Two

Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, liaison officer between the Brazilian police and Interpol, braked his red Jaguar sports car to a skidding stop and stared with a disgusted frown through the blurred windshield. The long, narrow entrada that fronted the main entrance to the Santos Dumont Airport was solidly packed with cars. Sheets of rain whipped at the tall palms that fronted the walk and drummed a bit impatiently on the plastic hood of the convertible, as if demanding that the captain get out and get soaked like everything else; the windshield. The long, narrow entrada that fronted the Brazilian negative to this idiotic suggestion. Captain Da Silva scowled, but not because the cars parked before the long building were in violation of the law; he was merely expressing his envy at others luckier—and therefore smarter—than himself who had managed to enter the building dry.

He swiveled his head. To park in the mire of the regular parking lot on a day like this was to invite drowning, for when it rained in Rio de Janeiro, it did so with typical Carioca exuberance and exaggeration. And to leave the car anywhere but at the curb or in the guarded parking lot was to invite far worse. A missing carburetor, for example, or even a missing automobile. Car thieves in Rio, he recognized, were a hardy lot who were not afraid of getting drenched for a reasonable profit. And a police shield on the windshield would only make the theft more enticing, since it would guarantee the loot at least had a decent motor.

A horn behind him blared indignantly. Da Silva suddenly noted that the wide gate to the airport apron was open; he shifted gears and drove in, splashing through puddles, pulling the small car up under the shelter of a covered loading dock. An airport policeman, shocked by this disregard for rules which were certainly posted in sufficient profusion, moved over immediately from the shadow of a doorway to remonstrate, but one look at the swarthy, pockmarked face of the driver, slashed across by its flamboyant mustache and topped off by its unruly shock of black curly hair, and the policeman hastily saluted instead. Captain Da Silva at the best of times was unpredictable, but in weather like this there was a good chance he might be truly difficult. But then the seriousness of the offense—not to mention the potential consequences to his own well-being—forced the policeman to attempt a protest, although he tried to do it as diplomatically as possible.

“I’m sorry, Captain, but you really shouldn’t park here.…”

He tilted his head in the direction of the runways. Airplanes hovered there, grounded for the moment. Their bulging sides gleamed metallically, their huge outlines were hazy in the driving rain. Beyond them across the ruffled waters of the bay the walls of Pão de Açucar rose starkly to disappear into the low-hanging clouds. The policeman’s eyes returned, bright with emotion, pleading.

“This is where the catering trucks park, Captain—the ones that bring the food for the passengers. With your car in the way, they’ll have to park out in the rain—”

“Good!” Da Silva bent to set his brake and then switched off the ignition. “More water, more soup.” Did this cretin actually think for one moment he would inconvenience himself for the comfort of airplanes, or even for the comfort of those people foolish enough to patronize the flying monstrosities? He unfolded his muscular six-feet to the protected pavement and reached back into the car for his raincoat. He slung it over his arm, closed the door firmly, and then paused to pat his pocket. The letter that had been deposited on his desk a brief half-hour before was there, as mysterious and tantalizing as it had been when the Central Office of the Police had forwarded it to him as being more in his province. He pressed it again, as if for luck, and then stepped easily up to the low platform.

Against his better judgment the policeman made one last attempt. “But, Captain, sir—” One look at the fierce expression that suddenly blazed in Da Silva’s eyes and he hastily swallowed the balance of his protest. “Yes, sir!”

“And you will keep an eye on it! A sharp eye,” Da Silva instructed him sternly.

The policeman sighed helplessly. “Of course, Captain.”

“Thank you,” Da Silva said, and smiled cordially.

The policeman, amazed as were so many at how pleasant and innocuous Captain José Da Silva could appear when he chose to smile, as compared to how tough he looked—and was—when he was forced to frown, tried to return the smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. One thing was positive: forcing the catering trucks to park out in the rain was no way to maintain their goodwill and hence to share in their leftovers, which was about the only decent food he and his family ever managed to get their hands on. But, on the other hand, could one of his lowly rank—or any other rank—seriously oppose Captain Da Silva? Not, he admitted sadly to himself, if one were blessed with a normal amount of the good sense.

He stared pensively out at the mottled sky and the veering sheets of rain, and prayed fervently that Captain Da Silva completed whatever errand had brought him here and then took himself and his filho de mãe car away before the first catering truck made its appearance. But even as he prayed he kept his eyes watchfully on the small red convertible, for all in all he was not a stupid man.

