The road, when I reached it, seemed clear and I raced back to the car. Another car started up ahead of me and accelerated rapidly south towards Rio. Apparently the man, or woman, with the Magnum was also going home.
The tracks in the mud where he’d parked were caught by my headlights. I didn’t stop to investigate. He’d parked by the road but I hadn’t seen him when I arrived, so he’d come later. I drove at top speed but didn’t recognise anybody in the few cars I passed on the way back to the city.
I noticed that my hands were steady on the steering wheel. After the bomb in my hotel room I had been shaken but something had changed. Back there when the shooting started instinct had taken over. Like Zandvoort. Both fight and flight but fight had won. I was suddenly in charge. I needed to take control of what was happening. But what was happening?
Possible identities for the mysterious benefactor were dismissed one by one. Pedro had a Luger and Julia the Browning. And in neither case was there any reason to disappear. The Americans we thought didn’t know about the Villa Nhambiquaras. It could have been the Russians, but why would they want to save me? Perhaps I had a friend inside the villa, but my benefactor had disappeared towards Rio? Allenberg seemed the most likely answer. His group had been observing the villa. But why leave concealment to save me? That question couldn’t be answered until I knew who Allenberg was.
Then I remembered the Syrian Khalid Attirmi, and especially his gun, a Mark Ten Smith and Wesson with ammunition that could have produced the same results as a Magnum. How much difference is there between a .375 Magnum and a .38 Smith and Wesson? Enough difference for an expert to tell them apart but certainly not me, especially with my ears ringing from the noise of the submachine gun.
If it had been Attirmi, why had he done it? I stopped at the first phone and called his hotel.
‘Senhor Khalid Attirmi, room 27.’
There was a brief silence. ‘There is nobody of that name staying here, Senhor.’
‘But I saw him this afternoon.’
There was a rustling of a book. ‘Senhor Attirmi left the hotel earlier tonight.’
‘Did he leave a forwarding address?’
‘No Senhor.’
The call proved nothing.
I drove back to the apartment. I could have tried to reach Julia or Pedro but I was exhausted. More importantly I wanted a chance to think. Time and time again I kept coming back to the one overriding question: why was I here? I was completely unqualified for what my mission was supposed to be, beating the Russians and Americans to the Griffin Interrogator; therefore I had been sent for some other reason. Did British Intelligence really send a pawn like me on my own into situations where I could have my room bombed and be shot at by men with submachine guns? If not then I had not been sent on my own. London had sent somebody else to do the proper job; I was just supposed to stumble around and rattle cages.
But who would London have sent? Somebody professional. And that must surely mean somebody from Six, despite all the guff about Brasenose and Six being too close to the Americans. Six had a team here and I was their bait. It had to be Allenberg and crew. But they had been here for weeks, long before the Interrogator was stolen, so what were they here for? And if I was bait for some combined Six/DIS operation the DG must have sanctioned it, and that meant Julia knew all about it.
I collapsed on to the bed without even setting the alarm. When I awoke the day was half over.
I had an appointment at the hairdressing salon.
By anybody’s standards Miranda Gonçalves was a beautiful woman, radiating a refined animal magnetism. Coming out of the hairdressing salon she seemed to command the whole street. Her bearing gave an appearance of height, although she was shorter than Julia who stood beside her. Well proportioned. Voluptuous but not Amazonian. Cascades of jet-black hair. Full lips which, from across the street, appeared as a sweep of deep red on the bronze of her complexion. Large brown eyes shimmered below heavy eyebrows, through artificially long lashes.
More than beautiful: elegant as only rich women of Latin nations are elegant. Casually swathed in pale lemon she could have stepped from a Mediterranean yacht or a Paris fashion show. But of course she hadn’t. Instead she had chosen to live with an enfeebled gunrunner, isolated and surrounded by armed guards.
I’d parked behind her car and could see her more clearly as she approached in cheerful conversation with Julia.
Close up some of her magnetism had disappeared. Lines spread thinly from the corners of her eyes and the lipstick had been applied too thickly. The dress was exquisite and expensive, but her gold earrings were just a little too large and her ruby ring a little too ostentatious. Her statuesque figure was spoiled by an almost masculine walk.
Age had not been kind to her. She might have been thirty but could as easily have been well past forty. But despite all that men’s eyes turned and stared.
‘…another week or two,’ I heard Julia say in passable Spanish.
‘You must put it to good use. There is much to see.’
‘It’s all so beautiful.’
The conversation faded away as they both climbed into the Alfa Romeo.
I followed leisurely, the bright blue car made an easy target. Gonçalves drove directly to one of Rio’s most expensive restaurants. I found one of the big orange shells that contain public phones and called the Consulate using the Jimmy Fitzwarren code. But John Fitzwarren answered.
‘Jimmy’s not here. He’s disappeared.’
‘What!?’
‘His wife Sonia has called twice this morning. He didn’t come home last night. She seems pretty upset.’
‘It’s not the sort of thing he sometimes does?’
