The Vivero Letter
Action thriller by the classic adventure writer set in South America.Jeremy Wheale’s well-ordered life is blasted apart when his brother is murdered. The killer was after a family heirloom – an antique gold tray – which sets Wheale on a trail from Devon to the tropical rainforest of Yucatan. There he joins the hunt for a lost Mayan city. But in the dense cover of the jungle a band of vicious convict mercenaries are waiting to strike…
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DESMOND BAGLEY
The Vivero Letter
Harper an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by Collins 1968
Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1968
Cover layout design Richard Augustus © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008211172
Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008211189 Version: 2017-03-13
CONTENTS
To that stalwart institution the British pub, particularly the Kingsbridge Inn, Totnes, and the Cott Inn, Dartington
I would like to thank Captain T. A. Hampton of the British Underwater Centre, Dartmouth, for detailed information about diving techniques.
My thanks also go to Gerard L’E. Turner, Assistant Curator of the Museum of the History of Science, Oxford, for information on certain bronze mirrors, Amida’s Mirror in particular.
Theirs the credit for accuracy; mine the fault for inaccuracy.
I made good time on the way to the West Country; the road was clear and there was only an occasional car coming in the other direction to blind me with headlights. Outside Honiton I pulled off the road, killed the engine and lit a cigarette. I didn’t want to arrive at the farm at an indecently early hour, and besides, I had things to think about.
They say that eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves. It’s a dubious proposition from the logical standpoint, but I certainly hadn’t disproved it empirically. Not that I had intended to eavesdrop – it was one of those accidental things you get yourself into with no graceful exit – so I just stood and listened and heard things said about myself that I would rather not have heard.
It had happened the day before at a party, one of the usual semi-impromptu lash-ups which happen in swinging London. Sheila knew a man who knew the man who was organizing it and wanted to go, so we went. The house was in that part of Golders Green which prefers to be called Hampstead and our host was a with-it whiz kid who worked for a record company and did a bit of motor racing on the side. His conversation was divided about fifty-fifty between Marshal MacLuhan waffle and Brand’s Hatchery, all very wearing on the eardrums. I didn’t know him personally and neither did Sheila – it was that kind of party.
One left one’s coat in the usual bedroom and then drifted into the chatter, desperately trying to make human contact while clutching a glass of warm whisky. Most of the people were complete strangers, although they seemed to know each other, which made it difficult for the lone intruder. I tried to make sense of the elliptical verbal shorthand which passes for conversation on these occasions, and pretty soon got bored. Sheila seemed to be doing all right, though, and I could see this was going to be a long session, so I sighed and got myself another drink.
Halfway through the evening I ran out of cigarettes and remembered that I had a packet in my coat so I went up to the bedroom to get it. Someone had moved the coats from the bed and I found them dumped on the floor behind a large avant-garde screen. I was rooting about trying to find mine when someone else came into the room. A female voice said, ‘That man you’re with is pretty dim, isn’t he?’
I recognized the voice as belonging to Helen Someone-or-other, a blonde who was being squired by a life-and-soul-of-the-party type. I dug into my coat pocket and found the cigarettes, then paused as I heard Sheila say, ‘Yes, he is.’
Helen said, ‘I don’t know why you bother with him.’
‘I don’t know, either,’ said Sheila. She laughed. ‘But he’s a male body, handy to have about. A girl needs someone to take her around.’
‘You could have chosen someone more lively,’ said Helen. ‘This one’s a zombie. What does he do?’
‘Oh, he’s some kind of an accountant. He doesn’t talk about it much. A grey little man in a grey little job – I’ll drop him when I find someone more interesting.’
