Cradle of Splendor

by Patricia Anthony

  Roger told her to wait right there. Right there. To not say a word. It had to be love, he guessed—because even though he knew the consequences, he tiptoed into the house and gathered Dee’s car keys and gun.

  * * *

  During brunch the colonel’s cellular phone rang. “Ah, yes, General!” he said into the receiver. He poured himself another cup of coffee and winked at Edson. “He’s right here. Do you wish to speak with him?”

  Edson pushed his plate away, the sweet roll half eaten.

  The colonel eyed Edson, shrugged. “Excuse ... ? But of course! Your orders were very explicit ... what? Oh. Sweet rolls. From that little bakery in the Diplomatic Sector. Yes, General. I have been practicing my English every chance I get. I’ll be ready. Um? I’ll tell him. Ciao.”

  He thumbed the disconnect, folded the phone, put it back into the voluminous pocket of his camo jacket. “General Fernando says to tell you hello. And so I must now tell you ciaozinho. An agent of yours is here to see you. I’ll let him in now, shall I?”

  The colonel gathered his men and left. Reinhard Piehl walked into the room. “The Army held me out there for two hours! Everything is scheisse.” Piehl dropped into a chair, sorted through the cups on the table until he found a clean one. “This country is going down the shit hole and everyone makes jokes. Brazil is a nation of two—year—olds. There is no organization here, Edson,” he said as he poured. “You don’t understand the concept of organization. My father didn’t understand it, the KGB didn’t understand it. My German mother, now, she understood organization. Fernando Machado will find out the American Army understands it, too. The goddamned coffee is cold.”

  Edson sighed, shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked out the window at the dusty blue sky, and wished for rain. A soft rain, not a tropical afternoon downpour. Edson wanted to be buried under goosedown clouds, dripping trees. Someone, somewhere should cry for him.

  “Scheisse.” Piehl rested his head in his hand, and with the tip of a finger slashed a series of X’s across the tabletop. He sighed, stuck out his lower lip. “The Army took my pistol away. ‘Nothing personal,’ they told me. So, anyway. What do you want me to do with the Japanese?”

  A ghostly X of moisture evaporated from the polished wood. Edson thought he heard the squeak of glass. “What?”

  “The Japanese we’re doing the bag job on. If the embassy maid is still reliable, our target is on sick leave. My guess is that she is reliable, and that she will stay that way. She has the face of a mud road, and da Silva’s her raven. I hear the man could make a rubber fuck—toy come. So. On his way home today, our target Japanese boy stopped in a pharmacy, bought a bunch of pills. He’s not malingering.”

  Piehl lifted the cup to his mouth and drank. The way his lips met the porcelain. How Freitas—Jesus. What was he thinking? Edson quickly looked away. “I don’t ...”

  “The target who works for the Japanese Trade Ministry.”

  “Ah.” Edson couldn’t remember.

  “Sato. Mr. Spy Hobbyist? The one who knows Kinch. Edson. For God’s sake. The one who went to Blumenau and flushed me out.”

  Edson ran his fingers through the change in his pocket; found a coin, held onto it for dear life. “Yes, yes. That one.” Edson looked at the clock. Five—thirty already. Ana would still be in her office. Freitas would be alone. Edson wondered what the man was doing. He could go there. To Alvorada. He needed to talk to him. That was all. Just talk. Find out about the Disappeareds and—

  “The more I see of our target, I doubt he’s with the Americans. He may be out of the Japanese loop, too. Makes him a waste of manpower. Although—one never knows—he could come in useful some day. What do you want me to do?”

  Not the abyss Edson longed for. No bottomless black eyes. Bright summer—sky blue.

  “Edson? Are you listening?”

  Edson turned the coin over and over in his pocket until the friction against his thigh made his skin tingle, made his chest feel tight. When Piehl left, he promised himself, he would have a drink.

  “Goddamn it. You brought me all the way from Santa Catarina to run this boy. You want us to keep up the bag game or not?”

  That question again. Edson wished Piehl would leave. He took his hand from his pocket and looked down at the coin in his palm. Tails.

