by David Faxon
Dan Hewett was her nemesis. She never liked him. They didn’t get along and that was of no consequence. As long as Connery was around, her job was always safe. He was her mentor. More than that, he was her friend, gave her confidence, built her up. Because of him, and the responsibility he entrusted to her, she had status, respect. She looked forward to going to work every day. The only thing she didn’t have was him. Now, it had all ended in a rush of emotion, a near collapse. At the same time, she couldn’t avoid the practical aspect. He was gone and her job soon would be too. Hewett would take care of that. Eventually, he would find a reason to terminate her. Over the coming weeks and months, nothing would be the same. She was forty-two and with her expenses, being without a job was unthinkable. She might get another, but Terry wasn’t around to give her a recommendation and Hewett would never consider it.
She got up, poured herself a glass of water from a silver pitcher inscribed with her name written in script, a Christmas gift from three years before. Life had been good at Hawthorne, the bonuses more than generous. She had to think this through, protect herself, if possible.
Something going on with Hewett didn’t seem right. She remembered Connery’s reaction when she mentioned that he had taken Castelo Branco’s call. That day, Hewett went to his office, closed the door and picked up the phone. He was engrossed in the conversation, and she watched him on the other side of the glass wall partition. After ten minutes, he reached into his desk drawer for his leather bound notebook, the one he always kept locked up. He continued talking while writing something. Then he hung up, closed the book and locked it in the drawer. She wondered what it contained. In addition, who was this Castelo Branco anyway? She had met him, but once only. The week Hewett was away. Terry usually confided in her, but he never said anything about the meeting or why it took place. She wanted answers.
Two weeks after the crash, Cindy Pellegrino still had her position at Hawthorne. But the tide had changed and not in her favor. She had nothing to do. Her work was delegated to someone else, she had no inside track on anything, Hewett ignored her. Though stripped of responsibilities, Personnel had neglected to ask for her key to the upstairs corporate offices.
Sitting alone in her living room, she tried to sort the reasons why things didn’t seem right; the sudden SEC audit, her discovery of Hewett’s possible connection with Castelo Branco, the hiring of that lackey, Stephen Walters, Connery’s death. The more she thought, the more she would like to see what was in Hewett’s notebook. Then she remembered; I have the key.
It was late, getting on midnight, when she cabbed to the Hawthorne building. The city had quieted. It had rained, and storefront lights reflected off wet streets giving them a rippling glow. She entered the lobby, walked to the elevator and pushed the UP button. The building was large with a shopping mall on the ground level. A few people lingered; none paid any attention to her. The doors parted. She got in and pushed another button, this time for the thirtieth floor. She watched the lit panel as it climbed from “Lobby” to 30. All of a sudden, she felt very alone, but knew this was the only way she would be satisfied. The elevator stopped, the doors opened. She walked into familiar surroundings, yet fumbled for the key because she was nervous. Inside, service lights dimly lit the office. She closed the door, not noticing a small red light that had come on above her. In her haste and nervousness, she had forgotten about the ubiquitous security cameras. She walked the long aisle to Hewett’s office, came to his door, put her hand on the handle, as another red light came on. She was inside and knew where he hid the key to his desk; the unlocked top drawer. Jerk! She thought.
Somewhere in the building, a security officer should have noticed a signal that someone was in the offices on the thirtieth floor. He didn’t. It was blind luck that she didn’t get caught. She had the book in her hand when she looked up, saw the red light and realized her mistake.
“Oh, shit!”
In her panic, she put the book in her coat pocket but dropped the desk key on the floor. Security would be there at any second.
Next morning, she went to work as usual, but knew the tapes in the surveillance cameras were a problem. Hewett had already called the police. There would be questions. It was the longest day she ever spent, expecting her arrest to be imminent. But in the end, no one had approached her about the break in. There was, however, plenty of office talk. She decided the raincoat and hat she wore the previous evening, concealed her identity. The camera images, however, were certain to be looked at carefully.
