I did not take it. Nor did I say anything.
It was Morales.
I saw then, as he moved into view, that my escort had been Dominic.
I succeeded in masking my feelings. I had actually believed that I was on my way to see Emil, that he had chosen to bring me to him, quietly and without fuss, by simply having his man wait till the overcivilized gringo went in search of the town’s only crapper.
Well, the method had proven effective…
"What do you want this time?" I asked him.
He sighed.
"You are still angry with me, of course," he said. "But I hope that will not prevent you from listening to what I have to say. It is most important."
"Then say it."
"You do not trust me," he began, and I chuckled.
"…not that I ask for your trust," he continued quickly. "All that I require of you is cooperation, and I will obtain this by any means necessary. I have been waiting for this night, for you to go to Emil Bretagne. I am certain we both agree on one matter—that the man has done considerable damage to his country. Whatever your personal feelings concerning me, you must realize that I am a police officer dedicated to maintaining the security of our state. Emil Bretagne—as your superiors may have conjectured during your briefing—is also known as Saci, and he possesses the means to cause further disruption. I have been waiting for you to go to him."
He paused then, as if expecting me to say something. I lit a cigarette.
He made an impatient gesture.
"It was only a matter of time," he went on, "before this meeting, this little talk of ours. Not very much time, either. I needed only to wait, to be prepared. You know, of course, what I want. You must get it for me."
Here he raised a hand, as if to stop me from interrupting him, not realizing that I would not give him anything—not even words—unless it would contribute to his death.
"Your first reaction, of course, is to say ‘no’," he stated. "I understand this perfectly. You are not anxious to do anything which would go against your agency’s policies in general and your own orders in particular. Hear me out, however, and I believe you will see that what I propose should satisfy your superiors as well as my own.
"As we both know, Bretagne is an officer of a large organization, some of its interests at cross-purposes to those of the government. He manipulated some of the organization’s funds in a manner which benefited the revolutionary group of which he is a part. When this activity was about to be uncovered, he fled, taking with him the records of these financial dispositions. Then, before be could be stopped, he managed to transfer sizable quantities of these assets beyond our present reach. Of course, he could not have set the operation up initially without the cooperation of some of the other individuals in various parts of the country. As a whole, however, we feel that the organization was a victim rather than a culpable party. It also represents a sufficiently significant element in the local business structure so that action against it would not be without severe repercussion. Therefore, we wish to proceed against the individuals involved, rather than their employer—and against those persons elsewhere in the country who cooperated with them. As to Bretagne himself, we do not know whether his last efforts were directed toward salvaging as much as he could for his movement or for his own personal uses. Nor is this truly material. Either way, the interests of the state and of Bassenrut are conjoined. We both want a recovery, a reorganization of the foundation’s management structure and the identities of Bretagne’s fellow conspirators. You may so inform your superiors and we will back you up on it. As you must be aware, their desires would coincide with our own in this matter. They wish to ensure the stability of the present political setup almost as ardently as we wish to maintain our position. Bretagne had the records we need to achieve our aims in this matter. Not trusting the officers of this state, he has elected to turn them over to your agency, achieving our embarrassment and Bassenrut’s dismemberment at the cost of betraying his fellow conspirators. It is not logical that he would attempt to advance his movement’s cause by destroying major figures in the movement itself. Since his actions thus far have been too shrewd to be those of a madman, the only alternative seems to be that he has thrown up his hands with the whole affair and is now attempting to create sufficient confusion and disruption to permit his flight with the funds. This, of course, will soon result in his having a third group at his heels—namely, the revolutionaries. No wonder the man is hiding out among ignorant savages! Where else in the country has he to go? Who else would harbor him but these illiterate apes?
"Now we both want his records," he said, after a minor throat-clearing operation which brought his voice back to normal. "If your agency were to obtain them, what would be the result?
"After studying them," he answered his own question, "they would turn them over to my government, along with unofficial recommendations concerning their use. There would of course be a tacit element of compulsion involved. On the other hand, were we to obtain the records directly, rather than through a third party, we would undertake to remedy the situation in a satisfactory fashion. We would also be saved the embarrassment of appearing incompetent to your government, and spared their looking over our shoulders, getting underfoot and in general attempting to direct the settlement of what is really an internal problem. Surely you can understand the situation. Your country’s interests and holdings down here are vast and its concern with our political stability a legitimate thing. But we resent interference in our domestic matters—and that is what would occur if Emil Bretagne is allowed to turn his records over to your government."
It made a certain sense, though it raised new questions concerning Emil’s motives and the involvement of his brother. I decided to seem more receptive.
"In other words," I said, "if it is indeed Emil Bretagne that I have come here to see and he were to give me certain items he may have in his possession, you want me to turn them over to you, despite any orders I may have to the contrary?"
