by Shah, R D
At just under six foot Detective Carlos Silva was an intimidating presence, and with his deep husky voice and belligerent temperament Munroe had found himself liking the man instantly upon meeting him. He’d slept the entire flight to Brazil – Sloan had done likewise – and on arriving at São Paulo airport they had been greeted by a contingent from the Brazilian army, who were not happy to see them. Whether it was political, or just worries raised after the attack on Parliament, they had been instructed that one of them was to wait with the C-130 Hercules if the other was to continue. Sloan had not been happy, but even after a phone call to McCitrick the order had stood, and after an intense quarrel between them she had reluctantly agreed to remain with the aircraft. A rented private Learjet had taken Munroe the last few hours to Santa Rosa airport in the deep southern Brazilian forests, and there the uncordial Detective Silva had been waiting for him on the tarmac.
“This is a favour for McCitrick. Don’t expect any pleasantry bullshit, Mr Munroe,” were the first words out of Silva’s mouth, the man clearly not happy at the request he was fulfilling. “Leaving the bodies of woman and children under burnt rubble for over twenty-four hours, just so you can turn up and nose around, is not agreeable to me.”
Munroe empathised, and once they had made the ten-minute drive in Silva’s white Chevrolet Onix, he had finally realised what, apart from the obvious, had the man so riled up. A detachment of army guards had been posted in jeeps around the church, and having to sit there and wait without beginning the retrieval of bodies had them all on edge. It was with this in mind that Munroe now moved quickly, and with a purely professional and dispassionate mindset.
“You mentioned the marking. Where?”
Silva made his way across the charred debris to the nearest corner of the church, careful in his stepping and followed with the same diligence by Munroe, until he reached a single black forearm sticking up through the ash, the fingers stretched out as if reaching for the sky. He lowered down onto his haunches and pointed to it as Munroe joined him.
“Just there.”
It was impossible to even tell if the limb was still connected to a body under all the rubble, and it appeared as if a light tap would cause it to crumble.
Munroe craned his head downwards and squinted at the small marking still visible, its colour offset from the rest of the burnt skin. The fire had destroyed most of it, but he could tell what it was, a maze within a pyramid, identical to the one Kessler had shown him back in Bordeaux, tattooed on his inside arm.
Daedalus.
“Whoever did it must have forced the whole commune inside before setting the place on fire. It would take many men to round them up like this,” Silva said, briefly looking around at the devastation of the former church. “You came a long way to see this, Mr Munroe. I hope it helps.”
“On its own? No.”
“Then perhaps this might.” Silva ushered him back out of the church with a flick of his finger, studiously retracing his steps back to what once was the entrance to the church, and then back out to the main street. “When my men arrived they found a couple of kids hanging around.” Silva clicked his fingers at one of the military guards standing in the doorway of a small house on the opposite side of the street, who swiftly disappeared inside. “They’re from a village a few miles from here, Cândido Godói. They saw the smoke yesterday and were doing some exploring when we arrived.”
“You’ve had them in custody here for twenty-four hours?” Munroe asked, surprised their parents hadn’t already raised the alarm for two children missing for over a day.
Silva waved off the idea and shook his head, looking almost offended. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Munroe, this may be South America but we’re not a dictatorship. I had them brought back before I picked you up at the airport, but what they told us may interest you.”
The guard now emerged from the doorway and behind him two boys were led out, but it wasn’t the anxious, wide-eyed looks on their faces that caught Munroe’s attention, it was their appearance. The children had blonde hair, blue eyes and light skin, and with short, cropped hair they were identical. Wearing matching navy-blue shorts and Manchester United tops the only difference was their height, one being about an inch taller, but they were without doubt twins.
“This is Jose and this is Luiz, they speak English,” Silva announced, pointing to the smaller of the two. “Tell this man what you saw, boys.”
The two kids were looking no less nervous having been introduced, and Munroe knelt down on one knee and smiled at them both. “Hello boys, my name is Ethan, and I’d very much like to know what you saw. Would that be OK?”
The two boys glanced at each other uneasily as Munroe attempted to soothe their nerves, so he pointed to the Manchester United crest embroidered on their shirts. “Great team. I’ve seen them play at Old Trafford.”
The mention of the club’s home ground brought a sparkle of interest from both boys, and the smaller one let slip a smile as Munroe nodded in appreciation.
“You’re not in any trouble, guys. I’m just trying to find out what you saw, and then we’ll get you back to your mum and dad. Sound good?”
A few moments of silence followed, and then the taller one began to talk, any angst in his demeanour evaporating.
“The men were all standing around the bonfire and then they left.”
“Did you see their faces?” Munroe asked, not wanting to dwell on what the two young boys believed to be nothing more than a deliberate fire.
“No,” the boy replied as the smaller one butted in, now seemingly happy to chat away.
“They were wearing army clothes like that,” the boy said, pointing to the guard, who looked unimpressed by the comparison. “We saw where they went. It was to the doctor’s shop.”
“The doctor?”
“He’s a travelling doctor, but he doesn’t come to our village anymore, only here. He helped our mum when she was sick. We told the policeman… can we go now?”
