“Before I say yes or no, is the note Humberto’s only job?”
“That’s all.”
To Ricardo it seemed little enough to ask of the large youth. “And what’s Romana’s job?”
Chico studied him a moment and shrugged. “Romana is arranging a place to keep our victim nice and comfortable until we collect. Someplace out of the way.”
“And what’s your part in it?”
“Are you in or out?”
Ricardo stared at him; a faint smile crossed Chico’s face. Ricardo frowned. One hundred thousand dollars.… Just to pick up a package. But a package containing half a million dollars.… He assumed that Chico was well aware of the dangers of marked money; in any event these points could be discussed in concert with the others. If he came in.… There were a hundred things that could go wrong, even though Chico seemed so assured. Still, half a million dollars.…
Chico read him like a book.
“Let’s all move a bit closer and go over the entire thing in detail,” he said smoothly, looking at his old and close friend with expressionless eyes. “And I’m sure you could stand another drink, Ricky.…” He turned and leaned over, pressing the service button on the wall.
Ricky took a deep breath. “All right. I’m in. You knew I would be.” He stared at the other. “Now, answer my last question. What do you do?”
Chico smiled at him brightly. “I do the most important part.” There was a touch of pride in his voice. “I play the part of the victim.…”
Chapter 2
Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, liaison officer between the Brazilian police force and Interpol, lay on a small wooden dolly beneath a battered taxicab in the branch police garage in the Catete section of Rio, sweating profusely in the heat, carefully tightening the drain plug on the oil reservoir of the ancient vehicle. It was the last task in his complete check-out of the car—other, of course, than replacing the eight liters of oil the huge crankcase held—and as he swung the wrench in the enclosed space he felt a profound pride in the machine he was working on. Not that it was pretty; in fact, its remarkable resemblance to every other obsolete, creaking, falling-apart, held-together-with-prayer-and-baling-wire taxi in Brazil was one of the things that endeared it to him the most. One thing was certain—in any taxi rank in any praça in any town in the country, it would have been accorded full acceptance as an equal, if not given additional respect due to age. And as such it would draw no undue notice.
There were, obviously, attributes to the disheveled vehicle other than its ugliness that merited Captain Da Silva’s regard, and the fact that he would permit no mechanic other than himself to work on it testified to that devotion. For one thing, the taxi’s speed had saved his life more than once, for beneath that dented, rattling hood—in perfect balance—was as finely tuned a specially designed twelve-cylinder, high-compression engine as existed. True, the thing ate gasoline as if there were no tomorrow—or as if the department didn’t have to account for it, which it most certainly did—but in return it could deliver, and on demand had once delivered, two hundred and sixty kilometers per hour, which really wasn’t too bad, considering the state of the roads over which it was traveling at the time.
It was also a comfort to the driver to know that the wrinkled, rusted sides and twisted doors were really not a Detroit product based on cost analyses developed by economy-minded whiz kids, but was specially constructed of tempered bulletproof armor plate, artificially aged; and that the rheumy glass windows could also resist most shells. And—for replying to those naughty people who had at times tested the effectiveness of these bulletproof features—beneath the front seat was a most complete arsenal, easily available to the driver or a front-seat companion, while still invisible to the normal observer.
But best of all, Da Silva often thought, was the two-way radio that utilized the battered horn ring as its broadcasting portion, and the standard car radio chassis mounted haphazardly under the dashboard as its receiver. It was nice to feel communication with one’s fellowman at times, even though the reception beyond a minimal distance, lately, had been such that one’s fellowman would have only the faintest, if any, idea of the message.
