Текст книги "Two Graves"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

50

PENELOPE WAXMAN SAT, QUITE PRIMLY, ON THE UNCOMFORTABLE straight-backed chair in the waiting room of the Polícia Militar station in Alsdorf, Brazil. It was a large room, painted yellow, with windows open to a pleasant breeze, a picture of the president on one wall, and—as in most of the official spaces she’d seen in Brazil—a crucifix hanging on another. A low wooden rail and gate bisected the room, separating the waiting area from the workers in the police station, busily filling out forms or typing on computer terminals. Occasionally a member of the police force, dressed in a blue shirt and red beret, would cross the room and disappear through a doorway.

Mrs. Waxman sighed and moved restlessly in her chair. She’d been living in Brazil for two years now, in a nice two-bedroom apartment in Brasilia—her husband was a textile exporter—but she had never grown used to the glacial pace at which official business was conducted. She’d been waiting over half an hour and so far hadn’t yet even had the opportunity to file a report. The only way to speed it up in this country seemed to be by flashing a wad of money, but she had her pride and wasn’t going to resort to that. She checked her watch: almost three PM. What on earth was taking so long? There was only one other person in the waiting room—the loud one.

It was really her husband’s fault. He’d heard of this city, Blumenau, in the southern state of Santa Catarina, that was a near-perfect replica of an old Bavarian town. He’d dragged her down from Brasilia for a long weekend vacation. And she had to admit, Blumenau was a remarkable place. It didlook exactly like a German city, plopped down, in all places, amid the rain forests and mountains of Brazil: it had beer halls, shops painted in festive colors, half-timbered buildings of white plaster and dark wood, ancient-looking gothic structures whose massive slate roofs—dotted with two or sometimes three layers of dormer windows—were as large as the façades below. And most of the townspeople were blond, blue-eyed, and pink-cheeked. In the streets, more German was spoken than Portuguese. Mr. Waxman, who was very proud of his own German heritage, was entranced.

But that was when the troubles began. Her husband hadn’t had the foresight to reserve a hotel room in advance, and they arrived to find themselves in the middle of some gigantic German cultural festival. All the hotels were booked, and so the Waxmans were forced to find lodgings in the adjoining town of Alsdorf: a much smaller, much cheaper version of Blumenau, trying to capitalize on its neighbor’s charms but, it seemed, without really succeeding. Its residents were generally poorer, less European in appearance, much closer to the indigenous population. And unlike Blumenau, Alsdorf seemed to have more than its share of crime. Just that morning, their traveler’s checks had been stolen right out of the hotel room. Imagine, stealing traveler’s checks! And so her husband was now over in Blumenau, trying to get them replaced, while she was here in the Alsdorf police station, waiting to file a report on the theft.

Her thoughts were interrupted—yet again—by the other individual in the waiting area. He was once more launching into a long litany of complaints to the hapless woman behind the nearby desk. Mrs. Waxman gave him a sidelong, irritated glance. He was wearing a tropical shirt, bright and gaudy, and a wide-brimmed straw hat that would have been more at home on the head of a riverboat gambler. His linen pants were white, shapeless, and massively wrinkled. Given his pallid, even sickly, complexion, he was clearly a tourist—in short, the typical Ugly American, speaking English, the louder the better, assuming that everyone around should jump to their feet and do his bidding. He had fastened onto the woman in the office who spoke the best English.

“It’s taking so long,” he said in a whining, hectoring tone. “ Whyis it taking so long?”

“As soon as the officer in charge of processing forms can see you, he will,” the woman replied. “If you had your passport, sir, it would go faster—”

“I explainedthat to you already. My passport was stolen. Along with my wallet, my money, my credit cards, and everything else that was in my pocket.” He fell into a kind of lethargic, but still vocal, brooding. “My God. It’s like something out of Kafka. I’ll probably never get out of here. I’ll wither and die, right in this very station—a victim of terminal bureaucracy.”

“I am very sorry, sir,” the woman said with almost saintly patience. “All of the officers are otherwise engaged. It is a busy day.”

“I’ll just betit’s a busy day,” the man said. “I’ll bet you anything petty thievery is the number one business in Alsdorf. I knew I should have stayed in Rio.”

A member of the Polícia Militar emerged from a room in the back of the station and walked through the office, making his way across the waiting area.

The tourist leapt from his chair. “You! Hey, you!”

The police officer completely ignored him and disappeared out the front door.

He turned back to the secretary. “What is he, deaf?”

“He is busy on a case, sir,” the woman said.

