Selling Hitler's Trousers

By Paul Jagger

When Hitlers valet escaped the Berlin bunker in April 1945 a bag of the Fhrers clothes and possessions went with him. Of these, only a pair of soiled trousers completed the journey to South America where murderous neo-Nazis became obsessed with pursuing the DNA they might contain.

Years later, when Brazilian gangsters were busy extorting money from an oil multinational, it fell to Barry Snapp, a reluctant junior executive, to handle negotiations. But when he discovered that the gang had inadvertently acquired the trousers his life suddenly became a disposable asset. Blackmailed into selling the valuable yet odious garment, he journeyed from London and the French Rivera to the slums of Rio and the wilderness of the Pantenal and yet, wherever he went, danger and death followed close behind.

With a feisty and stunningly beautiful pop singer to motivate him and her scruffy brother to annoy him, Barry suddenly found his mundane life transformed into a new and terrifying reality. He was thrust into a vivid world of odd and sinister characters who forced the young Londoner to call upon all of his wits and hidden talents to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456790073

Paul Jagger

Paul Jagger is a Court Assistant of The Worshipful Company of Information Technologists and author of The City of London Freeman’s Guide. He has been awarded for his work in promoting awareness and understanding of the City of London and its Livery Companies. Paul is a member of many heritage and history bodies including The Arts Society, London Historians, the National Trust and English Heritage. He is a member of the City Livery Club and the Farringdon Ward Club.

Book preview

Selling Hitler’s

Trousers

Paul Jagger

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2011 by Paul Jagger. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/01/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-9006-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-9007-3 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

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This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter One

City Bus Station

Cuiabá, Central Brazil

The pressure from the air conditioning made the glass door open with a damp sucking noise as the grimy young back packer entered the café. He carried his rucksack by one strap and picked his way carefully between the yellow plastic-topped tables and matching chairs until he reached a spot farthest from the door. He slumped into a vacant seat with his back against the wall and looked around. A tired-looking girl in a stained apron and pink cotton dress materialised beside him clutching a notepad and pen that she held poised to take his order. The back packer pushed his long greasy brown hair out of his eyes and gave her what he hoped was a winning smile as he asked her for a Coca Cola Light. The smile had no effect upon the waitress who was clearly unimpressed by the torn and faded blue T-shirt commemorating a long forgotten Alice Cooper tour of Europe. She was equally unimpressed by the stained green combat trousers, the trekking sandals on grimy feet and the overall appearance of penniless squalor.

Deciding that such an order did not justify using a page from her notebook, she pushed it back into her apron pocket and carefully clipped her ballpoint to the front of her dress. Moving effortlessly between the tables like a fish swimming through reeds she crossed the room with the grace of a samba dancer to the glass fronted drinks refrigerator. She took out a can and returned to the backpacker, scooping a plastic drinking straw from a container on the counter as she passed. She avoided his eyes and his smile as she unceremoniously dumped the can and straw on the table in front of him.

The click and hiss of the can’s ring-pull caused another young man sitting at a table in the centre of the room to glance towards the backpacker. He was wearing a navy blue polo shirt, crisp brown chinos and matching deck shoes. He was clearly not Brazilian but there was no expression of the acknowledgement that often passes between strangers of similar backgrounds when a long way from home. Instead he returned his attention to the bulky black leather pilot case that he had placed on a chair beside him. His fingers fiddled with its brass combination lock and he glanced at his watch before looking out of the café window at the traffic passing on the busy road to Chapada dos Guimares.

Gradually the café emptied as customers left to catch buses to destinations within the heart of Brazil. Only an old man in a crumpled brown suit remained seated at a distant table smoking cigarettes and stirring the bottom of his coffee cup with a teaspoon. Suddenly the young European with the case jumped to his feet and took it with him through the door bearing the universal pin-man figure indicating the male toilet.

The back packer began idly tracing the Coca-Cola logo with his grimy finger in the condensation on the can. He then expanded his endeavour into a design on the wet plastic tabletop. His sketch had just begun to resemble a half-timbered country house when the lavatory door opened and the European in the polo shirt returned to his table with a thoughtful expression on his face. He placed the pilot case carefully on the floor beside him and resumed his vigil of the road and bus station outside.

