“Senhor?”
“Flight 906,” Wilson said politely. “Is it on time?”
The clerk smiled happily; it made him look quite cherubic. He was obviously pleased to be faced with a question so easily answered, and also to have his opinion of the innocuousness of the man across from him confirmed so soon. “No,” he said with simple dignity, and prepared to return to his reports once again.
“But when I telephoned from home an hour ago, they assured me it was on schedule.” The look of startled incredulity that crossed the clerk’s face instantly silenced this pointless line of endeavor. Wilson sighed and tried another approach. “May one inquire when the flight will arrive?”
The clerk took pity on this innocent who believed the wild stories handed out by the airline personnel. “In another hour,” he said in a kindly tone, and then ruined the entire effect of benevolence by adding in a patently satisfied tone of voice, “Unless, of course, it should happen to be further delayed.”
“Thank you,” Wilson said helplessly, and wandered away from the desk. It appeared that he could have slept another hour at the least, unless, of course, the plane should be even further delayed, in which case he could have slept even longer. Ah, well, he thought, attempting to put a philosophical face on the matter, it’s a small sacrifice to make for Jimmy Martin, and one he would certainly make for you. After all, he was your best friend in the army, and he saved your life once, and you haven’t seen him or heard from him for over six years. So don’t complain about a minor inconvenience—just be grateful you didn’t leave your comfortable bed at this monstrous hour to meet somebody you don’t even like.
The idea went a long way toward restoring his usual good humor; he smiled faintly and looked about him. With the hour to spare, he might as well see if he could get something edible for breakfast in the place. Jimmy, without a doubt, would have eaten on the plane; in his dash for the airport Wilson had been forced to forgo food.
He crossed the empty lobby and mounted the wide staircase leading to the restaurant-bar that occupied the second floor of the building, paused as always to admire the tile mural at the entrance, and then pushed through the swinging doors to the huge dining room. At that hour of the morning the room was deserted except for a waiter adding water to the freshly squeezed orange juice back of the bar. It struck Wilson that the place looked like an exaggerated display of napery and cutlery set up in some department-store section, magnified as if seen through countless mirrors. The thought of jarring that pristine symmetry was suddenly alien, and on an impulse he threaded his way through the silent room to the door at the far side, opened it and went out to the broad balcony beyond.
The sun, an even earlier riser than Wilson, was well above the horizon on this early summer morning, and the day was already beginning to demonstrate the effect of its efforts. A faint puff of cooling breeze from the high range of jagged mountains rising in blue-shadowed majesty to the north fought a losing battle with the sultry heat swirling up from the concrete runways and asphalt aprons. Wilson loosened his necktie and leaned against the low railing of Spanish tile, drinking in the sight. His four years in Brazil had not lessened his enchantment with the magnificent view of Guanabara Bay, separating the towering cliffs of Rio from the rolling hills of Niterói; he scanned the exotic panorama with that proud feeling of personal possession that Rio de Janeiro instills in all who are fortunate enough to know her. The sight of the Cidade Universitário building on the island to the south blended in with the airport buildings in the foreground, a promise of modernity in a beauty as old as the earth. Wilson sighed and straightened up, glancing at his watch. He would have liked to stay longer, but after all, Jimmy’s plane would eventually arrive, and Wilson had no illusion that the restaurant service would be any speedier just because he was the only customer.
He was turning to leave when a movement on the black asphalt apron below suddenly caught his eye and he paused to peer downward with a frown. A chocolate-brown police car with a complement of four armed guards swaying in unison on the parallel seats in the rear had pulled through the gate leading to the field and was slowly twisting its way past the gaunt aluminum frames of portable stairways that lined the Varig section of the landing area. It swung about and braked to a halt; the men on the open section behind remained seated, their rifles posted firmly between their high boots. Their helmets with the wide white bands painted on them gave the group the sinister appearance of robots. Wilson’s eyebrows raised slightly. Some poor soul, it appeared, was about to be instructed in the folly of illegality. Wilson stared down for a moment longer and then turned away with a shrug. Today, he thought, I’m here on pleasure and not on business; let someone else worry about police business today—and particularly Brazilian police business.
