Chapter 2

The airport buildings at Galeao glared blinding white, their black shadows empty caverns in the shimmering tarmac. He shaded his eyes against the painful reflection and followed the silent file of tired passengers into the long low building, the sweat beginning to rise under his tight collar and run down inside his shirt. His ears still buzzed faintly from the hours of motor noise, and the briefcase suddenly seemed unbearably heavy to his wrist. In dismay he noted that he had forgotten to undo the chain; in haste he fished the key from his watch pocket and unlatched the tiny lock; no one seemed to notice.

They were halted by a rope slung across the corridor; beyond they could see the open window of the Health Office and Immigration, with uniformed figures inside shuffling papers endlessly and staring blankly at the incoming passengers. There is something fascinating about the similarity of customs procedures and officials in every country, he thought. True, the original instincts of self-preservation in all basic groupings probably have common roots, but it still seems rather startling that, stemming from different mores and habit patterns, following completely diverse paths of development, they all seemed to have arrived together at the same paper-shuffling, blank-faced bureaucracy, reflecting their mutual fear of strangers in identical rituals of pointless documents and illegible rubber stamps. They must have hidden antennae for secret communication, like ants, he thought. Or more terrifying, radio and television, like humans.

The rope dropped; the passengers edged forward, fumbling for passports and vaccination certificates, hampered by books and overcoats and overnight bags, the heat a blanket that muffled everything, making each action a chore in slow motion. He tensed as he presented his documents at the first counter, but the sweating police officials occasioned him no delay. Any radio accusation that had arrived apparently was not filtered down to these low echelons. A sudden, unfounded elation seized him. Maybe I imagined the whose thing, he thought. Maybe the stewardess was merely curious. Maybe the stewardess was only nearsighted. Stamps fell, cards passed back and forth; the line edged forward uncomfortably to the customs shed.

The customs benches were being filled; porters were slinging luggage haphazardly from the carts to the low barriers; passengers were beginning to awaken from the narcosis of the flight and were frantically attempting to attract the attention of a customs guard. A conference was in progress at the official desk; declarations were being examined and separated; the heat bore down relentlessly on everything.

He saw the flight crew come through, their squat leather bags bulging with papers, maps, dirty clothing, and possibly a contraband bottle of whiskey hidden somewhere in the depths. The stewardess whispered something to the others, inclining her head in his direction, and they all eyed him curiously, but only for a moment. He was a passing phenomenon who had lightened a dull flight with a few minutes of excited radio chatter, but that was last night and years ago. They could always read about it in the newspapers; their minds were already on a three-day holiday, and the smooth hot beach, and the noisy night clubs. He saw the small eyes of the stewardess linger hesitatingly on the briefcase cradled in his arms, and he suddenly knew very well that his panic in the plane had not been based upon imagination. Quite without knowing why, he forced his fears behind him and winked at her in a broad, friendly manner. She turned away flushing, and a few moments later stumped out after her companions. Ingratitude, he thought with a bitter smile; think of the hours of conversation I have provided you with.

“Senhor Hans?” A customs official was glancing up from a declaration, impatiently glaring about the group of passengers. His face, although young in years, was set in the bitter lines of ingrained officialdom; his flat eyes peered about in barely stifled animosity; the heavy features were shimmering with sweat. Nobody paid any attention; the struggle with baggage went on uninterruptedly. “Senhor Hans?” The voice was accusing now, and the official referred once again to the declaration in his hand. A sudden thought seemed to come to him. “Senhor Hans Busch?” He pronounced it “Pushy,” but the tone of accusation had completely disappeared, replaced by respect. My God! he thought with a start, that’s me! A fine beginning!

“I’m sorry,” he said, touching the official on the arm. “I’m afraid I didn’t…”

“Senhor Hans Busch?”

“Why, yes,” he said, beginning to reach for his documents, attempting to portray to the best of his ability every tourist faced with every customs.

“Senhor tem bagagem?”

“I beg your pardon? I don’t speak…”

“Lockage? Package?” The voice dropped suddenly to a hoarse whisper, accompanied by a barely perceptible nudge. “Haben Sie Koffer?”

The official indicated the suitcases being opened on the benches. He saw his new leather case standing alone to one side and reached for it, but the official politely picked it up and headed for a door at one side. “Please?” he said over his shoulder, “Please!” It was quite as if he were answering his own question. The other passengers eyed them sourly, certain that either influence or a well concealed bribe had smoothed the way to faster service. He trailed along, his heart pounding. Well, he thought forlornly, here we go. Please, God, don’t let it fail before it even begins!

The room, windowless—an obvious afterthought in the airport construction—was formed by two roughly finished walls of cinder-block set in a corner of the customs shed. A halfhearted coat of whitewash attempted to disguise the provisional character of the construction, but only served to emphasize it. A badly vibrating fan rattled on a shelf, pushing the hot air about listlessly. A tall, saturnine man with a lean tanned face and an aggressive mustache arose from a desk and came forward. He took the declaration form from the customs official, who proceeded to seat himself unobtrusively on one corner of the desk, reaching over to shut the door almost apologetically. With the door closed the heat became unbearable, but the mustached man seemed almost cool as he turned about.

