I
The slow-moving, mud-coloured Red River wound through a dense undergrowth of saw-grass, duck-weed and sagittaria. The great naked roots of the mangrove trees, anchored in the mud flats, gave the impression of a forest on stilts. An oppressive, tropical heat hung over the river. The only sound Rico could hear was the thump-thump of a diesel engine a long way away, pounding out a monotonous rhythm.
Rico wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He was sitting in the prow of a flat-bottomed boat that seemed to him to be horribly fragile, and likely to tip over if he moved.
Baird sat in the stern and paddled the boat through the slow-moving water, keeping close to the bank.
The Thompson gun, loaded and cocked, lay at his feet. His pale eyes scanned both sides of the bank as they moved slowly upstream.
‘Hear that noise?’ he said suddenly. ‘That’s the dredge. It’s farther away than it sounds. That’s where Hater is.’
Rico hunched his shoulders. Mosquitoes droned above his head. He was afraid to flap his hands at them in case he upset the boat.
‘What a hole!’ he said, looking at the tal saw-grass on either side of the bank. ‘How can we hope to make a path through that stuff? How the hell are we going to get him away?’
‘We haven’t got him yet,’ Baird said. ‘Keep your voice down. Sounds carry a long way across water.’
Rico grunted and lapsed into silence. As the boat moved slowly up the river, taking him farther into the dense undergrowth and away from civilisation, he regretted still more getting himself mixed up in this crazy, dangerous business.