The High Valley Read online

  The latter seemed unlikely. Vittorio might be old but he had all the alertness and cunning of a younger man, she was sure, and he was not the kind of man to say anything carelessly. But before more doubts formed in her troubled mind, the plane banked sharply and the woman at the back who had screamed before uttered a shrill cry.

  “We'll crash, we'll crash!” she shouted, hysterically. “We're all doomed!” Her voice collapsed into sobbing, and Morgana glanced at her companion. Vittorio's gnarled fingers closed over the hand that rested on the arm of her seat, and he said: “Do not worry, little one. The will of God will guide us to our destination.”

  Morgana's fingers gripped the arms of her seat very tightly. She was not wholly convinced that any will could secure their certain safety, and when she saw flares below them her heart leapt nauseously into her mouth. Such a narrow plateau confronted them, brilliantly lit by torches whose flames leapt high into the air, and beyond rose the ragged peaks into whose jaws plunged sudden death. She closed her eyes, feeling the sweat standing out on her forehead, and the dampness of the palms of her hands.

  “Courage, little one,” said Vittorio, again, and a moment later the wheels of the aircraft hit the solid surface of the plateau.

  They were rushing madly towards a wall of rock that loomed in front of them. Surely the air brakes would never stop them in time. Morgana stared blindly in front of her, dreading the moment when the grinding of metal would tell them that they were doomed.

  But the grinding never came, only a sudden violent tilting of the aeroplane, and a grim striking sound as the fuselage scraped along a gravelled surface and finally brought them to an abrupt halt. There had been a strange silence in the plane during that terrifying landing, and now the passengers seemed to come to life with relieved speed.

  Vittorio Salvador unfastened his safety belt and got to his feet. He could see some of the passengers beginning to stretch and move about and he said, commandingly: “No one must move yet, please. Stay in your seats. Your instructions will be given you immediately.”

  There were several indignant exclamations, but in the main the passengers were acquiescent. They had all sensed that ominous tilting of the plane and it seemed apparent that the undercarriage had been damaged as they landed.

  The door of the pilot's cabin opened and the pilot and his co-pilot, and the navigator, came through accompanied by another of the men with a gun. The crew looked taut and nervous and Morgana sensed the ordeal this had been for them, responsible as they were for the lives of all these people. The man Morgana had seen first across the aisle at the beginning of the flight took command. She wondered who he was. She even wondered weakly whether the Salvador brothers were involved in all this. If their uncle was involved it seemed likely. And where were they now?

  “Senhores! Senhoras! Your attention, please,” the man said politely. “You will stay where you are for the present. Tonight you must sleep in the plane which should be no great hardship for you and tomorrow our leader will come to speak to you.”

  The passengers grumbled amongst themselves but no one made any official demur. They all seemed relieved that they were not to be taken elsewhere and made prisoners.

  The man continued: “Tomorrow it will be decided what is to be done.”

  Morgana's eyes were dark with anxiety. “What do you mean?” she exclaimed. “You said you would let us go!”

  Vittorio frowned warningly and she bent her head inwardly seething. The man looked down at her for a moment, and then said: “I will not warn you again, senhorita. Keep your mouth shut, is that understood?”

  Morgana chewed her lip and refused to answer him and the man gave her a hard stare before continuing with his orders. There were a young couple at the back of the plane with a baby and he agreed that milk should be brought to the plane for the stewardess to heat up for them. The baby had begun to cry a little and Morgana thought its plaintive cries were eloquent of all their feelings. No one felt like being brave or trying to tackle these men. What good would it do? There were guns involved and someone was bound to get hurt. Besides, most of the passengers were middle-aged to elderly and those few who were younger had their wives with them and obviously did not wish to bring any retribution down upon them. So everyone remained in their seats, and the doors of the plane were opened to admit the sounds of the airstrip outside. Two men were left in charge and the crew were allowed to take seats in the passenger's cabin while the other men, including Vittorio Salvador, left the plane.

