Isle of the Snakes

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Da Silva's eyebrows rose. “And just how does the American Embassy manage to give instructions to the Belém police? And have them obey those instructions?”

  “It's quite simple when you know how,” Wilson said airily, dropping back into his seat. “You just sign your cables ‘Da Silva.'”

  In an obscure corner booth in the rear of a dingy bar on the Travessa Miguel Couto in Belém, a narrow alley leading from the squalid dock front at the point where the Rio Guama enters the wide Pará, Carlos Rodrigues de Alameida—known to both his associates and the police blotters of the nation as Faca, or Knife—had established his temporary headquarters. Ex-convict, ex-army officer (dishonorably discharged), adventurer in the worst sense of the word, Alameida was both feared and obeyed by the group he had gathered together for the biggest coup of a life devoted to illegality.

  Stories varied as to the basis for his nickname. Some claimed that it came from his preference for the knife as a weapon, others that it derived from his appearance, which was tall and thin to a point of emaciation and topped by a sharp wedge of a nose. A third possible reason could easily have been his slashing manner of verbal attack, which he employed whenever things did not go according to his master plan.

  The bar he had selected for his temporary headquarters in Belém was situated in a location that drew little local custom. Occasional tourists, flying in from Rio or Manaus or Pôrto Alegre or Recife, would come wandering up the picturesque cobbled streets of the dock area, cameras slung over their shoulders, and stop for a cerveza in the small bar. After a signal from the bartender, they would quickly slip into the last booth, exchange a few hurried words with the Faca, and—if things had gone well—emerge moments later to take pictures aimlessly or stroll leisurely back in the direction of the city.

  However, if things had not gone well, the interviews were often extended and were seldom enjoyed. At the moment two such tourists, both husky young men in their middle twenties, were discovering this. Alameida was furious, and only the discipline of many years prevented him from using physical force on the two cowed men before him.

  “Two years!” he was saying in a tense voice, forcing himself not to shout. “I've worked on this plan for two solid years, and you fools want to throw it all away for an idiotic gesture!” His tiny black eyes swung between the two downcast faces across from him. “Whose bright idea was it?”

  One of the men cleared his throat. He did not look up. “Gomez gave him to the Indians.”

  Alameida waved this remark aside with the contempt it deserved. “I don't care about that, and you know it! Whose idea was it to mail the head to Rio? With that stupid note. That's what I want to know!”

  The younger of the two men stared down at his hands miserably. “We had been drinking.”

  “Drinking... !” He drew in his breath, prepared to release it explosively, and then expelled it in a prolonged hiss instead. His voice when he spoke was the more deadly for its quietness. “I've taken steps to try and undo the damage you may have caused. You'd better pray that my steps are successful, because otherwise you will wish you had been given to the Indians! Believe me.”

  His tiny eyes raked them. “All right. You can leave now. You've been here too long already. Get back to Recife and try to do your job.” He shook his head. “I thought a jungle trip might boost your morale, but it seems to have addled your brains instead. Let's see if some hard work can restore them.”

  He stopped abruptly. The two young men looked at each other, as if unable to believe their good fortune in escaping with so slight a reprimand. They pushed out of the booth and walked quickly and silently to the front of the bar and out into the heat of the morning.

  Alameida leaned back, disgust eating into him. A pity, a crime that he had to use these young featherbrains in his scheme, but there just was no other way! He leaned sideways, exposing his head, calling sharply.

  “Vermouth!”

  The bartender hastily filled a glass and brought it to the booth. As he set it down, the telephone on the wall of the tiny bar rang stridently. Alameida jerked his head. The bartender sped back to answer it, wiping his hands on his apron. There was a muttered conversation; he let the receiver dangle and padded silently back to the shadowy booth.

  “It's Antonio. He says he has to see you.”

  The thin man in the gloom of the booth raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Fools! Idiots! They are all insane!” The eyes came down burning. “He knows I cannot be seen with him. What does he want?”

