THE SÃO PAULO agent—Edson couldn’t remember his name—leaned across the car seat to put that morning’s Folha into his lap. “This story here,” he said.
Four column inches below the fold on page eight. No byline. Palmer National Bank Contributed to Bonfim’s 1987 Campaign.
Edson put the newspaper on the velour and opened the window. The alley of Butantã Reptile Institute was dank, red brick walls to either side pied green with mold. Silent, of course. Snakes were silent. But still, it smelled like a zoo. “I want monkeys.”
“Sir?”
“And tigers. And birds. Birds make a lot of noise. They feed the snakes mice, I suppose. Mice don’t make noise, either.”
Endless brick buildings, sun—dappled by overhanging trees. Near the eaves, long barred windows. A calm morning in Auschwitz. Were they afraid the snakes would escape? Or robbers would try to get in?
“What do you think about the story, sir?”
Dr. Lizette Andrade de Morais, who studied snakes. Edson hoped she wasn’t pretty. Wasn’t young. It was harder when they were young.
He felt light—headed, as if the car was still moving. That flight from Brasília—what did the Americans call it? Oh, yes. A red—eye.
“I think that no one has the experience of the Americans when it comes to managing political scandal,” Edson said. “I think that in a few days we’ll see the story move from four inches on page eight to sixteen inches on page one. Find out who the reporter is.”
The São Paulo agent, really just a boy, nodded. “We’ll contain it.”
Ana had committed the unforgivable sin. Jealousy had been loosed from the deep—no one could contain it. Edson closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw Muller coming, a woman in tow. Young. Dark cascades of curls. Nice legs. A shame.
“Where’s Donato?” she asked when Muller opened the car door.
“We’re taking you to him.” Muller firmly helped her inside.
She turned around in her seat to look at Edson. “Where’s Donato?”
Muller got behind the wheel. There was a quiet, well—oiled slam from the Volvo’s door.
“In Brasília. Is Donato your boyfriend?” Edson asked.
“No.” She whipped her head to Muller. The car drove down the alley, picking up speed. “Yes. Brasília? Who are you?”
“Friends of Donato,” Edson said.
She stiffened as the Volvo left the gates and turned into the morning traffic. “Is he in some sort of trouble?” Her voice was reedy, her movements agitated. Angry? She would cause a scene at the airport. Or hysterical? She might try to jump from the car.
“Are you gangsters?” she demanded. “Is that what you are?”
The São Paulo boy laughed.
“Donato was injured,” Edson said.
Her coffee eyes widened.
“Don’t worry. He was just a little injured, working on a government project. He asked for you. We thought we would take you to him.”
“He never told me about a government project.”
“Of course not.” Edson winked. “It’s a secret.”
* * *
Too dull. The new painting should look brooding, but it simply looked dull. Gray. More gray. Dead leaf brown. Colors she barely remembered. Was that the truth about winter?
A sound from the living room. Roger was up, studying the photos on her walls. Finally he wandered into the studio.
“Morning.” In one fist was a coffee mug, in the other a Coke. He tossed the can to her. A poor throw, but she caught it left—handed. The can was empty. No rattle of bolts. So it wasn’t the one from her room.
“I thought you might want to read the message.”
She crushed the can, top to bottom. “You’re kidding, right?” When he didn’t answer, she threw it back hard. “I told you: I know what it says.”
Roger didn’t make a move to catch it. The can hit the plaster with a sharp clank. “Great arm. You don’t throw like a girl. I was noticing the pictures ...” He tipped his head toward the living room. “Hiking through the jungle. Boating down the Amazon. Was that the Andes you were climbing?”
“In Bolivia. A long time ago.”
“Hey. You were a good—looking chick.”
“Up yours, Roger,” she said tiredly. She jabbed a paintbrush in his direction. “You know the problem with men? They have tunnel vision. It comes from looking at everything through their dicks.”
“Oh. Oh, hey, I didn’t ... I mean, well? You have that great bone structure, you know? They say you never lose the cheekbones.” He grimaced charmingly. “Have I dug myself out yet?”
“A little bitty hole, Roger. The penis has this little bitty hole. The Amazon jungle. The Andes. And all it lets you see is a good—looking chick in khakis. You have a girlfriend?”
Red—faced now, he shot back, “No. Do you?”
She felt her own face go hot. So, back at the Company, the rumors about her and Ana were still flying. Roger, hands in his pockets, was studying her sculpture as if gauging how much strength it might have taken to lift the blocks of peroba wood and the granite to their perches.
