Whatever the truth of his origins, one thing about Orlando Muniz Junior was certain: He was a drunk. Not just an ordinary drunk, but a world-class drunk. He started the day with a tumbler full of cane spirit and an ice-cold beer. He had more beer and more cachaça for lunch, often to the exclusion of anything else. And he consumed at least two bottles of wine at dinner, usually following them with multiple doses of Macieira, a Portuguese brandy to which he was partial, a case of which never lasted him more than a month.
Orlando seldom went to bed before 2:00 in the morning, and often found himself awake at 4:00 or 5:00 AM, his body craving more alcohol. Recently, to assure a good night’s sleep, he’d taken to consuming a healthy dose of a sleeping potion that his doctor had refused to prescribe, but that one of the local pharmacists was all-too-willing to provide. So it might have been the alcohol, and it might have been the drug, but one or the other had dulled his wits and slowed him down just enough to prevent him from getting his hand around the grip of that revolver. And either one or both also caused him to stare stupidly around him, shaking his head to clear it, blinking his eyes in confusion and trying to absorb what was happening to him.
The room was filled with men, all of them wearing hoods, a few of them holding guns and most of them clutching makeshift weapons: mattocks, pickaxes and machetes. The man who had Orlando’s Taurus .38 pointed it in the air and slowly released the hammer, demonstrating that he knew how to use a revolver.
There was a commotion at the door. Anselmo, his face bloody, his holster empty, was hustled into the room. The man behind him, hooded like all the others, was wearing a red T-shirt bearing the logotype of the Landless Workers’ League. While Orlando watched, the man threw a loop of white cord over Anselmo’s head. There was a wooden toggle at either end.
They wouldn’t dare, Orlando thought.
But they did.
The man gripping the toggles changed hands and started pulling outward, tightening the garrote around Anselmo’s neck.
Anselmo’s tanned brown face began to flush, only slightly at first, and then becoming redder and redder, as if he was lifting a heavy weight. The capanga’s mouth opened and his tongue popped out, but no sound escaped his lips. He needed air in order to cry out and he wasn’t getting any. His legs scrabbled, as if he was running in place. Suddenly, the room filled with the smell of excrement, and a spreading stain appeared on the front of Anselmo’s faded jeans. His eyes rolled upward and his legs collapsed.
The man in the red T-shirt kept up the pressure until he was quite sure the capanga was dead. Then he motioned to a short man with a prominent Adam’s apple just visible under the fall of his hood. Together they dragged Anselmo’s lifeless body out of the room.
Orlando was waking up fast. His throat was so dry he had to swallow, twice, before he could utter a word. The word he chose to utter was “please.” That was about all he could manage, but it seemed to help. He could hear them relaxing, shuffling their feet, some of the tension going out of them.
“Please? Did you say please?” the spokesman said.
“Yes. I said please. Please, don’t hurt me.” The words were coming easier now.
“Did Aurelio Azevedo ask you not to hurt him when you nailed him to a tree? Did he ask you not to geld him like one of your cattle? Did his wife and children beg you to spare their lives?”
Orlando started shaking his head, stopped when he felt the shooting pain behind his eyes. The brandy always gave him a headache when he didn’t have time to sleep it off. “I had nothing to do with any of that,” he said.
The spokesman put his hooded face only a few centimeters from Orlando’s own, so close that Orlando could smell the tobacco on his breath.
“No?”
He searched Orlando’s eyes.
“No,” Orlando said. But he looked away.
“You’re lying,” the spokesman said, and then, raising his voice only slightly, “Carlos.”
The man with the red T-shirt, the man he’d called Carlos, came back into the room, his garrote doubled back into a loop and dangling from his right hand.
“Kill him.”
The executioner stepped forward and slipped the white cord around Orlando’s neck.
“No. For the love of God—”
“Answer me, then. What did Aurelio do when he knew you were going to nail him to that tree?”
Orlando shook his head. He lifted one hand and got two fingers between his throat and the cord. The man with the garrote gave a little pull on the toggles, enough to let his victim sense that mere fingers weren’t going to be enough to save him.
“We know you did it. So tell us the truth,” the spokesman said, “or die now.”
“It wasn’t me. I swear. It was Anselmo. Anselmo did it.”
Some of the men in hoods looked at each other, but the spokesman didn’t take his eyes off Orlando.
“And cutting him? Whose idea was that?”
“Anselmo. It was Anselmo’s idea. He said it would frighten the others, said that real men are more afraid of losing their cocks than losing their lives.”
“Did Aurelio beg you not to kill him?”
“No. No, he didn’t. He spit in Anselmo’s face.”
“And then?”
“And then Anselmo . . . well, he got angry . . . and he did what he did.”
“And you made Aurelio’s wife watch you murder him?”
“Not me. Anselmo.”
“What happened next?
“She started to cry. Asked Anselmo not to kill the kids.”
“But you did anyway, didn’t you?”
“We had to. Can’t you see? They weren’t babies anymore. They saw our faces.”
Orlando swallowed.
