CHAPTER 2

Captain Jose Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, member of the Brazilian Federal Police assigned to the Rio de Janeiro district and liaison officer between that organization and Interpol, had nothing against his nation’s new capitol Brasilia, other, of course, than if one didn’t have all the time in the world to waste, the only way to get there was to fly, and airplanes headed a long list of things the captain heartily disliked. The list also included coral snakes, fat women in slacks, heavy traffic, bad brandy, and cocktail parties without pretty girls. Other than these and a few additional minor aversions and phobias, Captain Da Silva would have been the first to admit he was the most equable, mild-mannered, agreeable, tolerant, and generally lovable person in the world.

Certainly most women would have agreed. They found his six feet of athletic physique attractive; they thought his being under forty years of age and still single, intriguing; they considered his smile, a white flash of even teeth against his almost Indian-copper skin, to be gay and boyish; they found his swarthy, pock-marked face, with its bushy black mustache and topped by his black curly hair, to be romantic in the manner that swashbuckling brigands were romantic. A violently opposing vote would most certainly have been cast by those members of the Rio underworld who had had the misfortune of facing a scowl on that tough, pock-marked face, or an accusing glare from those piercing black eyes—not to mention those who had felt the captain’s wrath in more physical form, such as his strong right hand.

At the moment, though, Captain Da Silva was neither scowling nor smiling; with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of brandy on the small tray before him, he was trying his best to be as brave as possible about the almost assured disaster that was certain to result when the plane in which he was flying to the capitol attempted to land in a few minutes if the tragedy didn’t occur earlier. True, the turbines were humming along smoothly, the weather was perfect with the sky over the planalto its usual deep clear blue, with scattered puffy white clouds so stationary as to seem painted against an azure backdrop. Nor was there the slightest sign of panic among the stewardesses or passengers. Still, Da Silva was not deceived. In the course of his career he had been forced to fly in airplanes many times, and it was only logical that his luck had to run out some time. He only felt profoundly sorry for those other passengers who had had the misfortune of taking the same flight as himself.

He brushed ash into the ashtray, took another sip of brandy, and looked down, trying to postpone thoughts of the inevitable crash as long as possible. He had to concede that the capitol city over which they were now flying, at a constantly lessening altitude, was indeed spectacular when seen from this lower height, both for its heroic concept and its vast spaces, as well as for the remarkable architecture, which was just now becoming discernible beneath them. Still, in his beloved Rio de Janeiro one could get an equally fine view, or better, just by driving up to Corcovado or Vista Chineza; one didn’t have to risk life and limb just to enjoy a view.

He put the thought aside to return to one that had puzzled him since the command to appear in Brasilia had first crossed his desk the day before: Why was he being asked to present himself to the Minister of Business and Industry with minimum delay? Normally, in the old days when he had been summoned to the Itamarití—the Foreign Office—he had usually known why; it was usually to receive a reprimand. But this time he had no idea at all. He had nothing to do with either Business or Industry, so why the meeting with that particular minister? God alone knew; He, apparently, was saving His strength for the coming crash. Well, Da Silva thought, the chances were it won’t be for a reprimand, and then became aware that a stewardess was at his side, waiting for him to finish his drink. She gestured overhead; the light above his seat advised him to follow instructions as they were about to land. He crushed out his cigarette, finished his drink and handed the glass to the girl with a smile, and was in the process of tightening his seat belt, when he suddenly stopped smiling.

The jet reactor had changed pitch querulously; the horizon suddenly changed location, tilting sickeningly without warning. Da Silva swallowed and gripped the armrest tightly, feeling a sort of perverse satisfaction in the accuracy of his prediction. Strange bumps and grinds came from somewhere in the nether regions of the craft; the angle of the plane was reversed as suddenly as before, tipping the passengers in the opposite direction, and then the plane seemed to miraculously manage to level itself, but too late! They were falling, with the airport runway coming up swiftly to smash at them. Da Silva gripped the armrest tightly and closed his eyes, not wishing to see the actual disintegration; there was a gentle bump and he opened his eyes to find the airplane rolling sedately toward the distant terminal. It paused long enough to snort disdainfully in a backward direction, and then rolled on under better control. Da Silva released his death’s grip on the armrest and took a deep breath. The successful flight meant nothing and he knew it; it merely increased the chances of disaster on the next flight. One couldn’t argue with probabilities and statistics.

The door of the jet was swung open from the outside and the passengers emerged into the brilliant sunshine, shading their eyes, edging their way down the steep aluminum stairway, ladened with hand luggage and magazines, starting to trail antwise across the tarmac toward the shaded building. The stewardess at the plane’s exit smiled at Da Silva brightly.