  “Keep it going,” Edson said.

  * * *

  She hated the gun. “Do you have to, like, do the Clint Eastwood thing? And where are we going, anyway?”

  Roger hunched over the wheel. He’d been heading northeast for almost an hour. Not even a farmhouse in sight. And the sun was going down. “I don’t know.”

  She tsked. Crossed her legs. Jiggled a foot. “You’re not CIA.”

  “I am.”

  “For sure.”

  “I am.”

  She gave a world—weary sigh. “I’ve been around, Roger, you know? People fit their jobs, okay? I mean, one look and I knew you were an engineer or something geeky—nothing personal. And spies all have these Mafia kind of eyes, just like Edson Carvalho. Can we get something to eat now?”

  Dee’s Toyota squeaked and rattled over the washboard clay road. He checked the rearview. Nothing but sand and scrub brush. A dying sun set the tops of the hills aflame. The valley floor was violet. Night was coming on fast. What if they had a flat tire? Roger looked at the gas gauge again. Still half full. Couldn’t be. What if the damned thing was broken? “Look for a farmhouse,” he told her.

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to call your mom.”

  “Like, I don’t think so.”

  “Jaje, the house was bugged. The CIA heard everything.” Roger clenched the steering wheel so hard that he could feel the vibration of the road in his shoulders. “No telling what they’ll do.”

  Her foot went up and down. The sandal flapped. “Roger,” she said in a tone of consummate boredom. “Spies are only dangerous in the movies.”

  “Why can’t we just call your mom and tell her where you are? She’s probably worried.”

  “I don’t want Mom.” No ennui this time. An unsettling quiver in her voice. “I want my Aunt Dee.”

  He took his eyes from the road. Her hair was windblown, her makeup streaked. She was pouting at the window. He allowed himself one pang of longing, then looked out the windshield again.

  Whoa. Was that lights ahead? He touched the brake, let up when the tires lost traction in the dust.

  “What?” she asked.

  “That a car?” Oh, shit. What if that was a car? What if it was McNatt? How many bullets did Roger have, anyway? He hadn’t even bothered to check the round thing that held the ... cylinder? Was that what it was called?

  Jaje uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “A town.”

  It was. Thank God. It was a town. The sun paraded behind the hills with red fanfare, flourishing banners of gold. The town shimmered on the horizon.

  It was smaller than Roger had hoped. A few shacks, a one—room store, an attached pool hall. The store was closed, but warm light shone from the windows next door, cast brass rectangles on the bard—packed yard. Inside, men were shooting pool and drinking beer.

  Roger and Jaje got out of the Toyota and walked up the weathered wooden steps. The pool games stopped. Silence greeted them. The men weren’t big, but they were tough—looking. A lot tougher than Roger. Tougher than even McNatt—because where McNatt had grown up, whether in some upscale neighborhood in Seattle, or in the projects of Chicago, Domino’s Pizza delivered. A short walk past the drug pushers in South Dallas, and you’d get to civilization. This little town, wherever the hell it was, was an hour’s drive from noplace.

  Roger put his hand in the pocket of his jacket, slipped his fingers around his gun. “You got a phone?”

  They might not have civilization, but they had a satellite link to it. On the wall was a mounted te
levision tuned to CNN.

  The men looked at each other. Did they recognize Jaje? Roger didn’t think so. Christ. What a stupid mistake! It was such a killer of a mistake that Roger broke out in an icy sweat and his stomach went into free fall. What had he done? Jaje was just a kid, and she wasn’t dressed to go out. Roger wondered how many he could shoot before they overpowered him and raped her.

  “You lost?” one of the men asked. He took a swig from his Antarctica longneck. His cheap cotton shirt was unbuttoned. He had a knotty, skinny—looking chest and a hard washboard of a stomach.

  “I’m hungry,” Jaje said.

  Oh Christ, no! She was walking toward them, right within their reach, stepping into Roger’s line of fire.

  “Twelve hours on the bus. Then I get to Brasília, and he,” she waved in Roger’s direction, “didn’t have any food.”

