Four

The storm, with brief interludes, racked the area for another three days and then—apparently deciding it had scrubbed Rio’s craggy face enough and that the spectacular city was now presentable for her auspicious Inter-American visitors—abruptly moved off to the north to attempt the same tactics with Belo Horizonte. Its place was immediately taken by a battery of street cleaners, who fought the debris of mud, broken orange crates, and discarded construction lumber that had washed down from the favelas above and lodged against the seawalls, covering the patterned mosaic sidewalks of most low-lying streets. True, the street cleaners concentrated their efforts entirely on that portion of the city which the O.A.S. delegates were most likely to visit, but only because this was the most logical thing to do. After all, why accustom the Carioca to clean boulevards and debris-free avenues when he would only litter them again in a short time? Besides, under that burning tropical sun the mud would soon be transposed to dust and presumably blown away; and the orange crates and lumber would be snatched back by the slum-dwellers long before the attendants of the cleaning trucks could arrive to commandeer those valuable items for themselves.

Mr. Wilson, driving home that Friday evening from the American Embassy after a particularly frustrating and unproductive day, came through the tunnel that led from Botofogo into Copacabana, swung from the Avenida Princesa Isabel into the Avenida Atlântica, and then hastily braked to avoid running into the bottleneck of traffic that stretched ahead of him as far as he could see. He shifted to neutral to preserve the worn transmission of his five-year-old car, and swayed in jerky rhythm with his asthmatic motor, trying to let the soft evening breeze and the always pleasant sight of the sea pulsing under the full tropical moon wash away the aggravations he had been forced to suffer that day.

To begin with, a stenotypist brought down early from Washington to ensure accurate and unbiased transcriptions of the forthcoming O.A.S. conferences, had occupied two hours of his afternoon by tearfully insisting that she had been pinched on the street by—of all things—a native! It had taken Wilson the greater portion of this wasted time trying to understand why anyone would want to so flatter the woman, and the balance to assure her with a straight face that it undoubtedly was part of a sinister campaign aimed at rattling the nerves of stateside stenotypists, and that she could best serve the interests of her country by pretending to overlook the incident. And she had been followed by a rotund businessman from Zenia, Ohio, who had maintained a bit angrily that when any hostelry of the advertised eminence of the Hotel Miracopa failed to provide water for a guest of his importance, it could only be because they wished to insult citizens of the United States, and just exactly what was the Security Officer going to do about it?

The line of traffic on the Avenida Atlântica edged forward a bit and then, startled by its own temerity, instantly subsided again. Wilson braked automatically, sighed, and from force of habit raised his eyes to the window of an apartment building on the further corner of the next block. To his surprise a light shone at the familiar upper-floor window, which suggested to him that either his rather explosive friend Captain Da Silva was unaccountably at home, or that the apartment was being ransacked by some exceptionally careless thieves. On the slim chance that the former situation obtained, he angled for the curb in search of a parking place. He had nothing planned for the evening and possibly he could have dinner with his old friend. Or even if Da Silva were busy, a drink would still ease some of the tensions of the day and pass time until traffic subsided.

He managed a location between a no-parking sign and a fire hydrant, locked the car, crossed the wide sidewalk and tramped up the five steps that led to the building lobby. The automatic elevator carried him jerkily to the proper floor; he walked down the tiled corridor and leaned on the bell. There was a long wait, sufficient to make him wonder if, perhaps, his second premise might not have been the correct one, and then at last the door swung back. Da Silva, draped in a towel and dripping freely, stared at him a moment and then stood aside, gesturing his welcome with a tilt of his head.

“Hi. Come on in.” He stepped back, dragging the towel about himself a bit more securely. “You caught me in the shower. Have a drink while I get dressed.” He moved toward an inner door. “I just came home for a breather. I have to get back downtown again.”

Wilson nodded, wandered over to the bar, brought forth a bottle and two glasses, and proceeded to fill them generously. He raised his voice to carry into the next room. “Too bad; I was hoping we could eat together.” His tone became curious. “Exactly how many hours are you working these days, Zé?”