Two weeks passed. Still no one asked about the break in. She began to think no one would. Sloppy police work, perhaps, but lingering doubt persisted. Hewett’s book contained phone numbers. Lots of them. She began making calls just to see who answered. One was to Castelo Branco’s company, several were to off shore banks and she jotted the names. Several more were to an office of the SEC. That might be explainable in light of what happened, but she wanted to know exactly who Hewett had talked to. She would organize the information carefully and piece it all together.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Brasilia
The company occupied a suite on three floors of One Playa del Mendoza, down town. The twenty fourth floors housed administrative offices, the twenty fifth and twenty sixth, executive suites and large conference rooms. In a lobby, the outside receptionist sat behind a circular desk staring at a computer monitor, trying hard to pass the time. Behind her was a massive green marble wall twenty feet high with raised gold metallic letters that said Companhia do Azevedo Limitada. Copious sunlight entered from high floor to ceiling windows, and the lobby was large enough to produce an echo-particularly when a woman walked across its tan and white marbled floor with high heels. To the left of the receptionist, a large double door with polished brass handles led to the interior offices. By any standard, an impressive image, a company of substance.
Estevo Castelo Branco, the founder and CEO, occupied a large corner office, also with floor to ceiling glass, offering a magnificent view of the city. The interior was elegant, totally in keeping with the head of a business that appeared legitimate and very successful.
He amassed substantial wealth, ostensibly as a business-man engaged primarily in mineral resources. His real name was Juan Marquez. Until twenty- five years ago, a onetime stage performer in Rio. Greed placed a number of opportunities in his path. He was quick to capitalize, holding complete disregard for anyone who got in his way. In this manner, he built a small mineral resource company into one of substantial size within the industry. He chose to maintain a low profile when it came to running the company, using the title, chairman emeritus. He was, however, the mastermind behind a vastly corrupt empire that used an industrial base to its advantage.
Early in his career, Marquez thought his name was too plebian, so he changed it to the more aristocratic sounding Castelo Branco, believing it would serve him better. He lived quietly with his third wife in a very large and expensive villa outside Brasilia, appearing in public only when the occasion required. The aura of a subdued private life belied the world he lived in; one of political corruption, intimidation, and assassination. In it, he moved adroitly to achieve power and influence.
In the early eighties when word spread there was gold in the Amazon, he and two others flew to a remote town with a dirt runway deep in the rainforest. They verified the rumors. There was gold. Plenty, if you knew how to extract it and few laws to prevent anyone from doing it. The territory was simply too large for Brazilian authorities to establish any form of justice. The unscrupulous could rape the land, taking whatever they wanted. Corruption and dominance of local tribes could easily become tools to that end.
With his talent for acting, he was a persuasive salesman. He used those skills to achieve his goals. If quiet persuasion failed, he discarded diplomacy and resorted to more forceful methods. It didn't take long before he had enough money to buy off every legislator, police official and general he could think of. Those who resisted met untimely ends. Soo
n he operated with no encumbrances and no questions asked concerning pollution of waterways and forest destruction. Great swaths of trees were cut to develop surface mining operations and roads. When one area depleted, he moved to the next. Labor was cheap; he could hire local Indians at slave wages.
As his business grew, so did his greed. He established sites closer to the most remote regions where tribes, like the Yanomami, lived; simple people who depended on the forest for their livelihood. They learned too late that developed countries had an insatiable appetite for natural resources. Unfortunately, those resources existed on land their ancestors inhabited for thousands of years. High demand brought with it unscrupulous people like Castelo Branco.
