There was a series of disconnected shouts, and then a sharp jerk as the cable momentarily dragged across the deck and was hastily hooked to the litter. Men stood quickly away; Captain Juvenal bent close to the shrouded figure, his beard scraping the protective tarpaulin. He spoke rapidly, well aware that another gust of wind could sweep his words away.
“You’ll be all right. We’ll pick you up on our return. Get in touch with the agents …”
Nacio opened his eyes and stared blindly up at the bearded face. I’ll be all right? In that shaky little box up there? I’ll be all right? A fool like me? What on earth made me think you would dock at Rio with a sick sailor? I must have been mad! Or that little man, rather, must have been mad! There was a brief tinge of satisfaction in knowing that the ends of the little passenger, whatever those ends had been, would not be served, but it was instantly wiped away as his own more immediate peril came back to him.
He closed his eyes, finding in the darkness behind his eyelids the only hope of maintaining sanity in the incredible situation. There was a series of shouted commands, echoing dimly in his ears, a sudden increase in the roar of the engine above, and then with a sickening lurch he felt himself free of the deck and twisting slowly in space. Against his will his eyes sprang open in terror; his body strained wildly against the confining straps. The litter was just clearing the rail; beneath him a gray heaving ocean reached up for him voraciously. A sheet of rain slashed his face, cold and stinging; he flinched and then opened his eyes again.
The rigid pallet paused a brief instant at the end of its short arc and then began to swing, and in that moment before the winch began sucking him upward, Nacio found himself staring into the large fathomless liquid eyes of the little passenger named Dortas—or Dumas or Dantas or something like that.
The little fat man with the round face and the hair that seemed painted in place had his face tilted upward, staring at him through the rain. It was too brief an instant to be sure, but to Nacio where there should have been some sign of disappointment in the other’s expression, there was none. On the contrary, the liquid eyes were watching his agonizing ascent with what seemed to be some sort of secret amusement.…
Two
Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, liaison officer between the Brazilian police and Interpol, braked his red Jaguar sports car to a skidding stop and stared with a disgusted frown through the blurred windshield. The long, narrow entrada that fronted the main entrance to the Santos Dumont Airport was solidly packed with cars. Sheets of rain whipped at the tall palms that fronted the walk and drummed a bit impatiently on the plastic hood of the convertible, as if demanding that the captain get out and get soaked like everything else; the windshield. The long, narrow entrada that fronted the Brazilian negative to this idiotic suggestion. Captain Da Silva scowled, but not because the cars parked before the long building were in violation of the law; he was merely expressing his envy at others luckier—and therefore smarter—than himself who had managed to enter the building dry.
He swiveled his head. To park in the mire of the regular parking lot on a day like this was to invite drowning, for when it rained in Rio de Janeiro, it did so with typical Carioca exuberance and exaggeration. And to leave the car anywhere but at the curb or in the guarded parking lot was to invite far worse. A missing carburetor, for example, or even a missing automobile. Car thieves in Rio, he recognized, were a hardy lot who were not afraid of getting drenched for a reasonable profit. And a police shield on the windshield would only make the theft more enticing, since it would guarantee the loot at least had a decent motor.
A horn behind him blared indignantly. Da Silva suddenly noted that the wide gate to the airport apron was open; he shifted gears and drove in, splashing through puddles, pulling the small car up under the shelter of a covered loading dock. An airport policeman, shocked by this disregard for rules which were certainly posted in sufficient profusion, moved over immediately from the shadow of a doorway to remonstrate, but one look at the swarthy, pockmarked face of the driver, slashed across by its flamboyant mustache and topped off by its unruly shock of black curly hair, and the policeman hastily saluted instead. Captain Da Silva at the best of times was unpredictable, but in weather like this there was a good chance he might be truly difficult. But then the seriousness of the offense—not to mention the potential consequences to his own well-being—forced the policeman to attempt a protest, although he tried to do it as diplomatically as possible.
