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  He went for Ward in a crouching run, and Ward just stood there, as though transfixed. ‘Get out of his way,’ I yelled and started forward.

  But Ward didn’t move and I was still several yards away when the two of them met. I saw the knife flash, a cold gleam as the man swung his arm back to strike at Ward’s belly. Then, as the knife slammed forward, driving upwards for the heart, Ward’s right arm extension came up, the glove-covered steel fingers of his hand open like claws. They closed on the knife blade, twisted it out of the man’s hand, and then he was using the whole false arm as a metal club slamming down on the upraised arms, jabbing for the face, forcing the man back step by step until the edge of the track was only one more step away.

  I think I called a warning, but Ward ignored it. I saw the man give a terrified glance over his shoulder, then that metal flail slammed into the side of his head. He was off-balance, his defences down as Ward drew back his right arm and slammed that gloved hand straight into the sallow face.

  I can still see the blood starting from the man’s nose, the way his arms reached out as his feet rocked back on to nothing, and still hear the dreadful high-pitched rabbit cry as his body disappeared over the edge. For all of a minute, it seemed, we could hear the sound of his body falling, the rattle of the stones it dislodged.

  But when I looked over the edge there was no sign of him, or of the river – only the mist swirling.

  I turned to Ward. ‘You killed him.’ My voice sounded strange in my ears. ‘You did it deliberately.’

  His only answer was to pick up the knife and hand it to me. Then he was climbing back up the bank he had slithered down and I watched as he walked in a leisurely fashion across the slope of the mountain to the gully. He seemed totally relaxed, and I felt the prickle of my fear. I had never seen a man deliberately killed before and I was more scared even than I had been before.

  When he came back he was carrying something in his left hand. ‘Ye seen one of these before?’ He dumped it on the bonnet of the Toyota.

  ‘Only in films.’ It was one of those plungers that generate the electric spark for setting off blasting charges. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Up there, where Ah expected.’ He nodded to the mountainside beyond the gully and walked over to the rock that was blocking the road. ‘Ye didn’t think that fall behind us was an accident, did ye? But he then had to get across the gully and connect up the wires to brin’ this lot down on top of us.’ He waved his dummy hand towards the sheer rock above us.

  ‘You didn’t have to kill him,’ I said.

  ‘No?’ He looked up at me, a quizzical lift of his eyebrows. ‘Are ye happy with the thought of being buried alive under tons of rock?’ He straightened up and moved to the driving seat. ‘Well if ye are, Ah’m not. With luck they’ll never know what happened to him. And that may worry them.’

  ‘Who?’

  But he had started the engine and he didn’t hear me as he inched the vehicle forward in low gear. The wheels churned, the engine labouring, and slowly the rock that was blocking our way shifted. He forced it close enough to the edge to allow the Toyota to creep past on the inside. I got in, and as he drove on I was watching his face, fascinated. I had never been with a killer before.

  Round the bend ahead the road ran fairly straight, a narrow ledge cut out of the mountainside. The clouds hung like a grey-black roof over the valley. He slowed at a view point, leaning out and examining the wet stone surface. ‘There were tae of them,’ he said as he drove on. ‘Looks like his mate went off with the car. Ah couldn’t see the little bugger clearly enough to be sure, but Ah think he was Indian. The guy who did the blastin’ was a mestizo.’

  ‘Why?’ That’s what I didn’t understand. Why should we have been followed on our arrival in Peru? And now this crude attempt to kill us. The strong features, the massive head – the man radiated an extraordinary sense of inner strength.

  ‘Why?’ I asked again, and he said, ‘That’s what we’re goin’ to find out.’

  ‘We?’

  He looked at me, smiling. ‘We,’ he said. He drove in silence after that, leaving me alone with my chaotic thoughts, and at the end of the long straight slash across the side of the cloud-hidden mountain, we picked up the new road again, swinging right, away from the Jequetepeque. We were in cloud then, feeling our way again through a grey void. We had almost half an hour of this, then brown, wet walls of rock closed us in, the sound of the engine grinding upwards reverberating in a deep cut, the foglights accentuating the macabre theatricality of our struggle up the path through which Pizarro and his four hundred armoured hidalgoes had climbed to destroy the Inca Empire half a millennium ago.

