Night of the Condor (6 page)

'You're a mass of contradictions, do you know that?' he had whispered to her, when she had withdrawn gently but firmly from a situation that seemed likely to carry them both away. 'You're always so confident, darling, so sure of your place in the world. But underneath it all, you're really old-fashioned, aren't you?'

At the time, she had been delighted with his understanding. It had emphasised, she thought, how right they were for each other. But now she wished she hadn't been so uptight in her attitude.

It should have been Evan's mouth scorching hers in fierce, sensual demand. It should have been Evan's hands caressing her naked breasts for the first time. It was Evan's lovemaking which should have drawn that unquenchable shiver of response from her and not Rourke Martinez' cynical advances.

Oh, Evan, she thought miserably. Where are you, now that I need you?

She turned over on to her stomach, pillowing her head on her folded arms. Well, let Doctor Rourke Martinez gloat over his sordid little victory. The campagn was not yet over, and somehow—somehow, she was going to Atayahuanco to find Evan.

She could expect no help from Peruvian Quest, she knew, either here or in Cuzco. But she wasn't short of cash, or initiative. She would take one of the organised tours up to Machu Picchu, then hire someone to take her the rest of the way. Jeep, she remembered the girl Juanita had said, and mule. She grimaced in the darkness. It sounded like hell, but if Rourke Martinez could manage it, she could too. And it would give her the utmost pleasure to see the look on his face when she made it into camp at Atayahuanco.

On that thought, and against all the odds, she fell asleep, smiling.

The mule's name was Rosita, and she was said to be a family pet, but Leigh didn't believe a word of it. She was a scrawny animal, with a drooping ear, and a malignant expression in her eyes, and if she had had a choice, Leigh would have wanted no part of her. Only choices, she had discovered over the past few days, were pretty thin on the ground.

The first buoyancy which had started her off on her journey had begun to evaporate rapidly under the sheer pressure of the difficulties she had encountered.

There had been no problem in joining an organised tour. The hotel had been happy to arrange it for her, and equally pleased to retain her suite until she returned, because, as she had explained, her plans were fluid.

And although the trip to Cuzco and Machu Picchu had simply been a means to an end, she had to admit she wouldn't have missed if for the world.

Nothing she had read, no photographs had prepared her for the scale and majesty of the ruins under their twin sheltering peaks. She had spoken glibly to Rourke Martinez about 'the real Peru'. Now, she felt, she might have made a first faltering contact with its extraordinary and splendid past. And even the fact that sightseeing was strictly regimented hadn't spoiled it for her. She wished she had been just a tourist, like the others. Wished she could have lingered, spent a night or two in the locality, shopped for souvenirs in the narrow streets and markets of Cuzco. Instead, she had to shop urgently for the things she would need for her trip—warm, practical clothes, a small folding tent, a sleeping-bag and cooking implements.

But there had been setbacks from the beginning. Her first mistake had been to attempt to enlist the help of the tour guide, who had stared at her with open dismay and disapproval as Leigh outlined her plans, and then told her flatly that her schemes were madness. Leigh suspected his main objection would be in returning to Lima with one fewer member of his party than he set out with. Probably looks bad on the records, she thought drily.

But he had certainly done his best to dissuade her. And she was sure she had him to thank for a daunting visit she had received from two policemen.

At least, one of them had been a policemen, uniformed and authoritative. The other man, plump with a drooping moustache and sad, shrewd eyes, could have been anyone. No introductions had been made, and he had left most of the talking to his uniformed companion. But however politely couched, the message was a definite one. Leigh had no proper papers, no authorisation for such a trip. Without the proper authority, no pass could be issued. Without a pass, there could be no guarantee of safety. And even with a pass, a woman, young, beautiful, and alone…Hands were spread, looks were exchanged. Her possible fate was left to her imagination.

'But I shan't be alone,' Leigh had protested. 'I— I'm going to join my fiancé, Evan Gilchrist. He's based at Atayahuanco on the Peruvian Quest project.'

There had been a silence. Then the plump man had spoken for the first time. 'You are certain of this,
seňorita
? So how is it the disappearance of this man Gilchrist has been reported to us by the project director, Doctor Martinez?'

So he had actually shown some concern at last, Leigh thought furiously. And at just the wrong moment.

She said smilingly, 'Oh, Evan will have turned up again by the time I get there. I'm sure he didn't realise the upset he would cause by going off like that. I think he has dreams of finding a cache of Inca gold.'

The plump man gave a dry, harsh laugh. 'Inca gold,' he repeated thoughtfully. 'That is—amusing.' He lifted a hand and gave minute attention to his fingernails. 'You have perhaps received some message from your man,
seňorita
. Some rendezvous has been arranged?'

'Not exactly,' Leigh said carefully.

He gave her a long steady look. 'Be advised,
seňorita
. Go back to Lima, or better still to your own country. It is not safe for you here.'

'Thank you for the warning.' Leigh met his glance, her chin tilted.

He said quite affably, 'It is not a warning,
seňorita
. It is an order.'

They had left her gasping. The visit had unnerved her, and for a while she had been tempted to do as they said, and run for cover. Then she told herself she was being ridiculous. They had been exaggerating, trying to put the frighteners on her, trying to protect their tourist industry. If too many foreigners went missing, it was a reflection on them. But she could afford to hire herself some reliable protection.

However, their visit meant that she had to proceed with a certain amount of caution in her search for a suitable guide. The desk clerk at the hotel had put her in touch with a couple of suitable guides, but both of them had politely but firmly turned Leigh down when they discovered where she wished to go. They preferred, she realised resignedly, to stick to the more lucrative tourist haunts around Cuzco.

