Cradle of Splendor

by Patricia Anthony

  The ground free—fell from under her. She clutched the table’s edge. “Paulinho’s accident?”

  A startled pause. “No one is—”

  “Are you going to blame me for Paulinho’s death, too?”

  He took a quick breath. “I don’t think it’s—”

  “You know that yearly photo op of her putting flowers on his grave? What everyone calls ‘Visiting the First Corpse’? Well, the First Corpse was a pig. I should know: I made Paulinho what he is today. I see you’re not surprised. Edson must have told you. Get me a cigarette.”

  He got up and went to the door.

  “And a bottle of something. Scotch or vodka. Something.”

  Ten minutes later Muller returned with a bottle of cachaça and a single palha cigarette. “All I could find. The officers are trying to quit smoking. This came from the property room.”

  He lit it for her. The smoke from the cornhusk paper was as pungent as marijuana. The first drag of unfiltered tobacco made her choke; the third made her ears ring. She pulled an ashtray close and stubbed the cigarette out. “I confess to Paulinho’s murder. Put that down.”

  Muller sighed. “Dolores ...”

  She drank from the bottle. Cheap cachaça. The policemen must have taken home all the confiscated liquor worth stealing.

  “I confess to making her president of Brazil.” She lunged to her feet. The chair toppled, and its crash fragmented her anger. She blinked, confused. The lights in the room were too bright, the peach walls too cheerful. She cleared her throat. “I confess to betraying my country for her. Damn it. Aren’t you filming yet?”

  For the first time she noticed how tired Muller looked. The butt of the palha cigarette still smoldered, unsupervised. A layer of blue smoke settled at decapitating height. “You tell that bitch to come here and ask me herself.”

  “These were Edson’s orders. And he had no choice. You saw the stories about Palmer Bank, Dolores. You know the Americans purposefully leaked that. The truth is, the CIA sees you as a liability. They plan to destroy you, and use your destruction to bring down Ana.”

  She righted the chair. Its metal legs shrieked across the linoleum. “I’m just a painter.”

  “No one blames you for what has happened.” Muller wouldn’t meet her eyes. “And Edson has given strict orders to make certain you are comfortable.”

  “Comfortable? Kiss my ass. I’m fifty—three years old, Gilberto. I’m somebody. I’m an important goddamned somebody. My shit’s hanging in the Guggenheim, in the Whitney. Go ask that dick—brained Edson Carvalho if he’s ever been in Newsweek.”

  He nudged the paper closer. “Are you going to read this?”

  She slapped her palm against it. “Comfortable? Who the fuck does Edson think he is?”

  He got to his feet. “This wing of the station is empty. We’ve ordered that you be given the run of it. The officers will get you anything you wish, within reason.”

  She rose, too. “Who ordered Jack activated? He’s not ready. He won’t survive.”

  “Books, whatever. They’ll bring a television in.” His eyes locked on hers. “I’m fond of you, Dolores, but just like your country, I can’t trust you all the same. Tell me when you’re ready to make your statement.” He walked out the door, not bothering to close it behind him.

  * * *

  Hiroshi sat at his desk. Anxiety flash—froze his spine. Something was wrong. The stapler was out of place, jarringly so. And his acrylic cube of photos sat with the nighttime skyline of Tokyo up—meaning the one of his father was facing down. Had a Brazilian maid been hired without his knowledge? Two women were security cleared to clean his office, and they were native Japanese. They would never be so sloppy.

  Or would they? Perhaps something had upset one of them, and she was too shy to approach.

  He quickly booted his terminal and searched his files. Nothing seemed disturbed, but he was no expert. He got up and walked into the hall, turning right—the direction of security.

  He would check the log. That is what he would do. Faster than reviewing the videotape of the night before. And the incident was so subtly worrisome that he wanted the answer quickly.

  “Hiroshi!”

  He halted. A beaming Shuma Kasahara stood in his doorway, waving him inside. Hiroshi had no choice but to comply. His mentor’s office was bright, the windows open to the brilliant April sun and the eastern prairie, still dressed in autumnal green. “How are you? Is anything the matter?” A frown of concern creased the cherubic face. “You look pale.”

