They went to the refreshment stand where Goncalves, who’d offered to pay, discovered that water was eight Reais a bottle. It did nothing to improve his temper.
Each cop drank two bottles. In Sao Paulo, they could have bought a case of beer for the same money.
“Now,” Hector said, “the birds.”
It wasn’t far, not more than a ten-minute walk. The ranger brushed some vines aside and led them into a small opening in the face of a hill-the entrance to a cave. From somewhere in the darkness they could hear cooing, and the flurry of feathers.
The ranger switched on a flashlight. The beam glittered along limestone and finally came to rest on a stack of cages against the far wall.
“What the hell is this?” Goncalves said.
“Pigeons,” the ranger said. “He told me to make sure none of them got out because, if they did, they’d fly off and never come back.”
“Who was the he?”
“Some kid. I never saw him before.”
“How old?”
“Maybe sixteen.”
Hector looked at Goncalves, “Another damned cut-out,” he said.
“A what?” the ranger asked.
“The guy who put these pigeons here didn’t want to be identified,” Hector explained. “He paid someone else to talk to you, probably brought some street kid from Sao Paulo.”
“That’s what you call a cut-out?”
“That’s what we call a cut-out. How would they have known about this cave?”
“You can buy a map of all the caves at the refreshment stand. It costs four Reais.”
“Half the price of the goddamned water,” Goncalves grumbled.
“Don’t blame me,” the ranger said. “I don’t set the goddamned prices.”
“Why do you suppose he chose this particular cave?” Hector asked.
“The caves are rated from one to five stars. Five stars are the best, the ones nobody wants to miss. This is a one-star. One-stars are nothing.”
“So this one wouldn’t be visited often?”
“If somebody comes in here once a year, it would be a lot. And then it’s probably only because they’re looking for an out-of-the-way place to take a shit.”
Goncalves wrinkled his nose. “Shit? Is that what stinks in here?”
“That’s the birds. They’ve been here for a week. I’ve been feeding them. That was part of the deal.”
“You’re a state employee, right?”
“Right.”
“Aren’t there regulations about keeping pigeons in caves owned by the State?”
“If you’re looking for an excuse to bust my balls, forget it. This isn’t a cave owned by the state. We’re beyond the borders of the park. And what I do with my free time is my business.”
“What are we supposed to do with the pigeons?” Hector asked.
“If you hadn’t interrupted me, I woulda told you already. Look here.”
Perched on top of a large sack of pigeon feed was a cardboard box. From the box, the ranger took a mantle lantern, which he lit, then a smaller box and an envelope.
“You’re supposed to read what’s in the envelope,” he said, extinguishing his flashlight and putting it back in his pocket.
“What’s in it?”
“I got no idea. The kid told me not to open it.”
Hector took out a pair of latex gloves, pulled them on and broke the seal. Inside, there were two sheets of paper. He positioned himself so light would fall on the first one and read it aloud:
“Follow these instructions exactly:
Divide the diamonds into sixty units of approximately the same weight.
Remove the carrier bags from the box.
Put a unit of diamonds into each bag.
Zip each bag shut.
Fasten each bag to a pigeon (as shown).
Release each pigeon after affixing bag.
Do not delay. We are timing your activities. If the first pigeon is not underway within thirty minutes of your arrival, or if the pigeons do not continue to arrive at their destination at intervals not to exceed one minute, Juraci Santos will be killed. Upon receipt of the diamonds, you will receive an email stating when and where she is to be found.”
“Caralho,” the ranger said when Hector finished reading. “So you guys are gonna pay the ransom for the Artist’s mother? That’s what this is all about? Wait until my wife hears about this.”
“Shut up,” Goncalves said. “We weren’t expecting this. It throws a kink in our plan. We’ve gotta think.”
Hector unfolded the second sheet. It was a sketch by a bad artist: a pair of hands held a pigeon while another pair of hands tied-on a carrier bag. He held it up for Goncalves to look at.
