The Fugitive

Chapter 1

The small, dumpy man woke sharply, the ever-present trembling slowly subsiding, the deep throb of the plane’s huge motors returning through the frightening dreams to his consciousness. The tiny pillow had slipped from his shoulders, his head had fallen against the window frame; the briefcase chained to his wrist had twisted and the latch was cutting into the back of his hand. He pulled it back into a comfortable position and yawned deeply. Sunlight slotted the pulsing cabin, creeping in through the half-closed curtains, but the other passengers still slept soundly. A dead planet in orbit, high in the thin air; a satellite morgue, he thought, and glanced at his watch. Five A.M.; four hours to Rio de Janeiro.

Below, the jungle had disappeared during the night. The mottled stained green carpet that had shamed their noisy passage with mysterious silence was gone with his fleeting memory of it. Now there were splotched-brown oddly shaped hills, sewn to the endless plain with blue threads of winding watercourses. The reflection of the sun winked from one to the other; from twenty-five thousand feet up it was impossible to tell if they were small creeks or large rivers, or if the higher dull mounds were respectable hills or low hummocks.

Relativity, he thought, amazed as always at the odd fare his mind served up for inspection. Einstein always explained things horizontally; he should have explained them vertically. At least airplane passengers would have understood. His eye, searching the earth for diversion, caught and followed a beaten road twisting below, leading in the distance to a lonely house — a tiny block, a toy, lost in the vast isolation. And why, he began to wonder, would anyone live out here; and then suddenly smiled wryly. Let us assume a fugitive, he thought; one with either a flair for stupidity or a wonderful sense of humor, hiding in plain sight, safe from all dangers except the all-watching eye of passing planes, or the more punishing desolation of his endless solitude. A shadow crossed his mind; let us think of something else, he thought. There are many things I shall have to learn about fugitives and their ways, but all in good time.

The stewardess, noting his activity, was hovering over him, the usual professional smile for a fellow nonsleeper oddly missing from her pretty, vacuous face. It would never occur to her to wonder why some stubborn farmer might choose to sweat out his years on barren soil somewhere in the vast unknown beneath the steady wings. To her, the flight would be a familiar tunnel filled with night and small coffee cups, with Kleenex and whiskey-sodas, with Dramamine and unfolded blankets, which you entered quite normally at Port-of-Spain in Trinidad, and from which you routinely emerged at Galeão in Rio de Janeiro. The romances of her life, he thought, would draw their substance from the occasional presence aboard of a famous movie star, a flirtation with a handsome pilot or influential passenger, or the controlled, shared fear of a stuttering motor over the dark emptiness below, bringing from the subconscious that momentary doubt of eternity that always came with the unexpected.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Quite all right, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

He looked up at her sharply; this was not routine.

“Quite sure,” he said, uneasiness beginning to stir his stomach.

“Could I bring you some coffee?” It was an obvious retreat; the uneasiness grew.

“Please.”

He noted her eyes fixed upon the briefcase as she straightened up, as if it were slightly obscene and therefore exciting. Her breath caught unintentionally as she forced her glance away. A sudden terror gripped him. Ach, so? he thought; so soon? But it could not be; it was too early! No one should have known until tomorrow; it was to be held until he had passed customs and was safe in the hotel! What could have happened? The two-hour delay in Trinidad? But even so, it was only two hours, and they knew planes could be late. The difference in time? But they must have known there was a difference in time. Somebody slipped, somebody was precipitous, it was that simple; somebody moved too quickly!

To quell the rising panic, he forced a note of humor into his thoughts, disciplining them, thinking of the stewardess. Have I added one more small romance to your limited repertoire, my dear? Where do I stand in relation to Fred MacMurray, or Linda Christian, or even a sudden lurch in a tropical storm? He stared rigidly out of the window, attempting to lure his thoughts from the disaster they sensed in the involuntary gasp of the stewardess; in her eye fixed upon the briefcase, in her oversolicitousness; but it was all in vain. The panic remained.

In his imagination he could picture the startled looks on the faces of the crew bunched in the eerily lit nose as the message came clattering over the air; the discreetly flashing light calling the stewardess forward, her nonchalant air as she picked her way down the aisle, tucking in a blanket here, adjusting a pillow there, until she could disappear beyond the softly closing door leading to the pilot’s compartment without arousing suspicion. And just how had they told her? Did they say: “Hey, cutie, what’s the man in 6B like? Is he big? Hard? Gangster type?” In spite of his panic, he was forced to smile at this. Or did they say: “Take a good look at 6B, he has two million dollars in cold cash in that innocent-looking briefcase, stole it and left for Brazil one step ahead of the police”? Or possibly they may have said: “Look, honey, see that 6B gets all the service his little heart desires; he’s a famous man, we may have to borrow money some day and it never hurts to have friends”? The smile faded; how they had told her wasn’t too important. What was important was that both he and his briefcase were now well known to the plane’s crew, who meant nothing. But just as well known, without a doubt, to the Brazilian authorities in Rio de Janeiro four hours away. That was quite important.

In sudden resolve he slipped from his seat and walked hurriedly down the aisle to the rest room, the briefcase bumping against his legs in the confined space. He could feel the eyes of the stewardess upon him as he edged through the narrow door and slid the latch shut. In nervous haste he stripped off his jacket and shirt, removed his undershirt and stuffed it into the briefcase over the stacked blocks that lay within. After a moment’s thought he added his socks, putting his shoes back on over his bare feet. A paperback mystery from his jacket pocket went on top, and then, in desperation, his pocket handkerchief. He searched himself for other detritus to add to the cache; there was nothing. He considered and rejected the idea of stuffing towels from the lavatory into the offending emptiness.

That’s all I need, his sardonic humor whispered — to be caught for stealing!

He washed his face fiercely, and was in the process of scrubbing it dry when the pain struck. As always it gave little notice, welling up within him in a sudden wave. The towel fell from his stricken hand; his fingers gripped the edge of the small sink grindingly, as if in an attempt to transfer the shards of agony into the vibrating airplane. When the first spasm had passed, he took a small pill from his pocket and slipped it beneath his tongue. Always the pain and always the dreams, he thought. I will not die now; I must not die now. It has never killed me before, and it will not kill me now. He waited several more minutes until the pill took effect and the pain settled, the torture slowly easing. Then, unlocking the door with trembling fingers, he returned unsteadily to his seat.

The coffee arrived. He could feel the stewardess waiting silently at his elbow as he sipped it, but he continued to stare out of the window until she reluctantly left and padded quietly back to the galley. He finished the hot drink, placed the empty cup on the floor near the aisle, and hunched back into a sleeping position. There was nothing to be done until their arrival; the grim finality of this thought strangely calmed him. The briefcase nestled under his arm as he closed his eyes and attempted to doze for a few more hours.

Well, he thought bitterly, it didn’t start in New York. The nervousness there was wasted. Nor did it start in Rio de Janeiro, where it was supposed to start. Just for the record, should anyone ask you, or should you ever be in a position to answer, it started somewhere twenty-five thousand feet over northern Brazil, on a brilliant sunlit morning, high over a tiny toy house lost in the immensity of rolling brown hills and shiny twisting streams, when a radio message reached out and brought surprise to a tired DC-7 crew bored with flying. And brought romance to a dull stewardess with greedy eyes. That is where it started.

I only wish I knew where it ended, he thought; and slept.

Chapter 2

The airport buildings at Galeão glared blinding white, their black shadows empty caverns in the shimmering tarmac.

He shaded his eyes against the painful reflection and followed the silent file of tired passengers into the long low building, the sweat beginning to rise under his tight collar and run down inside his shirt. His ears still buzzed faintly from the hours of motor noise, and the briefcase suddenly seemed unbearably heavy to his wrist. In dismay he noted that he had forgotten to undo the chain; in haste he fished the key from his watch pocket and unlatched the tiny lock; no one seemed to notice.

They were halted by a rope slung across the corridor; beyond they could see the open window of the Health Office and Immigration, with uniformed figures inside shuffling papers endlessly and staring blankly at the incoming passengers. There is something fascinating about the similarity of customs procedures and officials in every country, he thought. True, the original instincts of self-preservation in all basic groupings probably have common roots, but it still seems rather startling that, stemming from different mores and habit patterns, following completely diverse paths of development, they all seemed to have arrived together at the same paper-shuffling, blank-faced bureaucracy, reflecting their mutual fear of strangers in identical rituals of pointless documents and illegible rubber stamps. They must have hidden antennae for secret communication, like ants, he thought. Or more terrifying, radio and television, like humans.

The rope dropped; the passengers edged forward, fumbling for passports and vaccination certificates, hampered by books and overcoats and overnight bags, the heat a blanket that muffled everything, making each action a chore in slow motion. He tensed as he presented his documents at the first counter, but the sweating police officials occasioned him no delay. Any radio accusation that had arrived apparently was not filtered down to these low echelons. A sudden, unfounded elation seized him. Maybe I imagined the whole thing, he thought. Maybe the stewardess was merely curious. Maybe the stewardess was only nearsighted. Stamps fell, cards passed back and forth; the line edged forward uncomfortably to the customs shed.

The customs benches were being filled; porters were slinging luggage haphazardly from the carts to the low barriers; passengers were beginning to awaken from the narcosis of the flight and were frantically attempting to attract the attention of a customs guard. A conference was in progress at the official desk; declarations were being examined and separated; the heat bore down relentlessly on everything.

He saw the flight crew come through, their squat leather bags bulging with papers, maps, dirty clothing, and possibly a contraband bottle of whiskey hidden somewhere in the depths. The stewardess whispered something to the others, inclining her head in his direction, and they all eyed him curiously, but only for a moment. He was a passing phenomenon who had lightened a dull flight with a few minutes of excited radio chatter, but that was last night and years ago. They could always read about it in the newspapers; their minds were already on a three-day holiday, and the smooth hot beach, and the noisy night clubs. He saw the small eyes of the stewardess linger hesitatingly on the briefcase cradled in his arms, and he suddenly knew very well that his panic in the plane had not been based upon imagination. Quite without knowing why, he forced his fears behind him and winked at her in a broad, friendly manner. She turned away flushing, and a few moments later stumped out after her companions. Ingratitude, he thought with a bitter smile; think of the hours of conversation I have provided you with.

“Senhor Hans?” A customs official was glancing up from a declaration, impatiently glaring about the group of passengers. His face, although young in years, was set in the bitter lines of ingrained officialdom; his flat eyes peered about in barely stifled animosity; the heavy features were shimmering with sweat. Nobody paid any attention; the struggle with baggage went on uninterruptedly. “Senhor Hans?” The voice was accusing now, and the official referred once again to the declaration in his hand. A sudden thought seemed to come to him. “Senhor Hans Busch?” He pronounced it “Pushy,” but the tone of accusation had completely disappeared, replaced by respect. My God! he thought with a start, that’s me! A fine beginning!

“I’m sorry,” he said, touching the official on the arm. “I’m afraid I didn’t...”

“Senhor Hans Busch?”

“Why, yes,” he said, beginning to reach for his documents, attempting to portray to the best of his ability Everytourist faced with Everycustoms.

“O senhor têm bagagem?”

“I beg your pardon? I don’t speak...”

“Lockage? Package?” The voice dropped suddenly to a hoarse whisper, accompanied by a barely perceptible nudge. “Haben Sie Koffer?”

The official indicated the suitcases being opened on the benches. He saw his new leather case standing alone to one side and reached for it, but the official politely picked it up and headed for a door at one side. “Please?” he said over his shoulder, “Please!” It was quite as if he were answering his own question. The other passengers eyed them sourly, certain that either influence or a well concealed bribe had smoothed the way to faster service.

He trailed along, his heart pounding. Well, he thought forlornly, here we go. Please, God, don’t let it fail before it even begins!

The room, windowless — an obvious afterthought in the airport construction — was formed by two roughly finished walls of cinder-block set in a corner of the customs shed. A halfhearted coat of whitewash attempted to disguise the provisional character of the construction, but only served to emphasize it. A badly vibrating fan rattled on a shelf, pushing the hot air about listlessly. A tall, saturnine man with a lean tanned face and an aggressive mustache arose from a desk and came forward. He took the declaration form from the customs official, who proceeded to seat himself unobtrusively on one corner of the desk, reaching over to shut the door almost apologetically. With the door closed the heat became unbearable, but the mustached man seemed almost cool as he turned about.

“Mr. Busch?” he asked gently.

“Yes.”

“I am Captain Jose Da Silva. May I see your passport, please?”

He fumbled in the side pocket of his jacket where he was certain he had placed his documents after Immigration, but his fingers closed only on a crumpled handkerchief. But I put that in the briefcase, he thought idiotically; I must have had two. He began to tremble, angry for the weakness, and for having misplaced his passport.

“Rather odd seeing a captain in civilian clothes,” he said, smiling foolishly, his hands patting his various breast pockets in desperation, hampered in his search by the awkward briefcase. He suddenly seemed to realize that this encumbrance was no longer a physical part of his person; he set it against the desk leg as unobtrusively as possible, continuing his search.

“Yes,” said the captain dryly. “Your passport, please?”

His hand closed in last resort on a heavily laden trouser pocket, and he drew out the missing passport, furious with himself for having placed it in so unusual a place. Stupid! he thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid! And even more stupid to allow it to upset you this much; relax and get yourself under control! But really, a trouser pocket — my God!

The tall man examined the document minutely, riffling through the pages and noting the various visas and stamped dates. He studied the personal data in the front and looked up impartially to compare the face before him with the photograph in his hand, after which he quietly closed the booklet and casually slipped it into his jacket pocket as if in a moment of forgetfulness.

“Would you care to open your bag, please?”

Da Silva’s thin fingers skimmed the contents, carefully judging the inside dimensions against the outside shape, barely disturbing the shirts and socks, but passing with great efficiency through the neatly arranged clothing.

Through the concrete block walls the smaller man heard the sudden acceleration of an airplane engine, and then the coughing start of another. In his mind’s eye he could see the puff of gray smoke, hear the snap of the cabin door being latched into place, feel the reassuring rough strength of the seat belt under his hand. Maybe I should have stayed aboard and gone on to Buenos Aires, and then back home, he thought wearily. Maybe I’m not the one for this. The suitcase was closed with a sigh, the latches snapped.

“Your briefcase?” The tone was a little sharper, a bit more thoughtful.

He hesitated one second, and the other stepped around the desk and lifted the case to the desk top. His skin was chafed where the chain had galled him, and he unconsciously rubbed his wrist as the other man snapped open the lock and peered within. The moment of truth, he thought, and tried to freeze the scene in time as a tableau: the heat, the wide-eyed, sweating customs official with the flat eyes, the gaunt figure bent over the tattered briefcase, the bare floor, the lumpy walls, the battered desk. Maybe it is a dream, he thought, and I can escape by awakening.

But he could not erase his own trembling figure from the picture he had created, and the sudden muffled roar of an airplane shattered the spell, leaving him tired and hot, a small, miserable man standing uncertainly in a crude room, his luggage being efficiently searched. With a sharp, quizzical sidelong glance, Captain Da Silva laid the pitiful camouflage of wrinkled clothing to one side and began withdrawing blocks of neatly tied newsprint from the depths of the briefcase. They looked foolish piled on the desk, like the accessories of some child’s game, leaning idiotically against the underwear and dirty socks. The clattering fan only served to emphasize the silence.

Da Silva straightened up and sighed, as if weary of the disappointments of constant dissimulation. “A personal search, Mr. Busch,” he said sadly. “I am afraid that I must ask you to submit to a personal search.”

“Isn’t that most unusual?” He tried to sound indignant, but only succeeded in sounding frightened. They were right, he thought bitterly, you’re too old for this sort of thing.

“Most unusual. As are the circumstances. Please.”

“No!” It was an animal cry; he clutched the ends of his coat sleeves with his fingers, straining. “I’m sorry.” He attempted to smile, but the grimace was pitiful. “I have... well, I have a thing about being undressed in public. ”

Da Silva’s eyebrows raised in honest surprise. “My dear Mr. Busch,” he said, “we certainly have no intention of undressing you. In any event, it would be quite purposeless. Please.” A gesture plus a few words of instruction in Portuguese and the customs official swung himself from the table and came over. He ran his fingers with impersonal speed over the cringing figure, sliding his hands down the rumpled trouser legs, crumpling the cloth of the suit to expose any papers hidden in the lining. He removed the contents of the pockets and handed them to Da Silva. He shook his head, his face a mask.

