The air inside the Stinson’s cabin was warm and heavy with moisture despite the open ventilators. Klaus Heinemann kept a close watch on the instruments as the plane banked east to cut across the Bay of Campeche. The sky above them was a dull metal gray, reflected in the water below. Connie had removed her jacket and scarf and opened the top buttons of her blouse. Hooker, in the seat next to Heinemann, scowled out the window, straining to keep the coast line in sight.
“Does this thing float?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the drone of the engine.
“Oh, certainly,” the German said.
Hooker relaxed a little.
“For up to five minutes,” Heinemann added.
Hooker glared at him.
Connie used the scarf to blot perspiration from her throat. “You don’t like flying?” she said to Hooker.
“Not much.”
“Nolan loved to fly,” she said.
Hooker gave her an ironic look.
She smiled weakly. “I see your point.”
They flew on for a quarter of an hour with no sound but the pulsing roar of the engine and the rush of wind past the ventilators.
“How long will it take us to reach Campeche?” Connie asked.
“The entire flight will take three and a half to four hours,” Heinemann said. “Unless we pick up a strong head wind or tail wind. Right now we have neither.”
Hooker shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The normally roomy cabin was cramped with the equipment he had brought, Connie’s two pieces of luggage, and the big oil drum that had been converted into an auxiliary fuel tank. “Mind if I ask a question?”
“Would it make any difference if I minded?” Heinemann said.
“Why are we flying over the water?”
“It is the most direct route. Following the coast line would add another thirty minutes to our flight time.”
Hooker looked unconvinced, but he said no more.
Some three hours after the takeoff from Veracruz, the gray-green tropical coast of the state of Campeche could be seen through the murk ahead of the plane. Heinemann made a slight adjustment in their direction to the north. In a few more minutes, they sighted the low buildings of the town that served as capital of the state.
Heinemann turned to the others with a smile of satisfaction. “Right on the nose,” he said.
“You mean there was some doubt?” Hooker asked.
Heinemann ignored him and banked the Stinson into a slow descent toward the clearing that served Campeche as an airfield. Connie leaned toward the window for a better look.
“That’s it?” She did not try to hide her disappointment.
“If you wanted a resort, Acapulco is back in the other direction,” Hooker said.
“You don’t have to be sarcastic. It’s just not what I expected.”
Hooker sighed and said nothing.
Heinemann brought the plane in expertly for a landing on the uneven field. At the far end were some rusting machinery, an old Ford pickup truck, and several fuel drums outside a listing wooden shed. Heinemann taxied over to the shed and cut the engine. In the sudden silence, the three people in the cabin looked at each other with a mutual sense of relief.
Hooker squeezed back past the fuel tank and opened the cabin door. He jumped to the ground and turned to help Connie down. Heinemann came last, keeping a hand on the glistening fuselage, as though reluctant to lose contact with the plane. A short, bowlegged man in coveralls came out of the shed, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He woke up fast when he saw the gleaming red airplane. He walked slowly around the machine, making little humming sounds of admiration.
Heinemann talked briefly to the mechanic, then returned to Hooker and Connie. “I will have to spend some time here to see that all is in readiness as I asked. You two may as well go on into town and secure our hotel rooms.”
Connie looked around. “Go into town how?”
“I am told that a bus runs past here into Campeche. One is due within minutes.”
“My bags …” Connie began.
“The mechanic has a truck,” Heinemann said. “I will make some arrangement with him and bring the bags when I come.”
Connie looked doubtful, but Hooker took hold of her arm. “Let’s go,” he said, and led her across the field to the rutted road that ran alongside.
The air was hot, damp, and oppressive, the sky a joyless gray. Hooker could see Connie’s spirits sag. He made no effort to cheer her up. The woman might as well know early on that this was not going to be a pleasure trip.
The bus rattled into sight half an hour later. Hooker looked toward the shed to see if Heinemann might be ready to leave with them, but the pilot was in deep conversation with the mechanic. Hooker hoisted Connie aboard the ancient bus, then swung up himself. They rode the three miles into town with a minimum of conversation.
The bus driver let them off in front of the Azteca Hotel. Hooker and Connie stepped down into the unpaved street and looked at the building. It was a sprawling Victorian structure of weathered wood with a seemingly random clutter of porches, cupolas, gables, and balconies.
“Not exactly the Waldorf,” Hooker said.
Connie squared her shoulders and looked up at him. There was a hint of fire in the startling blue eyes. “Let’s get one thing straight right now, Hooker. I am getting damn tired of your little hidden cracks about the way I live and whether or not I can handle rough going. I wasn’t born into luxury, you know. I spent some goddam hungry years before I married Nolan Braithwaite. I’m tougher than you think I am, and until I start complaining, you can just lay off the veiled insults.”
Hooker looked at her for a moment, then grinned. “Fair enough. Let’s go in and check the accommodations.”