“I’m sorry, Captain, but you really shouldn’t park here.…”
He tilted his head in the direction of the runways. Airplanes hovered there, grounded for the moment. Their bulging sides gleamed metallically, their huge outlines were hazy in the driving rain. Beyond them across the ruffled waters of the bay the walls of Pão de Açucar rose starkly to disappear into the low-hanging clouds. The policeman’s eyes returned, bright with emotion, pleading.
“This is where the catering trucks park, Captain—the ones that bring the food for the passengers. With your car in the way, they’ll have to park out in the rain—”
“Good!” Da Silva bent to set his brake and then switched off the ignition. “More water, more soup.” Did this cretin actually think for one moment he would inconvenience himself for the comfort of airplanes, or even for the comfort of those people foolish enough to patronize the flying monstrosities? He unfolded his muscular six-feet to the protected pavement and reached back into the car for his raincoat. He slung it over his arm, closed the door firmly, and then paused to pat his pocket. The letter that had been deposited on his desk a brief half-hour before was there, as mysterious and tantalizing as it had been when the Central Office of the Police had forwarded it to him as being more in his province. He pressed it again, as if for luck, and then stepped easily up to the low platform.
Against his better judgment the policeman made one last attempt. “But, Captain, sir—” One look at the fierce expression that suddenly blazed in Da Silva’s eyes and he hastily swallowed the balance of his protest. “Yes, sir!”
“And you will keep an eye on it! A sharp eye,” Da Silva instructed him sternly.
The policeman sighed helplessly. “Of course, Captain.”
“Thank you,” Da Silva said, and smiled cordially.
The policeman, amazed as were so many at how pleasant and innocuous Captain José Da Silva could appear when he chose to smile, as compared to how tough he looked—and was—when he was forced to frown, tried to return the smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. One thing was positive: forcing the catering trucks to park out in the rain was no way to maintain their goodwill and hence to share in their leftovers, which was about the only decent food he and his family ever managed to get their hands on. But, on the other hand, could one of his lowly rank—or any other rank—seriously oppose Captain Da Silva? Not, he admitted sadly to himself, if one were blessed with a normal amount of the good sense.
He stared pensively out at the mottled sky and the veering sheets of rain, and prayed fervently that Captain Da Silva completed whatever errand had brought him here and then took himself and his filho de mãe car away before the first catering truck made its appearance. But even as he prayed he kept his eyes watchfully on the small red convertible, for all in all he was not a stupid man.
Da Silva, well aware that in all probability he had interfered in some way with one of the policeman’s minor rackets—and far from crushed by the thought—walked quickly through the deserted baggage area of the Cruzeiro Do Sul, passed into a ticket area now besieged by stranded passengers and frantic clerks, ducked under the narrow counter and forced his way through the crowds that were milling about like confused geese because of the canceled schedules. He shook his head in non-understanding at their plight, came to the curved terrazzo staircase leading to the restaurant-bar on the mezzanine and trotted up it, with the disturbed buzzing of the crowd below mysteriously seeming to amplify rather than lessen as he mounted.
At the top he paused t
o toss his raincoat to the cloakroom attendant, patted the letter in his pocket once again, and then started through the packed room toward the familiar figure of his old friend Wilson, waiting alone at a table near the rain-streaked windows, staring pensively out at the glistening runways and the fog-shrouded bay beyond.
In appearance, Wilson was the opposite of the rugged and colorful Da Silva. There was nothing flamboyant or even particularly noticeable about the small nondescript man, and yet this anonymity was far from accidental. It was the result of years of training and served Wilson very well. On the payroll sheets that the American Ambassador was forced to initial for submittal to Washington each month, Wilson appeared as the Security Officer, a minor position mainly concerned with keeping American tourists happy and out of trouble, as well as with keeping Embassy wastebaskets empty and their contents incinerated. He was, in fact, far more important than this, as only the Ambassador alone of Embassy personnel knew. A member of several U. S. Government agencies concerned with security, he was also the only U. S. assignee to Interpol in Brazil. Da Silva was one of the very few people cognizant of Wilson’s true status; he also had good reason to appreciate the ability of the mild-looking man. The two had had their share of adventures together, and in any moment of danger or crisis, Da Silva knew he would rather have the quiet American at his side than any other man he knew.