“Fora disso, nada.”

The mustached man examined the papers desultorily, leafed through the wallet with an air of complete disinterest, and handed them back. He returned to his swivel chair back of the desk and seated himself wearily.

“Tell me, Mr. Busch,” he said softly, conversationally, “who has the money?”

“Money?”

“Please. Let us not have any fencing. We know all about you. I am not, as you might have thought, of the customs. Our government is interested in you, Mr. Busch. We are interested in any man who brings two million dollars into our country.”

He felt a wave of hysteria bring sour laughter choking in his throat and desperately fought it down. I’m tired, he thought. It was a long trip. But don’t break now; you can’t break now. Actually, what can they do? What is the very worst they can do? Be glad this is Brazil and today, and not Europe and yesterday. Here they talk; they do not use castor oil and needles.

“Pardon me, Captain, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about. A million dollars? In cash? Carrying it with me? You must be joking; the thought is idiotic.”

“Two million, Mr. Busch, two million. And the thought of a man carrying a briefcase filled with newspaper blocks chained to his wrist for twenty-four hours might also be considered by some as being idiotic. Or at least, shall we say, slightly abnormal.”

“Chained to my wrist?”

“Chained to your wrist, Mr. Busch, until you got off the plane. Please, do not play with me. We are quite well informed. We know you left New York with this amount of money; we know this definitely and positively. Of this there can be no doubt at all. Tell me, Mr. Busch, where is it?”

“Is it illegal to bring money into Brazil? I understood that there are no currency regulations here for travelers.”

Da Silva shrugged, his eyes cold and somber. “Two million dollars is not money in the tourist sense, Mr. Busch. Two million dollars could be counterfeit, or could buy a lot of arms, or bribe enough officials. Or any one of many things. Particularly any one of many things. You are correct in thinking that there are no currency regulations here in Brazil, but you are completely wrong in feeling that this applies to you.” He leaned forward impressively, never removing his piercing eyes from the disheveled figure before him.

“Believe me, Mr. Busch, when I tell you that our government is extremely serious about your case. We are interested in this money and the purpose for which it is intended. We are quite certain that we know this purpose, and we fully expect to prevent it. Believe me.”

“But I tell you...”

The tall, thin man shook his finger coldly. “Mr. Busch. There is only one thing I want you to tell me, and that is where the money is. Please. Or bitte if you prefer. We know who you are and what you have been. You will not spend this money. You are making a grave mistake, Mr. Busch. A grave mistake.”

The other stood silent, the sweat rolling down his pale cheeks, his shirt and jacket soaked. Am I making a mistake? Quite possibly; it won’t be the first, nor the last.

But what could one do? Whom could one trust? In New York these past three years, it had seemed simple, necessary, even — my God! — romantic. But no, he thought with finality, I am not making a mistake; it would be too useless. He saw the captain’s eyes and knew the ordeal had run its course, but there was no feeling of exultation or even relief. He was only conscious of the oppressive heat and a slight feeling of nausea.

Da Silva suddenly swiveled about, staring at the noisy fan with distaste, as if it represented in its mechanical sickness the malaise of the world in which he was forced to work and struggle.

“All right, Mr. Busch. The money is not on your person nor in your luggage; that much is certain. Whoever you passed it to, either on the plane, or en route, or in the customs shed, will be found. It will not be passed back to you. Or we will be there when it is.” He paused in thought, shook his head sadly. “You would be well advised to turn the money in to us and return to New York, Mr. Busch.” He eyed the small man before him queryingly, shook his head again, and then nodded to the customs official.

“All right, Mr. Busch. You are free to go. But you would be making a sad error to feel that this case is over.”

Now the relief came, flooding him, immediately followed by doubt.

“But my passport?”

Da Silva did not lift his eyes from the scratched desk top before him. His fingers idly followed some of the ancient marks impressed upon the worn surface. “I am afraid I shall have to hold that for the time being.”

But really, this was too much! How could he hope to accomplish anything if he couldn’t even pass the simple test of getting through customs with his papers intact? And he might well need his passport for identification or travel. I’m tired, he thought, and sick and old. I’m really old. It was enough to make one cry.

“But I am an American citizen...”

“A naturalized American citizen, Mr. Busch, but still, I admit, under the protection of that embassy. However, I am afraid that we cannot permit you to leave our hospitality without due notice. The law, Mr. Busch, allows us to verify that travelers in our country owe no Brazilian taxes before giving them permission to leave.” Da Silva looked up coldly; there was no trace of sarcasm in his voice. “Are you quite certain your tax situation is clear?”

He shrugged dejectedly. This was one more problem that had not been considered, but at least one small barrier had been cleared. He could get out of customs and go to his hotel. Possibly the others could solve the problem of the withheld passport, that is, if there were any others and he wasn’t being a complete fool. Possibly with a little rest and a cold bath he could figure it out himself. He suddenly felt exhausted and very alone.

“Thank you, Captain. Goodbye.”

“Au revoir would be more appropriate, Mr. Busch. By the way, do you have hotel reservations? It is nearing Carnival, and hotels are a bit difficult to arrange.”

“At the Mirabelle.”

“Ah. Fine. We should not like to have you without a roof over your head, wandering the streets unaccompanied. It could be dangerous; this is a naughty city at times. I shall try and see that you are seldom subject to this peril. Goodbye, Mr. Busch.”

The customs official was at the door carrying the bag and the empty briefcase when Da Silva spoke again. “Your socks, Mr. Busch. And don’t forget your newspapers. You might have a lot of time to read down here, and our English publications are not up to the standards of The New York Times.” As he turned away the second time he thought he heard Da Silva chuckle, but it was a tired chuckle, a bit puzzled, and almost sad.

Chapter 3

The afternoon sun, reflected from a highly polished bureau in one corner of his room, fell across his face, and he slowly opened his eyes, coming back from the awful depths of his dreams, relaxing his tense muscles in little spasmodic shock waves. He lay without motion until the last twitching had passed, as one performing a familiar practice, boring but necessary. When his body finally released him, he slipped from the single sheet and padded to the open window, luxuriating in the cool breeze blowing in from the sea, scratching his neck, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Below, the broad beach was beginning to empty of the day’s crowds. The little umbrellas, like striped mushrooms, were beginning to be uprooted and furled. From the height of his window the waves seemed small and lazy, swiping playfully at the land with the withheld power of a lioness slapping her cub. Bounding the huge expanse of sand ran a gayly striped mosaic sidewalk, curving away in the distance, the wriggling design in black and white geometrically sharp when seen from above. Little awninged wagons sold ice cream; afternoon strollers passed arm in arm, squat figures foreshortened by the height, like puppets viewed by the puppet master. The screams of a group of youngsters playing volleyball came up softly, filtered by the distance, blending with the traffic sounds and the muted crash of surf. A sound track for peace, he thought. The beach is a buffer state, a neutral patch between the struggle of the land and the torment of the sea, and I suppose that is probably why people go there to escape. He smiled wryly. Why do I always reference things to war?

In the bathroom he locked the door and slowly stripped away the long-sleeved pajama tops with knit cuffs that never revealed his arms even during the most convoluted tossing of tortured sleep. The scar was old, poorly done in Paris by a man who had been more friend than surgeon, and the faint numerals could still be noted beneath the knotted skin. Well, he thought as always — a thought so ingrained as to be almost past bitterness — at any rate they knew how to make good aniline inks. I wonder if they still have a stock for the next batch.

The mirror had long since ceased to disappoint; now it only informed. He saw the pale, pudgy face, the wispy remains of the blond hair, the stringy neck and taut potbelly. The eyes were startlingly blue, huge in the small face. For no reason he smiled at his image, suddenly feeling pleased to be in Brazil, to be finally started, to be active once again. Who you are I can’t imagine, he said to the face in the mirror happily, and furthermore, I couldn’t care less.

When he emerged, having put on his shirt behind the locked door as always, the heat of the day was beginning to dissipate, the breeze from the ocean was strengthening, fluttering the curtains. He pulled on his pants, slipped his tie already knotted over his head and drew it up sharply, and was reaching for his shoes when the telephone rang stridently from the nightstand. The sudden shrill caused him to jump; the light mood disappeared.

“Yes?” he said tersely, his hand gripping the receiver tightly.

“Mr. Busch? Mr. Hans Busch?” The voice was quite impartial.

“Yes. I’m Mr. Busch.”

The voice paused imperceptibly. “This is the American Embassy, Mr. Busch. The assistant consul speaking. Your passport is in our possession.” The voice grew a bit chiding. “You are aware, I am sure, that the loss of a passport is supposed to be reported to the Embassy immediately? You are extremely fortunate that it was found as quickly as it was, and that it was turned in to the Embassy.”

“My passport? You have it?”

The voice became impatient. “If you would please come down to the Embassy at once? Any taxi can bring you, everyone is familiar with the American Embassy, it is quite a prominent building.” There was a pause, as if the speaker was thinking. “It is now four o’clock; we remain open until six. Please be sure and make it today. We do not recommend that American citizens go about in a foreign land without their identification, you know. Just ask for Mr. Murray.”

“I’ll be there.” A puzzle, this. But still, a relief.

“Thank you.” The voice did not thank him at all; it was quite disdainful, superior in all respects to people who lost passports within minutes of arrival, and then were so lacking in responsibility as to fail to report the loss immediately to Mr. Murray. The click of disconnection precluded any reply. He pressed the bar down thoughtfully, staring at the instrument. In sudden resolve he lifted his finger and pressed the receiver to his ear.

“Telefonista. Boa tarde.”

“Pardon me,” he said slowly, enunciating with maximum clarity. “Do you speak English?”

“But of certain.”

“Then I wonder if you would be so kind as to connect me with the American Embassy?”

“One moment only.”

He listened to the distant ringing, feeling all of the old satisfaction of having made a positive decision, his mind busily attempting to rationalize the reappearance of his passport. A receiver was lifted, and a voice of such pure boredom answered him as could only emanate from an official office. He asked for Mr. Murray and, after a series of clicks, heard the same voice as before. It really was the Embassy. He thought: I’m afraid I will give Mr. Murray ulcers, but I had to be sure. He considered hanging up quietly, but some spurt of pride, reborn with his decision to check the odd call, would not allow this.

“Mr. Murray? This is Mr. Busch again. I just wanted to be sure that I understood. You did say my passport had been recovered and that I could pick it up if I passed by?”

To his surprise the disdainful outburst he had anticipated did not materialize; the voice sounded almost amused, understanding.

“Yes, Mr. Busch,” it said. “I did say it. And I really meant it. Before six, Mr. Busch. Goodbye.”

He was pulling on his jacket when he noticed the newspaper lying under the door where some hotel employee had slipped it during his nap. It was a tabloidsized paper, printed in English, and a small printed form glued to one corner advised him that the management hoped he would enjoy reading the news in his own language. I hope so too, he thought and, tearing off the tab, dropped onto the bed to scan the headlines. There was nothing on the front page; he flipped the pages, a bit perturbed. Then it was staring out at him, a medium-sized article under the Stateside basketball scores. Folding the paper, he carried it to the brighter light at the window to read.

It was headed quite simply, EMBEZZLEMENT SUSPECT IN RIO and read:

New York, Feb. 12 (UPI): Hans Busch, well known in the United States for his frequent anti-Semitic articles and pamphlets, and wanted at present by the New York District Attorney’s office for questioning in connection with the recent failure of several importing companies with which he was alleged to be connected, is reported to have left International Airport at Idlewild last night by Pan-American Airways with destination listed on the passenger list as Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

Busch, a naturalized American citizen, is suspected of absconding with funds of the Germanic-Atlantic Trading Co. and the Hamburg-Atlantic Import Co., both of New York. While the exact nature of the embezzlement charge has not as yet been revealed, it is rumored that Busch fled with nearly two million dollars in cash.

A high official of the New York Police Department stated last night that Busch is also wanted by Federal authorities for questioning in regard to the recent wave of swastika-painting and synagogue-burning that has swept the eastern part of the United States, as well as cities of both Europe and South America.

It is not known as yet what action can be taken by American authorities should Busch decide, as other American fugitives have recently done, to adopt Brazil as his new home, since as yet there is no extradition treaty between the two countries.

He read the article through twice, carefully. It was more or less what they had decided on, but he still wondered at the precipitous release. Ah, well, he thought, maybe it wasn’t too bad after all. If he could get his passport from the American Embassy, it simply meant that he could get started sooner. Started, that is, if anyone took the bait. He left the paper face up on the dresser and left the room.

In the lobby he changed some dollars for cruzeiros and asked the doorman to call a taxi and give the driver directions. As he waited he looked about him, wondering a bit at the lack of attention; he had expected somehow crowds, reporters, the curious, possibly even the police, but other than a ragged shoeshine boy who studied his shoes judiciously and then straggled on, the scene was peaceful. Too early, he thought, and much better this way. With my passport in my pocket, I’ll be able to face them. The doorman finished giving explicit directions to the driver who had sat stolidly through the lecture, his boredom complete at this unrequested and unneeded help. As always in a land whose language was foreign to him, the little man resented the need for outside help, but Portuguese was not among his repertoire of European tongues. English, be thought; they say you can get by anywhere in the world if you speak English. That is, of course, if you never leave your hotel. Or if you stop eating.

The taxi shot through the traffic of Copacabana with practiced ease, barely avoiding the home-going bathers who dashed between the moving cars with loudly voiced but cheerful animosity for all vehicles, moving or parked. Seen from street level the ocean breakers were huge, towering over the beach to crash and roll almost to the patterned sidewalk. In the distance, rounded rocky islands poked their heads above the incredibly blue sea; a white sliver of a steamship ran jauntily for the harbor. Lovely, he thought, oh, lovely!

They cut through a series of tunnels to the open Guanabara Bay, and the full impact of the city was revealed in a breathtaking panorama. From the sky that morning, while circling to land, the tangled pattern of hills and sparkling water had held the latent promise of fulfillment of tourist-agency-poster beauty, but he had been too tired and despondent coming in from the airport to pay proper heed to his surroundings. He faintly recalled the tattered upholstery of the cab, and the fact that the rear seat ash tray was overflowing; other than that the trip from Galeao to the Mirabelle was one blank, a persistent jostling through which his drugged mind had attempted to encompass the tragedy of the lost passport. Now, a few moments away, his passport waited; he refused to consider the strange circumstances of the Embassy call, but gave himself over completely to the view.

To the left and above all, mastering and dominating the sweeping hills that fell in mottled green folds away from it, rose the majestic, sheer face of Corcovado, crowned with the hovering white figure of the Cristo Redemptor guarding in perpetual benevolence the lush vitality of the city below, watching in impersonal piety over the near saints and closer sinners that struggled through life in the sea-fringed valley at his feet. In the clear light of the lowering sun, each gaunt striation of the rocky tower could be distinguished; the mountain seemed to have been thrust out of the sea in some ancient age just for the purpose of eventually holding this calm statue.

And there, across a narrow spit of bay to the right, hovering over the yawning yachts moored in its lengthening shadows, loomed the famous Pão de Açúcar — Sugar Loaf — a huge Gulliver tethered to the land by the puny cables that led to its peak. Even as he watched, a small buglike car detached itself from the summit and slowly inched its way downward. Flocks of birds, tiny check marks silhouetted against the fading sky, dipped and swirled over the harbor. In the extreme distance across the wide water, tiny white blocks of apartment buildings marked Niteroi on the far shore, the heavy blue hills rising behind them, dwarfing them. My God! he thought. Who would have ever imagined that I would eventually actually see Rio de Janeiro! What fantastic beauty! Someday I shall have to return here as a simple tourist, go through customs with a clear conscience, and step out on the street with no problems, no worries. And one thing is definite — not as Hans Busch. Let us hope that these next few weeks will see the end of Mr. Hans Busch!

