“No, I wouldn’t think so. Which is why I might have left something for you agents in the chapel at the base of the statue.”
He looks at his watch, then back up, and smiles.
Bertram turns and sprints toward the chapel, already removing his badge, ready to clear the building of tourists in case of a bomb, crime scene, or any other evidence. Danly hesitates a moment, but then chases after his partner.
Viktor watches you to see what you’ll do.
• Follow the agents into the chapel!
• Stay here, keep an eye on the man while they check it out.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Rei do Açúcar
The main house of the plantation isn’t opulent or gaudy. There is no parlor where you’ll be served cognac. No great dining hall, no feast beside your host. This isn’t where this man lives; this is simply where he conducts business. It’s almost disappointing. Part of you wanted to see something out of The Godfather or Scarface, but you’ll have to settle for substance instead of style.
A private security guard greets you: a thin, older man who requests that you leave your weapons and cell phones at a secure room in the front. The fact that he’s not surprised in the least that you’re armed serves as a not-so-subtle reminder that you’re dealing with a man on a different tier than a mere farm manager. Maybe this will be interesting after all.
You give up the shotgun (not like it was yours to begin with), but Bertram refuses to leave his weapons at the front room. He shows the man at the security booth his badge, but the guy doesn’t seem to care. He demands Bertram disarm, but the federal agent doesn’t budge.
A pair of security guards arrive to settle the commotion and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Bertram’s right hand hovers ominously over his gun holster.
“Well, well, an American federal agent,” a voice booms out from behind. “You two are a bit far from home, yes?”
You turn and see a large, middle-aged Brazilian man. Neither tall nor fat per se, but thick-limbed and possessing a sort of magnetic gravity you can’t quite place. His full face is clean-shaven and has deep creases where a stark smile now finds perch. His eyes are dark brown, with an intense intelligence.
The man wears tight blue jeans tucked into black cowboy boots, dusty and grey with age. He wears a blue workshirt and an orange scarf tied loosely about his neck. Not exactly how you’d picture a billionaire. His short, jet-black hair is slicked back and neatly arranged in such a way that you can be certain he has a comb tucked in his pocket.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, then adds something quickly to the security team in Portuguese that causes them to back down.
“We’re here investigating a murder,” you blurt, trying for a reaction.
He shakes his head. “Way out here in the jungle? I’m sorry to disappoint, but I know nothing of the Nightingale girl.”
“I didn’t say the victim was a woman,” you say. “And they haven’t released her identity to the public. Tell me, how did you hear her name?”
He throws his head back and lets out a booming laugh. His grin widens, like a man who’s truly enjoying himself. “There will be no such ‘gotcha’ moment. Of course I know of the dead secretary. This is a ‘big deal,’ as you say in America. You think a man such as me gets his information from the news?”
“No, of course not,” Bertram says. “You’re the Sugar King,”
He chuckles once more, but this time it seems forced. “I’m just a businessman. A governor. A man of the people. That is only a silly nickname. You activist types are so terrified of corporations these days, but this country grows strong because of sugarcane. I employ ten percent of the nation!”
“We’re not here to discuss politics,” Bertram says.
“Indeed not. May I see your badge, sir?”
Agent Bertram considers this for a moment. At length, he steps forward and gives the man his badge.
“My RSO knows we’re here,” Bertram says. “I just spoke with him via sat-phone.”
Governor Ferro’s smile fades. He’s quick to bring it back again, but it’s enough lapse that you notice. He falters with his words for a moment, then finds his stride.
“I’m certain that he does. Because you strike me as a good agent, one who would not come all the way out here without permission.”
You see the bearded man’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he suppresses a gulp.
“Agent David Bertram. I’ll remember the name next time I speak with your Ambassador. Colonel Mays has helped facilitate business relations between our two nations, and I’m looking forward to seeing him this week at the Energy Summit.”
The Governor hands back Bertram’s badge and continues, “I completely understand how thorough you need to be in your investigations. Please tell me if I can be of any help, Agent Bertram. I should want nothing more than to help you catch the murderer. With the Energy Summit, the World Cup, and the Olympics, we need foreigners to feel safe in our country—Americans, especially. This could be a great economic boon for our people.”
“You’ll be in Rio?” Bertram asks.
“As I said, for the Energy Summit. I owe the Ambassador a box of cigars.” He laughs again. “Cubans.”
“If the investigation team has any questions for you, would you be available in Rio?”
“Of course. Anything to help, really.”
“I’ll let them know,” Bertram says.
“Very good. Anything else?”
“We seem to have lost our transportation,” you say.
“You must be careful way out here in the jungle. There are thieves and dangerous men.”
On your payroll, you think. What a slippery man. Just like a politician….
“Perhaps I can help? I can have a driver take you back.”
“If you can spare a car, we would be in your debt, Governor,” Bertram says.
“Done. Glad to help.”
