He raised an eyebrow. “You know Arabic?”
“I do,” she said. “Peaceful. What an irony. A suicide bomber named Peaceful. Was he a member of your congregation?”
The Sheikh sighed. “I am sorry to say he was.”
“Did he ever give you any indication he was planning a violent act?”
“He did not. And, if he had, I assure you, I would have informed the authorities.”
“Any idea how Salem might have become associated with the Chehabs?”
The Sheikh ran a hand through his beard. “I fear I was responsible for that.”
“How so?”
“Salem had heard, somewhere, that Carlotta had been a teacher. He spoke good Spanish, and had the rudiments of Arabic, mostly suras he’d learned by rote, but his Portuguese was very poor.”
“Wait. You mean to tell me that Salem Nabulsi wasn’t Brazilian?”
“You didn’t know?”
She shook her head. “Until now, I knew nothing about him, not even his name. Only that he detonated the bomb.”
“He was from Paraguay.”
“Paraguay? Where in Paraguay? Asunción?”
“Ciudad del Este. I’ve never been there. I’ve heard it’s a dreadful place.”
Danusa nodded. “You’ve heard correctly.”
“He’s been … was in São Paulo no more than a few months, but he told me he intended to stay and wanted help to improve his language skills. Someone told him Carlotta had been a teacher. He asked me to approach her, encourage her to give him lessons, said he’d pay her.”
“And she agreed?”
“Not because of the money. They didn’t need it, she said. She was a good-hearted person, always willing to help others.”
“He’d go to her apartment for his lessons?”
The Sheikh seemed shocked that she’d even asked. “That wouldn’t have been at all appropriate. No, she’d meet him here, leave the baby in our crèche and instruct him in a corner of the library.”
“How long had this been going on?”
“A month. No more.”
“Do you think it was a ploy, this business of the language? That he used it to approach Carlotta and her baby?”
“It must have been, don’t you think? If he was planning to blow himself up, why would he put any effort into learning Portuguese?”
“Why indeed. What else can you tell me about Salem?”
“Very little. He was devout. His parents immigrated to Paraguay before he was born. He was not unintelligent, but he was poorly educated. Other than that.…” The cleric’s words trailed off. He made a gesture of helplessness.
“Nothing else? Nothing more you can remember?”
The Sheikh shook his head. “He was a private person. When he spoke to me at all, which was seldom, he spoke of God, and the Holy Qur’an, and of almost nothing else. He had some strange interpretations, more based upon hate than love. He referred once, with reverence, to a certain Mullah Asim. He asked me if I knew the man.”
“And do you?”
“No.”
“How did he react when you told him that?”
“He seemed disappointed.”
Chapter Eight
LEO’S BAR HAD SEEN better days, and so had that stretch of the Rua Aurora on which it was located. Beyond the open front door, the street was packed with panhandlers. They’d be joined by a horde of whores as soon as the sun went down.
The Colonel recognized Muniz from his newspaper photographs and raised a hand. The wealthy landowner spotted the gesture and made a beeline toward him.
“Colonel?”
“That’s me.”
“Colonel what?”
“That’s unimportant. Make yourself comfortable, Senhor Muniz. I took the liberty of ordering you a beer.” He pointed to a brimming glass. “It’s what one drinks in here.”
Muniz took the proffered seat, but didn’t pick up the glass. Instead, he sat studying the beverage, as if he thought the Colonel might be about to poison him.
Meantime, the Colonel studied Muniz.
He hadn’t much liked what he’d seen in the photographs. In the flesh, the man pleased him even less. Muniz had a more-or-less permanent scowl, the kind that turned a smile into an evil grin.
“So you’re the guy,” the Colonel said, “who killed that priest.”
“It was self-defense,” Muniz said, as he’d said a hundred times before.
“The way I heard it, the old guy was unarmed.”
“I was set up. They told me he had a gun. And, besides, he was a leftist, a liberation theology fanatic, no better than a Communist. He got what was coming to him.”
“We share a sentiment,” the Colonel said. “I, too, have little use for Communists.”
In fact, the Colonel had a visceral dislike for anyone whose politics were even slightly to the left of those of Attila the Hun. During the dictatorship he’d been a young lieutenant, later a captain. His assigned task, one he’d performed with relish, had been apprehending leftists. He’d done it for almost seven years, and it was a matter-of-record that none he’d apprehended had ever been found.
His activities, in those days, had given rise to his reputation for discretion and secrecy; qualities that, in more recent times, had resulted in people like Muniz seeking him out.
“You don’t have to keep looking around,” he said, smiling slightly at the way Muniz’s head was swiveling back and forth on his neck. “No one in this place pays attention to anyone else. It’s one of the things I like about it.”
“Assuming you’re right,” Muniz said, grumpily, “what else is there to like?”
“It has the best draft beer in the city,” the Colonel said. “Everyone from São Paulo knows that.”
“I don’t know that,” Muniz said.
“Ah, but then you’re not from São Paulo, are you?”
“Rio,” Muniz snapped, “and draft beer is draft beer. Only the brands are different. It doesn’t matter where they tap the kegs.”