Da Silva, well aware that in all probability he had interfered in some way with one of the policeman’s minor rackets—and far from crushed by the thought—walked quickly through the deserted baggage area of the Cruzeiro Do Sul, passed into a ticket area now besieged by stranded passengers and frantic clerks, ducked under the narrow counter and forced his way through the crowds that were milling about like confused geese because of the canceled schedules. He shook his head in non-understanding at their plight, came to the curved terrazzo staircase leading to the restaurant-bar on the mezzanine and trotted up it, with the disturbed buzzing of the crowd below mysteriously seeming to amplify rather than lessen as he mounted.

At the top he paused to toss his raincoat to the cloakroom attendant, patted the letter in his pocket once again, and then started through the packed room toward the familiar figure of his old friend Wilson, waiting alone at a table near the rain-streaked windows, staring pensively out at the glistening runways and the fog-shrouded bay beyond.

In appearance, Wilson was the opposite of the rugged and colorful Da Silva. There was nothing flamboyant or even particularly noticeable about the small nondescript man, and yet this anonymity was far from accidental. It was the result of years of training and served Wilson very well. On the payroll sheets that the American Ambassador was forced to initial for submittal to Washington each month, Wilson appeared as the Security Officer, a minor position mainly concerned with keeping American tourists happy and out of trouble, as well as with keeping Embassy wastebaskets empty and their contents incinerated. He was, in fact, far more important than this, as only the Ambassador alone of Embassy personnel knew. A member of several U. S. Government agencies concerned with security, he was also the only U. S. assignee to Interpol in Brazil. Da Silva was one of the very few people cognizant of Wilson’s true status; he also had good reason to appreciate the ability of the mild-looking man. The two had had their share of adventures together, and in any moment of danger or crisis, Da Silva knew he would rather have the quiet American at his side than any other man he knew.

The tall Brazilian finally managed to make his way through the wedged tables with minimum damage either to himself or to the seated diners, and grinned down at his friend.

“Hi, Wilson.”

“Hello, Zé.”

“Sorry I’m late.” It was obviously a standard gambit; Da Silva was usually late. As a Brazilian he would have considered himself unpatriotic to be early. He pulled a chair back from the table, dropping into it, and smiled apologetically. “This time, though, I have an excuse. I actually left the office in plenty of time, but what with the rain, and the traffic, and the problem of parking …” His bushy eyebrows rose dramatically to indicate the vast-ness of the problem of parking.

Wilson was studying him quizzically. For one brief second Da Silva’s eyes narrowed slightly, remembering the letter in his pocket. He put the thought away and reached across the table for the bottle of Maciera Five-Star that Wilson had ordered, pouring himself a drink to match both the one before his friend as well as the one he suspected his friend had already had. He raised his glass in a small salute and made his voice casual.

“Why the odd look? Certainly not because I’m late …”

He took a drink, savoring it with the pleasure that always accompanied the first drink of the day, and then set his glass down. “Ah, that’s better! Now, why the odd look? What happened this morning to upset you? Certainly not my tardiness. Right?”

“Right and wrong,” Wilson said.

“A typical answer from an Embassy employee,” Da Silva said, and grinned. “You’re getting more Brazilian every day. The only thing you forgot was to qualify it with a ‘perhaps.’ So what happened?”

Wilson’s expression didn’t change. “It’s true that something queer happened this morning, but that was minor. And certainly not what caused what you call my strange look.”

Da Silva lit a cigarette, tossed the match in the general direction of the ashtray, pushed the package of cigarettes across the table and leaned back comfortably. “Then what did?”

“Your strange look.”

“My strange look?” Da Silva looked and sounded surprised. “Is my tie crooked again? Or did I forget it all together this morning?” He glanced down a moment and then looked up again, reassured.

Wilson smiled faintly, but it was a smile that did not extend beyond his lips. “Not your tie. I mean your jacket.” He tilted his head toward the large closed windows. “Even on relatively chilly days you take off your jacket the minute you arrive here for lunch; this freedom of dress is the reason you keep giving me for enduring the food here. And yet today, with the windows closed and the room stifling, you sit there with your jacket on. And even drink brandy, which certainly isn’t a cooling drink.”

“And you wonder why?”

“Exactly. I wonder why.”

