River of Death by Alistair MacLean Page A

in the world. The number of Brazilian millionaires who spend hours in their air-conditioned, humidity-controlled, burglar-proof deep underground cellars gloating over stolen Old Masters boggles the imagination. Ramon, there’s a wet bar right behind you, and I’m developing a sore and thirsty throat from lecturing callow youngsters on the facts of criminal life.’
    Ramon grinned, rose and brought a large whisky and soda to Hamilton and a soda each forhimself and his brother—the twins never drank anything stronger.
    Having eased his throat, Hamilton said: ‘What did you get on Smith?’
    ‘Nothing more than you expected,’ Ramon said. ‘The number of companies he controls is beyond counting. He’s a financial genius, charming and courteous, totally ruthless in his business dealings and must by any reckoning be the richest man in the Southern hemisphere. A sort of Howard Hughes in reverse. About Hughes’s early days everything was known in detail but the latter part of his life was so wrapped in mystery that many people who should have been in a position to know could scarcely believe that he had died on that flight from Mexico to the States, having been firmly convinced that he had died many years previously. Smith? Dead opposite. His past is a closed book and he never talks about it: neither do any of his colleagues, friends or supposed intimates—no-one really knows whether he
has
any intimates—for the good reason that none of them was around in his early days. Today, his life is an open book. He conceals nothing and operates in a totally straightforward fashion. Any one of the shareholders in his forty-odd companies can inspect the firm’s books whenever they wish. He appears to have absolutely nothing to hide and I would suppose when you are as brilliant as he unquestionably is there’s just no point in being dishonest. After all, what’s the point in it if youcan make more money being honest? Today he knows everybody’s business and lets anyone who wishes know all about his businesses.’
    ‘He’s got something to hide,’ Hamilton said. ‘I know he has.’
    Navarro said: ‘What?’
    ‘That’s what we’re going to find out, isn’t it?’ Hamilton said.
    ‘I wish you wouldn’t play your cards so close to your chest,’ Navarro said.
    ‘What cards?’
    ‘We look forward to watching you at work, Mr Hamilton,’ Ramon said. His tone was neutral to the point of being ambiguous. ‘It should be worth watching. By every account, the man is totally above suspicion. He goes everywhere, sees everyone, knows everyone. And everyone knows that he and the President are blood brothers.’
    The President’s blood brother was leaning forward in a chair in his splendid drawing-room, oblivious of the company around him, staring in fascination at the silver screen. The room had been so efficiently darkened by the heavy drapes that he would have had difficulty in seeing those around him: had it been broad daylight, he still wouldn’t have seen them. His absorption was total.
    The transparencies were of superb quality, taken with a superb camera by an expert photographer who knew precisely what he was about. The colour was true, the clarity and the resolutionimpeccable. And the projector the best that Smith’s money could buy.
    The first group showed a ruined and ancient city, impossibly clinging to the top of a narrow plateau with, at the far end, a breathtakingly well-preserved ziggurat, as imposing as the best surviving works of the Aztecs or the Maya.
    A second group showed one side of the city perched on the edge of a cliff that dropped vertically to a river and the rainforest beyond. The third group showed the other side of the city overlooking a similar gorge with a river sliding swiftly past in the distant depths. A fourth group, clearly taken from the top of the hills, showed a reverse view of the ancient city, with a brief glimpse of scrub-land beyond—once obviously terraced for cultivation—and