  “He said it was important.” The bartender hesitated, fearing an outburst. “Maybe if you spoke to him yourself...”

  “All right.” Alameida swallowed the vermouth in one gulp, pushed himself free of the bench, and walked to the telephone. He wore the standard garb of the rubber worker—a wide straw chapeau caught beneath the chin with greasy leather thongs, the brightly patterned shirt open at the throat to display the ever-present gold chain and cross, and the dirty, wrinkled tan trousers tucked into dusty accordion boot—but his nervous gestures, his slouch, his sidling walk, and principally that combination of watchfulness and arrogance marked him as a convict to anyone with half an eye.

  The bartender shook his head hopelessly. It was a good thing that half the police were blind and the other half venal, he thought. And that Antonio Brito of the segurança is with us instead of against us.

  Alameida lifted the receiver almost with disdain. “Yes? What is it, Antonio?”

  “I must see you.” The voice at the other end of the telephone was high and nervous.

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “A safe place; don't worry. A bar. I have to see you. It could be very important”

  Alameida's tiny eyes glinted. “May I ask why?”

  There was a moment's silence. Then, with a rush, the high voice said, “A United States Air Force plane is due in Belém from Rio de Janeiro this afternoon. We've received instructions to meet the passengers and give them every assistance.”

  “So?”

  “They have space reserved tonight at the Hotel Marajó. They have asked for seats on the morning Catalina to Manaus. There are two of them, but only one of them is an American. The other is Brazilian.”

  “So?” The Faca looked down impersonally at the stub of the corn-husk cigarette he was smoking. He had started using those cigarettes as part of what he considered his disguise and had come to prefer their pungent taste. He took one last puff, dropped the smoldering stub on the floor, and ground it out under his boot heel. “So give them assistance. What has this to do with me? With us? If we panicked every time a U.S. plane landed in Belém—”

  The nervous voice forced itself lower. “The American is named Wilson. He is the Security Officer in the American Embassy in Rio. He could also very well be from the CIA.”

  Alameida made an uncouth sound into the telephone. “He could also be sight-seeing or going hunting or fishing. These American Embassy officials, with the money they make, and the time on their hands...” He looked at the telephone with boredom, happy that the nervous Brito had not actually come up with a problem. “Or he could simply be checking up on some missing American.” He paused, his small eyes suddenly narrowing. “Yes ... yes ... who is the other? The Brazilian?”

  “Da Silva, A tal José Da Silva.”

  The hand of the Faca tightened like a vice on the receiver of the telephone. "José Da Silva?" Someone in Rio would hear about this; his last advice had been that Da Silva had been shot—tumbled from a stone bench into the wide sand beach of Copacabana. “You're sure of the name? Da Silva? From Interpol?”

  “I don't know where he's from.” The high voice seemed to consider this unimportant. “Do you know him?”

  Alameida's voice was hard. “I know him.”

  “What should I...?”

  “Quiet! Let me think!” Alameida unconsciously fished another corn-husk cigarette from the pocket of his shirt. The bartender leaned over with a lit match immediately. The tall, thin ma
n drew in deeply, thinking. Filho de mãe! This one has the lives of ten cats! He thought a moment more. “Antonio ... did João Cardoza leave for upriver yet?”

  “No. He goes to Manaus later this week.”

  “Can you get in touch with him?”

  “Of course.”

  The thin lips suddenly smiled coldly. “All right. Tell him I want to see him tonight. At the bar. About eight.”

  “All right. But what should I do about... ?”

  Alameida inhaled, smiling at the stub of the corn-husk cigarette. “I'll handle it. I'll take care of everything. Thank you, Antonio; you did very right in calling me. Bom dia."

  “Thank you, Fa—amigo. Bom dia."

  Alameida hung up and stood at the telephone a moment, thinking. João Cardoza alone would not be enough. Suddenly he snapped his fingers loudly and held his clawlike hand outstretched. The bartender hurriedly extended to him a two-cruzeiro coin. The thin man nodded, inserted the coin in the telephone, and began dialing. When the phone at the other end began to ring he suddenly handed the receiver over the bar to the aproned bartender.

