The Diamond Bubble

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “It’s really not a bad idea,” Wilson conceded, “although I can think of a few objections.”

  Da Silva frowned at him indignantly. “Name one!”

  “Well,” Wilson said slowly, fingering his glass, “suppose one of the delegates didn’t like what another one was saying. He might just reach across and switch off the set.”

  Da Silva stared at him. “And you consider this a disadvantage?”

  Wilson grinned, his past irritation forgotten. “Well, maybe not. A far greater disadvantage, of course, is that under that system, how would we get rid of counterpart funds? And can you imagine the uproar in Congress if none of the public’s money was used for junkets abroad? Why, you might even balance the budget! And you’d definitely put the airlines out of business in a week. Not to mention two thousand clerks in the General Accounting Office.”

  “That’s true,” Da Silva conceded, and grinned. “It wouldn’t bother me greatly to put the airlines out of business, but I’d hate to think of the blow to the United States economy if two thousand clerks were let loose on the streets of Washington all at one time.”

  “Two thousand more, you mean,” Wilson said.

  “Plus eighty C.I.A. agents,” Da Silva added innocently.

  Wilson’s smile faded abruptly. “You’re still on that kick, are you? Will you please accept the fact that the C.I.A.—”

  “—is a fine organization full of dedicated men with excellent ideals and good profiles,” Da Silva ended. He smiled. “Unfortunately, not particularly interested in Brazilian problems, which is what I have to worry about.” His smile faded. “In any event, we’ve rounded up as many of our own bad boys as we could find—or recognize—and we’ve got the docks and the airports covered pretty thoroughly. We’ve picked up a couple of men who might have caused some trouble, but I’m sure we haven’t gotten them all.”

  Wilson looked at him sardonically. “And none of them Americans?”

  “No,” Da Silva admitted, “but that doesn’t impress me too much. Now that you’ve exported chewing gum and sunglasses and Hollywood shirts around the world it’s pretty hard to tell an American from a native. And also, of course,” he added with a faint smile, “people—who I won’t name—have been known to hire local talent to do their chores for them.”

  Wilson shook his head hopelessly. “Once you get an idea in your head, Zé, it’s hard to reason with you. As far as Juan Dorcas is concerned, there have been other attempts to get him before this. Now, I suppose, you’ll claim they were all the work of the C.I.A.”

  “No.” Da Silva looked at him steadily. “Not all of them. Maybe none of them. Feelings run pretty high in some of these countries down here; diplomats sometimes speak for their governments and sometimes don’t—but they seldom speak for the people. And often when they do it’s for the wrong reasons. And people being what they are, it’s not uncommon to try and solve problems the quickest way. But no matter who may want to solve the problem of Juan Dorcas, our job is to see to it they don’t. At least not here in Brazil.” He sighed. “I’ll be a lot happier when these O.A.S. meetings are over.”

  “I can well imagine,” Wilson said with pretended sympathy. “You won’t have to dream up your wild cloak-and-dagger ideas out of your head—you can go back to getting them from the TV.” He snorted. “Dorcas! He must be some sort of a nut!”

  Da Silva contemplated him curiously. “What makes you say that? Have you ever seen the man? Or talked to him?”

  “No,” Wilson admitted. “I don’t think I’ve even seen a good, recognizable photograph of him. I understand he doesn’t like newspapermen, or photographers.”

  “And in your opinion that makes him some sort of a nut?”

  Wilson refused to be drawn in by the gentle sarcasm. “That’s not the reason. The man’s supposed to be fantastically wealthy, with large investments in almost every South American country—”

  Da Silva nodded evenly. “That’s true.”

  “—and yet,” Wilson continued, “he opposes every move our Government makes to try and hold off revolutions in these countries. Even though he’d be the first to lose everything if any Government came in that followed even the most minor form of expropriation. In my opinion, that makes him some sort of a nut.”

  Da Silva shook his head slowly. “You know, Wilson,” he said at last, “this may be hard for you to accept, but not everyone agrees with the means your Government takes to combat revolution. In fact, some people think your means actually fosters it.” He shrugged. “Dorcas happens to be one of them.”