The spokesman inclined his head, giving a sign. Orlando wet himself in fear, certain that the garrote was going to tighten, but he was wrong. To his immense relief, he felt it being slipped from his neck.
They dragged him down the long hallway, through the living room where embers were still glowing in the fireplace and the smell of brandy still hung heavy in the air and out onto his front porch. One of his trucks was standing at the foot of the steps, the engine already running.
The early morning air and the adrenaline that was pumping through his veins helped to clear Orlando’s head. He still had a headache, but now he was able to think. How did they get into the house? Where the hell are the rest of my bodyguards? Where are they taking me? How am I going to explain this to the old man?
The old man was his father, Orlando Senior, who had never thought much of his son’s abilities even at the best of times and the best of times were several years in the past. These days, fed up with Orlando’s drinking and mismanagement, he’d gotten to the point of threatening to cut Orlando off without a cent.
Money! That’s it! This is all about money. About ransom. Suppose they ask for too much? What if the old man says no? What then? And how much is too much, anyway? A million? Would he pay a million?
They hustled him down to the truck, pausing at the tailgate. The spokesman went up front and climbed into the cab. They bound Orlando’s hands behind his back with a piece of wire and tossed him into the bed like a sack of garbage. He landed hard on one shoulder, his head bouncing against the metal floor.
For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out, but he didn’t. When the dancing black spots faded, he found he was looking at the answer to one of his questions. The other capangas were with him in the truck, and like their boss, Anselmo, they were dead. All six corpses were crammed, one on top of the other, into an area between the side of the truck and an oblong object covered by a piece of tarpaulin.
His abductors found places on the floor, on the oblong object, and even on the bodies of the dead. The last man to climb aboard was the man in the red T-shirt, his garrote now dangling from his belt like a watch chain, the toggles stuffed into a pocket of his jeans. He signaled to the driver by pounding on the roof of the cab with his fist. The truck set off with a j
erk.
Orlando twisted his body and craned his neck to look back at the house. His front door had been smashed. Splinters of blue wood were lying on the porch. The shutters, blue like the door, were still closed and locked.
Why didn’t Anselmo stop them? He must have been drunk. All of them must have been drunk. Stupid bastards! The old man, damn him, had been right again: If you’re only willing to pay peanuts, what you’re going to get is monkeys. He’d hired Anselmo for peanuts. And Anselmo had hired the others for peanuts. And now the old man was going to tell him that it would never have happened if he’d been smart enough to hire good people.
Dust welled up behind the truck, blocking the view of his home. Tears began to run from Orlando’s eyes. It’s the dust. Just the dust. But he knew it wasn’t. And it wasn’t fear, either. It was rage, rage and frustration. Every damn time his father came to the fazenda, it was nothing but criticism, criticism, criticism. And now this. The old tyrant was richer than Croesus, but he parted with every centavo like it was the last one he had in the world. No matter what the amount of the ransom was, he’d bitch about it forever.
They passed the tobacco sheds, where the leaves were cured, and the old deposito, where they kept the coffee. The driver didn’t hesitate when he came to the fork. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, but it still surprised Orlando when they suddenly screeched to a stop. Surprised him, because the driver had stopped in the middle of nowhere. There were no nearby buildings, no other vehicles. There was nothing but a steep hillside on the right and level cane fields sweeping off to the left. The cane had been harvested less than a week before, and except for some stubble, the land was bare. Orlando could see all the way to the trees hemming the river, almost a kilometer away.
Two of his abductors grabbed his arms and bundled him, none too gently, out of the truck. The spokesman and the driver climbed out of the front seat. Four of the men removed the tarpaulin from the oblong object and lowered it to the ground. It turned out to be a wooden box about two meters long. The other two dimensions were about a quarter of that, no more than fifty or sixty centimeters wide and high.
“What have you got in there?” Orlando asked.
“Start climbing,” the spokesman said.
“This hill?”
“You see anything else to climb? Get moving.”
Orlando was overweight. The only thing he ever exercised was his drinking arm. Before he was even halfway up the slope his heart was pounding, and he was struggling to breathe. He tried to slow his pace, but when he did the strangler kicked him in the buttocks to speed him up. By the time they reached the top Orlando was sweating like one of his horses after a sharp gallop in midsummer.
The sun’s disk was just peeking over the horizon. The golden light cast long shadows from two shovels standing upright in a pile of earth. The shadows fell over a trench, freshly dug at the very summit of the hill.
The four men who’d been carrying the box set it down. Then the whole gang gathered around the hole and took off their hoods.
Orlando gaped at the face of the spokesman.
“You!” he said.
“Yes, you swine, me. Surprised?”
Remembering Azevedo’s gesture, Orlando tried to spit. But he couldn’t. His throat was too dry. He tried to tell himself it was the wine, knew it wasn’t. He studied every face and recognized three more: Flavio, who’d worked for him for years and was still working for him, damn him; Lucas, who he’d fired last August—no, September—for impertinence; and, finally, the killer in the red T-shirt. Carlos Something. He couldn’t remember the rest of the name, but he did remember that the association had circulated a photo of him, a photo meant to ensure that he never got a job on any ranch owned by a member.