Barely a minute passed before the glass door opened and four very young Brazilian men dressed in smart leisure sportswear burst in like an invading army. They stood by the door, scanned the room and immediately approached the young man with the case. The back packer could not hear what was said but could see that the European was being pleasant and sociable while the Brazilians were distant and assertive. They refused the other’s invitation to sit down and glanced around them in a way that suggested they were nervous or impatient. The eldest of the Brazilians, a short man barely into his twenties held out his hand and the European reached below his table and gave him the pilot case. With the faintest nod of gratitude he tested its weight in his hand and then, as one, the group turned and filed out of the café.

The young man in the polo shirt watched them leave and, as he signalled to the waitress for his bill, he noticed a large grey car pull-up at the kerb in front of the four Brazilians. It was then that the world erupted into a ragged explosion of noise and flying glass. The wide café window collapsed inwards and small vitreous crystals sprayed through the room. The glass fronted refrigerator crazed and burst like a broken windscreen and ruptured drink cans sprayed their contents outwards in a carbonated mist. Objects on the café counter leapt backwards and the room filled with the dusty smell of nitro cellulose gun powder.

The backpacker did not remember throwing himself to the floor but when the noise stopped abruptly he found himself hunched beneath a table beside the European. They exchanged looks of alarm and horror but could say nothing until their hearing had recovered from the cacophony of gunfire.

Eventually the backpacker raised his head cautiously above the table and looked around the café. The girl in the pink dress was slumped on the floor, her back against the counter and legs stretched out in front. Blood streamed from a wide gash in her cheek and she sobbed and trembled uncontrollably. The old man was bent backwards across a table, his head was twisted unnaturally to one side and his brown suit had turned black where deep arterial blood soaked into the fabric and dripped into a wide puddle on the concrete floor below him. A man in a dirty white chef’s tunic rushed out of a back kitchen. His wide eyes took-in the destruction at a glance and without hesitating he ran to the girl and pressed a handful of clean paper napkins against her wound.

The backpacker dropped back below the table where the European was staring unseeing at the glass-dusted floor.

I think we’d better get out of here, he said urgently.

The European turned his head towards him and looked at the scruffy traveller with wide eyes. Shouldn’t we stay and lend a hand? he asked uncertainly indicating the trembling girl.

Not unless you want to spend the next six weeks in a police station while they think of ways to blame you for what happened, he said sourly. Anyway, she’s being looked after and I don’t think we can do much for the old guy. Come on, let’s leg it.

He grabbed the strap of his rucksack and led the young European across the room towards the door, their feet crunching on the broken glass as they walked. Outside the café the heat and sunlight hit them like a molten wall. The four young Brazilians lay sprawled on the pavement like discarded tailor’s dummies, their arms and legs flung in unnatural postures. Dark blood spread across the pale grey concrete and their expensive sportswear looked ragged and dishevelled. The eldest of the three, the one who had spoken to the European, lay on his back like a starfish, his lifeless eyes staring into the bright sunlight and the space where his jaw had been was now a pulped mass of bone, gristle and broken teeth. One leg of his pale grey shell suit had ridden-up half way to his knee exposing a tanned leg wearing a new Nike trainer and a bright white sock. The pilot case was gone, as was the grey car.

They turned away from the café and the backpacker flinched as his foot crunched a pair of expensive sunglasses that had fallen from the head of one of the victims. As he stepped backwards on a reflex, his foot landed in one of the pools of blood and he shuddered and jumped away. People were converging cautiously onto the scene from the bus station and from the nearby houses and offices. They paid little attention to the two foreigners who walked briskly into a side street where children still played football, oblivious of the drama so close. The European led the way to a medium-sized white Toyota saloon parked in a row of similar vehicles. He fumbled for his key, flung open the door and dropped into the car’s stifling hot interior. The backpacker fell into the seat beside him, holding his rucksack awkwardly in his lap. The engine revved and the wheels squealed on the hot asphalt as they swung out into the road watched by the young footballers as they paused in their game to allow them through.

The European drove through the untidy suburbs of Cuiabá turning into streets at random, gradually slowing as their distance from the bus station increased. Eventually they found themselves in a dead-end on the edge of a small industrial park where they stopped and climbed out of the car exhausted. They leaned against the Toyota’s hot bodywork and looked back towards the city centre.

Jesus, what the hell was all that about? asked the backpacker. His new companion said nothing but leaned forward and vomited onto the brittle grass growing beside the road. He wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand and looked up with watery eyes.

I didn’t enjoy any of that, he said unnecessarily. I was just told to deliver a case of seismic survey reports. It was like in a movie. But I’ve never seen anything like that in real life. It was awful, he said, his voice shaking.

So who were those guys? asked the backpacker searching his pocket for cigarettes but finding none.

