RACE AMAZON: False Dawn (James Pace novels Book 1) (7 page)

‘I don’t keep a spare room made up for guests, I never need one.  You’re in no state to sleep on the sofa either because you need a good night’s sleep.  Busy day tomorrow, so I’m afraid you’ll have to share with me.’

‘Okay,’ he agreed, feeling a little woozy now.  

‘Luckily, you look exhausted. I don’t think I have anything to worry about.’  Sadly, she was right.

Sarah quickly turned out the lights, leaving the remnants of their meal until the morning, and led the way to her bedroom. Pace undressed down to his shorts and slipped beneath the quilt, suddenly feeling drained to the core.

Sarah’s dressing gown dropped to the floor and she climbed into bed with him.  Her long nightshirt felt cool and smelled of fragrant flowers as she leaned across him to switch off the bedside lamp. He awoke the next morning to find himself alone in her bed.  A strong shaft of sunlight filtered through a crack between the bedroom curtains and lay across the bed in a sharp line. 

After dressing, he found her in the kitchen, wearing a loose-fitting floral summer dress with a hemline riding well above her knees.  She smiled when she saw him and offered him a cup of coffee and a slice of toast.  He wasn’t hungry but accepted a steaming mug gratefully.

Barely fifteen minutes later, with all the car windows wide open and the radio playing Dire Straits’
Sultans of Swing
, they were cruising down the lane, heading back towards the motorway.  To any passer-by they would have looked like a normal couple, out for a morning drive to an unknown destination.

6

Heathrow was as busy as every news report or documentary showed it to be. It remained one of the busiest airports in the world, filled to overflowing with every race, creed, colour and religious denomination of human being, each respectively trying to reach his or her destination from the many hundreds worldwide on offer.  

They parked in the short-term car park and rode the lift up to the main concourse, Sarah assuring him that a member of the company’s staff would be assigned to retrieve her car. To that end she left her keys with the car park supervisor. Apparently it was all arranged.

Pace carried Sarah’s small suitcase, pulled from the trunk of her car, while she gripped the sports bag that passed as her hand luggage, saving them having to collect a trolley. 

Thousands of people were milling around the many miles of airport shops, food halls and financial serveries, and they quickly blurred into one seething mass a few minutes after they set foot from the lift.

Sarah expertly led them to the correct gate and was obviously an old hand at it.  Pace, for one, had never used Heathrow before. It wasn’t the sort of airport you used for short charter flights to Europe; Gatwick and Stansted catered for that market.

Heathrow was different.  There was a definite buzz in the air.  Perhaps it was the accumulated anticipation of thousands of travellers that filled the air with a feeling of excitement.  Whatever it was, the place almost possessed its own tangible scent.

They paused only long enough to shop, which took barely half an hour. 

Two suitcases replaced the ones Pace had lost in the fire; both sturdy and waterproof. He filled them with new clothes, much to the expressed delight of the young assistant who lived off his, usually paltry, commission-based wage. Several pairs of jeans and slacks went in first, followed by some hastily chosen shirts, socks and underwear.  Two jackets and a spare pair of walking boots, almost identical to the ones he was wearing, ended a spree totalling a little shy of two thousand pounds.  The smile on the young assistant’s face said it all, beaming as he mentally planned some wild party nights out on next week’s much inflated wage packet. 

The next shop added toothbrushes and paste, half a dozen bars of soap, deodorants, a hairbrush, wet razor and spare blades, shaving foam and a couple of bottles of aftershave gel, which smelled all right and contained a moisturiser.  This would be useful, given the heat and humidity to come.  Above all, he raided the chemist for insect repellent.  He understood some Amazonian insects had a ferocious appetite and so armed himself with a selection of bug sprays, creams and topical lotions.

They passed through check-in without a hitch after briefly stopping to change some of his remaining sterling into a mixture of US dollars, US dollar travellers cheques and Brazilian reals.  

Hammond was exactly where he should have been, propping up the main bar in the departure lounge. He seemed pleased to see them and quickly told them that everything had been sorted.  As proof, he handed Pace a large manila envelope.  

Inside were a duplicate passport and visa.  

He ordered them all a drink while Pace studied the documents. Everything looked legitimate and he began to relax.  All the paperwork needed to get him out of Britain and into the adventure for which he had been paid so much money, was at hand. Up until that point he had been quietly doubtful that anyone had the influence to produce such important international documentation overnight.  But the proof was there, in his hands.