  Before Roger could shoot, there was an outpouring of noisy sympathy. “Oh, ’tadinha!” One man brought her a chair, another searched the refrigerator. “Poor little thing.” They threw admonishing looks at Roger. They apologized for their inadequate hospitality. “We don’t get many visitors here.” They brought Jaje the remains of someone’s sandwich, painstakingly cut off the tooth marks.

  Buried under the avalanche of cordiality, Roger took his hand out of his pocket. And this time when he asked to use the phone, they told him the lines were down.

  “Some trouble in Brasília,” a man understated.

  While Jaje ate three pickled eggs, Roger watched CNN. An American State Department spokesperson was discussing secret atomic weapon plants and Cabeceiras and U.N. inspectors.

  While Jaje ate coconut ice cream, Roger saw aerial photos of launching pads. Heard talk of payloads and space weaponry.

  He put a handful of ten—cruzeiro bills down on the pool table, and sipped on a Brahma Chopp. Jaje ate a sugared avocado while she played a game of pool.

  A man said to Roger, “Young girl like that, she shouldn’t be out here. There’s bandits.” A neat white scar ran from the man’s chin to his hairline. It looked as if sometime in his life, he’d gotten up to go to the bathroom, and run into a razor.

  “Right.” Bandits? Who cared about bandits when there were bombing runs, cruise missiles, and Special Forces?

  The man asked, “You got a gun?”

  The question confused Roger. A gun? Shit. He’d need a tank.

  “Because you’ll need a gun,” the man said. “You a foreigner?”

  “I’m ... Yeah. Australian.”

  The man nodded. “Want to stay here?”

  He wanted to. More than anything. But if he didn’t keep moving, McNatt would find him. “I need to get back on the road.”

  “Be careful,” the man said.

  Around eight o’clock Jaje put down her pool cue and yawned. Roger said his goodbyes, the men waved, and he led her to the car.

  “Where to?” she asked when they drove off.

  Roger didn’t know.

  “I’m cold.”

  He turned on the heater. He stowed the gun in the map compartment, then stripped off his jacket, and gave it to her. Blackness ahead but for the tunneled glare from the headlights. Roger wished for gravel shoulders and double yellow lines.

  “It’s not true what they’re saying about Mom and Aunt Dee.”

  Roger’s vision blurred. He rubbed his eyes.

  “It’s just not true. Mom’s won the Miss Boring pageant forty—eight years in a row. She’d never have people murdered. She’d never take money from the CIA.”

  The road ahead went double. Then fuzzy. Roger took his foot off the accelerator.

  “What?” she asked.

  He steered off the highway, drove a short way into the scrub brush, and parked. “Get in the backseat.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “I can’t drive anymore. Get in the backseat.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “No.” He got out and walked to the trunk. Just as he had hoped: Dee packed for survival. There were bottles of water. Bandages. A blanket. He took the blanket to Jaje.

  She got out, wrapped herself in the blanket. “I know what American guys are like. Don’t you try anything. You’ll be sorry.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Roger slipped behind the wheel, held the gun in his lap, and shivered. So dark. The horizon was just a place the stars ended, and absolute blackness began. Roger wished he had his own blanket. Some coffee. He looked at his watch. Nine. It would be a long wait for dawn.

  From the backseat a tiny voice. “You gotta promise not to take me to Mom, okay? ’Cause I need to talk to Aunt Dee. She’ll tell me what’s going on. I just want to know what’s happening here. And why people are saying these things.”

  The night was silent but for the chitter of a nightbird. Roger felt her presence as a prickly, melting warmth between his shoulder blades. The feeling made him want to tuck his body around hers, to keep her safe. And it wasn’t just the tube top or the short shorts. Or the funny way she cocked her head to the side when he said something dumb. Or her laugh. Or even that she smelled of coconut oil and perfume.

  Unbelievably awesome, what he realized he was willing to do. He’d step in front of a train for her, in front of a bullet.

  “Promise,” he said.

