A pair of arms rose slowly from the front seat of the Mercedes, followed by a head and shoulders. I froze still twenty yards away. The man looked around but not in my direction and then slumped back out of view.
Turning away from the road I moved through the trees towards the villa. The undergrowth was thick, every step sounded like a rhinoceros.
If the other man hadn’t moved, sending twigs cascading to the ground, I would have missed him. It hadn’t occurred to me to look upwards but it should have done. Why, after all, would anybody sit in a car from which they could see nothing? Obviously he was waiting for somebody and that somebody was sitting thirty feet up a tree between me and the villa.
The man was sitting with his back against the trunk, his legs wrapped around a branch, staring in the opposite direction, towards the villa, through powerful binoculars. From his waist hung a two-way radio. He’d evidently used the tree before as there were a couple of spikes driven into the trunk to help ascent.
There were three options.
I could try working my way round the villa. The trouble with that was that however far away I tried to keep from the man in the tree, it would only need one branch cracking under my weight to alert him. Also the further I was from him, the further into the forest I would have to be, and I wasn’t really equipped for hacking my way through a semi-tropical forest.
The second option was to stay where I was and concentrate on watching the two men rather than the villa. After all, I thought I knew what the occupants of the villa were doing, but I had no idea why these men were here. I decided against that not only because it smacked of doing nothing, but because I wanted to find Griffin and Griffin, I was fairly certain, was inside the villa.
I chose a third alternative and retreated the way I’d come. The road twisted to the right and as soon as the Mercedes was out of sight I crossed the road. Then I doubled back, through the trees to a point where I could see the villa through the gate, and, by moving a few yards, could also see the car. There was no reason why I shouldn’t steal someone else’s idea; I moved back until I found a tree that looked reasonably easy to climb. My effort at getting up wouldn’t have injured the pride of a disabled monkey, but finally, after ripping open the seat of my trousers, I was in a position to see over the villa wall and watch the Mercedes at the same time.
The view wasn’t first class. Large sections of the villa were obscured by trees. That had the virtue that I was also well hidden.
One feature was clearly visible. Beside the villa stood a metal tower bearing a giant aerial. The villa evidently housed a short-wave radio powerful enough to reach anywhere in the world.
For nearly an hour nothing moved. Then a man appeared from the villa and lumbered to the gate. As he did so, the driver of the Mercedes hurtled out of his car, whipped open the bonnet and stood staring at the engine. Obviously his companion in the tree had radioed a warning. Very professional.
Moments later a blue Alfa Romeo convertible came down the drive and roared off towards Rio.
From a distance the appearance of the woman driving it was striking. Jet-black hair cascading in gentle waves. An arrogant tilt to the head. A nonchalance in the parting wave to the gatekeeper. A controlled finesse in the surge of acceleration. Not young. Perhaps not happy. But beautiful.
Half an hour later a Volkswagen cruised past and stopped beside the Mercedes. Two men got out and I quickly descended from the tree. Drawing nearer I saw that they were the two men who had been following Barcisa when I arrived at the hotel. After a short conversation with the driver of the Mercedes they disappeared into the forest. Five minutes later one of them emerged with the original man in the tree, who climbed into the Mercedes. Then the two original watchers drove off. I had witnessed the changing of the guard.
I edged towards the gate of the villa for one last look.
The villa itself was fairly large, with nothing special about it other than its seclusion. I guessed at least six bedrooms. I would have to come out later and get right round to the back to get a good idea of the layout.
On the wall of the lodge beside the gate, there was a small plaque but it was too far away to read. I crept forward and could just distinguish the inscription, ‘Villa Nhambiquaras’. Pedro should be able to uncover some background on Barcisa from that even if he had been unable to find anything from the Ford’s number plate.
A few drops of rain fell as I turned away. Soon rainfall was spattering on to and through the trees, covering any noise I might make. I passed the Volkswagen unobserved and was thoroughly bedraggled by the time I reached my car.
To avoid passing the villa again, I drove back through Barra do Pirai.
By the time I reached Copacabana, I was dry but not for long. I parked the car a few hundred metres from the hotel and ran down the avenue with no raincoat and the seat of my trousers hanging in the air. The few pedestrians looked startled at my appearance but Cimate took it in his stride.
‘The Senhor has been in the rain?’
‘Yes, piranha fishing.’
He was momentarily silent before turning to the rack behind him.
‘There is a message for you, Senhor.’
On reaching my room I realised I’d forgotten the key. I was in no mood to go down again. There was the sound of somebody moving in room 39 beside the stairs. I banged aggressively on the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘KGB. Come out with your hands above your head.’
The door was flung open.
‘Thomas!’ And then as Gary saw the condition I was in, ‘What the hell have you been doing?’