  The pilot came and sat beside Morgana in the place Vittorio had vacated. He was a man of average height and build, greying slightly at the temples, and there was a strained worn expression on his face.

  “Por deus!” he murmured, speaking Portuguese. “This is too much!”

  Morgana compressed her lips. “Relax,” she said, quietly. “There's nothing you can do. There's nothing any of us can do.”

  The pilot sighed and fumbled in his pocket for cigarettes. He offered one to Morgana and although she seldom smoked she took one gratefully, glad of the diversion. They smoked in silence for a while and then the pilot said: “Do you know where we are?”

  Morgana bent her head. “Actually, yes. One of – of the men told me.”

  The pilot stared at her. “Go on!” he said.

  “We're at a place called La Nava, the high valley,” she said. “In Monteraverde.”

  The pilot looked perturbed. “La Nava!” he echoed softly. “Yes, I have heard of it, senhorita, but its actual whereabouts are unknown. It is reputed to be the headquarters of O Halcão, the Hawk, leader of the guerilla forces in Monteraverde.”

  Morgana frowned. Where had she heard that name before? But her brain wouldn't function properly and she shook her head impatiently. “You look worried,” she said. “Don't you think they will let us go?”

  “Do you?” asked the pilot, crediting her intelligence.

  She shivered. “I don't know. I don't know what to think. Why have they brought us here? What possible reason could they have?”

  “I can think of several. Either there are arms hidden on the plane, or they need us as hostages, or possibly they need the plane itself.”

  Morgana stubbed out her cigarette. “And we have no radio contact?”

  “I'm afraid not.”

  “The authorities will think we've crashed. Is there no way we can make contact?”

  The pilot heaved a sigh. “How? With guns at every angle. No, Senhorita?”

  “Mallory,” she supplied. “How many of us are there?”

  The pilot frowned. “Well, Senhorita Mallory, we will have to wait and see what they intend to do with fifty-seven of us!”

  “So many?” Morgana bit her lip. “They – they wouldn't kill us all?” She looked at him intently. “Would they?”

  The pilot shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. But I shouldn't think it would serve much purpose if they did.”

  “But can they let us go?”

  The pilot frowned. “That's what troubles me. If they were going to let us go why did they tell you where we were? It seems out of character.”

  “That's what I thought,” murmured Morgana uneasily. “Is – is the undercarriage badly damaged?”

  “Any damage to the undercarriage is serious,” said the pilot. “After all, it is the mainstay of landing and takeoff.”

  “Yes.” Morgana tried to calm herself. “So – in your opinion we're here for some time.”

  Her companion lifted his shoulders. “It seems the most likely suggestion,” he agreed. “Deus, I am tired!”

  Morgana saw him close his eyes and tried to relax herself. The lights in the cabin had been lowered and the darkness was comforting. The men, in the gloom, looked less menacing, their guns almost hidden from view in the darkness. But they were there, and everyone was aware of it.

  About half an hour later, when everyone except the baby seemed to be drowsing, the door of the plane opened and one of the men came forward to the front of
the plane. He spoke in an undertone to one of the men who had been put on guard and then came across to where Morgana and the pilot were sitting. The pilot opened his eyes swiftly at the sudden altercation, and Morgana thought for a moment they had come for him. But to her surprise and horror the man caught her arm and pulled her up out of her seat.

  “Get your coat!” he commanded briefly, and Morgana was too astounded to protest.

  There were one or two anxious murmurs as she was escorted from the plane and she was conscious that the pilot had protested volubly to the guard as she was hustled out. Then she was at the head of a flight of steps and the chill night air hit her hot cheeks and she swayed for a moment before her escort thrust past her and indicated that she should follow him. She thought of pushing him hard from behind and causing him to fall the length of the steps, but such an action was without use when there were so many of them.

  The lights that had distinguished their landing had now been extinguished and only a faint glow was left. There was no moon and clouds scudded across a lowering sky. They crossed the gravelled surface of the strip to where a Land Rover was parked, another man behind the wheel.

