by Arthur Rawl
“Will the police blood test show whether he was drugged and what was used?”
“It should but …”
“But what …?”
“If he wasn’t robbed why was he drugged and, more importantly, who ordered it done.”
“What does that have to do with the test results?”
The Doctor’s answer was the slow rocking of his head and his hands held palms up, “How could I know. Ask your lawyer. Ask him when you are not in this place. I will see Sr. Watson tonight at meal time to check on his eating. I must go now.” And handing me his card, “Call me tonight and I will tell you what I can.”
“Thank you Doctor. May I give your number to Skip’s father, Sam Watson? I know him well enough to be sure he will want to talk to you.”
“It is not normal for a father not to be concerned. I talk with too many of them these days. It seems our children grow up faster but wisdom still comes to them at the same slow pace it came to us. You should tell his father his son is young and strong and all he should worry about is our laws and how they are administered. As a doctor I would prescribe a healthy dose of ‘personal’ attention and a healthier dose of money as needed.”
Jesus put his hand on my shoulder, “I suggest we let Sr. Watson rest for now. Don’t you agree Doctor?”
“Yes it would be best. It will help his system clear itself of whatever he was given. We will talk after I visit Sr. Watson this evening and I will give you my current observations for his father.”
Jesus shook hands with the doctor, “Come Sr. Carl, we will stop somewhere to eat. I have chosen a quiet place where you can call Sr. Watson’s father.”
Ten minutes later the prison gate closed behind us. Our identification papers had been returned after photos and faces had been compared. Our pockets were emptied once again and each item inspected and every paper scanned. As we drove away I couldn’t help feeling I had left my dignity somewhere behind. Yes, I would call Sam as I had clearly been instructed to do but I wasn’t going to play the passive pawn being pushed towards its own destruction by the Senator’s artless, heavy handed colleagues.
“I’ll call Watson when we stop. I’ll tell you where.”
“There are only a few places I would trust …”
“I picked a place on the way here. I’ll tell you when we’re close … maybe ten minutes.”
“It is not safe to stop at just any place.”
“I know … its public enough so I’m sure we’ll be alright.”
Their message was plain enough and it was just as plain to anyone with a brain that they wanted to be sure I delivered it just as it was given to me. Once they were sure the walls would start closing in on me from two sides even though I had aligned myself with them. My message to Sam had to be different and my new friends couldn’t know what was said. It had to keep them off balance and if I was right Sam would …
“There is the place I want to stop Sr. Carl. There are telephones and privacy. Should I stop?”
Complete privacy except for all your friends listening in to confirm their message had been delivered, “Keep driving please. It’s not much further to the place I picked out.”
Slowing down, “I recommend we stop here.”
“No, don’t stop. I said I would tell you where.”
“But … yes, it will be as you wish.”
“Ahead on the right … the Extra Supermarket … pull into the parking lot and park at the curb in front of the store where it says ‘Customer Loading Zone’.”
Reaching into the back seat for my brief case I told Jesus to stay in the car, “I’ll be on that bench over there. When I’m done we can get something to eat in the store’s café.”
On the bench I took the satellite phone from the briefcase and pushed the speed-dial for Sam’s private number. “Hello Sam, it’s Carl. I just left Skip and there are some things you should know … yes Sam, he’s a little shaken but he’s going to be fine. I had a long talk with the doctor and he wants you to call him directly and fill you in on Skip’s condition. Don’t worry about his health … he’s a little groggy but fine and just needs sleep right now. The doctor thinks someone put a knockout drug in his drink and it has to clear his system.”
I gave Sam the doctor’s number and then started a detailed description of where Skip was being held and made sure he understood that Skip was in no danger from violent inmates. He said he remembered the riots and seemed uncharacteristically thankful for both the information and the precautions the Brazilians seemed to be taking with VIP detainees. “There are some other things you need to know. I think they have direct bearing on Skip’s situation although they cut two ways. First, I believe they mean Skip will not be charged even though he might be held for a month or two. Second, I believe Skip has been put in this position to pressure you to walk away from the BrasTel deal.”
The expected explosion didn’t happen but I was certain it was simply delayed. Sam’s response was an ice cold, flat request for details. I told him about the murder of the Italian acquisition team, an edited version of my visit with some unidentified thugs who explained that some powerful people felt it was a matter of national security that BrasTel remain in Brazilian hands, then I told him I was shot at a few days later and followed with the strange message from the doctor indicating that he, Sam, should come to Brazil and bribe Skip’s way out of the country. Finishing with, “To me it adds up to some sort of setup and you should be very careful when you talk with the doctor. It seemed clear his role was more than simply doctoring.”
A painfully long silence filled the empty air. Seconds that felt like hours past then in a low snarl, “You’re on the ground, what do you suggest I do?”