‘Ready for the trip of a lifetime?’ 

Hammond interrupted his thoughts and he turned to see both of them, sitting at adjacent bar stools, watching him intently. Sarah handed him a bottle of beer, which he gratefully half finished in a single swallow. Although it was barely eleven in the morning, Pace felt in need of it. The taste; crisp and clean, revitalised body and soul and any remaining doubts quickly evaporated.

‘Of course he is.’ Sarah looked straight at Pace, the twinkle in her eyes daring him to contradict her.

‘That reminds me.’ Hammond spoke before Pace could. ‘I’ve put the security boys onto last night’s events. Our company law firm has also been instructed to act on your behalf, in your absence.’ Hammond appeared as confident as Sarah. ‘Don’t worry, they’re the best legal people in London. They’ll handle everything.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Pace.

‘That leaves all of us,’ Hammond pointed to them all in a quick, swirling movement of his index finger, ‘free to concentrate on the race.’

‘I’m glad both of you are so bloody cheerful about all this,’ protested Pace good-naturedly.  He ordered a fresh beer from the bartender with a motion of one hand. 

‘Everything will be okay,’ promised Sarah.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Pace said.  ‘I’m actually looking forward to running over a few things with you both again during the flight.’

Hammond stretched an arm down and patted his briefcase, perched on the floor by his stool. 

‘All the final arrangements are in here and there’s plenty of flight time to run over anything you’re not sure about, several times if needs be. Speaking of the flight,’ he added, ‘we’ve only got about thirty minutes or so before boarding.  If there’s anything else you need you’d better run and get it now.’

‘No, I’ve got everything I need. Anything that springs to mind later can be picked up in Rio.’ 

He couldn’t think of anything else he needed to buy and the thought of spending some time browsing through balmy streets and bars, with all the normal tourists, was one not to miss. After all, he thought, how many times am I going to get to Rio de Janeiro in a lifetime, even with all that money in my bank?

‘Me neither, I’m good to go,’ agreed Sarah. ‘Travelling light is something I learned to do long ago. All I want now is to just get to Rio and hit the beach. I want to relax for a few days until the real work begins.’ 

Looking at her, dressed in the short, floral print summer dress split daringly high on the thigh to reveal her slim white legs, and with black hair hanging loose, Pace took a moment to imagine her laid out on a powder sand beach.  He saw her, skin gleaming with sun tan oil as she slowly roasted by a crashing, white-foamed azure ocean.  It was disturbingly erotic and a thought dispelled with real difficulty.

Pace had never been a particularly hard drinker but, for no reason he could understand, he sank another three bottles of beer before even boarding the plane and went on to polish off half a bottle of merlot with the in-flight meal. 

Two hours into the flight and, for want of a better description, he was feeling light-headed yet pleasantly warm.  Contrary to his earlier plan, the last thing he now wanted to do was talk.  Besides, they had sumptuous first class seats, which were large and paired.  Hammond and Sarah occupied one set of adjacent seats and were engrossed in discussing paperwork right from take-off. 

Pace was seated across the gangway from them and sadly blighted with the companionship of an incredibly fat old lady, whose excessive buttocks filled the wide girth of her own seat and hedged a little way onto his own, despite the seats themselves being wide and deeply contoured.

Obviously rich, her chubby fingers were strewn with gold and diamond rings that would have looked gaudy on somebody half her age.  Vividly coloured auburn hair was hard pushed to mask the original grey.  With several well-wrinkled chins and jowls a hound dog would have developed a complex about, she was the passenger from hell.

By the time he finished his meal and was getting to grips with the small video screen that popped out of the arm of his chair; moving smoothly on a specially designed metal arm, she’d eaten her own meal and demolished several snacks. She’d also polished off an entire bottle of expensive champagne and, much to his disgust, passed wind twice with little or no attempt at disguise. Pace couldn’t place her accent but she had little in the way of manners when summoning a hostess to attend to her slightest whim, which invariably involved food. Mrs Moorer-Simms was the name Pace heard her mention several times. 

Even in his muzzy state he was pretty sure she had purchased the double barrelling.  He was also certain about the only double barrels she deserved. He so much wanted to say it, and very nearly did on at least one occasion but forced himself to stare blindly at the film being played until he dozed off.  Just as he started to drift off, she broke wind yet again.