Da Silva answered from the bedroom. “These days? Twenty-six. Or maybe twenty-eight and they go so fast they only seem like twenty-six. It could also be thirty—I never was very good at arithmetic.” He came back into the room in his shorts, carrying trousers and a shirt, and pulled them on. A wall mirror allowed him to comb his thick curly hair into a relative semblance of order. He padded to the bar, still barefooted, and accepted the glass Wilson had provided for him. He winked at the nondescript man in a congenial manner, raised the glass in a small gesture of appreciation, and then drank. He put down his glass, smiling gratefully.

“That’s better. I’ve been so busy the last few days I haven’t even had time for my normal drinking. Or even for my abnormal drinking. It’s a good thing you came along to handle the bar chores.”

“Any time,” Wilson said magnanimously. He carried his glass to the coffee table and dropped into a low chair while Da Silva returned to the bedroom for his shoes and socks. The barefooted man came back, retrieved his glass from the bar, and then sat down opposite Wilson to finish dressing. Wilson took a small sip of his drink and studied his friend with a faint smile.

“Why the long hours, Zé? It’s quite un-Brazilian, you realize. You might start a trend that could cause you to become the most hated man in the country, if it were ever traced to you, that is.” Another possibility seemed to strike him. “Or is it simply that you’ve become curious as to how we working folks live?”

Da Silva looked up, affronted. His heavy black eyebrows rose dramatically. “This from an officer of the American Embassy? Whose hours begin at noon and end at one P.M., during which time they are permitted to go out for lunch? And are given PX privileges as a reward for this extraordinary devotion to duty? Please!”

“I’m serious.” Wilson’s smile faded. “Why do you have to go back to work tonight? You look worn out.”

“Don’t let it fool you,” Da Silva said, and grinned. “It’s only a disguise. Behind this façade of weariness lies utter exhaustion.” His grin was interrupted by a sudden and deep yawn. He shook his head. “I guess I’m so tired I don’t even make good nonsense.”

Wilson studied him. “So why go back? Is there anything special on the fire?”

Da Silva looked at him a moment curiously, and then shook his head. “Nothing special. It’s just that the O.A.S. meeting will start before we know it, and we still have a lot of checking to do.”

“And they couldn’t do it without you?”

“Let’s say I’d hate to think so. I’m too old to look for another job.” Da Silva bent forward, studying his large shoes, wondering what there was about them that bothered him. The solution came to him; he leaned over, completed tying the laces, and then fell back again in his chair. “There’s still a lot to do. We heard today that our mutual friend Juan Dorcas will be arriving with his retinue in a few days; he’s been out of Argentina for the past month or two on a vacation or something, but he’s expected back, and he’ll be here, so naturally—”

“Traveling? Where?”

Da Silva stared at him sardonically. “Why don’t you ask that question of your head office? I’m quite sure you’ve had a man on his tail ever since he left.”

“And I’m quite sure we haven’t.” Wilson shook his head hopelessly. “You’re really stubborn. And still looking under the rug for some of our big, bad C.I.A. agents.…”

Da Silva grinned. “If you’re an example, I don’t suppose they have to be particularly big. And as far as being bad is concerned, I’m sure they’re all very sweet to their mothers.” His grin faded abruptly. “In any event, Dorcas will be here in a few days, and I want to be sure that no misguided patriot—of any country, including you-know-who—decides to violate our hospitality by doing anything foolish.”

Wilson sighed. It was obvious that nothing he could say could convince Da Silva he was wrong. “And how’s it been going so far?”

Da Silva shrugged. He reached into the inlaid box on the table, extracted a cigarette, and lit it, shaking the match out almost absentmindedly. “Oh, we’ve picked up a few people I’m glad will be behind bars during the meetings. If for no other reason than that I won’t have to worry about them. And, of course, we also have a fair bag of known pickpockets down at the Delegacia.” He paused a moment, thinking about his last statement, and then grinned widely. “Which is a bit foolish on our part, when you stop to think about it.”

“Foolish?”

“Certainly.” Da Silva sat up a bit, his normal puckish humor returning. “With all the foreign visitors we’re going to have in Rio in the next week, these light-fingered boys we’ve got locked up could be bringing in some of that foreign exchange our country needs so desperately. And just think”—he brought one strong finger up abruptly for emphasis—“if they held these meetings in a different country each year, and if the local pickpockets were given proper latitude and even encouragement, in a short time the entire problem of foreign exchange for all of Latin America might be solved.”