I’ve no idea. I was just told that someone would meet me and take the case and then I could go, he said, his voice trembling. That’s all I had to do. Nobody warned me to expect anything like that. He paused and wiped his mouth again. By the way, my name’s Baz, he added formally.

Right, hello, said the other. He paused and then replied; I’m Viper. They shook hands hesitantly, Viper reluctant to grasp the palm that Baz had used to wipe his mouth and both feeling each other’s nervous perspiration. Baz turned and reached into the car from where produced a large plastic bottle of warm mineral water and an opened packet of potato crisps. They shared them in silence, ignoring the hot sunlight, and slowly started to feel better.

What do you think we should do now? asked Baz. It occurred to neither of them to remark upon the oddity of two Englishmen of roughly the same age but with obviously different backgrounds finding themselves together, afraid and uncertain, surrounded by small untidy factory buildings in a city at the geographical centre of South America.

*       *       *

Two days earlier in a central London office a thin, tanned finger had stroked the ivory button concealed below the edge of a rosewood desk. There was a gentle click followed by a pneumatic hiss and one of the embossed green leather panels in the desktop hinged upwards to reveal a bright, flat video screen. The finger hovered above the panel of illuminated buttons that filled the cavity beneath the screen then stabbed decisively amongst them. The screen filled with the image of a wide, open-plan office.

Julio Goncalves twisted his stocky body impatiently in the deep leather chair that had been positioned squarely in front of the desk. He leaned forward in a vain attempt to see the screen and sighed in frustration. We’ve got to find someone to do it, he said, I can’t risk any of my people.

Sir Walter Mendicant, chief executive officer of Isthmus Oil pushed his gold rimmed half-moon spectacles further up his thin nose and stabbed another button. Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find someone, he replied distractedly without looking up from the screen. His finger worked systematically through the buttons then stopped. Ah ha, he said quietly, this could be it.

Goncalves pushed himself out of the chair and walked silently on the thick green Wilton carpet to stand behind Sir Walter where he leaned forward to stare at the small screen. He saw a bright, stylishly modern work space lush with potted shrubs and filled with an archipelago of computer workstations. Sir Walter’s thumb and forefinger grasped a small joystick and Goncalves saw the image of the room turn as the camera followed Sir Walter’s direction. It was a typical office. Men and women sat typing energetically in front of their computer screens, they talked on telephones, they drank from plastic cups and some stood beside a photocopier.

Don’t they mind you watching them like this? asked Goncalves.

Sir Walter made a snorting noise that could have been a laugh; They don’t know, he replied and made a small adjustment with the joystick. Here, this could be promising.

The camera zoomed-in on a work station in the far corner of the room. A slightly fleshy young man was lounging indolently in his swivel chair. He was not wearing a polo shirt on this occasion but something more formal in crumpled long-sleeved white cotton. Goncalves guessed that he was in his mid-twenties and not the sort of person who spent his spare time playing sports. In fact, the tightness of his shirt suggested that his spare time was probably spent doing very little. The young man turned away from his computer screen upon which Goncalves could clearly see a game of solitaire in progress. His pale face scanned the room and settled-on a young, good-looking blonde boy working industriously at a nearby workstation. Mendicant and Goncalves then watched as the first man produced a thick elastic band from a container on his desk. He then stretched it upon his thumb and shot it with considerable accuracy across the room to hit the younger man on the back of his neck. The closed circuit television did not pick-up sound but the boy appeared to let out a shout of pain. He turned and said something to his attacker with an expression of extreme annoyance while those at desks nearby laughed at his discomfiture.

That guy is a waste of oxygen. You should fire him, said Goncalves with incredulity at the young man’s disruptive idleness.

I don’t need any advice about who I should, or should not fire, responded Sir Walter tartly. He is not without his uses. The chief executive then pressed a button on his telephone and they watched the young man turn and answer his own in response. Sir Walter leaned forward and spoke into his desk speaker. Barry, could you come and see me for a minute please? he said.

They continued watching the screen and saw a puzzled and slightly anxious expression cloud Barry’s face as he left his chair and struggled into his charcoal grey suit jacket. He said something to the blonde boy who grinned widely at his unease. Barry Snapp had met Sir Walter on many occasions but rarely alone. He would lounge through interminable marketing meetings seated at the long mahogany conference table in the corner of Sir Walter’s office where he would try to maintain a low profile, deferring all contributions to the meeting to his department head. It irritated Barry that Sir Walter would never introduce himself when he telephoned someone. He possessed the sort of ego that enabled him to assume that whoever he was calling would immediately recognise his quietly enunciated public school voice. It was additionally irritating that his assumption was correct. Even if Barry had not recognised the voice he would have known the caller as the only person in the building who called him Barry. The superficial first name familiarity that existed at all levels within Isthmus Oil did not extend to Sir Walter calling the young marketing manager Baz as everyone else did.