• Drive back to Rio.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Respect for Authority
Agent Danly’s jaw tightens, and then your head erupts with splitting pain. The punch was lightning-fast and completely unexpected, so it doesn’t even register until he’s already throwing you against the wall and cuffing your hands behind your back.
“Wrong, jackass. You’re not in America. No Miranda rights, got it? I don’t know what your role is in all of this, but I don’t have time for it. You better hope to hell you’re not an accomplice on this thing or so help me God, I will see you rot.”
Holding you prone against the wall, he removes a radio and calls for backup. The blood from your broken nose drips down over your chin and onto your shirt.
Security soon arrives and Agent Danly instructs the cop to “keep an eye on” you. Later, when Viktor is killed “making an attempt on the Ambassador’s life” and Jane mysteriously disappears, Agent Danly will make good on his promise.
You’ll be tried and found guilty of treason. The rest of your life will not be pleasant.
THE END
Return to Rio
After exchanging the Sugar King’s loaner Jeep for Bertram’s government SUV, you head straight to Rio. You don’t even stop by the consulate in São Paulo—the agent’s supervisor, the RSO, is in Rio and he wants to see Bertram ASAP.
It’s late afternoon when Bertram pulls into the parking garage at the Rio consulate. Though you’re hungry, groggy, and seriously in need of a shower, it appears there’s no time to waste. After going through the security protocol, you head inside.
“Stay here,” Bertram says.
He steps in his boss’s office and you hear, “Well, it’s about fucking time. Shut the goddamned door.”
You cringe as the door slams shut.
“So… going to Carnaval?”
You turn around. You think you recognize the guy—a junior agent who was here when you first visited the Rio consulate. He’s a classic ginger, with his pasty, freckled skin and his bright carrot hair.
“What?” you ask.
“Carnaval. It starts tonight. You should go, there’s no other party like it on Earth.”
“Are you going?”
“I wish,” he says, grinning. “I’m working security on the Energy Summit; that starts tonight too. Maybe when things close down. The Sambadrome is nearby the conference grounds, so we’ll see. Hopefully I don’t have to escort somebody through the crowds. As an agent, you have to concentrate on protection, so you don’t get to focus on all the fun. It’s the worst.”
The way he keeps smiling, though, tells you he thinks it’s the best. Humble-bragging at its finest.
His eyes dart toward the muffled shouts that come through the door of the RSO’s office. You’re able to pick up words like “sugar” and “fiance” and “jungle” and “scientist,” but most of what you hear are words like “goddamned” and “fucking” and “bullshit.”
“Good luck with that,” the junior agent says.
He shakes his head and walks away as the door opens and Bertram steps out.
“We’re not done yet!” the RSO shouts.
Bertram wipes a weary palm down his face, sighs, and turns around. “I’ll give a full report to the new team when they get here, okay? Just give me a day to get cleaned up.”
“Oh, you’ll have all the time you need. That stunt out there in the jungle? You just earned yourself 30 days on the beach.”
Bertram’s body tenses, but he bites his tongue.
“And lucky for you, the investigation team is already here.”
“Come on, boss. Just give me a couple of hours.”
“You know there’s no time,” the RSO says. “Conference room, now.”
“They need our cooperating witness?”
“Not right now, but make sure your ‘little partner’ doesn’t go far.”
Bertram comes over to you, the strain of a browbeating clear on his face, and says, “I’ll meet you back at the hotel in a bit, cool? I need to debrief, but let’s grab a drink in the bar after.”
“That’s it? We’re done?” you ask. “What about the Sugar King?”
He sighs. “Come on, Hotshot. Not now.”
“We were so close, can’t you feel it? That guy was up to something.”
“Look, I agree, he was a bad guy. I just don’t think he’s our bad guy. My money’s still on the fiancé but—ah, shit, what does it matter? Did you forget? We’re off the goddamned case!”
You say nothing.
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just…first round’s on me, okay? You got money for a cab?”
“Sure,” you say. “Good luck in there.”
• Head to the hotel.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Rio’s Divine Comedy
With Agent Danly’s reluctant blessing, you pair up and return to the police station the next morning. Once inside, you’re greeted by the bleach-blonde Detective Lucio Muniz, Irma Dos Santos’s partner. He wears black slacks with a silken purple shirt. His ears are pierced and he has a diamond stud in each earlobe. He waves at you when you enter.
“Where’s Detective Dos Santos?” Danly asks.
“She’s out. What’s new, boss-man?”
“We’re ready to check out the favelas. Did our Elite Squad request come through?”
“Sorry, chucky. You’re on your own for now. Elite Squad only goes in once there’s a lead or a target. Which—I believe—you don’t have, no?”
“We don’t have,” Danly corrects. “So let’s go find one. You’re coming with us.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! I’m not Elite Squad.” The detective backpedals, palms raised, head shaking furiously. “No way, no how, man.”
“Yes way,” Danly counters, stepping forward. “This is still your show, did you forget that? I can do all the investigating I want, but you need to make the arrest if it’s going to stick. Last time I checked, the favelas were on Brazilian soil.”