“Of course. Probably another pickpocketing. No doubt the guy who got me is out robbing more Americans.”

The woman shook her head. “No. No pickpocketing.”

“So what, then? What’s so important that they can’t see me? I’d like to know!”

The woman behind the desk did not respond to this. And rightly so, Mrs. Waxman thought. She had a good idea to give this obnoxious man a piece of her mind.

Now the tourist was peering out the front door again, looking in the direction the officer had gone. “Maybe it’s not too late to catch up with him,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ll stop him, tell him my problem. He’d have to help me then.”

The secretary shook her head. “He is much too busy.”

“Too busy? Right, too busy drinking coffee and eating doughnuts!”

The woman, provoked at last, said rather crisply: “He is investigating murders.”

Mrs. Waxman sat up in her chair.

“Murders?” the obnoxious tourist repeated. “What murders?”

But the secretary had clearly said more than she intended to. She merely shook her head again.

The tourist sat back in his chair, rolling his eyes. “Some local bar fight, no doubt. Meanwhile, I’m sitting in here, stripped of my identity in a foreign country. My God.” A beat. “You said murders. More than one?”

The woman simply nodded.

“What, you got a serial killer on the loose or something?”

The woman gave away nothing beyond a firming of her lips. Suddenly the problem of the traveler’s checks didn’t seem so important to Mrs. Waxman. Murders? Maybe she should forget about the complaint, find her husband, and get back to Brasilia as soon as possible.

While she was considering this, an idea seemed to strike the obnoxious man. He sat up and fished around in the pocket of his shapeless linen pants, pulling out a wad of Brazilian reals. Then he leaned toward the low gate, in the direction of the secretary.

“Here,” he said in a stage whisper that was still fully audible to Mrs. Waxman. “The pickpocket didn’t get these. Give twenty reals to that officer in charge of, whatever, of forms processing. Maybe that will grease the wheels of progress.”

The other office workers looked over at this. “I cannot do that, sir,” the woman said quickly, frowning.

“Not enough, eh? Okay, I can play that game.” The man pawed through some more of the crumpled bills, pulled out another. “Here. Fifty reals. Give that to him.”

The woman shook her head again, more emphatically. “No bribes.”

“No bribes? Who are you kidding? This is Brazil, right? I wasn’t born yesterday, lady.”

“There is no bribery of police in Alsdorf, sir,” the woman told him in a firm, public voice, not without a tinge of pride. “The colonel doesn’t permit it.”

“Colonel?” the tourist asked, in a tone of deepest skepticism. “What colonel?”

“Colonel Souza.”

“I don’t believe it,” the tourist replied. “What—are you looking for morereals? Thinking of splitting it with the officer yourself, are you?” He scoffed. “That’s looking out for number one, all right.”

“Sir, put your money away.” The secretary finally seemed to have reached the limit of her patience. “Look—I will let you wait in the outer office. If I permit that, will you agree to wait in silence until your turn is called?”

The tourist looked at her suspiciously. “Will I be seen more quickly?”

“It is possible.”

The man shrugged. “All right. Lead the way.”

He stood up, and the secretary led him through the gate, past the worktables, and into an open doorway in the rear. A blissful silence reigned. Mrs. Waxman finally rose and, not even bothering to tell anyone, scurried out the door, looking for a cab to take her and her husband as quickly as possible out of the town of Alsdorf.

The tourist in the flowered shirt and shapeless linen trousers waited until the secretary had pointed him to a chair. Once her footsteps had receded, he quietly moved to the door, grasped its knob, and gently pushed it until it was almost closed. And then he turned and surveyed the outer office. It had a single table, surrounded by four chairs. Three of the walls were lined with filing cabinets. As he let his eye run along their length, the tourist smiled faintly.

A series of local deaths. A police chief who could not be bribed. This was proving to be promising indeed.

“Excellent,” the man said in a dulcet southern accent far different from the one he had employed in the waiting room. “Most excellent.”

51

ON BLUMENAU’S VILA GERMÂNICA, THE FESTIVE AND brightly painted heart of German Village in the center of town, tourists could find a profusion of beer halls, beer gardens, and taverns. Many were jolly establishments, full of carousing patrons and faux-German wenches in gaudy costumes balancing numerous one-liter steins in their hands as they wound between the tables. But one or two of the drinking establishments were quieter, catering primarily to the locals; while still of remarkably authentic Bavarian architecture and interior design, they were darker inside, without the frantically convivial atmosphere of their neighbors.