“But that would mean having more meetings,” Wilson objected. “I thought the other day we’d decided on doing away with meetings and using closed television instead.”

“Only after our budgets are balanced,” Da Silva said. “Once that’s accomplished we could do away with these O.A.S. meetings altogether.”

“You know, that’s really not a bad idea at all,” Wilson said approvingly. He pretended to think about it. “We could disband the diplomatic corps completely, and replace them all with skilled pickpockets—”

Da Silva’s bushy eyebrows shot up in shock. “What do you mean ‘we,’ American? Whose pockets do you think are going to have to be picked if this idea of mine is going to work?” He started to smile but ended up with a cavernous yawn instead.

Wilson’s lighthearted manner disappeared. “Really, Zé; how important is this checkup tonight? You’re beat. You need rest.”

“How important?” Da Silva crushed out his cigarette and remained staring at the ashtray as if seeking some answer there. His eyes came up, studying Wilson. “You never know if you don’t do it. But this much I’ll say—for the information of any interested parties—we’re going all out on this, and anyone with any odd ideas would be well advised to reconsider them. Because we’re checking out every building between the Hotel Gloria and the Municipal, and we also intend to hit every hotel and any other potential trouble spot.” He shook his head. “It’s amazing how many alleys and windows and doorways and rooftops there are in a city this size. You don’t really give it much thought until you have the job of making sure none of them are dangerous.”

Wilson was regarding him stonily. “I assume you consider you’ve given me a message?”

Da Silva looked surprised. “You? As a matter of fact, I’ve thought for a long time that this apartment might be bugged; my message was for anyone who might be listening.”

He pulled himself to his feet and reached for his jacket, hanging from the back of a chair. He shrugged himself into it, waited until Wilson was ready, and walked with him to the door.

“All right,” Wilson said quietly. “There’s no sense arguing with you. But you’d be ahead of the game by getting some sleep tonight, instead.”

“Sleep?” Da Silva looked at him curiously. “When I get tired I’m afraid my English suffers. What is this word ‘sleep’?”

“It’s what I’m going home to get plenty of,” Wilson said. “It’s also the excuse for saying my prayers first, which will give me a chance to pray that you come to your senses about the C.I.A. And also,” he added, considering, “a chance to pray that I don’t have another day like I had today.” He considered his companion critically. “It’s also something you need badly.”

Da Silva reached for the doorknob. “What I badly need,” he said seriously, “is for these meetings to end and for all of the delegates to go back home. Preferably in one piece.…”

Whatever prayers Wilson offered, or to Whomever he offered them, it was apparent the following Monday morning that at least a portion of them had not been answered. The small businessman from Zenia, Ohio, was back in his office at the American Embassy at nine o’clock sharp, and the patient Security Officer was doing his best to demonstrate interest in his visitor’s latest complaint.

It appeared that the Hotel Miracopa not only insulted its American guests by failing to provide water for their necessities, but it went much further. Either the telephone operators did not speak English, which was surely a studied slight to the many Americans staying there; or else (as the rotund man from Zenia truly suspected) they actually did speak English but pretended not to, which certainly posed an even more suspicious circumstance. Lost in the limbo of this Laocoönian logic, Mr. Wilson could only manage to nod in an interested manner at regular intervals, and wonder if his entire day was going to be decimated in this same pointless fashion. One good thing, of course, was that no native had pinched the small man from Zenia.

The telephone at his elbow suddenly rang, temporarily saving him from the inevitable question as to what was he going to do about it. Wilson picked the instrument from its cradle, doing his best to appear casual, and not like a drowning man reaching for a drifting life-raft. He shrugged his apologies for the interruption, cutting off the high nasal voice, and turned his attention to the telephone.

“Hello? Yes?”

His secretary answered from her desk in the outer office. “Hi, boss. Do you want to be saved?”

“Profoundly,” Wilson said, and thanked the Lord he had been smart enough to pick Mary as a secretary over those more shapely—and even more secretarially talented—applicants.

