Perfect Hatred

by Leighton Gage

  Al-Fulan’s secretary, a male, inquired as to the nature of his business.

  “I’m a Chief Inspector of the Brazilian Federal Police,” Silva said. “I’d like to make an appointment to see him about a confidential matter.”

  “One moment,” the secretary said.

  The moment stretched to a full five minutes.

  After which, the secretary came back on the line and told Silva that his employer had no interest in meeting with anyone from the Brazilian Federal Police.

  And that, consequently, his request for an appointment had been denied.

  Chapter Thirty

  SMALL AIRCRAFT, MUNIZ HAD long ago concluded, were the most practical form of transport for visiting the more remote corners of his far-flung empire. Down through the years he’d owned five.

  His latest, a Cessna Corvalis TTX, was a low-wing monoplane with a range of well over 2,000 kilometers. It took him a little over an hour to pilot it from the Campo de Marte Airport in São Paulo to Saldana’s fazenda in rural Paraná, where he touched down on the red earth landing strip at quarter to three in the afternoon.

  As he rolled to a stop, trailing dust, Orestes drove up in a jeep.

  “Saw you circling the house,” he said, when his friend opened the cabin door. “Climb down and hop in.”

  Muniz shook his head. “I appreciate the invitation, but there are no lights on my landing strip. I have to get there before dark. Where are those men you promised me?”

  “There’s more than enough daylight left. Come on. They’re up at the house.”

  Muniz glanced at the sky and gave a curt nod. Then he clambered to the ground. Saldana took his foot off the brake and swung the vehicle in a half-circle.

  “Good flight?” he asked as they picked up speed and he shifted to a higher gear.

  “Blue skies all the way,” Muniz said. “Who told you where Silva is staying?”

  Saldana took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot him a conspiratorial grin. “Braulio Serpa. He’s State Secretary of Security here in Paraná.”

  “Serpa’s on your payroll?”

  Saldana’s grin got wider. “He’s on everybody’s payroll. Serpa’s a bigger crook than most of the people he’s supposed to be protecting us from. I’ll be sorry to see him go.”

  “He’s going?”

  “Oh, he’s going all right. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “I’ve no stake in Paraná. This state doesn’t interest me.”

  “Ah,” Saldana said. “Well, it’s like this: Serpa was appointed by Abbas, the incumbent governor. And Abbas is about to get his ass whipped in an election. When he goes, Serpa goes.”

  “Inconvenient for you.”

  Saldana shrugged. “I’ll cut a deal with the next one, or his secretary, or his assistant. Everyone has their price.”

  “Not everyone. Silva doesn’t. Parma didn’t.”

  “They’re still talking about that one on the radio. You messed him up good.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Suit yourself,” Saldana said, but his tone of voice suggested he was disappointed.

  They topped a rise, and the casa grande came into view. Three men were standing on the veranda.

  “There they are,” Saldana said, pointing them out. “I had them working at my place in Acre, but things got hot, so I brought them here. They’ve been sitting around on their asses, doing nothing, for over a month. Truth to tell, your request was welcome. I’ve been getting tired of paying them for nothing.”

  Acre was a state in the far northwest, deep in the Amazon rainforest, bordering on Bolivia and Peru. When things got ‘hot,’ it was because the Federal Police were doing a blitz. And, when the Federal Police were doing a blitz, it was generally because some great landowner, or more than one, had been driving indigenous people, or small farmers, or both, from their land. Murder of those who resisted was essential to the process.

  “Damned federal cops,” Muniz said. “What do they expect us to do? Give the country back to the Indians?”

  “Speaking of federal cops,” Saldana said, “you’re going to have to use a boat to get at him.”

  Muniz frowned. “The hell I am. I hate boats. I’ll use the bridge.”

  Saldana shook his head. “You can’t.”

  “Why the hell not? What’s going on?”

  “They’re making a record of everyone who crosses in either direction.”

