“I’ve been saving the best for last,” he said.
“There’s more?”
“Oh, yes, Mario, there’s more. And it’s a bombshell. Have you ever heard me mention Ismail Khouri?”
“No. Who is he?”
“Ismail is an old friend. Not as old as you, but an old friend nonetheless. Most Lebanese in this country are Christians. Only a few of us are Muslims. I’m one. Ismail is another. Back in São Paulo, we used to spend quite a bit of time together, attended the same mosque. I thought you might have met him. Short little fellow? Beard? Walks with a limp?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Okay, it doesn’t matter. Here’s the story: a number of years ago Ismail moved to Foz do Iguaçu and opened a business.”
“What kind of business?”
“A shop specialized in electronics, cell phones, digital cameras, televisions, video disk players, that sort of thing. He lives in Foz, but his business is in Paraguay.”
“Ciudad del Este?”
“Indeed. He wouldn’t live there on a bet, but he makes good money, so he goes across the bridge every day to work.”
“And?”
“And Ismail tells me there’s a rumor floating around that Plínio was involved in an illegal business venture in that benighted country.”
“Benighted?” Arnaldo said. “Where do you get a word like that?”
“I write for a living, remember?”
“What kind of business venture?” Silva asked.
“Luxury automobiles, stolen in Brazil, smuggled across the river and reregistered and resold in Paraguay.”
Silva held up a hand. “Wait. You’re telling me Plínio Saldana, Senhor Morality, the guy who was running on a platform of sweeping Paraná clean, was a crook?”
Jaco nodded. “That’s the rumor. Unsubstantiated, I hasten to add. I haven’t heard it from anyone but Ismail.”
Silva looked dubious. “The car smuggling business has been going on for years, Jaco. Saldana, if the rumor is true, would have been the new guy on the block, and the Paraguayans wouldn’t have looked favorably on him trying to cut himself in.”
“Ah, but what if his partner was a Paraguayan, already established in the business?”
“That, of course, would be different. Who was it?”
“A gentleman of Syrian extraction who has an automobile dealership in Ciudad del Este. He’s said to be involved in the smuggling of arms and drugs as well. Moreover, he’s a hatemonger, a fanatic, maybe even a terrorist.”
“And what is this nasty character’s name?”
“Al-Fulan,” Jaco said. “Jamil Al-Fulan.”
Chapter Eighteen
ORLANDO MUNIZ, WHEN HE wasn’t visiting one of his far-flung fazendas, lived in an apartment facing the sea on Avenida Vieira Souto in Rio de Janeiro. But he also kept a small place on Rua Pamplona in São Paulo, and it was there that he met the Colonel’s men.
Aldo—none of them gave Muniz a surname—was an enigma: a Mediterranean type, perhaps of Italian or Greek heritage, possibly of Portuguese, or Spanish,—but with a thick Slavic accent.
Reiner, blond-haired and blue-eyed, might have stepped out of a Nazi propaganda poster, but the way he spoke was suggestive of Rio Grande do Sul, a place where German immigrants had been settling ever since the nineteenth century.
Careca, the leader, was a huge man with a shaved head, tattooed arms and an incongruously high voice. He looked like a thug, but expressed himself like an officer—and a Paulista.
Muniz placed them side-by-side on a large couch, took an armchair facing them and posed his first question: “How much has the Colonel told you?”
“That we’re going to kill two men, Senhor,” Careca said. “The first is to be Public Prosecutor Zanon Parma, the second Chief Inspector Mario Silva of the Federal Police.”
“Then let me begin by clearing up a misconception. We are not going to kill anyone. I am going to kill them. Your assignment is to assist. I want you to help me to set it up, protect me while I’m doing it, and cover my tracks after I’m done. You are not, repeat not, to kill either Parma, or Silva, not unless there’s an imminent danger of one of them killing me. Killing them is my privilege and mine alone. Do you understand?”