“After you talk to the doctor he’ll report what was said. If you don’t seem to be responding the way they want Skip’s situation may be altered to put more pressure on you. My suggestion is you get someone with an important sounding State Department title, attach him to your hip and the two of you and his security team should get here on the company plane as soon as you can. Have the State Department arrange that you stay at the US Consul’s residence for security reasons. It will limit both risk and access to you and will require contact with you to be arranged so you will not be caught off guard, particularly by the media. Once you’re here in Rio don’t go anywhere without the State Department person and his minders. Lastly, stay in Rio. Skip’s problems are here and not São Paulo where BrasTel, the business media and all the television networks are based. All but Globo, that is here in Rio.”
“… and what do I do when we get there?”
“Be the concerned father and visit your son. I’m sure whoever they are will know when your foot touches Brazilian soil and will waste no time before making some kind of a move.”
“I don’t know … I don’t like it. Hiding in the Residence will make it tough for anyone to get in touch with me. I think I should stay in a public place.”
“I wouldn’t Sam. I told you I think the problem with Skip is linked to the deal but, there is a chance this could be an attempt to kidnap you for ransom. It’s done here often enough that you have to be careful all the time.”
“I’ll think about it. I don’t like being boxed in. You tell the damned lawyer I want to know exactly what I have to do to get Skip out … you understand, exactly what has to be done.”
“Do as you wish Sam. I’m going to get an update on Skip in a few hours and I’ll call you afterwards with whatever I’ve learned and you can tell me your travel schedule. Use the satellite phone if you need to call me.”
Another silence then screaming, “You’re in charge there. How the hell did you let this shit happen? Are you some kind of idiot? My son’s in some hell hole and my deal’s circling the drain. When Skip’s out of that damned country you and I are going to have a talk … I promise you we’ll have a damned talk.” Then the connection went dead.
Typical, but I would have the last word. I folded the phone and walked back to where Jesus ha
d been pacing back and forth like a caged jungle cat. “Let’s go somewhere we can get a good lunch and a stiff drink. Somewhere I can look at the water.”
“Did you speak with Sr. Watson?”
“Yes and he wasn’t in a good mood. Any suggestions for lunch …?”
“What did he say?”
“… just his usual noise. I expect I’ll hear from him in an hour. Lunch …?”
“Are you going back to São Paulo or should I get a room for you?”
“I have a ticket on the 7PM flight this evening. After Sam calls I’ll decide when and if I’ll come back. Lunch … with a view of the water.”
“The Copacabana Palace was done over last year. Lunch is served on the front veranda overlooking the beach. It is like when the hotel was at its peak in the fifties.”
Within an hour we were on the hotel’s spotless white veranda looking across the serpentine mosaic sidewalk to the beach with its picture postcard carefree crowd of bronzed sun worshipers. The cool crisp breeze tasting of salt spiced with just enough automobile exhaust to remind me this wasn’t paradise but only a veneer wrapping the edge of one of Brazil’s most troubled cities.
Jesus wasn’t looking at the beach. His thoughts were lost in the past, “When I was a boy my father used to bring me here for ice cream. It was the best ice cream in Rio. The hotel made its own and served it with its own chocolate sauce. Nothing was as good then or is now. I remember staring at the strange collection of people around us one day. Escapees from the war in Europe thrown together in a proximity to each other that would have been deadly back in Europe. My father explained about the Jews with long black coats and small skull caps sitting at one table. Then he told me about the Germans with steel rimmed glasses sitting very straight at the next. It seemed strange they would be sitting peacefully next to each other drinking the same coffee and eating the same French pastry when as my father explained not long before one had been the hunter and the other the hunted. It was a lesson about people for a small boy that has stayed with me to this day.”
“Unfortunately, it is too easy to forget how quickly a trusted friend or neighbor can turn on you. It is something I had forgotten until I came to Brazil a month ago, now it is impossible for me to know where to place my trust.”
“My partner Pedro tells me you are someone who has stumbled into something beyond your understanding. He seems sorry about this but there is little any of us can do but understand the past is still with us and we must continue to walk a tightrope to survive. ‘Jeitino’ … the Brazilian way.”
“I understand more than you think. Remember, I am European. Not an American. The bad habits you refer to were the fruit of centuries of effort all over Europe long before the Portuguese brought them to Brazil 500 years ago. If I made a mistake it was to believe the new world was not as corrupt as the old. What should we order, lunch or ice cream?”
“I think both my friend. The only thing we must decide is which should come first.”
When we finished lunch, I asked Jesus if he would excuse me for a few minutes before coffee. It was time for me to call the doctor then report to Sam. I was pleased to hear that enough of the drugs had worn off for Skip to start acting like himself. He had showered, shaved and eaten a light dinner. The doctor predicted Skip would be close to normal by morning and perhaps we would then learn something about what happened. When I asked about results of the blood test there was a silence followed by what I expected, the government laboratory was backed up. Later when I reported the conversation to Sam I added my feeling the drug test results would be held up until he was here and some sort of understanding had been reached.
