by Michael Howe
Evans had a reputation for being intensely ambitious, not to mention proud, and would expect Covington to approach him rather than the other way around. Pasting his smile back on, the captain turned and headed toward the congressman, who, he noted, had his wife, Penny, at his side. Penny, he understood, was from old money, and most seemed to feel that much of her husband’s success had grown out of that very same weedy old green.
“Congressman Evans,” said Covington as he wormed his way through the small crowd surrounding Evans and offered his hand. “Welcome aboard Aurora.”
“Thank you, Captain,” replied Evans, now beaming. Unlike Chrissie Clark’s, however, Peter Evans’s good cheer was totally forced. He simply did not seem comfortable, which seemed strange since most politicians are addicted to crowds. It was only then that Covington realized Evans had arranged for a news crew to be on hand to tape the great moment. Cameraman, soundgirl and reporter—all undoubtedly primed by Evans to ask just the right questions.
A media show, thought the captain. A scripted media show. That was what the whole expedition was supposed to be.
Marcello Cagayan paused in his labors—he was lubricating the winch on one of the lifeboat davits—and looked aft at the party as he unthinkingly wiped the bluish grease off his hands with a rag. His most basic, and dominant, impulses were hatred and contempt, although a very slight twinge of jealousy was also present. He hated all those people milling around on the deck beneath him. For their smugness; their greed; their stupidity. He hated them because up until now they had not only believed they were powerful, but were, in fact, powerful. He hated them because whenever they noticed him—assuming they ever did—they would see nothing more than a powerless little brown monkey. Unworthy of comment.
But the world was changing fast. The world had already changed. Omar was right. They thought they had the power. They thought they were in control. But they weren’t. On this ship, Marcello Cagayan, the puny little brown monkey, had the power. He was the one who would control who would live and when all would die.
“Hey, man.” Marcello turned. It was Vido, one of the Ecuadorian deckhands. “Looks like a damn good party.”
“Yeah,” stuttered Cagayan as Vido passed by, carrying a large roll of white nylon line. Vido was okay, thought Cagayan. He never called him a mono, never treated him like a fool. If anybody survived, Cagayan hoped it might be Vido, although he certainly wouldn’t change anything to guarantee it.
Marcello had been born into parasite-ridden poverty on one of the southern islands in the Philippines. His father, a subsistence farmer, had died when he was young. Killed by government troops who claimed that he was a rebel. Even though they knew better. His mother had died when he was even younger. Of poverty.
Marcello could well remember the day his father died. He’d stood there with the rest of the village in terrified silence when the officer told his father to kneel before him and beg. He saw the expression on the officer’s face when he pulled the trigger and blew a big hole in his father’s head.
At the time he’d felt great sadness and great fear. His father, the central authority of his young life, had been destroyed by an even greater authority. Only later had he come to understand strength and weakness and power. Only later had he understood that the officer’s expression was not one of simple pleasure, but the near-divine pleasure of forcing one’s will on others. Of exercising power.
After his father’s death there was little to keep Marcello in the hot, fever-infested, frequently muddy village of his birth. At the age of eight he wandered off in the general direction of the ocean, a course that was not difficult to determine since he was on an island.
4
Houston
“What do you think of this bottle, Mamoud?” asked Bob Gilchrest, chairman of Oceanic Petrotransporters, LLC, as he partially filled Mamoud al Hussein’s glass with red wine. The two men were sitting, with half a dozen others, in one of the private dining rooms in one of Houston’s more exclusive clubs. The room was done in a heavy, traditional Spanish style. Dark wood paneling, heavy oak furniture. It was a style that still reflected, especially in some of its details, the tastes of the Arabs who had dominated Spain for so many centuries.
Mamoud tasted it. “Very fine, Bob. Much better than that product you served me earlier . . . Did you say that was from West Texas?”
“And I admit they’re better at making oil there than wine,” continued the ship owner in a deep, slow drawl.
“Still, I salute their effort.”
“And I salute your efforts the past six years. You’ve turned Tecmar into one of the world’s cutting-edge yards.”
“Most of the credit goes to Lorenzo and his Brazilians.” As he spoke, Mamoud nodded toward Lorenzo Almeida, the president of Tecmar. “They’re the ones who put together the proposal you accepted a few hours ago to overhaul six liquid natural gas carriers and they’re the ones who will execute it. All I did was a little cheerleading.”
“You sound as if you’re about to retire.”
“No, but I understand His Highness has another project for me.”
“Really! Can you talk about it?”
“I don’t see why not. We’ve been planning to build a new solar panel factory. It’s a business His Highness wants to be in, and I have been asked to build it and get it started.”
“Where?”
“North Africa. But please don’t worry, Lorenzo and his team are totally capable of handling this project and any others you may ask him to undertake.”
“I know that, Mamoud. We’d have never given you this contract if we weren’t confident that Lorenzo could handle it himself, just in case something happened to you.”