“Understood, Senhor.”
“Good. Now, our first problem will be getting at Parma.”
“Yes, Senhor. Aldo, here, is our intelligence expert. Would you like to hear what he’s learned?”
“What? Already?”
“After your conversation, the Colonel instructed Aldo to get a head start with his inquiries.”
“I applaud the initiative.”
“Thank you, Senhor. I will tell the Colonel.”
Muniz turned to Aldo. “What have you learned?”
Aldo reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a small, leather-bound notebook.
“Senhor Parma,” he said, “lives in an apartment on Avenida Higienópolis in the bairro of the same name. Security in the building is excellent. There is an armed man situated in a guardhouse in the front garden and another armed man behind the front door. The front door is the sole pedestrian entrance to the premises. The windows of the guardhouse and the glass of the front door are resistant to weapons of all but the heaviest caliber.”
Muniz grunted.
Aldo wet a finger and turned a page.
“Entry to the garage,” he said, “is via an arrangement with two gates. One gate opens. The vehicle enters, and the gate shuts before the other gate opens. This precludes any attempt to make a successful frontal assault. In addition, there is a third armed guard who patrols the garage area.”
Muniz started scratching his chin.
Aldo turned another page.
“Guards are on duty twenty-four-seven. There are security cameras throughout the building, not only at the pedestrian entrance, and at the entrance to the garage, but also on each of the floors.”
“How did you discover all this?” Muniz said.
“I posed as a rare gems dealer, much preoccupied with security, and in search of a new home. I spoke, by telephone, to a real-estate agent selling an apartment in the building. May I continue, Senhor?”
“Go ahead.”
“The cameras feed into a room where all the images are displayed at once, not in rotation. Two men are on duty in the room at all times, and they take turns, each observing the monitors for one hour at a stretch. That way, it’s said, they’re always alert. The room is protected by a steel door, and linked, by both landline and radio, to a security service.”
“Which one?”
“Watchdogs, Senhor.”
“I’ve heard of them.”
“They’re the best in the business, Senhor. They pay well and pride themselves on a response time of five minutes or less.”
“And they’re all ex-military, drawn from elite units.”
“That, too, is true, Senhor.”
“We don’t want to tangle with those guys.”
“No, Senhor, we do not,” Careca said.
“Senhor Parma’s car,” Aldo went on, “is armored. A rocket-propelled grenade could take it out, but nothing short of one is likely to be effective.”
“All right, we can’t get Parma in his home, and we can’t get him in his car. How about his office?”
Aldo shook his head. “Too public. We’d be seen.”
“We could wear hoods.”
“In which case, Senhor, we’d never get in. There is a security check at the front door.”
“We could put them on after we’re inside.”
“By which time, Senhor, images of our faces would already have been captured by the security cameras. In addition, all visitors are required to sign a book.”
“So his office is also out?”
“Correct, Senhor.”
“So how do we get at him?”
Aldo turned another page, glanced at what he’d written there and met Muniz’s eyes. Now he was coming to it. Muniz could sense it
.
“Are you familiar, Senhor, with Ilhabela?”
“I am. What about it?”
“Senhor Parma has a home there. He often goes on weekends, and he always goes there on long weekends.”
“Like this weekend?”
“Just so, Senhor. He’s already left São Paulo.” Aldo looked at his watch. “He might even be there by now.”
“What are you proposing?”
“I propose to investigate Senhor Parma’s security arrangements on the island. I would not be surprised if he has none.”
“All this security here in São Paulo? And none on Ilhabela? How likely is that?”
“That remains to be seen. But the choice of an apartment might well have been motivated by reasons other than security. His wife’s mother lives in the same building, and her residence predates that of Senhor Parma.”
“Is that a fact?”
“That’s a fact, Senhor. In addition, his office is at the Promotoria de Justiça in Barra Funda.”
“So?”