He pushed back into the dining room once again, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him, and took a seat at a table which allowed him to face the large windows in the direction in which Jimmy’s plane would eventually appear. The waiter behind the bar put aside his jar of orange juice and padded over. He listened politely to the order, nodding his head from time to time to denote his complete agreement with the choice, and then disappeared. Wilson reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing Jimmy’s letter, prepared to pass the time by reading it once again.
DEAR WILSON,
You are a lucky bastard. Here I always figured you for the original hard-luck guy of all time, but now, out of nowhere, you are about to get the break of a lifetime—a visit from me. Don’t ask me how it happened, because it would take too long to tell, and besides, we’ll need something to talk about between drinks, and it might as well be the story of our lives since we last saw each other, or some other assorted lies.
I can say, though, that you will undoubtedly be amazed to learn that since I last saw you, life has finally decided to quit spitting in my eye. You probably figured me for a permanent post on the breadline, and I wouldn’t have argued with you; but instead, here I am a rising young executive (or anyway, a rising middle-aged executive), paying my rent right on time, engaged to be married to a gorgeous chunk of woman, and with prospects, my friend. By the way, that engagement is supposed to be secret—though I don’t know who you’ll tell about it, anyway.
What else do I have? Well, I’ve got a valid passport, a visa for Brazil, and a ticket in my poke that says (if I can read the lousy penmanship of that jerky agent) Rio de Janeiro, Varig Flight 906, arriving on December 18th, sometime early in the morning. What more could anyone ask?
Well, one could ask to be met and to have hotel reservations made for him (cost, he said grandly, is no object) and a couple of hundred other minor details.
So I’ll see you on the 18th at the Rio airport. For God’s sake don’t get yourself transferred to Timbuctoo or East Chigary before I get there.
Best regards,
JIMMY
Wilson grinned down at the old scrawl he hadn’t seen for so many years. Good old Jimmy! To tell the absolute truth, while he hadn’t expected Jimmy to end up on the breadline, it was a bit surprising to hear of any great success. Jimmy, dear, impetuous, scatterbrained soul that he was, had many attributes, but steadiness had never been his strongest forte. And steadiness seemed to be what companies usually sought in rising young—or even middle-aged—executives. As a matter of fact, Wilson could remember Jimmy carrying on for hours about the stupidity of those who got caught in the rat race for success. A good crap game or a friendly session of poker with sufficient liquid refreshment and congenial company to enjoy it with had been Jimmy’s primary demand of life.
Well, possibly the love—or at least the responsibility—of the gorgeous chunk of woman had wrought this miraculous change in the man. Or maybe he had simply got tired of always struggling to meet his rent. Well, the complete story would be available in an hour or so, and even if the metamorphosis had brought Jimmy to the point of wearing bowler hats and carrying a cane, it was still going to be good to see him again and to kick around the old a
rmy experiences. Wilson brought himself up short. My God, he thought suddenly, I must be getting more than middle-aged myself. I must be getting absolutely senile to want to rehash those nightmares again.
There was a discreet cough behind him and he obediently hitched his chair slightly to one side, allowing room for a plate to be passed over his shoulder. Instead, a voice with the cold impersonality that immediately identifies all waiters inquired suavely, “You ordered cognac, senhor? Does the senhor desire any particular brand?”
“I did not order cognac—” Wilson began with more than a touch of irritation, and swung about in his chair. A tall, athletic figure was bending over him with exaggerated diffidence. At the sight of the muscular build, the twinkling black eyes, the curly hair, the saturnine eyebrows and the brigand mustache, a broad grin of pure delight split Wilson’s face. “Zé Da Silva! What on earth are you doing here?”
Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, liaison officer between Interpol and the Brazilian police, continued to regard his old friend calmly. He straightened an imaginary napkin on his arm, brushed a nonexistent bit of lint from his lapel, and raised his eyebrows. “I was offering you cognac,” he said, explaining. “Didn’t you hear me? Or does getting up this early in the morning confuse you?” He nodded in sudden conviction, as if certain he had arrived at a more logical explanation. “I know the trouble—you should have stayed on the first floor. Heights sometimes have a tendency to clog the ears.”
“Sit down,” Wilson said happily, and reached out to draw a chair from the table.
Da Silva glanced about the empty room. “Well,” he said, “since I’ve got about an hour to kill, and since we seem to have more waiters than we do customers anyway, I guess I can at that.” He dropped into the proffered seat easily just as the waiter came up with a loaded tray. The dishes were distributed before Wilson and the waiter quietly withdrew. Da Silva leaned forward, peering unbelievingly at the contents of the plates. “What on earth is that? Or do I mean those?”
“Eggs,” Wilson said a bit grandly. “With bacon and toast. And fried potatoes. Would you like some?”
Da Silva’s shudder was not all play-acting. “Getting up early seems to have warped your judgment as well as your hearing. Or haven’t you ever eaten at Galeão before? It’s not the same as Santos Dumont, even though they’re both airports.” He looked up, a curious expression on his face, and then dismissed the subject of food. “By the way, just what did bring you out here so early? Without even bothering to eat decent food at home? I thought the security section of the American Embassy started their security about a half hour before lunch, and knocked off for the day about fifteen minutes after they got back.”
Wilson speared a piece of bacon. “You can insult me personally to your heart’s content,” he said lightly, “but spare my country’s embassy. We’re trying to keep the hours a secret.” He jammed the bacon into his mouth, made a face, and removed it.
“I tried to tell you,” Da Silva said patiently, and returned to his subject. “Well? You haven’t answered my question yet. What led you to interrupt a beauty sleep you so obviously require?”
Wilson pushed the bacon to one side and essayed the eggs. “An old friend of mine is arriving on Varig,” he explained easily, and then grinned. “If Varig itself ever arrives, that is.” The eggs, although they did not appear from their color to be weak in character, had apparently allowed themselves to be unduly influenced by the bacon. Wilson looked at the potatoes sternly; they refused to meet his eye. He pushed the plate away with a touch of repugnance and looked up.
“You suggested cognac, didn’t you?”
Da Silva nodded approvingly. “You’re learning.” He leaned back in his chair and hissed loudly for the waiter. When he came up questioningly, Da Silva pointed. “Remove this, please. My friend was not familiar with your cooking, so he may be forgiven. You, however—” He abandoned this line. “And bring us a bottle of cognac. Preferably Portuguese or Argentine. Something of better quality than your food.”
If the waiter felt hurt by this criticism, there was nothing in the expression on his face to indicate it. It was not the first time he had heard similar complaints, and he was sure it would not be the last. Wilson, looking after him, pitied the next customer, who undoubtedly would receive the same dishes. He returned his attention to Da Silva.
“We’ll have to get together for dinner and some drinks one night while he’s here,” he said, and smiled in memory. “You’ll like this guy, Zé. I spent three years in the army with him. As a matter of fact, he saved my life once, although I don’t want to prejudice you against him on that account.”
Da Silva grinned. “You mean, be careful of the life you save—it may be Wilson’s?”
“Something like that. What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Nothing that I know of,” Da Silva said. “How long is he going to be here?”
Wilson shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. As a matter of fact I don’t even know what’s bringing him here.” He looked almost apologetic. “We were close as brothers once, but then we sort of fell out of touch. The way people do, unfortunately. The last time I saw him was about six years ago, just before I got transferred out of Washington.”
The waiter arrived, bearing his tray proudly. He swiveled the bottle to demonstrate the legitimacy of his choice to each man in turn, and then placed it on the table together with two glasses. He chewed his lip in concentration as he bent down to mark the numbered slip along the side of the bottle at the delivered level, and then backed away. Wilson picked up the bottle and generously filled the glasses; he handed one across the table and then raised his own in a silent gesture of a toast to his companion. And then paused with a slight frown.
