The Fugitive

  “I was against it from the beginning,” Strauss began, but Monica broke into me conversation.

  “There is no point in repeating that stupid statement endlessly,” she said with irritation. “It was an idea and it didn’t work. Let’s not talk about it any more.”

  “I just want to make sure that we don’t decide to try it again,” Strauss insisted stubbornly.

  “Again I agree with Strauss,” Mathais said. “If there should be any more of these attempts, the only thing we will accomplish is to frighten him away from Brazil. He’ll simply leave.”

  “And leave the money?” von Roesler sneered.

  “He brought the money in, right under our nose, and we don’t know how,” Mathais said boldly, looking von Roesler in the eye. “I’m sure he can take it out again, probably also under our nose, and we still won’t know how he managed.” His glance never wavered. “You all continue to think that Herr Busch is a fool. I know him, and I tell you that he is far from a fool.”

  Strauss nodded his head emphatically. “I also know him and I agree. I tried to tell everybody…” His voice trailed into silence under the withering contempt of Monica’s sideways look.

  “All right!” Von Roesler was beginning to lose his temper. The madness that ebbed and flowed in him seemed to be at a standstill at the moment. His voice was firm. “So he isn’t a fool! All right!” His voice became gently sarcastic. “You gentlemen seem to know what shouldn’t be done; possibly you might care to express your suggestions as to what should be done!”

  Strauss stared stubbornly at the little feathered hat he continued to twist between his fingers. It was clear that he had his ideas but was hesitant to present them. Mathais was not so bashful.

  “Certainly,” he said coolly. “It is very simple. We go back to Strauss’s original idea. Which, of course, was the reason I arranged for Herr Busch to come to Sao Paulo in the first place.” He spread out his hands. “You merely meet with him.”

  The explosion they had all been tentatively expecting did not materialize. Von Roesler sat silent, looking from one to the other. Even as they watched he seemed to age a bit, to become a bit smaller, even to shrink a bit into the folds of his bathrobe. When he finally spoke his voice seemed to have even become a bit querulous. They watched this change with amazement.

  “It is very easy for you all to talk,” he said, his face beginning to twitch as the madness crept wearily back to the edges of his mind. “Meet him! Meet him! But where?” He looked at them craftily. “They are waiting for me to come out of this apartment; don’t you know? They have been waiting for years; I know they have! They almost got Busch, and who is Busch? Nobody! What was Busch ever? Nothing! And yet they almost got Busch.”

  “Meet him here,” Mathais said soothingly. “Meet him in this apartment. Then you won’t have to go out.”

  “Meet him here?” The crazed voice was scandalized.

  “Here? Bring him here, when they must be following him every minute, watching every move he makes? Bring him here? Let him lead them to this apartment?”

  “If you agree to meet him,” Strauss said in a quiet, reasonable tone, “a meeting place that is safe can easily be arranged.”

  The mad eyes swung blindly away from them, wandering tragically along the walls, past the heavily draped windows, over the locked door. “I thought my destiny was always Brazil,” he said, speaking in a soft crooning tone to some hidden corner of his brain, the past beginning to swirl like his pipe smoke through the gossamer web of his thoughts. He giggled. “Safe? What is safe?” The insane laughter faded and he looked at them blankly, through them, beyond them. “You know,” he said conversationally, “I had a map on my desk at Buchenwald, a map of Brazil. I looked at it every day, studied it, pored over it. I thought my destiny was here in Brazil. Here. was sure that my destiny was here.” He sighed, suddenly weary of it all. “And now I find myself locked in a small room, worse than a prisoner….”

  “Your destiny is in Brazil,” Monica said swiftly, quietly, attempting to bring the wandering mind back into focus. “Here in Brazil. Maybe meeting with Herr Busch is that destiny, Erick.”

  “And the meeting place is no problem,” Mathais interposed smoothly without a break, not wishing to allow time for the attention of the other to escape back into the nebulous past. If you don’t want to meet him here in the apartment, I can easily arrange a suite at one of the hotels here in Sao Paulo.”