Gary Stover hadn’t changed: the hair was as short as ever and his face wearing the same, almost boyish, grin. Behind him, another man was perched on the edge of a chair.
‘I’d like to introduce you to my chief, Pat Conniston.’
We shook hands and I turned to Gary. ‘Could you phone that cretin at the desk and get him to bring my key up?’
‘Sure. What are you doing here?’
‘Presumably the same as you.’
We exchanged banalities, oddly inhibited by Conniston’s presence, until Oliver Twist arrived with my key.
‘See you later,’ we both promised.
Back in my room the first priority was removing my wet clothes. The message had waited this long, it could wait five minutes more. After a quick shower I ripped open the envelope.
Like the first message, this one was brief and unsigned. ‘We will require payment to be half in gold and half in West German marks, US or Canadian dollars or Swiss francs. All notes must be used and not numbered sequentially. Hand your bid to the hotel clerk who will post it for you. You are allowed one bid only and can expect a reply by Friday noon.’
Again I was left staring at a piece of paper from the auctioneers and thinking how amateur everything seemed. They wanted physical cash and gold rather than a simple transfer into a Swiss numbered account. What sort of people were we dealing with?
If the replies had to be handed in at once it was a safe bet that the winner would not have to wait until Friday to be contacted. That was purely a blind to keep the other two parties inactive. In any event there wasn’t much time.
I drove to the Consulate.
Pedro seemed to have lost some of his bounce. ‘Last time I was here I could have got you a vehicle’s owner anywhere in the country in fifteen minutes. Now it’s just not on. I could get the name if I spent a bit but not from somebody I know. We would probably soon find the car’s owner being phoned to see if he would like to pay to find out who had been checking up on him. And there’s nobody on that road called Barcisa or anything like that. I sent the name off to London but I doubt if they’ll come up with anything. Pretty much of a blank. I have got a list of every landowner in the area if that’s any use to you.’
‘It could well be. Barcisa went into a place called Villa Nhambiquaras.’
‘That should do it.’ Pedro ran his finger down a list in front of him. ‘Here we are. Villa Nhambiquaras owned by Senhor Adolpho da Costa Martines. Now that name rings a bell. I think I’ve met him, last time I was over here, but I can’t think where. What does Barcisa look like?’
‘Blond, not particularly young, middle or late forties perhaps. Tall, about six feet, and heavy. Wide face, pronounced chin and fairly big nose. No beard or moustache. Didn’t notice his eyes. Strange walk, a sort of arrogant swing. I shouldn’t think that he was born here because his accent isn’t quite right, probably northern European, but he’s learned the language well. He doesn’t look like a real professional, more thug than James Bond.’
Pedro said nothing and I realised he would have a much better idea of what a real professional looked like than I did.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s just a messenger boy,’ I concluded lamely, ‘perhaps for this Martines. If you want to get a look at him, he’s got a room at the Florianopolis, number 28.’
‘I can’t place him. The thing to do now is to make a few phone calls, but not from here. I’ve got a room in an apartment block, ten minutes away. You can fill me in on what you’ve been up to on the way over.’
Pedro was especially interested in the four men watching the villa.
‘They must be some police group. If Martines is the big man and he’s got police protection, there’s nothing more natural than that the cops will want to watch every step he makes. Nobody trusts anybody here. There’s no honour amongst thieves.’
His room turned out to be a small apartment with a lounge, a very small kitchen, one bedroom and a bathroom.
‘I have to have a place like this,’ Pedro explained. ‘We’d get nowhere if the locals could hear every call I make. I have to find a new apartment every couple of months to ensure that I’m not being tumbled. I’ve never been tailed to one but I only have to make one call to somebody who’s being bugged and I can be blown.’
‘How long are you likely to be here?’ I asked.
‘No idea. Are you in a hurry?’
‘No, but I could do with a drink and a sandwich. Have you got anything?’
‘Only coffee. There’s a store down the street. I could use a beer myself. I’ll start phoning round.’ He handed me the key. ‘You might as well have this in case you want to use this apartment. I’ve got a spare at the office.’
The rain had stopped but it was hot and sticky. The blocks of apartments contrasted sharply with the favelas on the hillside behind. Nowhere is the disparity between rich and poor as blatant as in the cities of Brazil. The people in the favelas, suburbs of cardboard ‘houses’ and wooden shacks, live in unbelievable poverty while within a hefty stone’s throw the modern monuments of civilisation glisten around them.
Pedro was smiling when I returned. ‘I’ve placed the owner of that villa, Adolpho Martines. You remember four or five years ago the Sudanese government found that the African guerrillas in southern Sudan were using American weapons?’
I had to admit that I didn’t remember.