  “Fosters it? You’re crazy!”

  “Am I? Maybe. On the other hand, to take one small example, when you people went into the Dominican Republic, you did so on the basis of a claim from your diplomats there that there were some eighteen—or maybe the figure was twenty-eight, or possibly even thirty-eight—active Communists there that constituted a threat to democratic government there—”

  Wilson frowned at him. “And you don’t believe there were?”

  “I’m sure there were,” Da Silva said gently. “In fact, knowing the accuracy of diplomatic reports, I’m sure there were more. My point is, however, after you were there awhile, the figure probably jumped to a hundred times that number. That, my friend, is what the word ‘fosters’ means.” He held up a hand to prevent Wilson from breaking in. “Now, if I were Senhor Dorcas, interested in protecting my investments, I’m afraid I’d at least take a good, long look at any method that resulted in an increase in revolutionary feeling on that scale.”

  Wilson stared at him. “And so, in your opinion, we should simply do nothing?”

  Da Silva suddenly grinned. “In my opinion I shouldn’t be giving you my opinion. It serves no purpose for me, and I’m sure it won’t change your ideas in the slightest.” His grin faded. “I suppose you do what you feel you have to do. Which, after all, is exactly what Juan Dorcas does. And what I do as far as preventing trouble for my country.” He leaned back, his black eyes studying his friend, his strong fingers twisting the stem of his brandy glass. “Well, enough of politics. We’ve been fortunate to avoid the subject in the past; let’s leave it that way.”

  Wilson looked into the dark eyes across from him for several moments and then nodded. “Fair enough. As long as you don’t get carried away by any wild worries about the C.I.A.”

  Da Silva grinned. “How about the O.G.P.U.? Have I your permission to worry about them?”

  Wilson started to frown and then broke down and laughed. “You’re impossible! All right, worry about whomever you want to worry about.”

  “That’s better,” Da Silva said. He reached for the cigarettes and drew one out, lighting it. “Now, what was this queer thing that happened to you this morning? This queer, but minor, thing?”

  “Fancy your still remembering!” Wilson said with exaggerated admiration. “After your romantic flights of fancy, though, I’m afraid you’ll find it a pretty dull story.”

  “I like dull stories,” Da Silva said. “What happened?”

  “Well,” Wilson said, leaning back in his chair, “if you must know, it was something that happened at the hospital just before I came here this noon. You know I’m one of the trustees of the Stranger’s Hospital—which is one of the penalties for being a foreign resident in this town who can’t think up evading excuses fast enough—and this morning we had one of our endless meetings, and …” He paused, as if to put his words into proper order.

  “And found out you were broke?”

  Wilson grinned. “That, too, but there’s certainly nothing unusual about that. Or minor, either; but I’ll discuss that aspect with you on our next fund drive.”

  “I’m sure. So what happened?”

  “Well,” Wilson continued with a slight frown, “after the meeting was over and we were getting ready to break up for lunch, someone came in to tell us we had lost a patient.…”

  Da Silva’s smile disappeared; sympathy appeared in his eyes. “Lost a patient? Who was
he? How did he die?”

  Wilson shook his head. “Not that. No. It seems we actually lost a patient.” He spread his hands. “Lost, like the opposite of found.”

  “How do you lose a patient?” Da Silva stared at him curiously. “I can’t even see how you could misplace one, with the fabled efficiency of the Americans and English who run Stranger’s Hospital.”

  “The operative word there is ‘fabled,’” Wilson explained. “What happened in this particular case was that one of the ambulances was called out on an emergency—a serious appendix case as I understand it—and they picked the man up, all right, and stashed him neatly in the rear, all right; only when they got back to the hospital and went to drag him out—what do you know?” He shrugged humorously. “No patient.”

  “No patient?”

  “That’s right. I suppose the man became frightened at the thought of having somebody cut into him, and—”

  Da Silva frowned across the table. “A man with a bad appendix attack calls an ambulance and then changes his mind halfway to the hospital? A bit unusual, isn’t it?”