She was close to despair when the waiter who brought her breakfast asked, 'You wish to go up to Atayahuanco? My cousin has a mule to sell. And in his village, there are many who would guide you there.'

My saviour, Leigh thought joyously. She said, 'How do I get to this village? And what's your cousin's name?'

'You take the
collectivo, seňorita
. And my cousin is Pablo Ortega. He is a good man, and will not cheat you,' he added piously.

Now, with hindsight, Leigh could see she had allowed her enthusiasm to out-run her common sense.

The journey in the
collectivo
, a kind of communal taxi whose condition made those in Lima seem positively luxurious, had been a nightmare from start to finish. The roads had been appalling, many of them little more than tracks traversing the sheer edge of some stomach-turning chasm, and she had been crammed in with vegetable crates, and two families, one of whom had a baby who wailed continuously. After the first few miles, Leigh had felt like joining it. She closed her eyes as they rounded the worst bends, but she had a terrible suspicion that the driver did exactly the same.

When the interminable jolting and lurching finally ground to a halt, and she realised they had arrived safely at their destination, her feelings were a mixture of mild surprise and profound relief.

The village turned out to be an unimpressive collection of shacks, huddled dejectedly round a small square, entirely dominated by a massively imposing church. Leigh would have quite liked to visit this church while she was awaiting the arrival of Pablo Ortega, on the grounds that anything would be better than standing around in the square being openly stared at by the village's entire population. But the building was locked and impregnable, and seemed to have been for some time, and she managed to deduce from one of the women that the priest no longer came.

Nor did there seem to be any kind of store that she could see, or anywhere to buy a cup of coffee. She was almost convinced that she had reached yet another dead end, and that there was no Pablo Ortega and certainly no mule, when she heard the padding of hooves, and the jingle of harness.

The first setback was Se
ň
or Ortega's firm refusal to allow her to hire Rosita. How could there be any such arrangement, he demanded righteously in atrocious English, when there was no guarantee he would ever get his property back at the end of the hiring period? Such things were with God. It would have to be a sale or nothing. After all, the
seňorita
would have no problem selling a fine mule like Rosita at the end of her journey.

It took an hour for a bargain to be struck. Leigh wasn't sure what the correct asking price for a mule should be, but she gritted her teeth and bartered vigorously, and eventually with much shrugging and sighing on Seňor Ortega's part, the deal was made, and Leigh was having her first lesson in bridling Rosita, and loading her correctly.

It was simpler than she had originally feared, Leigh thought with satisfaction as she sat beside her small fire, and watched Rosita hobbled and placidly grazing a few yards away, but it had been a blow to discover that the mule's tack was not included in the price agreed, and had to be bought separately.

But worst of all had been her discovery that neither Pablo Ortega nor any other member of the community was prepared to act as her guide to Atayahuanco. Leigh had argued and persuaded, and offered generous pay, but they were all adamant. But in the next village, they assured her, only a day's stroll away across the
puna
, there would be many willing to help the
seňorita
.

The thought of spending the night in the wilderness with only a strange mule for company was totally unappealing, but she had no choice. It seemed important too to leave the impression that she was in charge, not worried about a thing, so she buried her qualms under a bright smile as she loaded her gear on to the clearly reluctant Rosita, and the whole village turned out again to watch her leave. By their looks and gestures, it was clear they thought she was mad.

And perhaps I am, she told herself ruefully.

She walked steadily, thanking her stars that the track was clearly marked and the going easier than she had anticipated, but when the sun began to sink behind the towering, snow-capped peaks, she was glad to halt. Her muscles were beginning to ache with coaxing the recalcitrant Rosita, and her elegant boots were pinching too.

She collected kindling, lit her fire, and heated coffee and tinned beans as she watched the sunset turn the high snows scarlet, crimson and violet before fading into opalescent pallor. She watched entranced, isolation and nervousness forgotten, wondering what dawn would be like, and as if to reassure her that she was not entirely alone after all, a great bird appeared high above her, like some dark spirit of the snows, its vast wings stark and black against the fading light.

The breath caught in Leigh's throat. A condor, she thought, between disbelief and jubilation. She was actually seeing a condor!

It was one of the things her fellow tourists in Cuzco had asked eagerly about, but the guide's response had been dampening. Sightings were rare, they had been told, although the great vulture of the Andes was now a protected species.

Leigh grabbed her field glasses from the small tent she had struggled to erect, and focused them as the huge bird wheeled and swooped in a display for her alone. When it eventually dwindled to a faraway speck, she sat back with a sigh.

The wind had risen as the sun went down, and in spite of her weatherproof clothes, she shivered as she hurried through her remaining chores and crawled into the tent. She was glad of the security of her sleeping-bag, but at the same time sleep eluded her. It was the first time, she realised, she had ever lain down for the night without someone else within call, or at least on the end of a telephone. She tried to think of Evan, to reach through the darkness and the sighing wind for him with her spirit, telling herself that he was alone too, and probably afraid. But there was no answering comfort, no sense of oneness in the thin air of the night.

She slept at last through sheer exhaustion, but there were tears on her face before she closed her eyes, and her dreams were confused and troublous, where she ran in endless pursuit of Evan through a vast maze of mountains, her lungs labouring for breath, only to have her way blocked at every turn by a tall man with skin like teak, and tiger's eyes, who told her, 'This is no place for you. Go back…' While above her, the vast wings of the condor blotted out the sun as it descended to seize her in cruel claws, and carry her away.