‘Well anyway,’ he continued, ‘they did. There was a hell of a stink about the CIA playing around again but they swore blind that this time they weren’t involved. In the end someone traced the actual weapons to a consignment sold to the Brazilian government and officially the trail stopped there. But the rumours at that time were that our friend Martines bought the guns from the military in Rio Grande do Sul and sold them at a huge profit to the rebels. And he’s thought to be doing the same thing in a couple of other places.’
‘So he’s well in with the military. Did the Sudanese thing just blow over?’
‘Seems so. I’ve remembered where I saw him now. It was at one of those receptions at some Embassy or other. We’ll have the photos back at the Consulate. All I can remember is that he spent a lot of time talking to the locals and not much with the rest of us. He’s certainly not the same person as Barcisa though. Martines must be into his seventies. I should be able to find out a fair bit about him, and, with a bit of luck, I might come up with his protector. Why don’t you pour us both a beer while I get on with it?’
Time dragged. Pedro spent half his time cursing the inefficiencies of the phone system and the rest shouting Portuguese into the instrument at a fantastic rate. But he clearly wasn’t getting anywhere. His informants were either ignorant of Senhor Martines, knew no more than we did or else were not very keen to tell Pedro what they knew. The afternoon ticked past. It was nearly four before Pedro’s face lit up.
He had been swearing viciously at the phone as he dialled the same number for the third time but this contact obviously responded at once to the name Martines. Pedro fired rapid, staccato questions down the line. Then he hung up and turned to me.
‘At last we might be getting somewhere. I need to find an ex-bodyguard called Persio, apparently he can tell us something about the Martines household.’
‘Nobody’s heard of Barcisa?’
‘No, not a thing. Barcisa is obviously minor league or else that’s not his real name or both. Fetch me another beer, will you. I think we’re nearly home.’
He sipped at the beer and made call after call but the one-time bodyguard was being evasive. Pedro finally tracked him down to a bar in Ipanema.
‘He won’t tell me anything without seeing my money,’ Pedro informed me. ‘I’m meeting him at 6.30 at “Lord Jim’s” pub in Ipanema, you know it?’
‘British phone box outside and doorman dressed as a London bobby.’
‘That’s right. Persio thought it was appropriate. Let’s get back to the Consulate.’
Pedro frowned as the car spluttered into life. ‘Persio used to work for Cristiano Nebulo who is truly poisonous. If Martines’ security is Nebulo that’s bad news. Do you know anything about him?’
‘No.’
‘Well you ought to. Cristiano Nebulo is one of the most powerful civilians in the regime today. The fact that he’s managed to keep influence while practically all the other civilians in the original coup have been pushed out, tells you what sort of a man he is. He was an aide to Lacerda in 1964 when the military took over. He helped organise the arrest of trade unionists by the Guanabara political police while the military mobilised their forces. And then when Lacerda fell out with the regime and took over the Frente Ampla, Nebulo stayed with Costa e Silva and he’s picked the right side in every palace revolution since. He’s very clever, totally ruthless and of course as bent as Al Capone.’
He was silent for a minute, concentrating on his driving, and then started again.
‘Nebulo’s a fixer. There are still parts of the upper classes who are too big for the military to shove around. Nebulo acts as intermediary. The big latifundists in the interior, the coffee people and so on come to Nebulo when they want some big concession from the government. And the generals use him the other way round when they want something. More importantly, he’s a fixer for the multinational corporations. He gets them subsidies, permits, cheap labour, you know the sort of thing. It happens all over the third world. He’s also close to Mark Volmar who’s been the CIA’s Chief of Station here for years.’
An idea of the auctioneers was forming in my mind.
I had imagined that Barcisa was the main force that we had to contend with. Now the picture had changed. Martines had appeared on the scene. An international arms smuggler. That was a tough and at the same time sophisticated world. To succeed Martines would have needed intelligence, ruthlessness, subtlety, decisiveness. Hearing about the Griffin Interrogator in the first place required the sort of contacts Martines would be bound to possess. The operation in Chicago must have been mounted quickly and I could almost feel his brain behind it.
But if Martines was the brains behind the operation, what about Nebulo? Cristiano Nebulo was no small fish being paid a few dollars a year for protection. Nebulo was a big star in the Brazilian firmament. What was the relationship between the two men? An old man, wise in the ways of the world, and the rising, grasping politician with his hands on the jugular vein of the largest country in Latin America. I could imagine Nebulo settling for nothing less than a full partnership. And yet Martines would not be the sort of man to take easily to sharing command. Providing that he was still fit and well. Pedro had said he was now in his seventies.
Then there was Barcisa. Where did he fit into the scheme of things? And how could the picture of a worldly-wise wheeler dealer and an equally experienced political grafter chime with the way the auction was being organised: gathering everyone together in the same hotel, giving me the Russian and American names, the last-minute demand for cash and gold? It was difficult to imagine Martines or Nebulo operating like that. Was Barcisa now pulling the strings or was there another player in the game?