"It is good that we think alike," he said. "You are a reasonable man, and I have explained what we would do with them so that you would see that the effect will be basically the same as if you turned them over to your superiors and we acted under their direction. You will allow us to save face by proceeding along our own line."
I finished my cigarette and lit another, trying to appear as agitated as I was.
"You place me in an extremely awkward position…" I began.
"I realize that and I apologize for it personally. But you can see that I have no alternative."
"Yes, I can."
I waited to see whether he had more to offer. He did.
"At no additional cost," he said, "we will provide the means for preserving your integrity in this matter."
"How so?"
"You can hardly be held liable if the records are taken from you by force—that is, the threat of violence resulting in your death."
"That seems true."
"So we are providing this threat. We know he is somewhere in this area, though we could beat the bushes for months and still possibly not turn him up. Getting out of this area undetected, however, is another matter. You are aware of our great distance from civilization, and you stand beside the only road. Once you have seen Bretagne and obtained the records, you must traverse this route, in one direction or the other. We control this road, and you may not pass unless you pay the toll."
"That does not seem to leave much in the way of alternatives."
"None, I should say."
"Supposing I were to be a real bastard and repeat everything you’ve just told me to Mister Bretagne?"
"Most unwise," he observed. "First, knowing the man’s record for violence, I would say there is the possibility of his killing you. On the other hand, if he does not feel so inclined, he will no longer be interested in turning his records over to you. In that case, we both lose. While you would rather they go to your agency than to me, I feel your agency would agr
ee that it is better they go to me than to no one."
"Your logic seems rather inescapable. What of Bretagne himself? Surely you want Saci as a prisoner. Or dead."
"His apprehension would be a welcome bonus. But I do not want you killing the man. He is worth much more to us alive than dead, because of the information he possesses. Right now, our main objective is to obtain his records. If he cannot be taken prisoner, he must be allowed to go free rather than be slain. But except for a minor matter, you are to leave that to us."
"Minor matter? You are going to attempt to arrest him, then?"
"Yes. When he sends for you, you will be followed—at some distance. Those savages are devilish good in the bush, though, so we cannot follow too closely and they may succeed in losing us. You can assist us with this."
He produced a small case from his side pocket, opened it and withdrew a pale object the size and approximate shape of a robin’s egg.
"I want you to take this pill," he said. "It can be gulped more easily than you might think."
"What is it?"
"A small, but surprisingly effective transmitting unit," he replied. "It will make the tracking chore considerably easier."
"Why should I swallow it?"
"He is a suspicious man. He may have you searched."
"And the cyanide hit me perhaps a day from now?"
"You are also a very suspicious man."
"I’ll carry it for you," I said, "but not internally. And at first hint of search, I’ll drop it and grind it into the dirt with my heel."
"All right," he said, passing it to me.
I dropped it into my pocket and glanced at my watch. At this, he checked his own.
"Yes, you had best be getting back now," he said. "Just convince him that you are what you really are and get the records. We may or may not put in an appearance. If not, we will meet you on your way back or at the way station. Good luck. I am glad that you are a reasonable man."
I ignored his extended hand.
"You leave me little choice."
"I am glad that you are a prudent man. Good night."
My shadow accompanied me most of the distance back, vanishing somewhere in the vicinity of the outhouse.
*
Maria did not comment upon my extended absence, but excused herself after inquiring as to the location of the facility. I obtained another cup of coffee when she left and considered my situation as I sipped it.
I did not give a damn about Saci, the revolutionary movement, Bassenrut, the CIA or the government of Brazil. Morales had been mistaken in figuring that I did give a damn about some of these things. I was here primarily to satisfy my curiosity, since I had already seen so much of the show. Also, now that it seemed I might soon come into possession of something Morales wanted, it would be pleasant to find some way of employing it that would screw him up as much as possible. There was definitely that factor, in addition to a growing interest in Emil Bretagne. An academic interest, of course. I didn’t care what became of him, but I was curious as to what he had really done and why.
Maria returned before Vera did, and things were definitely on an upswing again. The woman was bad for my peace of mind as well as my glands, but with each swing of the pendulum I found myself getting more used to it and, what was worse, liking those upswings more and more. I was again the old buddy, the lover, and as we reminisced over coffee and cigarettes I began considering where I could put her. Half-consciously, I redesigned my apartment. Damned insidious, it was.
Over an hour must have passed in this fashion. Save for an old woman dozing at a corner table, Maria and I were the only inhabitants of the rest station. The woman had told us to help ourselves to coffee and fruit. No one seemed curious as to why we were waiting there, but then Vera had spoken to the woman earlier.
Maria had gotten me to talking about the Taurus, and while I realized it was more than just a passing interest I did not care. I was darting closer and closer to the flame when Vera returned and Maria frowned.
She dumped four old shoes onto the table before us and said, "Put these on. For walking."