“Mr. Busch?” he asked gently.

“Yes.

“I am Captain José Da Silva. May I see your passport, please?”

He fumbled in the side pocket of his jacket where he was certain he had placed his documents after Immigration, but his fingers closed only on a crumpled handkerchief. But I put that in the briefcase, he thought idiotically; I must have had two. He began to tremble, angry for the weakness, and for having misplaced his passport.

“Rather odd seeing a captain in civilian clothes,” he said, smiling foolishly, his hands patting his various breast pockets in desperation, hampered in his search by the awkward briefcase. He suddenly seemed to realize that this encumbrance was no longer a physical part of his person; he set it against the desk leg as unobtrusively as possible, continuing his search.

“Yes,” said the captain dryly. “Your passport, please?”

His hand closed in last resort on a heavily laden trouser pocket, and he drew out the missing passport, furious with himself for having placed it in so unusual a place. Stupid! he thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid! And even more stupid to allow it to upset you this much; relax and get yourself under control! But really, a trouser pocket—my God!

The tall man examined the document minutely, riffling through the pages and noting the various visas and stamped dates. He studied the personal data in the front and looked up impartially to compare the face before him with the photograph in his hand, after which he quietly closed the booklet and casually slipped it into his jacket pocket as if in a moment of forgetfulness.

“Would you care to open your bag, please?”

Da Silva’s thin fingers skimmed the contents, carefully judging the inside dimensions against the outside shape, barely disturbing the shirts and socks, but passing with great efficiency through the neatly arranged clothing.

Through the concrete block walls the smaller man heard the sudden acceleration of an airplane engine, and then the coughing start of another. In his mind’s eye he could see the puff of gray smoke, hear the snap of the cabin door being latched into place, feel the reassuring rough strength of the seat belt under his hand. Maybe I should have stayed aboard and gone on to Buenos Aires, and then back home, he thought wearily. Maybe I’m not the one for this. The suitcase was closed with a sigh, the latches snapped.

“Your briefcase?” The tone was a little sharper, a bit more thoughtful.

He hesitated one second, and the other stepped around the desk and lifted the case to the desk top. His skin was chafed where the chain had galled him, and he unconsciously rubbed his wrist as the other man snapped open the lock and peered within. The moment of truth, he thought, and tried to freeze the scene in time as a tableau: the heat, the wide-eyed, sweating customs official with the flat eyes, the gaunt figure bent over the tattered briefcase, the bare floor, the lumpy walls, the battered desk. Maybe it is a dream, he thought, and I can escape by awakening. But he could not erase his own trembling figure from the picture he had created, and the sudden muffled roar of an airplane shattered the spell, leaving him tired and hot, a small, miserable man standing uncertainly in a crude room, his luggage being efficiently searched. With a sharp, quizzical sidelong glance, Captain Da Silva laid the pitiful camouflage of wrinkled clothing to one side and began withdrawing blocks of neatly tied newsprint from the depths of the briefcase. They looked foolish piled on the desk, like the accessories of some child’s game, leaning idiotically against the underwear and dirty socks. The clattering fan only served to emphasize the silence.

Da Silva straightened up and sighed, as if weary of the disappointments of constant dissimulation. “A personal search, Mr. Busch,” he said sadly. “I am afraid that I must ask you to submit to a personal search.”

“Isn’t that most unusual?” He tried to sound indignant, but only succeeded in sounding frightened. They were right, he thought bitterly, you’re too old for this sort of thing.

“Most unusual. As are the circumstances. Please.”

“No!” It was an animal cry; he clutched the ends of his coat sleeves with his fingers, straining. “I’m sorry.” He attempted to smile, but the grimace was pitiful. “I have… well, I have a thing about being undressed in public….”

Da Silva’s eyebrows raised in honest surprise. “My dear Mr. Busch,” he said, “we certainly have no intention of undressing you. In any event, it would be quite purposeless. Please.” A gesture plus a few words of instruction in Portuguese and the customs official swung himself from the table and came over. He ran his fingers with impersonal speed over the cringing figure, sliding his hands down the rumpled trouser legs, crumpling the cloth of the suit to expose any papers hidden in the lining. He removed the contents of the pockets and handed them to Da Silva. He shook his head, his face a mask.

“Fora disso, nada.”

The mustached man examined the papers desultorily, leafed through the wallet with an air of complete disinterest, and handed them back. He returned to his swivel chair back of the desk and seated himself wearily.

“Tell me, Mr. Busch,” he said softly, conversationally, “who has the money?”

“Money?”

“Please. Let us not have any fencing. We know all about you. I am not, as you might have thought, of the customs. Our government is interested in you, Mr. Busch. We are interested in any man who brings two million dollars into our country.”

He felt a wave of hysteria bring sour laughter choking in his throat and desperately fought it down. I’m tired, he thought. It was a long trip. But don’t break now; you can’t break now. Actually, what can they do? What is the very worst they can do? Be glad this is Brazil and today, and not Europe and yesterday. Here they talk; they do not use castor oil and needles.

