“When is all of this supposed to happen? The Oliveira boy’s heart—”
“—could give out at any time, I know. There is need for haste.”
“And how about the other Indians? The relatives of the children you’re planning to snatch? Doesn’t Oliveira expect them to kick up a fuss?”
“He believes they’ll blame another tribe. Apparently, it’s not uncommon to steal women and children. The Indians do it all the time when they feel their numbers are getting too small. More children and more women lead to more warriors, and more warriors lead to greater success in their little con-flicts. Anyway, that’s how Oliveira explained it.”
“And suppose they don’t blame another tribe? Suppose they play by white men’s rules and file a complaint with the authorities? What then?”
“I asked the same question. Oliveira says he’ll promise them an investigation and then destroy the paperwork. He’ll also say, if anyone asks, that the journalist and the photogra-pher couldn’t have had anything to do with it. He’ll swear he was with them all the time.”
“What happens if they’re seen boarding the aircraft with the infants?”
“Oliveira will accompany them back to São Paulo. If they happen to be spotted, he’ll claim the children have been exposed to a contagious disease, one that Roberto was suf-fering from, but failed to inform him about. He’ll say he has to take the children for urgent medical treatment. Then he’ll hold them for a week, return them, and try again.”
“By which time it might be too late for his son.”
“True. But it’s unlikely that anyone will see them. They’re bringing lights to illuminate the runway, and they’ll take off in the dead of night.”
“And no one will find that suspicious?”
Bittler smiled a smile so superior that Claudia wanted to lash out and slap him across the face. “Newspapers have deadlines. They wait for no man. Such is the life of journal-ists and photographers.”
“What happens if we don’t have compatibility between Oliveira’s son and one of the infants?”
“Bad luck for the Oliveira family, but not a problem for us. As a matter of fact, I rather hope we don’t get a suitable heart on the first try. Then we’ll have to go back again and maybe again. The more Indians we take in the first round, the bet-ter, the more committed Oliveira becomes. You see? I’ve thought of everything.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
MANOLO NABUCO DROPPED THE nose of his ancient Cessna 310B and leveled off at nine thousand feet. It was a moonless night, with an unlimited ceiling and thousands of stars above. Below, on the black mass of the firmament, there wasn’t a single light. The pitch-blackness down there wouldn’t last much longer. Once they’d cleared the reserva-tion, there’d be the occasional glimmer of light from an iso-lated farm. And then the lights would multiply, and the illu-mination build, until they finally reached a crescendo. By then, they’d be on their final approach to Congonhas airport in São Paulo.
Manolo was anxious to roll into the hangar and cut the engines. He needed a snort. Not because of his nerves. His nerves were fine. Ask anybody. They’d tell you. Manolo Nabuco was a stand-up guy with nerves of steel. He wasn’t like most of the other coke smugglers, the ones that only found their courage after they’d snorted a line or two.
Yeah, okay, he snorted. Maybe he snorted a lot. But who didn’t these days? One thing about him, though: he never snorted when he was working, never got behind the controls when he was high on cocaine. Sometimes he did it when he was a little drunk, but high on the white stuff? Never.
Manolo Nabuco wasn’t addicted. Not him. Ask anybody. They’d tell you. They’d tell you Manolo Nabuco just used it because he wanted to, not because he had to. There’d been times when he was alone, high above the pitch-blackness of the Amazon rain forest, heading south with a full cargo of snow on board. It would have been easy to put the Cessna on autopilot, climb back there, cut into one of the bundles, and help himself to a healthy snort. He’d been tempted, but he’d never done it. Not once.
Hell, who wouldn’t have been tempted? Since the fucking air force got permission to shoot down unidentified aircraft, you never knew what might be coming at you. The radar coverage had gotten better, too, so no matter how low you were, there was always a chance you could show up on some-body’s screen. It was scary. But despite all that, he’d always stayed in his seat, never once taken out his knife. Not once.
