THE MERCEDES handled the mountain dirt road adroitly but, Edson imagined, with a touch of stoicism. He put his hand over the doctor’s small red—nailed one. As expected, she stiffened when she saw the sign over Cabeceiras’s unimposing gates: QUARANTINE—ANTHRAX. ENTRY STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.
“Nothing to worry about. Just a cover. Have a Guaraná.” He took the soft drink from the limo’s refrigerator, watched carefully as she drank.
Past the gates. Cowless fields to either side, the complex so far away, its profile so low, that it couldn’t yet be seen.
“You were telling me about the coral snake?”
“It’s passive.” Her voice was tight.
“Yes? And?”
“They bite only when they’re hurt. Friendly, really. You can play with them.”
They topped a rise. Ahead, a cluster of buildings.
Her knuckles paled against the bottle. “Where are you taking me? I thought Donato would be in a hospital.”
“He wasn’t hurt badly. You’re very brave,” he said, “to play with snakes.”
“I hear rumors. People disappear. Nothing ever heard from them again. One day they’re there, and—”
“All working on the project. Dangerous, isn’t it, to play with snakes?”
“No. The corals, they have tiny mouths. Tiny teeth, for killing small animals. Between the toes or the fingers, that’s where they pierce the skin. They have to chew very hard. It’s not easy for them to kill a human.” A mad rush of words. Frightened already. She knew something was wrong. “They don’t mean to bite. Not their fault. But people step on them.” She turned to meet his gaze. Her eyes were wide, but already sleepy. He took the half—empty bottle and set it aside.
“Corals. They’re beautiful.”
“Yes.” An intake of breath. “Listen. I don’t know anything.”
The car stopped. She took in the blank wall. The parking lot. Muller got out of the front seat and opened the passenger door. She clutched Edson’s hand so hard that her nails dug into his flesh; an accidental bite.
“Come,” Edson said, and helped her out.
The three of them walked into the building and down a long faceless hall.
“Where is Donato?”
Edson hooked her arm, drew her close, and said, “I have lied to you a little.”
He felt her knees weaken, saw her eyes glaze. Fear? Or the sedative?
At the end of the hall, soldiers. She saw the guns and made a sound deep in her throat. Muller grabbed her other arm before she could bolt.
“I don’t know anything,” she said.
The soldiers swung open a door. Edson walked faster, so she would have less time to think. Beyond the entrance lay an echoing hangar, and the small steel chamber that two years ago Freitas had ordered built.
“Donato isn’t hurt. Not at all. He’s inside, in the chamber, waiting.”
Her voice rose. “No. Tell him to come here. Tell him to come talk to me.”
“He says you have to go in.”
“But I don’t know anything!”
Light spilled into the tiny chamber, across the floor, and bent toward a pencil point at the center. The interior stretched to a dim otherworldly infinity.
Her legs gave out. Muller put his arm around her waist. He was whispering into her ear in a fast, cajoling voice.
“Donato says he has something to show you,” Edson told her. “I’ve heard it’s wonderful.”
Her eyes were starting to close. She whipped her head back and forth. Her breath went in and out in sucking sounds, like sobs. She fought desperately, but without coordination.
Edson didn’t want to watch another one. “Wait until she’s nearly asleep. Don’t hurt her,” he ordered, and walked from the hangar.
* * *
There was no air—conditioning in the embassy’s sound—hardened room. Three people in it, and the atmosphere was stifling. Smooth white walls, overly smooth. To make it more bearable, perhaps, someone had furnished it with two overstuffed chairs and a sofa.
“So I wake up when the phone rings ...”
“Who called?” The major’s question, his words as hard and fast as bullets.
“I don’t know. Anyway, I walk out and she’s got my luggage. She went through my goddamned luggage. And then this morning she starts in with the male—bashing. A weird chick,” Roger said in summation. “She scares me.”
Kinch, the tall guy with the dork haircut and glasses, laughed. Roger wanted to slap the shit out of him.
“Come on, guys. She as much as admitted to me that she kills people.”
McNatt sat even straighter, a hundred and ten percent Semper Fi. “As they informed you at Langley, Dr. Lintenberg: Dolores Sims is not reliable.”
“In other words, Roger, don’t believe a thing the bitch says.” It was obvious Kinch thought he was cool. What ruined his image was that doofus grin and that nerdy way of adjusting his glasses. “She might be playing doubles.”
Nudge nudge. Wink wink. Kinch leered at McNatt, who, Roger noted, did not smile back.
“No reason to be afraid of her, Dr. Lintenberg. Dolores Sims is just your ordinary, run—of—the—mill dyke.”
