Talking to him all the while, she ushered him through a short corridor into the diffused brightness of a colonnade that enclosed a garden courtyard. The quadrangle of arches drew his eyes upward, where the dappled light fell past the secondfloor colonnade through the canopies of trees.
Continuing her lilting but unintelligible monologue, the woman gestured politely for Titus to wait on a long wooden bench against the ocher walls of the deep ambulatory. And then she disappeared. Wooden birdcages with varicolored finches and canaries hung along the colonnades, and a fountain in the center of the courtyard added its splash to the highpitched chatter of the birds.
Just as Titus took a deep breath, he was startled by an outburst of shouting. A woman's voice shrilled from one of the doorways on the second floor, a staccato, singsong flood of an Asian language delivered in spirited anger.
Then silence.
Slowly the birds, stopped by the verbal eruption, resumed.
Before Titus could even begin to imagine what that might have been about, a voice above him said, “Welcome to my home, Mr. Cain.”
Titus recognized the voice and looked up to the left side of the courtyard balcony.
García Burden was leaning his forearms on the stone balustrade, looking down at him. He was tallish and lean, and his dark hair hadn't seen a barber in a good while. His unbuttoned black shirt hung open, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A gold medallion on a chain around his neck dangled over the balustrade.
“We're just about ready for you up here, ”Burden said. “There are stairs over there. ”He gestured toward a stone staircase. “Just come around the balcony, ”he said, swinging his arm past the open doorways.
Burden was buttoning the front of his shirt as Titus approached him, and as they shook hands Titus noted that they were very nearly the same height. But Burden's age was difficult to determine. He might've been near Titus's age as well, but the crow's-feet at the corners of his brown eyes were deeply cut and had the effect of seeming to distort his age. And there was something in the eyes themselves that made Titus take a second look, something that made him think they had seen more than their share of remarkable things, many of them unnerving.
“Based on what you and Gil have told me, ”Burden said, his soft voice even softer now that they were near, “I've got it narrowed to three men. I've got photographs.”
He turned and led Titus through the open doorway in front of which he'd been standing.
The house was old, with the three-foot-thick walls typical of colonial architecture. The room they entered was huge and probably had been several rooms at one time. Though they were only passing through, heading for another opened doorway on the other side, Titus quickly caught glimpses of antique desks and bookcases, a sitting area with sofa and armchairs, a round library table stacked with books, some still open, a fountain pen cradled in the gutter of one. The only light in the room came in through the deep casements of the doors and windows.
As they went out the other door and onto another balcony, Titus realized that the simple blue wall that faced the street concealed a sizable compound. Here they looked down on a second garden courtyard twice as large as the first one and surrounded by several two-story casitas also connected by two levels of colonnades. Towering flamboyan trees cast a lacy veil of shade over everything.
Titus followed Burden into the first casita and through a time warp into the twenty-first century: a long narrow room chilly with air-conditioning, numerous computers and servers, a movie screen, a huge television screen, and videophones. Three women moved about the room, working at various tasks, ignoring Burden's arrival.
“Let's show him what we have, ”he said to no one in particular, and one of the women nearby turned around and sat at the computer. Titus was surprised to see that she was a Mayan Indian, her flattened features distinctive and unmistakable.
While she typed, Titus glanced at the other two women: an attractive Asian woman who appeared to be in her late forties, her hair worn in a precisely cut bob, dressed in a very smart, straight black skirt and dove gray blouse; and a busty woman of middle height and middle age, plain with Scotch-Irish coloring, roan hair, and a sweet, blue-eyed smile.
Burden stood with his arms crossed, staring over at the TV screen. When the first photo flashed up, he looked at Titus. Titus shook his head. Second photo. Burden looked at Titus. Again Titus shook his head.
“Oh? ”Burden seemed both surprised and eager. “Really? Well then, here's your man.”
Third photo. It was Alvaro in a grainy photograph blown up from a small surveillance negative, crossing a street—Titus thought it looked like Buenos Aires, maybe—a newspaper tucked under his arm as he glanced back in the direction of the photographer, though not at him.
“Yeah, ”Titus said, “that's him.”
“Cayetano Luquín Becerra. Mexican, ”Burden said.
Titus was both relieved and anxious, the way a man might feel when his doctor tells him that they've finally identified the mysterious disease that's been crippling him. He didn't know if this was good or bad.
“Let me see your laptop, ”Burden said, and when Titus gave it to him, he handed it on to the Asian woman. “We're going to tune it up a little, ”he explained. “When she's through, all communication from this man to you will automatically be forwarded to us. It's perfectly safe. He won't know. And we'll build very thorough firewalls for you so our own communications will be secure as well.”
He looked at Titus and jerked his head at the huge photograph on the screen.
“Good news and bad news, ”he said. “Come on, we'll talk about it.”
Chapter 11
As they walked into the study again, Titus expected Burden to turn on some lights, but instead he walked over to an area where there was a sofa and armchairs and gestured for Titus to take a seat anywhere. Both men sat down.
“No one—no one in my business—has set eyes on Tano Luquín in three and a half years, ”Burden said. “The guy who took that picture you just saw, he was the last man. He's dead now, the photographer. It's been more than fifteen years since Luquín was seen in the U.S. This is significant.”