One such place was the Hofgarten. Inside, it was low-ceilinged, with thick hand-hewn beams running just above the heads of the evening’s patrons. Framed prints of German castles decorated the walls, and the daily menu was listed on chalkboards. Bavarian Brezen came free with each dinner order. A long bar ran around two sides of a central island, but many of the patrons seemed to prefer the deep wooden booths that lined the tavern’s walls.

In one of the booths, a man sat reading a local paper. He was short and barrel-chested, with powerful arms and a head that seemed ever so slightly too small for his body. His face was clean-shaven, with hair slicked back by brilliantine, and although his features were Brazilian, not German, they were nevertheless fine, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. He was drinking a stein of beer and smoking a short, slender cheroot.

He glanced up to see that a man had slipped into the booth, across from him. The movement had been so quick and silent, the stranger was already sitting comfortably by the time the smoker noticed him.

“ Boa tarde,” the stranger said.

The man with the cheroot did not answer. He merely regarded the newcomer with the faintest of curiosity.

“May we speak in English?” the stranger continued. “My Portuguese is, alas, barely serviceable.”

The other shrugged, then flicked the ash off his cheroot, as if he had not yet decided whether any speaking would, in fact, be taking place.

“My name is Pendergast,” the stranger said. “And I have a proposition for you.”

The other cleared his throat. “If you knew who I am,” he said, “you would not be presuming to come to me with propositions.”

“Ah, but I do know who you are. You are Colonel Souza, head of the Alsdorf Polícia Militar.”

The colonel merely took another drag on the cheroot.

“I not only know who you are, but I know a lot about you. You were once a leader of the Batalhão de Operações Policiais Especiais—the most elite and prestigious high-speed unit of the Brazilian military police. The BOPE are both respected and feared wherever they go. And yet you left the BOPE—it wasvoluntary, wasn’t it?—to become the head of the military police of Alsdorf. Now, I find that very curious. Not to take anything away from Alsdorf, you understand—a charming village, in its way. But it does seem like a remarkable step down from a quickly rising career. You could have had your pick of assignments in, say, the Polícia Civil or even the Polícia Federal. Instead…” And Pendergast waved his hand, encompassing the interior of the Hofgarten.

“You have been investigating my background,” Colonel Souza replied. “I would suggest to you, o senhor, that this is not a healthy line of work.”

“My dear Colonel, I am merely setting the groundwork for the proposition I mentioned. And have no fear—it is not so much a business proposition as it is a professionalone.”

This was met by silence. Pendergast let it deepen for a minute before continuing.

“You also have a quality that seems almost unique in this part of the world. You are immune to corruption. Not only do you refuse to accept bribes, but you actively suppress them among your associates. This, perhaps, is another reason you ultimately found yourself back in Alsdorf—no?”

Colonel Souza plucked the cheroot from his mouth and ground it out in the ashtray. “You have outstayed your welcome, my friend. Now I suggest you leave before I have my men escort you out of town.”

In response, Pendergast reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out his FBI badge, and laid it open on the table between them. The colonel inspected it carefully for a moment before looking back at Pendergast.

“You are out of your jurisdiction,” he said.

“Very far out, I’m afraid.”

“What is it you want?”

“I want your cooperation—in an undertaking that, if successful, will greatly benefit both of us.”

The colonel sat back, lit another cheroot. “I am listening.”

“You have a problem. I have a problem. Let’s talk first about yours.” Pendergast leaned in slightly. “In recent months, Alsdorf has been troubled by a series of unsolved murders. Very unpleasant murders, too, based on the information that you’ve been withholding from the public.”

Colonel Souza, as cover for his evident surprise, removed the cheroot, inspected it, replaced it once again.

“Oh, I’ve availed myself of your files,” Pendergast said. “As I told you, my Portuguese is rather lacking, but it was more than sufficient to give me a good picture. The fact is, Colonel, there have been at least eight violent murders committed in and around Alsdorf in the last half year—and yet virtually no news of them has shown up in the local papers.”

The colonel licked his lips. “Tourism is our lifeblood. Such stories would be… bad for trade.”

“Especially if news of the modus operandi were to leak out. Some of the murders seemed to be uniquely sadistic. Others were apparently done as quickly as possible—most frequently, by the application of a knife to the jugular vein. I have seen the photographs.”

The colonel frowned but said nothing.

“And here’s the part I find most hard to understand. There have been all these recent murders—but as far as I can tell, the Polícia Civil have done little about it.”

The colonel’s frown deepened. “They can’t be bothered. Alsdorf is a poor town. It’s beneath their interest. The deaths have all been among camponês. Peasants. Day workers from the mountains. Penniless drifters.”