Roger snorted. “Not politically correct, Major McNatt, seeing as how you’re just a nigger.”
McNatt started to his feet.
Kinch put a warning hand on his shoulder. “We’re all on the same team here, aren’t we? Let’s just put the ball in play.”
Roger slumped into his chair. “I want to see the UFOs. I thought that’s why I was sent here. That’s what I’m an expert on. Not this spy shit.” The spooks scared him, like Dolores Sims scared him. Working with spies was like using a computer after someone took a couple of bytes out of its operating system.
Kinch said, “Real soon, Roger. We’ll get you out to Cabeceiras real soon.”
“For now, you will put the transmitters in her purse, in her billfold, in whatever you deem essential,” McNatt said.
“Yeah. Okay.”
“And you are not to be seen doing so,” he added.
“Yeah. Right. And am I supposed to deliver the two mil, too?”
“Best to forget you ever heard that,” Kinch warned amiably. He elbowed McNatt. The major didn’t change expression.
“Yeah?” Roger asked. “That’s a shitload of money. What’d she mean, ‘safe passage out of Brazil’?”
Kinch shook with silent laughter. McNatt sat back, his shoulders relaxing.
“No. You guys ... You’re fucking with me here. You and Dee. Everybody’s fucking with me. All this ‘wet work’ crap and everything. ’Cause—crazy, right?—but what it sounds like to me is she’s supposed to, you know, off the president.”
“Oh, Dr. Lintenberg.” A twinkle came into the major’s eyes. He didn’t look like a recruitment poster anymore, but a ten year—old kid who’d just put one over on his teacher. “There are laws against that.”
* * *
The waiting room was empty except for José Carlos, who sat cross—legged on the tile floor, somberly playing with a radio—controlled car.
The boy looked up when Edson walked in. The car, unsupervised, ran into a chair leg and stopped. “Where’s pai?”
“Have you had lunch?”
He nodded, a lock of dark hair spilling into his eyes.
“Well, then. Have you had chocolate?”
The eyes widened in anticipation.
Edson opened the door and caught the attention of the agent on guard. “Get chocolate,” he said. “Lots of it. The president’s Belgian chocolate, not the Brazilian crap.”
“Sir,” the guard said, nodding.
To the agent’s retreating back, he called, “And her Chivas Regal.”
Edson sat beside José Carlos and watched him deftly back the car away from the chair leg. “You ever had Belgian chocolates? No? Ever have Chivas Regal? That’s a pretty car.”
“A Corvette.”
“Americans build pretty cars that go very fast for a very short while. Tell me about your mother.”
He didn’t look up from the controls.
“Is your mother pretty? Is she sweet? My mother wasn’t pretty, but I think sweet is better, anyway. My mother sewed all my clothes. She made me canja and rice pudding when I was sick.”
“Mãe fell down.”
“Oh?”
“Uh—huh. Mamãe fell down and hurt herself. And pai couldn’t fix her anymore.”
The agent came in, toting a silver tray with the Chivas and chocolates. When the agent left, Edson poured himself a drink. “Eat the chocolates. That is an order.”
He looked over. José Carlos was crying, and wiping his face with his sleeve.
“How fast does your car go?”
Another shrug, sullen this time.
Edson drained the glass. Lead crystal. The presidential seal etched on its side. He took a mouthful of Chivas from the bottle, leaned over; and put the empty glass on the car’s hood. “Now,” he said. “Let’s see how fast. Back it up so you get some speed. Aim for the wall.”
“It will break.”
“Sometimes men must break things, even when they don’t wish to.” He handed the bottle to the boy. “Take a drink. Go on. It makes it easier, You can play with coral snakes, José Carlinho. Did you know that? I don’t suggest you should do so. It takes an expert.”
“Pai broke mãe, but he didn’t mean to, either, I guess he had to, then.” José Carlos lowered the bottle and stared at the car. “I don’t like the thing that lives in pai. It hurts me. The doctor used to come in before him, and he spoke funny, and I liked him. I think sweet is better, too. Doctor Singh would leave pai after the patients were over, and when pai was pai again, he would read me funny stories. He would take me to the venda and buy me an ice cream.” A tear slid down his cheek.
“Say ‘fuck you.’”
José Carlos turned, shocked.
“That is what men say to life when nothing can be done. Fuck you. Never say it in front of a lady. Now. Break the glass.”
The boy bent over the controls. The car rushed toward the far wall. When it hit the plaster, it flipped. The glass arced up, tumbled down, exploded into a glistening spray of shards. José Carlos squealed.
A drowsy contralto from behind: “Boys’ games.”
