The Fugitive

  I wish he wouldn’t steal glances over his shoulder in an empty restaurant, Ari thought with some irritation; he’s like a little child. However, I come not to judge Caesar, but to bury him. He nodded his head, indicating unabated interest.

  “When are you thinking of going?” Mathais asked, straightening up in his chair, and sounding more normal.

  “In a few days,” Ari said in an offhand manner. “I have a few things to arrange yet, but nothing that should take more than a day or so. When I go I shall be very happy to meet your friend.”

  “Fine!” the manager cried, and immediately dropped his voice as if he had breached the rules of secrecy. “I will give you a letter of presentation, and also his telephone number. You must call him as soon as you arrive.” He arose, glancing at his wrist watch. “It is much later than I thought. You go now to sleep?”

  “A short walk along the beach first, I think,” Ari said, also arising. “It is a very hot night, and a walk in the breeze from the beach should be good.”

  “Fine!” Mathais said. “ff you would care for a brandy before retiring, please drop into my apartment when you get back.”

  “I may do that,” Ari said with a smile. “In any event, I shan’t be long.” They parted at the steps, and Ari walked down the steps and out into the night. He crossed the Avenida Atlantica to the ocean side, dodging the heavy automobile traffic, and fell into step with the other strollers taking the air. It was a warm muggy evening, and the walk was crowded. Couples filled the stone benches that lined the shallow sea wall, others plodded below through the rough sand. The tide was out; the whisper of the small breakers was lost in the noise of the traffic sounds, the happy talk, the laughter. He was aware that the shadow Da Silva had set upon him had crossed behind him and was trailing along. What he was not aware of was that he was heading a procession.

  About two blocks from the hotel, facing the city, the curve of the beach brought into sharp silhouette the tip of Pão de Açúcar, glittering in the distant dark of night with a myriad glow of tiny lights. Before I leave, Ari thought idly, I shall have to visit that rock. I remember it the day I came, and after four days here, I really have no excuse for not having visited it. He strolled along easily, the top of Sugar Loaf lifting itself from behind the nearer hills as he walked. They say that the view from Sugar Loaf is even better than from Corcovado, he thought. And they say that it is at its best at night, on a clear night, with no clouds. He paused in sudden thought. Why not go right now? I’m not sleepy; it is a beautifully clear night; it should be wonderful. His decision so quickly made, he edged to the curb, raising his hand for a taxi.

  “Luck,” said the driver of the cab that had been trailing him slowly in the heavy traffic since he had left the hotel.

  “About time,” said his passenger.

  “But still luck,” the driver insisted.

  “Bad luck,” said his passenger grimly. “For him.”

  The taxi swung to the curb, cutting sharply in front of an open roadster loaded with young children. Ari opened the door and was halfway in before he noticed that the cab was occupied. He started to back out, apologizing, when a hard hand grasped his arm and he found himself dragged brutally into the back seat. The door was viciously slammed; they shot out into traffic.

  “What—” Ari began, too startled at first to be frightened.

  “Shut up!” said his fellow passenger in grim determination in English. “Just shut up, Mr. Busch!” He tightened his grip on Ari’s arm, suddenly squeezing with tremendous force. The pain was excruciating; Ari felt faint and nauseated. The grip relaxed a bit. “One sound,” said the other threateningly, “one sound and you can have it here and now!” He leaned toward the driver, retaining his fierce grip on Art’s arm.

  “Davi will be waiting on the corner of Rainha Elizabeth. Turn around as soon as you can and head back.”

  The driver nodded his head in casual agreement and pulled to the left, cutting directly across traffic, his hand out, waiting for a break in the long line of cars to enable him to enter a side street and double back. Horns blared raucously behind him; he fluttered the fingers of his outstretched hand negligently, and then gracefully shot through an opening into a cross street. The pressure was renewed on Ari’s arm, enough to constitute an unspoken warning. “Just sit still, Mr. Busch,” the hard-faced man said quietly. They pulled around the block and once again eased into the stream of traffic on Avenida Atlantica, this time heading south.