The tall Brazilian finally managed to make his way through the wedged tables with minimum damage either to himself or to the seated diners, and grinned down at his friend.
“Hi, Wilson.”
“Hello, Zé.”
“Sorry I’m late.” It was obviously a standard gambit; Da Silva was usually late. As a Brazilian he would have considered himself unpatriotic to be early. He pulled a chair back from the table, dropping into it, and smiled apologetically. “This time, though, I have an excuse. I actually left the office in plenty of time, but what with the rain, and the traffic, and the problem of parking …” His bushy eyebrows rose dramatically to indicate the vast-ness of the problem of parking.
Wilson was studying him quizzically. For one brief second Da Silva’s eyes narrowed slightly, remembering the letter in his pocket. He put the thought away and reached across the table for the bottle of Maciera Five-Star that Wilson had ordered, pouring himself a drink to match both the one before his friend as well as the one he suspected his friend had already had. He raised his glass in a small salute and made his voice casual.
“Why the odd look? Certainly not because I’m late …”
He took a drink, savoring it with the pleasure that always accompanied the first drink of the day, and then set his glass down. “Ah, that’s better! Now, why the odd look? What happened this morning to upset you? Certainly not my tardiness. Right?”
“Right and wrong,” Wilson said.
“A typical answer from an Embassy employee,” Da Silva said, and grinned. “You’re getting more Brazilian every day. The only thing you forgot was to qualify it with a ‘perhaps.’ So what happened?”
Wilson’s expression didn’t change. “It’s true that something queer happened this morning, but that was minor. And certainly not what caused what you call my strange look.”
Da Silva lit a cigarette, tossed the match in the general direction of the ashtray, pushed the package of cigarettes across the table and leaned back comfortably. “Then what did?”
“Your strange look.”
“My strange look?” Da Silva looked and sounded surprised. “Is my tie crooked again? Or did I forget it all together this morning?” He glanced down a moment and then looked up again, reassured.
Wilson smiled faintly, but it was a smile that did not extend beyond his lips. “Not your tie. I mean your jacket.” He tilted his head toward the large closed windows. “Even on relatively chilly days you take off your jacket the minute you arrive here for lunch; this freedom of dress is the reason you keep giving me for enduring the food here. And yet today, with the windows closed and the room stifling, you sit there with your jacket on. And even drink brandy, which certainly isn’t a cooling drink.”
“And you wonder why?”
“Exactly. I wonder why.”
Da Silva shook his head sadly. “That’s the trouble with eating lunch with a trained investigator; no secrets. Every act treated with suspicion; every motive questioned.” He shrugged. “And yet, the answer is simplicity itself, although I must ask you to keep it a secret.” He leaned forward conspiratorially; a waiter who had been sidling up with the intention of offering menus, backed away instantly. No one would ever be able to accuse him of eavesdropping, especially on a man he knew to be a captain of police. Da Silva peered about to make sure no one was watching, and then turned back, lowering his voice. “The truth is I have a careless laundry. My shirt has a hole in it. If it ever came out, of course, I’d be disgraced. Drummed out of the force. Stood at attention while my buttons were cut off—and believe me, my shirts are bad enough without that!”
“Cute,” Wilson said, and then lowered his voice to match the other’s. “Why don’t we try this version instead? You’re wearing your jacket because it would frighten the daylights out of most of the people here to see a man drinking brandy and slurping soup dressed in a shoulder holster and with the butt of a police positive swinging with every spoonful. How’s that?”
Da Silva looked hurt. “Slurping soup? Me?”
“Slurping brandy, then, and drinking soup.”
“That’s a little better, anyway.”
“And don’t change the subject.” Wilson’s voice was unamused. “Why the armament?”
Da Silva’s tone lost its light banter. He drank the balance of his brandy and reached for the bottle again. “Nothing as unimportant as you might think. It’s just that for the next week or so the entire department is under orders to be constantly armed. Ridiculous—not to mention damned uncomfortable—but there it is.”
