by Jon Land
“Can you set up a meeting for me?” McCracken asked.
He could feel Salomao’s reluctance over the phone. “Da Sa is not fond of foreigners, amigo.”
“We’ll get along just fine.”
So McCracken flew to Rio determined to reach Da Sa himself if Carlos’ efforts failed. From Galeão Airport, a thirty-minute taxi ride brought him to the São Conrado district, where he would await the call from Carlos at the Rio Sheraton. Blaine chose to stay in American-style hotels wherever possible when he traveled. Ease and comfort were important to him, when danger was always right around the corner.
He checked in at two on Saturday afternoon, and fifteen minutes later he was drinking a virgin guarãna on his room’s terrace. His fourth-floor room offered a magnificent view of the private Vigidal Beach below. It was almost summer, and the temperature in the upper eighties was made pleasant by the breeze off the sea. With his feet propped up on the plastic terrace table, Blaine felt himself starting to slip off to sleep when the phone jarred him. He answered it, expecting to hear Carlos Salomao on the other end.
“I trust your trip went well, Mr. McCracken.” It was a heavily accented voice.
“Fernando Da Sa,” Blaine said.
“I am honored that you have graced my humble surroundings. You require a meeting, no doubt.”
“It won’t take much time.”
“It will take what it must. Come to the Copacabana Beach directly in front of the Hotel Meridien in exactly one hour. My guards will be waiting.”
“How will I know them?”
“They will know you.”
Da Sa hung up without saying any more. He didn’t have to. His people had been watching McCracken since the moment he emerged from the jetway, and they would watch him all the way to the meeting.
Blaine changed into shorts and a loose-fitting shirt, then took a hotel cab the fifteen-minute stretch to the Meridien Hotel at Copacabana Beach. Cars were parked diagonally across the stone walkway separating the street from the sand, and the cab pulled into an open slot. Blaine paid the fee in the Brazilian cruzeiros he had obtained at the Sheraton and stepped out. The beach before him was enormous and, since it was Saturday, crammed with people fighting for every inch of sand. Some boys battled for soccer balls in the sand; others played volleyball.
Blaine strode toward the beach between two of the many thatch-roofed stands along the street. Native fruits and foods were available, as well as Coca-Cola. Nearby a marimba band played. McCracken was about to step out onto the beach as instructed when a pair of strikingly beautiful Brazilian women in bikinis closed in on him from either side. One was black, the other looked more Latin.
“This way,” the black woman said, and moved forward to take the lead. The other woman brought up the rear. He had expected to be met by the typical muscle-bound thugs and found the surprise quite pleasant indeed.
The women escorted him onto the fine sand of the beach. They walked carefully to avoid the cluttered patches of blankets and towels and to avoid soccer balls in flight. Blaine watched as a kicked ball rolled to a stop in front of the first guard. The young players froze. No one made a move or said a word until she had kicked it back at them.
“Obrigado,” one muttered.
“De nada,” she answered.
Close to the sea, they swung left toward a section of the beach that appeared strangely vacant. There seemed to be only a single cluster of beach chairs under a canopy. Four tall, beautiful women were going through patterned dance steps in two pairs. The moves possessed a balletlike grace, but the daring near-misses with hands and feet, along with lightning responses, suggested martial arts kata. As he got closer, Blaine could see the women’s bodies were layered with well-defined muscles. Sweat glistened off their washboard abdominals and bulging bronzed shoulders. In addition to these four, he now noticed three more sunbathing off to the right of the canopy.
A single clap of hands brought the quartet of female practitioners to rigid attention, chests heaving from their exertion under the hot Rio sun. Beyond them Blaine glimpsed a single figure beneath the canopy. He was seated in a half-lounge chair that seemed buried in the sand, and he made no effort to rise as Blaine drew closer.
“Step into my office, McCrackenballs,” Fernando Da Sa said.
He stretched out his long legs and clasped his hands comfortably behind his head. He wore a white shirt unbuttoned to reveal a firm midsection that protruded slightly over his bathing trunks. The flesh was the same dark bronze color as his face, accentuated further by his jet-black hair, which showed gray only at the temples. A thin, shiny mustache graced his upper lip.
McCracken stopped at the entrance to the crime lord’s canopy. A nod from Da Sa, and one of his female guards placed a beach chair directly facing his.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.”
The chair had been placed so Blaine’s shoulders remained in the sun, but the front of his body was shaded by the canopy. “You like my girls, eh, McCrackenballs?”
“Most men with eyes would, Mr. Da Sa.”
“The routine you saw them performing is called Capuela. It was developed by slaves who were forbidden to practice self-defense. Because of its dancelike appearance, the masters paid no attention to it, but it is actually a deadly fighting art.”
Blaine stole a glance at two of the participants who still lingered just beyond the canopy. “I don’t doubt it.”
Da Sa smiled with pride. “My girls are the best fighters in all of Brazil.”
“Tough to conceal a gun in those outfits, though.”
“You did not check beneath the towels, my friend.”
“Perhaps I shall.”