  Muniz’s mouth dropped open and he turned to stare at Saldana. “Since when?”

  “The last six months or so. It’s all computerized. They make a digital photo of your identity card, and it goes into a database.”

  “Merda! So, if I cross that bridge—”

  “It would generate a record, defeat the whole purpose of making Argentina your operational base.”

  “Goddamned federal cops! I don’t know which I hate more. Them, or boats!”

  “For Christ’s sake, Orlando. It’s only a river. It’s either that, or wait for another opportunity.”

  “I can’t wait. I’m running out of time.”

  “So do it.”

  Muniz sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve got to think about this.”

  The news about the new system of controls had thrown his mind into turmoil. His original plan was no longer valid, because the bridge was no longer an option. And he couldn’t land his aircraft on the Brazilian side, because that, too, would leave a record. So Saldana was right. The only way to get at Silva, and not leave a trace of his presence, was to use a boat.

  But the mere thought of venturing out onto that infernal river in a little boat absolutely terrified him. And, to make matters worse, he didn’t know a damned thing about boats, couldn’t steer one, wouldn’t even know how to start the engine. And he didn’t want to know.

  What to do?

  Saldana brought the jeep to a halt. They climbed out and approached the steps. The three capangas stepped down to meet them.

  “Donato, Virgilio and Roque,” Saldana said, pointing at each as he presented them.

  All three men were short and wiry, with skin the color of shoe leather. They could have been brothers. Maybe they were. Muniz didn’t care, and he didn’t bother to ask. He came straight to the point that was troubling him.

  “Raise your hand if you know how to handle a boat with an outboard motor,” he said.

  All three did.

  And that decided him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  WHEN DANUSA TOLD THE Nabulsis what their son had done, Aqsa, his mother, dissolved into hysteria.

  Barir held his wife close until her wails subsided, then helped her to her feet.

  “Wait,” he said before leading her out of the room.

  They heard the couple mounting the stairs and moving along a corridor above their heads. A moment later a door opened and softly closed. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked. Outside, a child squealed and another laughed. The living room, smelling faintly of middle-eastern spices, was small, but immaculately clean. A sofa in red leather stood against one wall. The Nabulsis weren’t rich, but they’d forged a comfortable living for themselves in their new country.

  “My guess,” Danusa said, “is that neither had an inkling of what their son was up to.”

  “I agree,” Hector said. “I’ll go out and give our taxi driver a heads up. This is going to take longer than we thought.”

  He was back within a couple of minutes, but another quarter-of-an-hour passed before Barir Nabulsi returned.

  And, when he did, the distraught father didn’t sit down.

  “Please,” he said, “come back tomorrow. Right now, my wife needs all my attention.”

  Hector shook his head. “Forgive me. I’m truly sorry to intrude on your grief, but we desperately need to ask you some questions.”

  Nabulsi became irritated at his persistence: “Why? What’s the hurry? Our son is dead. H
e can’t hurt anyone anymore. Can’t you see my wife is devastated?”

  “After your son’s death,” Hector said, responding as if he’d been asked a perfectly reasonable question, “a second bombing occurred in Buenos Aires.”

  Nabulsi, working hard to control his emotions, nodded. “I saw the coverage on television. Terrible, but—”

  “The explosives came from the same source.”

  Nabulsi put a hand over his mouth, as if he was about to be sick. About ten seconds passed, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the barking of a dog in a nearby yard. Then Salem’s father removed his hand and said, “How can you be sure?”

  “They contained tiny color-coded pieces of plastic called taggants. Taggants, when they exist, are unique to every batch of explosive, and they aren’t damaged by detonation.”

  “So there can be no mistake?”

  “None,” Hector said. “And we have strong indications that your son’s associates have still more of the same explosive.”

  Nabulsi took a step backward, sank onto the sofa and looked at the floor. “Ask your questions,” he said.