  Ward must have been thinking along the same lines, for as the road flattened out and the mist began to glimmer with a strange brightness, he said something about the Promised Land. The road dipped and we picked up speed.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said with grim satisfaction. ‘We made it,’ and he slapped the gloved hand twice against the steering wheel. ‘There was a moment, Ah’ll admit … Look!’ The thinning veil of cloud eddied in a gust of wind, and suddenly we were below it, looking down on to the flat roofs of a town spread out in a broad valley of rain-washed green. ‘Cajamarca.’

  ‘And the Hacienda Lucinda. Do you know where it is?’

  ‘Past the Baños del Inca, out by a hill that’s honeycombed with grave apertures. We’ll have to ask.’

  We seemed a million miles from the Weddell Sea and that ice-encrusted vessel, but I had a feeling now that this was all a part of the voyage to come. ‘What are you going to say to Gómez?’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘Nothin’. Ah think he’ll dae the talkin’.’

  ‘And Iris Sunderby?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  THREE

  When you have travelled half across the world, with the background of the man you are going to meet gradually being filled in for you, a picture of him inevitably forms in the mind. There was the suspicion, too, that it was he who had arranged for us to be followed on our arrival in Lima, may even have planned our death by that gully on the old road up to the pass.

  Twice I asked Ward about this, the first time just after we had come out of the cloud on the eastern slope of the pass and had caught our first glimpse of Cajamarca far away in the valley below, and then again when we stopped at the Baños del Inca to ask our way, the hot springs steaming beside the public baths. Each time he had given a little shrug, as though to say, ‘We’ll see’, and left it at that.

  But even if he had given me a direct answer, I don’t know that I would have believed him. He had such a talent for self-dramatisation that I wouldn’t have put it past him, on finding that plunger, to have invented the whole thing – except that I had watched in horror as he deliberately forced the wretched mestizo over the edge, thrusting at his face with that dummy hand until he had disappeared into the gorge below. I couldn’t make up my mind about him, regarding him at times as some grotesque theatrical maniac, at other times as no more than a pleasant, if somewhat mysterious, travelling companion.

  There was no such dichotomy in my mind when picturing Gómez. By the time we were enquiring for the Hacienda Lucinda he was growing in my mind as something wholly evil, as deformed and monstrous as Victor Hugo’s hunchback of Notre Dame without the saving grace of simplicity. This view of him had been built up gradually, partly as a result of that interview with Rodriguez back in Mexico City, and partly from the bits and pieces of information Ward had let fall.

  There were some Indians camped by a stream in a meadow of coarse grass below the sepulchre hill with its rows of necropolistic apertures. The whole hill had the appearance almost of a skull, the apertures like teeth exposed in a grin and black with decay. Ward got out and walked across to the Indians. They had been drinking chica and swayed as they stood up. A lorry rolled past us along the road, its crumbling body bright with painted pictures plastered over with dust. And behind it were two Indians riding a mule,
brown ponchos draped over their shoulders, straw hats jammed on their heads and held with leather thongs under the chin.

  ‘Straight on,’ Ward said as he got back into the driving seat. ‘Just over a kilometre there’s a track to the left with an arched entrance gate.’

  We were almost there and I wondered how he would behave when he was face-to-face with Gómez, what he would say. And Iris Sunderby, was she really with him in the Hacienda Lucinda?

  We reached the gateway and turned in under the adobe arch with the name Hda LUCINDA plaster-embossed in large letters. A long driveway, with a lake on one side and flat, flowered meadows on the other, the dark shapes of cattle grazing. ‘He’s part Sicilian, part Irish,’ Ward reminded me. ‘Just remember that. And part God knows what else,’ he muttered.

  His words emphasised the racial element in the picture my imagination had formed of him. Angel of Death. The Disappeareds. A killer who was the son of an Argentinian playboy and a nightclub singer from somewhere near Catania. Christ! What sort of monster would he prove to be?