“Yeah, well. Check again, boss-man. That’s a fucking war zone. Maybe you don’t know how it works, but cops don’t go into the slums, ever. These kids, they kill cops for sport. It’s like a manhood ceremony, entendeu? You’re asking me to commit suicide here.”
“I’m not asking. Would you prefer I talk to the Chief, and see how much he’d like your precinct—and you specifically—splattered all over international news for refusing to aid the United States in their investigation of the highest profile murder case our two countries have ever shared?”
Detective Muniz’s chest sinks and his eyes fall to the floor. He heaves a heavy sigh, then pulls out a cigarette and lights up. A junior policeman complains that he needs to smoke outside, but Muniz curses at him in Portuguese, then slaps him on the back of the head as if he were addressing a wayward nephew.
After taking a deep drag on the cigarette, he says, “We’re not staying out after dark.”
Danly nods, then offers to shake hands with Muniz. If an actual Rio cop is this rattled…then what are you getting yourself into?
“Hey, you know—I bet Irma will be back soon. Wouldn’t you rather—”
“We’re leaving now. The three of us. Shake.”
Lucio Muniz shakes Agent Danly’s hand.
“Now come on, we’re just going to ask a few questions. Think of yourself as a translator. Don’t be such a coward—this tourist here is braver than you are.”
“Ignorance is not bravery,” the detective says, looking at you.
* * *
As you descend into Rio de Janeiro’s underworld, you expect there to be some kind of physical barrier separating the city from the slums, like the border between the US and Mexico. You try to remember which bag contains your passport, just in case, but no such threshold ever comes. Instead, the streets simply become narrower, the shops become smaller, and the buildings begin to stack up atop one another.
From a distance, it looks like they’re mining the mountains—so sharp is the contrast between the tree cover and the barren earth. Where once the rolling hills were green and lush, they are now covered with acres of tool-shed-size housing; a ramshackle mess of temporary structures now permanently cemented and crushed together.
The favelas are all brick and concrete. Without exception, each structure was built by hand and not by professionals. Those who occupy the shanties either erected them themselves or simply moved in, taking over like a hermit crab once the original occupant died. Lifespans are short and there are no property deeds in the slums. Real estate is plentiful, the wait isn’t long, and you simply take what you want.
Instead of billboards and signs, the shops here use graffiti. The Portuguese words for “liquor,” “bakery,” and “barber” are spray-painted on nearly every corner. Most of the shops have metal gates for doors, the kind you roll down and lock at night, retracting them in the morning when it’s time for business as usual. Residences use concrete walls and iron bars with spear-tipped zeniths intended to keep out thugs and rapists.
Crumbled brick crunches beneath the tires of your government SUV. Large, new, and black—you stick out like a sore thumb. Bare-chested men stare at you warily from the periphery of the street. Children running barefoot pick up their soccer balls and instead chase you, trying to get a glimpse of which celebrity might be inside the SUV.
Agent Danly pulls through the opening of a collapsed wall, parking atop a disintegrated building. He turns off the engine, then looks at you. “Listen, if we ask the wrong question to the wrong guy, things could get dangerous. I think you’d better stay in the car.”
• “No way! Aren’t I here so I can ID the guy? How will you know it’s him without me?”
• Nod, pat the seat, and say, “I’ll keep her safe.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Roadblock
You try to stare at the wallpaper as you walk back past Agent Danly, willing him not to see you, but no such luck. It’s his job to see you.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asks. “I thought you were dead! You just up and di
sappeared—we’ve been looking all over for you.”
• “I think you have me confused with someone else.”
• “Get bent. I was partying. It’s a free country; I can go where I please.”
• “Oh, thank God you found me!”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Roaming Charges
Like a rabbit, you go from frozen to bolting in the blink of an eye. The young policeman sprints after you while his partner runs to catch Viktor. Where the hell did you hear that you can’t be followed into a house without a warrant? That’s ridiculously false, on so many levels. You try the first apartment and are fortunate enough to find the door unlocked. You burst in, surprising an older woman who just came out of the shower.
The woman drops her towel, revealing nothing more than her country’s eponymous grooming technique. She probably in her sixties, and it’s not a pretty sight. The cop apologizes to her in Portuguese before he eagerly subdues and restrains you.
It’s over. The murder will be pinned on Viktor, and you’ll be sentenced as his accomplice. Foreign prison isn’t fun, but apparently Rio has started a new program where you can run a stationary bike to generate electricity in exchange for a shorter term. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to work out the details.
THE END
Room to Think
You slip into the hallway just as the front door opens. Whoever it is shouldn’t have seen you duck back here, but you get the feeling you didn’t buy yourself much time. The hall is carpeted, so your steps are silent. You move with urgency.
You’re in luck; the first room is his office. There’s a drawing desk covered in figures and sketches, mountainous piles of books and journals, and acres of that chlorophyll-green grid paper tacked to the wall. Unlike the neat and orderly nature of the rest of the house, this particular room looks like the lab of a mad scientist.
MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2) Page 30