  “Thank you, Kasahara—san. I am fine.” Even to Hiroshi’s own ears, his voice sounded strained. Would Kasahara realize he wanted to hurry the obligatory civilities? “And you?”

  Kasahara patted his belly. “Brazilian food, and too much beer. A bad stomach keeps me awake. So I do not drown, Sunada holds my head above the toilet last night and sings to me.” He looked woeful. “Poor Hiroshi, who has no one to take care of him. We missed you at the restaurant last night. You must take care not to work too hard. Remember the directive from Tokyo: no embassy personnel are allowed to work longer than sixty—five hours a week. Let the big noses from America and Germany drop dead from heart attacks.” He laughed. “Come tonight. Promise you will come.”

  Hiroshi smiled back, hoping ambiguity would save him from the burden of the request. “Thank you, Kasahara—san. It sounds pleasant. I would very much like to.”

  Suddenly Kasahara reached past him and closed the door to the hall. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Please. I have no one to rely on but you.” As Hiroshi watched, appalled and helpless, the old man lowered his head. “Please,” Kasahara whispered to the floor.

  “What has happened?”

  “The beer talked through me last night. I made a small joke: Americans are jealous of Brazilian space travel, so they will conquer Copacabana’s firm, brown moons. See, Hiroshi? I said nothing that the Brazilians themselves do not already laugh about. But afterwards, when we go to the parking lot and it is just the ambassador and Kengo and myself, Kengo becomes very haughty and says that because of our friendship you have told me too many secrets. He cans me ‘loud—mouthed’ and ‘foolish’ and ‘indiscreet.’ What could I do?” Kasahara looked up, and Hiroshi caught a glint of mischief. “Right there in front of the ambassador, I lower my head and agree: ‘Oh, yes, Fujita—san. You are so right. I am a stupid old man.’ Now Kengo is left wondering if I did so to shame him in front of Mitsuyo, or if I plan revenge. But as you can see, it is not me he wishes to destroy. It is you.”

  Hiroshi felt his face burn. “Why?”

  “Don’t you know? Kengo is jealous. Ambassador Mitsuyo thinks your assessment may be right.”

  “But in the meeting he—”

  “Yes, yes. But he has no choice. Washington is about to make its move, and Japan will back the Americans. Keep your opinions to yourself, Hiroshi. And promise me you will do nothing, at least for now. Kengo is smooth—talking when he wishes to be. But ‘Honey in his mouth, a sword in his belly.’ We will protect ourselves by sticking together. Agreed?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Hiroshi took a hurried leave and headed straight for his own office. It was Kengo who had left his desk disordered. And the disorder was a message: I have control over you.

  Hiroshi ignored his computer. He put nothing sensitive or private there, and Kengo must have already found that out. Sitting in his leather chair, Hiroshi bent, and after three nervous and fumble—fingered tries, tapped the combination into the keypad. The tiny light on the lock changed from red to green, and he pulled his bottom desk drawer open.

  What he saw made him hiss in a startled breath. His diary was missing.

  The Today Show

  ... sounds like a spy novel.

  Yes, Katie, it most certainly does. As you can imagine, all this has caught me very much off guard. Oh. Oh, ye
s. Here. This one is my personal favorite, ‘Zebu Triste.’ I hope I’m saying that right. She fusses over my pronunciation.

  Beautiful. She uses Brazilian subjects a lot, doesn’t she.

  She’s lived there since she was twenty—six, and met President Bonfim around that time. I have met the president, too, actually, on one of my visits down there. Very striking woman.

  Dolores’s husband recently died, didn’t he? I think I remember reading something about that.

  Yes. Harry died about a month ago.

  Al, as her agent, you probably know her better than anyone in the United States. Is what they’re saying true? You ... You’re shaking your head. Is that a yes or a no?

  Simply unbelievable.

  Have you talked to her?

  No. The Brazilian government will not allow her phone calls.

