Blue Labyrinth

38

The Hilux, horn blaring, forced its way through the twisting alleyways of the favela like an elephant through a cane break. Sidewalk vendors had no choice but to retreat inside their building fronts; pedestrians and bicyclists either veered away down alleys or shrank into doorways. On more than one occasion, the rearview mirrors of the pickup scraped against buildings on either side. Pendergast’s abductors said nothing, merely covering him with their AR-15s. Always the vehicle climbed, moving determinedly up the switchbacks, past the structures that spread across the flanks of the hillside like a multicolored fungus.

At last they stopped at a small compound at the very highest point of the favela. Yet another armed man rolled open an improvised chain-link gate, and the Hilux drove into a small parking area. All four men got out of the pickup. One of them gestured with his rifle for Pendergast to do the same.

The agent complied, blinking in the harsh sunlight. The seemingly endless cluster of ramshackle sheds and improvised houses sprawled down the hillside below, eventually yielding to the more orderly streets of Rio proper and, beyond, the sparkling azure of Guanabara Bay.

The compound consisted of three buildings, functionally identical, different from the rest of the favela only in that they were in better repair. Several large, ragged holes in the central building had been patched over with cement and repainted. A generator stood in the courtyard, grinding away. At least a dozen cables of various colors looped overhead, fixed to various points on the roofs. Two of the men gestured for Pendergast to enter the central building.

The interior was dark, cool, and spartan. With the barrels of their semi-automatic weapons, the guards prodded him down a tiled corridor, up two flights of stairs, and into a large room that was clearly an office. Like the rest of the house, it was almost monastic in its lack of decor. There was a desk of some nondescript wood — flanked by more guards carrying more AR-15s — and a few hard wooden chairs. A crucifix hung on one of the painted cinder-block walls and a large flat-panel television on another. It was tuned to a soccer game, the sound muted.

Behind the desk sat a man perhaps thirty years old. He was dark-skinned, with unruly wavy hair and three days’ growth of beard. He wore shorts, a tank top, and a pair of the ubiquitous Havaianas. A thick platinum chain hung around his neck, and a gold Rolex was strapped to one wrist. Despite the relative youth and informal dress, he radiated confidence and authority. As Pendergast entered, the man regarded him with glittering black eyes. He took a long pull from a bottle of Bohemia beer that sat on his desk. Then he turned to Pendergast’s abductors and spoke to them in Portuguese. One of them frisked Pendergast, removed the wallet and passport, and laid them on the desk.

The man glanced at them without bothering to examine either. “Pasporte.” He frowned. “Só isso? That’s all?”

“Sim.”

Pendergast was searched again, more thoroughly this time. The remainder of the wad of reais was recovered and placed on the desk in turn. But when they were done, Pendergast indicated with his chin something they’d missed in the hem of his jacket.

They searched it, found the crackle of a folded piece of paper. With a curse, one of them opened a flick knife and cut open the hem, removing a photograph. It was one taken of Alban after his death, retouched slightly to make it more life-like. They spread it open and laid it on the desk, next to the wallet and passport.

When the man saw the photograph, his entire expression changed from one of irritated boredom to shock and surprise. He snatched up the photograph and stared at it.

“Meu filho,” Pendergast repeated.

The man stared at him, stared at the photo, stared back at him with a searching expression. Only now did he pick up the other objects, first the passport, then the wallet, and examined each one carefully. At last, he turned to one of the guards. “Guarda a porta,” he said. “Niguen pode entrar.”

The guard walked over to the office door, shut and locked it, then stood before it, weapon at the ready.

The man behind the desk looked up at Pendergast again. “So,” he said in accented but excellent English. “You are the man who fearlessly enters the Cidade dos Anjos dressed like an undertaker, carrying a gun, and wandering about telling everyone that you are looking for your son.”

Pendergast did not reply. He merely stood before the desk, swaying slightly.

“I am amazed you survived. Perhaps because it was such a crazy thing to do, they assumed you were harmless. Now—” he tapped the photograph—“I realize you are anything but harmless.”

The man picked up the passport and the photograph and stood up. A large handgun could be seen shoved into the waistband of his shorts. He came around the desk and placed himself directly before Pendergast.

“You don’t look well, cada,” he said, apparently taking note of Pendergast’s pallor, the beading of sweat on his temples. He took another look at the passport and the photograph. “Nevertheless, a remarkable resemblance,” he said more to himself than to anyone else.

A minute passed in silence.

“When did you last see your son?” he asked.

“Two weeks ago,” Pendergast replied.

“Where?”

“Dead. On my doorstep.”

A look of shock, or pain, or perhaps both, briefly distorted the young man’s expression. Another minute passed before he spoke again. “And why are you here?”

A pause. “To find out who killed him.”

The man nodded. This was a motive he could understand. “And that is why you wander our favela, asking everyone about him?”

Pendergast passed a hand over his eyes. The drugs were starting to wear off, and the pain was returning. “Yes. I need to… know what he was doing here.”

The room fell into a silence. Finally, the man sighed. “Caralho,” he muttered.

Pendergast said nothing.

“And you seek revenge on his killer?”

“I only seek information. What happens after that… I don’t know.”

The man seemed to consider this a moment. Then he gestured toward one of the chairs. “Please. Take a seat.”

Pendergast sank into the nearest chair.

“My name is Fábio,” the man continued. “When my scouts reported that a strange man had come into my city, mumbling about his son, I thought little of it. But when they described a man tall of carriage, hands like nervous white spiders, skin as pale as marble, eyes like silver conchas — I had to wonder. And yet how could I be sure? I apologize for the manner in which you were brought to this place, but…” He shrugged. Then he stared sharply at Pendergast. “What you say — it is really true? It is hard to believe a person such as him could be murdered.”

Pendergast nodded.

“Then it is as he feared,” the man named Fábio said.

Pendergast looked across the desk. He knew that this was precisely how the drug lords of Rio dressed; how they lived; how they were armed. He struggled to recall the words of Colonel Azevedo: The Cidade dos Anjos is the largest, most violent, and most powerful of the favelas. The drug lords who lead it are not only ruthless, but fearless.

“All I want is information,” said Pendergast.

“And you shall have it. In fact, it is my duty to give it to you. I will tell you the story. The story of your son. Alban.”