“I was never very good at it,” she said.
His eyes met hers. He hadn’t been thinking of sculpture at all, but of relationships.
She laughed. “Jesus. Let’s call a cease—fire.”
He sat on a paint—splattered stool. She liked the careless, childish way he plunked himself down, neglecting to check if the paint was wet. Roger would be interesting to draw: his face a simple circle, with complex intelligent eyes.
He said, “The bus comes every hour, right? I’m supposed to meet with the embassy people today. What do you want me to tell them?”
She squeezed crimson onto the palette and brushed it, a swatch of bloody anger, down the right side of the canvas.
“Oh, come on, Dee. It’s not a big deal. They just want you to talk to her. That’s all they want.”
Her hand twitched, an involuntary muscle spasm, as if somewhere a puppeteer had jerked a string. Funny. She thought when Harry died, she’d be free.
“They’ll have to bring me home afterwards,” she said.
“What?”
“Safe passage out of Brazil. And I’ll need a house, a nice one on a few acres near Richmond. A million in the bank. No, two million. You tell them that’s my price.”
* * *
Hiroshi bent into a forty—five—degree bow, hands on his knees. “Tell Tokyo that I am to blame. I relied too much on CIA information.”
Ambassador Mitsuyo waved the apology away. “Ah, Hiroshi. This is understandable. You have not been trained in political espionage. Join us.”
Kasahara kept his gaze tactfully lowered. But the eyes of Kengo Fujita, the head of covert operations, followed Hiroshi as he walked to the opposite end of the table and sat.
Kengo said, “My contacts indicate that Brazilian resistance to partnerships may be softening. Perhaps we can invite them to enter the downscaled fusion project with us. Nissan is willing.”
Hiroshi stiffened. How long had Kengo been double—checking his work? And who had misled the man?
A cough as Kasahara drew attention away from his beleaguered protege. “Yes. But to take away the need for petroleum would mean breaking the back of the American economy.”
The ambassador grunted. “If things go on as they are, that is destined to happen, anyway. This antigravity already makes Nissan’s fusion prototype obsolete. We should offer ourselves as partners for the new technology before the Americans do.”
Hiroshi felt sweat bead his upper lip and fought the urge to wipe it away.
“An excellent idea,” Kasahara agreed. “Still, I wonder at the fear I saw yesterday in the Germans’ faces.”
Kengo laughed. “My contacts tell me that the astronauts landed, this time without news coverage. The satellite has begun transmission. The Germans got what they wanted, and cheaply. Still, what is it the Americans say? A tiger by the tail?”
“Yes. A tiger by the tail. We must never forget that.” Hiroshi met Kengo’s glare. “The CIA created Ana Maria Bonfim. Now they can no longer control her.”
Ambassador Mitsuyo pulled a Winston from a crumpled pack.
Hiroshi said, “The Americans will overreact and topple the government.”
“The technology will be lost.” Kasahara’s voice was soft, his words measured. He shot Hiroshi a cautionary glance.
The ambassador took smoke deep into his lungs, let it out in a sigh. Kasahara folded his hands over his belly. Following his mentor’s lead, Hiroshi sat back. They waited for someone, anyone, to speak.
It was Kengo Fujita who broke the silence. “The Americans are vital trade partners.”
Mitsuyo ground his cigarette out in the ashtray. “And we know them better than the Brazilians. We can predict their actions.”
Hiroshi nearly came out of his seat. “But we also know their failings.” They looked surprised. Had he protested too vehemently? He struggled to control himself, but the words had been pent for too long. “Because the CIA has forgotten tradecraft, the Americans will be forced to bring in troops. In the meantime, the CIA ignores the important question: Why are Brazilians disappearing? Why kidnap professors of French, and herpetologists, and housewives? It does not make sense. The Americans watch with their satellites and listen from a distance. They are deaf and blind.”
A strained silence, then Kengo’s “Best to play both sides.”
“Safer,” Toyoko Chiharu agreed.
“I ...” Hiroshi began, but stopped himself. The other four men were nodding, one big happy family.
Accepting the consensus, Ambassador Mitsuyo got to his feet. Once more Kasahara had yielded to group pressure. Once again the agreement was to do nothing. Hiroshi stood and bowed.
He could not meet Mitsuyo’s or Kasahara’s eyes. Duty demanded obedience. Survival demanded more. He must work alone now, no matter how the prospect terrified him and knowing full well that the nail which sticks up is hammered down.