Da Silva shook his head sadly. “That’s the trouble with eating lunch with a trained investigator; no secrets. Every act treated with suspicion; every motive questioned.” He shrugged. “And yet, the answer is simplicity itself, although I must ask you to keep it a secret.” He leaned forward conspiratorially; a waiter who had been sidling up with the intention of offering menus, backed away instantly. No one would ever be able to accuse him of eavesdropping, especially on a man he knew to be a captain of police. Da Silva peered about to make sure no one was watching, and then turned back, lowering his voice. “The truth is I have a careless laundry. My shirt has a hole in it. If it ever came out, of course, I’d be disgraced. Drummed out of the force. Stood at attention while my buttons were cut off—and believe me, my shirts are bad enough without that!”

“Cute,” Wilson said, and then lowered his voice to match the other’s. “Why don’t we try this version instead? You’re wearing your jacket because it would frighten the daylights out of most of the people here to see a man drinking brandy and slurping soup dressed in a shoulder holster and with the butt of a police positive swinging with every spoonful. How’s that?”

Da Silva looked hurt. “Slurping soup? Me?”

“Slurping brandy, then, and drinking soup.”

“That’s a little better, anyway.”

“And don’t change the subject.” Wilson’s voice was unamused. “Why the armament?”

Da Silva’s tone lost its light banter. He drank the balance of his brandy and reached for the bottle again. “Nothing as unimportant as you might think. It’s just that for the next week or so the entire department is under orders to be constantly armed. Ridiculous—not to mention damned uncomfortable—but there it is.”

Wilson studied his friend’s face. “Because of the O.A.S. meeting?”

Da Silva looked surprised. “So you do read the newspapers.…”

“We’ve been alerted, of course,” Wilson said, and picked a cigarette from Da Silva’s pack. He lit it, inhaled deeply, and frowned at his friend through the cloud of smoke. “But I haven’t felt it necessary to weigh myself down with a kilo or so of steel. Or at least not yet. After all, the meetings don’t start for another week. The delegates won’t start arriving before next Sunday or Monday.”

“The delegates won’t,” Da Silva said lazily, “but we have a feeling a lot of other people have begun drifting into our fair city, some of whom might like nothing better than to use the big parade for free target practice.” His voice became deceptively innocent. “Maybe even some of your compatriots.…”

Wilson stared at him. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

Da Silva shrugged. “Well, Juan Dorcas is going to be the delegate from Argentina, and as I recall he seems to take pleasure in opposing the American position on almost anything.”

“And you think—?”

Da Silva looked across the table steadily. “I don’t think anything. There are, however, a few things I suspect. I suspect, for example, that your C.I.A. would enjoy nothing more, shall I say, than having Senhor Dorcas come down with a severe migraine, or a rash of broken legs, and being forced to unfortunately miss these meetings. Or even worse than a rash of broken legs, perhaps …”

Wilson’s jaw hardened. “Are you accusing us—?”

Da Silva looked bland. “My dear Wilson, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m merely stating a fact. And if your conscience bothers you because of your past history in similar cases—a list I’m sure you’re even more familiar with than I am—then I’m sorry.”

Wilson stared at him a moment and then crushed out his cigarette. He reached for the bottle. “If it will help,” he said quietly, “let me assure you on my word as your friend that nothing like this is being planned, not even faintly.”

“As far as you know.”

“As far as I know. And I would know.”

Da Silva grinned. “Wilson, I love you. And, within certain limits, I trust you. But, if I were in your shoes, and I were under instructions from Washington, I’d also be circumspect.” He held up a hand to prevent interruption. “Also, if I were the head of C.I.A. sitting up in Washington and planning something, I doubt if I would put out a mimeographed release of all my plans. Not even to every member of the C.I.A.”

“In other words,” Wilson said slowly, “you wouldn’t believe me no matter what I said.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Da Silva said, “but I admit, in this case, that I’d come pretty close.” He put out his cigarette and smiled. “In any event, it’s my job to cover all the angles. Even as you would do if this meeting were taking place in Washington. After all, it’s our basic responsibility not to have anything happen. If this meeting were taking place in Washington, you’d probably be walking around with guns in every pocket, and a cutlass between your teeth.”

Wilson tried to simmer down. He took a deep breath and forced himself to take a light tone to equal Da Silva’s. “Not me,” he protested. “My dentist wouldn’t permit it. Besides, I’m the peaceful type.”

“Now, that’s where I’m different,” Da Silva said, and sighed. “I’m the curious type. For example, I’m curious to know why people don’t stay home.” He raised one large hand quickly. “Not tourists, of course—which we desperately need—but diplomats, at least. It seems to me that it would be a lot more diplomatic remaining in one’s own capital than endangering foreign relations by being stoned, or spat upon, or being shot at. And, of course, it would leave a lot of policemen time for a few other chores, like handling the already overloaded docket.”