“Speaking of getting up in the middle of the night,” he said curiously, “in all that interrogation you put me through, I forgot to ask what brings you to Galeão at this hour. I don’t recall you as a man who gets up early just to watch the sunrise—”
“Which shows you don’t really know me,” Da Silva said, and sipped his drink. He nodded as the sharp-sweet taste satisfied him. “I love sunrises, although normally I prefer to stay up to see them rather than to get up to see them.”
“—And if you’re going to catch a plane,” Wilson went on, studying his friend’s face carefully, “you are certainly taking it calmly, considering how you feel about airplanes.”
“True,” Da Silva admitted. “I do prefer sunrises to airplanes. As a matter of fact, there is very little I don’t prefer to airplanes. The man who invented that machine is going to have a lot to answer for when I finally get to heaven.”
“That,” Wilson said, “presupposes a rather doubtful possibility.”
“You mean that earlier arrivals there will already have taken care of him? That’s an awful thought!”
Wilson suddenly snapped his fingers. “I know what you’re doing here—you’re with that paddy wagon downstairs.”
“I was afraid it would come out,” Da Silva said with a grin. “I was afraid that your deductive genius would finally click on all two cylinders.” He nodded. “Yes, I’m with the wagon downstairs. Or rather, since I’m the senior officer, you might say that they’re with me.” He corrected himself once again. “Or, to be even more exact, since I really haven’t anything to do with the Fraud Division, let’s just say that we’re together.”
Wilson downed his drink and smiled across the table. “Fraud Division? What did somebody do? Sell the airport to some poor farmer from the north?” He nodded in sudden conviction. “I know—they sold the Air Force. For crop-dusting.”
“And you think I’d arrest them for that? I’d pin a medal on them.” Da Silva laughed and shook his head. “I only wish it were something that useful. Or interesting. No, it’s just that some character wandered away with an attaché case full of negotiable bearer bonds, none of which seemed to belong to him.” He raised his glass and studied its amber contents thoughtfully. “Which, as you may or may
not know, is against a variety of laws.”
“I know,” Wilson said. “Misdemeanor, isn’t it?”
“Something like that.” Da Silva downed his drink and reached for the bottle, his smile broadening. “Never arrest a man on one drink, I always say. What do you always say?”
Wilson nodded equably. “I always say, never eat breakfast on an empty stomach. Especially in a restaurant like this one.” He held his glass out; Da Silva obediently filled it. In return for this hospitality, Wilson brought out his cigarettes, shook one loose for Da Silva, and lit the two with his lighter. He returned the lighter to his pocket and leaned back. “And just how does the illustrious Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos and all the rest of it get involved in a deal like this? With the Fraud Division? Or aren’t you with Interpol any more?”
“Oh, I’m still with Interpol,” Da Silva said. He brushed ash from his cigarette negligently and leaned back. “The man we’re going to grab happens to be an American, coming in from the States. Which—although it’s sometimes hard for you Americans to realize—makes him a foreigner in our country. And brings us into the picture.”
Wilson’s smile faded slightly. “An American?”
“A citizen of the United States,” Da Silva said calmly. “Yes.”
“Hold it.” Wilson was staring at the other evenly. “I know that the extradition treaty has finally been signed between Brazil and the United States, but I’m pretty sure it was signed with the understanding that nobody suddenly goes hog-wild about it. It’s got a lot of fine print, and I’ve read most of it.”
“You have? Good. And what did you read?”
“Well, for one thing I read that you can hold a man for return to the States for certain crimes, but that’s not quite the same as placing him under arrest. In the sense I feel you mean.” He crushed out his cigarette; his light-gray eyes were steady on the slightly sardonic face of the other. “And don’t look at me that way. I’m also part of Interpol, and I’m also Security Officer of our Embassy. And that job includes protecting the interests of American citizens in this country.”
The Shrunken Head Page 20