  Morgana was allowed to climb into the front beside him and her companion climbed into the back. Then they were off, driving across rough terrain that rocked and buffeted the vehicle violently and caused Morgana to cling to her seat for grim life. There was little to be seen in the glare of the vehicle's headlights, just a narrow track hedged about with thick foliage. They were descending into a valley, that much she could tell from the slant of the Land Rover, and she concentrated her eyes on the distant lights which could faintly be discerned below them. The men did not speak, and she had lost what little spirit she had possessed earlier. She admitted to herself honestly that she was afraid and she had no idea why she should have been singled out and brought here.

  It was impossible to tell the size of the valley in the darkness, but from the lights below and the mountains all around, silhouetted against the skyline, it seemed quite impressive. As the road flattened out she could hear the sounds of animals on the still night air, and occasionally smell the scent of pine trees. Flying out to Rio from London she had worn a jersey suit and carried a sheepskin coat, but leaving Rio to fly to Los Angeles she had just worn a thin Crimplene dress. However, she had carried her sheepskin coat and now she was glad of its enveloping warmth. Here in the mountains the wind was cold and chilling, and the air after the temperate warmth of the coast was particularly clear and bracing. But she knew too that part of the shivering cold that enveloped her system was fear at what might lie ahead of her.

  They were deep in the valley now and Morgana could hear the tumbling clarity of water over rocks, and presently they ran between adobe houses, dimly lit, where on verandahs men and women could be seen staring curiously at their progress. Morgana clasped her hands tightly together. They were nearing their destination, and her knees had begun to tremble again. Then she remembered Vittorio Salvador and a little of her terror left her. He was part of this and somehow she sensed he was an honourable man.

  The Land Rover swung to a halt before a larger dwelling. Morgana supposed it was a hacienda with its hanging eaves and white painted exterior. The windows had shutters which were presently closed, but a mesh door stood wide before a narrow paved passageway that ran from front to back.

  “Come!” The man indicated that Morgana should get out and she climbed down nervously, wrapping her coat closer about her.

  They crossed the verandah and entered the passageway, the man indicating that Morgana should follow him. The hall was dimly lit and not much warmer than outside, and Morgana wished she had been wearing trousers instead of such a short skirt.

  The man halted outside a door about halfway along this passage and knocked before gaining admittance, so it seemed apparent that he was not in command here. He pushed Morgana before him into a large room, brightly lit by hanging lamps and the blaze from a log fire burning in the hearth. It was a comfortable room, full of furniture all of which served some specific purpose. Easy chairs were drawn near the fire while across the room a table still held the remains of a meal that had been taken there. As well as the shutters outside, heavy drapes covered the windows, and a desk, liberally strewn with papers, stood in an embrasure. On one side of the desk stood a cabinet, and on top of this was a tray of bottles and glasses. One wall was almost completely filled with book-shelves, and as well as the books there were maps and mapping equipment. Morgana's first impression was one of warmth and intimacy, but even while her gaze took in these superficial impressions, she saw a man rise from his seat in front of the fire and turn to regard her gravely; a tall, dark man, with a thin face, dressed in close-fitting black suede pants which were thrust into knee-length leather boots, and a roll-collared black sweater. The dark clothes accentuated the dark tan of his features giving his face a brooding solemnity.

  Morgana stared at him disbelievingly. “Luis!” she said, weakly. “Then – then – you must be –”

  “O Halcão, senhorita,” he confirmed grimly, dismissing the other man with a commanding gesture. “And now you are going to tell me exactly what that means to you!”

  CHAPTER III

  MORGANA'S escort left them with a polite salute in Luis's direction, and Morgana heard the door close with uneasy anticipation. The astonishment she had felt when she first saw her captor had given way to that awful feeling of apprehension she had experienced on the way here, and she had the feeling that her previous brief association with the brothers counted for little with this hard, unyielding man. He stood on the skin rug before the hearth, his arms folded, regarding her intently, and she shivered nervously.