“Pardon me, Captain, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about. A million dollars? In cash? Carrying it with me? You must be joking; the thought is idiotic.”

“Two million, Mr. Busch, two million. And the thought of a man carrying a briefcase filled with newspaper blocks chained to his wrist for twenty-four hours might also be considered by some as being idiotic. Or at least, shall we say, slightly abnormal.”

“Chained to my wrist?”

“Chained to your wrist, Mr. Busch, until you got off the plane. Please, do not play with me. We are quite well informed. We know you left New York with this amount of money; we know this definitely and positively. Of this there can be no doubt at all. Tell me, Mr. Busch, where is it?”

“Is it illegal to bring money into Brazil? I understood that there are no currency regulations here for travelers.”

Da Silva shrugged, his eyes cold and somber. “Two million dollars is not money in the tourist sense, Mr. Busch. Two million dollars could be counterfeit, or could buy a lot of arms, or bribe enough officials. Or any one of many things. Particularly any one of many things. You are correct in thinking that there are no currency regulations here in Brazil, but you are completely wrong in feeling that this applies to you.” He leaned forward impressively, never removing his piercing eyes from the disheveled figure before him.

“Believe me, Mr. Busch, when I tell you that our government is extremely serious about your case. We are interested in this money and the purpose for which it is intended. We are quite certain that we know this purpose, and we fully expect to prevent it. Believe me.”

“But I tell you…”

The tall, thin man shook his finger coldly. “Mr. Busch. There is only one thing I want you to tell me, and that is where the money is. Please. Or bitte if you prefer. We know who you are and what you have been. You will not spend this money. You are making a grave mistake, Mr. Busch. A grave mistake.”

The other stood silent, the sweat rolling down his pale cheeks, his shirt and jacket soaked. Am I making a mistake? Quite possibly; it won’t be the first, nor the last. But what could one do? Whom could one trust? In New York these past three years, it had seemed simple, necessary, even—my God!—romantic. But no, he thought with finality, I am not making a mistake; it would be too useless. He saw the captain’s eyes and knew the ordeal had run its course, but there was no feeling of exultation or even relief. He was only conscious of the oppressive heat and a slight feeling of nausea.

Da Silva suddenly swiveled about, staring at the noisy fan with distaste, as if it represented in its mechanical sickness the malaise of the world in which he was forced to work and struggle.

“All right, Mr. Busch. The money is not on your person nor in your luggage; that much is certain. Whoever you passed it to, either on the plane, or en route, or in the customs shed, will be found. It will not be passed back to you. Or we will be there when it is.” He paused in thought, shook his head sadly. “You would be well advised to turn the money in to us and return to New York, Mr. Busch.” He eyed the small man before him queryingly, shook his head again, and then nodded to the customs official.

“All right, Mr. Busch. You are free to go. But you would be making a sad error to feel that this case is over.”

Now the relief came, flooding him, immediately followed by doubt.

“But my passport?”

Da Silva did not lift his eyes from the scratched desk top before him. His fingers idly followed some of the ancient marks impressed upon the worn surface. “I am afraid I shall have to hold that for the time being.”

But really, this was too much! How could he hope to accomplish anything if he couldn’t even pass the simple test of getting through customs with his papers intact? And he might well need his passport for identification or travel. I’m tired, he thought, and sick and old. I’m really old. It was enough to make one cry.

“But I am an American citizen….”

“A naturalized American citizen, Mr. Busch, but still, I admit, under the protection of that embassy. However, I am afraid that we cannot permit you to leave our hospitality without due notice. The law, Mr. Busch, allows us to verify that travelers in our country owe no Brazilian taxes before giving them permission to leave.” Da Silva looked up coldly; there was no trace of sarcasm in his voice. “Are you quite certain your tax situation is clear?”

He shrugged dejectedly. This was one more problem that had not been considered, but at least one small barrier had been cleared. He could get out of customs and go to his hotel. Possibly the others could solve the problem of the withheld passport, that is, if there were any others and he wasn’t being a complete fool. Possibly with a little rest and a cold bath he could figure it out himself. He suddenly felt exhausted and very alone.

“Thank you, Captain. Goodbye.”

“Au revoir would be more appropriate, Mr. Busch. By the way, do you have hotel reservations? It is nearing Carnival, and hotels are a bit difficult to arrange.”

“At the Mirabelle.”

“Ah. Fine. We should not like to have you without a roof over your head, wandering the streets unaccompanied. It could be dangerous; this is a naughty city at times. I shall try and see that you are seldom subject to this peril. Goodbye, Mr. Busch.”

The customs official was at the door carrying the bag and the empty briefcase when Da Silva spoke again. “Your socks, Mr. Busch. And don’t forget your newspapers. You might have a lot of time to read down here, and our English publications are not up to the standards of The NewYork Times.” As he turned away the second time he thought he heard Da Silva chuckle, but it was a tired chuckle, a bit puzzled, and almost sad.