“From what I’ve been told that sounds about right,” was Sam’s matter-of-fact response. “I’ll be in Rio about 5PM local tomorrow. The Under Secretary strongly suggested I separate my role as father from that of CEO. He thinks it may help keep the media wolves at bay. You stay in São Paulo and I’ll call you if I need you. Have the lawyer meet us at Santos Dumond Airport downtown not the international airport out in the woods. We’ll be coming into the private terminal. The Consulate will have a couple of armored cars waiting and we’ll all go together to see Skip. Tell the lawyer we’ll have a couple of armed State Department Diplomatic Security people with us and there will be a Brazilian Military Police escort waiting at the airport who will want to see his identification papers.”
“It’ll be done Sam,” but he had already hung up. I was out of the circus … at least for the moment.
Returning to the veranda I found Jesus on his cellphone, “Ah Sr. Carl, I am on with Pedro. He would like to speak with you.”
“I’m well thank you and yourself.” … “Yes, I spoke to both the doctor and Sam.” … “Yes, tonight about 8:00. I’m booked on a 7:10 flight.” … “That’s kind of you but my driver is meeting me.” … “Alright, if you really think it’s important I’ll call him and look for your car when I get in. Here’s Jesus. Take care.”
I placed the phone in Jesus’s anxiously waiting hand. We had time for coffee but not much more considering evening traffic even though all we had to do was follow the beachfront road north for two or three miles to always overcrowded Santos Dumont.
“Sr. Carl, Pedro wants to speak with you again … he said it is important.”
“What is it Pedro?”
“Remember I asked you to try and get one of the new telephones for me … the kind of telephone that works with satellites … yes?”
“I … well yes but I haven’t done anything about it.”
“Good, someone told me they are very expensive to buy and the calls can be thirty or forty US Dollars each.” Lowering his voice, “They are no better than ordinary cellular phones because the ordinary networks have become so good and so well interconnected worldwide. I was afraid you would ask Sam Watson to bring me one.”
“I didn’t, don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t bother him right now. All he has on his mind is Skip. You’re better off, the one I have sounds terrible and as you saw the other day it is about the size of a brick. Unless you’re in the middle of a desert you’re much better off without one.”
“I’m sorry to bother you my friend. See you when you land … safe trip.”
I handed the phone back to Jesus feeling quite certain Pedro had never asked for a sat-phone. He said they were no better than ordinary cellphones … had he meant no safer? “Here’s our coffee Jesus. I’ve paid the bill and asked for your car to be brought up so we can leave as soon as we finish.”
“You should have let me pay. You are my guest and our client.”
“… and you have been driving all day. Lunch is the least I can do.”
Twenty minutes later I was pushing my way through the sardine packed departure lounge toward one of the open windows hoping for a breath of air that hadn’t been used by twenty others when I saw her. Her back was toward me but it had to be her. Tall with flowing brown hair, broad shoulders and slim, she had to be Alana … she turned … damn, it wasn’t.
I still had no idea about what happened between us during the ride back from the country. She had become so damned cold and distant even hostile at times. I didn’t say or do anything that could have set her off. Since then she made no attempt to see me. I just put her out of my mind. Forgetting had been easy because of the craziness surrounding the damned BrasTel deal. Craziness I was now certain included Skip’s problems.
At least I thought I had forgotten her until a moment ago. A deep biting pain as sharp as when I read Shelly’s note made it unmistakably clear all I had done was put her into a convenient little memory box without recognizing I wouldn’t be able to keep her there. In reality I never really wanted her lost in there. It had been simply a convenient place for a very troublesome distraction from the deal and its risks … both personal and professional. The truth, I wanted her here with me not just a distant detail lost among other fading memories.
Walking across the sweltering tarmac to the waiting plane I looked south i
nto the cloudless blue sky. There was a cable car suspended high above mid-harbor on its way to the top of Sugarloaf Island. Its passengers isolated in happy escape. If I could forget the miles of poverty Jesus and had driven through today I might be able to accept Rio’s carefully groomed image of paradise peacefully watched over by the huge, arms outstretched cement statue of Christ the Redeemer looking down from a nearby mountain top. Rio’s media image, a beautiful international city and happy playground by the ocean, was no more than dull and empty when compared with the shinning hidden paradise Alana and I had shared before everything suddenly unraveled.
Chapter 17
“How does Japanese food sound?”
“Anything will be fine Pedro. It’s been a long day and as you know the departure lounge is barely air conditioned. You won’t believe it. I was thankful for the long walk across the tarmac to the plane no matter how hot it was. It may be the old way to get aboard an airplane and probably unsafe as hell but the hot sea breeze that came with it was a relief after almost an hour in the lounge.”
“I understand Santos Dumond was supposed to close when the new international airport opened. Then ‘certain’ people started complaining the taxi ride was longer than the flight from São Paulo and almost as expensive. The natural consequence was the past and all its ‘pleasures’ remains with us and a particular family continues to collect rent on the ground under the airport.”
We crossed the downtown from Congonhas north to Liberdade in less than a half hour. Even traffic in the perpetually clogged tunnel under downtown was moving at a breath-taking thirty miles an hour. Still, the half hour was just enough for me to give Pedro a summary of the day before we stopped on the narrow side street in front of the familiar well-worn door harshly lit from above by a lone glaring bulb. “You like this place Pedro?”