Da Sa laughed gently. “I am glad to see you came unarmed. It is a gesture of good faith on your part and is much appreciated.”
Da Sa bowed his head slightly at that, and McCracken returned the gesture. Obviously the two women who had escorted him here knew he wasn’t carrying without needing to pat him down. That implied a high level of proficiency.
McCracken struggled to get his beach chair settled evenly in the sand.
“Can I offer you a drink, McCrackenballs?” Da Sa asked.
“Absolutely. Something from one of those coconuts. Unleaded.”
Da Sa gave the appropriate signal. “I understand you don’t drink alcohol.”
“Afraid I might get to like it too much.” Blaine glanced around him. “Especially in a place like this.”
“I can understand what you mean.” The crime lord hesitated. “It seems strange to you, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“That I can conduct business here without any worry.”
“Your counterparts elsewhere in the world couldn’t work this openly.”
“My manner of conducting business is not like the others in my field. I am not a criminal, Mr. McCracken, I am a purveyor, an entrepreneur. To the people I am a hero, but I am at home among them. I am just one of them who has reached a different station.”
“A station that requires nine bodyguards.”
“One has certain enemies, Mr. McCracken.”
“The Red Phalange, for example, Mr. Da Sa?”
Da Sa nodded. “I see you have done your homework, Mr. McCracken. My enemies in the phalange are not welcome here and they know it. Would you care to hear why?”
“Of course.”
“The people. They do not have the support of the people. They have done nothing for them except take their money. You have heard of Esquaderão da Morte?”
“Death squadrons.” Blaine translated.
“With the tolerance—even the support—of the police, these roving bands murder homeless children and dump their bodies in the sewers. They claim the purpose is to reduce street crime. They claim these children have no families. But I am their family, Mr. McCracken. I am family with all of Rio.”
Blaine’s drink came and he accepted it gratefully. It was cold coconut milk, and he drained half of it in the first two
gulps. He licked off his upper lip and dabbed with his arm what he had missed.
“You fund orphanages, halfway houses for released convicts, and food banks for the poor.”
“There are a great many in my country.”
“There were a great many more before your war with the Red Phalange.”
“I centralized power, McCrackenballs, and the results speak for themselves. I give back a huge percentage of what I take in from the city. It is good business. I am a good businessman.”
“And it’s important that I know that?”
“It’s important that you know how I function, my friend, in the event I am not able to grant your request.”
“I think it will be in your best interests—as well as the best interests of the party I am seeking.”
“Really?”
“This is beyond your usual sphere of influence, Mr. Da Sa.”
“This is Rio, McCrackenballs.”
“The roots are elsewhere.”
The crime lord shoved his chair closer to McCracken’s. “The roots of what?”
“Sometime within the last week a man came to you, an American. He asked for new identity papers, perhaps for protection.”
“Was this man in trouble?”
“Not necessarily,” Blaine said, the drink cooling his palms. “He was simply part of something that didn’t exist anymore. Maybe if he had walked into the U.S. Embassy, everything would have been all right. But he didn’t.”
“What is this man to you?”
“He has answers I need, answers no one else has. That makes him a valuable commodity, Mr. Da Sa. For both sides.”
“And which side am I on, McCrackenballs?”
“Neither. This time you’re in the middle.”
Without warning Da Sa bounded out of his chair and strode quickly to the water. McCracken drained the rest of his drink and followed close behind, as did the guards, too, at a discreet distance. Blaine stopped next to the crime lord and water lapped over their feet as Da Sa spoke again.
“This is Rio, my friend. I am both sides and the middle.”
“Not this time, Mr. Da Sa.”
“Assuming this man, this American you speak of, is under my protection, I would not force him to meet with you. What do you offer that may encourage him?”
“You can tell him what you know about me. Tell him I’m the one who can get him what he wants.”
“And just what is this?”
“If he’s still in the country, as I suspect, it’s because you learned he was too hot to move. But what the man wants is to get out and go home. That’s where I come in. He cooperates…the arrangements get made tomorrow.”
Da Sa laughed. “My sources were right about you, my friend. You think with your balls.”
“Cuts down on the headaches.”
“And you believe you can succeed in this where I have seen difficulties?”
“I have the advantage of knowing exactly what we’re facing.”
“That might not provide sufficient impetus for the American to accept a meeting.”
“Then tell him the Omicron legion is still at large. Tell him thirteen is my lucky number.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“It will to him.”
Sal Belamo gazed from the screen to Patty Hunsecker and back again.
“In-fucking-credible,” was all he could say. “You sure about this?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Every one of the victims on the list with my father was adopted, all within a three-year period.”
“Beginning forty-five years ago and ending forty-two?…”
Patty nodded. “For whatever it’s worth, yes.”
“It’s worth more than a kick in the ass, lady, and that’s what it feels like. Damned if I can make any sense of it, though.”
“Wait until you try to make sense of what else my nimble fingers uncovered: All the businessmen, my father included, had extensive dealings with the Japanese.”
“Come again?”
“They brokered deals. They ran interference for buyouts and mergers. Some made a fortune. Some didn’t. The Japanese ended up the biggest winners.”
