CHAPTER 14

The vast sprawling city of São Paulo fell away below, its tiny lights scattered to the horizon and shimmering like stars under the vibration of the propeller-driven plane until a formless cloud bank slid between the earth and the plane, blotting out even the tenuous thread of reality represented by the outlined streets and parks of the metropolis. One nice thing about getting to the end of the case, Da Silva thought, will be a cessation, at least temporarily, of air flight; he seemed to have spent the greater part of the past week flying from one place to another. And this one an ancient prop job, probably just waiting for him to take it before falling down, bereft of a decent load of passengers and equally bereft of a bar. Did the Companhia Viacão Aérea de São Paulo—Vasp—expect people to risk their lives without liquid courage? Apparently they did.

He loosened his seat belt with a sigh of resignation, brought out his cigarettes, and glanced over at Isabela. The girl sat rigid, her lovely face expressionless, staring down the aisle; for she had insisted upon Da Silva taking the window seat as being safer from any assassins who might have boarded the same plane, and Da Silva had humored her rather than argue. This one was going to be formidable in the argumentation department, he thought with an inward smile, but she was also worth it. He offered her a cigarette but she refused. He lit his own and looked at the girl quizzically.

“What’s the matter?”

“You know. I wish we weren’t going to Paraíso.”

“Now, look,” Da Silva said patiently, “we’ve been all over that. This affair has to be cleared up sometime, and it might as well be now. If someone wants to kill me, they’re going to kill me eventually, unless I stop them first. My best chance is to find out who they are and take care of them before they take care of me. And that means going up to Paraíso and meeting them. Besides,” he added, “you don’t want those letters hanging over your head forever, do you?”

“The letters don’t matter.” She looked at him, her gaze a combination of tenderness and anger at him for threatening something important in her life. There also seemed to be a quality of memorization in her concentration, as if she felt she might not have the original to refer to in the future. Then she turned away, as if she were revealing too much in her eyes. “I don’t want you killed.”

“At least we agree on that.”

“Don’t joke,” she said sharply, turning back. “How do you think you can stop them?”

“I have ideas. Where is this Airport Hotel they said they’d meet us at?”

“It’s very close. Actually,” she said, “it’s a part of the terminal building itself, but there’s no entrance from one to the other on the inside. You have to leave the terminal by the front and walk to the hotel along the road. There’s a walkway there.”

“Good,” Da Silva said, and reviewed the plan that had occupied him for the better part of the day; actually, the plan was simple enough, it was simply in repeating it to himself endlessly, in lieu of anything else to think about, that had taken the full day. He had wondered at first why the lake had not been selected again, and then shrugged this off. It really made no difference. Chaney had been left in the driveway to this judge’s home; Valadares at the lake. Apparently the killers had no fetish as far as location was concerned. He found himself thinking aloud.

“They certainly wouldn’t try anything inside the terminal itself, or between the terminal and the hotel. Or in the hotel itself, neither in the lobby, or anywhere else in the hotel. It would be foolish with people around, and these people aren’t foolish, whatever else they are. No; what they’ll do is continue the pretense of an insurance deal. They’ll meet us in the lobby of the hotel with the story that they can only close the deal at their office, and then they’ll take me in their car—”

“They’ll take us.”

Da Silva shook his head decisively. “Not us. Me. Alone. Once you walk into that hotel lobby and they show up, you turn me over and after that you’re out of the deal. You can wait for me there in the lobby—it shouldn’t take long—or you can arrange a room for us and wait for me there.”

“No! I’ll—”

“Keep quiet! You’ll do what I say, or you’ll get us both killed.” She looked at him in surprise; in the twenty-four hours they had spent together he had never exhibited this sharpness, although Isabela had often felt him capable of it. He went on more quietly, but just as decisively. “I expect there will be shooting, and the less people in the neighborhood the fewer people might get hit.” He dropped the subject of her participation so abruptly she knew he would not be swayed. “You did say you heard them give Valadares a minute in which to say his prayers?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, her face grim at the memory. “They gave it to him, too. This man stood there, looking at his watch, while the other man held the gun on him. Then the man with the watch said ‘Your time is up’ and shot him. Valadares was still pleading with them when he was killed.”