Orlando let his eyes sweep around the group, scanning the other faces, trying to commit each and every one of them to memory.
The entire circle was looking back at him with contempt and with no pity at all. In an attempt to avoid their eyes he looked down at the hole and had a sudden and very ugly thought. No. They wouldn’t do that. It wouldn’t make any sense. They’re just trying to frighten me.
He strove for reassurance. “How much is it?” he said, nervously.
The spokesman gave him a quizzical look. Orlando felt a shiver of fear go down his back, but he tried again. “The ransom. How much is it?”
The spokesman’s brow wrinkled. “Is that what you think this is all about? Money?”
Orlando swallowed.
The man in the red shirt grinned, but no one else did.
“We’re not interested in your money,” the spokesman said.
Up to that very moment Orlando had always thought that everyone was interested in money. It was very late in his life for him to discover that some people weren’t. He struggled with the thought.
Far away, in the trees by the river, a parrot shrieked. The sun was warm on his cheek. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair. He could smell the freshly turned earth. Despite his persistent hangover, Orlando felt very much alive and he wanted to stay that way. There was a space between the spokesman and the man in the red T-shirt. Orlando tensed his tired muscles, prepared to run.
Something struck him on the back of his head. There was no pain, just a flash of light, and then blackness.
But it wasn’t the end.
He awoke lying on his back. Thin slivers of light shone through planks that were only centimeters from his face. He tried to lift his hands, but they were still bound behind him, the wire cutting into his wrists. He tried to raise a knee. It wouldn’t move. His feet were wired together at the ankles.
He called out for help, and as if his call had been something they’d been waiting for, he felt them lifting him up and then lowering him down. When the movement stopped, he found himself resting at a slight angle, his feet somewhat higher than his head.
Then began a series of thuds. He didn’t recognize them for what they were until something fell onto one of the small cracks above his face, and some of it trickled through and landed on his lips. He opened his mouth to taste it. Dirt!
And then he knew: Those thuds were the thin red earth of his fazenda falling on his coffin. The bastards were burying him alive.
He cried out for them to stop, drummed against the top of the box with his knees, beat against it with his head.
The shoveling continued at the same rhythmic pace. He screamed, screamed as loud as he could, and while he was still screaming they began to sing.
It was that song of theirs, the one he hated, the one they always accompanied by waving their left fists in the air, the one about brotherhood and justice and all that other crap.
It was the anthem of the league.
Chapter Eight
THE FBI NATIONAL ACADEMY is located on the grounds of the United States Marine Corps Base at Quantico in Virginia. It shares the same campus with the FBI Academy, and bears a similar name, leading some people confuse one with the other. They are, in fact, separate institutions.
The FBI Academy exists to train special agents for the bureau. The FBI National Academy is an advanced course of study for experienced law enforcement officials. Among them, there is always a handful of senior officers from countries outside of the United States. The benefit to those countries is that their most talented cops have an opportunity to share ideas, techniques, and experience with their American counterparts. The benefit for the United States is that lifelong relationships are established, relationships that transcend national boundaries.
In June of 1983, four and a half years after his father’s murder, Mario Silva received an invitation to go to Quantico. He was the first Brazilian to be so honored. His law degree, fluent English, and the spectacular results he’d achieved in Brazil’s combat against the drug trade had all contributed to his receiving the coveted opportunity. There could have been no clearer indication that his superiors destined him for greater things. For ten classroom weeks, in the company of 250 other police officers, he took cours
es in behavioral science, leadership development, communication, health/fitness, law, and forensics. Forensics interested him most of all.
Upon his return, he was transferred to Brasilia, the federal capital. The expectation of his superiors was that he’d be able to put some of the things he’d learned into practice. Those were the days when experienced law enforcement officers, not political appointees, ran the Federal Police. The man who held the job, Helio Fagundes, was a consummate professional who recognized talent when he saw it. And he saw it in Mario Silva.
“HOW BIG is this thing?” Fagundes asked. They were in his office. Silva had been back from the United States for about a week.
“About like that,” Silva said, as if demonstrating the size of a fish he’d caught, “and like that, and that,” tracing the other dimensions in the air.
“That small? Jesus!” Fagundes leaned forward, leafed through the proposal on his desk, and looked at the bottom line. “Cheap, too,” he said, “Compared to those monsters we’ve got downstairs. Okay, you’ve got a green light. I’ll send you the paperwork. Go buy the thing.”
The “thing” was an IBM Personal Computer. The device, less than two years on the market, was just beginning to come into use in law enforcement agencies in the United States. Silva had seen his first one when he was in Quantico.
The computer was duly installed in a small room down the hall from Silva’s new office. Silva started learning how to use it, and with the blessing of the director, he hired a young man to help him. The young man was Cicero Morales. Cicero had a sparse goatee, a developing potbelly, thick horned-rim glasses, an acne problem and unkempt hair. Years later, and thirty kilograms fatter, he would become the head of the Federal Police’s forensic laboratory. Even then, at twenty-three, Cicero was an unusually perceptive man.
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