Edson didn’t turn. “Fuck you, Ana Maria. What would you know of it?”
The tap—tap of high heels. A slower man’s tread. Edson. saw José Carlos look up, saw the boy’s face change.
“Zé Carlos,” Edson said. “Take your car and go out into the hall. Take the chocolates, too. Ask the guard outside for another glass. A dozen of them.”
A good boy. He got up and quietly left the room.
“Dr. Lizette loved snakes,” Edson said.
“I don’t want to know.”
“Santa Ana, patron of the vanished. You never do.”
“You look ridiculous on the floor, Edson.”
Edson lifted his head. Freitas was watching him, and behind the channeler’s human eyes Edson could sense ...
“She loves snakes,” Freitas agreed.
“What do you do with them? Where are they, really?” Edson asked. “Are they dead, like your wife?”
“They love being with us.” The man bent, picked up a piece of broken crystal, and studied it. A line of blood ran down his finger. “They never want to leave.”
Suddenly Freitas hunkered beside him, hands cupped on his knees. One palm was full of blood. “They have bright colors in bands, and small mouths, and tiny teeth. She loves being with us, you see? We make it so pleasant, they all love it there.” The dark eyes met his. “I could show you things.”
Edson started to get up, but Freitas caught his wrist. His blood trickled down Edson’s arm. Hot, damp lips brushed Edson’s ear. “You’re not such a bad man.”
A yank, and Edson was free. He clambered, stumbling, to his feet.
Ana was regarding him, her eyes narrowed. “I’ve ordered Jaje moved to the Petrópolis house,” she said. “They were demonstrating at the universities.”
Freitas remained squatted, watching his own blood drip. Edson took out his handkerchief and daubed at his cuff until the handkerchief was stained red.
“Edson? Are you listening? I had to pull my little girl out of class so she wouldn’t hear me called a murderess. You promised me you would take care of everything.” Her voice was sharp and high—pitched. Not at all like Ana.
Edson forgot his disgust. Suddenly he was aware of how tiny Ana was, as if he was seeing her for the first time without the aid of a telescope. And it scared him. “No, Ana. I never promised you that.”
* * *
Roger was waiting for the bus when he felt a hand grab his elbow. He turned. A fiftyish black man in a blue knit shirt, with a duffel bag over his shoulder.
Velvet baritone and American English. “Don’t look.” Friendly chestnut brown face, and a muscular fireplug of a body. “The next bus. Get on.”
JARDIM ZOOLÓGICO, the sign on the bus read. “But I’m not—”
The man hissed, “Just do it.”
They boarded. Roger took a seat near the front. The man passed him, and sat next to a woman with a straw basket. He didn’t look Roger’s way.
Roger considered getting off at the next stop, but the bus had turned down a broad avenue and picked up speed. Soon he was lost.
When they arrived at the zoo, the man exited with a group of schoolchildren, Roger followed. He bought his ticket and went through the gates. The children were clustering around the concession stand. The black man in the blue shirt was gone.
A nearby peacock gave him a sharp black stare. Hands in his pockets, Roger walked on. Except for the animals, the park was empty. The bears slept indolently in the midday heat. A lion, belly to the concrete floor of his cage, lifted his head off his paws as Roger passed. A band of monkeys hooted and screamed and chased each other across a rocky island.
Someone bumped his back. A mumbled, “Desculpe.”
Roger flinched. The man in the blue shirt was regarding him. “Vocé ié estrangiero, não é? Americano?” he asked so fast that Roger’s confusion and Berlitz Portuguese left him mute.
“Alemão? Ingles?”
“Americano.”
“No shit. I’m an American, too.” The man’s smile was irresistible.
Roger found himself smiling back.
“I love watching the monkeys.” The man propped his elbows on the steel bar and looked across the moat to monkey island. “Look at that guy. Look at him run.”
A trio of monkeys was chasing a fourth. The three were screaming murderously.
“There’s a gun in the duffel. Play it casual.”
Roger’s grin failed.
“Hey, you like penguins?” Challenging dark eyes met his.
He swallowed hard. “Love penguins.”
“Come on,” the man said.
They walked the sun—dappled path side by side.
“What’s your name?” the man asked conversationally.
“Roger.”
“I’m Jack. Jack Jackson, actually. Youngest of eight children, born just as my mom surrendered to tubal ligation and redundancy. Glad to meet you, Roger.” He was occupied with his duffel bag, and didn’t offer to shake hands. “What do you do?”
They passed the cheetahs. Roger looked at them for help, for clues. “When?”
Jack’s laugh, too, was engaging. “You know. For a living, I mean.”