As encroachment continued, millions of acres were destroyed, and forest animals were forced to flee their once pristine sanctuaries. There were greater tragedies to come; prostitution, liquor, gambling and socially transmitted diseases. More serious was the chemical pollution that would eventually cost lives. Extensive and indiscriminate use of mercury cyanide was used to aid in the amalgamation of gold. Poisons entered the rivers, streams, and water tables of the once pure forest. Sickness and birth defects rose dramatically among the Indian population. Eventually, they realized what was happening, not only to their land, but also to them. When they revolted, the garimpieros put them down brutally. The news was largely ignored by the outside world. Then one day, miners killed and mutilated sixteen Indians in what was described as a prelude to genocide. Many tribesmen were beheaded. Environmental and social groups called attention to the atrocity, but the pressure was not enough to prevent its continuation. The brutalities continued unchecked.
For this, more than any other reason, Castelo Branco kept a low profile, preferring to keep his name out of the papers. Behind the scenes, he bribed and coerced lawmakers to tilt the scales in favor of unregulated mining. While his company wasn't directly involved with the first massacre, he retained his own cadre of thugs to brutally enforce his domination over the Indians when they complained of conditions or showed signs of revolt. His workers became indentured slaves with the establishment of ‘company stores.’ Food, clothing and household items, sold at vastly inflated prices. His ‘employees’ never escaped the crushing debt. This worked perfectly for the company. Castelo Branco had what amounted to a modern day version of slavery. If there was any attempt at enforcement, he knew which officials could change that. While his workers labored under extreme conditions and lived in poverty, he built enormous profits illegally, living in luxurious surroundings.
Now in his executive suite, he conversed with two members of his “packed” board, Enrico Sanchez and Humberto Madeira. While they tacitly enjoyed status as board members, in reality they were gang members, cronies of his, who maneuvered to provide an appearance of legality to a company built on illegality. Sanchez opened the conversation in a probing way, careful always to be respectful toward Castelo Branco.
“I heard Mr. Connery never made it to the meeting last night.”
“You heard correctly. He left a message saying his flight was delayed. It’s possible he was on the plane that went down. Too bad, I had plans for him, but it may work to my advantage.”
“How do you mean?”
“His influence in the global investment community. He would have proven helpful.”
“May we ask how?”
“To bid up the share price of Companhia do Azevedo. Then we would engage in a little insider selling at a nice profit. But it’s not important. I will find someone else. He was but one piece of what I intend.”
“What made you think he would go along?”
“You don’t need to know the details, but he would have, I assure you. If not, you know the methods that would have changed his mind. He wouldn't have left Brasilia without an arrangement favorable to us.”
“What did it cost to get him here?”
“A check for a hundred thousand that will never be cashed. I instructed my banker friend to delay its clearing. By the time Mr. Connery learned it hadn't been deposited to his corporate account, it would be too late. He'd be here, and no doubt have seen the wisdom of my plan. Your questions are becoming tedious.”
The tone of the meeting changed abruptly. He imparted enough about the reasons behind Connery’s scheduled visit. What he left out was his part in an ambitious plan to take over Hawthorne Capital and its four billion under management. In addition, he would have forced Connery to use his considerable influence to secure the involvement of large investment banks in several phony stock issues. A bold move that could reap tens of millions in illegal profits at their expense. That part would now have to wait.
Castelo Branco first became aware of the potential when Dan Hewett enlisted his aid in gaining control of Hawthorne. A man like Hewett could provide the necessary advantages, initially. Besides, he was from outside Brazil and this offered distinct advantages. It all fit in well. He needed money to capitalize on the increasing price of gold in world commodity markets. But what intrigued him was entry into major financial markets.
Connery was on a fool’s errand that terminated abruptly. His failure to cooperate would prompt Castelo Branco to hire assassins who would take the lives of his children at some unknown time. They would never be safe. That became unnecessary when Flight 302 went down. He thought, maybe it was for the better. Now he could concentrate on Hewett, who was in over his head.