Since nothing is perfect, however, Captain Da Silva openly admitted that lack of trunk space was a problem. Two-thirds of the trunk was occupied by auxiliary gasoline tanks (there was another located beneath the cracked plastic cushions of the rear seat, which made sitting there a trifle uncomfortable, but no more so than in any other vintage Brazilian cab), and the balance of the limited space was divided between a spare tire, batteries for the two-way radio, and license plates for each state and territory in the vast country. It actually took a bit of maneuvering to get at the tool kit. However, the captain was philosophical about the matter of trunk space. Given the choice of room for a suitcase and running out of fuel deep in the interior—or deep in the midst of a running gun battle—he preferred the gasoline. Nothing to date had made him change his mind.
He completed the tightening of the drain plug, gave the wrench an extra twist for good measure, and then suddenly paused, the sweat running down his cheeks, itching. There seemed to be a telephone ringing in the garage office, and there also seemed to be nobody answering it. He raised his head to be sure, bounced it solidly against the transmission housing, and cursed long, loudly and fervently. For some inexplicable reason of late, he seemed incapable of working beneath the taxi without bumping his head on one projection or another, and the thought of starting out on his long-awaited vacation that afternoon with a split skull was scarcely a pleasant one. The cursing having finally reduced the pain, he rolled his head to one side and bellowed.
“Sergeant! Damn it! Will you kindly answer that filho de mãe telephone?”
There was no reply. The sergeant had probably decided that two men in a garage formed a crowd, and had undoubtedly gone out for a beer. And the lone mechanic assigned to the Catete garage, Da Silva knew, was out on an assignment. Scowling darkly, he waited for the telephone to stop ringing, but the instrument seemed equally determined to exhibit patience. Quite possibly, he thought sourly, the switchboard operator had plugged in the line and then gone out for a beer herself. He was positive that if he managed to get to the telephone it would stop ringing the instant he touched the receiver, but apparently that was going to be the only way to silence the beast. With a scowl of distaste, he gave the dolly a slight shove, keeping his head down, rolled free of the car, and came to his feet. Pausing only long enough to wipe his face and scratch his dripping chin, he marched with determination toward the small office.
Captain Da Silva was a tall, athletic man in his late thirties with a swarthy, pockmarked face and the full, bushy moustache of the Brazilian of the interior. He had a deceptively slender-looking frame which easily balanced his one hundred and ninety pounds and his slightly more than six-foot height. His eyes were black and his eyebrows peaked; taken in conjunction with that moustache they gave him the appearance of a saturnine brigand. His smile, when happy or pleased, was a boyish flash of white teeth against his copper skin, which, with his almost Indian features, took years from his age. However, when irritated he could scowl in a manner as to make hardened criminals—not to mention “sergeants who left garages without permission!” he promised grimly—wince with trepidation.
He stamped into the small office, rubbing the bump on his forehead with the back of his wrist. The only result, other than to start the throbbing once again, was to leave an additional smudge of grease on his face. He grabbed the telephone receiver as if to physically crush it into silence, and brought it to his ear. To his complete surprise the party on the other end of the line was still there, or at least he could hear breathing. What patience! he was forced to think admiringly. Unless, of course, the other had fallen asleep waiting.
“Hello? Yes?”
“Is that the Catete garage? Is Captain Da Silva there?”
Da Silva relaxed, easing his grip on the phone. The voice was no
t only familiar but not altogether unexpected. It belonged to his friend Wilson, and he imagined that Wilson was getting impatient to be off on their trip. Wilson was of the American Embassy, and while ostensibly only the security officer there, actually held a position of far greater importance. Da Silva was one of the privileged few to know of Wilson’s connection not only with Interpol but with several American government agencies seldom even admitted. And while Wilson’s stocky, quiet, nondescript appearance, with his sandy hair, pale eyes, and general air of anonymity made most people overlook him—or forget him as soon as they met—Da Silva knew that in any really tough situation he would rather have the small American at his side than any other person he knew. Both as old friends and as partners working on various cases, they had had their share of adventure, and Da Silva certainly hoped they would have many more.
He shoved a pile of outdated automotive catalogs away from the corner of the cluttered desk, making room for himself, and sat down, dangling one leg, smiling at the telephone.
