Cradle of Splendor

by Patricia Anthony

  He said, “The bus comes every hour, right? I’m supposed to meet with the embassy people today. What do you want me to tell them?”

  She squeezed crimson onto the palette and brushed it, a swatch of bloody anger, down the right side of the canvas.

  “Oh, come on, Dee. It’s not a big deal. They just want you to talk to her. That’s all they want.”

  Her hand twitched, an involuntary muscle spasm, as if somewhere a puppeteer had jerked a string. Funny. She thought when Harry died, she’d be free.

  “They’ll have to bring me home afterwards,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Safe passage out of Brazil. And I’ll need a house, a nice one on a few acres near Richmond. A million in the bank. No, two million. You tell them that’s my price.”

  * * *

  Hiroshi bent into a forty—five—degree bow, hands on his knees. “Tell Tokyo that I am to blame. I relied too much on CIA information.”

  Ambassador Mitsuyo waved the apology away. “Ah, Hiroshi. This is understandable. You have not been trained in political espionage. Join us.”

  Kasahara kept his gaze tactfully lowered. But the eyes of Kengo Fujita, the head of covert operations, followed Hiroshi as he walked to the opposite end of the table and sat.

  Kengo said, “My contacts indicate that Brazilian resistance to partnerships may be softening. Perhaps we can invite them to enter the downscaled fusion project with us. Nissan is willing.”

  Hiroshi stiffened. How long had Kengo been double—checking his work? And who had misled the man?

  A cough as Kasahara drew attention away from his beleaguered protege. “Yes. But to take away the need for petroleum would mean breaking the back of the American economy.”

  The ambassador grunted. “If things go on as they are, that is destined to happen, anyway. This antigravity already makes Nissan’s fusion prototype obsolete. We should offer ourselves as partners for the new technology before the Americans do.”

  Hiroshi felt sweat bead his upper lip and fought the urge to wipe it away.

  “An excellent idea,” Kasahara agreed. “Still, I wonder at the fear I saw yesterday in the Germans’ faces.”

  Kengo laughed. “My contacts tell me that the astronauts landed, this time without news coverage. The satellite has begun transmission. The Germans got what they wanted, and cheaply. Still, what is it the Americans say? A tiger by the tail?”

  “Yes. A tiger by the tail. We must never forget that.” Hiroshi met Kengo’s glare. “The CIA created Ana Maria Bonfim. Now they can no longer control her.”

  Ambassador Mitsuyo pulled a Winston from a crumpled pack.

  Hiroshi said, “The Americans will overreact and topple the government.”

  “The technology will be lost.” Kasahara’s voice was soft, his words measured. He shot Hiroshi a cautionary glance.

  The ambassador took smoke deep into his lungs, let it out in a sigh. Kasahara folded his hands over his belly. Following his mentor’s lead, Hiroshi sat back. They waited for someone, anyone, to speak.

  It was Kengo Fujita who broke the silence. “The Americans are vital trade partners.”

  Mitsuyo ground his cigarette out in the ashtray. “And we know them better than the Brazilians. We can predict their actions.”

  Hiroshi nearly came out of his seat. “But we also know their failings.” They looked surprised. Had he protested too vehemently? He struggled to control himself, but the words had been pent for too long. “Because the CIA has forgotten tradecraft, the Americans will be forced to bring in troops. In the meantime, the CIA ignores the important question: Why are Brazilians disappearing? Why kidnap professors of French, and herpetologists, and housewives? It does not make sense. The Americans watch with their satellites and listen from a distance. They are deaf and blind.”

  A strained silence, then Kengo’s “Best to play both sides.”

  “Safer,” Toyoko Chiharu agreed.

  “I ...” Hiroshi began, but stopped himself. The other four men were nodding, one big happy family.

  Accepting the consensus, Ambassador Mitsuyo got to his feet. Once more Kasahara had yielded to group pressure. Once again the agreement was to do nothing. Hiroshi stood and bowed.