  “Here. You talk.”

  The bartender accepted the telephone receiver doubtfully. “Who are you calling?”

  “Orlando. I want him here at the bar at eight o'clock.” The bartender nodded. Alameida thought a moment and then continued. “And when you are finished, bring me another vermouth.”

  He walked back to the corner booth in his standard prison shuffle, his small eyes flickering as he laid his plans. Not far different than planning an escape, he thought. You locate the enemy, surround him, and destroy him. Only this time the enemy is on the inside and you are on the outside. Still, the principle is the same. He settled in the booth, crushed out his cigarette, and immediately lit another to replace it. And then he waited patiently for the bartender to finish his telephone call and bring him another vermouth.

  The three rubber tappers sitting around the drafty sitting room in Da Silva's suite in the Hotel Marajó were very ill at ease. Their presence in such luxurious surroundings made the removal of their chapeaus an obvious necessity; yet the cold air flowing from the register, they all knew, was worse than the bite of the bad mosquito for giving a man the chills and fever. They had simply done someone a favor, and now look what they had to go through! Although, it was true, the commandant in Belém had been so nice as to arrange not bad lodgings during their wait, and they had not been subjected to the normal handlings of the police. But still, even with their decent treatment, they had been forced to remain in the giant city one full day beyond their desires to leave, and the strange smells sickened them and the strange noises bothered them. Well, let the man ask his questions and leave them free to continue on their way to their homes in Ceará.

  Da Silva leaned indolently against a dresser, studying his guests. “I ask you again. What did this man look like who asked you to bring the letter downriver to Manaus for mailing?”

  The eldest, a grizzled, wrinkled man with badly stained teeth, twisted his chapeau tightly in his gnarled fingers. “But we told the harbor police everything, senhor.”

  “And the city police,” added the second, although he was far from sure exactly who they had spoken to that long day.

  Da Silva sighed. “I know. But I would like to hear for myself. What did he look like?”

  “Look like?” The three exchanged nervous, worried glances. What does any man look like in the upper Amazon region? “He ... he looked like everyone else.”

  “Was he tall? Was he short? Did he have a beard?”

  “Tall? Short?”

  Da Silva stared at the three; a sudden idea came to him.

  “Senhors,” he said. “Please put your chapeaus back on your heads once again. There is a cold wind in this room, coming from a machine that is mounted in the basement. Unless one is accustomed to it, it can bring the chills and the fever.”

  The three smiled widely in a complete transformation. This was a senhor! They immediately clamped their straw hats on their heads, running the thongs to their throats tightly.

  “He was tall,” the youngest said positively, looking up at their benefactor. “Taller even than Francisco, here.” His finger indicated the second man, sitting quietly between the three.

  Francisco nodded. “That is true. And he was louro. Blond.”

  “And he spoke with a very bad accent,” said the eldest, now getting the idea. “A terrible accent.” His shoulders raised in bafflement. “But maybe this is how they all speak in the south.”

  “It was Bailey, all right,” Wilson said quietly. “At least we know these are the ones.”

  “He had no canoe,” the youngest suddenly recalled, and the three nodded violently in unison, their memories revived. That was the strangest thing of all, now that they recalled it. “He told us his Indians had left him. He was waiting for others to pass. He wanted to hire them to work for him.” He shrugged. “But he had no canoe.”

  The conversation seemed to have eased the three. Francisco took out a battered pipe; the youngest, Paulo, lit a corn-husk cigarette and inhaled deeply. The old man slipped a rubber pouch from his pocket, withdrew some small greenish-brown leaves, crumpled them in his hand, and popped them into his mouth.

  Wilson leaned over. “This was in Marãa?”

  “That is right,” Francisco said, puffing contentedly. “We had been upriver from there; the trees we found were untouched.” A note of pride came into his voice. “We got over twelve hundred kilos of rubber—pure. Not one of our pèlas had one stick or stone in it. Not one!”