  “You have no sympathy for your son’s act?”

  Nabulsi lifted his head, stared squarely into Hector’s eyes.

  “I share none of Salem’s insane convictions. I was a lawyer back home. My wife was the daughter of a doctor. Here, I work in a shop. But I thought it would all be worth it if we could just get away from the fanatics, and the bombing, and the killing. And now this! My own son, a suicide bomber! You ask me if I have sympathy for his act? I answer I have none, none whatsoever. I deplore it.”

  “Then I am sorry to have to tell you this,” Danusa said, “but we also believe that your son murdered a woman in cold blood.”

  He looked at her as if she’d slapped him.

  “Salem? My Salem? When?”

  “Shortly before the bombing. He cut her throat. And then he kidnapped her baby.”

  He shook his head in disbelief, massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers as if in pain.

  “Her baby? In God’s name, why?”

  “The bomb was heavy. He couldn’t carry it on his person. He put it in a baby carriage and used the child to help conceal his intentions.”

  Barir paled. “May Allah forgive him,” he said, “and us for having given life to him.”

  “You shouldn’t fault yourselves in any way,” Danusa said. “Suicide bombers, Señor Nabulsi, aren’t born, they’re made. Do you have any idea who might have turned your son into a killer?”

  “I know exactly who turned him into a killer.”

  The shift from deep sadness to deep anger took place in a heartbeat. Hector, for all his sympathy for the man, felt a flash of excitement. A breakthrough was coming. He could sense it.

  “Who Senhor Nabulsi? Who was it?”

  “Asim Massri.” Barir spit out the name as if it polluted his mouth. “He was presented to us as a pious, well-educated man. We thought he’d be an excellent influence on our boy, but instead he poisoned his mind.”

  “That’s Massri with two Ss?” Danusa asked, making a note.

  He nodded. “In your alphabet, it would be rendered that way. And Asim with one.”

  “How did your son come into contact with this man?”

  “Have you heard of the Escola Al-Imam?”

  Both cops shook their heads. “Tell us,” Hector said.

  “It’s a madrasa in Foz do Iguaçu. We thought it important Salem study the Holy Qur’an, and when the Escola Al-Imam opened, we saw it as a golden opportunity. The mullah, we’d been told, had attended University in Cairo—”

  “And that mullah was Asim Massri?”

  “It was. And instead of educating Salem, he filled his head with crazy ideas.”

  “What kind of ideas?”

  Barir shook his head.

  “So many,” he said.

  “Please,” Danusa said. “Just an example, or two, to help us understand.”

  “Jews are evil incarnate. That was one.”

  “What else?”

  “The State of Israel must be wiped off the face of the earth. That was another.” He began to speak more quickly as he gathered steam. “And the Christians are working to destroy Islam. And America is the Great Satan. And Brazil, Argentina, even Paraguay, are enslaved to the Great Satan. Paraguay! Imagine! Paraguay is a slave to nothing but money. And I, I was a backslider because I didn’t pray five times a day. His mother was immodest because she showed more of her body than just the skin of her hands and face.”

  “I understand,” she said. “And what did you do when he started coming home with these … ideas?”

  “I tried to reason with him, but nothing I said made any impression. We fought all the time. Finally, I got to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “So you …?”

  Barir heaved a sigh. “Told him to leave the madrasa or leave our home.”

  “And?”

  “He chose to leave our home. Perhaps if I hadn’t …”

  He drifted into silence and hung his head.

  Danusa reached out, as if to touch him, but drew back her hand before he noticed.

  “You mustn’t think that way,” she said. “By then, it was almost certainly too late. If he’d stayed here at home, with you, it would have been unlikely to have made any difference.”

  He looked up, wanting to believe it.

  “You think so?”

  “I think so,” she said. “And, believe me, Señor Nabulsi, I know about these things.”

  “How long ago was this?” Hector said. “How long since you … gave him the option?”