Sometimes he wondered, though, how much it could hurt if he—
“How much longer?” the little wimp in the backseat said, interrupting the pilot’s musings.
Annoying little bastard! Manolo thought.
For some reason, he was on a short fuse. Funny, he’d always been kind of laid-back and good-tempered, but recently he’d been flying off the handle for no reason. What he wanted to do at the moment was to turn around and bust the little wimp in the mouth. But he didn’t. He just gritted his teeth and suppressed a sigh.
The wimp must have thought he hadn’t heard him, because he went and asked the same question again, using exactly the same words and in the same tone of voice. Merda! They hadn’t been in the air for more than fifteen minutes, and the little prick was already asking when they were going to land.
“You mean, like, are we there yet?” Manolo said, raising the pitch of his voice on the last four words, doing what he thought was a pretty good imitation of a whiny kid.
Roberto Ribeiro, sitting next to Manolo in the copilot’s seat, must have thought the imitation was pretty good as well. The big carioca’s lips curled back in a smile.
Manolo turned his head and glanced into the rear of the aircraft. The wimp had been staring at the back of his head, but as soon as they locked eyes, he turned his gaze away, crossed his arms, and leaned his forehead against the window.
Manolo set the automatic pilot, let his eyes sweep over the instrument panel, and addressed Roberto. “Where did you get him from?” he asked, cocking a thumb over his shoulder.
“Friend of the boss,” Roberto said.
“I’m not your boss’s friend,” the wimp said,
“I’m not any-body’s friend. I don’t want to be. I don’t even want to be here.
Who the fuck was talking to you?” Roberto said.
“I’m only doing it for my son,” the wimp persisted, “to save his life.”
Manolo adjusted one of the trim tabs and studied the effect. He figured that by bringing up the subject of his sick kid, the nervous little asshole was going for sympathy.
But Manolo Nabuco didn’t do sympathy, and he didn’t give a shit about the wimp’s kid, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to give the wimp the satisfaction of asking him any questions.
But he did turn around.
The wimp’s lower lip was trembling and he looked like he was going to burst into tears again. He’d actually been doing just that, bawling like a baby, when he and Roberto had bro-ken out of the jungle, the carioca running ahead and carry-ing a bundle under each arm. When they mounted the wing to climb inside, Manolo had seen big, wet tears rolling down the wimp’s face.
Roberto had handed in the bundles, which turned out to be babies, one after the other. The little bastards were also crying, squalling and red-faced, making a hell of a lot more noise than the wimp.
“Didn’t you bring anything to shut ’em up?” he’d asked Roberto.
He’d been thinking of something in the nature of a gag, or maybe an injection. Roberto worked with doctors. They could have given him something to knock the little bastards out.
“I got something,” Roberto said, and surprised Manolo by taking a couple of pacifiers out of the pocket of his bush shirt. He stuffed one into a baby’s mouth, and the kid started suck-ing on it and immediately shut up. The other baby refused the rubber nipple, kept spitting it out, kept on howling.
“There’s a roll of electrical tape in that locker,” Manolo said, offering his knife. “Hack off a piece and tape his fucking little mouth shut.”
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Roberto shook his head. “Can’t,” he said.
He’d gone on to explain that taping their mouths shut could suffocate them and that he had strict instructions to deliver them alive. Now, almost twenty minutes later, the first kid had spit out his pacifier, and both of them were squalling again.
They were lying right next to each other, and next to the wimp, but he didn’t reach out to try to shut them up, not once. It was like they were contaminated or something, like he was afraid of touching them. The constant bawling was starting to give Manolo a headache.
Other than that, it had been a pretty good night, prof-itable as hell, and with almost no risk. The Brazilian Air Force didn’t give a shit about who flew in and out of the Xingu. They were only concerned about flights coming in from places like Colombia and Bolivia.