“One minute, eh?” Da Silva’s voice was musing. He added, mostly to himself, “They take chances, these boys.”

“They’ll search you first.…”

“I’m quite sure.” That thought had, naturally, occurred to him. They would, of course, quickly find the gun in the shoulder holster, and probably the one clipped to the belt holster at the small of his back. Both guns were loaded, in case they were examined, but they were still decoys. What they would not think to look for on a Stealer from the Docks—especially after finding both a weapon and an auxiliary—would be the tight-fitting ankle holster with its small but deadly gun there; nor would they have the slightest reason to suspect the knife in its sheath in his jacket sleeve, available with the raising of his arm, and with which he was lethal at a distance up to thirty feet.

So they always gave a minute’s grace after taking away any artillery, eh? That ought to be ample time, although the tricky part would be not to kill them, or at least not to kill them both. They were undoubtedly small fry, hired guns; the important thing was to get the man at the top, the man behind the whole business—most likely Isabela’s man on the telephone—and for that at least one of the thugs had to be alive. As well as he, himself, he remembered; it wouldn’t do to get himself killed just when he had met Isabela. He relaxed and smiled at the girl gently.

“Don’t worry. Try to get some rest.”

“Rest?” She looked at him in surprise. “How can you think of rest at a time like this?”

“Easily,” he said, and tilted his seat back. He took her hand and squeezed it. “There’s no sense in making a deal when you’re overtired; these insurance company small-town managers will take advantage of you every time.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissed it, and then let the clasped hands drop to the armrest. “Wake me before we get in,” he said, and closed his eyes. Odd, he thought just before he drifted off to sleep, maybe the thought of danger helps me relax on airplanes. Or maybe romance …

The plane landed with a spine-jarring thump while Da Silva was still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He released his seat belt while the plane wheeled toward the terminal, its engines laboring. Da Silva bit back a yawn and winked at the pale, tense face beside him.

“Easy does it.…”

She did not reply but came to her feet as soon as the engines coughed themselves to silence. There was the grating sound of the plane’s door being opened from the outside. Isabela went down the aisle, with Da Silva close behind; they waited until the few other passengers had disembarked and then stepped into the cool of the night. The stars seemed close enough to gather; a few fleecy clouds raced before the moon. There was a headiness in the clear air. Da Silva paused at the top of the slanting aluminum stairway, enjoying the exceptional clarity of the night. And, he thought, when Paraíso fulfills its ambition to be the booming industrial metropolis of the northeast—to which my efforts in this case are dedicated—think of all the lovely smog that will lie over this beautiful plain; no longer will Paraíso have to envy São Paulo its yellowing air and the stinging eyes of its citizens. He became aware that the stewardess was gently nudging him; he turned to find the plane’s crew behind her, staring at him curiously. He smiled apologetically and went down the steps to join Isabela.

They walked through the deserted terminal lobby, their footsteps echoing in the dimly lit hall. A girl behind the rent-a-car desk, the only cubicle illuminated, looked at them and, when it was apparent they did not represent custom, she flicked off the lamp on the counter, preparatory to closing up. They walked out of the front of the building and Isabela took his arm, leading him toward the right. The lights of the hotel sign had been extinguished but in the clear night it could still be read above the three-story building abutting the terminal. The rear lights of a final taxi flared as it braked at the main road, leaving them the only ones on the walk. Soon, Da Silva thought, feeling the familiar tension begin to build in him. Soon …

It was sooner than he had anticipated. They had not gone more than ten yards in the direction of the dim marquee of the hotel, skirting the bushes that lined the walk between the terminal and the hotel, when he felt a sharp prod in his back and knew very well what it was. So they would politely meet him in the lobby of the hotel, would they? Not that it made any difference to his plan; it was simply that if he had misjudged them in this one instance, might he not have misjudged them in other, more important, ways as well? Let us hope not, he thought sincerely, and heard Isabela gasp. He spoke quickly before she could say anything revealing. His voice was harsh.