  A gleam of sanity briefly returned. The voice hardened. “Not in Sao Paulo. We’ll not meet him in Sao Paulo.” He leaned forward, appealing to the intelligence of them all. “Don’t you see? They are here in Sao Paulo. Now. Can’t you understand?”

  “A suite at the Mirabelle in Rio, then,” Mathais said equably, calmly. “You will be safe there.”

  The gleam once again faded, he seemed to shrink again. “Locked rooms,” he murmured faintly. “Always locked rooms….” He looked up pathetically. “Must I meet with him?”

  “We need the money,” Mathais said quietly.

  “We promise you we will arrange a place that is safe from… from… from them,” Strauss added with embarrassment. Monica sat silent, her fingers twisting, her eyes filling with tears.

  “Then we’ll meet with him!” The figure behind the desk seemed to draw strength from the decision. He looked at them all fiercely. “But not in Sao Paulo. In Rio!” He stood up abruptly; the weak figure that had sat in his place but a moment before had disappeared to be replaced in an instant by the old Erick von Roesler, Colonel in the justly famed and justly feared SD. They watched this metamorphosis in astonished silence.

  He turned to Mathais, the old tone of command strong in his voice. “You will arrange it. Consider yourself in command. You will arrange a place that is safe; not indoors, not in any locked room. I leave it to you to arrange.” He turned sharply toward the others, continuing to speak to Mathais. “When all arrangements are completed, you will communicate with Herr Strauss; he will manage to let me know.” He looked at them coldly; it was dismissal. The meeting was over.

  Monica saw them out of the apartment, her eyes bright with tears, her thoughts far away. In the automatic elevator, descending slowly, Strauss finally found words. “You know, of course,” he said absently, “the man is mad. Completely mad.” He turned to Mathais as if seeking support.

  Mathais smiled at him icily. “Of course.”

  “But…”

  “But we need the money.” The door opened mechanically, depositing them in a deserted lobby. They stepped out.

  “But do you think—” Strauss hesitated for words—“do you think that if he meets with Busch he will… he won’t… that he’ll act all right?” he finished in a rush.

  Mathais looked at him. “Von Roesler is the only one who can convince Busch to part with that money. He’ll act all right. He’ll have to!” He turned toward the door, but Strauss caught his arm.

  “How will you get Busch to go back to Rio?”

  Mathais smiled grimly. “That will be no problem. Leave it to me. We have all wasted too much time trying to be subtle in this entire affair; I’ll simply tell him the man he wants to contact will meet him in Rio on such-and-such a day.”

  Strauss still did not seem to be satisfied. “But a meeting place… If it isn’t just right, von Roesler may refuse to go.”

  Mathais patted him on the arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry about the meeting place,” he said. “I know just the spot. It will be perfect.”

  They pushed through the heavy doors and stepped out into the deserted street. In the distance the faint sounds of continuing Carnival revelers came beating softly on the early morning air.

  “At least,” Strauss said vaguely, “Da Silva won’t be around to complicate things.”

  “You handled that very well.” Mathais dismissed the subject abruptly, looking at his wrist watch. Strauss caught the hint.

  They shook hands briefly. “Auf wiedersehen.”

  “Auf wiedersehen,” Mathais re
plied. And added, “And don’t worry about the meeting. I know just the place for it. It will be perfect.”

  Finale Agitato

  Chapter 1

  The intoxicating view from the high window of the suite in the Mirabelle Hotel overlooking the ruffled expanse of the ocean front did not seem to have changed at all in his absence. In the far distance the tiny rock islands still broke the even, calm surface of the sea with their pleasantly rounded protuberances; the same bobbing fishing boats seemed to weave on the same hypnotic, undulating waves that washed the beach in front of the hotel veranda. The somnambulant peddlers of ice cream with their gayly striped wagons could have been taken intact from the scene of the week before, pushing the same rickety wagons before them at the same retarded pace along the patterned mosaic sidewalk.