“I’m with NASA.”
“Must be interesting. I’m a librarian.”
“A librarian?”
“Uh—huh. With the American library. Pretty boring stuff. I taught at Arizona State until the wife left me. Did the middle—age crazy. Lost myself. Found myself again. Found my lady. You?”
Roger glanced at him uneasily. “What?”
“Got somebody waiting for you at home?”
“Uh, not yet.”
“I tell you, Roger. It’s worth waiting for. I didn’t marry until I was thirty. Now I can’t imagine a life without. A lady makes things home. Upper midwest?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your accent. I’m kind of a linguistics nut. I’m originally from south central L.A., although Columbia muddled my homeboy idiom. Columbia University, that is.”
“Nice place, south central L.A.”
Jack looked at him.
“Nice place, Columbia University.”
“So. Roger. You’re from the upper midwest, right?”
“Minnesota.”
“Oh,” Jack said, nodding. “Then you’ll like this.”
The inside of the penguin building was dark and cool and empty. A shove. Roger stumbled forward, hands outspread. He caught himself against the glass. Penguins peered at him in mild interest.
Jack’s voice wasn’t conversational anymore. “Don’t turn around. Who are you?”
The glass was chill against his cheek. “I’m Roger Lintenberg. I’m with NASA.”
A hand patted his jacket, rummaged in his jean pockets. Took out his passport, his wallet. Slid down his pants legs. Disconcertingly ran up the inseam. “Hey! Hey!”
Cold metal pressed the back of his ear. “Don’t move.”
Roger gritted his teeth as strong fingers probed his genitals. Suddenly Jack stood away. “Unzip your pants.”
“What? What did you—”
“Unzip your pants.”
Roger’s zipper stuck halfway down. He tugged at it frantically. Giggles and chatter from the far doorway. The schoolchildren. Roger froze, imagining small corpses on bloody concrete, the mute witness of penguins. But Jack’s gun was back in the bag. Confused, Roger stood, hand gripping his fly.
A little girl pointed. “Is that man going xí—xí?” And the chaperon, in a fluster, hurried them out.
When they were gone, Jack laughed and shook his head. Then he gave Roger back his passport and wallet. He lifted a red plastic bag. “See what I found in your pocket? Small round things. Feels like ...”
“Transmitters.”
“I thought so. Did you know that silencers don’t make a lot of noise? Hence the name. Did you know that if you shoot someone in the heart, they don’t bleed much? I like that shirt, Roger.”
Roger looked down at his maroon shirt anxiously. “Please. Come on. I don’t know anything.”
“What are you doing with these transmitters?”
“The CIA gave them to me.”
Jack sighed. “May we get right to the point? We don’t have much time.”
“I’m getting to the point. Really. Gimme a hint.”
Jack took the gun from the duffel. Long barrel. Silencer. The gun took forever to emerge. “Who were you sent to kill?”
“Oh, no. Aw, Jesus. Please don’t.” Roger’s stomach tightened when the muzzle touched it. He went tiptoe and squeezed his eyes shut. “Please. I’m a member of MUFON, the Mutual UFO Network. About a year ago I started leaking some NASA information: video clips, photos. The CIA found out. Threatened to tell my boss if I didn’t do a little UFO investigating for them in Brazil. I didn’t want to be fired. That’s all. Swear to God. But ...”
“But?”
“If you’re with the Americans, didn’t they say?”
The gun pressed harder.
“Okay, okay, okay. They want me to be a go—between for that painter, too. You looking for a hit man ... uh, person? Well, it’s her. It’s Dolores Sims.”
The gun went away. Roger opened his eyes a slit. The barrel was still aimed at Roger’s belly. “Who was the asshole who told you that?”
“She was. I mean, she told me. No. No! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot, okay? Just—oh, please—can’t we chill here?”
“You’re shitting me, son. Don’t shit me.”
“Wait. See? She told me to tell the CIA that she wanted two million dollars. And then ... lemme get it straight. Uh, McNatt and that dork from Raytheon ... Oh, right. I don’t know if this is important, but they said she was a dyke—”
The pistol barrel punched a neat round bruise in his belly. Pain took his breath away.
“Ow. Hey. I’m just telling you what they said. And then they said she killed somebody once. But she seemed okay to me. I kinda like her, lesbian or not. Personally I don’t have anything against, you know ... In fact, some of my best—”
“Stupid—ass white boy. You don’t know dick.” Jack put the gun in the bag and walked out.
Roger could breathe again. He slid to the raw, stained concrete, among the gum wads and candy wrappers. Above his left shoulder birds in formal dress paraded, flapping their flightless wings.