  A few minutes and I was shaking his hand, completely dumbfounded by the physical perfection of the man, his elegance, his charm. There was a virility about him that showed in his every movement. He was like a Greek god, except that his hair was black and the nose had a slight curve to it that gave his broad, open features a somewhat predatory look.

  He met us in the hacienda courtyard dressed in white shirt, white jodhpurs and black riding boots. He had a riding crop in one hand and a clipboard in the other. He didn’t ask us our names. He just stood there, a moment of shocked surprise as we got out of the Toyota. ‘Yes?’ He seemed at a loss for words, and Ward made no attempt to help him. Then he was smiling, coming towards us with the charm turned on. ‘What can I do for you?’ He spoke in English with only the trace of an accent.

  ‘You are Mario Ángel Gómez?’ Ward’s voice was flat as though he were carrying out an official enquiry.

  ‘Connor-Gómez. Yes. What do you want?’

  ‘Señora Sunderby.’

  There was a momentary hesitation, so that I half expected him to say she wasn’t there. ‘You wish to see her?’

  ‘No. Ah’ve come to collect her.’

  ‘You have come to collect her?’ He was staring at Ward, his eyes gone hard, almost black in the sunlight. ‘Why?’ The broad, open face was no longer smiling. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Ah think ye know that already. Ye know who we are, when we arrived in Lima, also that we left the capital drivin’ north up the Pan-Americana.’

  ‘You have come up from the coast then? How was the road?’

  Ward told him about the two diversions below Chilete and the need to switch to the old road that ran along the lip of the gorge. He said nothing about the road being blocked behind us, or the man he had flushed out of the mist-shrouded mountainside and forced over the edge into the gorge below.

  ‘Your name is Ward. Correct?’

  ‘Iain Ward.’ He nodded.

  ‘And you are here about the boat, is it? The boat for this expedition. Are you the man who put up the money to buy it?’

  ‘Ye know damn well Ah am.’

  Nobody said anything for a moment, the two of them standing there, summing each other up. The silence was broken by the clip-clop of hooves as a horse was led from its stable at the far side of the courtyard by an Indian. ‘And your name?’ Gómez had turned to me, and when I told him, he nodded. ‘You’re the wood expert, right? So now we have all the crew of the boat gathered here, except for the Norwegian, and I believe there is an Australian expected. Also we need a cook.’

  ‘Ye have agreed then?’

  ‘Agreed?’

  ‘To act as navigator.’

  Gómez hesitated. ‘Per’aps.’

  ‘So ye know the exact location of this vessel her husband saw. And ye have seen it yerself, from the air?’

  He didn’t answer that. Instead he said, ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘Look, laddie, Ah’m askin’ the questions. Just ye tell me now, have ye seen that old wooden ship down there in the ice, or no’?’

  ‘And I asked you a question, Mr Ward.’ It was said with studied politeness. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  There was a moment of silence, the two of them facing up to each other, a clash of wills. To my surprise it was Ward who backed off. ‘Rodriguez,’ he said.

  ‘Ah yes.’ Gómez hesitated. ‘You have met him, of course.’

  ‘Aye. In Mexico City. Ah’m sure he will have told ye that on the phone.’

  ‘And you have read his book, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Silence again. Horse and Indian had now stopped close behind Gómez.

  ‘There are many inaccuracies.’ He shrugged. ‘But what can you expect from a man like Rodriguez. It is sad to have to make a living by grubbing around in the dirt of a national calamity.’ He gave another shrug. ‘It is all –’ he hesitated – ‘what I think you call water under the bridge, eh? It is a long time ago and what matters now is the future. Always one must look to the future.’

  ‘Aye. So let us talk about that old ship.’ Ward glanced at the house, a low, one-storey building sprawled across the end of the rectangular courtyard. ‘Can we go in?’ He nodded towards the open door. ‘We could dae with a clean-up. It’s been a long drive. A little tiresome at times, too.’