“What is this?” He suddenly seemed to get the idea and turned to glare at the girl. “So that was it, huh? All that garbage about an insurance deal! Why, you miserable filha de mae! A frame, huh?”

“A frame,” a quiet voice behind him said with complete agreement. The gun pushed into his ribs painfully. “At the curb. The car. Lean on it.”

Da Silva looked over his shoulder. The man’s face was in shadow, and beyond him there was nobody. The terminal building loomed, black and deserted; only a small green light from the tower gleamed in the darkness, as far away and as useless as one of the distant stars. Da Silva put a touch of fear into his voice.

“What do you want? Who set this up? Was it the Chileno?” Every dock, he thought, must have a Chileno, as well as an Argentinian and countless other nationals.

“Up against the car—”

The cab that had left with their arrival, he now saw, had merely swung around at the main road and was now sitting at the curb a few feet away. He looked at it a moment and then back to the man behind him, looking over his shoulder.

“Who set this up?” Da Silva’s voice suddenly filled with anger. “I know it’s the Chileno! That bastard has had his eye on Santos for too long! What did he pay you? I’ll double it. And give you a job on him, as well!”

“Up against the car. And no tricks; you’re covered from inside, as well.” A hard hand shoved him toward the taxi. He leaned on it and felt a hand run over his chest. And that was probably how they had taken Chaney, he thought. When the American had left the judge’s office they had probably been waiting for him in the taxi. Primed by the judge? It was logical. And, at the moment, highly unimportant. What was important was that he was a lot more prepared for their assault than Chaney had been.

The hand located the gun in the shoulder holster and removed it; it then returned to the search. There was a sudden, “Ah!” with satisfaction in the voice; Da Silva felt a tug as the gun was dragged from his belt holster. It was tossed onto the seat of the taxi through the open door and picked up by the shadowed figure behind the wheel. The gun in his back was now jammed forward authoritatively.

“Now inside.”

A voice came from within the taxi. “What about the girl?”

“Bring her along,” Da Silva said suddenly, harshly. “Let her see the rest of her lousy job!”

“Shut up.” It was said quietly, with little emphasis, but the voice carried weight.

“Yes.” It was Isabela, speaking quickly. “That’s right. I set him up. I’ve got a right to see it all. After all, you let me see Valadares.”

Da Silva clamped his jaw shut painfully. Didn’t she see the difference between his asking and her asking? Didn’t she understand what he was aiming at? Or did she want to try some heroics if things went poorly? When this was all over—if it ever was over to his satisfaction—he’d take her over his knee and give her a walloping she’d never forget!

“That’s what I said,” he said viciously. “Let the miserável see it all!”

“Shut up. I give the orders here.” The speaker turned to Isabela. “Get over to the hotel. You have a room there for tonight. Take the first plane home in the morning and forget this one the same way you forgot the last one. The boss said you’ll find something in your mailbox tomorrow that you want. Get going.” The gun jabbed again. “You. Move. Into the car.”

Da Silva climbed into the car. The driver had turned and had a gun pointed at him. The second man climbed in after Da Silva and shut the door; his gun came up to cover his prisoner while the driver tucked his own weapon away and turned back to the wheel. They worked with efficiency, as if as the result of many similar operations, or of long practice. The headlights came up; the ignition caught with a muffled roar. In the lights, Da Silva saw Isabela standing there, her face frozen, ashen, one hand half-lifted as if in farewell or as if to try and stop the car. Her mouth was partially open, as if to call out. And then they had swept down the driveway and had paused at the entrance to the main road. The driver spoke over his shoulder.

“Which one this time?”

“It doesn’t make any difference. The lake again, I suppose. It’s more deserted.”

“Right,” the driver said, and swung the wheel, stepping on the gas.