The drive led along the water’s edge. Across the tree-lined avenue luxury apartments marched in solid phalanx to the city’s downtown skyline, blocked against the afternoon sky in the distance in sweeping rectangles and squares. Royal palms towered above the checkered sidewalk, the warm breeze ruffling their broad leaves. A traffic light halted their progress; across the road from them as they waited he idly watched a gang of barebacked workers unloading sand from a battered truck parked beneath the planked façade of a construction job. Their muscled black backs shone as they rhythmically dipped and swayed with each shovelful thrown to the ground. And all of you there, he thought suddenly; what are you doing? Why aren’t you out on the beach sleeping or kicking a ball about, or else off in the shadows of these wonderfully wooded mountains, making soft love? Why do you sweat in the hot sun, building the archaeological discoveries of some future age, the ruins of a hundred or a thousand years hence? What is this vast urgency to construct tomorrow’s rubble today? The time capsule is endless, he thought sadly; it is we who are so terribly finite.

Maybe, he thought, as the taxi pulled away from the traffic light, maybe they do what they do for the same reason I do what I do. We have all been conditioned to believe that what we do is important. Is what I’m doing important? He frowned and leaned back in the swaying cab. Beauty is intoxicating, he thought. I’d better be very careful in Rio.

Chapter 4

The taxi drew up before an imposing white building with solid glass doors set beneath modern aluminum block lettering. A neat fern-filled garden at one corner broke the stern austerity of its simple lines. Even against the clean beauty of the other Brazilian architecture about it, the edifice announced dignity and a lofty disregard for cost. It was the American Embassy, and he paid the taxi and went inside. The cool dusk of the high-vaulted entrance calmed the strange restlessness that had overcome him in the taxi, and he approached the desk with a return to normality.

The mention of Mr. Murray’s name brought neither accusing glances nor shocked surprise; he was directed quite routinely to a room on the eighth floor. Let it go quickly, he prayed; let him give me my passport and show me the door. Let him be too disgusted with my stupidity even to repeat his form lecture. He paused. Let him even give me the lecture, be thought, just so long as he also gives me my passport.

The elevator swallowed him soundlessly and deposited him with no sensation of motion in a corridor lined with black and white marble. At the far end he saw the number he wanted, but the anteroom was empty and he sat down to wait for someone to appear, too impressed by the massive inner door and heavy silence to think of knocking. Magazines were neatly stacked on a small table beside his chair, and he was considering whether or not to disturb their precise geometry when the door swung open, and he looked up to find a medium-sized, nondescript man studying him in calm appraisal.

“Mr. Busch?”

“Yes.” He pried himself out of the deep chair, his prayers repeating themselves in his mind. “Are you Mr. Murray?”

The nondescript man shook his head slowly, a faint touch of wonderment in his manner. “You had better come in, I think. My name is Wilson, and it appears that it is time we all had a talk. Please come in.”

He passed ahead of Wilson, sinking deep into the lush carpet, confused by the luxury of the room, but also made a bit alert. The large office desk set beneath the draped windows was dwarfed by the size of the office, but the profusion of chairs and couches scattered about in studied deference to hominess somehow balanced the room. He was vaguely aware of an array of pictures on the richly-paneled walls, but he did not bring himself to look at them. The quiet hum of an air conditioner was the only sound, and he was suddenly conscious of the coolness. He flattered himself that he was actually not very surprised to see Captain Da Silva sitting in one corner, negligently swinging one leg over the other, and smiling gently.

“I suppose,” he said carefully, almost cautiously, standing very still, feeling the cold touch of panic returning, “that you couldn’t be Mr. Murray?”

“Why, no,” Da Silva said pleasantly. “I am Captain Jose Da Silva. At your service. I thought we had gotten that all clear this morning.”

“But I had a telephone call... at the information desk they said...”

“Exactly what they were told to say,” Mr. Wilson finished smoothly.

He suddenly felt weary again, conscious of the ridiculous figure he made, standing rigid and short and fat in the center of the room, apparently to be the continuing butt of Captain Da Silva’s sardonic humor. He hated to satisfy the requirements for his baiting; he knew he should march out of the room coldly angry, but the words were out before he could stop them, forced from the depths of his disappointment. “Then there is no Mr. Murray? And I do not get my passport?”

Da Silva laughed. “Sit down, Mr... ah, Mr. Busch. Of course you get your passport. And of course there is a Mr. Murray, and of course he is the assistant consul here.” He considered the swinging toe of his polished boot, as if suddenly pleased to be its owner. When he looked up his smile was a bit rueful, as if he had been unfairly accused of a breach of manners. “My dear fellow, we would certainly not slip up on a thing like that, particularly in a telephone conversation with the Mirabelle Hotel. After all, we could scarcely use Mr. Wilson’s name, because very few people know that he is attached to this eminent office. And Mr. Wilson, I gather, prefers it just that way. And of course we couldn’t use my name, since I am a visitor here like yourself.” He shrugged as if to say. What could we do? “It may be true that Mr. Murray has had his name taken in vain, at least in the sense that he has no idea your passport was taken away, nor that it is being returned. But then, this is probably the only service to which Mr. Murray has been put in his two years in Brazil.” He rolled his eyes drolly toward a shelf that contained an even row of chromed cups. “Other, possibly, than earning the Embassy several cups in bridge, and advancing the interests of your government in the field of golf.”

Mr. Wilson smiled faintly. “After all, Zé,” he said, “you are in the American Embassy. A bit of respect for the residents might be in order.”

“It is enough to respect an idea or an ideal,” Da Silva returned, still smiling idly, although a certain tone of seriousness had entered his voice. “Sometimes it is not good to study the manifestations too closely, for all too often they have a tendency to assume the form of your Mr. Murray.” He looked up in friendly fashion at the short figure still standing tense in the middle of the room, listening in suspicious bewilderment to this exchange. “You do not know Mr. Murray, I assume, Mr. Busch. He was not told because it was felt that he would not understand. Mr. Murray, my friend, is the type who, even if he understood, would not understand. However, let us forget Mr. Murray. Let us concentrate on you, Mr. Busch. Tell me, 2657782 — how did you ever get involved in a complicated business like this?”

The shock was terrible. He had listened to the soporific voice, waiting for a blow, but not this! He felt his heart swell and then fade to nothing, leaving only the sharp stabbing pain. The rush of blood from his head canted it to one side, giving him an idiot look; the muscles of his legs cramped, pulling him to the floor, jerking them up against his stomach in an almost fetal position. No! No, no! Not after the years of planning, not after the suffering, the antagonisms, the friendlessness! Not after the sun on the bay, and the promise of the mountains; not after the warm headiness of the breeze! No! He felt hands lifting him, the dribble of water against his stiffened tongue, a pillow being pushed against his neck.

“My God, Zé! What in hell did you say?”

But Da Silva was too busy with the man on the couch to answer. For the first time in their long acquaintance, Wilson saw the tall man shocked out of his usual air of detachment; he was desperately attempting to resuscitate the tortured figure twisting on the couch.

“Look! Please! My God, I’m with you, I’m on your side, don’t you understand? I was only talking, it’s my way, do you understand? Can you hear me? I’m here to help you, can’t you see that? Try to understand what I’m saying; I’m here to help you. Wilson, call a doctor — no, we can’t! Listen to me, you are in the American Embassy in Rio de Janeiro, you are perfectly safe, you are with friends. Friends, do you hear? Don’t you understand? Wilson, do something! Why the devil did they have to pick a two-hundred-year-old with a bad heart! Meu Deus, me salve de minha bôca! Take it easy, relax, calm down; you’re all right. We are friends!”

The trembling began to slowly subside, more in response to time than to the words of the frantic man working over him, although the sense of those words registered faintly. The fight to hold onto the vague shadows of the finite room about him, and not to sink into the dark horror of unconsciousness slowly sharpened his will to recover. Treat it as only a more severe presentation of the dream, he thought; and even as a hidden corner of his brain clamped onto the thought, his recovery began. At the moment, at least, this man over him was trying to help. Had it been the others, the enemy, they would have merely waited for sufficient recovery to continue the torture. And besides, he knows. What nobody knows or could know, he knows!

Also, they wouldn’t be here in the American Embassy, nor would they have waited so long, nor kept so quiet, nor allowed him to reach this point. This man is telling the truth, his brain whispered, and I am a fool. He is here to help me, he is the one. I am truly a fool!

He tried to roll to an erect position and felt hands aiding him. His fingers, fumbling for his pocket, brought immediate response from Da Silva. He felt the pillbox being removed, the pill being slipped into his mouth. Wilson held a glass of water to his trembling lips, but he waved it away, sucking fiercely on the pill beneath his tongue. The fixed solidity of the objects about him served as an anchor of reality in the nightmare; the placid hum of the air conditioner seemed to demonstrate the civilized nature of his surroundings. The dizziness and pain slowly passed.

“My God!” Da Silva said wonderingly, almost to himself. “He really does have a bad heart!”

“I’m sorry,” the small man said haltingly, catching his breath, aware that the shock he had suffered was much more severe than any in the past, secretly surprised at his own rapid recovery. “I’m truly sorry, but I thought...” He looked at them blankly, shrugged, began again. “It was the shock. You see, even in New York, our own people... They knew about the camp, of course, but nobody knew the number...”

Da Silva straightened, heaving a massive sigh of relief. His lean, athletic figure stretched, easing the tension of his body; his dark expressive eyes were honest and serious.

“I am on your side, you know,” he said quietly, his voice attempting to convince and soothe at the same time. “You would do me a very great favor by accepting my word for it, because I cannot stand many scenes like this if we are going to work together. I have always prided myself on my complete lack of fear, my mustache, and my family name, but you frightened me as I have never been frightened before!” A twinkle came into the steady eyes. “Please do not do it again, or I may begin losing faith in the other two!”

The man on the couch attempted a weak smile. “I haven’t been too well lately,” he said haltingly, confidingly, “and the trip was very tiring. But I insisted on going through with it. The others weren’t too sure, but I insisted. After all, three years is a long time, and we had done a lot of work... And it was too late to try to develop a new man, a...” He paused, searching for a name. “A Fritz Mueller, let us say, or a Karl Schmidt...” His voice trailed off.

Da Silva nodded sympathetically, apparently understanding this ambiguous statement. Wilson had retired to the desk and was watching the scene with half-closed eyes, his face as impassive as ever. The old man sighed. “I still don’t understand about the number...”

“Yes.” Da Silva lit a cigarette, and he paused after tossing the dead match into an ash tray. “The number. Yes. Well, when I decided to work with you, I made it my business to find out everything about you. As well as about many of your friends. And, naturally, as much about our enemies as possible, although I have a fair file on them as it is. The number... well, I have the contacts, I have the patience, and if you will, I also have the curiosity.”

“You found out everything about me?” The old man’s voice was curious, and also tinged with wistfulness.

“Just about everything, I think.” He seated himself beside the older man, his hand reaching out and almost touching the other’s knee, as if in sympathy. “You, my friend, are Ari Schoenberg, age sixty-one, number 2657782, released from the Buchenwald concentration camp in April of 1945 by the American Army.” He inhaled deeply and watched the curls of smoke swirl sinuously toward the air conditioner.

“You spent three months in an American Army hospital outside of Paris. You spent another four months in a camp outside of Paris while you attempted to locate your family, or the remnants, through the Refugee Committee. My information regarding this particular period is a trifle vague, but apparently you found enough of them to manage entrance into the United States about the end of 1945.”

The old man stirred. “Not relatives,” he said, as if to himself. “Friends. Or maybe a better word is ‘contacts.’”

“Friends, then. Or contacts. Let me see, what else?” The dark head leaned back, reading the dossier printed in his memory. “Yes. In the United States, you disappeared for some years.” There was a slight tone of frustration in his voice as if vaguely ashamed of this hole in the dossier. “We do know that an Ari Schoenberg took out his final citizenship papers in the city of Denver, in the State of Colorado, in 1953...” He looked at the old man questioningly.

“Yes,” said the other.

There was a sigh, almost of pleasure, at this confirmation. “Then, about three years ago, Ari Schoenberg disappeared. In his place, or rather not in his place, appeared a certain Hans Busch. In the name of Hans Busch you have authored anti-Semitic pamphlets and statements. In the name of Hans Busch you have been accused by the newspapers of being active in the reorganization of Nazi activities in the United States, and financing, if not actually participating in, the burning of synagogues and the wave of swastika paintings that we are all familiar with.” He eyed the other man sideways, a faint smile creasing his face. “But the interesting thing is that nobody has ever seen this famous Hans Busch. He is only known by name...” He seemed to be awaiting a comment, but the old man sat listening, his hands locked between his legs. “We also know that in the name of Hans Busch you became the owner of the two trading companies which you are now accused of robbing.” The thin, tanned head suddenly came down. “By the way, off the record — and just to satisfy this devilish curiosity of mine — how did you ever manage to be accused of embezzling from yourself?”

The old man smiled, an almost elfin grimace that transformed the pale face. “I took in a partner, a wonderful bookkeeper. Our group have their talents, you know, even if keeping secrets does not seem to be one of them. Any more on that list in your head?”

Da Silva laughed. With the laugh, everyone seemed to relax, recognizing that the crisis was over. “Not too much. Your group has been after Interpol to pay more attention to the rounding up of suspected Nazis here in Brazil, because you felt the main attempt at a rebirth was not in Germany, or in the United States, but here in this country.” He paused, frowning, snuffing out his cigarette. “I agree with you on that, by the way. I have certain information that makes me certain of it; as a matter of fact, that is how I became involved in this. At any rate, Interpol turned you down. Sympathetically, sadly, remorsefully; but definitely. Not their problem, no proof, other organizations more proper for the apprehension of — and so forth, and so forth. Am I right?”

“You are quite right.” Ari was thinking now; the shock had passed and his brain was free to study this development. The pain in his chest had dulled and his mind was clear. He studied the man before him carefully. “You are frighteningly right. If you could gather all of the facts that I have worked so hard to hide these past three years, what is to prevent the others from gathering them just as easily?”

Da Silva shook his head slowly. “To begin with, it was not easy,” he said. “It was not easy at all. But that is not the point. Why should they doubt you? What motive would they have? I am with Interpol, and I am familiar with all of the correspondence. When it was officially decided to refuse help to your group, I asked for leave of absence to work with you as an individual, because I am sure you and your group are right. Of course I investigated. But why should they?”

“Why shouldn’t they?”

“No, no! Why should they? My dear Ari, the Nazi group here are more than anxious to believe that a certain Mr. Hans Busch, known for his sympathy to their great cause, is loose in Brazil with two million dollars. Two million dollars, I might point out, which he cannot take home again without embarrassing questions being raised. They will feel sure that they can prevail upon him to share the wealth, either through the force of their common convictions, or through any other means they feel necessary to use. Why should they doubt Mr. Busch? They know who he is; among other things, he is the answer to their constant prayers. Who questions the existence of Santa Claus on Christmas Eve? In July, possibly, but on Christmas Eve?”

He paused and looked at Ari. “No,” be went on slowly, “they will not check on Mr. Busch as a person; his cover is safe. However, they will most certainly check in great detail on his two million dollars, you may be sure of that! Although I hope that our meeting this morning helped to convince them on that score.”

“Our meeting this morning?” Ari sat up slowly, many things clarifying. “Then that was why, at the airport, this morning...?” “That was why indeed.” Da Silva smiled delightedly, his eyes twinkling, his thumb unconsciously stroking his mustache. “I hope you fully appreciate the artistry you witnessed this morning. Yes, the stage lost a great actor when I turned to police work!” His smile faded as he recalled their previous encounter. “Did you pay any particular attention to the customs official who brought you in and searched you? You should have. He doesn’t know it, but he is an old friend of mine, that miserável! His name is Gunther, born in Santa Catarina in the South. His father was a schoolteacher there, very pro-Hitler, and I have quite a file on the entire family! Personally, I doubt if the son knows what a Nazi is, but there is no doubt that he is one of their little boys!”

He shrugged and smiled. “Yes, that impromptu scene was played all for his benefit. My God! The way he searched you! You could have been carrying a twenty-eight-inch television set under your coat and he would have managed to overlook it! By now you may be sure that the story of Mr. Busch and his two million dollars is going through channels!”

“But we spoke in English,” Ari objected. “Does he speak—?”