“Good-bye. I hope you enjoyed the flight.”

“As always,” Da Silva said, for he was a man who did not believe in lying when the truth would serve as well. He nodded a bit formally, for while there was no one on earth who admired stewardesses more—on earth—all thoughts of romance left him when aloft. He had often wondered at the stories of horseplay between pilots and stewardesses in the cockpit during flight; it seemed to him incredible that anyone could concentrate on sex when there were thirty-five thousand feet of empty space between them and the hard ground.

He came down the stairs and paused to look around. An official-looking limousine was drawn up not far from the plane, in an area where private vehicles were seldom if ever permitted. A uniformed chauffeur, standing beside the car, leaned inside a brief moment, as if receiving instructions, and then straightened up. He noted Da Silva, nodded as if in confirmation, and then hurried toward him, touching his cap.

“Captain Da Silva?”

Da Silva was pleasantly surprised at being so quickly recognized. To his knowledge he had never personally met the present Minister of Business and Industry, Dr. Jorge Wanderlay. Well, the captain thought with a touch of his usual modesty, the Minister probably saw my picture in the Rio newspapers, or maybe that time in Manchete. He nodded to the chauffeur.

“Right.”

“If you’ll come with me, sir—”

Da Silva obediently followed the man to the limousine, aware as he did so that the other passengers undoubtedly were wondering what Important Personage had shared their flight without their knowledge. Da Silva unconsciously stood a bit more erect; the chauffeur opened the rear door of the limousine and stepped back smartly, almost at attention. Da Silva bent forward. The Minister of Business and Industry, Dr. Wanderlay, was sitting in the center of the rear seat; the sharp features, tight lips, stern jaw and brush of stiff white hair, cut military style, were all quite familiar from the television screen or the newspapers; he was usually posed before a ribbon, scissors in hand, prepared to inaugurate a new factory or power plant. But it was the man on the jump seat, smiling at him in friendly fashion, who caught Da Silva’s attention and solved the problem of how he had been so quickly recognized. A wide smile of delight crossed the captain’s face; since an abraço in the restricted space was difficult, he contented himself by extending his hand.

“Wilson!”

“Hello, Zé.” Wilson took the outstretched hand and shook it warmly.

The Minister cleared his throat authoritatively. “If you’ll get into the car, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.” Da Silva climbed in; the Minister slid over a bit, making room for him on the rear seat. The chauffeur stepped forward to close the door, but rather than move around to the driver’s seat, he remained standing stiffly at the door, as if on guard. The Minister saw Da Silva’s faint look of surprise and properly interpreted it.

“You’ll be taking the next plane back to Rio with Mr. Wilson, so I thought we could talk here as well as at my office. Better, I suppose.” He glanced at Wilson a moment and then brought his steady gaze back to Da Silva. “So you two know each other?”

“Very well, sir,” Da Silva said, and smiled broadly. “Wilson and I have been involved in a good many cases together over the years.”

“Oh?” If the Minister thought it strange that a man in the relatively innocuous position that Wilson held—Security Officer for the American Consulate in Rio, a job normally concerned with visitors from the States who lost passports, or sailors from American ships who got drunk and ended up in Brazilian jails—should have worked on cases involving Da Silva’s particular branch of the police, he did not comment further on it. Da Silva, well aware of the true status of the nondescript-looking Mr. Wilson, did not press the matter. He just knew that the stocky Wilson, with his bland features, his sandy hair, and his pale eyes, and with his uncanny ability to appear unnoticed in any group, had saved his life several times, and there was no one he preferred to have beside him in a tight position than the quiet American. He didn’t know what had brought him to Brasilia, but he was just happy that the two of them were apparently going to work together again. He became aware that the Minister was speaking to him.

“Well, to get to business, Captain. What do you know about Paraíso?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said Paraíso.” There was a momentary glint of humor in the steady blue eyes, surprisingly not out of place on the stern face. “Not heaven, Captain—the city.”

Da Silva frowned. If he had taken the trouble to list all the potential questions a Minister of Business and Industry might throw at a captain of police, this one would have been at the bottom of the list. Or below.

“Paraíso?” he said slowly, trying to dig into the recesses of his memory to see what he really did know about the place. “It’s a small town in the northeast—in Ceará State, I think—where the government is trying to build an industrial city. Or they were some years back. It got quite a bit of publicity when it was launched several years ago, but I haven’t read much about it lately.”

“Have you ever been there?”

Da Silva shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Good! Do you have any contacts with the police there?”

Da Silva wondered at the word “good” but merely shook his head.