Mamoud smiled and looked around the table. He hadn’t allowed himself the liberty of relaxing much recently, but tonight a sense of comfortable satisfaction was almost forcing itself on him. He and Lorenzo had landed a huge contract and Lorenzo had proven to be a very apt pupil. The men at the dinner table with him were all skilled engineers or other technicians, and he always enjoyed the company of such men. But then, as the topic of conversation changed to topics more mundane and, to him, childish, his perpetual unease returned. Their utter conviction that their successes were totally the result of their own personal perfection, their total inability to think of science as merely one portion of something far greater, grated on his nerves and soul. To them, engineering was a means to enhancing one’s paycheck rather than a means of approaching and glorifying God. Some of these men, he reflected, might even believe that they were men of faith but he suspected they were just deceiving themselves.
It was through logic of just this sort that Mamoud al Hussein had managed to alienate himself from a major portion of the human race.
“Bob,” Mamoud finally said after looking at his watch about half an hour later, “today has been one of the truly great days of my life, but I must get back to Rio. There are also a number of odds and ends I want to complete so Lorenzo doesn’t find himself tripping over them six months from now.”
“I hate to see you go, old friend . . .”
“Any questions or problems, give me a call. Or ask Lorenzo—he’ll be in Houston for another week or so.”
After good-byes all around and a quick drive to the airport, Mamoud was airborne in the Tecmar jet an hour and a half later. As the plane had taxied across the apron, the thought of Aurora Australis passed briefly through his mind. What he was doing was distasteful, he admitted to himself for the millionth time, but necessary. There was nothing more to think about, since he had done all he could and now the matter would play itself out, one way or another. He closed his eyes and was almost immediately asleep.
5
Rio de Janeiro
The big jet floated slowly down toward the white-capped waters of the Baia de Guanabara, its four huge engines purring at the newly born sun.
Ted, who had won the window seat in a game of scissors, paper, rocks, watched as the heavily industrialized Ilha
do Governador came into view. And then the runways of Jobim International Airport at the western end of the island.
“You get enough sleep?” asked Ray.
“I’ve slept in worse places . . .”
“Good. I like working with a guy who’s alert. On his toes. Can sleep anywhere.”
“Having a clean conscience helps.”
“You finish that overview Alex made up for us?”
“Fascinating stuff. Alex has a way of making the weirdest crap seem reasonable.”
Both were careful not to mention that the overview was an explanation of basic insurance practices and terms—subrogation, common average and the like. It was highly unlikely that anybody was eavesdropping, but the possibility always existed. And any informed listener would find it odd for two insurance investigators to be boning up on the basic vocabulary of the industry.
Half an hour later the plane had landed with only a modest bump and the two were walking down the Jetway, briefcases in their hands.
“Ray,” said Ted in a low voice, “you really think we’re going to come up with anything on this trip? I mean, I know the Old Man seems to think we might, but I have my doubts.”
“It’s a long shot, but let’s see what happens.”
“I’m with you.”
The two continued in silence to the baggage carousel, where, under the watchful eyes of two combat-equipped paratroopers, they snatched up their duffels and flowed with the crowd to the Immigration desks.
“This place reminds me of L.A.,” remarked Ted. “From what I read, I thought everybody would look like you or me, but half the people here look Japanese, Chinese or Arab.”
“You missed the Indians—from India. Everybody seems to want something the Brazilians have—gold, airplanes, computer chips, sugarcane for ethanol, ears and mouths for cell phones—the place is a free-for-all.”
“Our kind of place?”
Ray just shook his head. When he reached the head of the line, he launched into a fluid Brazilian Portuguese. The Immigration officer lifted his left eyebrow briefly then returned to a bland, bureaucratic scowl.
“Reason for your visit, Senhor?”
“Business, Senhor.”
“What business are you in?”
“Insurance, Senhor. We will be consulting with one of our accounts, a shipyard a few kilometers from here.”
“How long do you plan to stay?”
“A week or less.”
When it was Ted’s turn, he considered trying his halting Spanish but decided discretion was the better part of valor and stuck to English, which the official spoke perfectly.
The officer typed each of their names into the computer in front of him and pushed enter. While the official glanced back and forth between them and the monitor, Ted glanced around at the video cameras and wondered if he’d ever get used to being under surveillance for essentially the rest of his life.
“Very well,” said the officer finally, his face breaking into a totally unexpected smile. “Welcome to Brazil.”
While the Customs inspector palpated their bags, Ray noticed a young man waving a sign reading “Mr. Fuentes—Mr. Anderson.” “That’s one good sign,” said Ray to Ted. “Our driver’s here.”
When Ray waved at the driver, the inspector frowned but said nothing.
“Welcome to Rio,” said the sign-bearer in perfect English as Ray and Ted stepped out into the main concourse. “I’m Salvador. I’ve been sent by Tecmar to pick you up. Your firm alerted us you were on your way.”