Da Silva snorted. “Don’t worry about that one! He knew what we were speaking about! Ten seconds after he had you in a taxi, I would bet anything he was on the telephone. Mr. Busch and his millions will bring sweet dreams to many foolish people tonight!”

Silence fell while Ari considered this information. His glance traveled from the musing expression on Da Silva’s face to the quiet watchfulness of the nondescript man. He cleared his throat diffidently. “And Mr. Wilson?”

Da Silva shrugged elaborately. “Mr. Wilson? Mr. Wilson is assigned by Interpol to the American Embassy here, where, among his other activities — or nonactivities — he serves as security officer as well. Mr. Wilson is a very good friend of mine for many years. We have gotten into our share of trouble together in the past, and probably will again in the future, but I’m afraid not on this case. On this case, his interest simply seems to be seeing that you do not embarrass the American government. He will be of absolutely no help, but on the other hand, knowing him, I should say that he also will not hinder too much.”

The nondescript man smiled at this. “Now, one moment, Zé...”

“I know.” Da Silva raised one hand languidly. “I know. I understand your position perfectly, as well as the position of your government. You put Nazis in the same category as griffins and unicorns. Once a terrible threat, but fortunately no longer existent.”

Wilson’s smile faded. He studied them both for several seconds, framing his reply. “Mr. Schoenberg holds an American passport issued in a name other than his own.” He lifted his hand, forestalling Da Silva’s protest. “I know that by itself this is neither too serious nor too unusual. But we have to remember, Zé, that Mr. Schoenberg is not in Brazil for pleasure. Our government certainly does not intend to have a duplication of the Eichmann mess if it can help it. Or if we can prevent it.” He thought a moment, looking at Da Silva calmly. “By not hindering you, as you put it, I am actually helping you considerably, and doing it more as a favor to you, Zé, than for any other reason. After all, we are also a part of Interpol, and there is a proper organization for handling war criminals.”

And for peace criminals? An thought wearily. For the war criminals of the future? Nobody wants to see a duplication of the Eichmann mess, but which Eichmann mess? Argentina? Or Poland: Auschwitz, Maidanek, Treblinka? They say: Remember that the war is long over, let the dead bury the dead, let bygones be bygones. They say: Forget Buchenwald and Dachau and Gneisenau; remember that the Dusseldorf bourse is all new veined marble trimmed in bright chrome, and the Konigsallee all crystal and silver between the gay awnings and the colorful canal; and where will you find funnier comedy acts in all Europe? They say: Forget Belsen and Natzweiler; remember the autobahns rushing with sturdy Volkswagens and majestic Mercedeses, happy tours earned by earnest hard-working people, guided by pleasant police in bright new uniforms. They say: Forget Ravensbruch...

If we all sweep our memories under the rug of history, will they really disappear? We hid for two thousand years, he thought, but they always found us. Now they want us to hide again. It’s a stupid game.

“I appreciate what Mr. Wilson is doing,” he said wearily, forcing his thoughts back to the comfortable room. “I assure you both that I am not here to kidnap anyone. I have no desire or intention of embarrassing either the American or the Brazilian government. I am here quite alone, as Captain Da Silva must know. I am here only to try and get some proof that the Nazis are building a new organization, and that the center of that organization is here in Brazil.”

He looked at them both coldly, the strength of his purpose flowing into his body and his voice. “This new wave of anti-Semitism is no accident. It is organized and directed. From here, we believe. I am here to try to get names, figures, facts. I am here to try and get enough ammunition to interest some government, or some agency. Some group other than our own.”

He clasped his hands tightly. “In the three years that Mr. Hans Busch has existed, there have been letters; many of them, but mostly from cranks. I heard vaguely of Brazil, always Brazil, but nobody from Brazil ever contacted me directly. So we dreamed up this scheme. We reasoned that a sum of two million dollars in the hands of a Nazi sympathizer in Brazil illegally would be tempting enough to eventually lead to the top people here.” He stared at the two silent men who were watching him. “You may think: that I am imagining all this; that any wave of anti-Semitism that exists is nothing compared to what existed a short time ago. But this is not true; it is here, waiting for an impetus to break loose.” He shrugged. “The impetus may be money. If it is, that’s why I’m here.” He looked at Da Silva questioningly. “I believe that Captain Da Silva must have known this.”

The tall man rose and wandered to the windows overlooking the Avenida Wilson. He pulled aside the heavy drapes and stared in silence at the buglike cars passing below, and the blue bay beyond. “Yes,” he said finally, turning back to the darkening room. “I knew it. It is not a bad idea. It may work.” He leaned on the back of a chair, frowning. “I have always been puzzled that they never contacted you seriously in the States. After all, you had a reputation from your pamphlets. But I imagine they had no idea that your trading companies were so lucrative.” He shook his head. “I even thought at one time that possibly they knew who you really were.”

Ari raised his eyebrows. “When you called me by that number,” he said, “I thought you were one of them, and that you were playing with me.”

“My confounded sense of the dramatic,” Da Silva said, flashing a swift smile that immediately faded. “You’ll have to forgive me for that. No; I’m convinced they don’t know who you are. They are an odd organization, that’s all. In fact, at times it seems they aren’t organized at all, but just splash signs on walls, or set their bombs, out of blind hatred. I shouldn’t imagine they are overwealthy, so if anything has a chance of bringing them out in the open, you and your illegal millions ought to do it.” He sighed. “Plus, of course, the fact that they will have to get me out of the picture. Between one thing and another, we may be able to piece something together that makes sense.”

“Get you out of me picture?” Wilson asked.

“Certainly. After all, I promised — or threatened, if you will — to keep Mr. Hans Busch under very close surveillance. You can scarcely expect them to lead him by the hand up to the head man if they think I may be about three feet behind with a minicamera.” He smiled. “No; besides courting our friend Ari here, they are going to have to face the problem of what to do about Da Silva, nosy scourge of evildoers.

The combination of problems may well confuse the little men, and we shall try to be there to pick up the pieces.” He paused and took out a cigarette, but instead of lighting it he studied it absently, his mind elsewhere.

“Just one thing puzzles me.” He turned to the small figure hunched on the couch. “Tell me something,” he said gently, his eyes warm with compassion. “How did a person like you ever get involved in a cloak-and-dagger deal like this?”

Ari stared at his clasped hands, as if the answer lay imprisoned between the veined trembling fingers. “How?” He looked up at the gaunt form above him. “I am a Jew,” he said simply. “I am also German; I have the language. I am also completely alone and unknown. I am old now, and fat, and comical, maybe; but in 1931 I was already on my way to becoming one of the leading criminal lawyers of Germany, only thirty-one years old. I had a great career, they said.” He tried to find the memory amusing, but his eyes were flat as he looked at the other two. “I was not always old, you know. Or comical-looking. Or fat. Especially I was not always fat...” The dull eyes turned inward, dark and unfathomable.

“What should I do, stay home and play with my grandchildren?” He looked at them without seeing them. “That was in 1931. We were a large family, a happy family. I had my wife, two sons, my father, two uncles on his side — his brothers, you know. I had an aunt and an uncle on my mother’s side, plus I don’t know how many cousins. How many is that? I don’t know... Anyway; three dead in the streets...” He was staring at the past, alone. “No. I was not always fat. For years I couldn’t eat enough. I ate everything; everything... But I could work, I was strong. I was little but I was strong; I could work. Six years. Six years in the Zwangsarbeitslager! But I was strong, or I’d have gone up the chimney long ago...” His eyes slowly cleared, returning to the room from the haze of the past; he looked at Da Silva almost blindly. “You think you know my dossier? Someday I will tell you...”

He fought the bitterness and won, sighing and rubbing his face. “Well, anyway, I am involved. We spent the last three years and a good deal of money developing this Mr. Hans Busch. He is quite real to many people, at least by name. Only his face is unknown; that was necessary. Maybe it is all for nothing, I don’t know. But we did... This Mr. Busch is a Nazi through and through, and if he had not escaped to Brazil when he did, he might very well have been deported to Germany for his sins...”

He paused and stared grimly at the other two. “And you?” he asked, directing his question to Da Silva. “How did you ever get involved in a cloak-and-dagger affair like this? You are not a Jew.”

Da Silva stared down at the hunched, bitter man on the couch. “I could answer as you answered,” he said quietly. “I could simply say, ‘I am a Brazilian.’ But it wouldn’t make sense to anyone except another Brazilian. My dear friend Ari, you don’t know Brazil, but when you do you win know why I am involved.” He became aware of the unlit cigarette in his hand and flung it into the wastebasket, seating himself at Ari’s side in almost the same motion.

“Let me tell you something about Brazilians,” he said. “We have never been in concentration camps, and we have never put others in them. And with God’s help, we never will.” He paused, selecting his words with care. “We Brazilians are foolish, playful, happy, improvident, reckless, gay; what you will. But we are not intolerant.” He turned his head to me silent listening man beside him, suddenly feeling strongly the need to be understood. “You see, most of us can’t afford to be. My family has been here in Brazil for over two hundred years. My first ancestor who came here, came from Portugal, and went into the interior. Our family started there. It was a long time until these first settlers began bringing their women with them from home. So how much Indian blood do I have? How much Negro, or Dutch? I may be part Jewish for all I know. I haven’t the faintest idea!

“Today my family is a known family in Brazil; if you will pardon my lack of modesty, we are a very well-known family, a great family. But can those of us who have the honor to belong to this great family be anti-Indian, for example? Or anti-Negro? Or anti-Dutch?” He laughed shortly. “We Brazilians are in no position to be anti-anyone! We might very well be cutting our own throats! Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

Ari looked up at him wonderingly. “I think I understand.”

“You will understand better when you have been here longer.” Da Silva rose, smiling down on the other in compassion. A twinkle appeared in his eyes. “Though I confess,” he added slowly, “that my sister would die before she admitted anything but the purest of Portuguese blood in her veins. But even she would never be able to understand discrimination against anyone for race, or color, or religion.” He sighed deeply, and changed the subject with that rapidity that never ceased to confuse even his most intimate colleagues. “Well,” he said, “that’s that! Now let us see where we stand. An, you return to your hotel. It should not be too long before they begin falling over your feet. And I shall be Big Brother, but not to such a degree as to frighten the little men away. We shall see what we shall see!”

“And how will we be able to contact one another?”

Da Silva frowned. “No confidential phone calls from the Mirabelle, my friend Ari! You were put there because an unusual number of their guests seem to come from either Santa Catarina or Rio Grande do Sul. And because if you ask for whiskey in German, you always seem to get the legitimate stuff.” He smiled broadly. “I suppose, in the best tradition of cloak-and-dagger, we should have a password.

Something dramatic and unintelligible, like the name Wilson.”

Ari got to his feet, smiling, getting into the mood of the game. “Why not the name Murray?”

Da Silva grinned. “Wonderful! It would be the perfect example that they also serve who only sit and do nothing. However, much as I should like to give Mr. Murray two opportunities in his life to be useful, I’m afraid I shall have to let this one slide.” He frowned in sudden seriousness. “I think the best idea would be for me to bring you in for questioning every now and then. I won’t be able to do it very often, but I hope that we won’t have to.”

He walked Ari to the door, his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder in a gesture of intimacy. “Well,” he said, “that’s that, then. Good luck.”

Ari paused, his hand on the knob. “And my passport?”

Da Silva laughed. He took the document from his pocket and passed it over with a slight bow. “All in perfect order, Mr. Busch. Goodbye and good luck.”

“Thank you,” Ari said, his fingers tightening on the knob, reluctant to leave the warm friendliness of the room. He turned to the silent nondescript man seated at the enormous desk. “Goodbye, Mr. Wilson.”

“Before you leave, Mr. Schoenberg,” said the quiet man, twisting a pencil in his fingers, “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.” He raised a hand hurriedly. “Nothing official. Simply out of curiosity.”

“Certainly,” Ari said, puzzled. He stepped back from the door.

The nondescript man played with the pencil in his hand as he spoke. “Exactly what was the reason for that briefcase chained to your wrist, Mr. Schoenberg? You Blight have known it was bound to arouse suspicion.”

“But it was meant to,” Ari said. “Not suspicion, exactly, but curiosity. I wanted them to remember me and my briefcase, but only, of course, after I had cleared customs and gone to the hotel. When they read about the embezzlement, I wanted everyone to remember the man with the briefcase chained to his wrist.” He almost sounded apologetic. “The news release was not supposed to be made until this afternoon; somebody slipped up.”

“When I heard about it,” Da Silva said, “I had to work fast I thought it odd that you would want to be searched, and that is the only conclusion I could come to at first when the release came. But when I saw you...” He laughed.

“Another question, Mr. Schoenberg,” the quiet man continued, almost as if nobody had spoken. “When Zé’s friend Mr. Gunther searched you, were you wearing a money belt? Or anything under your clothes that might have served to hold money?”

He was puzzled. “A money belt? No.”

“And one more question, possibly a foolish one. Was there ever two million dollars? Was there ever, in fact, any money at all?”

Da Silva laughed. “Wilson is a fan of the late Mr. Belasco,” he said to Ari. “He seems to feel, and I am forced to agree, that an actual two million dollars would have added a nice touch of reality to the situation.”

“No,” Ari said, wondering where the questioning was leading. “No, there was never any money at all.”

“Then where is it?” Wilson asked.

“Where is what?” Da Silva said, looking at his friend with astonishment. “Where is money that never existed?”

“Exactly.” Wilson laid the pencil down carefully. “Look, Zé; I don’t know how intelligent your friend Mr. Gunther is, but it would be pretty hard for a customs guard to search a man and overlook two million dollars. It makes quite a bundle, you know, even in big notes. Now; you say that if it had been there, Mr. Gunther would have overlooked it. What I say is that, not being there, it would be impossible to overlook.”

Da Silva struck himself on his forehead with his clenched fist. “You’re right, of course! I was too clever.”

Ari looked from one to the other. “But I don’t understand.”

“Quite simple,” Da Silva said, disgusted with himself. He reseated himself. “Wilson is saying that we have convinced them, at least for the time being, that the money left New York. But it wasn’t in your bag, and it wasn’t in your briefcase. And Gunther knows it wasn’t on your person. Had you been wearing a money belt, our customs friend may have thought he was helping you whisk it away under my nose, but since there was nothing under your jacket except you, they know that this isn’t the case.”

He shook his head. “They probably think your thing with the briefcase was a blind, and merely meant that you had an alternate and better way to get the money into the country. Mr. Wilson is saying, in his quiet but accurate manner, that if we really want to convince them that you have this two million dollars, we shall have to do more than show them where it isn’t.”

Ari came further into the room, worried. “But how?”

“I have no idea,” Da Silva said glumly, staring at his shoes, but no longer with the air of being their proud owner. There was a few moments’ silence. Then Da Silva sat up straight, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Or maybe I do. But it means night work. Overtime, without pay.”

The others watched him as he leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “How does this sound? Imagine you are listening to this on the Radio Nacional.” He let his voice drop to the unemotional tone of a newscaster. “Sometime last night,” he said gravely, “a mysterious figure was seen lugging a heavy bundle from the darkened hangars of Pan American Airways at Galeão Airport. Despite the best efforts of the customs and the airport police, who fired — no, make that, who shouted — at the thief, he effected his escape to a car in which an accomplice was waiting. As of this hour, the police have no clue as to the identity of the thief. Pan American officials who were called immediately to the scene of the daring robbery made a complete search of their premises, but state that nothing belonging to the company is missing. Police feel that possibly the thief was disturbed before he could open the company safe, but are unable to explain the bulky package he was seen to be carrying.” He looked at Wilson, his eyes twinkling. “How does it read, accomplice?”

“Now wait a minute, Zé! You are not going to pull me into this thing!”

“Listen to him,” Da Silva said in simulated disgust. “If it hadn’t been for him we would have all been home hours ago!”

“Now look, Zé. This is no affair of mine. Count me out.”

“I would suggest your car,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “Mine has been giving me trouble lately. Something with the transmission, I think.”

“No car and no Wilson,” Wilson said shortly, getting to his feet. “I’m leaving right now for dinner.”