  Even the tiny striped umbrellas planted in staggered rows among the daily crop of sun bathers scattered like prop bodies after a battle scene looked as if they had not changed since the last morning he had gazed down upon them. Across the smokeless roofs of the apartment buildings that lined the sand expanse like stilted pickets on a curving fence, the rocky tower of Pao de Açúcar could be seen standing stark against the faded blue sky. Even the tiny cable strands that led to its majestic top seemed to be definable in the clear air of the hot afternoon.

  Ari returned to his unpacking. He studied the neatly arranged contents of his leather bag and sighed deeply. Two weeks had passed since his arrival in Brazil; two marvelously dreamless weeks even free of the terrifying heart palpitations; two weeks into which had been crowded more adventure and more excitement than he had known in his life. He stood staring blankly at the challenge of his packed bag. In two weeks he had been kidnapped twice, had seen the sights of Rio, had enjoyed Carnival in Sao Paulo. What could you know of these things? he asked the waiting bag irritably. All you do is sit there demanding to be emptied.

  His restlessness finally overcame him; he left the silent bag and returned to the more satisfying window. But the two weeks were not fruitless, he reflected, searching his mind for some fount of satisfaction to ease his tightened nerves. In these two weeks you have uncovered the principal limbs of this rotting tree; it is only necessary to identify the main root stem to complete the job. So why be nervous? Why be restless? The time for nervousness was two weeks ago, now is almost the time for triumph. And that soon, very soon. The changeable hotel manager, Herr Mathais—no longer the elastic-faced mine host, but suddenly transformed into a sharp, positive personality—had informed him only that day, in a brisk, businesslike manner, that his meeting with the head of the Brazilian organization was in the immediate process of being realized, and that he would be informed as soon as the details were arranged. He stared across the blue-green of the ocean before him, analyzing his restlessness.

  Can it be nostalgia? he wondered. Is it possible to feel nostalgia for a place where you are? Because you know you must soon leave it? Is this possible? His eyes swept the horizon, coming to rest on the hazy summit of Sugar Loaf. One thing, though, I promise, he said to himself. Before I leave Brazil, I shall manage in some manner to see the view from your summit; that will be my farewell to this lovely place. There on your top, before I leave, I shall cleanse myself of the unhappiness that somehow has followed me throughout this masquerade. When this is finished, it is there that I shall properly say goodbye to the lush grandeur and peaceful beauty of this city.

  He sighed and stared back over his shoulder at his still unpacked bag. Stay there, he said in sudden resolution to his shirts and socks and underwear, to his handkerchiefs and ties, to his extra suit and extra shoes. Stay there and keep yourself company. You are somehow something out of the past, and I’ll unpack you when I’m good and ready.

  He looked back out of the window, surprised once again at the depth of his restlessness. Am I nervous? he thought. I should actually be happy; the conclusion of this farce is near, we are coming close to the answer that induced this idiotic imposture, this crazy adventure. Am I afraid? He thought of Da Silva off in a foreign country and felt a pang of loneliness sweep him, a faint shock of panic. Yes, he thought, almost with satisfaction at the revelation; yes, I am afraid. But of what I do not know. But I am afraid!

  The thought, oddly enough, seemed to calm him instantly, and he returned at once to his bag, dipping into it resolutely. Without an indication of his previous perturbed state of mind, he carefully placed each item in its place in the dresser drawers, and hung his suit neatly on a hanger in the narrow closet.

  Chapter 2

  Eight floors below, in his private apartment on the second floor, Herr Mathais was desperately attempting to come to some arrangements with two people who seemed intent upon purposefully misunderstanding him. His temper, normally under the good control so necessary to hotel managers, was wearing a bit thin, but he seemed to realize that this was no time to explode.

  “It will be only for one hour,” he repeated, certain in his mind that he had made the same statement at least forty times before. “One hour. At the most.”