“ Merda,” Goncalves said. “So that’s why there had to be two of us. What now?”
Hector returned the two sheets to the envelope and put the envelope in his pocket.
“What’s your name?” he said to the ranger.
“Norberto Fatio.”
“Go outside, Norberto. Make sure we’re not disturbed.”
“Sure. Sure. Anything I can do to help. Hell, why didn’t you tell me in the first place what this was all about? You think I want those fucking Argentineans-”
“Just go, will you?”
Norberto scurried out the door.
“So what now?” Goncalves repeated.
“You have your pocket knife?”
“I always have my pocketknife.”
“Cut the tracking device out of the lining of the case.”
“You’re going to put it into one of those carrier bags? Send it along with a pigeon?”
“What else can we do?”
“They’re gonna find it.”
“Of course they are. But, with any luck, they’ll still be there, unloading the ransom, when Gloria shows up.”
“There must be a telephone around here somewhere. Let’s get that park ranger to call your uncle and tell him about the birds. Maybe he can get Gloria into the air ahead of time, put her on a path to intercept them.”
“Good idea. I’ll go talk to our friend Norberto. You get that case off your wrist and start dividing the diamonds.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“How fast is it going?” Silva said.
Lefkowitz made a quick calculation.
“About forty kilometers an hour,” he said. “And it’s airborne.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s moving out over a lake. No decrease in speed.”
“Carrier pigeon,” Arnaldo said.
Mara, entering the room, heard him.
“I’m astounded,” she said. “For once in your life, you’re right.”
Lefkowitz swiveled around in this chair and looked at her.
“What do you know that we don’t?”
“Some park ranger just called in with a message from Hector.”
Mara went on to explain, ending with, “That’s what you’ve been following, Lefkowitz-a carrier pigeon.”
“As soon as it lands,” Silva said, “the kidnappers will find the device.”
“And our teams are going to be far, far away when they do,” Lefkowitz said.
“Get them into the air immediately,” Silva said.
“It’s already happening,” Mara said. “I spoke to Gloria.
Rotors on the helicopters must be turning as we speak. Now, Nunes, tell me, how did someone with your limited cranial capacity hit on carrier pigeons?”
Arnaldo didn’t rise to the bait. “My sister’s got a neighbor, a penitentiary guard. He told me a story a while back. Some of the prisoners were raising pigeons in their cells. The warden thought it was a nice, safe hobby, Birdman of Alcatraz and all that crap. But no, turns out these birds were homing pigeons. The felons were using them to get cell phones and drugs into the prison.”
“Cell phones? Since when can a pigeon carry a cell phone?”
“They were breaking them down into components, then reassembling them withi
n the walls.”
“Cute,” Lefkowitz said. “They start the birds off with smuggling. Next thing you know they’re carrying around tiny brass knuckles and beating up on other birds in the neighborhood. The felon’s perfect pet.”
“The way it works,” Arnaldo said, ignoring the levity, “is this: you get the birds before they learn to fly. You feed them. Bingo, they begin to think of the place as home. When you release them, they come back. They always come back. They come back even if you take them hundreds of kilometers away.”
All four of them looked at the screen, where a flashing green dot was showing the pigeon’s steady progression.
“Straight as an arrow,” Lefkowitz said. “The little dear knows exactly where she’s going.”
“If she does,” Arnaldo said, “it’s a he.”
“Shut up, Nunes.”
Silva tapped the screen with a forefinger. “What town is this?”
“Porangaba. Looks like she, or he, is going to pass right over it.”
Porangaba was about a hundred KM northeast of the cave complex.
“Let’s get Gloria and her people moving in that direction,” Silva said. “Do carrier pigeons fly at night?”
The others looked blank.
“I’ll talk to Gloria first,” Mara said, “and then I’ll find out.”
Five minutes later she was back.