  Barir took a moment to consider. “In August, near the beginning of the month.”

  “A little over three months ago, then?”

  Barir nodded.

  “When did you next hear from him?”

  “Not until …”

  “Until?”

  “Until … the day of the explosion in São Paulo. He made a single telephone call. Not to me. To Aqsa. He knew my schedule, knew I leave home at seven to open the shop, knew I would already have left.”

  “The record of that call,” Danusa said, was what brought us here. What did he say to her?”

  “He asked her forgiveness for anything he might have said, or done, that had given her needless offense. He told her he loved her …”

  “And she?” Danusa prompted.

  Barir ran a hand through his hair. He was very close to tears. “She thought he was about to tell her he was coming home.”

  “But?”

  Barir took a deep breath. “He cut the conversation short, said goodbye and hung up. She found the call totally mystifying, thought he might have been interrupted in some way, kept expecting him to call again, but he didn’t.”

  “Not one word about what he planned to do?”

  “Not a word. You saw how my wife took the news. It came as a complete surprise, a complete and horrible surprise.”

  “In the three months he’s been gone, did he send you a letter, an email?”

  “He did not.” Barir’s jaw set. He’d mastered himself again. “And now he’s killed all of those innocent people and broken his mother’s heart. I’ll never forgive him. Never. And I’ll never forgive that mullah.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  MUNIZ DIDN’T BELIEVE IN engaging in small talk with social inferiors, and his attitude discouraged those of them in his presence from conversing among themselves, so the flight to his hacienda in Argentina took place in the absence of chitchat.

  Upon arrival, he called his manager to arrange accommodation for the capangas.

  “Not in the main house,” he said, “in the servant’s quarters. And tell the cook I’ll be dining at seven. Alone.”

  “Sim, Senhor. Anything else?”

  “That boat you use for fishing. Where is it?”

  “In the milking barn, Senhor.”

  “Show it to them.”<
br />
  After the evening meal, he summoned the capangas to his office.

  “Now,” he said, “I’ll tell you why you’re here.”

  He logged on to the internet, typed Silva’s name and title into the search engine and opted for images. A number of photos appeared on the screen: Silva being decorated by the President of the Republic. Silva surrounded by a group of agents wearing body armor. Silva behind a stash of recently apprehended drugs and weapons. Silva giving a speech to a citizens’ group. Silva in a publicity portrait. He selected that one and enlarged it.

  “This man,” he said, tapping the screen with a forefinger, “is the reason we’re here. I’m going to kill him.”

  Virgilio and Roque neither moved, nor spoke, and Donato’s only reaction was to shrug and settle back in his chair.

  “That’s not a problem for us, Senhor,” he said with a self-satisfied air. “We have killed—”

  Muniz didn’t like his attitude, didn’t like complacency and hadn’t asked for a presentation of the man’s credentials. He interrupted with a vengeance.

  “Are you about to tell me something I don’t know?” he snapped. “Because, if you aren’t, keep your damned mouth shut.”

  He’d dealt with men like Donato before, men born dirt poor, willing to do anything for money, totally ruthless. There were many such in Brazil’s North and Northwest, all of them prepared, for pay, to attend to a rich landowner’s every whim. Up to now, it had been Saldana who’d been paying the bills, but now the time had come to establish his own authority. And Muniz, from long experience, was a man who knew exactly how to do it.

  Donato, staring at him openmouthed, knew the rules of the game as well as Muniz did, but was still taken aback by the sharpness of the reaction.

  “I know what you men do,” Muniz continued before the man could recover. “I know the services you perform for Senhor Saldana. Do you think they’re any surprise to me? Why the hell else would I have brought you here?”

  “I’m sorry, Senhor. I don’t understand—”

  “You don’t understand because you’re not paying attention. Shut up and listen.”

  Donato, accustomed to subservience all his life, reacted predictably. He lowered his head and said, “Sim, Senhor.”