Wilson studied his friend’s face. “Because of the O.A.S. meeting?”
Da Silva looked surprised. “So you do read the newspapers.…”
“We’ve been alerted, of course,” Wilson said, and picked a cigarette from Da Silva’s pack. He lit it, inhaled deeply, and frowned at his friend through the cloud of smoke. “But I haven’t felt it necessary to weigh myself down with a kilo or so of steel. Or at least not yet. After all, the meetings don’t start for another week. The delegates won’t start arriving before next Sunday or Monday.”
“The delegates won’t,” Da Silva said lazily, “but we have a feeling a lot of other people have begun drifting into our fair city, some of whom might like nothing better than to use the big parade for free target practice.” His voice became deceptively innocent. “Maybe even some of your compatriots.…”
Wilson stared at him. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
Da Silva shrugged. “Well, Juan Dorcas is going to be the delegate from Argentina, and as I recall he seems to take pleasure in opposing the American position on almost anything.”
“And you think—?”
Da Silva looked across the table steadily. “I don’t think anything. There are, however, a few things I suspect. I suspect, for example, that your C.I.A. would enjoy nothing more, shall I say, than having Senhor Dorcas come down with a severe migraine, or a rash of broken legs, and being forced to unfortunately miss these meetings. Or even worse than a rash of broken legs, perhaps …”
Wilson’s jaw hardened. “Are you accusing us—?”
Da Silva looked bland. “My dear Wilson, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m merely stating a fact. And if your conscience bothers you because of your past history in similar cases—a list I’m sure you’re even more familiar with than I am—then I’m sorry.”
Wilson stared at him a moment and then crushed out his cigarette. He reached for the bottle. “If it will help,” he said quietly, “let me assure you on my word as your friend that nothing like this is being planned, not even faintly.”
“As far as y
ou know.”
“As far as I know. And I would know.”
Da Silva grinned. “Wilson, I love you. And, within certain limits, I trust you. But, if I were in your shoes, and I were under instructions from Washington, I’d also be circumspect.” He held up a hand to prevent interruption. “Also, if I were the head of C.I.A. sitting up in Washington and planning something, I doubt if I would put out a mimeographed release of all my plans. Not even to every member of the C.I.A.”
“In other words,” Wilson said slowly, “you wouldn’t believe me no matter what I said.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Da Silva said, “but I admit, in this case, that I’d come pretty close.” He put out his cigarette and smiled. “In any event, it’s my job to cover all the angles. Even as you would do if this meeting were taking place in Washington. After all, it’s our basic responsibility not to have anything happen. If this meeting were taking place in Washington, you’d probably be walking around with guns in every pocket, and a cutlass between your teeth.”
Wilson tried to simmer down. He took a deep breath and forced himself to take a light tone to equal Da Silva’s. “Not me,” he protested. “My dentist wouldn’t permit it. Besides, I’m the peaceful type.”
“Now, that’s where I’m different,” Da Silva said, and sighed. “I’m the curious type. For example, I’m curious to know why people don’t stay home.” He raised one large hand quickly. “Not tourists, of course—which we desperately need—but diplomats, at least. It seems to me that it would be a lot more diplomatic remaining in one’s own capital than endangering foreign relations by being stoned, or spat upon, or being shot at. And, of course, it would leave a lot of policemen time for a few other chores, like handling the already overloaded docket.”
Wilson tried to go along with the concept. “You mean no more international meetings? A return to the sixteenth century?”
Da Silva shook his head. “On the contrary. I mean moving into the enlightened twentieth century. After all, scientists sweated blood to develop satellites and closed television—why not use these technical advances logically? Why not use closed television for these meetings? That way everyone could stay at home in front of his own fireplace. It seems to me to be a lot more practical use of the invention than simply showing the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue to natives of Zanzibar, or running off old cowboy movies for the confusion of eighteen races.” He thought a moment. “Including yours, of course.…”
The Diamond Bubble Page 19