  Well, do you think she spied ... You’re shaking your head again.

  I cannot begin to imagine her predicament, how it must feel to have your own country turn against you. And, for sheer political expediency, have a lifelong friend put you in jail.

  A NO—NONSENSE hand shook Roger awake. Major McNatt was leaning over him. He was wearing jeans, a Visite o Maranhão tee shirt, and a scowl.

  Roger sat up, rubbing his eyes. Late morning light flooded the small bedroom, and the breeze through the open window already smelled of dust. “So, you get my message? I left that code shit on your answering machine like you said.”

  “Get dressed,” McNatt said.

  Roger yawned, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and froze. Two men were standing in Dee’s living room. Like McNatt, they were dressed Brazilian casual, except for the pistols stuck in their waistbands.

  “Uh ...”

  He looked to McNatt for clues, but the major was wearing his CIA—approved expression. Roger took his last clean pair of Dockers from his suitcase. Laced his bare feet into his Reeboks. One—upped McNatt with a Baja California ’91 Eclipse sleeveless sweatshirt.

  “All right, Dr. Lintenberg. Let’s go.”

  “Uh, I gotta take a whiz.”

  “Jerry?” McNatt called.

  Jerry was the one with the greasy ponytail, the earring, and the convicted—felon eyes. He tagged along. In the bathroom Roger turned his back, held what had become the world’s tiniest dick, and tried to ignore Jerry. It took the piss a long time to arrive; and when he was finished they all walked outside, climbed into a Toyota sedan, and took a little ride.

  “Where are we going?” Roger asked.

  McNatt rolled up his window, leaned forward, and tapped Jerry on the shoulder. “Turn on the air.”

  A blast of cold from the vents. The tires thrummed the clay washboard road. The car fought for traction in the dust. Desert flashed by.

  “Dee was arrested. You know that, right?”

  “Let’s try our best not to talk, shall we, Dr. Lintenberg?” McNatt hiked his hip, took a partial roll of Tums from his jeans change pocket, and popped two tablets into his mouth.

  They turned off the road onto a grassy track, and the driver slowed to a crawl. In the resulting quiet Roger could hear Jerry humming. It took him a mile or so to realize that he was hearing “New York, New York.”

  “We could talk in your office, right?” Roger asked. “I mean, you could have asked me to come in. I would have done that, you know: come to your office.”

  McNatt checked his watch.

  They slowed to a stop beside an unpainted shack. Kinch was there, leaning against a nearby Chrysler, eating a hard roll. McNatt took Roger’s arm and helped him from the back seat. Kinch finished his breakfast and dusted his hands. “We fluttering him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Roger’s legs went rubbery. Fluttering him. My God. They were going to flutter him. What the fuck was that?

  Kinch opened the shack’s front door and ushered everyone inside. Roger blinked fast, trying to adjust to the dim. Living room/bedroom combination. Kitchen to the right. Table in the center of the scarred wood floor. A single straight—backed chair. McNatt pushed Roger into it.

  “They came and got her,” Roger said, talking fast. “Three guys—maybe four. They looked like cops. I called you right then. There was that beep on the other end of the phone, like you said. And I used the code: Buzina. Right? Buzina. That’s what you told me to say if there was trouble ...”

  McNatt shot him a disinterested glance.

  Something was going on behind the chair. Roger fought the urge to turn and look. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Sit up. Raise your arms.”

  When he opened his eyes, he saw McNatt holding an elastic garotte. Roger yelped and curled into a ball.

  Laughter from Kinch in the form of piggy snorts. McNatt said, “Are you afraid of taking a lie detector test, Dr. Lintenberg?”

  Roger sat up, quick. “No.”

  McNatt snapped twin straps around Roger’s chest.

  “Not afraid at all.”

  He put a blood pressure cuff around Roger’s arm, settled metallic bands over the ends of his fingers.

  “No problema. Really.”

  McNatt stood away.

  A new voice, flat and unemotional. “Is your name John Davis?”

  “What? Are you ...” Roger looked at McNatt.