“An excellent idea,” Da Silva said agreeably. “We can discuss the details much better over some good food.” He opened the door and ushered the other two out. “I’ll show you another exit to the street,” he said to Ari, grasping the smaller man’s arm in friendship. “They may have followed you from the hotel, and your long delay here would get them wondering. Let them think they missed you.” He turned back to Wilson as they walked to the elevator.

“Where would you like to eat?”

“I’m eating alone.”

“Practically alone. In fact, if you like, I’ll even do all the talking.” He winked at Ari, and in a sotto voce that carried clearly, added, “I told you he wouldn’t hinder us too much!”

Chapter 5

The reporters were waiting, cold drinks in hand, when Ari returned from the Embassy. They glanced at the unprepossessing figure incuriously, and he might easily have escaped their attention except that one, more enterprising or less thirsty than the others, was waiting at the desk when he asked for his room key. In an instant he was surrounded by a group talking excitedly in three languages; none of it made sense to him. He noticed a photographer hurriedly adjust his lens and raise his camera with the air of a hunter making a snapshot; he flung his arm before his face just as the light exploded. He felt very tired and nervous, confused by the babble; his heart seemed to be pumping in a peculiar fashion, and he only wanted to reach his room quickly. The noise of the crowd about him made him dizzy; he tried to push through, blinding himself to the pressure of bodies bearing against him and fingers clawing at his jacket.

There was a sudden burst of outraged Portuguese, a firm hand on his elbow, and he found himself being piloted through the crowd to the elevator. Another flash of light from a hastily raised camera only succeeded in recording the nape of his neck. The elevator door shut, cutting away the noise of the lobby, the open protesting mouths of the reporters, the startled gaze of the other guests. His arm was released, and he stared in wonder at the tall man beside him.

“Your pardon, Herr Busch,” said the other apologetically in German. “I am the manager of the hotel.” Ari noted the reddish brush of hair fringing a bald head, the heavy, almost theatrical eyebrows, the square white porcelain blocks of teeth. “I realize that you have had a hard day. I am here to help you. If you wish, I shall make some excuse to the newspaper people.” He paused questioningly, his eyebrows shooting up onto his forehead; Ari could only nod. “Then,” began the manager, but the elevator came to a smooth halt and the doors slid back. They left the wide-eyed operator and turned down the hall. “Then,” continued the other suavely, “if you wish I can have your telephone calls held until tomorrow.”

He leaned forward and inserted a master key in the lock, swinging the door wide for Ari to enter. The light switch was pressed; Ari sank to the bed gratefully. The manager blocked the doorway, looking solicitous. “I realize there will be many who might wish to disturb your, ah... your vacation,” he said, much as if the words had been forced from him by circumstances unfortunately beyond his control. “I assure you that we will do everything in our power to see that you are not bothered. If you wish it, that is, if you wish it,” he added hastily.

“I would certainly appreciate it,” Ari said, wishing the man would take his teeth and his eyebrows elsewhere so he could lie back against the inviting pillow.

“The dining room now,” said the manager, out of nowhere, rubbing his cheek with one finger and staring at the ceiling in contemplation. “I’m afraid...” He came to sudden resolution, clarifying his non sequitur. “If the Herr might care to dine with me in my private apartment...?”

“I would really prefer...” Ari began desperately, and then paused in sudden thought. One had to begin sometime. After all, it was why he was here. And also, one had to eat. He looked at the manager with the faint smile of deprecation reserved for small kindnesses. “Or possibly the Herr Manager might care to dine with me, here, in this apartment?”

“Of course! The halls and elevators!” The voice admitted its stupidity in not recognizing this obvious fact. “But...” Embarrassment crept into his tone. “I had invited a friend, yes? An official.”

“Perhaps another time, then,” Ari said, beginning to feel better, and also beginning to enjoy the match. He saw the doubtful hesitation, waited until the exact moment, and then added dubiously, “Or perhaps your friend would care to join us?”

“Excellent!” cried the manager, raising his eyebrows in delight. “Excellent! I can assure the Herr that my friend is not of the police...” He frowned as if he had inadvertently said something in poor taste, and then hurried on, solicitous once more. “But the Herr will undoubtedly wish to rest first! At ten, then? Ten o’clock is all right? And of course, for the account of the hotel!” This last was said so fiercely that Ari almost smiled. The door slowly closed behind the bowing figure, the face disappearing last into the gloom of the corridor, like the gradual fading of the Cheshire Cat with a mouthful of sugar cubes.

Ari slid the bolt and fell back on the bed. It had been a very busy day, a very busy day indeed, and he was exhausted. Nor was he through; the thought of the dinner ahead was tiring, even though he was sure it would be of interest as well as use to their overall plan. I wonder who this official, not of the police, might be, he thought. Well, we shall soon see. At least we are on our way; the three years of preparation will soon prove themselves to have been useful, or they shall soon prove their tragic waste. He was pleasantly reassured by the thought of Da Silva and Wilson; one thing, he was no longer alone. He smiled at the thought and closed his eyes. A faint breeze whispered through the room; he slept.

Chapter 6

He woke at nine-thirty, automatically, somehow pleased that this inexplicable mechanism still functioned, and also pleased that there had been no dreams. It was a good sign. He went into the bathroom and washed his face in the tepid water that ran from the cold-water tap, shook his head to clear it of the last remnants of sleep, and returned to the bedroom. Considering changing his shirt, he opened his bag and stood staring at the contents in thoughtful satisfaction. The evidences of search were slight but unmistakable. I suppose they didn’t know how soon I would get back, he thought with a sigh that was half pleased, half annoyed. At any rate, you might think they would have tried to be neater.

There was a discreet knock at the door. He closed the bag and went over to admit a white-jacketed waiter wheeling in a table set for three. “O gerente vêm logo,” the waiter said, and dodged back into the hallway to reappear with three folding chairs carried awkwardly in one arm, and an ice bucket clutched manfully in the other. From the bucket, champagne bottles lolled, their necks neatly swathed in white napkins. “Com licença.” The waiter swallowed the words, well aware he was speaking a nonunderstood tongue, and disappeared, closing the door carefully behind himself. Another rap succeeded this exit immediately.

Grand Central Station, Ari thought, and opened the door once again.

This time it was the manager, who bowed himself in, teeth flashing brilliantly. Bowing oneself out is relatively simple, Ari could not help but think as he acknowledged the greeting, but bowing oneself in requires talent, if you don’t wish to appear like a carpenter’s rule being awkwardly folded. He does it very well.

“Ah, good evening, Herr Busch,” said the manager in a tone of voice that indicated both surprise and appreciation that Ari had not completely disappeared since their last meeting. He went over and examined the table expertly, silently moved a fork a fraction of an inch, and then proceeded to withdraw a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket. “A drink while we wait, yes?” he said with forced joviality. “My friend should be here very soon.” He twisted the wire free as he spoke and gently manipulated the cork with practiced fingers. There was a sharp plop and the cork, expertly directed, flew out of the window. The manager quickly filled two glasses; a tiny puff of smoky vapor from the bottle dampened his fingers.

“Local champagne,” he said, carefully wiping his fingers on a napkin, his face falling tragically. Then he brightened. “But really, not so bad.” He offered one of the glasses to Ari with a flourish. This man has a face of rubber, Ari thought, accepting the glass. I wonder what he looks like when he is asleep.

“Your health,” said Ari pleasantly.

“To a long and happy stay in Brazil,” replied the manager sententiously. He sipped and set his glass down, automatically placing it upon the glass dresser top to avoid marking the furniture. “By the way, I’m afraid I never even introduced myself.” His chuckle was self-insulting. “My name is Mathais. Herbert Mathais. If there is anything I can do for you during your stay here, I am yours to command!”

“You are very kind,” Ari began, when another knock came at the door. Mathais waved Ari aside grandly and opened it. A broad smile creased his face.

“My friend, Herr Gunther,” he said, ushering another man into the room. Ari moved over slowly to shake hands.

“Herr Gunther?” he said with a surprise he did not actually feel. “But we have met!”

“Herr Busch?” said Gunther. He turned to Mathais reproachfully. “But you did not tell me that we were dining with Herr Busch!”

“You know each other?” The attempt to inject a tone of puzzlement came close to being successful.

“But of course! Herr Busch passed through customs while I was on duty.” He turned apologetically to Ari. “You must please forgive us, Herr Busch, for the embarrassment you were caused. Believe me when I say it is not our habit to treat visitors so poorly.”

Mathais was pouring champagne and at this statement his eyebrows went out of sight. “They treated Herr Busch poorly?” he asked in a voice that pictured thumbscrews and the Iron Maiden. “Why did they do that?”

I suppose they had little time for rehearsal, Ari thought; but even so, it is really such Schmaltz. He almost giggled at the thought of the word, and spoke quickly to recover. “A misunderstanding,” he said lightly. He took his glass and seated himself negligently in the largest chair in the room, as if it were his right. He raised his glass slightly in Gunther’s direction. “This Captain Da Silva. Just who is he?” This time Gunther’s sneer was genuine. “Da Silva?” he said sourly. “He’s in Interpol. International Police. A busybody. As if we need his help to do our job!” He was sincerely annoyed. He turned to Mathais. “He also removed Herr Busch’s passport!”

“But this will never do!” Mathais cried. He had seated himself on one corner of a folding chair, and he jumped to his feet as if ready to rush rights out and rectify this terrible error at once.

“No, no!” Ari laughed. “It was returned.” He patted his breast pocket a bit boastfully. “A misunderstanding, I really assure you.” The nap had refreshed him, and the wine was relaxing. This was promising to be fun.

“Returned?” Gunther sounded surprised. “Captain Da Silva returned it? Your passport?”

“Not Captain Da Silva,” Ari explained, as if the matter were of no importance. “The American Embassy returned it.” He finished his champagne with a final sip and stared at the little bubbles that still clung to the sides of the glass. “I should judge this Da Silva finally realized he had no actual authority for holding it; or more likely his superiors knew he had overstepped himself and wanted no trouble.” He held out his glass to Mathais, who rushed to refill it. Well, well, Ari thought, watching the bubbles pulse upwards in his glass. I am positive they knew I went to the Embassy today; I wonder why all these histrionics.

“A pity I did not know of this,” the manager said unctuously. “I have a little influence and I might have been of some help.” He set the empty bottle to one side and at once selected another and began to open it. “I imagine the American Embassy also made some difficulties. You were gone so long...” He allowed the words to fade into his sudden concentration on dislodging the cork. There was another loud plop and he filled Gunther’s glass and his own.

Ach, so? Ari thought. “Oh, no,” he said calmly. “There was no delay. As a matter of fact, I imagine I was there less than ten minutes.” Inspiration struck him. “Afterwards, I had some rather important arrangements to make...” He sipped his wine slowly and then, obviously, changed the subject. “One must give credit where it is due,” he said magnanimously. “In the matter of passports, we must admit the Americans are quite efficient.”

“Important arrangements?” Mathais began to ask, and then changed his mind. “You are not a stranger to Brazil, then? You know people here, yes?”

“A few. One always needs to know a few.”

“Yes,” Mathais said helplessly. The manager was saved the necessity of thinking of the next question, for at this moment there was a rap at the door, and two waiters came wheeling in their dinner. “Ah,” cried Mathais, bounding to his feet in relief, once more mine host. He turned to his guest, his enthusiasm immediately fading. “You like avocado?” he asked anxiously. Ari assured him that he did. The manager’s voice became more sepulchral. “And shrimp?” Ari nodded. “The duck I can positively guarantee,” said the manager with more confidence. Fernandel could take lessons from this one, Ari thought.

The waiters were directed peremptorily; they sat down to eat. The meal was excellent; Ari discovered that he was very hungry. The others seemed to pluck at their food uninterestedly, but Ari ate steadily and with obvious enjoyment. With coffee came liqueurs, and after this, cigars. They relaxed in chairs while the waiters piled everything on the carts and wheeled them away. It has been years since food tasted so good, Ari thought, puffing gently on his cigar. It must be the satisfaction that comes from starting a new and important job, he thought; or possibly appetite is enriched by the thought of successful embezzling. Taking money from others without being caught seems to be the formula for a healthy hunger; embezzling has its points. He knocked his ashes into his ash tray and burped politely. I wonder, he thought, what comes now.

“You plan to stay long in Brazil?” Mathais asked, his manner that of one who makes polite conversation.

Ari puffed on his cigar, savoring it. “I honestly have no idea. This is my first visit to Brazil, you know. The little I have seen of it seems very beautiful. I think I might enjoy spending some time here.”

“Your first visit?” Mathais said, almost objecting. “But you said you knew some people...”

“You would enjoy the South,” Gunther interposed positively. “It is much more simpático.”

“Simpático?”

“It is a word we use very much here in Brazil,” Mathais explained, relieved, his teeth flashing. “You would say gemütlich. And any place is simpático if one has enough money.” He added this last with all the authority of one making an original statement.

“But is Rio always as hot as it was today?” Ari objected, idly watching the smoke curl negligently from his cigar. “Beautiful, yes. But today...” He shook his head. “Today was hot!”

“In the South it is never hot,” Gunther said stubbornly. “In Santa Catarina, for example, it...” “Yes,” Mathais said, answering Ari and paying no attention to the sudden flush that appeared on Gunther’s face at this interruption, “Rio is beautiful, but it is also hot. São Paulo, now.” He puffed majestically; Gunther subsided sullenly. “Do you know São Paulo? A pity. Now, should you be thinking of going to São Paulo, perhaps I can be of assistance. Hotels, for example...”

“I have been thinking possibly of getting an apartment,” Ari said idly. He smiled at Mathais. “No criticism of hotels, you understand, but... You see, it is possible that I may stay in Brazil for a while.” He took them into his confidence with a diffident smile; they nodded.

“In Rio?” Gunther asked.

Ari shrugged. “If it is always this hot, maybe São Paulo...”

“On this I can definitely help you,” Mathais said positively, “I happen to have a friend in São Paulo, a man of much substance. Actually, he is—” Gunther shot him a glance — “a man of great importance. I am sure he could be most useful to you.”

Ari nodded thankfully. So São Paulo seemed to be the headquarters; it was good to know. One step forward, at the least. “You are most kind,” he said, wiping his ashes into the tray at his elbow with precision. “When I am ready to go I shall let you know, yes? However—” he shrugged — “for the next few days I believe I shall relax and enjoy your Rio de Janeiro. It is beautiful; I should like to see all of it.”

The telephone rang as he finished speaking; he looked askance at Mathais. “It must be for me,” the manager said worriedly, lifting the receiver. “I left definite instructions...” He listened to the voice at the other end with a faint frown on his face. “For you,” he said, handing the instrument to Gunther with a touch of surprise. Ari watched them both; they seemed quite honestly perturbed by the call.

Gunther was listening intently. A faint buzz at the other end could be heard clearly as the caller spoke. The customs official replied rapidly in Portuguese and then listened with concentration to the answer his words had invoked. He nodded to the instrument as if the caller were there in person, spoke a few words more in tense interrogation, listened, and slowly replaced the receiver on the hook.

“I’m afraid I must go,” he said, eying Ari with a strange mixture of caution and respect. “There has been some trouble at the airport.”

“Trouble?” Mathais cried. “What trouble? An accident?”

“No; a robbery.”

“A robbery? The, ah... the thieves escaped?”

For seconds Gunther withheld his reply, looking at Ari with smiling speculation. Then with no inflection at all, he said, “Yes. They escaped.”

“A shame,” Ari said, arising and smiling with relief. “A shame. I am most sorry that you must go, but I understand...”

“I will go down with you,” the manager said to Gunther, also rising and straightening the creases in his trousers carefully. “Besides, it is very late, yes? I am sure that Herr Busch must be most tired of our company by this time.” His toothy smile robbed his words of either offense or meaning.

Ari bowed slightly from the waist. “It was a wonderful meal,” he said, happy to be honest. “I thank you very much. You must be my guest another time.” He puffed smoke rapidly from his cigar to demonstrate both his enjoyment and his sincerity.

“I will have the chambermaid arrange the Herr’s apartment,” Mathais said, looking about the room anxiously. Ari assured him that the morning would be fine; that the room would do until then.