“That place, Senhor, has criminals coming and going at all hours of the day, and has, therefore, heavy security dictated by the State.”
“How about that armored car? What about that?”
“Provided to public prosecutors as a matter of course. He didn’t have to ask for it. There is, therefore, a good chance he didn’t. And there’s one thing more.”
“Which is?”
“He won’t feel threatened in an out-of-the-way place like Ilhabela. He’ll be in holiday mode, less likely to be on his guard when we approach him.”
Muniz was pleased. “Good,” he said. “Very good.”
“All speculation at the moment, Senhor.”
“So what’s the next step?”
“I’ll depart for the island immediately after this meeting. I’ll confirm my assumptions by tomorrow morning at the latest.”
Muniz turned to Careca. “So, if Aldo is right, that’s where I’ll kill him?”
“Yes, Senhor,” Careca said. “That’s where you’ll kill him.”
Chapter Nineteen
“THE GOVERNOR WILL SEE you now.”
Both men rose.
“Not you, Agent Nunes,” the secretary said, “just him.” She pointed at Silva and opened the door to Abbas’s inner office.
Silva entered to find two men awaiting him.
The one with the silver-gray hair and moustache circled the desk, intercepted Silva, and gave him the firm handshake of a practiced politician.
“Chief Inspector Silva,” he said, as if they were old friends. “What a pleasure.”
“Governor,” Silva said.
He recognized the man from the election posters plastered all over the city.
“And this,” Abbas said with a flourish of his arm, “is my Chief of Staff, Rodrigo Fabiano.”
Fabiano was at least a decade younger. He had protruding incisors that reminded Silva of a rabbit, or maybe a beaver. His eyes, however, were those of a jackal, or maybe a hyena.
“My associate Agent Nunes is outside,” Silva said. “He—”
“We won’t keep you long,” the governor interrupted smoothly. “Let’s sit over there.”
He led his guest to an oblong table, indicated a chair, and sat down facing him. Fabiano, sliding a silver tray within reach, took the seat to the governor’s left.
On the tray were a pot, a milk pitcher and a sugar bowl, all in matching porcelain.
“Coffee?” Abbas asked, picking up a cup.
“No, thank you,” Silva said.
Abbas and Fabiano exchanged a glance, as if Silva’s refusal had some deeper significance. Fabiano put down the cup. Both leaned backward in their chairs.
“So,” the governor said, “what have you to report?”
“I’m sorry, Governor,” Silva said. “Our investigation has barely begun.”
“But, surely, there must be something you can tell us.”
Silva shook his head. “We’re still interviewing, still gathering information.”
“Well,” Fabiano said, “let me ask you this. Do you have any theories?”
“Perhaps one theory,” Silva said.
Abbas leaned forward. “And what might that be?”
“The murder of Nestor Cambria might be linked to that of Plínio Saldana.”
“Yes, yes,” the governor said. “The same thought occurred to us. Perhaps to keep him quiet. You policemen have a clever expression for such things, but I can’t—”
“Queimando o arquivo?” Fabiano suggested.
“That’s it,” Abbas said, snapping his fingers, “queimando o arquivo.”
The literal meaning of the phrase was burning the files, but it had come to mean the destruction of any kind of evidence, including the murder of witnesses.
Abbas opened an inlaid wooden box sharing table space with the coffee tray. “Cigar?”
Again, Silva refused.
Abbas blinked. “You’re sure? They’re Cuban.”
“I’m sure.”
“Go ahead, take one. Take two. You can bring them with you, smoke them later.”
Silva shook his head. “I no longer smoke,” he said.
Abbas closed the humidor without taking one himself and without offering one to Fabiano. After a short pause, he went on. “Braulio Serpa told us you’re thorough.”
“I try to be,” Silva said.
“I’m sure you do.”
And there Abbas stopped, as if uncertain about what to say next. He looked at Fabiano.
“We all have our secrets,” Fabiano said. “I know I do. I’m sure you do. I suspect even the governor does.”