“No, my friend, that’s where you’re wrong. Leo’s draft beer is definitely a cut above the rest. I’m told it has something to do with the metal used to make the tubing between the kegs and the taps. And the fact that they flush the system every day.”
The Colonel picked up his glass, took a long swallow and wiped the foam from his mustache. The mustache was trim, as was everything about the Colonel. He was almost the same height as Muniz, but there the resemblance ended. Whereas Muniz had a roll of fat hanging over his belt, a double-chin and flabby biceps, the Colonel was all muscle. His bearing was erect, and he radiated an air of command. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, hadn’t worn one for almost five years now, but no discerning observer would have taken him for anything other than a military man.
“Delicious,” he said, and saluted Muniz with his glass. “Go ahead. Try it.”
Muniz grabbed his, took a sip, grunted, and took a swallow. Then he took two more.
“See?” the Colonel said.
“I’m not here to drink beer,” Muniz said. “I’m here to do business.”
“And I’m here to do both,” the Colonel said. “So how can I be of assistance?”
Muniz put down his glass, shoved it aside, leaned across the table and lowered his voice.
“I think we should go somewhere else to discuss this.”
The Colonel’s grin belittled Muniz’s concern. “As I’ve already told you once before,” he said, “people in Leo’s Bar don’t listen to each other’s conversations. It isn’t polite. And it could be dangerous.”
Muniz continued to hesitate, still averse to airing his business in public.
“If you’ve got a problem with someone,” the Colonel pressed him, “I’m your man. It’s my business, and there’s nobody better at it. Speak up. Or finish your beer and leave. It’s all the same to me.”
It was. These days, people were queuing up for his services.
Caution might have dictated that Muniz get up and leave,
but time was short, and he was an impatient and impulsive man. He took the plunge.
“I want some people taken care of,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.
The Colonel took another sip of his beer. He’d learned to react lukewarmly when a client made a proposal. A show of indifference tended to inflate the value of the contract.
“From what I’ve read about you,” he said, “you’ve got some pretty big estates up north.”
Muniz frowned. “What of it?”
“They say labor is hard to find up there. They say landowners like you bring in workers with all sorts of promises, promises that are never kept. And the next thing those laborers know, they’re as good as slaves. Too much work, too little money, and not a chance of being allowed to leave.”
Muniz sniffed. “People say all sorts of things. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
The Colonel went on, as if the landowner hadn’t spoken. “Slaves have to be kept in line. I’ll bet you have capangas for that, men with guns and whips who aren’t reluctant to use them. I’ll bet they have to kill a man, every now and then, pour encourager les autres, as the French say.”
“Colonel, I didn’t come here to—”
The Colonel cut him off in mid-sentence. “What I’m asking myself, Senhor Muniz, is why you don’t use your own people? You obviously have them. So what do you need me for?”
“They’re ruffians, just a cut above animals. They’re useful in their way, but there’s not one good brain among them. They’re not disciplined, they’re not trained—”
“And my men are. I understand that part. But why should you even need trained men? Why not just turn your capangas loose on the people you want to attend to, and if it doesn’t work the first time, send more. Eventually, they’ll pull it off. And if you’re far, far away when it happens, you’ll have complete deniability.”
“That’s just the point, Colonel.”
“What is just the point, Senhor Muniz?”
“The point is, I don’t want to be far, far away. I want to be there. I want to do it myself, and I want the people concerned to be looking into my eyes when I do. I want the smile on my face to be the last thing they see on this earth. That’s what I want, Colonel, and that’s what I want you to help me with.”
“That’s quite an indulgence, Senhor Muniz.”
“I’m a rich man, Colonel. I can afford my indulgences.”
“And the role of my men would be?”
“To protect me during the process. And to cover my tracks when I’m done.”
“By eliminating witnesses?”
“If need be, yes. Are you interested?”
The Colonel drained the beer in his glass and signaled the waiter for another.
“I, too,” he said, “am a rich man. I’m not adverse to a challenge, but I tend to avoid excessive risk. I’d have to know a bit more about this job before I can answer that question.”
“Picky, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Senhor Muniz, I am.”
The waiter arrived with the Colonel’s beer, saw Muniz’s glass was less than half-full and looked at him expectantly. Muniz waved him away.
“It’s like this, you see,” the Colonel went on when the waiter was gone, “my employees are all ex-soldiers, highly trained and dedicated. In that sense, it’s a bit like a private army of which I’m the commanding officer. And, like any good officer, I take care of my men. They know that. They expect it of me. And they respond with loyalty. That loyalty, more than anything else, has been the foundation of my success.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn about your success, Colonel. Or how you run your business either. I’m only interested in two things.”
The Colonel disliked being interrupted while patting himself on the back. The price, he thought to himself, has just gone up.
“Very well, Senhor Muniz,” he said dryly. “And those two things are?”
The Colonel’s evident displeasure pleased his potential client, who was getting tired of being talked down to.
“Whether you’re willing to take on the assignment,” Muniz said, “and how much it’s going to cost me if you do.”