  At the corner of Rainha Elizabeth the cab pulled abruptly to the right, slowing down until it was almost stopped. A waiting figure tore open the rear door and shoved his way into the back seat, crowding Ari and his captor to one side. The driver swung around a cab that had started to slow down ahead of them, and picking up speed, headed down Rainha Elizabeth in the direction of Arpoador and the wide beach road leading south out of the city.

  “Well, well,” said the newcomer, twisting around in his seat to get a good look at Ari. “So you finally got him, eh?” He was a husky, deeply tanned young man in his late twenties; an open sport shirt with sleeves rolled up to the shoulders revealed massive arms.

  “Finally is right,” said the other grimly. “Four days we waited!”

  Ari squirmed in his seat, feeling it was time to assert himself, to discover what was going on. Now see here… “he began, attempting to sound more assured than he felt; but a sudden increase in the pressure made him swallow his words in a gulp of pain.

  “When we want you to talk, you’ll talk,” said the hard-faced man beside him viciously. He leaned forward to the driver again, never relinquishing Ari’s arm. “Out toward Gavea, Avram,” he said. “The beach road to Leblon, and then the Avenida Niemeyer. When we get to Gavea I’ll tell you where to turn off. I know just the place.” He turned back to Ari. They were rolling along the broad palm-lined highway, well within the speed limit. The driver, Avram, was humming a little tune; to any passing car they must have presented a picture of three friends out to take the air on a hot night, or on their way to a beach bar for a late drink.

  “Hans Busch!” The hard-faced man savored the pleasant wonder of having this man in his hands. “Mr. Hans Busch! You know, Mr. Busch, there used to be a story I heard some time ago when I was much younger; a story you probably know and laughed at years ago. About an old Jew with a big nose and a long beard, named Goldberg. This Goldberg goes to a judge and wants to change his name to O’Brien. The judge agrees and changes the old man’s name from Goldberg to O’Brien. Then, a week later, the old man is back to see the judge. This time he wants to change his name from O’Brien to Kelly. And the judge asks him why, and the old Jew says, ‘Well, every time people ask me my name and I say it’s O’Brien, they look at me funny and say, “What was it before?” His tone was quite conversational, but the grip on Ari’s arm tightened slightly. “Let me ask you the same question, Mr. Busch. What was your name before it was Busch?”

  The cold feeling of panic that Ari had forcefully contained during the first confused moments of the ride suddenly came flooding back. What was this? Who were these people? What did they want with him? How could they have known that Hans Busch was not his real name? Was everything to be lost again, now, at this point, when it was going so well? Why, he cried to himself in silent despair, why did I ever get so far ahead of Da Silva’s man who was following me?

  “We’re talking to you, Mr. Busch,” Davi said gently, although there was nothing gentle about the heavy arm he placed over the back of the seat and about Ari’s thin neck. “It’s only polite to answer.”

  “Who are you…?” Ari had trouble getting the words out; his voice broke, he forced the words again past the obstruction in his throat. “Who are you… and what do you want of me?”

  Davi laughed. “Us? Who are we? We have lots of names. Which one would you want?” The smile faded, he looked at Ari coolly. “As far as you are concerned, you can think of us as the Bad Guys.”

  Moises, the heavy-handed man holding Ari’s arm
in the same tight grip, chuckled unpleasantly. “Who are we? We’re some of the remnants you people failed to stuff into an oven some years ago. We’re a few that you overlooked. That was your mistake, and I’m afraid you’re going to pay for it!”

  The driver leaned backwards, speaking over his shoulder. “You want to know who we are? I’ll tell you. We’re what you people call terrorists. But don’t worry about it. Some of our own people call us terrorists, too.” He laughed. “So if we are terrorists, prepare yourself for some terror, Mr. Busch!” He swung his attention back to his driving, chuckling at his own humor.

  “We are going to kill you, Mr. Hans Busch,” Davi said quietly, conversationally. “We are going to take you out of the city, away from everything, and in the dark we are going to kill you. In the dark, out of the sight of people; in the dark, where things like you should be lulled, we are going to kill you.”