Pendergast nodded. “And so you are left with your own Polícia Militar force to try to solve the murders—with scant evidence to go on—all the while trying to keep things a secret from the tourists and the townsfolk. As I said—a problem.”

A barmaid came over, replaced the colonel’s beer stein with a fresh one, and asked Pendergast what he wanted.

“I’ll have what the colonel’s having,” he said in Portuguese, then switched back to English. “Let me ask you a question. When you lie awake at night, thinking about the case, thinking about who the killers might be—where do your thoughts turn?”

The colonel took a sip of beer. He didn’t reply.

“I think I know. Your thoughts travel upriver, into the deep forests. To the place known as Nova Godói.”

For the first time, the colonel looked at him with genuine shock on his face.

Pendergast nodded. “There are many rumors about the place, are there not? It has had an evil reputation for more than half a century. Speculation about what goes on there, about who lives there and what they do… let’s just say that plenty of whispering takes place among the townsfolk of Alsdorf. Rumors of curious folks who have made their way upriver to Nova Godói… never to be seen again.”

Pendergast’s stein arrived. He looked at the beer but did not touch it.

“There’s something else I know about you, Colonel. It’s true—you care about Alsdorf. You care deeply about it. The fact that the civil police aren’t interested in these murders must stick in your craw. But the truth is, you’ve been in the army. You were a decorated member of the BOPE. And I sense you are a man who—if you saw your duty clearly—would not let bureaucracy, or the chain of command, stand in your way. If you knew what was going on at Nova Godói—if you knew they were responsible for these murders, and for those not yet committed—I believe that you would not hesitate to act.”

Colonel Souza looked at Pendergast—a long, penetrating, speculative look. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“What do youknow about Nova Godói?” Pendergast asked.

The colonel laid down the butt end of the cheroot in an ashtray, took a long draft from his stein. “It was said to have started as a mission, established centuries ago by the Franciscans, high in the mountains.”

“And?”

He went on, reluctantly. “The good fathers were massacred by the local Indians, and so the mission was turned into a garrison for Portuguese soldiers, who eventually destroyed the indígenas. Then it became a plantation, which was abandoned in the 1930s. After the war, some German refugees settled there, as they did in many other areas of Brazil.”

“What is its physical situation?”

“It’s remarkably remote, almost impossible to reach, and then only by the rio. The German settlement is on the shores of a crater lake in the mountains. And in the middle of the lake there is an island, which is where the mission was built, and then the ancient fort.” He shrugged. “The inhabitants keep completely to themselves. They use Alsdorf as their portal to the outside world, for news and supplies and the like, coming and going, but never interacting, even with their German compatriots.” He paused. “They blend in as much as possible, try not to call attention to themselves. Beyond that, I can tell you nothing.”

Pendergast nodded slowly. “It would be a dangerous undertaking, along the lines of a military operation. And the civil police, of course, would be given no word of this—it would be undertaken by the men of your own Polícia Militar, and it would have to remain an undocumented action. The target will no doubt be well guarded and heavily defended: an attack force of at least a hundred men, preferably more, will be required. But you would not go in without a full briefing, without the benefit of a reconnaissance—which I will provide. As I implied, if we are successful—then this curse that has lain over Alsdorf would be lifted forever.”

“So you are saying that the people in Nova Godói are responsible for the murders?” the colonel asked.

“That is exactly what I’m saying.”

“And your evidence?”

Pendergast removed from the inside of his sports jacket several photographs from the crime scenes in New York. One by one, he laid them before the colonel, who perused them in silence.

“Yes, these are the same as the local killings,” he said.

“These killings occurred in New York. I have traced the killer to Nova Godói.”

“But why New York?”

“It is a long story, which I will be glad to tell you later. Now: do you need more evidence of what I say, or will this suffice?”

“It is sufficient,” said the colonel, turning away from the pictures with disgust.

“There are a few conditions. Two young men are hidden somewhere within the Nova Godói compound. They are twins. Neither is to be harmed—I’ll deal with them myself. I’ll provide you with sketches.”

The colonel looked back at Pendergast, saying nothing.

“There is one other. There will be a man in Nova Godói—a tall, powerfully built man with closely cropped snow-white hair. His name is Fischer. No one else is to touch him. He is mine and I will, again, deal with him.”

A silence settled over the table.

“Those are my only conditions,” Pendergast said. “Now—are you interested in hearing what I plan to do next?”

For a moment, the colonel remained silent. Then a slow smile spread over his features. “I find that I am very much interested, Agent Pendergast,” he said.