Wilson tried to go along with the concept. “You mean no more international meetings? A return to the sixteenth century?”

Da Silva shook his head. “On the contrary. I mean moving into the enlightened twentieth century. After all, scientists sweated blood to develop satellites and closed television—why not use these technical advances logically? Why not use closed television for these meetings? That way everyone could stay at home in front of his own fireplace. It seems to me to be a lot more practical use of the invention than simply showing the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue to natives of Zanzibar, or running off old cowboy movies for the confusion of eighteen races.” He thought a moment. “Including yours, of course.…”

“It’s really not a bad idea,” Wilson conceded, “although I can think of a few objections.”

Da Silva frowned at him indignantly. “Name one!”

“Well,” Wilson said slowly, fingering his glass, “suppose one of the delegates didn’t like what another one was saying. He might just reach across and switch off the set.”

Da Silva stared at him. “And you consider this a disadvantage?”

Wilson grinned, his past irritation forgotten. “Well, maybe not. A far greater disadvantage, of course, is that under that system, how would we get rid of counterpart funds? And can you imagine the uproar in Congress if none of the public’s money was used for junkets abroad? Why, you might even balance the budget! And you’d definitely put the airlines out of business in a week. Not to mention two thousand clerks in the General Accounting Office.”

“That’s true,” Da Silva conceded, and grinned. “It wouldn’t bother me greatly to put the airlines out of business, but I’d hate to think of the blow to the United States economy if two thousand clerks were let loose on the streets of Washington all at one time.”

“Two thousand more, you mean,” Wilson said.

“Plus eighty C.I.A. agents,” Da Silva added innocently.

Wilson’s smile faded abruptly. “You’re still on that kick, are you? Will you please accept the fact that the C.I.A.—”

“—is a fine organization full of dedicated men with excellent ideals and good profiles,” Da Silva ended. He smiled. “Unfortunately, not particularly interested in Brazilian problems, which is what I have to worry about.” His smile faded. “In any event, we’ve rounded up as many of our own bad boys as we could find—or recognize—and we’ve got the docks and the airports covered pretty thoroughly. We’ve picked up a couple of men who might have caused some trouble, but I’m sure we haven’t gotten them all.”

Wilson looked at him sardonically. “And none of them Americans?”

“No,” Da Silva admitted, “but that doesn’t impress me too much. Now that you’ve exported chewing gum and sunglasses and Hollywood shirts around the world it’s pretty hard to tell an American from a native. And also, of course,” he added with a faint smile, “people—who I won’t name—have been known to hire local talent to do their chores for them.”

Wilson shook his head hopelessly. “Once you get an idea in your head, Zé, it’s hard to reason with you. As far as Juan Dorcas is concerned, there have been other attempts to get him before this. Now, I suppose, you’ll claim they were all the work of the C.I.A.”

“No.” Da Silva looked at him steadily. “Not all of them. Maybe none of them. Feelings run pretty high in some of these countries down here; diplomats sometimes speak for their governments and sometimes don’t—but they seldom speak for the people. And often when they do it’s for the wrong reasons. And people being what they are, it’s not uncommon to try and solve problems the quickest way. But no matter who may want to solve the problem of Juan Dorcas, our job is to see to it they don’t. At least not here in Brazil.” He sighed. “I’ll be a lot happier when these O.A.S. meetings are over.”

“I can well imagine,” Wilson said with pretended sympathy. “You won’t have to dream up your wild cloak-and-dagger ideas out of your head—you can go back to getting them from the TV.” He snorted. “Dorcas! He must be some sort of a nut!”

Da Silva contemplated him curiously. “What makes you say that? Have you ever seen the man? Or talked to him?”

“No,” Wilson admitted. “I don’t think I’ve even seen a good, recognizable photograph of him. I understand he doesn’t like newspapermen, or photographers.”

“And in your opinion that makes him some sort of a nut?”

Wilson refused to be drawn in by the gentle sarcasm. “That’s not the reason. The man’s supposed to be fantastically wealthy, with large investments in almost every South American country—”

Da Silva nodded evenly. “That’s true.”

“—and yet,” Wilson continued, “he opposes every move our Government makes to try and hold off revolutions in these countries. Even though he’d be the first to lose everything if any Government came in that followed even the most minor form of expropriation. In my opinion, that makes him some sort of a nut.”