  ‘There was no need for you to come.’ Gómez looked at his wristwatch, which was of heavy gold. The watch, and a gold signet ring on his little finger, glinted in the sun. ‘This is the time I normally ride round the hacienda. We produce alfalfa, rice, cattle, and with mainly Indian labour it is necessary to oversee everything.’

  Ward waited, saying nothing, and in the end Gómez said, ‘Very well, come into the house.’ The tone of his voice was distinctly unwelcoming. ‘But when you have had a wash I must ask you to leave.’

  ‘No harm in yer askin’, laddie.’

  They stared at each other, and I wondered why Ward had thickened his native Glaswegian accent.

  ‘The normal courtesy would have been to phone ahead for an appointment.’

  Ward nodded. ‘O’ course. Then ye could have prepared yersel’.’ And he added, ‘Now we are here, perhaps ye will send someone to inform Señora Sunderby.’

  ‘No.’ The frostiness of his tone had hardened. ‘She is my guest here. And at the moment she is resting.’ There was a pause, and then he said, ‘I have no doubt she will be joining you at Punta Arenas, as arranged – when she is ready. Alors.’ He gestured towards the front entrance to the house. ‘The cloakroom is the first door on the right.’ And he added, as he led the way, ‘You both look as though you could do with some sleep, so while you are refreshing yourselves I will telephone to a hotel in Cajamarca where I know the owner will look after you very well.’

  Ward thanked him, but said it would not be necessary. ‘As soon as Ah’ve talked wi’ Iris Sunderby we’ll be on our way.’ He was moving towards the house then, but suddenly he checked. ‘Och, Ah almost forgot. Ah’ve a wee present fur ye.’ And he turned back to the Toyota, reaching in to the rear seat and coming out with the blasting plunger. He held it out to Gómez. ‘Well, take it, man. It’s yers.’

  For a second, it seemed, Gómez’s eyes changed, a glimmer of some wild emotion mirrored in his features. But it was so fleeting I couldn’t be sure. ‘Not mine,’ he said, staring hard at Ward.

  ‘No, no, o’ course not. A present. Ah told ye.’ There was a long, awkward silence. Finally Ward said, so quietly I hardly heard him, ‘Ah think we understan’ each other now.’ He chuckled softly to himself. ‘Call it a souvenir, shall we?’ He thrust it into the man’s hands and strode past him, making for the open doorway set in the centre of the long white portico that ran the length of the house.

  Gómez said something to the Indian, then hurried after him. A moment later the two of them had disappeared into the house, leaving me standing there in the sunshine, feeling suddenly wea
k at the knees. God! I was tired.

  The horse was led back to its stable and I walked to the far end of the house, where there was a lawn of coarse-bladed grass, brown with the heat, some exotic-looking flowers in a stony border, and cushioned garden chairs standing bright in the dappled shade of what looked like a cherry tree. I adjusted one of them to the reclining position, lay back in it and closed my eyes.

  I must have fallen asleep, for I dreamed that a girl was kissing me open-mouthed, the touch of her tongue light as a butterfly, and her hand caressing, and I woke suddenly to find I was thoroughly roused. There was a figure sitting in the chair beside me. Her face was in shadow against a shaft of sunlight, framed by hair that gleamed a brilliant black.

  I sat up and she withdrew her hand.

  It was Iris Sunderby. I could see her now that my eyes were in the shadow of a branch. Her lips were parted and her breath was coming in quick gasps as though she had been running, the breasts, looking naked under the light silk wrap, rising and falling. But it was her eyes that startled me. They were wide and very intent, the pupils dilated, and an expression of most extraordinary expectancy on her face. She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring straight past me, sitting very still, as though waiting for somebody to come out of the house.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  But she didn’t seem to hear me. I repeated the question, louder this time. There was still no response, no change of expression. It was as though she were in some sort of a trance, a pallid undertone to the sun-dark skin, the nostrils of that straight nose slightly flared; even the jaw seemed to have lost some of its determined thrust. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She said it in a long, sighing breath, still staring, almost avidly, at the side of the house.