“Then you’re in. It’s Dona Ilesia from the Stranger’s Hospital. Crisis number one for the day has just struck. She wonders if you might be free to discuss it with her.”

“Free,” Wilson said wholeheartedly, “and deeply grateful. Put her on.”

He cupped the receiver and smiled in a pained fashion at his guest. “I’m sorry, but this shouldn’t take too long.”

The businessman subsided grumpily, resisting with effort the temptation of speaking his mind. Cavalier treatment, it seemed, was not limited to the local hotels. After all, if an American citizen couldn’t receive priority at his own embassy, it clearly seemed to be a situation about which something should be done.

There was a loud click as the call was transferred through the switchboard; the hospital supervisor’s voice came on the line. She sounded a bit nervous. “Senhor Wilson?”

“Falando. Que posso fazer p’ra Senhora?”

His visitor’s eyebrows shot up in evident alarm; he seemed to find it highly irregular—if not actually subversive—to have an American official speak in a foreign language, especially in the haloed precincts of the Embassy itself. Somebody, his glare said, was certainly going to hear about this! Wilson, reading the other’s mind, felt a twinge of pity for the Ambassador, and bit back a smile.

At the other end of the line, Dona Ilesia hesitated uncertainly; when she finally spoke, her voice was troubled. “I dislike bothering you, Senhor Wilson, but I honestly don’t know what to do. The Air Force has been through to me twice this morning, once when I first came in and again just a few minutes ago. About this sailor—”

Wilson frowned at the telephone, his good spirits waning. Had he been interrupted in the middle of one idiotic conversation only to fall into another? It would be quite unusual, since Dona Ilesia was normally the most level-headed of women, but on a day like today, anything was possible.

“The Air Force? About a sailor?” He stared at the instrument in his hand with a puzzled expression. “What does the Air Force have to do with sailors?” His tone implied that he would also like to know what the whole thing, or even any part of it, had to do with him.

“You don’t understand, Senhor Wilson.” Dona Ilesia took a deep breath and tried again. “The captain of this ship, this freighter Santa Eugenia, has cabled them from Montevideo asking how his steward is getting along. And naturally they called me. Twice. And I don’t know what to tell them.”

Wilson shook his head as if to clear it of fog, or the effects of too much liquor. “And you’re quite right, Dona Ilesia—”

“Quite right? About what, Senhor Wilson?”

“About my not understanding.” He clenched the receiver tightly, trying to make some sense of her words. “Since the hospital is involved somehow, the only thing I can imagine is that this sailor you’re talking about was, or is, a patient. I still don’t see where the Air Force comes into it, or why the captain of this freighter didn’t cable the hospital directly to find out about his man—”

“Because he wouldn’t know which hospital had him. I mean, which hospital the Sea Rescue Squad would send the man to, once they got him to land. After all, there are over twenty hospitals in Rio. They might have sent him to—”

“Ah!” Wilson drew a deep breath and smiled as the pieces of the mystery began to fall into place. He felt justifiably proud of having managed to make sense from the garbled clues he had been furnished. “Now I think I see what happened. You’re saying the Sea Rescue Squad took a sick sailor from this ship and then sent him to us; or rather, to you. And now his captain has arrived at his next port, and being the humanitarian he is, wants to know how he’s getting along. Actually,” he added, thinking about it, “not an unreasonable request. So what’s the problem?”

“But—”

“Ah!” Wilson said, going further in his analysis. “You’re worried about security, and whether it’s involved. What nationality was this ship?”

“Portuguese, but—”

“Portuguese, eh? Not Russian, eh? Well, in that case tell them what they want to know.”

“But I can’t tell them!” Dona Ilesia was almost wailing. “You still don’t understand, Senhor Wilson! He never got to the hospital. He’s the one that disappeared from our ambulance.” Her voice changed subtly, becoming slightly accusing, as if in this manner to somehow share the blame. “You should remember, Senhor Wilson. You were there when I came into the Trustees’ meeting and told you all about it.”