Sir Walter’s elderly secretary did not look up from her computer when, a minute later, Baz walked past her to tap politely on the chief executive’s sacred office door. The finger stroked the ivory button once more and the screen folded away into the desktop. Baz entered cautiously and Sir Walter gave an uncharacteristically avuncular smile of welcome.

Barry, thanks for coming, said Sir Walter,

As if I had any choice thought Baz.

Do you know Julio Goncalves? he said gesturing towards the other man. Goncalves gave an uncertain smile and half rose from his chair to hesitantly shake Baz’ extended hand. Julio is head of our Brazilian operation and he’s over here for a few days. He was short and powerfully built with a broad tanned face below a mat of cropped black hair. Despite his crisp shirt and well cut navy suit, he had the hardened appearance of an experienced oilman capable of retrieving jammed drill strings or rewriting mud injection programs during tropical storms offshore. He looked like the sort of man who could give orders to a tough drilling crew and have them obeyed without question. The contrast with Sir Walter Mendicant could not be more pronounced. The chief executive was thin, balding and elegant in a pale blue shirt. Although he looked every inch the dedicated accountant that he was, his appearance and background did not lessen the respect in which he was held as a business leader within the oil industry.

Sir Walter glanced momentarily at the papers on his desk then stretched a smile across his narrow face that failed to reach his eyes. Yes, thanks for coming Barry, he repeated, We’ve got a little job for you.

*       *       *

Avoiding the main roads, Baz and Viper picked their way through the residential neighbourhoods of Cuiabá. Low, flat-roofed houses hid behind high white painted walls or sprawled untidily among trees and shrubs behind broken wire fences. The roads were of broken concrete or potholed red earth, fringed with tufts of grass and weed. Battered cars were parked in narrow driveways where children played and their mothers watched the foreigners pass without curiosity as they gossiped in the shade of dark-leafed fruit trees.

Just keep heading south and we will pick-up signs for the Trans Pantenero, said Viper confidently.

It’s just past midday, the sun’s right overhead, how the hell am I supposed to know which way is south? demanded Baz.

Use the satellite dishes, replied Viper. He pointed at the massive garden obelisks that collect the countless essential television soaps, sport, movies and news that provide the motor for Brazilian relaxation. They are all looking at satellites sitting somewhere above the equator, he said, and that’s north from here.

There was a time when you just looked to see what side the moss is growing on the trunks of trees, muttered Baz who was suddenly feeling a long way from home.

They drove onwards but the signs that Viper had predicted would lead them to the Trans Pantanero failed to appear and they seemed destined to aimlessly roam the side streets and suburbs of the city.

While they had been standing beside the small factory they had agreed that they should get as far away from Cuiabá as quickly possible. Yet now that the initial terror had subsided, Baz was starting to feel less confident about the wisdom of this decision. After all, the four young Brazilians and an old man who had been quietly minding his own business, had all been murdered apparently because of something that he had been carrying. Yet Viper had tried to reassure him and pointed out that if he had left the café just a couple of minutes earlier, or if the gunmen had arrived a few minutes later, he would have been totally unaware of the incident and would have had no involvement with it. Baz agreed but pointed out that Viper would still have witnessed the shooting.

You would have been there for another hour waiting for your bus to the Pantenal, said Baz. And I certainly would never have started a conversation with a scruffy looking bastard like you. And that means you would not have had a chance to persuade me to give you a lift to your sister’s wildlife project.

So it’s all worked out for the best then, replied Viper cheerfully. And if, as you say, you are now officially on holiday you won’t be missed at work. You would have been going to the Pantenal anyway as it’s the best place in South America for viewing wildlife so no tourist could come to Cuiabá without visiting it. Your firm is paying the rental for the car so what could be more convenient for everyone involved?

And you save on a bus fare, added Baz with a touch of resentment in his voice.

I think the fare is about a dollar, and even I can afford that. The main thing is that we are behaving quite normally but have avoided being interrogated by the Brazilian police. The expression on Viper’s young, unshaven face clouded briefly. Don’t forget these are people who have been known to murder street children in Sao Paolo and Rio simply because they find them irritating. I would hate to think how they would treat someone like you who has been making deliveries to favela gangs.

