get there.”
The plane was expertly banked, Da Silva now leaning with it and feeling part of it. They flew off to the south, toward a third island whose peak was barely visible in the distance. Below them, startled and wondering at the unexpected departure of the small police plane, William Trelawney McNeil frowned in disbelief at the plane dwindling in the distance.
It was a bit after three by the chronometer when McNeil finally decided the plane was not going to return under any circumstances. Why, he had no idea, nor was he happy about not knowing, but it would be getting on in the day for the small craft, and he was sure it was gone for good. He had spent the day half-dozing in the shade of the roundhouse, reliving the day when he placed the stones in the cave on the deserted island, recalling each step of the path so as to properly retrace it with the least waste of time. It would be even more overgrown by now, but the machete in the lazaret would handle the tangled vines.
But first, the package. He remembered taking the haul from beneath his steel drum, back in the rowboat, wrapping it in his kerchief, and later in Brighton putting it in the flat box. Then it had been wrapped in plastic and bound tightly with fish-line, good gut. If it had to be dropped overboard on the way to the island, it would float, at least for a while; the entrapped air would see to that. But it hadn’t had to be dropped overboard; it reached the island in fine shape. By this same boat, as a matter of fact, and there had been ample food aboard, too, and drink, and he had used them both freely. For a moment his thoughts went from his memories to the sausage he had consumed the night before; he wished there were more aboard.
He recalled anchoring in the same cove he was in now; both the cove and the island had been discovered on a fishing trip when they had served as a haven in a sudden storm. The mountain cave had been found simply by constantly seeking an elevation above the forest and the swamp. He remembered that march well, first the forest, which petered out in a small glade, and then the swamp, without the high boots he had thought to provide for this time, with the ticks eating away at his ankles, and the constant fear of snakes. It was a case more of wading than walking, the thick reeds high above one’s head, the insects enough to drive a man mad. And then, finally, the end of the swamp, the staggering up onto firm ground, with the thick stands of trees closing in to block off the sun, and the bush leading to the foot of the mountain and even climbing the cliffs a short way, their exposed roots and tendrils affording welcome hand-holds in the climb to the cave.
And in the cave, at the very end of it, that niche scooped out of the clay and then so cleverly walled in again, hiding the package. The plastic would protect against the dampness, and if it didn’t? What matter! Gems don’t rot, diamonds don’t spoil in the tropical humidity. And had anyone ever discovered where he had hidden the stuff? Well, they hadn’t, and that was the fact, my word! The package was still there, simply waiting to be picked up.