“Oh? Ah! So that’s the one, eh? I see.…” At long last the thing made sense. Why hadn’t the woman given him all the facts in the first place? He thought about the problem a moment and then nodded. “Well, I can see your problem. It’s a bit embarrassing, of course, but I suppose we can’t exactly keep it a secret. At any rate, no longer. Well, we’ll simply have to tell them the man never got to the hospital. I don’t see how they can hold us accountable in any way; he obviously got out of the ambulance of his own volition. So tell them …” He paused, frowning at his desk, trying to frame a possible answer in properly diplomatic language.

“Tell them what, Senhor Wilson?”

“I’m thinking. Let me see … Tell them that this sailor—”

The expression on his face suddenly froze as the full import of the supervisor’s words came to him. His eyes came up to stare at the wall opposite, without seeing either its poor paint job or the modernistic daub selected by the Ambassador’s wife. A sailor? Taken from a ship at sea by the Sea Rescue Squad? Brought to land and placed in an ambulance without the blessings of either the police or Immigration? And then conveniently disappearing from the vehicle?

“Senhor Wilson? Are you there? You were saying?”

He came to life, his mind still racing. One hand tightened convulsively on the telephone receiver while the other reached swiftly for a pencil and then dragged a lined pad into place before him. “Don’t tell them a thing!” He realized his voice had risen and forced it lower. “Don’t tell them anything. I’ll handle the entire matter.” He lifted the pencil and lowered his voice even further, trying to sound noncommittal. “Now, who called you from the Air Force?”

“A certain—One moment, please. I have it written down.” There was a brief pause. “Here it is. A Major Barbosa, from the Sea Rescue Squad. Their offices are at the military base, across from Galeão Airport. Would you like their telephone number?”

“Please.” Wilson scrawled it down and then underlined it sharply. He thought a moment, shook his head, then nodded, and finally returned his attention to the telephone. “And the sailor’s name?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have it. This Major Barbosa didn’t—”

“All right. Don’t worry about it; it’s not important. What was the name of the ship’s captain; the one that called—or cabled, rather? And the name of the ship again?”

Dona Ilesia sounded even more apologetic, particularly in view of Mr. Wilson’s readiness to assist. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have the captain’s name either. But”—her voice brightened—“I remember the ship was called the Santa Eugenia. They couldn’t stop at Rio because of the storm, but now that they’ve docked at Montevideo, the captain—I wish I could remember his name!—naturally wanted to know—”

“Naturally,” Wilson said, cutting smoothly into the flow of words. He stared at his pad, wondering what other information he might elicit, and then decided he had gotten all he could get from the hospital supervisor. “I think that’s all I’ll need, then. I’ll take care of everything. And thank you.”

“I owe you the thanks, Senhor Wilson. I really appreciate this.” Dona Ilesia’s relief was clear in her voice. “I honestly didn’t know what to tell this major. As you know, this is the first time in the history of Stranger’s Hospital that anything like—”

“I’m sure,” Wilson said hastily. “And thank you again.”

But Dona Ilesia was not finished. “—this ever happened. I hated to bother you, because I know how busy a man like you must be, especially working at the American Embassy, but I tried to reach Senhor Weldon first, and they told me he was out at Gavea playing golf.”

“He usually is,” Wilson said idly, and then realized that this was no way to break off a conversation. He cleared his throat authoritatively. “Just don’t worry about a thing, Dona Ilesia. That’s what trustees are for.” And at long last we know what they’re for, he said to himself, and placed the receiver firmly back on its cradle.

He swiveled his chair and stared at the wall in deep concentration, reviewing the facts she had given him. A sailor taken by helicopter from a ship in mid-ocean, brought to shore and delivered to an ambulance.… The whole thing, of course, might be exactly what it purported to be, a foreign sailor suffering from a bad appendix who panicked at the thought of being operated on in a strange place by strange doctors. On the other hand, there was also the chance that it was not. And in any event, the proper man to get in touch with under the circumstances would be his old friend Captain Zé Da Silva.

He reached for the telephone again and then became aware that he was not alone. The gentleman from Zenia, Ohio, was clearing his throat in a manner that clearly indicated his resentment at being disregarded. Wilson flashed him a rueful smile to calm him, erased it immediately, and lifted the receiver.

“Mary, would you please get Captain Da Silva?”

“You mean that beautiful hunk of man? Get him? I’d love to, boss, but he—”

“On the telephone, Mary! And we can discuss your problems some other time.”