“In what way?”
“Well, I'm not sure. Is he here purely because of the size of the ransom? ¿Quién sabe? Could be. Maybe not.”
Titus was sitting on the sofa, facing the wall at one end of the room, the one opposite Burden's desk, which was behind him. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he realized that a large portion of the wall was taken up with a black-and-white photograph about four feet high and easily twelve feet long, recessed in its own niche in a simple black frame and surrounded by bookcases. The image was of a reclining nude woman.
“Look, I don't feel like I've got a lot of time, ”Titus said, nervous at Burden's peaceful demeanor. “How do we get started here?”
“You'll get a complete dossier on Luquín, ”Burden said, “you'll know who you're dealing with. But, briefly, here are the high spots. Tano grew up in a well-to-do family in Mexico City, university education. He was never really interested in any legitimate business pursuits, and by the late seventies he was already gravitating to the drug trade. By the turn of the decade he was down in Colombia doing petty errands for people who were contracting their services to Pablo Escobar, who had already become a notorious legend. Tano had a feel for abduction, and was soon kidnapping for hire, again for people who were working for Escobar.
“His expertise in secuestro grew during the eighties as Escobar's need to discipline and persuade his competitors increased. But Tano, demonstrating a rare wisdom in that line of work, never worked directly for Pablo. He always made sure he was a couple of connections removed, letting others take the credit … and the heat if something went wrong.”
Titus only needed to move his eyes a flicker to shift them from Burden to the photograph, which was becoming a distraction as it continued to emerge from the surrounding shadows.
“So, when Escobar's empire began to rattle apart
in the late eighties, ”Burden went on, “Tano could see the end coming and got out of Colombia. He spent the early nineties in Brazil and had been living in Rio de Janeiro for several years when Escobar was finally killed in Medellín in December of 1993.
“But Tano had been busy in Rio, honing his skills. According to the Ministério da Justiça, Tano's MO was all over four of the largest high-end kidnappings that occurred in Rio between 1991 and 1997. All of the targets were foreign executives, and these four incidents brought Tano a very nice income of nearly fifty-three million dollars in ransoms.”
“What were the size of the ransoms?”
Burden nodded. “Interesting. They increased steadily over the four events. Tano was beginning to study his targets with more deliberation, and what he learned about them shaped the way he handled their abductions and ransom demands. It determined the way he designed their ordeals.”
All of this was stated in a gentle way, as if Burden were a mild-mannered psychiatrist explaining the rationale for a therapy regimen. Occasionally he gestured gracefully with his hands, which Titus now noticed were unexpectedly elegant. Sometimes he would run his fingers through his hair to get a wavy lock of it away from his eyes.
“Tano's technique improved, too, ”Burden continued with a hint of pleasure in his eyes, as if he were relishing what he was about to reveal. “I'll run through the four cases for you. It's important that you understand what's about to happen to you.
“Number one. The target was a French executive with a multinational corporation. Corporation brings in their insurance company's recommended K and R team. Negotiations take three months. Kidnappers come down to one-half of their original demand. K and R people bungle the negotiations. Victim dies in the process, but Tano gets 5.3 million dollars.
“Number two. German CEO. Kidnappers contact the family this time, not the corporation. Kidnappers let the family apply the pressure to the corporation, while the kidnappers save themselves a lot of sweat. But the family consults with Rio's Policía Civil kidnap squad. Things slow down, victim's hand arrives special delivery. Family has a meltdown. Puts pressure on corporation, which eventually agrees to pay seventy percent of the original demand: 8.5 million dollars.
“Number three. Spanish executive. But this time the kidnappers know that the executive and his family are the major stockholders in the corporation. No K and R people allowed to participate. Victim will be killed if Policía Civil are brought in. Family agrees, but then they drive a hard bargain. So a brother-in-law, representing the company in Buenos Aires, is kidnapped also. Not for additional ransom, but to put pressure on the original negotiation. Pay up or he dies. The family continues to belabor the amount of the demand. Brother-in-law, hands and feet bound with wire, is set on fire in the long private drive that leads up to the family's estate. Family pays ninety percent of the original demand: 16.8 million dollars.
“Number four. British CEO. Also wealthy major stockholder. Kidnappers are clear: No K and R, no Policía Civil. Huge ransom demand. Several of the corporation board members have pull in British government. Supersecret Special Event Team flown in under the radar of Brazilian government. But they're out of their league, lose a couple of guys, muck up the negotiations. They're pulled out just as secretly as they came in, tails between their legs. But they've caused a hell of a lot of trouble for the kidnappers. Immediately two other corporation employees die—in an automobile accident. Kidnappers notify family that other employees will die (accidentally) if ransom isn't paid. They pay up. The kidnappers got one hundred percent of the ransom they had asked for: 22 million dollars.”
When Burden stopped, Titus thought he saw a pleased expression that indicated that the case synopses he'd just been through drew some telling conclusions. But with the recounting of each incident, Titus only grew more depressed. In fact, Burden's serene demeanor was beginning to get on his nerves. Titus's entire life had been uprooted not more than fifteen hours earlier, and it was far from clear whether it could be salvaged. In light of that, he found Burden's composure and apparent lack of a sense of urgency offensive.