The Colonel stroked his lower lip with a forefinger, then said, “Let us, then, get to the crux of the matter. How many people are we talking about?”
“Two.”
“Together or separately?”
“Separately.”
The Colonel quaffed some beer. “Business rivals?”
Muniz shook his head.
“One is a public prosecutor. The other is a Chief Inspector of the Federal Police. Does that shock you?”
“Very little shocks me, Senhor Muniz, but you’ve just defined two hard targets, as we in the military refer to them. The price of my collaboration will be high.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand American dollars. Each.”
Muniz blinked, but said nothing at all.
“For that,” the Colonel went on, “you’ll get the services of three of my men for as long as it takes. They’ll provide the weapons. You absorb the expenses for everything else, including transportation, hotels and per-diems, which I will stipulate at five hundred dollars per man, per day.”
“Agreed.”
“Agreed? Just like that?”
“Are you willing to take less?”
The Colonel grinned. “No. But I’m beginning to think I should have asked for more.”
Muniz met the grin with a scowl. “But you didn’t. So it’s two hundred thousand each, and it’s agreed.”
“Half in advance. Transferred to a numbered account in Riga. I no longer trust Swiss banks.”
Muniz reached for the notepad and pen he always carried with him. “Give me the account information. I’ll make the transfer this very day.”
The Colonel had come prepared. He reached into his pocket, took out a piece of paper and handed it across the table.
“The routing number is at the top,” he said. “The long number below it is the account number. The name of the bank, and the address, are at the bottom.”
Muniz snatched the paper and scanned what was written there. “When can I meet your men?”
The Colonel drank more beer before he answered. “I have contact with my banker on a daily basis. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I’ve received the money.”
“Excellent.”
“And, now, Senhor Muniz, you may tell me the names of those soon-to-be deceased.”
“The public prosecutor is Zanon Parma. The Chief Inspector is Mario Silva.”
“Silva I’ve heard of. He lives in Brasilia.”
“Normally, yes. But I’ve been told he’s currently in Curitiba, working on a case.”
“Duly noted. And where does Parma reside?”
“Here in São Paulo.”
“Do you have a priority?”
“Parma first. Killing Silva is something I want to savor.”
“Good. That’s all I need to know at the moment.”
The Colonel reached into the breast pocket of his black leather jacket and removed a notebook. “Give me a number where I can reach you.”
Muniz rattled one off, and the Colonel made a note with a gold-plated pen.
“I believe that concludes our business. Please, have another beer. And can I interest you in lunch? Today is Friday, and, on Fridays, this place serves excellent bacalhau.”
Chapter Nine
THREE DAYS AFTER SALEM Nabulsi’s bid for martyrdom, there was another explosion, this time during Shabbat services in Argentina’s oldest synagogue, the Congregacion Israelita on the Calle Libertad in Buenos Aires.
The death toll, according to Sunday’s Jornal da Cidade, was “even greater than that of this week’s bombing of the American Consulate in São Paulo.” Among the dead were the Israeli ambassador to Argentina, Daniel Grundman, his wife, Devorah, and his two children, Miriam, eleven, and Aaron, thirteen.
Hector took the newspaper into t
he kitchen, where his fiancée was washing breakfast dishes. “Listen to this,” he said.
He sat down and read the article aloud.
“You’re thinking,” Gilda said, when he’d finished, “that the remainder of that plastic explosive might no longer be totally unaccounted for?”
“I am,” he said. “What puzzles me is why they’d cross over into Argentina to do this one. God knows, there are plenty of targets here at home.”
“Maybe this isn’t home for them,” she said. “You told me the stuff was purchased in Paraguay, right? And that bomber you’ve identified was also from Paraguay. Maybe the terrorists live there, not here.”
“Good point,” Hector said.
“Any pictures?”
“One.”
“Show me.”
Gilda dried her hands and Hector handed her the newspaper.
“You know what this reminds me of?” she said, after studying the photograph.
“What?”
“The explosion that killed Isaac Marcus.”
Hector took the paper back and studied the picture. “Yes,” he said. “It does. He was Danusa’s father, you know.”
“I didn’t.”
“Most people don’t. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”
Rabbi Isaac Marcus had been a Brazilian religious superstar. During his lifetime, Isaac’s progressive attitudes had earned him the admiration of most of the younger and more progressive members of his congregation—and a good deal of criticism from the older and more conservative ones.
But it was outside of São Paulo’s small Jewish community, and in matters not directly related to his faith, where Isaac had made the biggest impact. In the time of the dictatorship, he’d been courageous in his criticism of the regime—and had come close to paying the ultimate price for his outspokenness. When democracy returned, he’d become a media darling, a pundit whose opinions were sought-after on every issue, from sex to the politics of the Middle East.
He was an articulate speaker, a man with charisma, fluent in Spanish and English as well as Hebrew and Portuguese. He was often called upon to speak at commencements, fundraisers, even political gatherings. Businessmen, politicians, clergy of other faiths all knew and respected Isaac Marcus. It sent shockwaves throughout Brazil when his synagogue was bombed, and Isaac was killed in the explosion.
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