With an effort Da Silva refrained from touching the ankle gun with his toe, or curling his fingers up to touch the spring release of the knife on his arm, for reassurance. These were not the usual hired guns, or at least the man beside him wasn’t. The driver seemed faintly familiar, probably because there was a remarkable resemblance between all drivers of cars on illegal missions, but the man beside him was a different bicho. Following his plan might not be as simple as it had seemed when it was being formulated. Still, here he was and there didn’t seem to be much else to do than play it out. He looked at the man beside him, his eyes calculating.

“Look, you guys are doing this for money, right? What else! So drop it and tell me who set me up and why, and you’ll see plenty. I’ve got ten dollars for every one the Chileno has. Don’t be stupid!”

The hard uncompromising face beside him was expressionless in the intermittent glow of the passing street lights; the hand holding the gun didn’t waver a bit. The man might have been deaf, for any reaction to the offer. But Da Silva’s words did have an effect. There was a sudden intake of breath from the driver. He pressed the brake suddenly, swinging the wheel, bringing the car to an abrupt halt against the curb, leaving the motor pulsing silently under the hood.

The man beside Da Silva frowned and spoke, without in the least easing his vigil of his prisoner, “What’s the matter?”

The driver turned in his seat, bringing out his gun. He rested it on the back of the seat while his other hand found the light switch on the doorpost and flipped it upward. Da Silva tensed. If they were going to make their move here, inside the car, without giving his expected minute for prayer, then he was in deep trouble. He had figured on reaching his weapons as he knelt, begging, but if he weren’t to get it—He braced himself for the first movement of the driver’s finger on the trigger, determined to make them pay heavily for his death, or at least to try, but there was no immediate aggression on the part of either man. The driver was studying Da Silva’s face with a frown. Then the frown suddenly turned to a broad smile.

“Well, well! A shave and a haircut, eh? You know, I thought there was something a little familiar in those newspaper pictures, but it was hard to tell, they were so fuzzy and you had them taken so far away. But I’d recognize that voice anywhere. You shouldn’t have tried to talk tough; that’s the way you always talk whether you know it or not.”

Da Silva took a deep breath, finally recognizing the man. Well, you won some and you lost some, but who would have thought he’d run into a hood like Emil up here in a strange town a thousand miles from Rio and Emil’s usual haunts? Yes, it certainly was a small world. Too damned small …

“Hello, Emil.”

The man beside Da Silva looked quickly from his prisoner to the driver. “What is this?”

“This,” Emil said, staring at Da Silva over the top of the pointed gun, his face suddenly vicious, “is a character whose name sure as hell isn’t José Maria Carvalho; and if he ever saw the docks of Santos, it must have been from a sightseeing bus!” Da Silva felt like telling him that the name, at least, was his own, but felt there was little to be gained by discussing the point. Emil grinned, showing large blocklike tobacco-stained teeth. “Bernardo, meet the famous Captain José Da Silva. You may have heard of him down in Novo Mundo; he’s a terror, he is. Or was. Federal police, Interpol, God knows what else. He used to be a regular Rio cop, detective squad; that’s where I knew him. A real bastard.”

There was a brief silence as Bernardo digested this information. Then he shrugged.

“Da Silva, Carvalho—what difference? It’s all the same. As a matter of fact we didn’t have a cop before—it might even be better. It might have an even greater impact. Anyway, they all look the same, cop or criminal, when they’re dead.”

“And they’ve got that sign around their necks, huh? To keep them warm, huh?” Emil laughed.

“Whatever,” Bernardo said coldly. “Let’s go.”

Da Silva let out the breath he had been holding, trying not to allow the release to be noticeable. If they continued to the lake, there was a chance they would give him that minute he required. On the other hand, once they began to think, they might decide that finding a policeman as a decoy was a bit odd and could warrant asking some pointed questions. Questions, he was sure, they would ask in a manner quite painful. He’d simply have to move faster than he had anticipated. Once they gave him his minute, the thing was to kneel down as if praying, bring the one hand to his ankle in a natural-enough gesture, press the spring for the knife—

The picture ended there, but Da Silva knew it would be hairy. Still, surprise at finding him armed after their search could well startle them enough to give him the time he needed. Bernardo reached for the light switch, but Emil pushed the reaching hand away.

