Muniz paused for a moment and then continued.
“I repeat,” he said. “I’m going to kill him. I expect you’ll be killing some other people, but you’re not going to kill him. That’s a pleasure I reserve for myself. Got that?”
“Sim, Senhor.”
Muniz extracted a nod of acknowledgment from the other two thugs, then turned his attention back to the computer, called up a satellite image and enlarged it.
“This,” he said, giving another tap to the screen “is the Hotel das Cataratas. It’s over on the Brazilian side. We’ll cross the river with that boat you looked at this afternoon, take a passkey to his room from the reception area, kill him and return with the same boat. We’ll be going in after midnight, so we shouldn’t encounter too many people, but it will be your task to kill any we do. I want no witnesses.”
“Understood, Senhor.”
“Did you make a close inspection of that boat?”
“Sim, Senhor.”
Virgilio and Roque were looking back and forth between Donato and Muniz, like a pair of twin Dobermans expecting a treat.
“And?” Muniz said.
“Your manager asked why you wanted him to show it to us.”
“Nosy bastard. What did you tell him?”
“That you wanted us to take you fishing.”
“Fishing, eh? And what did he say to that?”
“He was surprised, Senhor. He said you’d never expressed an interest in fishing.”
“Anything else?”
“That the fishing is good at this time of the year, but the river is in flood, and the current is strong. We should always keep the motor engaged and the bow pointed upstream. Otherwise, we could drift dangerously close to the falls. The drop to the lower river, he said, is more than eighty meters.”
Muniz felt a cold shiver of fear, but suppressed it. “How long will it take to make the crossing?”
“From where to where, Senhor?”
“Let’s have a look.”
Donato leaned closer to the computer screen while Muniz surveyed the river upstream and down.
Below the falls it would be difficult to launch a boat; more difficult, still, to land it. The image showed white, disturbed water and high banks.
Downstream, conditions were better. The river wasn’t as wide, and the water wasn’t as rough, but it would be too far from the hotel to make a quick getaway.
Further upstream, the banks on the Brazilian side ran along the ecological reserve. There were no roads at all, only thick jungle. That jungle, Muniz knew, concealed pumas, spotted jaguars and poisonous snakes. To cut their way through it, if they could do it at all, would take hours. So that approach, too, he rejected.
A road ran south and west from the hotel and ended at the river. The scale of the satellite image indicated it was about two kilometers long. And the Iguaçu, at that point, was less than a kilometer from bank to bank.
Muniz centered the image on the point where the road ended and zoomed in. The magnification revealed a little T-shaped dock protruding from the bank.
“That’s where we land,” he said. “Now, let’s find a place to launch the boat.”
With his forefinger, he traced the narrow road paralleling the river on the Argentinean side. It ended in a tiny settlement called Puerto Canoas.
Embarking near the beginning of the road would bring them dangerously close to the falls. Embarking near the end would put two islands in their path. The departure point would have to be somewhere in between.
Muniz settled, at last, on a position near the tip of an unidentified island. After rounding it, they could turn upstream, motor along in what appeared to be calm water, then strike out in a straight line toward the dock on the Brazilian side.
He used his index and middle fingers as a compass and measured the distances: about 300 meters to the tip of the island; another 500 meters along the coast of the island, and an additional 800 meters, no more, to make the major crossing.
“How long,” he said to Donato, “with that boat and that motor?”
The capanga shrugged. “Depending on the current, less than five minutes.”
The trip out to Ilhabela had been four times that. Muniz grunted his approval.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said, “you go into Ciudad del Este. I’ll give you money and an address. Buy four silenced pistols and plenty of ammunition. Look at what the Brazilian tourists are wearing. Dress yourselves in a similar fashion. Hats, shoes, belts, everything. When we walk into that hotel, I want you to look like you belong there. Oh, and buy scarves we can use to mask ourselves with.”
“Understood, Senhor. And after the shopping, we come back here?”
“Two of you do. One goes to the Brazilian side and rents a car. He takes this.” He reached into the drawer of his desk, removed a two-way radio, and held it out. “It’s already charged.”
Roque took it.
“This will put him in touch with the boat, Senhor?” Donato asked.
Somehow, without a word being exchanged on the subject, it had already been decided Roque would drive the car.
“It will. Here, take the other one.” He removed another unit from the same drawer. “On and off here. Volume here. Push to talk here. Channel selection here. We’ll use channel twenty-two.”
Donato accepted the radio and studied the controls.
“Try both units tonight. Make sure you know how to use them. We’ll call when we’re halfway over, and you”—he pointed to Roque—“will come down to the dock to pick us up. Wait for us in a place where you can see the river. The radios may not work otherwise.”
Roque nodded.
“Good. That’s it. Ask my manager for a barrel, fill it with water and verify that the motor is running smoothly. Make sure we have fuel. See me tomorrow morning, after breakfast, and I’ll give you the cash you’ll need to make the purchases. Make sure you get receipts for everything. We’ll push off tomorrow an hour after dark.”
“Com licença, Senhor,” Donato said.
“What?”