  “But before we kill you, Mr. Busch,” said Moises, in the tone of one who insists on keeping to the agenda, “you are going to answer the question I asked you a while ago. Who are you, Mr. Busch?” He tightened his grip again, and turned to the others. “We can’t very well kill an absolute stranger, can we? It wouldn’t be polite.”

  “Who are you people?” Ari whispered hoarsely, trying to see past the blank faces into the hidden identity of their minds and souls, his terror replaced by a nameless horror that this should be happening to him of all people.

  “You may have heard of us by name,” Davi said lightly. “We call ourselves Maccabees, after another who got tired of being stepped upon. We are through being stepped upon, Mr. Busch; now we do the stepping. Tonight, we are going to step upon you.” He stared out of the car window as he spoke; they were rounding a curve above the ocean, dropping down toward the beach again. The rush of waves could be heard clearly.

  “Avram,” Moises said, leaning forward again. “After we leave the Niemeyer, keep to the left. Then the first side road to the left after the golf club.” He turned to Ari, smiling grimly. “A nice quiet place; a lovers’ lane. Nobody will disturb us while we talk, because you see, Mr. Busch, before we kill you, we are going to find out exactly whom we are killing.”

  Ari remained sunk in shocked silence, his mind numb. It could not possibly be! What frightful joke was this? What mad, impossible, macabre joke was this? His eyes blurred with tears; he wanted to speak but words would not come.

  The car rolled on, the driver once again humming softly to himself. They left the highway and rocked slowly along a dirt road, turning to the right at the end to fallow a mere path along the side of the ocean. The wheels squeaked quietly in the sand-filled tracks; darkened cars stood parked in the shadows on either side, their occupants locked in tight embrace. They drove slowly past the last of these; the car was nosed slightly off the path onto the sand of the beach; the lights flicked off, the motor sobbed once and stopped. There was a moment’s complete silence.

  “All right, Busch,” Moises said, and his voice was the cold voice of doom, all expression withdrawn, the voice of the executioner. “Who are you? What was your name and position in the Nazi party? Who were you before you escaped the War Crimes trials?” His grip tightened inexorably, with the impersonal force of machine-jaws closing. Ari screamed, a thin scream that was cut off by Davi’s hand clamped quickly across his mouth. The pressure on his arm eased; the hand was withdrawn but held close, ready for instant application.

  “Make no mistake, Busch,” Davi said in a low, fierce voice. “You are going to die whether you tell us or not; but first you will tell us!” His voice turned bitter. “We located Eichmann, and they made us turn him over! And we located you, Busch, but all we will turn over of you is your dead body! And your real name!” He looked at Ari with dead eyes, no emotion showing at all. “Who were you in Germany, Busch?”

  Avram spoke quietly from the front seat. “There’s a car coming along the beach.”

  “Lovers.” Moises saw the two shadowy heads in the darkened car as it passed them. “They’ll park somewhere beyond us. They’ll be no problem.”

  “They’re turning around.”

  “So they’ll park back up the beach. They’ll still be no problem.”

  The other car rumbled slowly back in their direction, hesitatingly, as if looking for a secluded spot. Moises returned his attention to the frozen figure at his side. His fingers reached inside his shirt and came out holding a sharp knife that glittered faintly in the moonlight.

  “All right, Mr. Busch,” he said softly. “This is the last time we ask you….”

  Chapter 10

  When the taxi that picked Ari up swung across traffic, a battered cab behind it made the same turn. The driver of this second cab was busy talking to himself; from the street it must have appeared that he was repeating the retorts he should have thought of when he argued with his last passenger. Happier people on the street may have thought he was only singing to himself. Actually, he was speaking into a small microphone mounted in the horn ring of the car.

  “A 1948 Chevrolet taxi, black,” he was saying. “Commercial license number 108–02–44. State of Guanabara. It has one taillight out. That’s for identification if I should lose them.” A small red light glowed on the dashboard; he flipped a switch.

  “Don’t lose them,” said a harsh voice, distorted by the apparatus. “Which way are they going?” The red light disappeared.