  ABC News Special: Confrontation

  ... behind me you would normally see Corcovado and the huge statue of Christ, the Cristo Redentor. But tonight the floodlights have been extinguished. Rio, which lies along the Brazilian coast like a thin jeweled belt, is dark. Closing the universities, imposing martial law and a curfew have effectively ended the demonstrations, but at a cost.

  The mood here, so close now to the deadline, is subdued. The quiet is eerie. And still the clock ticks. While Americans await death from the skies, so do the Brazilians. Peter?

  Thank you, Jim. A small personal note: I’ve been to Rio several times, and always enjoyed my visits. It’s one of the world’s most beautiful cities. And certainly one of the most lively. Shocking to see it like this. And now we have ABC correspondent Tomás Fuentes standing by in Brasília. Tomás?

  Well, as you can see, Peter; the busses are running, but they’re running fairly empty. Everyone’s keeping their heads down. No word from President Bonfim as yet, whether or not she will allow the inspectors in. The Brazilians I’ve spoken to think it is incredible that the two presidents aren’t communicating. They just don’t understand it.

  Tomás? You were in Haiti and Panama, and ... well, you’ve covered a number of military actions in this hemisphere. Is it just me, or is this confrontation somehow different?

  Very different, Peter: There’s no grandstanding on either side, for one thing. Just a silent, terrible anxiety.

  “COMING, COMING!” Edson stumbled through the darkened living room to the foyer. He turned on the light and opened the front door.

  Muller. “Sir, I’m sorry. I did get your message. They released me at six, and it took me this long to get through the roadblocks. Things are easing a bit now. Are you all right?”

  Edson ushered him in, set the half—empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the hall table. “Where is she?”

  Muller’s gaze strayed. “The Villanova safe house.”

  “Look at me. I need to see if you’re lying.”

  The eyes snapped to Edson’s. They were angry.

  “Tell me again.”

  “The president is at the Villanova safe house, sir. She’s with Dolores Sims.”

  Anger, and nothing else. “Why?”

  “Jaje is missing.” They had worked together long enough. When Edson’s face tightened, Muller knew. “No, sir. Not the CIA. Machado thinks she simply wandered off.”

  “Um.” He started out. “Take me to Alvorada.”

  “Sir?” An apologetic voice at his back. “It’s about Henrique Freitas, sir. Somet
hing I think you should hear.”

  Muller stood in the fall of light under the chandelier, his blond hair white—hot against the living room’s dark.

  “The Valley is an isolated place, sir. You know that. Two simple country police officers; no coroner. Still, I found out how Freitas’s wife died. A fall, sir. In a one—story house, she died of a fall.”

  Muller was too radiant, too disturbing, to look at. “Take me to Alvorada.”

  Without another word, the agent walked to the car. Edson got in the backseat. No more roadblocks, but every kilometer, a knot of soldiers.

  Edson noticed Muller watching him in the rearview mirror. Not that I want this, he thought.

  “From what I learned; I think the boy saw everything,” Muller said. “What sort of man would beat his wife to death while his child watched?”

  “He’s not a man,” Edson told him.

  “Sir ...”

  “Don’t.”

  Muller didn’t speak again, not even when they drove down the parking garage’s ramp and through the gates. Edson got out of the car, and walked past the soldiers.

  “Good evening, sir.” The guard at the first—floor desk sounded surprised.

  The lonely click of his own heels on the marble staircase. Five steps. Ten. Then down the parquet hall. Twelve. Fourteen. Edson halted at Freitas’s room. He could go back now. Go home.

  Edson turned the knob.

  Dark. So dark that Edson nearly fled. No, not quite black. City lights shone through an opening in the curtain. And a ruddy glow from a corner, steadier than a candle.

  Edson closed the door behind him. Someone was quietly laughing. He walked closer. A night—light. A Porky Pig night—light.

  And it wasn’t laughter that he heard.

  In the glow from the night—lamp, in front of a wingback chair, a little boy sobbed. Hair straight and black as an Indian’s. His pudgy hands covered his face.

  And more hands. Ones that reached out from the chair’s shadows. Fingers sliding down, down, past where knit shirt ended and taut warm flesh began.