Favela gangs? What are you talking about? demanded Baz startled.

Those guys were obviously gangsters. They operate in the slums of the big cities; the favelas, and run the drugs rackets. Viper unlocked and locked his seat belt nervously. They were well dressed by favela standards but still couldn’t have looked more like gangsters if they had been wearing fedoras, black shirts and white ties. And as we saw, they don’t think twice about killing each other.

Or anyone else for that matter, added Baz grimly thinking of the old man who only wanted a cup of coffee. But we’re hundreds of miles from Rio and Sao Paolo, what were they doing in Cuiabá?

We might ask you the same thing. Cuiabá is not exactly the centre of the oil industry’s universe. None of those guys looked very much like oil men to me.

Baz nodded his agreement. They sent me out from London simply to make this delivery, he said as he recalled the earnest expression on Sir Walter Mendicant’s face when he explained the significance of his task. Sensitive documents and nobody must know of Isthmus Oil’s involvement he had said. Local staff might be recognised so it had to be someone they could trust who was not known locally. As a bachelor with no family ties they could expect him to catch a flight to Rio de Janeiro that evening and they would not look at his expenses claim too closely. For Baz it was a gift that he knew he did not deserve. It was an opportunity that would lift his life out of its mundane urbanity and into one of the most romantic and exotic cities in the world. He had never been in South America and his first sight of Sugar Loaf Mountain and the Corcovado, the giant statue of Christ the Redeemer overlooking the city, was breathtaking.

His time in Rio had, however, been brief. He had stepped out of the airport into the early morning sunlight and into a waiting limousine taxi which had carried him directly into the Centro district and the glistening black glass tower where Isthmus oil occupied several floors of offices. Because Baz arrived ahead of the working day two blue uniformed security guards watched his arrival in the reception area with quiet amusement as he towed his small, wheeled cabin case across the black marble floor to the reception desk. He was clearly expected and the guards immediately asked to see his passport. With his identity confirmed they gave him the locked pilot case and a sealed white envelope with his name hastily scrawled on the front. The envelope contained brief instructions and a ticket for a flight to Cuiabá that was departing in less than two hours. This gave him no choice but to go back outside the office and hail one of the small yellow and black taxis that prowl the streets of Rio so he could return to the airport. Seated on torn upholstery in the back of the cab and buffeted by the wind from the driver’s open window, he read the letter once again. It simply told him that a rental car had been booked for him in Cuiabá and gave directions to a bus station café where he should wait until someone came to collect the case. There were no instructions about what to do afterwards and since the return half of his ticket had been left open, Baz had decided that his annual holiday would start then and that it would be included in his expenses claim.

Viper interrupted Baz’s reverie without warning and signalled him to pull the car over and stop beside a group of women deep in conversation at the roadside. He pressed the button in his door and the electric window opened silently, allowing the hot outside air to fill the cool interior of the car. Leaning out Viper adopted what he believed was his winning smile and said; Faz favor, onde e o rua Trans Pantanero?

The women looked at each other uncertainly and speculated on the various possible directions that might lead towards the Pantenal highway. They were, however, determined to be helpful and refused to allow their ignorance to be an obstacle to providing Viper with a satisfactory answer. Eventually, by consensus, a middle aged woman in a faded blue frock, black hair fastened in a severe pony tail and the air of authority that comes from having travelled beyond Cuiabá pointed back in the direction they had just come, even though she clearly had no idea. Viper leaned back in his seat and waved his thanks. Obrigado he said just as an elderly man appeared. He pushed his way through the women put one hand on the roof of the car and leaned towards Viper with a gap-toothed smile of amusement on his wrinkled face. Rolling his eyes at the ignorance of the women he gave Viper a few authoritative directions along the route they were already following.

Waving his thanks, Baz put the Toyota in gear and pulled away. So you speak Brazilian then? he said to Viper.

Yes, but I ought to. I’ve been travelling around the place for nearly a year, he replied. And it’s Portuguese that they speak, he corrected.

Yeah, whatever.

The main road to the Pantenal was obvious once they were on it. As it undulated away from Cuiabá the houses started being built further back from the road. A no-man’s land of bare earth strewn with litter bordered both sides of the road and was punctuated by tyre repair centres, isolated shops and the usual commercial detritus necessary to every city. Gradually the houses and the commerce thinned and Baz and Viper found themselves driving through farmland as part of a small convoy of cars trapped behind a slow and overloaded lorry. When the undulating road and the oncoming traffic made it possible, and often when it should not have been possible, the cars would overtake the lorry and speed ahead for a few miles until they came up behind another slow vehicle and the process would repeat itself.

