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the engine noise changed, and they went into a long, steep dive.
    “Oh, crap!” Peggy screamed, gripping her seat even tighter.
    “No quieres intentar lo hacer aterrizar, mi amigo?”
Diaz asked Eddie, turning in his seat.
    “Con mucho gusto!”
Eddie replied.
    “What are they saying?” Peggy asked. “What are they saying? Are we going to crash?”
    “Charlie just asked Eddie if he wanted to land the plane, and Eddie said sure,” translated Holliday.
    “Shit,” Peggy said.
    Eddie pulled back on the wheel of the Norseman and took a long, shallow run just above the water, looking for deadheads and other obstacles. Ahead of them and to the right was a series of rickety docks jutting out onto the smooth dark river, the jetties crammed with boats of all shapes and sizes. Whatever town existed here seemed to be higher up the steep bank of the river—roughly made plank buildings with thatched roofs.
    “São João Joaquin, gentlemen,” said Diaz, pointing.
    Eddie finally eased back on the throttle and simultaneously pulled back on the wheel, guiding them down onto the water, the long aluminum cutting neat wakes on either side of the fuselage. It was a perfect landing.
    “Muy bien.”
Diaz smiled.
    “Gracias,”
replied Eddie.
    Diaz took over the controls and guided them toward one of the longest piers that jutted out into the river. Across from Holliday, Peggy’s color was noticeably returning and her fingers had released their death clutch on the sides of her jump seat.
    “There’re boys who will transfer the gear onto the boat, but we must go up the bank to speak with Nanderu.”
    “Who’s Nanderu?” Peggy asked.
    “The man who’s going to guide us upriver,” said Holliday.
    They clambered out of the plane and headed up the rickety pier. A swarm of young men dressed in kiltlike skirts crowded around the Norseman like baby birds around their mother. The leader was about twelve years old with skin the color of buckwheat honey. He was the only one of the crew giving orders and the only one wearing a Chicago Bulls T-shirt.
    Diaz led the way up a steep flight of roughly made plank steps to the top of the riverbank. There were half a dozen plank buildings along the bank, some of them cantilevered over the slope. There seemed to be a small boatyard where at least a score of men in their kiltlike clothes were building narrow plank-on-frame boats, the planks joined with handmade rope and the seams sealed with a thick white tarry sap applied with strips of bark dipped into turtle-shell containers. The sap dried to a hard brown color that looked exactly like a heavy layer of varnish.
    Diaz entered an open-sided thatch-roof establishment with half a dozen or so men drinking at tables and a makeshift bar. The beer of choice appeared to be a brand called Brahma.
    Two men were sitting at a large round table on the far left. One was in his sixties, his long jet-black hair threaded with strands of white, his skin the color of a seamed and ancient oak. The man beside him was in his thirties with the same long black hair.
    His skin was a richly creamed coffee. Both men were high cheekboned and strong faced, their brown eyes large and intelligent. Neither man was drinking, but the younger man had a rifle in front of him on the table. It looked to Holliday like a Short Magazine Lee-Enfield Mk. 1, in use from the mid-1920s on and a staple of the British Army.
    “This is Nenderu,” said Diaz, nodding toward the older man, “and this is his grandson, Tanaki. Tanaki’s English is quite good, so he will be your translator. He is also a fine hunter and tracker.”
    “Tell your grandfather we are grateful for his help,” said Holliday.
    The younger man turned to Nenderu and spoke briefly to him in Hupda.
    The older man nodded formally at Holliday. “My grandfather says he is glad to help,” said Tanaki. The grandfather spoke again and once again Tanaki translated. “My grandfather says that we should get on the boat as quickly