“How’d you manage to snatch them?” Nabuco asked Roberto. Not because he was interested, or because it was any of his business, but just to pass the time.
“You don’t want to know,” Roberto said.
“He killed their mothers,” the wimp said, “He cut their throats and threw them in the river. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to kill them. He told me he was going to take the mothers along.”
“Yeah, you asshole,” Roberto said, “and you wanted to believe it, didn’t you? You trying to tell me you’re so stupid you didn’t notice there’s no goddamned room in this thing, no room for anybody besides us and those two brats?”
“I didn’t. I didn’t notice. I thought you were going to put them into the luggage compartment or something. And I’m not the one who’s stupid. You’re stupid.”
“Me stupid? I should wring your fucking little neck. I would, too, if the boss hadn’t told me to take care of you.”
“You want to know why you’re stupid? You didn’t ask me before you did it! You didn’t ask me about what to do with the bodies. You had me next to you all the time and you never asked.”
“Why the fuck should I ask you anything?”
“Here’s why: Indians never pollute a river. Never. They don’t urinate in them, they don’t defecate in them, and no Indian would ever use a river to dispose of a body. Once they find those women, and they will, they’re going to know they weren’t murdered by another tribe. They’re going to know it was white men who did it. They’ll complain for sure.”
“Shut up,” Roberto said, and made a gesture with his fist.
The wimp looked at the fist, almost half the size of his head, and did what Roberto had told him to do. He shut up.
The murders were news to Manolo, but the news didn’t bother him. He’d done his share of killing. He waited until the wimp had lapsed into silence and nudged Roberto. “What’s your boss gonna do with the little buggers?”
Roberto shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“He’s gonna cut out their hearts.”
Manolo’s only visible reaction was to raise his eyebrows slightly. The answer was a surprise, but he figured that play-ing it cool was what a guy like Roberto would expect from a guy like him.
“You’re shitting me,” he said.
Roberto waved a finger back and forth. “I shit you not. That’s the boss’s business, taking out hearts and giving them to people who can afford to pay for them.”
“I’m not paying him,” the little fairy in the backseat said.
Both of them ignored him.
“So he does, what the fuck do you call it?” Manolo said.
“Heart transplants.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Heart transplants. What do you figure he gets for an operation like that?”
“Six hundred thousand,” Roberto said.
“Reais?”
“Dollars.”
Manolo whistled. “Fuck me,” he said. “I shoulda asked for more money.”
“You shoulda,” Roberto agreed. Then he leaned in closer so that the wimp couldn’t hear him above the sound of the engines. “Next time,” he said, “you hold the old bastard up for another twenty grand. Half of it’s mine, okay?”
“A quarter,” the pilot said.
Roberto pursed his lips and thought about that for a moment. Then he extended a hand, and the pilot shook it. “Five grand,” Manolo said, quantifying the deal, making sure there wouldn’t be a misunderstanding later. “But what makes you think he’ll agree?”
“You’re on board now. You’re part of the club. You know how he earns his money. Not many people do, and he wants to keep it that way. He’ll take it.”
“So you figure there’ll be more jobs? Like this one?”
“I can virtually guarantee it.”
“What are you guys talking about?” the wimp asked.
Manolo turned around and stared at him again. “Why don’t you just shut up?” he said.
Roberto didn’t even bother to turn his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Shut the fuck up.”
The wimp started crying again. And he kept on crying, all the way back to São Paulo.
Chapter Forty
“ANY NEWS?” THE DIRECTOR said, sticking his head into the doorway of Silva’s office.
Silva could have told him about Tanaka, about the impending return of the Portellas, about Arnaldo’s disap-pearance, about the minister of tourism’s misplaced concerns about his daughter, but he knew there was only one kind of news that would truly interest Nelson Sampaio.
“You’re talking about the Romeo Pluma investigation?”
“Of course I’m talking about the Romeo Pluma investi-gation.”
Silva shook his head. “Nothing yet,” he said.
