TITLE CARD... BELEM BRAZIL - JULY...

EXT. BELEM STREETS - NIGHT

A taxi careens down narrow roadways at breakneck speeds.

INT. TAXI - NIGHT

In the back seat is WHITTLESLEY. Early 40's, the wreck of a once

handsome man. Unshaven. Sweat stained. Rail thin. Scratches on his

arms, a fresh scar on one cheek. As the taxi roars downhill towards

the harbor, Whittlesley leans over the front seat. (Italics indicate

Portuguese to be subtitled)

WHITTLESLEY:

Faster! We won't make it.

DRIVER:

You want to die?

Whittlesley pulls out A KNIFE, puts it to the driver's jugular vein.

WHITTLESLEY:

Do you?

Sweat pouring down his brow, the driver re-doubles his speed.

EXT. BELEM STREETS - NIGHT

The taxi swerves around a corner, nearly crashing into a fruit cart,

flies out of sight.

EXT. HARBOR - BELEM - NIGHT

Light rain obscures the bulky outlines of tethered freighters. We hear

faint laughter leavened with Portuguese phrases, distant Calypso music

from waterfront bars. One of the smaller boats, the SANTA LUCIA, is

loading as the TAXI fishtails to a halt.

Whittlesley gets out, sees the boat still at dock. His face floods

with relief.

WHITTLESLEY:

Thank God.

He tosses a handful of bills into the driver's lap, sprints up the

pier as the driver shouts curses after him in Portuguese. Whittlesley

shoves past the dock hands as the last load goes onto the Santa Lucia.

The boat's engines churn to life.

WHITTLESLEY:

I need to speak to the captain!

Where is he?

The sailors hold Whittlesley back.

WHITTLESLEY:

Get your hands off me! I'm trying

to save your lives, you fools!

Several crew members murmur the word "loco". Hearing the commotion, a

squat man wearing a billed hat and smoking a cigar approaches. CAPTAIN

FRANCO.

FRANCO:

American?

WHITTLESLEY:

Yes. Thank Christ somebody speaks

English. I'm Dr. John Whittlesley.

You have some crates of mine on

board. They were shipped by mistake

to the Natural History Museum. We

have to get them off the boat.

FRANCO:

You have I.D.?

Whittlesley runs a trembling hand through his hair, trying to keep

control and appear reasonable.

WHITTLESLEY:

No. Let me explain. I was on an

expedition for the museum on the

Upper Xingu. Something horrible

happened. I'm the only one who got

out alive. I lost everything, my

I.D., everything. I have to make

sure no one else dies. The crates,

the crates were sent out before we

knew. There's something unspeakable

inside. If your boat leaves harbor

with those crates on board, I can't

be responsible. My God, if they

reach New York...

Whittlesley's fists clench spasmodically. Franco looks to his men.

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