  He could not meet Mitsuyo’s or Kasahara’s eyes. Duty demanded obedience. Survival demanded more. He must work alone now, no matter how the prospect terrified him and knowing full well that the nail which sticks up is hammered down.

  White House Press Conference

  ... true that the president has spoken today with the other G—7 members, including Germany?

  Yes, but I have not been informed as to what was said. Brett?

  What about the link between Palmer Bank and Bonfim?

  Uh. We’re looking into that, uh, what connection the Reagan Administration might have had. You’ll be briefed as soon as I am, I promise. Yes? No. I’m pointing to Joan.

  Thank you, Dan. What about that leak from NASA about radioactivity being detected at the Brazilian launch site? Is the radioactivity connected with the new propulsion system?

  That, or a secondary payload. Next?

  Secondary payload? Something other than the German communications satellite?

  Ah, possibly.

  A secret military payload?

  I would have no more information on that. Next? Hugh?

  Thank you, Dan. As to the American naval presence suddenly building off the coast of Rio ...

  Naval exercises.

  Isn’t it in response to the radioactivity that was found?

  Um. My information has it that the exercises have been planned for some time. That’s all I know. You, uh, Donald?

  THE MERCEDES handled the mountain dirt road adroitly but, Edson imagined, with a touch of stoicism. He put his hand over the doctor’s small red—nailed one. As expected, she stiffened when she saw the sign over Cabeceiras’s unimposing gates: QUARANTINE—ANTHRAX. ENTRY STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.

  “Nothing to worry about. Just a cover. Have a Guaraná.” He took the soft drink from the limo’s refrigerator, watched carefully as she drank.

  Past the gates. Cowless fields to either side, the complex so far away, its profile so low, that it couldn’t yet be seen.

  “You were telling me about the coral snake?”

  “It’s passive.” Her voice was tight.

  “Yes? And?”

  “They bite only when they’re hurt. Friendly, really. You can play with them.”

  They topped a rise. Ahead, a cluster of buildings.

  Her knuckles paled against the bottle. “Where are you taking me? I thought Donato would be in a hospital.”

  “He wasn’t hurt badly. You’re very brave,” he said, “to play with snakes.”

  “I hear rumors. People disappear. Nothing ever heard from them again. One day they’re there, and—”

  “All working on the project. Dangerous, isn’t it, to play with snakes?”

  “No. The corals, they have tiny mouths. Tiny teeth, for killing small animals. Between the toes or the fingers, that’s where they pierce the skin. They have to chew very hard. It’s not easy for them to kill a human.” A mad rush of words. Frightened already. She knew something was wrong. “They don’t mean to bite. Not their fault. But people step on them.” She turned to meet his gaze. Her eyes were wide, but already sleepy. He took the half—empty bottle and set it aside.

  “Corals. They’re beautiful.”

  “Yes.” An intake of breath. “Listen. I don’t know anything.”

  The car stopped. She took in the blank wall. The parking lot. Muller got out of the front seat and opened the passenger door. She clutched Edson’s hand so hard that her nails dug into his flesh; an accidental bite.

  “Come,” Edson said, and helped her out.

  The three of them walked into the building an
d down a long faceless hall.

  “Where is Donato?”

  Edson hooked her arm, drew her close, and said, “I have lied to you a little.”

  He felt her knees weaken, saw her eyes glaze. Fear? Or the sedative?

  At the end of the hall, soldiers. She saw the guns and made a sound deep in her throat. Muller grabbed her other arm before she could bolt.

  “I don’t know anything,” she said.

  The soldiers swung open a door. Edson walked faster, so she would have less time to think. Beyond the entrance lay an echoing hangar, and the small steel chamber that two years ago Freitas had ordered built.

  “Donato isn’t hurt. Not at all. He’s inside, in the chamber, waiting.”

  Her voice rose. “No. Tell him to come here. Tell him to come talk to me.”

  “He says you have to go in.”

  “But I don’t know anything!”

  Light spilled into the tiny chamber, across the floor, and bent toward a pencil point at the center. The interior stretched to a dim otherworldly infinity.