“They only fly at night,” she said, “if they’re trained to do so. Otherwise, they roost and start flying again at first light. Let’s hope she-”
“He,” Arnaldo said.
“-isn’t so trained. How long has she been in the air?”
“The bird,” Lefkowitz said, remaining strictly neutral, “took off just before four. It’s flying at about forty kilometers an hour.”
“Sundown tonight will be at around eight,” Silva said. “Subtract four from eight and that gives us four hours of flying time.”
“And four hours at forty an hour,” Mara said, “means she’s likely to roost at about one hundred sixty kilometers from her take-off point.”
“Who said that thing about the best laid plans of mice and men?” Lefkowitz asked.
“A poet by the name of Robert Burns,” Silva said. “And I don’t think I’m going to like what you’re about to tell me.”
“You’re not.” Lefkowitz was fiddling with the knobs on the receiver.
“We lost the signal?”
“Just now. It went out like a light.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The tracking device’s last known location turned out to be a cow pasture. Both helicopters were able to land, and a search was initiated. Twenty minutes later, Gloria called in by radio.
“No sign of the pigeon,” she said, “just blood and feathers. The bag is here, and so is the device, both of them all chewed up. We figure the pigeon must have been attacked by a bird of prey.”
“Of all the goddamned pigeons in the State of Sao Paulo,” Silva said, “some goddamned hawk had to pick that one?”
“Of all the goddamned pigeons,” Gloria said, “some goddamned hawk did.”
“Okay, Gloria, thanks. Stay where you are. I’ll get back to you.” Silva hung up and turned to Lefkowitz. “Work out a compass course based on the pigeon’s line of flight. We’ll give it to Gloria’s pilots, tell them to fly further along the line, see if they can spot something.”
“Spot what?”
“Hell, I don’t know. There was a whole flock of those damned pigeons. Some may still be in the air.”
“Not unless they still had a long way to go.”
“We’ll also have them look for henhouses, for chicken coops, for dovecotes, for any other place they might have gone to roost.”
“I’ve got some topographical maps downstairs. I’ll go get them.”
Lefkowitz was back in three minutes. Within a few more, he was talking to one of the helicopter pilots.
“Get Silva on the radio,” the pilot said as Lefkowitz was wrapping up, “Gloria wants to talk to him.”
“How far do you want us to go?” Gloria said when she heard Silva’s voice.
“As far as you can before dark. Then we’ll talk.”
C ORNELIO B RAGA was, by no means, the only chicken farmer to run through a scale of emotions that day. But his reaction was typical.
First, surprise at having an extremely noisy Helibras AS 350 B2 land in his front yard. Then fear, when a black-clad team wearing balaclava helmets and carrying machine pistols leapt out under swirling blades. Finally anger, when the woman in charge of the operation offered him a token apology and was getting ready to depart.
“Sorry? Sorry doesn’t cut it, Senhora. Or is it Senhorita?”
“Senhorita,” Gloria Sarmento said, struggling to be polite, a quality that didn’t come easily to her.
“If figures,” Cornelio sputtered. “What kind of a guy would be interested in a woman who jumps out of helicopters and carries a machine gun?”
Raul Franco, her number two, and Gloria’s secret heartthrob, was standing next to her at the time. Gloria’s oblique overtures in Raul’s direction had yet to be reciprocated, so Braga’s remark struck closer to home than he could possibly have imagined. It caused her to lose her temper.
“My personal life is none of your goddamned business, Senhor Braga.”
“You have any idea how many hens I got in there, Senhorita?”
Cornelio managed to make Senhorita sound like an epithet.
“No,” Gloria Sarmento said, “and I don’t-”
“Five hundred, that’s how many.” Braga stabbed a finger in the direction of his hen house. “You know what makes a hen stop laying? Stress, that’s what. You know what stresses a hen?”
“I don’t give a-”
“Too goddamned much noise for one thing. You got any idea what you people just did to my egg production with that machine of yours? Any fucking idea?”