‘No. Apparently he’s never been late before without warning her.’
‘And you heard nothing at all?’
‘Nothing. Don’t you know where he is?’
‘He said something about visiting the docks last night.’
‘Well I don’t know what you fellows are up to and we’re not supposed to get involved, but Pedro’s a friend of mine; if I can help let me know.’
‘Thanks, but honestly I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. I’ll keep in touch.’
I walked towards the restaurant. Pedro’s disappearance made it, as the Americans say, a whole new ball game. He’d said he was going to follow up a lead on Allenberg’s group. If that was true and they were responsible for his disappearance my theory that they were Six went out the window. Whoever they were they didn’t look like amateurs.
A waiter led me to a table that, fortunately, was located where Julia could see me but Gonçalves couldn’t. Julia seemed to be listening rather than talking, usually a good tactic. As the meal drew to a close Julia spoke more, almost arguing: chin jutting forward, forehead wrinkled in concentration.
Suddenly Gonçalves glanced anxiously round the room. I bent over my food. When I looked up again she was stuffing something into her voluminous handbag. She left soon after, without the smile she’d had when she entered. Her expression now was hard and cold: businesslike.
I approached Julia’s table once Gonçalves had disappeared.
‘Pedro’s vanished,’ I told her.
‘What!’
‘Nobody’s seen him since we were at the apartment yesterday.’
‘Nobody? You mean he didn’t go home last night?’
‘That’s precisely what I mean. His wife phoned Fitzwarren this morning. Nobody knows what he did from the time he left the apartment.’
‘We must get over there quickly,’ Julia said, ‘and see what we can find. He might be there and for some reason just hasn’t spoken to anyone.’
‘I don’t think so. I slept there.’
We were both imagining the worst. I liked Pedro even though I knew I couldn’t trust him completely.
We were interrupted by the waiter with two bills. ‘Gonçalves was going to treat me,’ Julia said, ‘but she changed her mind.’
‘How did it go with Gonçalves?’ I asked when we reached my car. ‘She didn’t look happy when she left.’
‘She ought to be; she’s richer.’
‘She took the money?’
‘Without hesitation. The lady wants out. It was easy. I sat beside her in the salon and we just started talking, two foreigners together – she’s Bolivian. It couldn’t have happened more naturally. We talked about Rio, Europe, fashions, everything. Obviously it wasn’t the place to tell her who I was. We just nattered like a couple of old women. She’s clearly starved of conversation.’
‘So you suggested lunch.’
‘Not at all. That was her idea. Over the meal she started talking about the villa and the claustrophobia of the place. She described Martines as her uncle and moaned about him growing old.’
‘Could he be her uncle?’
‘No chance. She was his mistress, but now seems to be a nursemaid as much as anything. It seemed an opportune moment to let her know what I was after. She was obviously shocked, for a moment I thought we’d made a real mistake. But she didn’t take long to work things out and ask for more money. In the end I gave her the lot.’
‘And the bugs?’
‘She took all four of them. They’re small. Range about a mile, battery life of two weeks.’
‘That’s ideal, but can we be sure she’ll plant them?’
‘I think so. I said we’d remove her otherwise and she seemed to take that seriously. She asked if I’d been at the villa last night. Apparently two of the guards Gomes had posted there were killed and another injured, along with one of the servants, Pinteiro. Was that you?’
‘Me and my guardian angel. I’ll explain later. When will she place the bugs?’
‘Right away.’
We continued our conversation in the car. ‘What did she say about our friends in the villa?’
‘Not much. She was pretty skimpy on information. Martines seems to be German but he never speaks about his background. Budermann is certainly German. His parents were killed in the war and somehow he ended up here with Martines in his teens. Their relationship used to be one of father and son but now it may be a bit strained. Budermann seems to be gaining control of the household while Martines relapses into senile paranoia. Just last night he woke up screaming that he was being chased by a black man; Budermann had to inject him with something. It’s Budermann that does all the fixing of the arms deals.’
‘She actually mentioned that?’
‘Yes. She assumed I knew all about it. Martines left the business four years ago, but now Budermann is back in it. Gonçalves thinks their money is running out.’
‘So Budermann is actually selling weapons at the moment. That could explain the meetings we know the Syrian, Attirmi, had with him.’
‘It could. I mentioned Attirmi’s name but it didn’t strike any chords. Clearly Martines and Budermann have kept her away from their business affairs. She knows nothing about the Griffin Interrogator. All she could say was that everyone is incredibly tense at the moment. Martines keeps talking about one last deal and she confirmed that Budermann has been out of Brazil recently.’
‘Did she mention Captain Gomes?’
‘Only once. She obviously doesn’t hold him in very high esteem. She called him an ill-mannered peasant. I expect he tried to bed her. His boss Nebulo, on the other hand, she’d probably love to get hold of. He’s got Latin good looks and status. Apparently Martines has been paying him for protection for years, although Martines himself doesn’t like the man.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No. Just that Martines thinks he’s crude. But there was no mistaking her views: Nebulo is a rising star and Martines a falling one.’