Both pairs were too large, but if we were going to do any real hiking they were still an improvement over our city footgear. We stuffed wads of paper into significant nooks and crannies. As I donned them, I channeled my thinking back to the issue at hand. Then we followed Vera outside.
She led us up the road away from the station, then switched on a flashlight and located a trail that led into the forest. We proceeded along it.
The blackness was a heavy, damp thing in under the trees. Perspiration formed on my face and little buzzing things orbited my head, trying to get inhaled. The trail grew spongy, yielding with each step, occasionally surrendering a clod of soil to our boots.
"How far are we going, anyway?" I asked.
She turned quickly, raised the torch and held a finger to her lips.
"Quite a distance," she whispered. "Keep your voice low. Better not to talk at all."
Chastised, I fell into step behind her once more as she turned and continued. I thought it damned silly, and then I thought about the tiny transmitter I was carrying and the fact that someone was doubtless tracking us at that moment. I resolved to dispose of the thing before very long and to keep my mouth shut in the meantime.
We departed the trail a while later and began winding our way downhill through a heavy growth of vegetation. We followed no noticeable path. The way grew steeper, and after a time I thought I occasionally heard the sound of running water. It became more rocky, and continuing our descent, we had to hold hands in places.
We finally came upon a small stream, which we crossed by means of rocks, a log and some shallow wading. I had forced the transmitter into the crotch of a partly split stick I had picked up earlier, and it cheered me to see it depart downstream when I released it. The least it could buy us would be more time—unless they were following closely enough to actually have us in sight.
We then proceeded up a rocky incline and into the forest once more. We could not see the sky, and the only sounds were our breathing, the noises of insects and the occasional scraping of our boots on stones or sticks.
After a time, we crossed another stream, rested briefly and moved on. Perhaps twenty minutes later we came to a halt in a small clearing at the foot of a gigantic, twisted tree decorated with snake-like vines and sleeping orchids. Vera flicked her light on and off a number of times, then we waited in darkness. I lit a cigarette.
"He is to meet us here?" Maria inquired.
"No," said Vera, and she repeated the signal.
"Where, then?"
"Farther on. I do not know."
She flashed through the sequence periodically, over the next ten minutes or so.
The last time that she began it, I realized there were two men standing near us, close to the base of the tree. My peripheral vision barely caught them and I froze instantly, not wanting to stir up anyone who could approach me that silently in the brush.
Vera took note of their presence, approached them and began talking. I could not recognize the language. The men wore small loincloths, carried machetes and were very dark. They responded in what seemed to be the same language and occasionally gestured with their blades.
Vera returned to us, smiling.
"They are going to guide us to one of their camps," she said, "where he is now staying. Come."
We followed, and they led us through mazes of trees, ferns, vines and rocks, occasionally disturbing sleeping things of unknown phylum, class, order, family, genus and species, which snorted, barked or screeched, then flew, slithered, ran or climbed away. I was amazed that the men carried no lights themselves.
We received only noncommittal replies when we asked how much farther, how much longer. When we insisted, they paused somewhat grudgingly to let us rest. They did not even seem to be breathing hard.
We went on for hours. My feet grew sore and my legs began to tire. There were two more streams and a rocky ri
dge. We came upon something like a trail after that, and the going was somewhat easier. Then, gradually, hardly noticeable at first, a faint light made its way into the world, touching the edges of leaves, enhancing outlines, causing dewdrops to sparkle, spiderwebs to shimmer like roadmaps of celestial cities. I was drenched by then, partly from my own juices, partly from droplets from on high.
There was no surprise. It was just an insidious diffusion of light and the slow awareness that we could see where we were going once more. Then our guides called a break in a somewhat open area at the foot of a small range of hills, beside a wide, rapid stream. It was quite light by then and the sky was overcast.
We waited there for about fifteen minutes. I was very thirsty, but I did not trust the stream and none of my companions was carrying a canteen. No further information as to our destination had been volunteered, and I was not about to ask any more questions. Maria and I stood together, smoking and conjecturing. Vera and the two men paced and studied our surroundings, occasionally muttering incomprehensibles to one another.
I heard the chunk as the round struck the bole of the tree before I heard the weapon’s report. Some buried reflex rose again and I pushed Maria to the ground and threw myself across her. Our guides remained standing, however. They were waving in the direction of the hills.
A man stood atop the middle summit. He had reslung his rifle and raised a pair of field glasses. Then, while observing us, he signaled with a handkerchief. The taller of the two men whipped off his loincloth and waved a reply, talking excitedly the while with Vera and the other.
After a final consultation, the man dropped his loincloth to the ground and took off running in the direction of the hills. He was out of sight in a matter of moments. The man on the hilltop continued to regard us, but he did not raise his rifle again.
I climbed slowly to my feet and helped Maria to hers.
"What," I asked Vera, "is going on?"
"He wishes to give us a message at this point," she said. "I do not know what it is yet."
"Who?"
The Dead Man's Brother Page 17