The flight from Heathrow to Rio had an official duration, outbound, of just over eleven hours. The city lay comfortably within a time zone only three hours behind GMT so they touched down twenty minutes shy of midnight, altering watches back to local time of eight-forty pm. Pace had spent a few hours sleeping and a few more browsing through every word in a guidebook to Rio he picked up at Heathrow. It was interesting but purely in the sense that it allowed him to dissuade Mrs Moorer-Simms from bothering to engage him in conversation. 

When he wasn’t sleeping, Hammond or Sarah were, though there were windows during the flight when Pace leaned across the gangway and they all talked together.  They even dared to play three hands of poker at one point.  Another good thing about the long flight was that Pace felt completely sober by the time they started their descent towards the coast of South America, if a little stiff.

Over the intercom the captain suggested looking down through the clear sky to see the coastline approach as they dipped through the thirty thousand feet mark, but Pace didn’t feel like leaning over his chubby neighbour.

Like everybody else he had planned to spot the famous statue of Jesus that overlooks the sea from high upon the summit of Mount Corcovado.  The reality would have meant getting far too close to Mrs Simms for his liking so, as they dropped down towards the Aeroporto Internacional do Galeao, he stayed seated, pretending to still be engrossed in his guidebook as the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from other passengers assailed his ears. 

The plane continued to descend smoothly and landed with barely a bump, a few minutes later.

According to his book, the airport itself was built in a place called Ilha do Governador, about half an hour’s drive out of town and was a modern, highly acclaimed airport. As he stepped out of the door and into the extended disembarking tube; pushed up snugly to the aircraft’s door, Pace had to admit that it felt just the same as any other modern airport; he could have been anywhere.  He waited just inside the tube until Sarah and Hammond stepped out, each of them stretching their little aches from joints and muscles as inconspicuously as possible.

From the tube they entered the light, air-conditioned space of Terminal C and were duly processed through customs, then channelled professionally through checkpoints without a hitch. Luggage was already spilling out onto a circular conveyor as they entered the baggage area.   Hammond’s cases; three of them, came into view first, closely followed by Sarah’s.  Lastly came his own.

When they eventually got outside, his first experience of serious tropical heat since his flying days struck home like a sledgehammer. Although the sun had sunk beneath the horizon two hours earlier the air remained hot and humid, filled with the unpleasantly familiar tang of petrol fumes as taxi after taxi loaded up and pulled away from the kerb.  The rank of cabs stretched endlessly down the road for as far as the eye could see; a range of models but all painted yellow and sporting a blue stripe down the side.  

The three travellers were targeted, pounced upon and hurriedly jostled towards the next available car by its enthusiastic driver, who urged them inside. The man was in his late fifties and as small and as bald as Hammond, although he did have eyebrows and a small grey moustache. Despite his size, he easily wrestled their cases into the spacious trunk of his old Chrysler, slamming it closed with practiced skill.  Barely a minute later he was settled comfortably behind the wheel and they were easing their way into city-bound traffic.

All the windows were open because the car did not have air-conditioning. It was large enough to house all three of them on its green vinyl back seat but Hammond chose to ride up front and give the driver details of their hotel.

The car turned onto a new section of highway and headed south, through some less than pleasant industrial areas before pushing on another eight or nine miles towards the coast. That was when they hit the more acceptable face of paradise. 

They drove through brightly lit streets crowded with tourists, walking and shopping, eating and drinking in cafes or restaurants, both inside or on tables set out on the pavement. Music filled the thinner sea air, weaving a tapestry of rock, jazz, reggae and club anthems, as they sped past different car radios and townhouses. 

The Zona Sul; an area for the rich and elite, was their destination. They reached the coast and turned onto the Avenida Atlantica, driving west.  The road ran parallel to the ocean, just a few hundred yards away, and it carried them swiftly into the famous Copacabana district. 

Copacabana was a veritable rampart against the sea; a wall formed by huge glass and stone hotels.  The golden beach – man-made according to his guide book - stretched for over two miles as a frontage. Two casinos, glitzy and very Las Vegas, interspersed the hotels, as did several more sedate private mansions.  Most of the residences were hidden behind high walls and menacing security gates.  

It wasn’t long before their driver pulled off the main road and turned through two huge stone pillars, hung with open, twenty-foot high  wrought-iron gates, and drove up a tree-lined gravel drive that led to the ornate double entrance doors of their hotel;
Copacabana Ambassador.