“No, sir. But I’m sure I could arrange any contacts you might want, if—” He stopped short. He was even more sure that a Minister of the Republic could arrange any police contacts he wanted anywhere in the country without his humble aid. Da Silva repeated his opening words and let it go at that. “No, sir.”

“Good!” said the Minister, again to Da Silva’s surprise. “Well, gentlemen, before I get down to our problem, let me tell you something about Paraíso, since you apparently know very little. In the first place, it is in Piauí, not Ceará, although it’s quite close to the state line, as well as being close to Maranhão. Secondly, it is far from having been dropped as a government project; that ‘small town’ as you called it, now has over two hundred thousand inhabitants, and if our plans for the city are fulfilled, we can easily envision Paraíso doubling its population within ten years.”

He turned to Wilson and his voice took on the timbre of an enthusiast. Da Silva, listening, suddenly remembered that the old man had come from that part of the northeast himself.

“Mr. Wilson, let me explain the vital importance of this industrial city—and, Captain, you listen closely, too, because what I am about to say is very important. Paraíso used to be a crossroads village, the center of a struggling cattle-raising area. But Paraíso is located in what we call, in Portuguese, caatinga—scrubland—not good for anything except raising cattle, and not especially good even for that. When the drought comes—as it does every six or eight years—then the cattle die and the people starve. Some of them, those who can, some of the men, go to the big cities—Recife, Salvador, Rio, Sao Paulo—and only swell the unemployment rolls there and add to their own misery as well as that of others. And even when the rains come again, many of the cattle are so weak by that time that they drown. And even in the best of times you could not put more than three head of cattle on a hectare of land in the caatinga—that’s about one head per acre, Mr. Wilson—whereas we can put ten head per hectare on ranches within a two-hour drive from Rio, near the slaughterhouses and near the market. But I’m getting off the track; what I’m trying to say is that in the old days the situation for the people in that area wasn’t very good. But now—”

He paused a moment, as if for effect, and then went on.

“Now, with a city like Paraíso—which is an industrial park on a rather large scale—conditions have improved immeasurably for those who live there. They live decently, with proper hospitals and schools; the factories furnish good housing; they don’t have to worry any more about droughts, or dying cattle, or starving children.”

Da Silva, listening, could understand what the industrial development of an area in the northeast could mean to the Minister of Business and Industry; he could even understand what it could mean to the development of the country in general and to the welfare of the people who lived there in particular. What he could not understand was what it had to do with the police. Still, listening to the old man was interesting. It was questionable in his own mind, though, whether or not working on an assembly line was really more satisfying to the people of that part of the northeast than taking their chances with the bounty of an admittedly stingy Mother Nature, although he was sure the women and children had to prefer their new life. The Minister was continuing, his gaze moving metronome fashion between his two listeners.

“There are other attempts at industrial parks in Brazil of course, imitations of Paraíso; cities like Novo Mundo and Industrianopolis in the south, but our efforts have been concentrated on Paraíso. Twenty years ago, or even fifteen, anyone suggesting an industrial park of this size—or any size, as far as that goes—in the northeast of Brazil, would have been called insane. But things have changed. First, the hydroelectric-power project on the Sao Francisco River made cheap power available for the first time. Secondly, water isn’t a matter of luck, good or bad, that it used to be; we bring water in from the Rio Prêto and the Rio Grande and store it in a man-made lake. We’ve extended the Salvador-Paulistana railway to Paraíso and continued it to the São Luis line, so that rail shipments are possible to ports to the north in Maranhão, to the east to Forteleza, or to the south to Bahia, with connections on to Rio. And we’re building a highway that will eventually connect with the Brasília-Belem road. We’ve built a pipeline from São Luis and a refinery in Paraíso; the city will eventually become the largest petrochemical complex in South America. If—”

He paused, a finger in the air, and turned to Da Silva.

“That ‘if is where you come in, Captain. At present there is a threat to the continued growth of the city, and that threat brings it into your domain. You’ve probably been sitting here wondering what all this has to do with you. Very much, Captain. In the past two weeks four people have been killed—murdered—in Paraíso. The fourth was an American, which is the reason for Mr. Wilson’s involvement and his being present here today.”

Da Silva frowned. People were being killed every day of the week in Rio, Chicago, Paris, London, and just about everywhere else in the world, and he was surprised that a Minister of Business and Industry should worry about it. If anything, it seemed more a problem for the law enforcement agencies of government. Besides, if in a town the size of Paraíso—which was, after all, still a frontier town, despite its modern factories and its advanced technology—only four people had been killed in a period of two weeks, it had to be the cleanest city in Brazil, or anyway, in the northeast. He felt he had to mention that fact.