“There will be no moon tomorrow night. We can set up a light on this side before we leave, and that will give us a point to steer toward on the way back, but we’d best make the crossing to the Brazilian side in daylight. If not, we may get lost.”
“We’ll go earlier, then. Half an hour before dark. What do we use for a light?”
“In Ciudad del Este, Senhor, I’m sure I can find something appropriate.”
“Good. Any other questions?”
Donato looked at his companions. They shook their heads. Then he shook his.
“No, Senhor,” he said.
Chapter Thirty-Three
MATIAS CHAPARRO GLANCED AT his wristwatch—the only gold Rolex Silva had ever seen on a cop.
“I’m somewhat pressed for time,” he said, “so I hope you’ll pardon me for getting right down to business. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
Silva reached into his pocket, removed a piece of paper and offered it to the chief.
“What’s this?” the Paraguayan said, taking it in his carefully manicured fingers.
“It’s a batch number,” Silva said, “for a shipment of plastic explosive.”
Chaparro raised an eyebrow. “Why are you giving it to me?”
“The entire batch was shipped to the Paraguayan army. Three drums, each containing 25 kilos, have been illegally sold.”
Chaparro smiled, set the paper aside without looking at it and leaned back in his chair.
“Why should you assume they were sold? They could just as easily have been misplaced. Perhaps they’re sitting, right now, in some dark and forgotten corner of an army supply dump.”
“No,” Silva said, “they’re not.”
Chaparro studied his nails.
“How can you be sure?”
“Do you know what post-detonation taggants are?”
“Of course.” Chaparro brushed a barely-visible bit of lint from his starched khaki shi
rt. “Why do you ask?”
“The explosive used in two recent terrorist bombings came from the batch on that piece of paper.”
Chaparro sat bolt upright. “Surely you’re not referring to the bombs recently detonated in São Paulo and Buenos Aires?”
“Surely,” Silva said, “I am.”
Chaparro frowned, unfolded the paper and stared at it “Who knows about this?”
“At the moment,” Silva said, “Just us.”
“And by us you mean?”
“The Brazilian Federal Police.”
“Your director? That fellow Sampaio?”
“No. Just this gentleman here,”—Silva indicated Arnaldo—“myself, and a few other members of my team.”
Chaparro looked relieved. “No one else within your government?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you going to tell the Americans? The Argentineans?”
“Sooner or later we’ll have to. And don’t forget the Israelis. Their ambassador, his wife and children were among the victims of the second explosion.”
“I would never forget the Israelis,” Chaparro said. “It’s best not to. They’re not a forgiving people.” He was still frowning. Now he rubbed his chin. Mario,” he went on, his tone friendlier than before, “may I call you Mario?”
“By all means. This is Arnaldo.”
Chaparro favored Arnaldo with a nod and an ingratiating smile.
Arnaldo returned the nod.
“And you must call me Matias. You must also believe me when I tell you that I find this very unwelcome news. It causes me a great deal of concern.”
“I’m glad it does,” Silva said, “because we badly need your help.”
“And you shall have it! The last thing poor Paraguay needs is more problems with your government, or with the Argentineans. And we certainly don’t need any with the Israelis, or, God forbid, the Americans. What do you propose?”
“A trade-off. You tell us who bought the explosive. We tell the Americans, the Argentineans and the Israelis that the Paraguayan government abhors terrorists as much as the rest of us do”—Chaparro began nodding vigorously—“and that you not only gave us full cooperation, but that we also support your story.”
Chaparro’s nodding came to an abrupt halt.
“Wait,” he said. “What story?”
“The only story you can possibly tell without your country being labeled a pariah by the world community: Rogue elements within your military sold the explosive in the belief that it was going to criminals and totally unaware that the buyers were actually terrorists.”
“That’s no story. It’s the God’s honest truth. I have no doubt of it. Count on my complete cooperation.”
“Thank you. But now, Matias, we must act quickly, before they have a chance to use more of that explosive and strike again. How long is it going to take you to get back to me?”
“It’s too late to do anything today. It could be—”
Silva cut in before he could finish. “Complicated?”
Chaparro shook his head. “No,” he said, “that’s not the word I was about to use.”
“But it’s the correct one, isn’t it? First, you’ll have to determine how high the corruption went. And if someone important, like a general, was involved, he’ll have to find someone to take the rap, or expect you to find such a person for him.”
Chaparro flashed Silva a sardonic smile. “What a rich imagination you have, Mario. Important people? Generals? I’m sure our investigation will show that the perpetrator, or perpetrators, were people much further down the totem pole than that, people of no significant rank.”
“I have no doubt,” Silva said dryly, “that your investigation will show precisely that. And you know what Matias? I don’t care. I have no interest whatsoever in who gets blamed for the sale. I need information about the buyer, not the seller. The seller is your problem. Do we have a deal?”
“Most certainly. This is an instance where the interests of your government and mine entirely coincide. Where are you staying?”
“The Cataratas. You’ll call me?”
“I’ll do better. I’ll go there to see you. Two o’clock tomorrow. In the bar. Does that suit you?”