  Her legs gave out. Muller put his arm around her waist. He was whispering into her ear in a fast, cajoling voice.

  “Donato says he has something to show you,” Edson told her. “I’ve heard it’s wonderful.”

  Her eyes were starting to close. She whipped her head back and forth. Her breath went in and out in sucking sounds, like sobs. She fought desperately, but without coordination.

  Edson didn’t want to watch another one. “Wait until she’s nearly asleep. Don’t hurt her,” he ordered, and walked from the hangar.

  * * *

  There was no air—conditioning in the embassy’s sound—hardened room. Three people in it, and the atmosphere was stifling. Smooth white walls, overly smooth. To make it more bearable, perhaps, someone had furnished it with two overstuffed chairs and a sofa.

  “So I wake up when the phone rings ...”

  “Who called?” The major’s question, his words as hard and fast as bullets.

  “I don’t know. Anyway, I walk out and she’s got my luggage. She went through my goddamned luggage. And then this morning she starts in with the male—bashing. A weird chick,” Roger said in summation. “She scares me.”

  Kinch, the tall guy with the dork haircut and glasses, laughed. Roger wanted to slap the shit out of him.

  “Come on, guys. She as much as admitted to me that she kills people.”

  McNatt sat even straighter, a hundred and ten percent Semper Fi. “As they informed you at Langley, Dr. Lintenberg: Dolores Sims is not reliable.”

  “In other words, Roger, don’t believe a thing the bitch says.” It was obvious Kinch thought he was cool. What ruined his image was that doofus grin and that nerdy way of adjusting his glasses. “She might be playing doubles.”

  Nudge nudge. Wink wink. Kinch leered at McNatt, who, Roger noted, did not smile back.

  “No reason to be afraid of her, Dr. Lintenberg. Dolores Sims is just your ordinary, run—of—the—mill dyke.”

  Roger snorted. “Not politically correct, Major McNatt, seeing as how you’re just a nigger.”

  McNatt started to his feet.

  Kinch put a warning hand on his shoulder. “We’re all on the same team here, aren’t we? Let’s just put the ball in play.”

  Roger slumped into his chair. “I want to see the UFOs. I thought that’s why I was sent here. That’s what I’m an expert on. Not this spy shit.” The spooks scared him, like Dolores Sims scared him. Working with spies was like using a computer after someone took a couple of bytes out of its operating system.

  Kinch said, “Real soon, Roger. We’ll get you out to Cabeceiras real soon.”

  “For now, you will put the transmitters in her purse, in her billfold, in whatever you deem essential,” McNatt said.

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “And you are not to be seen doing so,” he added.

  “Yeah. Right. And am I supposed to deliver the two mil, too?”

  “Best to forget you ever heard that,” Kinch warned amiably. He elbowed McNatt. The major didn’t change expression.

  “Yeah?” Roger asked. “That’s a shitload of money. What’d she mean, ‘safe passage out of Brazil’?”

  Kinch shook with silent laughter. McNatt sat back, his shoulders relaxing.

  “No. You guys ... You’re fucking with me here. You and Dee. Everybody’s fucking with me. All this ‘wet work’ crap and everything. ’Cause—crazy, right?—but what it sounds like to me is she’s supposed to, you know, off the president.”

  “Oh, Dr. Lintenberg.” A twinkle came into the major’s eyes. He didn’t look like a recruitment poster anymore, but a ten year—old kid who’d just put one over on his teacher. “There are laws against that.”

  * * *

  The waiting room was empty except for José Carlos, who sat cross—legged on the tile floor, somberly playing with a radio—controlled car.

  The boy looked up when Edson walked in. The car, unsupervised, ran into a chair leg and stopped. “Where’s pai?”

  “Have you had lunch?”

  He nodded, a lock of dark hair spilling into his eyes.

  “Well, then. Have you had chocolate?”

  The eyes widened in anticipation.

  Edson opened the door and caught the attention of the agent on guard. “Get chocolate,” he said. “Lots of it. The president’s Belgian chocolate, not the Brazilian crap.”

  “Sir,” the guard said, nodding.