Da Silva shook his head slowly. “You know, Wilson,” he said at last, “this may be hard for you to accept, but not everyone agrees with the means your Government takes to combat revolution. In fact, some people think your means actually fosters it.” He shrugged. “Dorcas happens to be one of them.”

“Fosters it? You’re crazy!”

“Am I? Maybe. On the other hand, to take one small example, when you people went into the Dominican Republic, you did so on the basis of a claim from your diplomats there that there were some eighteen—or maybe the figure was twenty-eight, or possibly even thirty-eight—active Communists there that constituted a threat to democratic government there—”

Wilson frowned at him. “And you don’t believe there were?”

“I’m sure there were,” Da Silva said gently. “In fact, knowing the accuracy of diplomatic reports, I’m sure there were more. My point is, however, after you were there awhile, the figure probably jumped to a hundred times that number. That, my friend, is what the word ‘fosters’ means.” He held up a hand to prevent Wilson from breaking in. “Now, if I were Senhor Dorcas, interested in protecting my investments, I’m afraid I’d at least take a good, long look at any method that resulted in an increase in revolutionary feeling on that scale.”

Wilson stared at him. “And so, in your opinion, we should simply do nothing?”

Da Silva suddenly grinned. “In my opinion I shouldn’t be giving you my opinion. It serves no purpose for me, and I’m sure it won’t change your ideas in the slightest.” His grin faded. “I suppose you do what you feel you have to do. Which, after all, is exactly what Juan Dorcas does. And what I do as far as preventing trouble for my country.” He leaned back, his black eyes studying his friend, his strong fingers twisting the stem of his brandy glass. “Well, enough of politics. We’ve been fortunate to avoid the subject in the past; let’s leave it that way.”

Wilson looked into the dark eyes across from him for several moments and then nodded. “Fair enough. As long as you don’t get carried away by any wild worries about the C.I.A.”

Da Silva grinned. “How about the O.G.P.U.? Have I your permission to worry about them?”

Wilson started to frown and then broke down and laughed. “You’re impossible! All right, worry about whomever you want to worry about.”

“That’s better,” Da Silva said. He reached for the cigarettes and drew one out, lighting it. “Now, what was this queer thing that happened to you this morning? This queer, but minor, thing?”

“Fancy your still remembering!” Wilson said with exaggerated admiration. “After your romantic flights of fancy, though, I’m afraid you’ll find it a pretty dull story.”

“I like dull stories,” Da Silva said. “What happened?”

“Well,” Wilson said, leaning back in his chair, “if you must know, it was something that happened at the hospital just before I came here this noon. You know I’m one of the trustees of the Stranger’s Hospital—which is one of the penalties for being a foreign resident in this town who can’t think up evading excuses fast enough—and this morning we had one of our endless meetings, and …” He paused, as if to put his words into proper order.

“And found out you were broke?”

Wilson grinned. “That, too, but there’s certainly nothing unusual about that. Or minor, either; but I’ll discuss that aspect with you on our next fund drive.”

“I’m sure. So what happened?”

“Well,” Wilson continued with a slight frown, “after the meeting was over and we were getting ready to break up for lunch, someone came in to tell us we had lost a patient.…”

Da Silva’s smile disappeared; sympathy appeared in his eyes. “Lost a patient? Who was he? How did he die?”

Wilson shook his head. “Not that. No. It seems we actually lost a patient.” He spread his hands. “Lost, like the opposite of found.”

“How do you lose a patient?” Da Silva stared at him curiously. “I can’t even see how you could misplace one, with the fabled efficiency of the Americans and English who run Stranger’s Hospital.”

“The operative word there is ‘fabled,’” Wilson explained. “What happened in this particular case was that one of the ambulances was called out on an emergency—a serious appendix case as I understand it—and they picked the man up, all right, and stashed him neatly in the rear, all right; only when they got back to the hospital and went to drag him out—what do you know?” He shrugged humorously. “No patient.”

“No patient?”

“That’s right. I suppose the man became frightened at the thought of having somebody cut into him, and—”

Da Silva frowned across the table. “A man with a bad appendix attack calls an ambulance and then changes his mind halfway to the hospital? A bit unusual, isn’t it?”

“I said it was queer,” Wilson said patiently. “Anyway, that’s the story. He must have gotten out of the ambulance when it stopped for a traffic light, or something.”

Da Silva stared at him and shook his head. “In this downpour? Not to mention the fact that the thought of an ambulance anywhere in the world—but especially in Rio de Janeiro—stopping for a traffic light is ridiculous. Or for anything else, for that matter. The only reason they stop for stone walls is that they haven’t figured out yet how to go through them.” He nodded confidently. “But they will. I’m sure it’s only a question of time.”