  “Do you know where you are, senhorita?” he enquired calmly.

  Morgana shrugged her slim shoulders awkwardly. “You must know I do. I – I spoke to your uncle on the plane.”

  “Ah, yes, Vittorio,” he nodded. “It was he who informed me of your whereabouts. Did you tell my brother you would be leaving Rio on that particular flight?”

  Morgana drew her brows together. “Of course not. I haven't seen your brother since the night of the reception at the Embassy.”

  He gave her a wry glance. “You expect me to believe that, senhorita?”

  Morgana was confused. “I don't care what you believe, senhor!” she retorted quickly.

  He moved away from the hearth, coming towards her purposefully. “Perhaps you should, senhorita,” he remarked dryly. “Come! Sit down. You look cold.”

  Morgana moved jerkily. She didn't want him to touch her and she sensed if she did not obey him he might very well force her to do so. She sat in one of the huge armchairs that was upholstered in some kind of animal skin and was sensuously yielding against her flesh, and Luis crossed to the cabinet where the tray of drinks was standing and poured some amber-coloured liquid into a glass. He came back to the hearth and handed her the glass, and while she would have liked to have refused she deemed it best to remain acquiescent for the present. She still had no idea why he had sent for her, and she had no wish to antagonise him.

  He remained standing, taking out a case of small cigars and lighting one while she sipped experimentally at the liquid in her glass and found it to be brandy. The raw spirit warmed her innermost being and sent fiery waves of awareness to every extremity of her body. It was difficult to accept what was happening to her, and there were times when she almost convinced herself that this was just some weird nightmare.

  But the heat of the burning logs on her legs was real enough, as was the brandy she sipped so nervously, and the man standing before her on the hearth, so dark and disturbing, was most real of all.

  Presently, he looked down at her and encountered her doubtful expression. “Well, senhorita,” he challenged, “are you still afraid?”

  Morgana cupped the glass in her fingers. “Should I be?” she asked, endeavouring to meet his detachment with courage.

  He studied the tip of his cigar. “I suppose
that rather depends what frightens you,” he replied. He gave an impatient gesture. “You knew the name of O Halcão. May one ask how?”

  Morgana shook her head. “The – the pilot on the plane told me La Nava was the headquarters of the guerilla movement in Monteraverde. He also said their leader was known as O Halcão.”

  “I see.” Luis frowned deeply. “But you did not know I was O Halcão?”

  “Of course not.” Morgana shook her head vigorously.

  “No,” he agreed, thoughtfully, drawing deeply on his cigarette. “No, that is reasonable. I accept that.”

  Morgana bent her head, considering the spirit in her glass. All of a sudden she remembered where else she had heard the name of O Halcão. Ricardo Salvador had teased her about dancing with the henchman of O Halcão, but of course that had meant nothing to her then, and she had not even thought about it afterwards. But now, she appreciated the scornful disregard for caution Ricardo had shown, and wondered at their audacity in attending the Embassy reception.

  Looking up, she said quickly: “What – what do you intend to do with me – with all of us?”

  Luis exhaled aromatic fumes of Havana tobacco and raised his dark eyebrows. “That has not yet been decided,” he stated firmly. “We will let you know our decision.”

  Morgana compressed her lips, quelling the unsteady indignation that rose inside her at his indifference. “Why have I been brought here?” she asked.

  He regarded her intently. “It was my decision,” he said, uncompromisingly. Then he threw the half-smoked cigar into the flames. “No doubt you are tired. It is very late, and the experience of landing on the plateau at night is an exhausting one. I will have quarters prepared for you at once.”

  “Oh – oh, don't bother,” Morgana exclaimed hastily. “I – I'd just as soon go back to the plane!”

  His eyes, those strange tawny eyes, darkened. “Why?”

  Morgana swallowed hard. “Well, I – I don't understand any of this, and I don't want to. I just want to go back to the plane and be treated like everybody else…”