“That’s most gracious of them,” replied Ray.
“I’ve been instructed to take you anywhere you wish. Mr. Palmeira, our chief operating officer, is hoping to meet with you at two in the afternoon, but in the meantime you may wish to go to your hotel and freshen up, or we can go directly to the shipyard if you wish to begin your inspection immediately.”
“What about Mr. Almeida, your CEO?”
“He’s in Houston at the moment with Mr. al Hussein. They are completing the details of a very major contract—to overhaul and modernize six liquefied gas tankers for a company there. He won’t be back until next week. If you wish, we can set up a videoconference.”
Ray glanced at the time bug on a departure display. It wasn’t even eight local time. “Salvador, I think the best plan is for you to take us to the hotel so we can clean up and catch some sleep. Then pick us up in time to meet with Mr. Palmeira.”
“Of course, sir.”
Much to Ted’s disappointment, the hotel Alex had booked them into was not in the south of the city—along the Copacabana or Ipanema beaches. Rather, it was a commercial establishment located in the northeast, not far from the Rio-Niterói Bridge and the Tecmar shipyard. It was a district badly abused by history, economics and demo-graphics, one filled with once-elegant houses, now serving as tenements, and a wide selection of dreary, dirty factories and warehouses. The hotel itself was old and faded, its plaster moldings and worn, but once-elegant rugs spoke of a more prosperous past. On one side was a small park that might once have been a wonderland. Now it was a land neither Ted nor Ray would care to be in after dark. What the hell! thought the SEAL. This is a working trip and the boss must want us in the middle of the action. At least it seems clean and the air-conditioning seems solid.
Or they were there because Alex had decided to save the taxpayers a little money.
“This was delivered for you about an hour ago, Senhor,” said the desk clerk to Ray as they were checking in. “The messenger said it is important that you review these documents right away.”
“Obrigado,” said Ray, accepting the package, which he then handed to Ted.
“We hope you will enjoy your stay in Rio.”
“We hope so too,” replied the marine as they turned and walked to the self-service elevator.
“Bugs?” asked Ted. Once the door had closed, the car smelled faintly of hot lubricating oil and some sort of fried food.
“Always possible but let’s assume not. Nobody at Tecmar knew where we’re staying until we told Salvador.”
Ted shrugged his shoulders.
Without a bellboy to guide them, it took several minutes to find the room. Once they were in the room and the door was closed, Ted dove into the parcel from Alex’s friends and pulled out two small-caliber Berettas, two shoulder holsters and twenty rounds of ammunition. “Kinda small,” he remarked, holding one of the automatics up for Ray to see.
“We’re undercover, remember?” As he said it, Ray took a deep breath and thought how stale the air tasted, despite the air-conditioning.
While Ray started to unpack, Ted disassembled the weapons, just to make sure they were in good working order. He then carefully examined the ammunition. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Alex’s friends, but he was very much aware that different people have different objectives in this life. Even when the same government was cutting checks for all of them.
“I guess we have to wear these,” he remarked, holding up the wrinkled jacket he had just pulled from his duffel. “Damn hot, though.”
“You think we’d be any better off sticking them under our shirts? Or in our pockets?”
“In this heat these jackets are kind of a giveaway that we’re armed.”
“I know. We’ll deal with it,” said Ray as he punched a number into the telephone. He immediately launched into a torrent of fluid Portuguese. After stopping to listen a few moments, he said “bom” and then hung up only to immediately place another call.
“You ready?” asked Ray after completing the second call.
“Everything all set?”
“Yup. The rental car’s on its way. The concierge will call us when it arrives.”
“And the sidearms?”
“We’ll keep them in our briefcases for now. Remember, whether or not people really believe we’re insurance investigators, we will continue to act as if we are. We have to assume that somebody is keeping an eye on us, even if they do believe we’re really from Anglo-
Swiss Re. Insurance inspectors make people just as nervous as the DEA does.”
“Roger.”
The phone rang. The car had arrived. “That’s it, Pal. We’re off for a little sightseeing.”
For the next three hours, with Ray driving the worn-out Honda Alex had rented them and Ted reading the detailed map she had somehow come up with, the two scouted the area around Estaleiro Tecmar. The area—jammed with old factories interspersed among tumbledown, makeshift dwellings, many of which didn’t qualify for the term “house”—proved to be even more severely run down than their hotel’s surroundings. The streets, with three or four exceptions, were narrow, twisted and dirty. Spotted here and there were small commercial nodes containing a few stores and several bars and restaurants, none of which looked very appetizing. And the air was filled on one block with the smells of solvents and smoke, while on the next it reeked of sizzling cooking oil and whatever was being cooked in it.
“Think you can find your way around here at night?” asked Ray as he stopped beside a vacant lot, figuring the rubbish-strewn open land would give them a better chance of spotting any lurking muggers.
“Hell no! This is a tangled mess.”