“Pardon me, sir,” he said, “but with that population, four homicides in two weeks isn’t a very startling statistic. Especially in what amounts to a frontier town. Actually, on that basis our record in Rio is pretty bad. We have about twelve times that population, and between twenty and twenty-five times that homicide rate—”

Minister Wanderlay waved the captain to silence.

“I have no idea how many homicides were committed in Paraíso in the past two weeks, or how many people died in traffic or drowned in the lake, for that matter,” he said a bit sardonically. “Many more than four, I’m sure. As you say, it’s still a frontier town—” He turned to Wilson. “It’s something like your far west a hundred years ago, Mr. Wilson; I understand that Australia also has places like it.” He turned back to Da Silva. “And if these four men had been killed in barroom fights, or in a card game, or even over a woman—or even to be robbed, Captain—I wouldn’t have asked that you be brought up from Rio. But these men didn’t die those ways, nor was any one of them robbed; as a matter of fact, all of them except one had a considerable amount of money on him, and they all had their watches and personal papers untouched. One even had a very expensive camera and light meter, and they were intact. However, these four men did have one thing in common.” He paused significantly. “They all had a very familiar handprinted sign around their necks, which read—”

“Esquadrão de Morte,” Da Silva said. His face was without expression, but his jaw had tightened and his eyes narrowed.

“Exactly.” The Minister was watching Da Silva closely.

“A death squad.” Da Silva shook his head. “I’d thought we had grown up more! I thought we were done with that sort of vicious idiocy. Or at least I had hoped so.”

“We all did. But it seems there’s a resurgence,” the Minister said quietly. “And in Paraíso, of all places; and now of all times!”

Wilson entered the conversation for the first time.

“The information the embassy sent to us at the Rio consulate about Chaney’s death didn’t say anything about any death squad. And I didn’t see anything in the papers to that effect.”

“We try to keep these matters out of our own newspapers as much as possible, and generally we’re successful,” Dr. Wanderlay said, and raised his shoulders a bit helplessly. “However, we can’t keep it out of the foreign press. How they get hold of such items I don’t know, but they do. And there have been repercussions already. We happen to be in the process of negotiating certain investments with large industrial groups through their various government representatives here, and we’ve had inquiries about these killings. And the inquiries indicate the principals are disturbed by them; greatly disturbed.”

“I know the death squads and I don’t like them,” Da Silva said evenly. “They’re a bunch of rogue police who want to make their own justice. Vigilantes. But I still can’t see what something that internal in Brazil should have to do with foreign companies or foreign governments.” He studied the Minister’s face. “Sir, how can four people being killed in a city that small—or that big, if you prefer—really have any influence in determining either a government or even a company policy?”

Minister Wanderlay considered Da Silva evenly. “Tell me, Captain—how much of an economist are you?”

Da Silva smiled faintly, prepared for the usual reprimand but unable to see any basis for it. “Why, not at all, sir.”

“I suspected as much,” the Minister said, and leaned toward the other man a bit, speaking in all seriousness. “Do you have any idea, Captain, what just a few kidnapings did to foreign investments in Argentina? Oh, I know there were some killings, all supposedly political, but just the kidnapings, even when the victims weren’t touched, sent foreign investments nose-diving. Can you imagine what damage was done to the Argentinian economy by just three or four kidnapings?”

“Well, I can imagine, sir—”

“I doubt you can,” Minister Wanderlay said dryly. “Do you know what terrorism did to foreign investments in Uruguay?” His shoulders came up. “Did I say foreign investment? It did almost as much damage to local investment. I doubt there’s a major businessman in those countries who doesn’t feel himself threatened, and he’s a local. Captain, do you know what the drop in tourism to Buenos Aires or Montevideo has been lately, because visitors are afraid of being kidnaped? Foolish? If you don’t believe me, ask the tourist boards of those countries!”

“I—”

“Or the number of people who always used to go to Santiago or Baraloche and now give it a wide berth because they aren’t sure they might not be arrested on some trumped-up charge? Stability is what people want, Captain. Stability! Believe me!”

“I believe you, sir. I—” Da Silva shrugged apologetically. “I guess it didn’t occur to me.”

“Well, Captain, it has occurred to a lot of other people. Foreign governments and foreign investors like stability where they invest, and I, for one, don’t blame them. And the appearance—or, rather, reappearance—of a group that holds itself above the law, and which, in addition, has the power of arms and a certain degree of authority to use those arms, is frightening to them. And to me. The death squads start off by claiming the law is too slow in dealing with criminals; then they move on to being above the law; and finally wind up determining who in their opinion is a criminal in the first place. Or who deserves death—also in their opinion—even if he isn’t a criminal. There’s no reason to believe any of the four men who were killed by the death squad in Paraíso were criminals, for instance.”