  The little man facing him, dressed in a blue uniform that had long since seen its best years, continued to hug the edge of his seat in the manner of one who had dropped in for a brief visit and should have been on his way long before. He also seemed doubtful as to whether or not his interlocutor was capable of understanding simple Portuguese. “But the Senhor does not comprehend. It is a public place. Private parties there are forbidden.”

  “But you close,” Mathais said patiently. “You close sometime. Sometime you have to close. We only wish to go there after you close.”

  “Ah!” said the man across from him, who at this point might properly have been called his opponent, if not his adversary. He had immediately noted the obvious flaw in this argument and had pounced upon it at once. “But afterwards, you see, you cannot go. Because afterwards, we are closed.”

  Mathais ground his huge teeth together, but maintained an outward calm, albeit a trifle shaky. He thought a moment and decided to try another tack.

  “You open at what time?” he asked slowly, speaking with extreme clarity.

  The other considered this carefully, and apparently finding nothing incriminating in answering, nodded thoughtfully. “Quite early,” he said, but added sadly, “of course before we open, no one is allowed.”

  “I understand,” Mathais said heavily. “Now; what time do you close?”

  “Quite late.”

  “The time,” Mathais said, almost gritting his teeth. “What time do you close? The exact hour?”

  The second man, who had sat throughout this duel in silence, now decided to come to his partner’s aid. “We close at midnight,” he said.

  Mathais gave a vast sigh of relief. “You close at midnight. Then, if I wished to come there with my friends after midnight, there would be no one there.” He quickly raised his hand to forestall the inevitable. “Yes. I know it is closed after midnight. But we would only require someone to run the mechanism—the car. And we would pay for this. We would pay money for someone to stay after hours to run the car.”

  The magic word “money” seemed to have the necessary effect; or at least it had some effect. The two fell into a huddled conference, jabbering softly to each other. Mathais waited patiently, convinced that he was on the right track.

  One might have imagined that his years in Brazil would have taught him better, but he had always been of a basically optimistic nature. The conference finally ended; the first turned back to him with a tragic face. “Senhor. It is not possible. After midnight we are closed.”

  A lesser man might have broken; Strauss, Mathais reflected, would have stalked from the room, or lain down upon the floor and shed tears. He, however, was made of stronger stuff. It suddenly occurred to him where he had been making his mistake, and he immediately took steps to rectify it.

  “Fifty conto,” he said, staring hypnotically into the eyes of the man seated so precariously before him.

  “I beg your pardon?” I
t was startled, but definitely interested.

  “Fifty conto. Fifty thousand cruzeiros.” His eyes flickered across to the other, and he nodded his head slightly in recognition of the presence of the second. “Fifty conto each, that is, of course. A total of one hundred conto. One hundred thousand cruzeiros.”

  There was silence. The second turned to the first and then paused. This obviously did not even require a conference. “Senhor,” he said, “exactly what do you want us to do?”

  Mathais smiled successfully and leaned forward. “Listen closely,” he said, “I will explain everything. On next Wednesday…”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Mathais’ expression did not change. “I said, ‘On next Wednesday.’ And please, just remember as you are listening, one hundred conto. One hundred thousand cruzeiros. Will you remember that?”

  “Yes, Senhor, we will remember that.”

  “Fine,” Mathais said with satisfaction. “Now see if you can remember this….”

  Chapter 3

  The brightly lit facade of the Mirabelle Hotel threw its reflected glow upon the empty pavement of the Avenida Atlantica, now damp from the faint sea fog that was slowly rolling in from the rustling ocean lost in darkness beyond the barrier of the sandy beach. It was past midnight, and the traffic had slowed down to a few well-spaced cars hurrying by, seeking to reach home before the full force of the fog swept down and closed off vision. Their tires sucked at the wet pavement hungrily, sounding sticky in the quiet night. The sharp clacking of an occasional pair of high heels patrolling the darkness were the only other sounds.