Before Munroe could ask anything else, Silva motioned over to the guard. “Take them home and thank the parents for their cooperation.”
Munroe followed the detective’s lead. “Thanks, boys.”
Both men waited in silence until the children were led over to one of the military jeeps.
“You brought them back to tell me that!” Munroe said, staring over at Silva, who brushed it off with a snort.
“I wanted you to see them with your own eyes. The blonde hair and blue eyes. You must have heard the stories of Cândido Godói?”
“I think I missed that one.”
Silva turned and began making his way back to the white Chevrolet. “Had all the major newspapers down here twenty years ago. Cândido Godói has the highest rate of twins in the world. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed twins. The villagers had a local doctor who’d been offering his services since the fifties, working as a paediatrician. He was involved in most of the pregnancies up until the late sixties. When they were shown a picture of the man they all agreed it was the same person.”
“Who was it?” Munroe asked, already getting the scent of what he was about to hear.
“Josef Mengele, the escaped war criminal. The Nazis’ own angel of death, who experimented on twins in the concentration camps, trying to create the perfect Aryan specimen, and a way for woman to birth twins to bulk up the Nazi war machine.”
Munroe came to a stop at the vehicle’s passenger side as Silva reached down and pulled open the driver’s door before resting his forearms on top of the roof. “The one that got away. He died in 1979, but researchers only discovered his remains in ’85.”
Munroe looked stunned. He’d never heard of it, but then again he had never had an interest in escaped Nazis… until now. “They think he continued his work after the war at Cândido Godói?”
“That was the theory, but after all the press attention the whole village clammed up. They’ve spent decades trying to explain it away as anything other than the last experiments of Mengele. C
hrist, they even went as far as to say the twin rate is a result of inbreeding. Rather the village was known for incest than the remnants of the Third Reich’s experiments. Can you blame them?”
Silva slid his hands off the roof and then dropped into his seat as Munroe opened his own door and did likewise. “So where’s the doctor’s shop the boys mentioned? That’s where we’re going, isn’t it?”
Silva nodded and turned on the engine before dropping the Chevrolet into first gear and slowly began heading down the main street. “I had the boys take me to it yesterday, just a few miles from here. I’ve had guards placed outside it since then and believe me, it’s not a shop.”
“What is it then?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Our mutual friend McCitrick asked me not to go in until you arrived, and I’ve honoured that.” Silva glanced over at him and smiled. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. I’m extremely curious, but I owe John, and besides, he’s got a sixth sense when it comes to people keeping their word. Something I know well from experience.”
As the car made its way down the dusty red trail Munroe had to agree. He’d only known the man for a short time, but it was long enough to know the DS5 chief was a wily old bastard, and not a man to cross. “Any leads on who the doctor is?”
“That I do know.” The car’s front wheel hit a deep pothole in the road, roughly bouncing them both about as the detective cursed. “Fucking roads are shit out here. This whole area is so isolated.”
“Good place to go unnoticed, though,” Munroe noted as they hit another pothole, sending a heavy thud rippling through the vehicle’s chassis. “Probably why the doctor chose it. So you were saying.”
Silva navigated another dip and then returned to the question in hand. “The land is owned by a Dr Manuel Ferreira, all seven acres of it.”
“Have you spoken to him yet?”
“No, and I’m not going to. His residence was found burnt to the ground a few days ago. Haven’t found a body yet, but if it’s there, we will.”
Munroe said nothing, but the look on his face had Silva glancing at him irritably. “Things work slower down here in Brazil, Mr Munroe, but either way it appears that whoever has their hand in this is cutting all ties and attempting to erase whatever’s been going on.”
It took them no more than five minutes to reach their destination, but black storm clouds were already starting to gather overhead. As the white Chevrolet entered the open steel-gated driveway, Munroe could see why Silva had been sure it wasn’t a shop. The entire front of the property was guarded by a six-foot-high border, made up of rusting corrugated sheets, denying a view from the dirt road, and as they entered the central driveway the brown wilted lawns on either side offered only a hint of the lush grounds that must have once been here. At the end stood an impressive multi-floored white stone building, and Munroe couldn’t help but get the feeling of déjà vu. The building looked so out of place in this isolated Brazilian suburb, more like a Scottish castle without the turrets, the kind he had visited as a boy.
Parked out on the moss-stained gravel in front of the building’s double front doors was a military jeep, and the two occupant soldiers were already getting out to greet them.
“Any problems?” Silva asked as Munroe joined him.
Both guards only shook their heads, looking bored with their assignment “No, sir. Nothing.”
“Good. Stay here. We’re going inside.”
The first guard simply nodded his head and tapped his finger against the IMBEL IA2 machine gun hanging from the strap around his neck. Silva made his way up to the front door and with a light nudge of his fist pushed it open.
“It wasn’t locked?” Munroe asked, and Silva shook his head.
“But I assure you no one has been inside yet.”
With a wary nod, Munroe pulled out a small black Maglite torch from his coat pocket and clicked it on before cautiously making his way past Silva and into the gloomy abyss of the run-down building, his free hand resting on the gun still in his hip holster.