“Hello, Wilson. This is me. What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing much,” Wilson said with exaggerated patience. “It’s just that this is the first, last, and only vacation I get this year, and I don’t want to waste it waiting for you to learn how to be a mechanic. Haven’t you got that thing running yet? My impression was that we were supposed to be off on a hunting trip today.”
“Patience, patience!” Da Silva said chidingly, and looked at his wristwatch. “The car’s about ready, and it isn’t noon yet. All I have to do is fill her up with gas and oil, and I’m on my way.” He glanced down at his stained brown trousers and work shirt he had worn to check out the car. “I’ve got my bag with me, and I’ll get cleaned up at your place. We can stop for a late lunch somewhere along the road. Are you all packed?”
“What’s to pack for a hunting trip? I’ve got a bag with some old clothes in it, and I figured to throw my boots in the back seat of the car. You said they had plenty of guns and ammunition at the fazenda, and I assume we’re not supposed to bring along our own food.” He grinned knowingly at the telephone. “I’ve got three cartons of cigarettes—American—from the PX, and also four bottles of Remy Martin. If that’s what you really meant by being packed.”
“That’s what I really meant,” Da Silva said, both honestly and approvingly.
“That’s what I thought. There’s only one other thing—” Wilson hesitated a moment, took a deep breath, and then came out with it, sounding a bit aggrieved. “Zé—just why do we have to go in the taxi?”
Da Silva stared at the telephone in surprise.
“Why? Because we couldn’t get to the lodge any other way. The Jaguar certainly couldn’t make it—the roads up there, if you want to call them roads, just aren’t built for sports model cars. Actually, they just aren’t built. And your Chevy—if you’ll please pardon me—wasn’t very good when it was new ten years ago, and today it would get us about as far as the city limits and then fall apart.” His voice became curious. “What’s your sudden objection to the taxi?”
“Nothing. It’s just—” Wilson hesitated.
“Just what? If it’s a question of appearance, you can pretend you’re a passenger and don’t even know me. Anyway, up where we’re going it’ll only have to compete with mules and horses for beauty, and it looks as good as them, any day.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m pleased. My feelings were beginning to be hurt. Just what did you mean?”
“Well—” Wilson took a deep breath and got it off his chest. “Zé, have you ever figured out that maybe that taxi of yours is a jinx? I’m not generally a superstitious guy, but do you realize that every time we’ve gone anywhere in that blasted taxi of yours we’ve ended up getting involved in one thing or another that almost got us killed? In Urubuapá, in Camamú, once in São Paulo, and a couple of times even here in Rio? And I’ve got the scars to prove it?”
“All the more reason to use the taxi,” Da Silva said calmly, exercising logic. “The percentage against disaster is on our side. It has to be by now.”
“Great!”
“Anyway, it’s either the cab or drive to Brasília in the Jaguar and take a Piper air taxi from there. And frankly, you wouldn’t get me in one of those box kites for the whole chorus line at Fred’s.
“Not for the whole chorus line?” Wilson sounded as if he refused to believe it.
Da Silva reconsidered. “Maybe I spoke hastily. Anyway, not for the ones in the back row.” His voice became serious. “We’re wasting time. We go in the taxi or we don’t go at all, because I’m not flying. So take your choice.”
“We go in the taxi,” Wilson said hopelessly. He shook his head. “But just remember one thing. When our bones are being picked over by the less fastidious of the vultures after we get shot or stabbed for something that has nothing to do with us, don’t come around looking for sympathy, because you won’t get it.”
“I’ll remember that,” Da Silva said, and remembered something else as well. “Hold on—before we cut this gruesome conversation short, I’d like to check out the car radio. Just in case you might have second sight and we need it. Can you set up your shortwave on my wavelength and see if we can get through to each other?”
Wilson sighed. “If you’re worried about whether or not the radio works, we’re really in trouble. Especially with that pile of junk. I can see you expect something to happen.”