  “I said it was queer,” Wilson said patiently. “Anyway, that’s the story. He must have gotten out of the ambulance when it stopped for a traffic light, or something.”

  Da Silva stared at him and shook his head. “In this downpour? Not to mention the fact that the thought of an ambulance anywhere in the world—but especially in Rio de Janeiro—stopping for a traffic light is ridiculous. Or for anything else, for that matter. The only reason they stop for stone walls is that they haven’t figured out yet how to go through them.” He nodded confidently. “But they will. I’m sure it’s only a question of time.”

  “Well,” Wilson said reasonably, “I’m sure he didn’t step out when it was screaming around corners at ninety miles an hour.” He raised his shoulders and smiled. “Or maybe the attendants stopped somewhere for a cafezinho. It wouldn’t surprise me. After all, it was only supposed to be an emergency.”

  Da Silva looked at him. “But doesn’t one of the attendants usually ride in back with the patient?”

  “Not in weather like this,” Wilson said. “It takes two up front. One to drive and the other to try to keep the windshield wipers going.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. If you want to loan us a good mechanic from the police garage, we’ll accept.”

  Da Silva shook his head. “Do the police know about this? I don’t mean your windshield wipers.…”

  Wilson nodded. “They know. The police sergeant stationed in the emergency ward was there when the ambulance came back. But I don’t imagine they’ll waste too much time looking for a man who doesn’t want to come to the hospital. We’re busy enough with those that do.” He shrugged lightly. “In any event, we’ll be able to recognize the poor devil when and if we ever do find him.”

  “How?”

  Wilson grinned. “In this weather? He’ll be the bad appendix case also suffering from double pneumonia.”

  “Or flat feet, if he jumped,” Da Silva said dryly, and glanced at his wristwatch. “Good Lord! Look at the hour!” He crushed out his cigarette and began getting to his feet. “Let’s get the check and get out of here. I’ve got a busy afternoon ahead of me.”

  “The check?” Wilson stared at him. “We haven’t eaten yet!”

  “We haven’t—?” Da Silva slowly settled back into his chair and then turned to wave at a waiter. “We haven’t, have we?” He shook his head, but only half-humorously. “I really will be glad when these O.A.S. meetings are over. If I can’t remember whether or not I’ve eaten, I’m getting in sad shape.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Wilson said soothingly, and pushed the bottle of brandy across the table. “Take a drink and relax. It’s easily explained. It’s simply because you’re sitting here with your jacket on. You always put it back on when you’re finished eating and ready to leave, so naturally, finding yourself properly clothed, you automatically assumed—”

  “The art of deductive reasoning, eh?” Da Silva said, and grinned.

  Wilson shrugged modestly.

  “Now, if I were you,” Da Silva said, pouring his glass half full, “I’d save my deductive genius for figuring out why a sick man with a bad appendix would call an ambulance and then jump out of it on the way to a hospital.…” His tone was light, but there was a serious look in his dark eyes.

  “Oh, I’ve already done that,” Wilson said airily.

  “You have?”

  “Of course.” Wilson’s eyes twinkled; he leaned forward confidentially. “I did it while you were pouring that last drink. Actually, the man didn’t get out at all, or at least not of his own volition.”

  “I see.” Da Silva nodded. “You mean he was kidnapped.”

  “No,” Wilson said. “The way I figure it, the attendants didn’t want to admit they were speeding, but what actually happened was that they took a curve too fast and our patient simply went flying—”

  “In this weather?” Da Silva shook his head. “He couldn’t go flying. The runways are closed.”

  “Flying without runways. Flying under one’s own power. It has to be.” He looked at Da Silva in a superior manner. “Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” He shrugged modestly. “Just a little thing I coined together with a friend of mine named Doyle.”

  He had expected a smile from his friend, but instead Da Silva was looking at him in a curious manner. “The only question, of course,” the tall Brazilian said slowly, “is what is impossible.”

