The High Valley

The man waited until there was a constrained silence and then went on: “Please do not panic! There is no need for anyone to get hurt.”

Morgana quelled her own fear and looking up at him said: “What do you intend to do? Have you taken over the plane?”

The man gave her a brief stare. “Indeed, senhorita, my comrade is now in command. I am assured the pilot will do as he is told or my companion will fire his gun, puncturing the body of the plane and possibly sending us all plunging down in a death spiral to the jagged slopes below!”

There were murmurs of protest from the passengers and Morgana thought with dismay how easy it was for a man with a gun to commandeer an aircraft. It was such a vulnerable means of transport relying so much on the infallibility of its pilot and the instruments he controlled.

Now the man stepped to one side as another man came forward from the back of the plane. Obviously, Morgana thought, the assumed illness of the old man had been a deliberate ruse to distract the stewardesses’ attention. Now the two girls were seated in rear seats and as helpless as any of the passengers.

Morgana tried to maintain a sense of calm. As the man had said, there was no point in panicking, and they still didn't know what was behind this show of force. The two men beside her spoke together, but they spoke too quickly for her to understand and their patios was indistinguishable. There was a nervous buzz of conversation from the rest of the passengers, and Morgana, sitting alone, felt isolated from their group. She refused to consider what might become of them, and instead looked up at the men beside her and said:

“Where are you taking us? Surely we have a right to know.”

The man who had spoken to the passengers looked down at her with narrowed eyes. “You are inquisitive, senhorita, and I do not have to tell you anything.”

Morgana lay back in her seat and looked out of the port despairingly. There was nothing to be seen in the blackness, only the faint flaring at the tail of the engines and the diamond glitter of a star. She wondered where the men were from. They were not Brazilians, or at least they did not speak like Brazilians. And besides, they most closely resembled the Salvadors who came from the middle regions of South America, near Bolivia and Paraguay. They could be Monteraverdians, themselves, part of the guerilla movement Mr. Dennison had talked about.

A few minutes later the pilot emerged from his cabin looking taut and weary. He was accompanied by the man who had entered the cabin earlier. The pilot stood at the head of the aisle and spoke to his passengers.

“We are bound for an airstrip somewhere in these cordilleras,” he said. “We will land there and allow these men to disembark, then we will fly on to Los Angeles.”

Morgana knew that the cordilleras were the high ranges and so apparently did many others of the passengers. A drawling American voice asked: “Aren't these the foothills of the Andes, man?”

His words caused consternation among some of the others. To contemplate landing a plane of this size on some plateau among these peaks was a terrifying prospect.

The pilot's face was drawn. “Sim,” he said heavily. He was a Brazilian himself and he knew the position they were in better than any of them.

Morgana twisted her fingers together. Unwillingly, she was feeling the first twinges of real fear.

The American spoke again. “You don't honestly expect to put a crate of this size down among these hills!” he said dryly.

The man beside the pilot spoke now. “There is no danger,” he insisted calmly. “The plateau has been used before. I repeat, there is no danger.”

Morgana didn't believe him and nor did anyone else, but what could they do?

The pilot spread his hands. “What would you have me do?” he asked helplessly. “Refuse? And have them crash the plane?”

The American sounded reluctantly agreeable and one or two of the other men asked questions, their voices revealing their doubts and anxieties.

When everyone had found out what they wanted to know the pilot returned to his cabin, still accompanied by the other man. As he was leaving, one of the older women said tremulously: “What about radio contact? Can we contact our families and tell them we are all right?”

The pilot shook his head, and the man with the gun said: “All radio contact has been cut. There will be no messages.”

Morgana looked up at him quickly. “But – but everyone will think the plane has crashed – that we are dead!” she protested.

“For a few hours, that is all,” returned the man calmly.

“But our families will be sick with worry!” exclaimed another woman. “It's inhuman to let people think we are dead!”

“Enough. I will answer no more questions!”

The man was curt and for a few taut moments there was absolute silence. Then, gradually, they began whispering together and Morgana wished she could feel less distrustful. She couldn't believe they would just touch down wherever their destination might lie and allow the pilot and crew to carry on knowing full well that they would be immediately reported. And anyway, why had they chosen this way to get to their destination? Why couldn't they have used the normal flights to Monteraverde, if that indeed was where they were taking them?

She thought of her father waiting patiently at the airport in Los Angeles, and imagined his painful anxiety. What would the authorities do when they lost radio contact? Ruth and her parents might hear about it, too. They would imagine some terrible disaster.

She chewed her lower lip unhappily. She was more scared than she had ever been in her life before and a panicky feeling was invading her stomach. It was all right trying to be brave, but she of all of them seemed completely alone …

Presently the sign was illuminated that everyone should fasten their safety belts and they began to lose altitude. Morgana fumbled with her belt nervously, unable to co-ordinate her movements. She felt rather sick and slightly dizzy and her knees had begun to tremble.

Suddenly the belt was taken firmly out of her hands and secured in place by a man's hands, and she looked up incredulously into the face of Vittorio Salvador. “You – you were the old man –” she was beginning when he shook his head slightly and slid into the seat beside her, securing his own safety belt before speaking.

“I'm sorry, senhorita,” he said, lifting his shoulders expressively.

Morgana swallowed hard, some of her fears leaving her. Looking at him, she said, softly: “You – you are one of – of them?”

Vittorio nodded. “Yes, senhorita. Manoel, José, Felipe, they are my friends.”

Morgana shook her head in amazement. “But where are you taking us?”

The old man frowned. “We are going to La Nava, senhorita, the high valley of the Rio Quimera.”

Morgana stared at him. “The high valley,” she repeated, slowly. “In Monteraverde, I suppose.”

“Of a surety, senhorita.”

Morgana bent her head. She had suspected of course, and now her suspicions were verified. But why was he telling her where they were going? Didn't he care that she knew? Could she not just as easily betray their whereabouts when she got out of this?

A disturbing doubt invaded her mind. Surely these men or their leaders did not intend to keep them prisoners. Did this old man know their plans? Or was he merely betraying a confidence himself?

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.

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