  “Did the man who gave you the message tell you where he was planning on going?”

  Three heads shook together.

  “Did he ask if you knew where he could get Indians to replace those who had quit?”

  “He asked if we had seen any Indians,” Paulo volunteered. “But we hadn't. Graças a Deus."

  “You saw no Indians?” Da Silva's voice expressed surprise. “None at all? Where were you tapping?” He saw the immediate fear of revealing a source in all six eyes and hastily amended his question. “How far in from the river were you tapping?”

  The three exchanged glances once again. “We were on the river, senhor,” Francisco said hesitantly. “We never went more than twenty meters from the edge. No one goes far from the river in that country.”

  “Even I would not go far from the river up there,” the eldest said in a tone of voice that settled the question for all time. “And not because of Indians. The Indians upriver are friendly; they cause no trouble. The bad ones are below—the Xavante and the Xingú.”

  Da Silva pressed him. “Then why would you not go far from the river?”

  The old man shrugged. “I do not believe any man has ever set foot up there; there must be a reason. And there were no Indians. There must be a reason for that, too. I have heard stories.”

  “What stories?” Wilson leaned forward excitedly. “What stories have you heard?”

  The old man swung his head about desperately, his eyes suddenly frantic. Wilson's eyes lit up. We're on to something at last, he thought triumphantly. But the old man was merely looking for a spittoon. Wilson sighed hopelessly and slid the wastebasket over.

  The old man spat and renewed the conversation, much relieved. “There are strange animals in there. Snakes bigger than the biggest python; birds that can eat a man whole.” He shook his grizzled head decisively. “There must be. Why are there no people up there?”

  Wilson gave up in the face of this reasoning.

  Da Silva had been studying the three seringueiros; now he leaned forward.

  “Senhors,” he said quietly, “I realize that one does not accept payment for doing another a favor in the upper country, but certainly this man was cavalheiro enough to give you a present for taking his message downriver, was he not?”

  Both Francisco and young Paulo beamed. This one was certainly a senhor! This one certainly knew the etiquette!

  “He did indeed,�
�� Francisco said, smiling openly. He tapped his pipe. “This cachimbo came from him.”

  “And this chapeau,” Paulo said proudly. His hand went to his hat and then paused uncertainly, as if fearful that someone might want him to remove it for examination.

  The old man remained silent, frowning. Da Silva leaned over, speaking to him directly. “And what did he give you?” he asked quietly. “That tobacco?”

  “This? No. I got that from a friendly young fellow at a clearing a few days below Marãa. What did he give me?” The old man looked embarrassed. “He gave me money. I did not want to take it, but he insisted.”

  “That's fine,” Wilson said, fighting to keep sarcasm from his voice, aware that it was not the fault of the three visitors that they had no vital information to impart. “I'm glad he was a gentleman.”

  Da Silva straightened up. “I think that's all, senhors. I want to thank you very much for your trouble.” He reached for his wallet, extracting a sizable note as the three pulled themselves to their feet, recognizing dismissal. “Something for your time, senhors. To buy a drink.”

  The old man took it, examined it, and thrust it into his shirt pocket. He smiled brightly. Politeness forbade him asking the reason for the interrogation. At the same time, politeness demanded that he accept the gift, since it was only for a drink. To him this represented a more than fair exchange.

  “At your service, senhors,” he said. He touched his hat to the two.

  His younger counterparts repeated the gesture.

  Da Silva opened the door, and the three nodded solemnly and filed out in chronological order. Da Silva closed the door behind them and fell into a chair.

  “I could use a cognac,” he said wearily.

  “I could use ten,” Wilson said. “All we learned from that little meeting was that Bailey sent a message downriver with three seringueiras. To pick up his tailor bills. Big deal.”

  Da Silva smiled at him. “No; I think we learned more than that. Did you notice the old man? He wasn't chewing tobacco; he was chewing huanuco—coca leaves—and he didn't even know it. You don't spit when you chew huanuco. And he got it from a friendly young chap at a clearing a few days below Marãa.”