“I don't see any damn reason for optimism here, ”Titus said. His stomach was knotting. “I want to know where the hell you think you're going with all this.”
Burden's calm expression gave way to something more sober, and he reached over to a side table and picked up a remote control. The light rose on the long photograph on the wall, illuminating it slowly, subtly. The picture was stunning.
The nude woman reclined on her right side against a charcoal background and looked directly at the camera with a sad, penetrating gaze. Her hair, darker than the background, fell over her left shoulder and stopped just above her left breast. Her left arm lay languidly along the fluid line of her waist, hip, and thigh, while she supported herself on the elbow of her right arm. In her upturned right hand, which rested in a position equidistant between her breasts and the dark delta between her thighs, she held a tiny, huddling, jet black monkey so incredibly small that it was completely contained within her palm. This queer, startled little creature gaped at the camera with outsized eyes, as if he were seeing the most astonishing thing that a monkey could ever behold. Its silky, ebony tail was coiled desperately around the woman's pale wrist, his wee hands pressed together in an attitude of prayerful concern.
“She, ”Burden said, “is the sister of the Spanish executive in Tano's case number three, the widow of the man who was set afire in the driveway of the family home.”
“Jesus! ”Titus stared at the woman. “When was this taken?”
“Two weeks after her husband's funeral.”
“What?”
“Her idea. Every detail.”
“Why?”
Burden looked at the picture, studying it as if it were an image of infinite fascination for him, as if he could turn his attention to it at any time and find it provocative and of enduring curiosity.
“Often, ”he said, “with women, the why of how they express their grief over the violent death of someone they love is inexplicable. I mean, the ‘logic’of how they express it. It's an intensely inward thing. Deeply embedded. The fact that she seems, here, to be acting in a way that's the absolute opposite of private or personal”—he shrugged—“well, it only seems so. We misunderstand her.”
Titus looked at Burden studying the photograph and wondered what was going through his mind. He glanced around the room. There were framed black-and-white photographs in a variety of sizes hanging on the walls, propped against bookshelves, resting against the sides of his desk, sometimes two or three stacked one in front of the other. All of them, all that Titus could see, were of women, mostly portraits.
“It's my guess, however, ”Burden went on, “that if this woman's husband could know today what she has done in her grief, he would be shocked. The incident in extremis that prompted her behavior was his death, so as long as he was alive he would never have seen this … unusual aspect of her psyche.”
Church bells began ringing, first one and then another farther off, then another in a different direction, and still another. The air was singing with them.
Burden broke his gaze at the photograph and stood.
“I want you to remember this photograph and this story, Mr. Cain. As we decide how to address your dilemma, at some point along the way—this inevitably happens—you're going to be tempted to believe that you know best about how to extricate yourself from this ordeal that you are about to suffer. You're going to think that you don't need to listen to me, that you have better instincts for what ought to be done at some particular point or another.”
He paused a beat and almost smiled, his face taking on an expression that Titus didn't really understand and which made him uneasy.
“If you don't want me to see how your own wife might react to your death, ”he said, glancing at the photograph, “you need to listen to me. You need to do what I tell you to do … the way I tell you to do it.”
Surprised at Burden's abrupt
conclusion, Titus stood, too.
“Lália will be here in a moment to show you where you can freshen up, ”Burden said. “I'll join you downstairs for lunch in twenty minutes.”
Without any further explanation, Burden left Titus standing where he was and walked out of his study.
Chapter 12
Standing alone in the room, Titus looked again at the picture. Burden's rather creative warning was vivid and had blindsided him with its almost cruel undertone. It was unnerving, as he imagined Burden had intended it to be.
He picked up one of the books lying on a library table and read the title: The History, Culture, and Religion of the Hellenistic Age. He flipped through it and saw that the pages were heavily annotated in brown ink. He picked up another: Spanish Red: An Ethnogeographical Study of Cochineal and the Opuntia Cactus. Again heavily annotated. He bent down and looked at the book lying open, the fountain pen in its gutter: The Liar's Tale: A History of Falsehood. More marginalia in brown ink. The book next to this one had a dozen page markers sticking out of it: The Natural History of the Soul in Ancient Mexico.
Titus was surprised. He had expected to find books on intelligence systems, cryptography, international crime, terrorism, drug trade … kidnapping. None of that here. But clearly Burden had his resources. The room where the three women were working must have held a vast amount of information, and he remembered that in their telephone conversation Burden had mentioned his archives.
A shadow in the doorway caused him to look up. Lália was standing there, smiling at him in her radiant colors. He followed her light, barefooted step around the balcony to the other side. She left him alone in a spacious bedroom where the linens smelled of lilac and the fireplace scents hinted vaguely of November fires.
While she waited outside the door on the loggia, he washed and splashed cool water on his face and combed his hair. He was tempted to call Rita—it was the dinner hour in Venice— but, again, he didn't have anything to tell her except that he was in trouble. That wouldn't do.
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