“I certainly do,” Da Silva said, insulted. “I expect it to work. I expect it to give us many hours of pleasure listening to police calls while the urubús pick us clean.” The levity left his voice. “I’m going to hang up now. I’ll call you on the shortwave. See if you can receive me, and then give an answer.”
“Right,” Wilson said, and hung up.
Da Silva walked back to the taxi, leaned over to twist the knob on the dashboard, and then waited several minutes for the tubes to warm up. When he thought they had had sufficient time, he reached beneath the dash, flipping a switch. He took a deep breath and began intoning; to an outsider he would have appeared mad, speaking into the depths of his steering wheel.
“Testing, testing.… One, two, three, four, five, six.…”
There was a crackle from the battered chassis. He switched the switch to the opposite position, and Wilson’s voice came through the receiver clearly. “You sound like you’re talking underwater—with a mouthful of fish. Also like you’re counting by twos. How am I coming in?”
“You’re coming in fine.”
“What?”
“I said, you’re coming in fine!”
“Which just proves you’ve got a decent receiver and a lousy sending unit. If I heard your reply right, that is,” Wilson added. He considered the problem. “Zé—I know you’ve got a sentimental attachment to that set because it was built by your grandfather from an old truss he inherited, but don’t you think it’s about time you junked it and got a new one?”
“There’s nothing wrong with this one,” Da Silva said, stung. “It—”
“What?”
“I said, it probably needs a new tube! I’ll stop and get a set of tubes on the way over to your place.” A further thought struck him. “Is it possible that you have a good broadcast unit and a lousy receiver?”
“Enough of that came through to be understood,” Wilson said, shocked. “Sir, you are talking about an American product, paid for by American taxpayers’ dollars, and purchased in an American PX by an American. Bite your tongue!”
Da Silva grinned. “I’m sorry about that.”
“I didn’t quite get that, but I can only assume you’re begging forgiveness. Granted. Well, now that we know the car radio works as badly as ever, how about feeding the monster its ration of gas and oil, and then getting over here?”
“Right,” Da Silva said, and switched off the set. He turned around and almost bumped into the sergeant, who had entered carrying a small cardboard carton under his arm. Da Silva’s pleasant exp
ression disappeared, instantly replaced by an icy glare.
“Hello, sergeant.” His voice was cutting. “And just where the hell have you been for the past hour or so?”
“Getting the eight liters of oil you asked for,” said the sergeant, amazed. “You ought to know the police department by now, Captain. I had to get four requisitions filled out by six people and signed by eight more before I could even take it to the accounting section, and then after that—”
“Sorry,” Da Silva said. He suddenly smiled. “You’ll have to forgive me. When I’m working on the taxi I have a tendency to forget things. And I’m also a little fuzzy right now. I banged my head on the transmission housing—”
“Again?” asked the sergeant.
“Yes, again.” Da Silva dismissed the subject abruptly. “Well, let’s get that oil in her and then fill her up with gas. High test. I’ve got to get going.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d like to get as far as Juiz de Fóra by tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, and hastened to his duty.
Da Silva took some cotton waste and cleaned his hands and face as best he could, considering there was no soap, and that the only water in the garage was connected to a spigot pail-high from the floor. He tossed the waste into a barrel and climbed into the front seat of the taxi, shoving his bag to one side on the seat, waiting while the sergeant carefully decanted the eight liters into the crankcase. When the hood was once more in place and locked, the captain turned over the engine, listening with pride of accomplishment to the smooth purring of the powerful motor. Satisfied, he eased up on the clutch, bringing the car beside the old-fashioned gasoline pump near the exit doors. The sergeant, familiar with the thirsty monster, made certain that all tanks were full and that all interlocking valves were properly set. The pointer on the pump registered eighty gallons when he was finished; he made a notation in the small notebook chained to the pump and then stood back respectfully.
The Xavier Affair Page 2