“Wait a second,” he said slowly. “I know this filho. He’s cute.” Bernardo stared at Emil, frowning. Normally this diversion of attention might have given Da Silva a chance, but the gun in the driver’s hand was unwavering. “Cute,” Emil repeated. “I saw him pin one of our gang to the back of a chair, once, with a knife he had up his sleeve. Chico made a bad move and the next minute—zoom!” He smiled grimly at the memory.

Bernardo didn’t require directions printed on the package. The hand with the gun was jammed forward, bringing an involuntary grunt from the captain; Bernardo’s other hand pinched at the sleeves of Da Silva’s jacket, one by one. The knife was released from the spring sheath and tossed into the front seat.

“Keep the bastard covered while I give him another going over,” Bernardo said, and ran his hands down Da Silva’s leg. The ankle gun was located and withdrawn; Bernardo shoved it into his pocket and continued his search until he sat back at last, satisfied.

“I told you,” Emil said triumphantly; he sounded proud of Da Silva for having proven him right. “He’s cute. Goes around like Tenório in the old days. A walking arsenal. Cute.”

Bernardo grunted. “He may be cute, but his baby teeth have just been pulled.” Emil thought this funny, but Bernardo didn’t even smile at his own mot. He looked at his frozen-faced prisoner and spoke to the driver without taking his eyes from Da Silva’s face.

“Let’s go.”

“Right,” Emil said. He flipped off the overhead light and put the car into gear. They moved from the curb, cutting to the center of the road. Emil spoke over his shoulder as he drove.

“Hey, Da Silva! What were you figuring on? Catching me and Bernardo asleep? You know what, Da Silva? You’re a dreamer. Nobody catches Bernardo asleep. You know how many guys Bernardo has knocked off—?”

“Shut up,” Bernardo said.

“Right,” Emil said happily, and turned back to the wheel.

Da Silva stared through the windshield over Emil’s shoulder; the traffic was non-existent at this hour of the night, and the rare buildings on either side of the roadway were silent and darkened. His face was impassive, but there was a sour taste in his throat and his stomach felt unusually uncomfortable. What idiotic notion made him think they wouldn’t find his extra weapons? Although, to be honest, if that Emil hadn’t been along and hadn’t recognized him, he would almost certainly have been able to get away with it. Or it was nice to think it, anyway. What he should have done was conceal a ray gun in his socks; Buck Rogers would never have been caught like this.

He shook his head, trying to put aside ridiculousness. This is serious, he told himself. This is for real. Now, after all the cases, after all the women, after all the brandy, this was the way it was going to end. What a stupidity! Well, you always knew you wouldn’t die in bed—or, anyway, not of pneumonia—but you never thought it would be on a lonely road in a town you didn’t know, a thousand miles from Rio. He tried to picture the execution and wished he had questioned Isabela more so he could get the details straight. That’s not going to be an actor falling down, he told himself; that’s not going to be a stranger dying—it’s going to be you. And that won’t be ketchup, that’s going to be blood; your blood. He felt an almost uncontrollable desire to giggle and bit it back, gripping his lip with his teeth and biting it painfully. No hysterics, whatever, by God! But somehow he knew he wouldn’t die hysterically, anymore than he would die particularly bravely. He would simply die stupidly, which is the way he deserved to die. What a mockery! No more women, no more brandy, no more sunshine on the beach. Hard to believe, but true. Believe it. What a Goddamned dumb way to get killed! And dying without even knowing exactly why he was dying …!

He spoke without being fully conscious that he was speaking.

“Why?”

“Why, what?” It was Emil. Bernardo had made no indication that he had even heard the question.

“Why? If you’re going to kill me, at least tell me why. Why all these killings? Why Paraíso? Why the people selected to be killed? Who’s paying for this? What purpose is being served? Why—?”

“You’ve been reading too many detective stories,” Bernardo said dryly. He shrugged. “Why you? Why not you?”

“Yeah,” Emil said from the front seat happily, “why not you? Who’s going to miss you, Da Silva?”