Belamo hesitated, trying to take it all in. “How many additional victims you say you came up with?”
“Another five at least.”
“You ask me, lady, the thing to do is use your pattern and find out who else might be on the list.”
“I already have, Sal, and one of them is sure to interest you. Here,” she said, sliding back from the monitor screen, “have a look.”
Belamo squinted to read the name clearly, and then his eyes bulged.
“Holy fucking shit,” he muttered.
Chapter 19
MCCRACKEN AGREED TO meet under any conditions Jonas Parker requested.
“The thing is,” he said to Fernando Da Sa, “I won’t be the only one in Rio looking for him.”
“And these others, you think my participation in such matters simply slipped by them? Why would they have not come to me as you have?”
“Because they knew you would have seen through their motives.”
Da Sa grasped his shoulder tenderly. “You need not worry about these others, my friend. This man is under my protection, and that means very much in Rio. In addition, I will dispatch a dozen of my ladies to provide security, assuming, of course, he agrees to meet you.”
Blaine was told to go back to his hotel and wait by the pool. He would be contacted there with the details for the meeting.
It was cool in the late Rio afternoon, the sun having disappeared behind the Sheraton, and Blaine had been lying by the pool for only twenty minutes, when a tall, dark woman lay down casually on the chaise longue next to his.
“Eight o’clock tonight at the Jardim Botanico.”
“The what?”
“Botanical Garden. Enter from the Avenue of the Royal Palms. The gate will be left open for you. Walk until you reach the bronze fountain. The man you seek will appear only if you come alone, make no phone calls, and speak to no one before leaving. If you’re late, the meeting is off.”
She rose and walked away.
“Nice talking to you,” said Blaine.
McCracken reached the Jardim Botanico right on time and found the security gate to the Avenue of the Royal Palms open, just as promised. His path led beneath palm trees of every variety that had been among the seedlings planted by Prince Regent Dom Jaoa in 1808. Since then, samples collected and nurtured over the course of the years included water lilies measuring twenty-one feet in diameter and a spectacular collection of carnivorous and poisonous plants.
With just the moon for illumination, McCracken could only make out the shapes of trees and plants imported from a hundred countries. The wide path that ran between the spreading palms was formed of hard-packed dirt inlaid with rock. Other narrower paths, some enclosed by vine-wrapped steel overhangs, joined the main one to create a serpentine maze of intersecting passageways through the various flora. Blaine could make out a large lake off to his right.
Despite the calm and beautiful scene, McCracken was nervous and wary. Da Sa’s guarantees of protection seemed meaningless because the crime lord’s guards had no conception of what they were up against.
With that in mind, McCracken carried his Heckler and Koch along with Sal Belamo’s twin clips of plastic-covered Splats. He wore baggy, full-fitting trousers for comfort as well as to hide his pistol in an ankle holster. He had asked Da Sa for permission to carry the gun. The crime lord believed the weapon would be superfluous, but Blaine told him he liked playing things safe.
He strolled down the Avenue of the Royal Palms with eight o’clock still several minutes away. He knew he was getting close to the fountain when he heard its dripping sounds. It was nestled in a small open grove, surrounded by many statues and stone benches.
Blaine checked his watch. It was eight o’clock. Perhaps Parker had decided not to show after all. Perhaps something had stopped him en route.
Blaine caught the faint sound of footsteps on the soft ground of the narrow walk to his left. A shape emerged, motions tense and jittery. Blaine stiffened, but he didn’t rise. The figure passed into a patch of moonlight and Blaine recognized the face he had seen in Virginia Maxwell’s file. The man quickly approached and stopped a few yards before the bench where Blaine sat.
“Mr. Parker? Or is it Doctor Parker?”
Parker stood rigid. “Mister will do fine.” A pause, then, “Da Sa says you can help me.”
“You have to help me first.”
“Anything. Everything. I just want this to be over.”
“Then sit down.”
“It won’t make me more comfortable.”
“It will make you a smaller target.”
Each motion long and deliberate, Parker joined McCracken on the bench.
“Of course, we might be safe with Da Sa’s guards posted all around us,” Blaine continued, “but I don’t think so. And I’ve got the feeling you don’t, either.”
Parker’s eyes widened in the moonlight. “How much do you know about them?”
“I know there are thirteen. I know they escaped after killing the rest of the personnel at that installation in the Amazon. I also know you went into hiding because you knew sooner or later someone would realize they missed you. Probably sooner.”
“On my Christ…”
“What made you so lucky, Mr. Parker? Why did you survive?”
“I was project liaison with General Hardesty. My job was to perpetuate the illusion that the project was government funded. It was called Omicron.”
“I know.”
“How much do you know?”
“Not who was above Hardesty.”
“I don’t, either.”
“Bullshit.”
“No! My involvement began and ended with the general. When he died and the shred order came down, I made myself vanish.”
“What shred order?”
“The general’s staff was following S.O.P. With Hardesty dead, his files had to be closed.”
“Ben Norseman…”