Viper and Baz travelled like this for most of the afternoon, chatting amiably but avoiding any reference to the incident that had thrown them together and had frightened and upset them so much. Nevertheless, neither wanted to reveal the extent to which the shooting had disturbed them so Viper used the opportunity to recount anecdotes from his travels around Brazil and south east Asia yet without ever indicating how they were funded. As an employee of an energy industry multinational company, Baz’s background could not be more different but they were soon joking and chatting cheerfully like old friends.

At one point, by mutual agreement they stopped briefly in a lay-by to stand side by side urinating into some bushes. After stretching the stiffness out of his shoulders Baz returned to the cool interior of the car and started the engine. As soon as Viper joined him, he flicked the indicator switch, pushed the gears into first and studied the approaching traffic over his shoulder before pulling out onto the carriageway. He paused only briefly when he saw a grey saloon approaching at speed but it stopped suddenly and turned onto the hard shoulder some distance short of them.

Rejoining the traffic Baz realised that he knew nothing of his destination and turned to Viper for some detail. The young traveller sat up in his seat his eyes bright with enthusiasm as he started to tell Baz about his sister. He explained how she had become involved with a leading light in what he referred to as the tree hugging, brown bread and sandals community—an expression Baz found surprising in view of Viper’s own appearance. The tree-hugger had lured Viper’s sister away from her life in London to a large fazenda in the Pantenal where she was working on a project to save the Hyacinth Macaw.

That’s the story is it? asked Baz, slightly disappointed. An earnest environmentalist did not sound like his idea of an exciting woman. He also suspected that as an oil industry executive—albeit a very junior and half-hearted one—he was unlikely to be welcomed with unrestrained delight. And what exactly is a Hyacinth Macaw? he continued, trying to broaden his understanding of the situation.

It’s a parrot, replied Viper confidently. It’s a fucking great big blue parrot.

And what’s so special about it?

It’s the biggest parrot in the world. It has got a sodding great beak that could take your head off with a nip. It’s also seriously endangered due to habitat loss and bastards capturing them for a pet trade that will pay huge sums of money for them.

Baz was unconvinced that any parrot could be attractive and saw no reason why anyone might want to protect them, but he said nothing until they entered a small town a few miles further on. It consisted of shabby single storey buildings and potholed roads and where, complaining of hunger, he stopped the car so they could buy snacks and more water from a run-down café. They finally drove onto the Trans Pantanero a short distance outside the town. It proved to be a line of red dirt that reached like a ruler through low green scrubland to the dusty horizon. The road was reasonably well maintained and seeing only one other distant car in his rear view mirror, Baz accelerated. The scenery was soon passing at around 60 mph but it did not appear to be the sort of countryside that demanded slow and detailed study. Low trees and shrubs bordered the road and gaps would permit a view of flat grassland interspersed with more shrubs and clumps of trees rising like small islands. It was only the occasional flights of exotic-looking birds that prevented Baz from regarding it as a wild and empty version of Holland. With the road ahead empty of traffic Baz was able to enjoy the sensation of flying over the corrugations that the wheels of heavy vehicles had created in the compacted dirt surface. At this speed the car’s wheels were barely touching the road and he knew that any attempt to change direction would prove fatally unsuccessful. Meanwhile Viper, having exhausted his fund of Brazilian anecdotes and tourist information, was dozing with his head bouncing against the door pillar. He only opened his eyes like a camera shutter when Baz began singing a medley of Frank Sinatra hits. He lifted his head away from the juddering doorframe to gaze ahead into the distance.

You might want to slow down a bit, he said quietly and turned to Baz with an anxious expression on his face.

What?

Slow down for fuck’s sake!

Shit, said Baz in an eloquent review of his first Pantanero bridge that he and Viper could now see approaching at 60 miles per hour.

Baz suddenly realised that a dark line he had noticed on the road ahead was not a shadow but a bridge. There were no posts or parapets to indicate the ladder-like structure of beams and planks that had been laid across a river gully flush with the surface of the road. Two lines of planks lay along the ladder to accommodate the wheels of crossing vehicles but in the split second it took for Baz to assess the situation, it became apparent that they were a long way short of the minimum timber requirements.

Unable to brake in the distance or to turn on the washboard surface of the road, Baz could only aim the car at the part of the bridge that appeared to offer the most planking, maintain