  To the agent’s retreating back, he called, “And her Chivas Regal.”

  Edson sat beside José Carlos and watched him deftly back the car away from the chair leg. “You ever had Belgian chocolates? No? Ever have Chivas Regal? That’s a pretty car.”

  “A Corvette.”

  “Americans build pretty cars that go very fast for a very short while. Tell me about your mother.”

  He didn’t look up from the controls.

  “Is your mother pretty? Is she sweet? My mother wasn’t pretty, but I think sweet is better, anyway. My mother sewed all my clothes. She made me canja and rice pudding when I was sick.”

  “Mãe fell down.”

  “Oh?”

  “Uh—huh. Mamãe fell down and hurt herself. And pai couldn’t fix her anymore.”

  The agent came in, toting a silver tray with the Chivas and chocolates. When the agent left, Edson poured himself a drink. “Eat the chocolates. That is an order.”

  He looked over. José Carlos was crying, and wiping his face with his sleeve.

  “How fast does your car go?”

  Another shrug, sullen this time.

  Edson drained the glass. Lead crystal. The presidential seal etched on its side. He took a mouthful of Chivas from the bottle, leaned over; and put the empty glass on the car’s hood. “Now,” he said. “Let’s see how fast. Back it up so you get some speed. Aim for the wall.”

  “It will break.”

  “Sometimes men must break things, even when they don’t wish to.” He handed the bottle to the boy. “Take a drink. Go on. It makes it easier, You can play with coral snakes, José Carlinho. Did you know that? I don’t suggest you should do so. It takes an expert.”

  “Pai broke mãe, but he didn’t mean to, either, I guess he had to, then.” José Carlos lowered the bottle and stared at the car. “I don’t like the thing that lives in pai. It hurts me. The doctor used to come in before him, and he spoke funny, and I liked him. I think sweet is better, too. Doctor Singh would leave pai after the patients were over, and when pai was pai again, he would read me funny stories. He would take me to the venda and buy me an ice cream.” A tear slid down his cheek.

  “Say ‘fuck you.’”

  José Carlos turned, shocked.

  “That is what men say to life when nothing can be done. Fuck you. Never
say it in front of a lady. Now. Break the glass.”

  The boy bent over the controls. The car rushed toward the far wall. When it hit the plaster, it flipped. The glass arced up, tumbled down, exploded into a glistening spray of shards. José Carlos squealed.

  A drowsy contralto from behind: “Boys’ games.”

  Edson didn’t turn. “Fuck you, Ana Maria. What would you know of it?”

  The tap—tap of high heels. A slower man’s tread. Edson. saw José Carlos look up, saw the boy’s face change.

  “Zé Carlos,” Edson said. “Take your car and go out into the hall. Take the chocolates, too. Ask the guard outside for another glass. A dozen of them.”

  A good boy. He got up and quietly left the room.

  “Dr. Lizette loved snakes,” Edson said.

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “Santa Ana, patron of the vanished. You never do.”

  “You look ridiculous on the floor, Edson.”

  Edson lifted his head. Freitas was watching him, and behind the channeler’s human eyes Edson could sense ...

  “She loves snakes,” Freitas agreed.

  “What do you do with them? Where are they, really?” Edson asked. “Are they dead, like your wife?”

  “They love being with us.” The man bent, picked up a piece of broken crystal, and studied it. A line of blood ran down his finger. “They never want to leave.”

  Suddenly Freitas hunkered beside him, hands cupped on his knees. One palm was full of blood. “They have bright colors in bands, and small mouths, and tiny teeth. She loves being with us, you see? We make it so pleasant, they all love it there.” The dark eyes met his. “I could show you things.”

  Edson started to get up, but Freitas caught his wrist. His blood trickled down Edson’s arm. Hot, damp lips brushed Edson’s ear. “You’re not such a bad man.”

  A yank, and Edson was free. He clambered, stumbling, to his feet.

  Ana was regarding him, her eyes narrowed. “I’ve ordered Jaje moved to the Petrópolis house,” she said. “They were demonstrating at the universities.”