The dead leaves scattered across the white cracked marble flooring and water-stained walls suggested the abandonment of the building had occurred many years ago. The interior’s prime had long since passed, and as Munroe moved his torch beam across the walls he came to a stop at a wide central staircase leading upwards to a small arched window, before it split off to both the left and right and then on to the upper floor. About halfway up, rubble from the desiccated ceiling above had collapsed, blocking entry, and as Munroe now scoped the walls with his torchlight he found only dark rectangular stains where oversized paintings had once hung.
“Cosy,” Silva remarked as he appeared behind Munroe, shining his own torch across the dilapidated surroundings. “Whoever used to live here is long gone.”
Munroe said nothing and moved further inside as outside the sound of thunder grumbled in the distance and a flash of lightning momentarily lit up the interior before plunging the room back into gloom. The usually sunny Brazilian weather was quickly becoming darkly overcast, and with only the small central staircase window for light the torches were more a necessity than a luxury.
The fleeting illumination had revealed something that caught Munroe’s eye, and he trained his torchlight on an open doorway to the left of the staircase. Without a word he moved over to it as the scattered brown leaves crunched beneath his feet.
The door had collapsed inwards, and as Munroe craned his head past the rotted doorframe he shone his torch inside to reveal a set of peeling wooden steps leading downwards to a lower level.
“We’ll start down here and work our way up, if we can get past that staircase,” Munroe said, quietly now, drawing his gun from its holster as a purely precautionary measure.
Silva did likewise, and with a nod they began to move downwards into the depths of the lower level, the stale smell in the air becoming stronger with every step.
The descent was brief, the staircase short, and at the bottom it opened out into a central corridor off to the left. The once-fine green fabric wallpaper hung ripped and soiled with dark stains, but the thick red carpet looked remarkably untouched by the elements. As Munroe headed down the short narrow passageway he sniffed at the potent stale, musty odour hanging in the air.
At its end stood a single white metal door peppered with rust marks, and after a glance back at Silva Munroe reached for the handle and pushed his way inside. The door swung back effortlessly and even though the rest of place, so far, had been left to rot, Munroe noted that the door hinges had been kept well-oiled. With his gun raised to his chest, he ventured inside and explored the area before him with his torchlight.
The central room was large, with long dusty benches set against the walls and with a large table in the middle. It appeared to act as a reception area, as on either side of the room further corridors ran off, creating separate wings that disappeared into the darkness.
Munroe scanned his torchlight across the cracked white tiled walls and as Silva moved beside him he brought the beam to a rest on a white switch which the detective stepped over to and clicked upwards.
Above them strip lights flickered into life, and one by one the connecting corridors lit up in an incandescent yellow glow, revealing the level’s true size. Each of the corridors must have run close to a hundred metres in each direction, and connecting doorways lined the walls leading off to adjoining areas.
“This place is huge,” Silva remarked as Munroe made his way over to the left side corridor and stared down it.
“I’ll take this one,” he said before motioning to the opposite side. “You take that, and shout if you find anything.”
For a man who exuded toughness, Silva briefly hesitated before offering a nod and then carefully made his way down the passage as Munroe began heading in the opposite direction. It was impossible to say at a glance what the purpose of this place was, but he noticed that beside some of the doors were large windows, and so he headed to the nearest one first.
The doors he passed all had black numbers stencilled on them, ‘A1, B2, C1’, and nothing more than that, just reference numbers. As he reached the first window he looked in and felt an unsettling chill run through him of the type he’d not experienced in a while. Rows of desks bolted together sat before a metal counter at the far end of the room, and it was their size that caught his attention. They were for children.
On the walls hung posters one would expect to see in a classroom, except these didn’t show images of the solar system or farmyard animals. Instead they showed images of the human anatomy, pressure points, and on one was a diagram of a person slitting a man’s throat from ear to ear, with dotted lines indicating the perfect entry point. In that moment Munroe knew exactly what he was looking at, and it unnerved him. This was a training ground, a place to indoctrinate young minds. A place to produce killers to serve their masters, and he had no doubt Icarus had at one time graced these halls… this was his home.
Munroe now gazed up at the symbol emblazoned on the wall behind the teacher’s desk, and it only confirmed what he already knew. The artwork had peeled in some places but he could still make it out. It was a symbol he was becoming all too familiar with. A maze, contained within a triangle leading to a central point, a black sun emanating its dark rays outwards.
Daedalus, the master race at play.
“Munroe.” Silva’s voice echoed down the corridor and he snapped out of his trance immediately and headed back to the main reception area. As he passed the other doors he could only imagine how huge this operation was in scope, and given its size how many kids had been here over the years. The notion of what must have happened here had him feeling twitchy. Of course the idea of kids being trained to be killers from birth was obviously unsettling, but there was something more to it, like a feeling of helplessness. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.
“Munroe,” Silva shouted for a second time, appearing from a doorway further up the opposite corridor. As Munroe reached him he could see the angry look of disgust on the detective’s face. “You need to see this.”