“If the Herr says so,” Mathais said dubiously, and led the way into the hall. They all shook hands again at parting, that stiff one-up-and-one-down of the European, and Ari closed the door softly behind him.

Well, it did not go too badly, he thought with satisfaction, undressing slowly for bed. Da Silva would have been proud of me tonight. As I am proud of him, he thought, remembering the telephone call. That had been pure luck. He felt relaxed and pleasantly full of good food as he peeled back the covers and slipped thankfully into bed. It had been a complicated day, a long day; but all in all a very good day. Maybe the dreams will not come tonight, he thought hopefully. Maybe they were just my punishment before for not having done anything. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep happily. Tonight he was suddenly sure that the dreams would not come.

Chapter 7

In the manager’s apartment on the second floor of the hotel, Mathais and Gunther sipped cognac.

“So he got it in,” Mathais said shortly. He was a far different man from the scraping, bowing, smiling-Buddha manager with the trick eyebrows.

“Yes,” Gunther answered.

“Very clever.” He sipped.

Gunther shrugged indifferently.

“And with no help from you.”

At this, Gunther bridled. “There was nothing I could do. What could I have done? Even if he had had it with him? With Da Silva there and all!” The unfairness of the accusation stung him. “I had no idea of how he intended to bring it in. If you knew, you should have told me!”

“Ah,” Mathais said, almost with satisfaction. “That’s where the man is clever!” He lifted his glass slightly, as if in toast to Busch’s cleverness. “I didn’t know. Nor did anybody.”

“So don’t blame me,” Gunther said crossly.

“I’m not blaming you,” Mathais said soothingly. “In any event it’s not important. At least we know the money is here in Brazil.”

“I still don’t know how he managed to arrange it,” Gunther said thoughtfully. “Pan American...” He reviewed the people he knew at Pan American, the office people, the hangar crew. He shook his head. “He must be far sharper than he looks.”

“Well,” Mathais said. “Of course.”

“I know,” Gunther said stubbornly. “But still. It must have been exceptionally well organized.”

“He must have a lot of faith in the people he works with,” Mathais said dryly. “I am sure that I wouldn’t trust you with two million dollars.”

“He probably pays them better than I get paid,” Gunther said sourly, absently. “Another thing. I wonder how he got away from Da Silva’s watchdogs long enough to arrange the thing.”

“I shouldn’t imagine that would be too hard,” Mathais said, twirling the brandy glass in his fingers. “There has been a man across the side street from the hotel all afternoon who has ‘policeman’ written all over him. He doesn’t look like the type it would be difficult to slip.” Gunther shook his head stubbornly in disagreement. “Don’t underestimate Da Silva.”

Mathais smiled, a cold smile. “I don’t underestimate anybody. And particularly, I do not underestimate Mr. Busch.” He looked across at the other sardonically. “After all, he gave the slip to the entire New York police department.”

“That’s true,” Gunther admitted grudgingly.

“And the fact is,” Mathais added negligently, “Busch did get the money into Brazil. Which was not as easy as people might think.”

Gunther nodded. “That is also true. But exactly where is it?”

Mathais shrugged. “At the moment, that is not important.” He got to his feet and replenished the glasses. He raised his in a toast. “To two million dollars!” He shook his head in profound admiration and drank. He set his glass down and turned to Gunther. “You will let the people in São Paulo know?”

“I’ll call them tomorrow. I don’t know if the boss is there; I think he is traveling in the South. But in any event he should be back by the end of the week.” He sipped his glass. “I’ll call tomorrow.” He paused, wondering. “Do you think he’ll stay in Brazil?”

“Who, Busch? Of course he’ll stay in Brazil,” Mathais said positively. “Where else would he go? There aren’t many places left with no extradition these days. And also, he can’t keep taking his money in and out of countries. He was lucky this time. No; hell stay. He came to stay; I’m sure of that.”

“In Rio?”

“Or São Paulo. It really makes no difference. Two million dollars! It is what we have needed!” He looked across at Gunther. “You will call São Paulo?”

“I said I would.” There was resentment in the tone; the resentment of the unappreciated.

“Just don’t forget to,” Mathais said rudely. He stood up, yawning deeply, his entire attitude indicating that the discussion was at an end. “Well,” he said, seeing the other still sitting and drinking, “Drink up!” Gunther swallowed his brandy hastily and got to his feet, barely suppressing his indignation. Mathais waited impatiently until the other had left, still muttering; then he closed the door softly behind the departing man. “Two million dollars,” he said to himself with a smile as he went into his bedroom. “Two million dollars...!”

Chapter 8

In Wilson’s small bachelor apartment overlooking the quiet Lagoa de Freitas, the nondescript man and Da Silva were also sipping cognac.

“My dear Wilson,” Da Silva was saying, squinting at his brandy glass from the depths of the couch. “You would do me a very great favor by having a good mechanic go over your car. When I came through that fence and heard that starter grinding endlessly, I thought I would have heart failure. I thought we were finished.”

“My dear Zé,” Wilson retorted, stung out of his normal calm. “You would do me an even greater favor by leaving me completely out of your crazy schemes!” He snorted. “In all honesty, do you really believe that robbing, or pretending to rob, an airport, is the best way to convince people that this Schoenberg actually brought that money into Brazil?”

“I don’t know if it was the best way,” Da Silva said calmly, “but I’m certain that it was the quickest. We saw Mr. Schoenberg a little better than six hours ago; I would be willing to bet that a report of our little escapade is all over Rio at this very moment.”

“Well, possibly,” Wilson conceded reluctantly. “But...”

“No but; and no possibly. Definitely,” Da Silva said lazily. He studied his cognac glass once again, holding it to the light. “My dear Wilson,” he said, “you would think that, with PX privileges, you could afford to drink a better brand of brandy than this.”

“Zé,” Wilson said, paying no attention to Da Silva’s remark, “are you honestly convinced that there is a real conspiracy here in Brazil to rebuild the Nazi party?”

“Wilson,” Da Silva said, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, “you are changing the subject.” He studied his glass again. “Now, with PX privileges, if I had been so lucky as to be born an American, I would get Remy Martin. Or, if they were out of it.”

“Zé!” Wilson said in a dangerous tone.

“My dear Wilson,” Da Silva said, pretending amazement. “The unicorns, you recall? The griffins? Just this afternoon, you wanted no part of this operation.”

“That’s right,” Wilson said, his voice slightly tinged with bitterness. “I didn’t want any part of it. But who dragged me in? You did! So now at least answer my question. And seriously. Are you honestly convinced that there is a conspiracy in this country to rebuild the Nazi party?”

“All right.” Da Silva sat up. “You want an honest answer, here it is. Yes, I am. I am convinced. Completely.” He thought a moment before continuing. “Let me put it to you this way: I won’t say that the rebuilding could be termed a rebirth of the Nazi party, in the sense that the Nazi party is the same National Socialist German Worker’s party of years ago. But as far as I am concerned, it comes to the same thing. This group has the same aims, the same methods, and therefore to me they represent the same danger.” He put his glass down almost violently; Wilson recognized the signs of his friend’s conviction. He leaned back in silence, waiting for the revelations he knew would come.

“Let me tell you a little story,” Da Silva said, leaning forward and staring at Wilson intently. “This is a story that happened a long, long time ago. Long before you came to Brazil.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Wilson waited patiently for him to continue.

“About eight years ago,” Da Silva said finally, “I received a very interesting visit from a man named Goetz. I hadn’t been in the service too long at that time, and maybe I took things a bit too seriously. Anyway, I took what this man told me seriously, and I haven’t gotten over it yet.” He inhaled again, letting the smoke drift from his nose as he spoke.

“This Goetz was a giant of a man, twice as big as me; he came in looking like a laborer, older than God and three times as tough. My first reaction was to throw him out of the office — if I could — until he started to talk. After he talked for five minutes, I knew I had a job, for as long as it lasted; until it was cleaned up.

“This Goetz was German-born, living in the south of Brazil, which is where most of the Germans emigrated back in the twenties. Anyway, he told me of a meeting that had been held in a chácara — a coffee fazenda near Itapeva in the State of São Paulo, away back in 1939. Before the war. The chácara was owned by an old friend of his, a man named von Roesler.” He smiled at Wilson’s start. “Interesting, eh? You recognize the name?”

“I was an observer at Nuremberg,” Wilson said, almost stiffly. “Of course I recognize the name. But it could hardly be the same.”

“Of course it couldn’t be the same. But wait. Let me tell you. It was actually an uncle.” He arose, filled his glass, and reseated himself. “The meeting, however, was held by the nephew. By Captain Erick von Roesler himself, speaking, apparently, in the name of the SD.”

“Colonel,” Wilson interrupted, almost automatically.

“In 1939, captain. In any event, it appears that this Goetz was not much in favor of either the program or the personalities of the Third Reich, and he stormed out of the meeting. And later he told me all about it, as well as telling me who was present at the time.”

Wilson stirred in his chair. “And just when did he tell you all this?”

“In 1952.”

“And why had he waited so long?”

“I can only tell you what he told me. He said that old von Roesler was his oldest friend; that he was sure that the old man had nothing to do with the meeting, other than providing the meeting place, and he was sure that even this had been forced on him. The two of them, Goetz and the old von Roesler, had come to Brazil together from Germany in the early twenties, he said. When the old man died, he came up to Rio and told me the whole story. He had simply waited until there could be no repercussions against his friend.”

“And what was the meeting about?”

Da Silva set his glass down slowly, and then looked Wilson directly in the eye. “The meeting,” he said slowly, “was to form a Nazi party group in Brazil.”

Wilson threw up his hands involuntarily. “My dear Zé,” he said, controlling a smile with an effort. “You have to remember that this was far from uncommon in those days. They did the same thing in almost every country in the world.”

Da Silva nodded his head. “I know. But most of the groups they formed in those days were quickly broken up. Or were broken up later, either during or after the war.” He looked at Wilson speculatively. “This group never was. Remember that. But let me tell you the rest of the story.” He lit another cigarette from the end of the first, and continued.

“I made inquiries, of course, but thirteen years is a long time. There was no indication that the nephew had ever returned to Brazil; when the old man finally died in 1952 the property was sold to the neighbor who had the next farm, and joined to that fazenda. A neighbor, by the way, who was also present at that meeting.”

Wilson interrupted. “What happened to the money from the sale? Who got it?”

“It was banked in Switzerland in the name of a niece, Monica von Roesler.”

“And has the money ever been taken out?”

Da Silva shook his head. “That we have never been able to find out. The bank wouldn’t say, and we can’t force them to tell us. But it really isn’t important; the farm didn’t bring any great price, and with the depreciation in the cruzeiro since then, nobody will ever get rich on it. However, let me tell you why I think this meeting in Brazil was different from the meetings that we both know were held in many countries at that time for the same purpose.”

Wilson raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“It was some of the people who were at the meeting. And remember what I said before; this is one group that was never broken up.” He sat up straighter, ticking the names off on the fingers of one hand.

“One. Goetz, of course. He died, by the way, in ’55, a fact I only learned much later. And of course, von Roesler, the old man, I’m not counting them.

“Two. The neighbor who later bought the farm, when the old man died. His name is Gehrmann. He’s pretty old now; still lives on the fazenda. To tell you the truth, as far as we know he is pretty inactive in everything, including politics.

“Three. A man named Riepert, from Paraná, Goetz told me that Riepert left this famous meeting together with him, also in discord. I later spoke with Riepert himself, and he told me he never saw any of the others again except the old man, and then they only played chess and never discussed the meeting. We think he was telling the truth.” He paused to get up and refresh his glass.

“So far,” Wilson said as he waited, “you haven’t made out much of a case. Two who are dead, one who was in disagreement with the group, and one who, by your own opinion, is and was inactive.”

“Wait,” Da Silva said, reseating himself. “I haven’t finished.” He suddenly smiled. “Dessert always comes last, you know.” He resumed his count.

“Four. A man named Gunther. A Santa Catarina schoolteacher, a rabid fan of Adolf Hitler, and the father of our friend from customs.

“Five. A man who was, at the time, an importer and exporter, but who later found politics more interesting. Named Wilhelm Strauss...” He smiled at Wilson’s barely concealed start. “Yes, my dear Wilson, the very same. Now our notorious Deputado Strauss from the State of São Paulo. You probably recall his campaign to limit immigration, particularly from Europe. From certain countries in Europe, specifically. Let us be honest; it was meant to bar Jews, and it failed. You may also recall his support for the various shirt groups that have sprung up over the years. A man making an honest mistake?” He smiled bitterly. “Well, possibly. I won’t say no. But I also won’t forget that he was at that meeting back in 1939.” He switched hands and continued counting as Wilson looked thoughtful.

“Six. A man named Johann Lange, from Rio Grande do Sul...” He smiled again. “Familiar? You remember his name? That’s right; he was the one who supported Stroessner not so long ago. His ranch comes right up against the Paraguayan border. We’ve had an eye on him for a long time. Not all of his house guests come equipped with entry visas for Brazil.” He dropped his hands. “True, one thing may not have anything to do with the other, but the fact remains that he was another one at that meeting. Plus, of course, Captain Erick von Roesler himself, in person.” He looked up suddenly, his eye gleaming. “Not an imitation. Anyway, that’s the lot. What do you think?”

Wilson sipped his cognac, his brow furrowed. “You never mentioned this before,” he said.

“We never discussed it before. If you want to see the complete dossier on each and every one of them, I have it in my office safe. But for what I need, I also have it here.” He tapped his forehead significantly.

“Well, there is no doubt that it is interesting,” Wilson said slowly, “but scarcely conclusive. The fact that people were at a meeting over twenty years ago doesn’t prove to me that they are organized for a conspiracy today.”

“In looking for an organization that is functioning in Brazil today,” Da Silva said, leaning forward in utter seriousness, “we can scarcely overlook the fact that an organization existed before dedicated to the same ends, even if it did exist over twenty years ago. Particularly when some of the people involved are the same. No, I am sure that the organization never changed, that it continued to exist always. What I am wondering is if the organizer of the group is the same.”

“The organizer? But you say that von Roesler organized the group.”

“Exactly.”

Wilson held up his hand in protest. “Now wait, Zé. Von Roesler disappeared in August of 1944. There is no evidence at all that he is still alive, let alone in Brazil. In those closing days of the war, many people disappeared and were presumed dead.”

“Presumed.”

Wilson shook his head. “Many were killed in those days, unidentified. It was complete confusion; people disappeared, changed their identities, died under different names. In some places in those days at the end, officers were even killed by their own troops. Many SD men tried to escape by changing uniforms, and died without any identification whatsoever.”

“And a lot more lived than died! Look, Wilson; I don’t state it as an irrefutable fact, only as a possibility. This group was organized shortly before the outbreak of war by von Roesler himself, and during the war they were quite active. After the war they quieted down — they didn’t disappear, or go out of business, they merely quieted down. Then, a few years later, they began activity again. And nobody knows where von Roesler is, or if he is alive or dead. I only state it as a possibility that he may be here.”

“Do you mean to say,” Wilson asked slowly, “that, assuming von Roesler is still alive and in Brazil — and there is no proof whatsoever that this is true, or even possible — that he waited all these years to start a new movement?”

Da Silva frowned stubbornly. “It is not a new movement; it is an old movement! With the same people. And I only said it was a possibility, not a fact!” He looked at Wilson almost morosely. “And even if von Roesler is dead, or in China, or posing as a security officer in the U. S. Embassy under the name of Wilson, the fact remains that a rebirth of Nazism is taking place in this country! That is a fact; and while we know a lot of the little wriggling arms that crawl about, we don’t know the head that joins them.” He looked at his wrist watch. “One thing I’m sure we will both agree on: it is late. We’ve had a big day.” He rose to his feet. “In any event, we shall see.”

Wilson rose with him, moving toward the door. “Zé, do you honestly believe there is any possibility that this story of Hans Busch and two million dollars could bring out the head man? Whoever he is?”

Da Silva shrugged. “At least it is a hope. I don’t imagine they are rolling in money. In fact, it is probably this lack of funds that has kept their development as slow as it has been. It’s a hope.”

“You have someone watching Schoenberg?”

“Three.” Da Silva laughed. “One very obvious. Two less obvious, I hope.” He looked at Wilson, smiling. “I’ll talk to you about that, too, one of these days.”