The sun was burning down as we drove along the Praia do Flamengo past the statue of a Scout presented by the Republic of Chile.
‘Two telexes for you, Mr Vernon,’ Pedro was greeted at the Consulate. ‘One from the West Indies.’
As Pedro read the first his expression darkened. ‘Bloody cricket,’ he said before putting that message down and quickly reading the other which he passed on to me:
‘No information on party B. Will remain here until mission concluded. Inform me of all steps taken. Watkins.’
‘What does he mean, “Will remain here”?’ asked Pedro.
‘He was going on leave. The DG must be on at him to get things sorted out. Let’s see what we can find in your photo archives.’
‘OK, they’re next door.’
He led the way into a room lined with filing cabinets and went straight to one by the window.
‘Now the Embassy reception pictures should be in here somewhere, unless I’ve got my dates completely mixed up.’
It took him five minutes to find the set of photos he was looking for. ‘Here they are. It wasn’t an Embassy do. It was a reception for some visiting Arabs on an oil delegation; can’t remember exactly why I was invited, probably standing in for one of the commercial boys. Now here’s Martines.’ He pointed to an elderly man talking intently to a soldier in full dress uniform. ‘And here’s a better one.’ I would have put Martines in his late sixties, and he would be older now, but he looked fit and tanned and held himself upright with military stiffness.
Pedro then produced a photo of Cristiano das Graças Nebulo. A long thin face with a crisp moustache and heavy eyebrows. He appeared to have no neck but apart from that was indistinguishable from a thousand others. It was difficult to judge his height precisely from one photo but Pedro soon found a host of pictures depicting him, usually in the background behind one of the leading figures in the regime or else in earnest conversation. He was around five foot six. Invariably he wore the synthetic smile of the politician. In one shot he stood behind Admiral Rademaker, then Vice-President, Nebulo’s expression conveying instantly that here was a man in the know, somebody to be fawned upon in the hope of future rewards.
There was another photo in which he was talking to the archetypal businessman, and I could almost hear him saying, ‘Ah, but it’s not that easy, my friend. Now if I was on the board of your Brazilian subsidiary, I could perhaps be in a position to advise the Minister that…’
Back in his office Pedro produced a large-scale map. ‘You ought to have this.’
‘Thanks. There are a couple of other things I need which might be more difficult. I want to tap the phone at the villa. The line must go somewhere through here.’ I pointed to the area behind the villa on the map.
I asked him for what was then the latest in 1970s technology: something I could attach to the lines at the top of a telegraph pole, a long lead from that down to the ground and then a tape recorder and headset.
‘And before you smile,’ I added, ‘the tape recorder will have to be audio-controlled so that I can leave it there and it will switch itself on if there’s a noise on the line. It would also be nice if you could get a couple of radio packs and best of all if we could install a radio tap.’
‘You wouldn’t like me to bug the villa as well while I’m at it? That’s quite an order. I’ll ask Six for help. The wiretapping stuff they’ll have here at the Consulate and the headphones. And I can get the sort of tape recorder you need. I should be able to pick up a couple of radios without any trouble but as to linking them with the wiretap, I don’t know. If we could get into the villa then we could bug their phone.’
‘Quite, but that’s just wishful thinking. At the moment we just need to get some idea of who’s in the villa. It’s a shame that wherever I attach the tap I won’t be able to simultaneously listen in to it and keep the villa under observation.’
Pedro agreed to bring the tap out to the villa after he had seen Persio. ‘I’ll try to be there by eight-thirty, but remember I have a report to write for London. There’s one thing you could do and that’s take a camera. I’ve got a good one here and there are developing facilities downstairs. If it’s not too dark, you could at least get a few shots of the men watching the villa which I could show some of my contacts tomorrow. I’ll find some binoculars for you as well.’
‘Right. Let’s get on with it. Why don’t you just send off a request for information on Martines and not bother telling them what we’re doing tomorrow until we’ve done it. After all, Watkins did say “inform me of all steps taken”. He didn’t mention anything about steps about to be taken.’
Pedro grinned. ‘That’s not a bad idea. I’ll just find the wiretapping equipment and the camera.’
He soon returned with a small holdall. ‘Right. It’s in here. The camera’s not loaded but there are three rolls of film. I’ll drive past the villa and try to spot your car and wait for you there.’
I left him to write his report. Pedro Vernon, I reflected, was a resourceful and well-informed man. He was also at least twenty years older than me and vastly more experienced. I had expected him to take charge of the operation while I remained the visible ‘front man’ at the Hotel Florianopolis. There was something unnatural about Pedro quietly assuming the role of my assistant.