“Well, all right.…”

He sat waiting impatiently, his fingers drumming restlessly on the desk. The man across from him glowered at this continued rudeness, but Wilson paid him no attention. One smile was enough, especially with a nuisance like this one. At last the instrument gave him the connection he wanted and he took over from his secretary, leaning over his desk and speaking with intensity.

“Zé? This is Wilson. I—”

“Wilson?” At the other end of the line, Da Silva leaned back in his desk chair and smiled genially at the telephone. An assistant, waiting at his side with a pile of reports, was waved to wait. A conversation with his American friend was always relaxing, and after the stack of reports he had gone through that morning, a little relaxation would be welcome. Besides, a conversation with any member of the American Embassy staff at the present might also prove fruitful. “How are you? What’s on your mind?”

“It’s—” Wilson glanced across his desk and then dropped into Portuguese. “It’s something I’d rather not discuss on the telephone. But it might be very important. How about dropping your work awhile and meeting me some place?”

Da Silva glanced at the wall clock in his office, made an addition of ten minutes for its normal error, and frowned. He had always thought the police department had purchased the clock at an auction from an old English pub. “Can it wait until lunch? I think I can break away for awhile around noon. We can meet at Santos Dumont. Same place, same time.”

“Unfortunately, the same food.” Wilson stared at the instrument. “I’d really like to make it sooner. Or wait! That might be even better. It will give me time to do some checking.”

“Checking? On what?”

“On disapproving one of your wild theories about one of the organizations I belong to.”

Da Silva grinned at the telephone. “I’m sometimes wild, but my theories never are. Take all the time you want, and I wish you the best of luck. I’ll see you at noon.”

“All right,” Wilson said, “but this time you’ll have to break all your rules and be prompt. I think I’ve run across something that might be very interesting. And very hot.”

“Is she anyone I know?”

“I’m serious. Be prompt.”

“I’m always prompt.” Da Silva considered his words and then made a concession. “However, today I’ll be even prompter. How’s that?”

“That’s fine. Let’s also hope it’s true. I’ll see you at noon, then. Ciao.”

He depressed the button of the telephone in preparation for making another call, and then became aware that his visitor by now was glaring at him in full-blown anger, and even beginning to sputter. Wilson sighed and withdrew his hand from the instrument.

“I’m sorry, Mr.—er—um; I’m sorry, sir, but something quite important has come up. I’m afraid I’m going to be tied up for awhile.” A better solution to the problem occurred to him. “Tell me, sir, how much longer do you plan on being in Rio?”

“Only two days more.” It was almost a bark.

“Oh? Ah, fine! I mean, we might still be able to find time to discuss the matter. Why not give all the information to my secretary? I’ll call her.” He clicked the button several times and then spoke into the instrument. A moment later Mary appeared in the doorway, glancing sympathetically at her boss. Wilson rose to his feet.

“Mary, this is Mr.—um—this is a gentleman from Ohio who would like to give you some notes regarding a problem of some sort at the Miracopa Hotel. I wonder if you might—”

“Of course, Mr. Wilson.”

“Thank you.” Wilson held his hand out to his guest; the businessman from Zenia barely touched it. Wilson smiled. “It’s been a great pleasure, sir. Always pleased to be of assistance to a fellow American. What we’re here for, actually. I’m sorry we couldn’t chat longer.”

His visitor merely growled deep in his throat.

“And have a good trip home, sir. Good-bye.”

Mary took the small man gently but firmly by the arm and led him from the room. Wilson’s forced smile disappeared the minute the door closed on the disgruntled gentleman from Ohio, and he dropped back into his chair, reaching for the telephone again. Good God! What was the man’s complaint? That the telephone operators at the Miracopa Hotel didn’t speak English? Wilson tried to picture a Brazilian complaining to his consulate in New York that the help at the Statler didn’t speak Portuguese, and then wiped the incident from his mind. He clicked the button.

“Mary? Put me on an outside line and tell the operator there will be a series of overseas priority calls. And they have to be completed fast.” A faint smile spread across his face. “I have a luncheon date with your dream man, Captain Da Silva, and I’d hate to be late.…”