‘And to mix metaphors,’ I interrupted, ‘she wants to desert a sinking ship. You don’t think her feeling for Nebulo will stop her planting the bugs?’
‘No. If anything, the reverse. She’s probably tried to welcome him with open legs and been spurned. She’ll see this as getting her own back.’
‘The old combination of love and hate,’ I commented tritely.
‘I wouldn’t say that. She’s too hard to have ever loved anybody. And Martines has probably recognised that because he’s kept her well out of the picture. But she did make a couple of interesting comments. One was that Martines is planning to leave Brazil. Apparently those men watching the villa really scared him. Budermann’s started packing for a voyage.’
‘Where are they going?’
‘She’d no idea. Martines has a big ocean-going boat. She thinks they might just sail around until any commotion dies down. I got the impression she’d not been let in on the departure plans and that worries her. She also mentioned that she had overheard Budermann complaining that his share of their latest deal would be less than the other three.’
‘Three? Who? Martines and Nebulo are two. Mendale?’
‘Could be.’
Could be indeed but I was starting to think about other possible candidates. So I suspected was Julia but neither of us said anything.
Pedro’s apartment was only a few minutes from the restaurant: it was empty. We checked all the rooms, there was no sign that Pedro had been there since I had left two hours before. Julia looked at my rumpled bed with a hint of disapproval; she was probably the sort of person who would always remake her bed before breakfast.
If Pedro’s disappearance was involuntary somebody had him: dead or alive. And if they had him they could soon be on to us, on to the apartment, the car and on to our plans for Miranda Gonçalves. Pedro’s absence could of course be voluntary. But why? If he was working for the other side – which other side? – why disappear now? If he was following a lead surely he could have phoned his wife or Fitzwarren.
‘He’s been gone for less than twenty-four hours,’ Julia said. ‘Perhaps it’s too soon to worry. Tell me about your guardian angel at the villa last night, it obviously wasn’t Pedro.’
‘It could have been Pedro but I doubt it.’
I told her what had happened and about the mysterious man with the big gun. She offered no new solutions.
‘A Magnum’s an odd sort of weapon for this type of business,’ I said. ‘Big, heavy, and so powerful that the bullet could go right through someone, just leaving a neat little hole behind. I wouldn’t have expected a professional to use one. More the sort of weapon for one of those dilettantes in Six.’
Julia looked up sharply. ‘Well I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of one.’
I agreed. The priority now was to try to find Pedro. ‘Let’s try Fitzwarren again,’ suggested Julia.
‘OK but not from here, they’ll trace the call.’
We went out to a phone. ‘Thank God you’ve called,’ Fitzwarren greeted me. ‘London has been showering us with demands for information. And right after you phoned earlier a message arrived for Pedro, by hand. Can you come over?’
‘I’d rather not. There may be someone outside waiting for me.’
‘It’s like that is it? What should we do?’
‘I’ll send someone. She’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Julia dropped me near a feira, a street market. ‘Don’t eat too much,’ she instructed.
‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’
I wandered through stalls of fruit, vegetables, eggs, fish, even live chickens. There are twenty-one varieties of banana in Brazil and they all seemed to be on sale alongside fruits that in those days were never seen in Europe: carambola and nespera, fruta doconde and jenipapo. One stall was piled high with caju, delicious when roasted but poisonous when unripe. There had to be a clever metaphor in that but it escaped me.
I bought some oranges from a smiling old woman wearing a crumpled linen dress.
The feira attracted all sorts of people. Middle-class women, with their maids pulling bulging trolleys, jostled peasants from the favelas buying the beans and rice on which they survived. Everywhere there was noise and colour. The feira was an example of Brazil at its best. Carefree. Harmonious. Prodigal. The antics of goons like Gomes seemed a million miles away.
Julia was away longer than I expected. ‘Had to lose a tail,’ she explained. ‘And I needed to calm Fitzwarren down. He’s had half of the DIS on the phone to him: Joseff, Mendale and Watkins all wanting to know if there was any news. There was another call from Watkins coming through as I left.’
‘You didn’t wait to see what it was?’
‘I stayed long enough to learn it was Watkins and he had nothing to tell us. I decided to leave before Fitzwarren thought of passing him on to me. From what I’ve heard I’d have been there all day once he got going. And I had the message that arrived for Pedro. It was from somebody called Ferreira Maroja. Apparently Pedro saw him last night with some photos which he’s now recognised. He wanted Pedro to visit him.’
‘Where?’
‘The note didn’t say, but John Fitzwarren had found an address book on Pedro’s desk. Maroja’s address was given as Praça Escócia which is a small square near the docks.’
‘You didn’t discover anything else about him?’
‘Nothing. Fitzwarren had asked London without results.’
‘It could be a trap. Why should a night’s sleep enable this man to remember faces he couldn’t place when Pedro spoke to him? But I suppose we’ll have to risk it.’