“When do you expect to see him again?”

Da Silva lifted his shoulders in a typically Latin gesture. “Not until I have to,” he said. “We’ll wait and see what develops from our shocking attack on the airport and Pan American.” He looked at his wrist watch again and stifled a yawn.

“Well; I enjoyed a very nice evening. We must do it again soon.”

Wilson grinned. “Not too soon, I hope,” he said, starting to close the door. Da Silva’s hand caught it in a last-minute gesture, holding it back for a moment.

“About your car,” he said seriously. “You really ought to have somebody look at that carburetor of yours.”

Wilson laughed. “You know I love Brazil,” he said, “but one thing we must all admit. There isn’t a mechanic in this whole country who could be trusted to properly change a tire.”

“I know a good one,” Da Silva said. “Works for a stolen-car ring. If he can’t fix your carburetor, at least he’ll change it for one from another car.”

“I’ll let you know,” Wilson said, smiling. He swung the door closed, hearing Da Silva’s chuckle from the other side.

Chapter 9

Four days had passed, and Ari was dining with the hotel manager, Herr Mathais, in the sedate restaurant of the hotel. It was a quiet evening with few guests present, and the ones who were there paid no attention to the two men in the corner alcove caught between the main room and the curve of the balcony.

The restaurant was on the first floor of the hotel, overhanging the veranda, and giving out on a magnificent view of the moonlight-sprinkled bay spread beneath their window. The food was excellent; Ari had found his appetite again and was getting, if anything, fatter than ever. His little blue eyes were beginning to hide behind rolls of fat, but their sharpness never diminished.

They lingered over their coffee, watching the play of moonbeam on wave, pleasantly relaxed in the magic of the warm evening breeze. “No,” the manager was saying, “I don’t believe Brazil is so different in this respect. When you arrived, of course, you were of interest to all the reporters, but that is only natural. And that was four days ago. Reporters are only interested in the things that happen at the moment; there is nothing deader than yesterday’s news.” He laughed, and as always when he uttered one of his vast repertoire of clichés, his face stretched in all directions. “I doubt if they will bother you now.”

Ari nodded politely, but his mind was elsewhere. It was time that something happened, time for contacts to be made, further contacts beyond this boring manager and the stupid customs man. If they had been waiting for the novelty to wear off so that contact could be made without exciting the notice of reporters, or the curious, then that time had arrived.

“Rio is a very lovely city,” he said slowly, choosing each word carefully, “but I’ve seen most of the things of interest. And it continues to be hot.” He stared out of the open window in a bored fashion. “I think I may possibly do some traveling...”

“Traveling?” The manager’s voice was almost alarmed.

He continued to look out over the water, hesitating, dangling the bait. “You mentioned São Paulo. Do you think...?”

“São Paulo? You would love it!” the manager said in positive relief. “And there I am definitely in a position to help you! I have a very good friend there; he is not without influence.” He smiled elastically. “Definitely not without influence. When are you thinking of going?”

“Soon,” Ari said, overwhelmed by the effusive response to his simple statement, but also extremely satisfied. They seemed anxious for him to meet this person in São Paulo; he was equally anxious. With the reporters leaving him alone, it seemed that the time was ripe to move on to the next step.

Mathais leaned forward confidentially; they had become good friends in the past few days. “You know,” he said, lowering his voice, “you are not unknown here.” Ari’s raised eyebrows brought an immediate definition of this statement. “No, no!” the manager said in a whisper that was almost vehement. “I was not referring to... I was referring to your feelings about—” he looked around him — “about, ah... Jews!” He surveyed the room again, his rubber face running a gamut of secretive expressions. “Nor,” he added explosively, “does everyone disagree with you!” He apparently reconsidered this statement and found it weak, or at least indecisive. “I mean,” he said, quiet once again, looking Ari in the eye, “there are many who agree with you.”

“Of course many people agree with me,” Ari said disdainfully.

“I mean,” said the manager, attempting to put significance into his tone, “here in Brazil!”

Ari looked at him searchingly. “Just what are you trying to say?”

The manager once again looked about him before leaning closer. “There is an organization here that I think you should meet,” he said. “I think it would be to your mutual benefit to talk with them. In São Paulo. This friend I told you about...” His voice trailed off; his eyes quickly darted over his shoulder.

I wish he wouldn’t steal glances over his shoulder in an empty restaurant, Ari thought with some irritation; he’s like a little child. However, I come not to judge Caesar, but to bury him. He nodded his head, indicating unabated interest.

“When are you thinking of going?” Mathais asked, straightening up in his chair, and sounding more normal.

“In a few days,” Ari said in an offhand manner. “I have a few things to arrange yet, but nothing that should take more than a day or so. When I go I shall be very happy to meet your friend.”

“Fine!” the manager cried, and immediately dropped his voice as if he had breached the rules of secrecy. “I will give you a letter of presentation, and also his telephone number. You must call him as soon as you arrive.” He arose, glancing at his wrist watch. “It is much later than I thought. You go now to sleep?”

“A short walk along the beach first, I think,” Ari said, also arising. “It is a very hot night, and a walk in the breeze from the beach should be good.”

“Fine!” Mathais said. “If you would care for a brandy before retiring, please drop into my apartment when you get back.”

“I may do that,” Ari said with a smile. “In any event, I shan’t be long.” They parted at the steps, and Ari walked down the steps and out into the night. He crossed the Avenida Atlantica to the ocean side, dodging the heavy automobile traffic, and fell into step with the other strollers taking the air. It was a warm muggy evening, and the walk was crowded. Couples filled the stone benches that lined the shallow sea wall, others plodded below through the rough sand. The tide was out; the whisper of the small breakers was lost in the noise of the traffic sounds, the happy talk, the laughter. He was aware that the shadow Da Silva had set upon him had crossed behind him and was trailing along. What he was not aware of was that he was heading a procession.

About two blocks from the hotel, facing the city, the curve of the beach brought into sharp silhouette the tip of Pão de Açúcar, glittering in the distant dark of night with a myriad glow of tiny lights. Before I leave, Ari thought idly, I shall have to visit that rock. I remember it the day I came, and after four days here, I really have no excuse for not having visited it. He strolled along easily, the top of Sugar Loaf lifting itself from behind the nearer hills as he walked. They say that the view from Sugar Loaf is even better than from Corcovado, he thought. And they say that it is at its best at night, on a clear night, with no clouds. He paused in sudden thought. Why not go right now? I’m not sleepy; it is a beautifully clear night; it should be wonderful. His decision so quickly made, he edged to the curb, raising his hand for a taxi.

“Luck,” said the driver of the cab that had been trailing him slowly in the heavy traffic since he had left the hotel.

“About time,” said his passenger.

“But still luck,” the driver insisted.

“Bad luck,” said his passenger grimly. “For him.”

The taxi swung to the curb, cutting sharply in front of an open roadster loaded with young children. Ari opened the door and was halfway in before he noticed that the cab was occupied. He started to back out, apologizing, when a hard hand grasped his arm and he found himself dragged brutally into the back seat. The door was viciously slammed; they shot out into traffic.

“What—” Ari began, too startled at first to be frightened.

“Shut up!” said his fellow passenger in grim determination in English. “Just shut up, Mr. Busch!” He tightened his grip on Ari’s arm, suddenly squeezing with tremendous force. The pain was excruciating; Ari felt faint and nauseated. The grip relaxed a bit. “One sound,” said the other threateningly, “one sound and you can have it here and now!” He leaned toward the driver, retaining his fierce grip on Art’s arm. “Davi will be waiting on the corner of Rainha Elizabeth. Turn around as soon as you can and head back.”

The driver nodded his head in casual agreement and pulled to the left, cutting directly across traffic, his hand out, waiting for a break in the long line of cars to enable him to enter a side street and double back. Horns blared raucously behind him; he fluttered the fingers of his outstretched hand negligently, and then gracefully shot through an opening into a cross street. The pressure was renewed on Ari’s arm, enough to constitute an unspoken warning. “Just sit still, Mr. Busch,” the hard-faced man said quietly. They pulled around the block and once again eased into the stream of traffic on Avenida Atlantica, this time heading south.

At the corner of Rainha Elizabeth the cab pulled abruptly to the right, slowing down until it was almost stopped. A waiting figure tore open the rear door and shoved his way into the back seat, crowding Ari and his captor to one side. The driver swung around a cab that had started to slow down ahead of them, and picking up speed, headed down Rainha Elizabeth in the direction of Arpoador and the wide beach road leading south out of the city.

“Well, well,” said the newcomer, twisting around in his seat to get a good look at Ari. “So you finally got him, eh?” He was a husky, deeply tanned young man in his late twenties; an open sport shirt with sleeves rolled up to the shoulders revealed massive arms.

“Finally is right,” said the other grimly. “Four days we waited!”

Ari squirmed in his seat, feeling it was time to assert himself, to discover what was going on. “Now see here...” he began, attempting to sound more assured than he felt; but a sudden increase in the pressure made him swallow his words in a gulp of pain.

“When we want you to talk, you’ll talk,” said the hard-faced man beside him viciously. He leaned forward to the driver again, never relinquishing Ari’s arm. “Out toward Gavea, Avram,” he said. “The beach road to Leblon, and then the Avenida Niemeyer. When we get to Gavea I’ll tell you where to turn off. I know just the place.” He turned back to Ari. They were rolling along the broad palm-lined highway, well within the speed limit. The driver, Avram, was humming a little tune; to any passing car they must have presented a picture of three friends out to take the air on a hot night, or on their way to a beach bar for a late drink.

“Hans Busch!” The hard-faced man savored the pleasant wonder of having this man in his hands. “Mr. Hans Busch! You know, Mr. Busch, there used to be a story I heard some time ago when I was much younger; a story you probably know and laughed at years ago. About an old Jew with a big nose and a long beard, named Goldberg. This Goldberg goes to a judge and wants to change his name to O’Brien. The judge agrees and changes the old man’s name from Goldberg to O’Brien. Then, a week later, the old man is back to see the judge. This time he wants to change his name from O’Brien to Kelly. And the judge asks him why, and the old Jew says, ‘Well, every time people ask me my name and I say it’s O’Brien, they look at me funny and say, “What was it before?” ’ ” His tone was quite conversational, but the grip on Ari’s arm tightened slightly. “Let me ask you the same question, Mr. Busch. What was your name before it was Busch?”

The cold feeling of panic that Ari had forcefully contained during the first confused moments of the ride suddenly came flooding back. What was this? Who were these people? What did they want with him? How could they have known that Hans Busch was not his real name? Was everything to be lost again, now, at this point, when it was going so well? Why, he cried to himself in silent despair, why did I ever get so far ahead of Da Silva’s man who was following me?

“We’re talking to you, Mr. Busch,” Davi said gently, although there was nothing gentle about the heavy arm he placed over the back of the seat and about Ari’s thin neck. “It’s only polite to answer.”

“Who are you...?” Ari had trouble getting the words out; his voice broke, he forced the words again past the obstruction in his throat. “Who are you... and what do you want of me?”

Davi laughed. “Us? Who are we? We have lots of names. Which one would you want?” The smile faded, he looked at Ari coolly. “As far as you are concerned, you can think of us as the Bad Guys.”

Moises, the heavy-handed man holding Ari’s arm in the same tight grip, chuckled unpleasantly. “Who are we?

We’re some of the remnants you people failed to stuff into an oven some years ago. We’re a few that you overlooked. That was your mistake, and I’m afraid you’re going to pay for it!”

The driver leaned backwards, speaking over his shoulder. “You want to know who we are? I’ll tell you. We’re what you people call terrorists. But don’t worry about it. Some of our own people call us terrorists, too.” He laughed. “So if we are terrorists, prepare yourself for some terror, Mr. Busch!” He swung his attention back to his driving, chuckling at his own humor.

“We are going to kill you, Mr. Hans Busch,” Davi said quietly, conversationally. “We are going to take you out of the city, away from everything, and in the dark we are going to kill you. In the dark, out of the sight of people; in the dark, where things like you should be lulled, we are going to kill you!”

“But before we kill you, Mr. Busch,” said Moises, in the tone of one who insists on keeping to the agenda, “you are going to answer the question I asked you a while ago. Who are you, Mr. Busch?” He tightened his grip again, and turned to the others. “We can’t very well kill an absolute stranger, can we? It wouldn’t be polite.”

“Who are you people?” Ari whispered hoarsely, trying to see past the blank faces into the hidden identity of their minds and souls, his terror replaced by a nameless horror that this should be happening to him of all people.

“You may have heard of us by name,” Davi said lightly. “We call ourselves Maccabees, after another who got tired of being stepped upon. We are through being stepped upon, Mr. Busch; now we do the stepping. Tonight, we are going to step upon you.” He stared out of the car window as he spoke; they were rounding a curve above the ocean, dropping down toward the beach again. The rush of waves could be heard clearly.

“Avram,” Moises said, leaning forward again. “After we leave the Niemeyer, keep to the left. Then the first side road to the left after the golf club.” He turned to Ari, smiling grimly. “A nice quiet place; a lovers’ lane. Nobody will disturb us while we talk, because you see, Mr. Busch, before we kill you, we are going to find out exactly whom we are killing.”

Ari remained sunk in shocked silence, his mind numb. It could not possibly be! What frightful joke was this? What mad, impossible, macabre joke was this? His eyes blurred with tears; he wanted to speak but words would not come.

The car rolled on, the driver once again humming softly to himself. They left the highway and rocked slowly along a dirt road, turning to the right at the end to follow a mere path along the side of the ocean. The wheels squeaked quietly in the sand-filled tracks; darkened cars stood parked in the shadows on either side, their occupants locked in tight embrace. They drove slowly past the last of these; the car was nosed slightly off the path onto the sand of the beach; the lights flicked off, the motor sobbed once and stopped. There was a moment’s complete silence.

“All right, Busch,” Moises said, and his voice was the cold voice of doom, all expression withdrawn, the voice of the executioner. “Who are you? What was your name and position in the Nazi party? Who were you before you escaped the War Crimes trials?” His grip tightened inexorably, with the impersonal force of machine-jaws closing. Ari screamed, a thin scream that was cut off by Davi’s hand clamped quickly across his mouth. The pressure on his arm eased; the hand was withdrawn but held close, ready for instant application.

“Make no mistake, Busch,” Davi said in a low, fierce voice. “You are going to die whether you tell us or not; but first you will tell us!” His voice turned bitter. “We located Eichmann, and they made us turn him over! And we located you, Busch, but all we will turn over of you is your dead body! And your real name!” He looked at Ari with dead eyes, no emotion showing at all. “Who were you in Germany,

Busch?”

Avram spoke quietly from the front seat. “There’s a car coming along the beach.”

“Lovers.” Moises saw the two shadowy heads in the darkened car as it passed them. “They’ll park somewhere beyond us. They’ll be no problem.”

“They’re turning around.”

“So they’ll park back up the beach. They’ll still be no problem.”

The other car rumbled slowly back in their direction, hesitatingly, as if looking for a secluded spot. Moises returned his attention to the frozen figure at his side. His fingers reached inside his shirt and came out holding a sharp knife that glittered faintly in the moonlight.

“All right, Mr. Busch,” he said softly. “This is the last time we ask you...”

Chapter 10

When the taxi that picked Ari up swung across traffic, a battered cab behind it made the same turn. The driver of this second cab was busy talking to himself; from the street it must have appeared that he was repeating the retorts he should have thought of when he argued with his last passenger. Happier people on the street may have thought he was only singing to himself. Actually, he was speaking into a small microphone mounted in the horn ring of the car.

“A 1948 Chevrolet taxi, black,” he was saying. “Commercial license number 108-02-44. State of Guanabara. It has one taillight out. That’s for identification if I should lose them.” A small red light glowed on the dashboard; he flipped a switch.

“Don’t lose them,” said a harsh voice, distorted by the apparatus. “Which way are they going?” The red light disappeared.

“They went around the block. We’re back on Atlantica again, now, heading south. They’re about three cars ahead.” The red light glowed.