The ultimate prize was more gold and control of Hawthorne. Connery’s death prevented the use of his influence with the banks but enhanced the plot to take over the company. The unexpected event cleared the way for Hewett to take Connery’s place, but that would be temporary. Hewett’s life could be measured in months, a year at most.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Uxhomeb chewed on a betel nut. Years of this had stained his teeth a dark brown while making his appearance even more intimidating. He pondered various ways he could make Teman-e’s torture more entertaining. He was about to descend into one of his pathological mind zones, where even his own warriors were unsafe from his sudden outrages. They knew enough to stay away, since it would take very little for him to turn on any one of them. They hated him, but most of all, feared him. That day he was angrier than usual. The foray, so far, was unsuccessful, producing only three women captives. He wasn't impressed with any. They would produce weak, good for nothing offspring, incapable of fighting or hunting. Of the two slaves captured, one was dead, killed by him in a fit of rage, and the other badly wounded. He might as well kill him too.
But here was this new one found sleeping in the jungle, and this piqued his interest. He must have a village nearby. He appeared to be a sturdy warrior, someone who had fought and killed. At the very least, he would make up for that weakling he eliminated. He could be tortured and made to tell the location of his village. Perhaps they possessed more comely women than the ones already seized. Once he had that information, the small warrior would be disposed of. This brought a smile to his face. He guessed the prisoner was there to find what he too saw falling from the sky, but he didn’t know for sure. Teman-e hadn’t uttered a word since his capture.
Uxhomeb angrily ordered his men to end their brief rest and find the object he prized. They moved swiftly. Teman-e followed behind, bound at the wrists. His face showed large welts and a deep burn mark from the previous night. He noted the position of the sun, the lay of the land and sensed they were nearing the place he found the day before. The image wouldn’t leave him, it stayed lodged in his brain.
Late afternoon, the rain beat down. Its force was a harbinger of the monsoon to come, but he welcomed it for the coolness it offered his swollen face. Soon, he would see how these murderers reacted to what he had witnessed. An odor of quenched embers caught his nostrils. He knew it would not be long.
If my hands were free, I would fling myself at Uxhomeb and tear his eyes out before anyone had a chance to stop me. I would become the jaguar; scratching, biting, tearing, until he was dead, then I’d go to my dea
th with an unburdened heart. His thoughts brought a certain pleasure until interrupted by shouts. Three or four warriors flew past, panic-stricken. 'They have seen it!
Looming before them, the gargantuan tail assembly rose into the highest trees. Those who didn’t run, riveted their eyes to the most fearsome sight they ever witnessed. Teman-e too, raised his eyes. Nothing changed from when he had left, except for the wild animals inside the fuselage, many fighting for the spoils. No one dared approach. Even the cold-hearted Uxhomeb was uncharacteristically dumbstruck. It took him a few minutes to recover before issuing threats that brought his panicked men under control.
That night, Teman-e endured another severe beating. Then they shoved him to the ground and tied him to a tree. He knew his time was short and his torture would become unbearable; embers and flaming sticks first applied to his back, later to the soles of his feet, then the more intimate parts of his body. Every attempt would be made to keep him from passing out until he agreed to lead them to his village, but he would never do that.
He tried not to think about it and concentrated instead on the spirits of his ancestors as he sat awaiting death; a monotone chant helped him escape reality. Darkness came, and despite the dampness, the warriors knew where to find dry wood. Uxhomeb would allow them to eat, smoke, and prepare for the grisly entertainment. The ceremony would be even more haunting in the shadow of that unexplained thing they all feared.
Connery spent that day in the hot cargo hold sipping Coke, trying not to think about what was going on above him, as he heard various snarls and growls from a variety of wild animals. For the moment, however, he was safe and even found something to read- a tattered copy of Catcher in the Rye. Late in the day, rain began beating on the aluminum skin of the plane. His eyelids grew heavy. About to drift off, he heard what he thought was a human voice. At first, he couldn’t distinguish it. Maybe he was mistaken and it was just another animal. But it grew louder until he heard shouting and screams. Finally, they’ve come!