Da Silva frowned. “What?”

“That’s right,” Minister Wanderlay said, and tapped a folder on the seat beside him. “What little we have on the men—the four victims—is in this folder. You can take it with you. There’s nothing in what has been uncovered so far to indicate the police wanted any one of the four.” He shook his head. “It’s frightening.”

“I know, sir.”

Minister Wanderlay nodded. “I know you do, Captain. I know you were involved in breaking up the death squad in Rio. That’s exactly why I asked for you on the case. Remember, gentlemen, Brazil is a major country today, and a growing one. We are also a responsible country, and responsible countries do not tolerate vigilante groups. And the plain and economic fact is that unless the Death Squad is wiped out in Paraíso, it is going to damage our program for the industrial expansion for the city. That is a fact. Companies have already indicated an unwillingness to complete negotiations already in progress; they are looking elsewhere for factory sites; if the atmosphere of violence were to continue—violence by a death squad—it is more than possible even present companies would begin to pull their top management people out, just as they did in Argentina and Uruguay. And all the work we’ve put in these past many years would all be wasted.”

Da Silva had been thinking. He looked at the Minister.

“But, sir, with all the power the government has, can’t the police force up there be thoroughly and openly investigated? And cleaned out? From top to bottom, if necessary?”

The Minister shook his head. “No. To begin with, Captain, how do you prove a man is a member of a death squad? You should know better than most. If nobody talks, all he has to do is stop his killing and go on doing the job he is paid to do, and who would be the wiser? Actually, unless he’s caught red-handed in the act, which isn’t very likely to happen, how do you bring a case against him? And you don’t disband an entire police force with the resultant confusion and, I’m sure, the resultant increase in ordinary crime, because a mere three or four—or possibly even only two—members of the force are mentally sick people.”

He held up a hand abruptly as if Da Silva had been about to interrupt, which the captain had not been about to do at all. Captains did not interrupt Ministers of the Republic if they wanted to continue to be effective.

“Actually, Captain,” Minister Wanderlay went on, “to carry your idea to its logical conclusion—and I’m sorry to state this has been suggested by some quite responsible people, or otherwise responsible, perhaps I should say—we would send the army in, or its equivalent in security forces, and have ourselves a wholesale cleaning. Which could and possibly would result in quite a minor civil war.” His white eyebrows rose slightly. “Do you honestly believe, Captain, that that sort of action would reassure the companies and the governments we are discussing?”

“I wasn’t suggesting—”

“Well, I don’t,” the Minister continued, quite as if Da Silva had not spoken. “What has been decided, in place of that foolish idea, is to give the job to one man. You.” A brief humorless smile quirked the thin lips. “I’m told you have your own methods of solving problems. That you don’t always go by the book. Well, you’ll be dealing with people who also don’t follow rules. Use your own judgment. Do you have any questions?”

“Yes, sir. What’s been done so far?”

Wanderlay shrugged. “We’ve informed the commercial divisions of the various embassies of the countries involved that we are quite cognizant of their fears, that we are doing everything in our power to clear up the situation as expeditiously as possible.” The brief smile lit his face once again and then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “Whatever else we lack in government, our ability to use official language remains intact.”

Da Silva shook his head. “I didn’t mean that, sir. I mean, what’s been done in the town itself? Granted, the army wasn’t sent up there, or any major security forces, and I agree it was better that way, but surely someone spoke with the authorities up there? The police chief, at least; they were murders, no matter who committed them, and they fall into his domain. What reaction was gotten?”

There was a long pause. Minister Wanderlay seemed to be considering his answer carefully. At last he sighed.

“The big power in Paraíso is a judge, a federally appointed judge. His name is Magalhães, Genêro Magalhães. He’s a man of considerable influence up there, and the largest individual landowner in the state. He’s a strong supporter of the government, and up there he’s boss. He appoints the police chief, among other appointments. He’s also—” The Minister hesitated and then went on. “—he’s also an old friend of mine. I spoke with him personally. He swore to me that none of the men in the local police department were involved. He said he’d done a thorough investigation after the first killing, and said he really dug into it after the second and the third. He said he was convinced someone was merely using the police as scapegoats for their own purposes.”

“And do you believe him, sir?”

“If I believed him,” Minister Wanderlay said, and there was a bit of sadness in his voice, “I wouldn’t have asked you to take over the investigation.” He handed over the folder. “Good luck, Captain.…”