“Well,” Wilson said reasonably, “I’m sure he didn’t step out when it was screaming around corners at ninety miles an hour.” He raised his shoulders and smiled. “Or maybe the attendants stopped somewhere for a cafezinho. It wouldn’t surprise me. After all, it was only supposed to be an emergency.”

Da Silva looked at him. “But doesn’t one of the attendants usually ride in back with the patient?”

“Not in weather like this,” Wilson said. “It takes two up front. One to drive and the other to try to keep the windshield wipers going.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. If you want to loan us a good mechanic from the police garage, we’ll accept.”

Da Silva shook his head. “Do the police know about this? I don’t mean your windshield wipers.…”

Wilson nodded. “They know. The police sergeant stationed in the emergency ward was there when the ambulance came back. But I don’t imagine they’ll waste too much time looking for a man who doesn’t want to come to the hospital. We’re busy enough with those that do.” He shrugged lightly. “In any event, we’ll be able to recognize the poor devil when and if we ever do find him.”

“How?”

Wilson grinned. “In this weather? He’ll be the bad appendix case also suffering from double pneumonia.”

“Or flat feet, if he jumped,” Da Silva said dryly, and glanced at his wristwatch. “Good Lord! Look at the hour!” He crushed out his cigarette and began getting to his feet. “Let’s get the check and get out of here. I’ve got a busy afternoon ahead of me.”

“The check?” Wilson stared at him. “We haven’t eaten yet!”

“We haven’t—?” Da Silva slowly settled back into his chair and then turned to wave at a waiter. “We haven’t, have we?” He shook his head, but only half-humorously. “I really will be glad when these O.A.S. meetings are over. If I can’t remember whether or not I’ve eaten, I’m getting in sad shape.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wilson said soothingly, and pushed the bottle of brandy across the table. “Take a drink and relax. It’s easily explained. It’s simply because you’re sitting here with your jacket on. You always put it back on when you’re finished eating and ready to leave, so naturally, finding yourself properly clothed, you automatically assumed—”

“The art of deductive reasoning, eh?” Da Silva said, and grinned.

Wilson shrugged modestly.

“Now, if I were you,” Da Silva said, pouring his glass half full, “I’d save my deductive genius for figuring out why a sick man with a bad appendix would call an ambulance and then jump out of it on the way to a hospital.…” His tone was light, but there was a serious look in his dark eyes.

“Oh, I’ve already done that,” Wilson said airily.

“You have?”

“Of course.” Wilson’s eyes twinkled; he leaned forward confidentially. “I did it while you were pouring that last drink. Actually, the man didn’t get out at all, or at least not of his own volition.”

“I see.” Da Silva nodded. “You mean he was kidnapped.”

“No,” Wilson said. “The way I figure it, the attendants didn’t want to admit they were speeding, but what actually happened was that they took a curve too fast and our patient simply went flying—”

“In this weather?” Da Silva shook his head. “He couldn’t go flying. The runways are closed.”

“Flying without runways. Flying under one’s own power. It has to be.” He looked at Da Silva in a superior manner. “Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” He shrugged modestly. “Just a little thing I coined together with a friend of mine named Doyle.”

He had expected a smile from his friend, but instead Da Silva was looking at him in a curious manner. “The only question, of course,” the tall Brazilian said slowly, “is what is impossible.”

“That’s easy,” Wilson said, and leaned back in his chair. “Your suspicions about the C.I.A. and your friend Dorcas, for instance. Those are impossible.”

Da Silva said nothing; instead his jaw tightened slightly. His hands slid into his jacket pockets; one hand stroked the envelope there. Wilson studied the serious look on his friend’s face and then became equally serious.

“I have a feeling, Zé, that there’s something you’re not telling me.…”

Da Silva’s fingers tightened on the smooth envelope. It had arrived from Salvador de Bahia that morning addressed to the Security Division of the Foreign Office, and had only filtered through the system to arrive at his desk a few moments before he had left for lunch. It had been written in a small angular hand, had been both unsigned and undated. Its message was extremely succinct:

Juan Dorcas will be assassinated at the coming O.A.S. meetings. I leave it to your judgment which nation stands to gain the most by his death.

Da Silva studied his friend’s face evenly.

“I have a feeling,” he said slowly, “that there’s probably a lot neither one of us is telling the other.…” And he turned rather abruptly to give his order to the small waiter standing patiently at their side.