  “That’s easy,” Wilson said, and leaned back in his chair. “Your suspicions about the C.I.A. and your friend Dorcas, for instance. Those are impossible.”

  Da Silva said nothing; instead his jaw tightened slightly. His hands slid into his jacket pockets; one hand stroked the envelope there. Wilson studied the serious look on his friend’s face and then became equally serious.

  “I have a feeling, Zé, that there’s something you’re not telling me.…”

  Da Silva’s fingers tightened on the smooth envelope. It had arrived from Salvador de Bahia that morning addressed to the Security Division of the Foreign Office, and had only filtered through the system to arrive at his desk a few moments before he had left for lunch. It had been written in a small angular hand, had been both unsigned and undated. Its message was extremely succinct:

  Juan Dorcas will be assassinated at the coming O.A.S. meetings. I leave it to your judgment which nation stands to gain the most by his death.

  Da Silva studied his friend’s face evenly.

  “I have a feeling,” he said slowly, “that there’s probably a lot neither one of us is telling the other.…” And he turned rather abruptly to give his order to the small waiter standing patiently at their side.

  Three

  In the latter years of the nineteenth century, the center of social activity in the then relatively small city of Rio de Janeiro was centered for the most part about the picturesque arches of the section called Lapa, at the juncture of the Rua Riachuelo, Mem de Sá, and the rest of the spider web of minor streets that also sought haven in the friendly atmosphere of the gay praça. In those days, many who preferred not to live too far away were forced by the configuration of the neighborhood to build their two-storied stucco homes on the rocky shelves that jutted from the serra above, and in many cases to join them with the winding Rua Riachuelo far below with ladderlike streets of granite steps, unmountable by the hansom cabs and fiacres of the day, or even by the high bicycles which were slowly beginning to gain favor among the more affluent.

  Today, the Carioca, bound by the imagined necessity of living only where one may be delivered by automobile or omnibus, has abandoned these narrow climbing defiles to those hardy souls too poor to afford mechanical transportation, or to those few aesthetics who consider the low rental and excellent view worth the effort of getting home. And, of course, a few who fall into neither of these categories also li
ve here, for the towering heights of the morro are seldom visited by strangers—such as police—since the climb is a long and arduous one.

  Nacio Madeira Mendes, slowly making his way from one wide slippery step to the next up the steep Ladeira Portofino, had long since ceased to protect himself against the gusts of driving rain that had soaked him to the skin seconds after he had left the ambulance. His only hope was that Sebastian was at home, and had a change of dry clothing available, as well as a bottle of something warming, be it cognac, or even pinga. The water rushing down the incline of the granite steps swirled madly about his sodden shoes and several times nearly took him off balance. He paused momentarily to catch his breath and glance about, bracing himself against the onslaught of the torrent, and wiped his face more from force of habit than from any hope of benefit to be gained from the action. Below him the red tile roofs glistened wetly; across the stepped and tilted roofs the buildings of downtown Rio were lost in the gray mist of the driving rain.

  He shook his head. The pleasure he had always thought to experience upon returning to his beloved Rio de Janeiro after an absence of nearly three years was oddly missing; in his dreams he had somehow always pictured himself coming back on a day when the hot sun would be gleaming from the deep blue of the sea, and when warm winds would be ruffling the giant palm trees, lifting their fronds in welcoming gestures. It was not that he hadn’t remembered how it could rain in Rio—Deus me livre, how it could rain!—but it was only that somehow he had been sure he would come back on a day of good weather, and as a result felt a bit cheated. And even the slight pleasure of having outwitted a seemingly impossible situation by escaping the Santa Eugenia no longer gave him the feeling of calculated elation he had allowed himself once the helicopter was descending at Galeão Airport and he realized he was not going to be destroyed in the flimsy craft after all. If any pleasure could be garnered from the events of the morning at all, it could only have been when he managed to leave the ambulance, and this mainly because he had been sure at any moment they would skid into a lamppost, and that both he and the two maniacs in front would be crushed to bits.