They had two rooms reserved on the second floor — a double for the men and an adjoining single for Connie. The rooms had a minimum of furniture, but they were reasonably clean, with no sign of insect life in the bedding.
“Not bad, all things considered,” Hooker said. “Anyway, we won’t be spending much time here. How do you feel about a drink?”
“That is a hell of a fine idea. Just give me a minute to clean up.” She stood uncertainly in the doorway between the two rooms. “Uh, where’s the bathroom?”
“If you mean for cleanup purposes, that pitcher and basin on your bureau is it. For anything else, you’ll find a device under your bed.”
“Swell,” she said brightly. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
“I’ll go see what the town has to offer in the way of hootch and come back for you,” Hooker said.
Smiling determinedly, Connie closed the door between the rooms. Hooker stood there for a moment shaking his head; then he went out.
• • •
The hotel, he discovered, had a bar of its own. It was a long, glassed-in porch that overlooked a lush tropical garden. The humid air inside was pushed around somewhat by an electric fan, the lighting was dim enough to be comfortable, and the shelves behind the bar held a good supply of liquor. By the time they were into their second drinks, Hooker and Connie had decided that Campeche was not all that unpleasant a place.
Connie swallowed some of her fruity rum concoction and peered across at Hooker’s glass of tequila. “You drink a lot, don’t you.”
“Now and again.”
“Trying to forget something? Or somebody?”
“Nothing as romantic as that. I just like the taste of the stuff.”
“Why don’t you tell me it’s none of my business?”
“Okay. It’s none of your business.” He watched her for a moment, then said, “Nah, go ahead and ask questions. As long as you don’t get insulted if I don’t answer.”
“You’re a funny man, Hooker.”
“I’m a regular Jack Benny.”
“I mean funny strange. I have no idea what you’re thinking ever. Or how you feel about anything. I can’t read your eyes.”
He signaled the bartender, who brought over another tequila. Connie covered her glass with one hand and shook her head.
“I don’t know now why I should care about how you feel. For most of my life, I’ve been completely absorbed with myself. What the hell did I care what anybody was thinking unless it directly concerned me?”
Hooker shrugged. He lit a Lucky Strike. He hoped she was not going to launch into a long confession.
“I’d like to know you better,” she said. “I’d like you to know me.”
“It sounds like fun,” he said, “but I’ve got rules about mixing business and pleasure.”
“Yes, I know,” she said sharply. “We’ve been all over that. I’m just making conversation, not trying to seduce you.”
“Hell, go ahead and try to seduce me,” he said. “Just as long as — ”
“I know. Just as long as I don’t get insulted if you don’t answer.”
They laughed together, and Hooker found he was growing a lot more comfortable with this woman. It was something he would have to watch, but later.
Gradually, it grew dark outside. On one of his trips to the table with refills, the bartender placed a candle between Hooker and Connie. Neither of them saw Klaus Heinemann when he entered and stood for a long moment regarding them. Hooker turned with a start at the loud “ahem” behind him.
“I arrive at a poor time?” Heinemann said.
Hooker kicked out a chair for him. “Sit down, Kraut. We were just telling off-color stories, which of course you wouldn’t get, being German.”
“Of course,” Heinemann said.
“Did you get the airplane put to bed?”
“As well as I could manage. Mr. Gonzales, the mechanic, agreed to sleep in the plane tonight. In fact, I think his feelings would have been hurt had I not allowed him to. It’s the grandest craft he has seen since Mr. Braithwaite’s Orion refueled here on the way to Panama more than a year ago.”
The bartender came over, and Heinemann ordered rye with a bottle of mineral water. Hooker took another tequila.
Connie yawned. “Can you two get along without me? I’m suddenly dead tired.”
“It would be a good idea for you to sleep,” Heinemann said. “We want to start early tomorrow, and the more alert we all are, the better will be our eyesight for the search.”
Connie got up. She held up a hand as the men started to rise. “No, stay put. I’ll get the room key from the desk. What time do we leave in the morning?”
“The light should be sufficient at six,” Heinemann said.
“I’ll be ready.” She gave them a salute and walked through the door that led back into the hotel proper.
“Interesting woman,” Heinemann said. “I have the feeling there is more to her than a casual glance would reveal.”
“So she was telling me,” Hooker said.
• • •
As she climbed the single flight of stairs to her room, Connie stopped suddenly. She had the prickly feeling between the shoulder blades that came when someone was watching her. Or following her. She continued for another two steps, then turned suddenly. Nothing there but shadows. Connie smiled at herself. It was not like her to jump at phantoms. She must be even more tired than she thought. She went on into the room, taking care to lock the door behind her.
• • •
Back in the shadows at the top of the stairs a pair of eyes watched her door close. When the lock clicked, a dark-skinned man, naked to the waist, slipped noiselessly down the hall toward her room.