Isabela will, Da Silva suddenly wanted to say, and Wilson and Perreira and Ruy and Dona Dolores and Maria, the maid at his apartment he’d never see again, and a hundred girls and his red Jaguar would miss him, and the porter in the building—although probably not until Christmas—and Mario at his restaurant would miss him, and the waitress at the Villarino Bar—what was her name? The one with the lovely legs …

Or was it just that he would miss them? Remember Sergeant Pires, Roberto Pires, with his quick laugh and his sleek hair? He was killed in a crash chasing some hopped-up kids on his motorcycle on the Avenida Brasil, and they braked in front of him purposely and the pavement was wet and Pires skidded into a telephone pole and crushed his skull. How long ago was that? Six months? Eight months? And I don’t even remember how long ago it was, he thought, and this is undoubtedly the first time I’ve even thought of Pires since his funeral. And we were supposed to be friends. Well, that was probably as much time as anyone would remember him, if that long. People forgot. There were too many problems involved in just living, to allow much time for worrying about the dead, or even the dying. It was sad.…

He became aware that the car was bumping roughly and realized they had left the main road and were rocking slowly over a rutted dirt road. To his left, moonlight glinted on the ruffled surface of water; that must be the lake they had referred to. This was the place. This was where it all ended. Had he really wanted to giggle a few minutes ago? Not now; not now! In a few minutes he would be dead. Should he make a final break for it when the car door was opened? Take at least one of them by surprise, hurt him at least, before they gunned him down? Grab one and use him as a shield? To his surprise he found that the idea was not appealing. Suddenly he felt too lethargic to even try to save his life. Let them shoot and get it over, and to hell with the bastards. At least it would eliminate that sickening cold feeling he had been trying to deny gripped his stomach. They didn’t even have to give him the minute for prayer. It had been years since he had prayed, and anyway, what would he use the minute to pray to? He thought, they say there are no atheists in foxholes, but it really was surprising, if true. To face death and know it to be unreasoning, to know that the wrong people were being killed, was scarcely a situation to inspire faith.

The car jolted to a sudden stop, interrupting his mental meandering. The ignition was turned off, leaving silence. He shuddered.

“This is the place,” Emil said. He sounded like a real estate dealer about to show a property to a prospective client. He climbed down, took his gun from his pocket, and stood back, waiting.

“Out,” Bernardo said harshly, and prodded. Why not? Da Silva thought, and fumbled at the door handle, turning it, stepping down. The ground seemed to be remarkably distant; his foot found it and pressed it for support. He took a wavering step and then stood still, like a subject awaiting a photographer’s direction before assuming a final pose. I supposed your life flashed before you, he thought; but all he could think of was that it was cold, and that he couldn’t think of anything else in particular. What was he supposed to do? What would be normal? Run? Yell? Scream? He didn’t want to be different than the others. Beg? Not that begging was beneath his dignity; it was past his strength. He took a deep breath and stared into the night, the lights of the car illuminating the road for a brief distance, and outlining the anticipatory smile on Emil’s thin face.

“Over here,” Bernardo said, and waved the gun slightly, directing Da Silva into the headlights.

Why not? Da Silva thought, and walked over, half-stumbling, to stand in the blinding brilliance, blinking. His hands were held together as if handcuffed. Bernardo shot his sleeve, exposing his watch.

“You have one minute to say your prayers.”

Ritual followed. And what shall I use this last precious minute to conjure on? Da Silva thought, and then heard the gunfire. A variety of jumbled thoughts swirled through his consciousness, intermingling, as he stumbled to the ground: that they had cheated him of his last minute or that the minute has passed too quickly to be remembered; that they had both fired which was unfair; and that death, surprisingly, was not as painful as he had always imagined. There was something a bit disappointing in the knowledge. And then he felt a strong arm under him and he opened his eyes.

Wilson’s face was smiling at him. Above, a tall thin man stood, his face invisible under the broad brim of his leather hat. A rifle was angled in his arms, frontier style.

“So you didn’t want an American confederate, eh?” Wilson said, and tucked his revolver away.