  “They went around the block. We’re back on Atlantica again, now, heading south. They’re about three cars ahead.” The red light glowed.

  “Don’t let them spot you.” There was a few moments’ silence, then the distorted voice came back on. “I’ll make it to Jardim de Allah; I should be there in about five minutes. Pick me up at the corner of the ocean road and the canal.” The light disappeared.

  “But what if they turn off before then? Or stop someplace?” He flicked the switch.

  “Stay with them. Call me again in five minutes, in that case. I’ll wait in the car at the Jardim either for you to pick me up, or call.”

  “Right.”

  The driver flicked the switch for the last time and concentrated on the car ahead. In the heavy traffic of people taking the evening air there was little chance of being spotted, but he took no chances, always keeping several cars between them. They passed a hotel and a doorman ran frantically into the street, blowing his whistle, waving wildly with his free hand; the driver shrugged, rolled up his eyes and held his hand palm upwards, all time-honored indications that his cab was engaged for other service.

  At the corner of Rainha Elizabeth, the first car suddenly turned into the avenue, swinging sharply to the curb; the driver of the second found himself almost on top of it. With a muttered curse he swung around the first and headed into the street looking for a place to park. But then he saw in his rear-view mirror that the first car had only paused to pick up an additional passenger and was once again under way. It was pointed down Rainha Elizabeth toward the ocean road, accelerating rapidly in the thinning traffic. It passed him, gathering speed, and he dropped back and followed.

  They came into the ocean road at Arpoador, heading south toward Leblon and Gavea. The wide four-laned thoroughfare was relatively deserted, and he allowed a greater distance to separate them in order to avoid suspicion. The breakers came close to the roadway here; moonlight flickered through the royal palms that flashed past. The car ahead was traveling at slightly more than normal speed, but not to any extent that would excite the notice of traffic police; it was easy to keep in sight.

  At the bridge that spanned the canal at the Jardim de Allah he slowed down, and a figure dashed from a parked car and jumped in beside him while he was still in motion. The driver shifted gears and roared back into high, making up the lost distance.

  “Up ahead,” Wilson said briefly, his hands firm on the steering wheel.

  “I know,” Da Silva said grimly. “I think I saw them pass.” He leaned forward, peering through the windshield intently. “Don’t lose them.”
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  Wilson nodded. “Who are they, do you know?”

  Da Silva frowned. “I have no idea; that’s what worries me.”

  “The organization?”

  “I doubt it. Why? Why in God’s name would they grab him like that?” He shook his head. “Don’t lose them!”

  They rolled along through Leblon, the bulking shadow of the mountains at the end of the road looming larger every minute. At the foot of the huge rock that terminated the ocean road, the taillights ahead swung off to the left into the Avenida Niemeyer, that skirted the mountain on a winding ledge cut brutally into the sheer rock. It disappeared as a curve took it beyond a shoulder of the rock and out of sight. Wilson cut around the bend and into the Avenida Niemeyer behind it without a pause.

  The road wound crazily along the man-made ledge, with the sheer cliffs of the mountain towering above it, and the boiling ocean on the left below. From one curve to the next they could see the taillights of the other car swaying ahead of them; Wilson handled the wheel expertly. “Just don’t lose them,” Da Silva muttered, almost to himself.

  “I won’t lose them,” Wilson said; but he spoke too soon.

  They came around a sharp bend in the road to find their way blocked by a large bus discharging passengers; traffic in the other direction prevented their squeezing past. Their brakes squealed as they plowed to a stop; they sat in fuming silence as passengers slowly descended, burdened by age, children and bundles. The driver was in conversation with a passenger who had gotten off, but who maintained his grip on the hand rail as he talked. Wilson blasted his horn; the bus driver glanced back impersonally and continued talking. Another more vicious blast caused the driver to say something to his friend; they both looked back and laughed. Da Silva was opening the door when the driver of the bus waved goodbye to his friend casually and slowly put his machine into motion. Wth a curse, Wilson shot around him, stamping on the accelerator.