She was opening her mouth to tell him that she didn’t fucking know, and that she didn’t fucking care, when she glanced to her right. Raul, that bastard, was smiling. He was enjoying this.
She turned to him and tapped a forefinger on his finelysculpted chest.
“From here on in,” she said, sweetly, “ you are the squad’s official liaison to chicken farmers.”
Raul stopped smiling.
“Hell, Gloria,” he said. “Give me a break. You got it wrong. I wasn’t…”
Gloria didn’t wait for the rest. She sneered at Cornelio, shouldered her MP-5 and strode back to her helicopter.
It was nice to be the boss.
As darkness fell, Lefkowitz pointed to the map and said, “The lead chopper is here, just short of Riberao Preto.”
“Tell them to pack it in for the night,” Silva said.
“They’ve got four hundred thousand candlepower searchlights on those things, you know.”
“Not good enough. Those lights only illuminate whatever you’ve got them pointed at. It’s too easy to miss something. And the rest of the gear, the heat detection stuff isn’t going to do us any good either. Those birds are already under cover, or they’re sitting in trees with a hundred million other birds. Tell them to start again at first light.”
“Which brings us back to Gloria’s question,” Lefkowitz said. “How far do you want them to go?”
“Take it out to five hundred kilometers beyond Riberao Preto.”
“As far as that?”
“For now. We might have to go even further.”
Lefkowitz turned to the radio, and Silva to Mara.
“Let’s try shaking something loose on the diamonds. How about we take another shot at jewelers, dealers in gemstones and receivers of stolen goods?”
“Receivers of stolen goods?” Mara said. “Good luck with that one.”
“Probably useless to ask, I agree, but maybe not. Even crooks hate the idea of us having our butts kicked by Argentina. They might feed us some anonymous tips.”
“You’ve got a point,” she sai
d.
“I’m brimful of ideas,” Silva said. “That’s why I’m the boss.”
“And here I was,” Arnaldo said, “thinking you got the job just because you’re older than everyone else.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
They ripped off the duct tape that covered Jordan Talafero’s mouth, pulled out the handkerchief and stuck a hose down his throat.
Toninho Feioso, the author of the hose idea, had heard, somewhere, that such a procedure, followed by turning on the water full-blast, could be particularly painful to the victim. He, therefore, decided to give it a try, because, in his opinion, Jordan Talafero was a canalha who deserved the very worst that he and Gaspar could dish out.
The result of the hose operation was gratifying. So gratifying, in fact, that Toninho was loathe to give it up. It took quite some cajoling on Gaspar’s part before he finally agreed to turn off the water and replace the handkerchief and the duct tape.
Toninho meant “little Tony”, but this was a misnomer. Little Tony was neither little nor named Tony. Some of his colleagues, Gaspar for one, knew that much, but no one claimed to know what his true name actually was. No one ever had the guts to ask.
Feioso meant “ugly,” which was entirely appropriate. Toninho Feioso was the ugliest of men, and he appeared even uglier when he was attacking your kneecaps with a ball peen hammer, as Jordan Talafero, after they’d finished with the hose, had occasion to find out.
“And this, you bastard, is for the guy downstairs,” Toninho informed Talafero, the statement eloquently punctuated by the crack of breaking bone and a muffled scream from beyond the duct tape.
Toninho, who wasn’t very smart, couldn’t remember the name of Miranda’s downstairs neighbor, which was Atilio Nabuco, and he didn’t care much about Nabuco anyway, but he had previously dedicated bones on other parts of Talafero’s anatomy to Miranda, his wife, and each of his kids. He was grasping for names since it appeared he was going to run out of them before he ran out of bones.
Gaspar would have liked a turn with that ball peen hammer, but he knew better than to interrupt Tony when he was exercising his professional skills.
Gaspar, therefore, confined himself to questions of the kind Talafero could respond to with movements of his head.
A vine in the blood cims-5 Page 19