Sampaio raised a suspicious eyebrow. “You are giving this case the importance it deserves?”
“Absolutely.”
Silva didn’t consider that a falsehood. In his opinion, he was giving the press secretary’s background check exactly the importance it deserved.
“There’s got to be something,” Sampaio said, more to himself than to Silva. “Got to be. Let’s discuss this further when I get back from my luncheon appointment. Perhaps I can suggest some new directions for the inquiry.”
Sampaio’s head disappeared. Silva waited until he heard the ping of the elevator, went to the window and peered through the blinds.
A minute or two later, the director came out of the build-ing and entered a black BMW smack in the middle of the no-parking zone. The uniformed chauffeur closed the door, got behind the wheel, and drove off.
Silva left the window, took an overnight bag out of his closet, and headed for the airport.
THE PORTELLAS hailed from the city of Caruaru in the northeastern state of Pernambuco. By road, the distance from there to São Paulo is a little over two and a half thou-sand kilometers, a bus trip that’s supposed to take forty-two and a half hours, but seldom does.
The roads in Pernambuco, and in the next three states to the south, Alagoas, Sergipe, and Bahia, are in a deplorable state of repair. The equipment used for public transport is sorely tried. Breakdowns are constant. Accidents are fre-quent. Even in the dry season, the traffic often slows to a crawl. Scheduled arrival times are more in the nature of an ideal than a reality.
Babyface Gonçalves knew all of this. Instead of subjecting himself to the discomforts of the bus terminal, with its nox-ious fumes and wall-to-wall people, he elected to await the Portellas arrival in a little bar across the street from their one-room shack.
There were hours to go before dark, and Babyface wasn’t particularly concerned about being set upon in daytime, but he kept his Glock loose in its holster and had chosen a chair with his back to the wall.
“You want another coffee?” Bento asked.
Bento owned the place. The two of them were on first-name terms by now, Bento and Heraldo, Gonçalves being damned if he’d tell Bento that most people addressed him by the hated sobriquet of Babyface.
It was almost three hours after the scheduled arrival time of the Portellas’ bus. The “lunchtime”
crowd had cleared out, and the “dinner” crowd hadn’t yet arrived. Lunch and dinner were relative terms at Bento’s place, because most of the patrons never ate anything more than a coxinha or an empada, and most of them spent mealtimes drinking straight cachaça. Nonalcoholic beverages weren’t in high demand, which made it all the more surprising that Bento’s coffee was as good as it was. Babyface considered the offer before shaking his head.
“That’s enough for one day,” he said.
“You look young to be a cop,” Bento said. “Anybody ever tell you that?”
Babyface sighed. “All the time,” he said.
“I’m not surprised. When you walked in here, I would have taken you for . . . hey, look, that’s them.”
Bento pointed to a couple at the Portellas’ front door. The man was a bit shorter than the woman, thin and wiry, wear-ing jeans and a sweat-stained yellow T-shirt with a hammer and sickle on the front. On his head, he had a black beret. The woman was as dark skinned as he was, with her hair gathered up into a serious bun. She was also wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but her T-shirt was black, except for some rings of dried perspiration around the armpits, rings that showed white against the fabric.
While she struggled with the padlock, the man was stand-ing there holding the bags. He had to. The street was unpaved and covered with a thick layer of mud. He looked around, caught sight of Bento, and nodded his head.
Bento nodded back. The nods were perfunctory. Babyface didn’t think there was any love lost between the guy wearing the beret and the owner of the bar.
“The Portellas?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s with the hammer and sickle?”
Bento grinned. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said.
The couple disappeared inside. Babyface paid his bill, squished his way down the narrow street, and knocked on the plywood door. Ernesto opened it. The black beret was still on his head, and now that Babyface was standing less than a meter away, he could see that the beret bore a little pin in the shape of a red star.
Ernesto took one look at Babyface’s jacket and tie and turned belligerent.
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