  “Yes or no,” McNatt said.

  “No.”

  From behind the chair, a mouse—in—the—wall scratching. Roger cleared his throat. Through the open doorway he could see an expanse of prairie and the bright red front fender of the Chrysler.

  “Are your eyes blue?”

  “No.”

  “Were you born in Meridian, Mississippi?”

  “No.”

  “Do you work for NASA?”

  He stared hard at the Chrysler and tried to convince his heartbeat to slow. “Yes.”

  A flurry of rasping.

  “Do you work for NASA?”

  His pulse jumped. “Yes! Christ, yes!”

  Papery whispers. He licked his lips. The belt under his arms felt too tight.

  “Do you currently reside in Houston, Texas?”

  “Yes.”

  Outside a black speck—vulture? hawk?—sailed the wide sky.

  “Are you in the employ of the Brazilian government?”

  Panic exploded in Roger’s stomach. “No!”

  Crazed scribbling sounds. Only McNatt’s eyes moved. They flicked to something, or someone, in back of Roger. The black speck in the sky circled closer.

  That uninflected voice: “Are you in the employ of the Brazilian government?”

  “You can’t believe ...” He sucked in a mouthful of parched desert air. “Christ, you can’t ...”

  McNatt said, “Yes or no.”

  “No.” The strap was too tight. Too damned tight. He started to pant.

  “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

  Trick question. Shit. Sweat rolled down Roger’s forehead and dropped, stinging, into his eye.

  A bang. A hand put a thermos top full of coffee down beside him. Another hand slipped off the finger cuffs.

  “Just relax a minute,” McNatt said. He stretched and everyone took five.

  The coffee was lukewarm. Roger spilled as much as he drank. Kinch crouched beside him. “Hey, look, guy; If you get upset like this, you mess up the test results. We’ll think you’re screwing us around. You don’t want us to think that.”

  Roger swallowed coffee the wrong way. A moment’s panic when he couldn’t catch his breath. Kinch slapped him on the back.

  “Let’s try it again,” McNatt said.

  Kinch put the metal cuffs on his fingers.

  “Have you ever stolen anything from the United States government?” the voice behind the chair asked.

  “No!” Roger took a shallow breath, looked at Mc
Natt, and said, “Yes!”

  By the kitchen Jerry was humming again.

  “Have you ever committed an act of treason?”

  Roger opened his mouth to answer, and halted, confused.

  A huge silence. McNatt’s gaze slid to his. Jesus Christ. How did the CIA train people not to blink?

  “Have you ever committed an act of treason?”

  “No.” Behind him pens scratched wildly over paper. A single male grunt. Roger’s throat was dry. He swallowed, and it was like swallowing grit. “Not as far as I’m concerned.”

  McNatt rocked back on his heels. “Yes or no.”

  “Give me a break! It’s not a yes—or—no question.”

  Kinch said, “A little treason is like a little pregnant.”

  “I let MUFON see NASA documents, remember? I don’t know how you’d ask me the question around that, but ... just ... okay?”

  He waited for someone to say something. “Cabaret.” That’s what Jerry was humming. Maybe he dreamed of retiring from the Company, buying a sequined jacket, going Vegas.

  “Other than the release of NASA documents to MUFON, have you ever committed an act of treason?”

  Roger let out the breath he had been holding. “No.”

  “Do you know a man named Jack Jackson?”

  The question snapped him bolt upright. “Wait,” he gasped.

  “Do you know a man named Jack Jackson?”

  “Time out! Time out, okay? I followed him to the zoo. I thought he was working for you guys. He took the transmitters you gave me. That was all. Look, Major. I don’t know how to answer the damned question. I know him, but I don’t know him, see what I mean?”

  McNatt popped another Tums.

  The voice said, “Other than that single meeting at the zoo, have you ever spoken with Jack Jackson?”

  “No.”

  “Do you currently reside in Houston, Texas?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are your eyes blue?”

  “No.”

  “Did Jack Jackson relay any information to you during your meeting?”