“If you can’t make it sooner.”
Chaparro considered for a moment—and then shook his head. “I think not.”
“Thank you. Now, before we leave, there’s something else I’d like you to help me with.”
“And that is?”
“I want to talk to Jamil Al-Fulan. He’s refused to see us, but he’s unlikely to reject a friendly request, on our behalf, from the chief of his own National Police.”
Chaparro frowned. “You think Jamil might be behind these bombings?”
In truth, Silva had, as yet, no firm indication that Jamil had anything to do with them. But he saw an opportunity to drive a wedge between the two Paraguayans—and he took it.
“I think it’s likely,” he said.
Chaparro gave Silva a long look.
“How likely?”
“Very likely,” Silva said. “A friend of yours, is he?”
“If he ever was,” Chaparro said, “and if there is any truth to your allegation, I can assure you, with total sincerity, that he no longer is.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
LUIS CHAGAS MET THE other cops at their hotel for dinner. Coffee had just been served when a bellman appeared at Silva’s elbow.
“Call for you, Senhor.”
“That was Chaparro,” he told them when he got back. “Al-Fulan will see me at ten tomorrow morning.”
“Do you want my guy, Abasi, to go along?” Chagas asked. “Al-Fulan hates his guts. It might shake him up a bit.”
“I think we can make better use of him with that mullah over at the madrasa,” Silva said, “but I heartily concur with the shaking-up part.” He turned to Danusa. “That little pendant you sometimes wear, the one in the form of a Star of David?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have it with you?”
“Always,” she said. “It was a gift from my father.”
“I want you to wear it—and come with me.”
“A Jew and a woman,” Luis said. “That will really shake him up. He has nothing but contempt for women. All his employees are male.”
“I don’t want you letting on that you speak Arabic,” Silva said to Danusa. “If he does so, look mystified, as if you don’t understand.”
“And be pushy,” Luis suggested. “He’ll hate it!”
“Fine,” she said. “I can do pushy.”
“You sure as hell can,” Arnaldo said.
“Watch it, Nunes,” she said.
“See?” he said. “Pushy.”
“And Arnaldo goes with me to talk to the mullah?” Hector asked.
“He does. Arnaldo is naturally pushy himself.”
“Hey,” Arnaldo said.
“As far as I know,” Luis said, “the mullah doesn’t speak Portuguese.”
“English? Spanish?”
Luis shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve only ever had dealings with him through Abasi. Speaking of Abasi”—he looked at his watch—“it’s getting late. I’d better call him. What time do you want him here?”
“Eight A.M.?” Hector suggested.
Silva shook his head. “Too early.”
Hector caught on immediately. “You want to coordinate the visits? The mullah and Al-Fulan? Surprise the mullah, so he can’t collude?”
“Precisely.”
“Then make it nine, Luis,” Hector said.
THE FOLLOWING morning, Abasi Ragab showed up promptly at the stipulated hour. They had coffee in the restaurant and went out to his car. Arnaldo, taller and broader in the shoulders than Hector, took the seat in front.
“So what do you want with that damned mullah?” Ragab asked as his passengers were buckling themselves in.
“Sounds like you’re not fond of him,” Hector said.
“Fond of him
? I tried to get his sick ass deported.”
“No luck?”
Ragab shook his head. “Turns out, he’s got a permanent residence visa.”
“How did he get that?”
“The filho da puta is a Qur’anic scholar with a doctorate in Arabic. On paper, that makes him look like a figure who could”—he made quotation marks in the air —“contribute greatly to our multicultural society.”
“Who said that?”
“The idiots who administrate immigration and naturalization. They love candidates like Massri. Besides which, Al-Fulan put together a committee of Brazilian nationals to give financial guarantees and sign a petition to accompany the paperwork.”
“Why do you dislike Massri so much?”
Ragab had been about to start the engine. He took his hand off the key and turned around so he could see Hector’s face. “I’m a Muslim,” he said.
“And I’m a Catholic,” Hector said. “So what?”
“So this: ever since people like Asim started running around preaching a philosophy of blow up the infidels, I’m sensing a rising tide of prejudice. Time was, when nobody in this country cared what your religion was, whether you were a Muslim or a Catholic, a Jew or an Evangelical, but not anymore. Now, a lot of folks look at us sideways, like we’re all a bunch of goddamned fanatics. And the more Massris there are in the world, the worse it gets.”
Ragab shook his head, as if to clear it, started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
“He gets innocent kids into that madrasa of his,” he went on, “and teaches them to hate. They come out at odds with their parents and with the rest of society. The only people they get along with are other deluded kids like themselves. He’s breaking up families.”
“You think he’s training terrorists?”
“I can’t prove it.”
“But you think it?”
“I do.”
“I heard some folks in the community tried to withdraw their kids.”
“And you probably heard what happened when they did.”
“Yes.”
“Same thing with parents whose sons are approaching school age. They get a visit from the mullah, who offers them bullshit and carrots. Then, if they don’t enroll the kids right away, they get the stick.”
Perfect Hatred Page 19