“We’re all men of the world here,” Abbas said, “so I’ll give it to you straight. If you should uncover anything damaging …”
“Come to us with it,” Fabiano finished for him.
“Mind you,” Abbas continued. “I wouldn’t think of interfering with your investigation. You’ve been sent here to discover who might be behind the murder of Plínio Saldana—”
“If, indeed, anyone was behind it,” Fabiano said.
Abbas looked at him and smiled. “Come, come, Rodrigo. There’s no need to be coy with the Chief Inspector. We all know Cataldo was unlikely to have been acting on his own.” He turned back to Silva. “But, right now, we’re talking about something else.”
Silva nodded. “We’re talking about information I might come across in the course of my investigation, information unrelated to the murders, but damaging to you or your campaign. And we’re talking about you rewarding me for suppressing it.”
The governor smiled, like a teacher proud of his pupil. “I can see we’re on the same wavelength,” he said. “Rodrigo, give the Chief Inspector your card.”
Fabiano had the card ready. He handed it to Silva.
“Feel free to call Rodrigo anytime,” Abbas said, “day or night.” He rose to his feet and extended a hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Chief Inspector.”
WHEN THEY were outside on the street, searching for a cab and not finding one, Arnaldo said, “That was quick. What did he want?”
Silva told him.
Arnaldo rubbed his hands. “You gonna cut me in for half?”
“Half of nothing is nothing,” Silva said.
“That’s what I like about you, Mario. You’re as honest as my bank account is thin.”
“Is that another of your aphorisms?”
“I doubt it. Mainly because I don’t even know what an aphorism is. By the way, there’s news on another front.”
“What?”
“While you were in there getting bribed, I placed a call to Raul Sintra, that security guy over at the hospital.”
“And?”
“And Sintra was just about to call us. He reviewed all the videos and spoke to half the world. He managed to attach a name, and a reason for being there, to every person but one.”
“And?”
“And I gave him Mara’s email address. By now, she’s go
t a freeze-frame of the mystery man.”
Chapter Twenty
THEIR NEXT APPOINTMENT WAS with Stella Saldana.
She, like her husband before her, was running her campaign from the topmost floor of the Mabu Palace Hotel. The corridor was still decorated with posters bearing the late candidate’s image.
“She’s terribly busy, Chief Inspector,” one of her two secretaries said, “but she instructed me to give you as much time as you needed.”
“I’m grateful,” Silva said.
“And how much time might that be?” the secretary asked, a ballpoint poised over her steno pad.
“Not long,” Silva said. “Fifteen minutes?”
“Excellent.” She seemed pleased, as if Silva had just solved one of her problems. “She told me to bring you right in.”
In one of the bedrooms, Stella Saldana was using a banquet table as a desk. A couch and four chairs completed her office ensemble. Even with the bed removed, there was little room for anything else.
Slim in frame, and boyish in appearance, she was wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt bearing Plínio’s picture.
“Which of you is Chief Inspector Silva?” she said.
“I am. This is Agent Arnaldo Nunes.”
She smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you both. Please take the couch. Those chairs will destroy your back.”
“Fifteen minutes,” her secretary said.
“Thanks, Alice,” she said.
The secretary nodded and went out, closing the door behind her.
“Fifteen minutes?” Stella said, with a glance at the clock on her desk. “That’s all you need?”
“At the moment,” Silva said. “Let me start by expressing our condolences for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I don’t want to rake up unpleasant memories but.…”
“But you have to. It’s your job. I understand that. Please, ask away.”
She was totally in control of her emotions, not at all the bereaved widow Arnaldo, and to a certain extent Silva, had feared being confronted with. Was it simply because she was good at keeping her feelings in check?
“You weren’t an actual witness to your husband’s death?”
She shook her head. “I forced myself to watch the television coverage. I wish I hadn’t.”
Perfect Hatred Page 12