“Don’t let them spot you.” There was a few moments’ silence, then the distorted voice came back on. “I’ll make it to Jardim de Allah; I should be there in about five minutes. Pick me up at the corner of the ocean road and the canal.” The light disappeared.

“But what if they turn off before then? Or stop someplace?” He flicked the switch.

“Stay with them. Call me again in five minutes, in that case. I’ll wait in the car at the Jardim either for you to pick me up, or call.”

“Right.”

The driver flicked the switch for the last time and concentrated on the car ahead. In the heavy traffic of people taking the evening air there was little chance of being spotted, but he took no chances, always keeping several cars between them. They passed a hotel and a doorman ran frantically into the street, blowing his whistle, waving wildly with his free hand; the driver shrugged, rolled up his eyes and held his hand palm upwards, all time-honored indications that his cab was engaged for other service.

At the corner of Rainha Elizabeth, the first car suddenly turned into the avenue, swinging sharply to the curb; the driver of the second found himself almost on top of it. With a muttered curse he swung around the first and headed into the street looking for a place to park. But then he saw in his rear-view mirror that the first car had only paused to pick up an additional passenger and was once again under way. It was pointed down Rainha Elizabeth toward the ocean road, accelerating rapidly in the thinning traffic. It passed him, gathering speed, and he dropped back and followed.

They came into the ocean road at Arpoador, heading south toward Leblon and Gávea. The wide four-laned thoroughfare was relatively deserted, and he allowed a greater distance to separate them in order to avoid suspicion. The breakers came close to the roadway here; moonlight flickered through the royal palms that flashed past. The car ahead was traveling at slightly more than normal speed, but not to any extent that would excite the notice of traffic police; it was easy to keep in sight.

At the bridge that spanned the canal at the Jardim de Allah he slowed down, and a figure dashed from a parked car and jumped in beside him while he was still in motion. The driver shifted gears and roared back into high, making up the lost distance.

“Up ahead,” Wilson said briefly, his hands firm on the steering wheel.

“I know,” Da Silva said grimly. “I think I saw them pass.” He leaned forward, peering through the windshield intently. “Don’t lose them.”

Wilson nodded. “Who are they, do you know?”

Da Silva frowned. “I have no idea; that’s what worries me.” “The organization?”

“I doubt it. Why? Why in God’s name would they grab him like that?” He shook his head. “Don’t lose them!”

They rolled along through Leblon, the bulking shadow of the mountains at the end of the road looming larger every minute. At the foot of the huge rock that terminated the ocean road, the tail lights ahead swung off to the left into the Avenida Niemeyer, that skirted the mountain on a winding ledge cut brutally into the sheer rock. It disappeared as a curve took it beyond a shoulder of the rock and out of sight. Wilson cut around the bend and into the Avenida Niemeyer behind it without a pause.

The road wound crazily along the man-made ledge, with the sheer cliffs of the mountain towering above it, and the boiling ocean on the left below. From one curve to the next they could see the tail lights of the other car swaying ahead of them; Wilson handled the wheel expertly. “Just don’t lose them,” Da Silva muttered, almost to himself.

“I won’t lose them,” Wilson said; but he spoke too soon. They came around a sharp bend in the road to find their way blocked by a large bus discharging passengers; traffic in the other direction prevented their squeezing past. Their brakes squealed as they plowed to a stop; they sat in fuming silence as passengers slowly descended, burdened by age, children and bundles. The driver was in conversation with a passenger who had gotten off, but who maintained his grip on the hand rail as he talked. Wilson blasted his horn; the bus driver glanced back impersonally and continued talking. Another more vicious blast caused the driver to say something to his friend; they both looked back and laughed. Da Silva was opening the door when the driver of the bus waved goodbye to his friend casually and slowly put his machine into motion. With a curse, Wilson shot around him, stamping on the accelerator.

The road ahead was clear of traffic. They swung around the curves, weaving dangerously, but the tail lights they had been following were no longer in sight. Da Silva sat in grim silence, gripping the door handle with a hand of iron, staring rigidly ahead into the empty darkness.

There was a fork at the bottom of the hill where the Avenida Niemeyer came spiraling down from the rock. The leg to the right swung off in a wide curve that followed the foot of the mountain away from the ocean; the left fork followed the beach, then swung away, coming back once again to parallel the ocean. “Left,” Da Silva said briefly, scanning the road ahead. And as Wilson swung the wheel, he added, “The other just goes back over the pass into town. They wouldn’t take that.”

They came around a curve past the Gávea Golf Club, the tires whining, shooting between the high hedges that lined the road. The club was dark except for a watchman’s light; high on the mountains above, lights glimmered from a ledge where the Canoas Night Club perched. Wilson slowed down as they rolled into the Praça São Conrado, and Da Silva, seeing a moving light on the road above, came to a sudden decision. “Up towards Canoas,” he said quickly; Wilson turned up the hill without stopping, accelerating hard.

Ahead of them the tail lights grew brighter; they were gaining rapidly. Suddenly Wilson slammed on the brakes, squealing to a halt. “That’s a new car, double tail lights,” he said briefly. He swung the car about, braked, reversed, and headed down the hill again. “Those aren’t our boys.”

“Damn!” Da Silva said with feeling. They paused at the Praça again, the engine panting as if anxious to be off on the chase again. Da Silva stared thoughtfully at the road that wound off and disappeared toward Joa and the Barra de Tijuca; and then back again to the darkened highway leading back to Rio. Wilson waited patiently, his hands poised alertly on the steering wheel.

“One chance!” Da Silva said suddenly. “Start back toward town. But go slowly.” Wilson put the car into gear, turned left around the traffic island of the Praça, and began retracing their path. “The next right,” Da Silva said suddenly, and Wilson swung the wheel easily. They left the highway, following a dirt road that led to the beach. They bumped along slowly; at the end the road curved right, bordering the sand of the beach. The shadows of parked cars well spaced could be seen in the dusky moonlight. “Lovers’ lane,” Da Silva said shortly. He stared ahead. “Just one chance that they may have pulled in here.” He looked ahead through the tunnel of their headlights. “Drop down to your parking lights. Drive along slowly, as if you were looking for a place to neck.” Wilson leaned forward and pushed a button. Da Silva eased his revolver from a shoulder holster and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He opened the glove compartment and withdrew a flashlight which he quickly flipped on and off to test. They slowly passed several cars whose occupants paid no attention to the invasion of their privacy. The road was ending. Then, beyond the other cars, and at a considerable distance, one more car stood, its nose pointed toward the sand. It was a black Chevrolet, and even in the weak glow of their parking lights they could see the silhouettes of more heads inside than was customary for lovers’ lane parkers.

“Luck!” Da Silva said with deep satisfaction. “Don’t slow down; not more than you are now. Pull past them and turn around and come back slowly. When we are just opposite them, cut the lights altogether and stop. Quickly!” He took the revolver from his pocket, gripping it loosely; his other hand held the flashlight. Wilson maneuvered the car about expertly, and started back. “Now!” Da Silva said almost viciously, and in one motion he was out of the car and had swung open the rear door of the other.

“Police,” he said briefly, coldly, flashing the light over the startled faces inside, in no way indicating the satisfaction he felt at seeing the white face of Ari wedged between the other two in the back seat. His revolver was conspicuous in his other hand; his voice was the hard voice of authority. “What’s going on here?”

There was a frozen silence. “Well?” Da Silva flicked the revolver up ominously.

“We were just talking,” said a heavy-set man sitting to Ari’s left, his hand still gripping Ari’s arm tightly. His voice was sullen; he tried to pull his head back from the glare of the flashlight, but Da Silva swung it up to follow the heavy face. “We were just talking. What’s wrong with that?”

“Talking about what?” Da Silva asked coldly. “The next bar you intend to hold up? Your next stick-up?” He waved his gun. “Out. All of you. Out. And don’t try to get cute.” He stepped back to allow the others to alight; in the widening area of his flashlight they could see Wilson sitting negligently in the seat of the other car, a revolver draped across the sill. They came out quietly, pushing Ari with them.

“All right,” Da Silva said. “Turn and lean against the car. And don’t move.” There was the sudden whining of a starter; lights flashed up as a pair of lovers decided that there was too much activity in these parts for proper concentration; Da Silva paid no attention.

“How do we know you’re police?” one of his captives began.

“Because I say so,” Da Silva said. He waved his revolver in their faces; they all hastily leaned against the side of the car, except Ari, who had not understood a word of the exchange but sensed that this was no time for talking. “You too,” Da Silva said, slamming Ari back against the fender.

He leaned over against the car side like the others, feeling Da Silva’s hands parting his pockets, running down his legs, his heart pounding. Over his shoulder he saw the same operation being repeated with the others. Another motor sprang into life as others in the vicinity decided to find more peaceful surroundings for their rendezvous. The headlights of the departing car swung briefly over the astounding scene of four men leaning over the side of a car while another with a revolver searched them, but there was no outcry, nor voiced complaint. There was only the sudden gunning of a motor as its driver decided to leave hurriedly.

Da Silva took a revolver from one man before him, and a large hunting knife from another. Stepping to the deserted car, he swung his flashlight about the interior, and then, leaning down, he picked a sharp dagger-type knife from its place of concealment between the floor mat and the base of the rear seat. He slipped the weapons into his jacket pocket and stepped back, breathing heavily.

“Just talking, eh?” he said in deep sarcasm. “Well, we’re all going back to town, back to the delegacia. Just to convince you all that I’m really a police officer! And there you’ll get all the chance you want to talk, I promise you!” He paused, staring at them coldly. “And just to see that there is no funny business, suppose we split you big talkers up!” He grasped Ari roughly by the arm, tossing him toward the car in which Wilson sat watching with interest. “The rest of you get into your car and drive ahead of us. Slow. Remember, I said slow! There will be a gun on you all the way. When we get to Leblon, stop your car and stay inside. The first time the door opens, somebody gets shot.” He looked at them icily. “Understand? All right; let’s go!”

He threw Ari roughly into the back seat of his car and climbed in behind. Wilson’s gun remained fixed on the others while they climbed back into their car with angry faces, turned the car about, and began the bumpy ride back to the highway. There was no attempt on the part of the leading car to speed or escape. At the highway they turned right, creeping toward the entrance to the Avenida Niemeyer. Where the road led up the spiraled rise to the Niemeyer, cut in rock. Da Silva leaned forward close to Wilson’s ear; he slowed momentarily, and the first car, still moving slowly, disappeared around the first curve of the ledged road. With a sharp swing, Wilson turned his car toward the fork that led over the pass and stamped heavily on the accelerator. In a minute they had sped into the hills.

Da Silva returned his revolver to the shoulder holster and threw the flashlight onto the front seat. “And now,” he said, leaning back comfortably and lighting a cigarette. “Just what in the devil was that?” He turned toward Ari, whose face was drained of color, and whose hands were trembling uncontrollably.

“They were going to kill me,” Ari whispered in a voice wound tight with hysteria; a crazy light flickered in his eyes. “They were going to kill me!”

“I doubt that,” Da Silva said calmly, attempting by his relaxed manner to ease the terror that lay so openly on the other’s face. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke waft gently from his nostrils. “I doubt that.”

“No. No! They were really going to kill me!” Ari looked numbed, as if he were going to cry without knowing exactly why. He looked down at his twisted hands, almost whispering to himself. “They were going to kill me!”

“Relax,” Da Silva said kindly. “Why should they want to kill you?”

Ari looked at him, his face twitching with emotion. “They were Jews,” he said miserably. “They were Jews! Israeli Jews.”

“What?”

Ari nodded. “Israeli Jews. They were going to kill me. Jews...!” His voice died away in the unfairness of it all.

Da Silva looked thoughtful. “That’s one thing we hadn’t counted on. You didn’t say anything?”

Hysteria took over. “What could I say? Do you think they would have believed anything I said? Me? They would believe me?” He twisted his fingers tightly together in shock, shaking his head drearily. “They wouldn’t believe me. They were going to kill me.”

“Well, they didn’t kill you,” Da Silva said, brutally trying to bring the little man out of his crisis of nerves. “And I doubt if they will try again!” He puffed calmly on the cigarette. “Did they ask any questions?”

“They wanted to know who I was.” He was almost sobbing. “They seemed to think I was somebody else... oh, not Ari Schoenberg, but somebody in the Nazi party. They were going to make me tell...” He looked up at Da Silva in blank-eyed wonder. “What could I have told them?”

Da Silva reached over and patted his shoulder tenderly. “It’s all over,” he said, smiling in a friendly fashion. “It’s all over. Don’t think about it. You’re safe. But,” he added slowly, watching Ari out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge the proper subject to relieve the terror that lay waiting to explode in the other’s eyes, “it does look as if we had better move faster than we have. Mr. Busch seems to have more enemies than we counted on.” He looked at the little man shrewdly. “No contacts as yet?”

The startling blue eyes looked at him dumbly. “No what?”

“Contacts.” The tall, saturnine man smiled at him quickly, as if sharing a secret. He leaned forward again, patting the trembling leg. “Talk about it. What’s happened this past week? Tell me. You’ll feel better.”

Ari looked at the tanned face before him, pulling his thoughts together. In a daze he began to describe his activities during the past four days. As he talked, he found to his surprise that the tension seemed to ease; he actually found himself considering their problem rather than the cold horror he had felt at the possibility of facing death at the hands of his own people. “In São Paulo,” he heard himself say. “They want me to meet somebody in São Paulo. I was planning on going there in a few days.”

“They were probably waiting until you became less of a celebrity,” Da Silva said shrewdly. “Or possibly waiting until somebody returned who was away traveling.” He thought a while and then turned to the driver. “Better drop me off at my car,” he said. “Well try to speed things up.” He turned to Ari. “Do you feel all right for more action tonight?”

Ari nodded dumbly. “I feel better.”

“Good. We’ll speed things up, then. I’ll take you to your hotel personally. When we get there, let me do the talking.” He turned back to their driver. “Jardim de Allah, then.”

For the first time, Ari noticed that their driver was the nondescript man he had met at the American Embassy.

“Mr. Wilson,” he said in surprise. “I can’t thank you enough—”

“Thank Zé,” Wilson said, but there was a compassion in his voice that surprised the old man. Wilson turned past the Jockey Club and headed for the Jardim de Allah, his eyes smiling kindly at Ari in the rear-view mirror.

Chapter 11

It was after midnight when they finally came into the Mirabelle Hotel. Da Silva was holding Ari’s arm almost as if the old man were under arrest. The lobby was deserted; Mr. Mathais, the manager, was standing at the porter’s desk, speaking on the telephone. As soon as he saw them he dropped the phone on the hook and hurried forward.

“Herr Busch!” he cried with relief, his eyebrows twisting ferociously. “You are all right?” He looked up at Da Silva and his manner changed; stiffened. “What is the matter?” he asked coldly.

Da Silva smiled negligently, dropping Ari’s arm in the manner of one releasing something contaminated. He looked at the two of them with faint contempt. “When Mr. Busch first arrived in Rio,” he said quietly, “I explained to him that at times this could be a naughty city. Apparently he forgot my advice.” He turned to Ari, a look of disgust on his face. “You may not always be so lucky, Mr. Busch.

Someday I may not be around to save your neck. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to leave Brazil?” He paused and added significantly, “After paying your taxes, of course?”

“But what happened?” Mathais cried frantically.

“I was kidnapped,” Ari said dully. “Captain Da Silva rescued me.”

“Kidnapped?” Mathais was almost jumping. “Who? Why?”

“Some of Mr. Busch’s Jewish friends apparently decided to become irritated with him,” Da Silva said sarcastically.

“They do not seem to share everyone’s enthusiasm for his politics.”

“Jews?”

“They were Jews,” Ari said, his face white as he recalled the terrifying ride, the brutal hand on his arm, the glitter of the knife in the moonlight. “They were going to kill me.”

“I doubt that,” Da Silva said to the two of them with the tone one takes with a child awakening in the night with tales of dragons. “They were probably only going to reason with you.” He looked at Ari and Mathais with scarcely-concealed loathing. “I’m not sure that I shouldn’t have let them go ahead! For your own good, Mr. Busch, I suggest that you seriously consider my first proposition. Why don’t you leave Brazil? There seem to be people here who don’t want you around.” He glanced at his wrist watch, frowning at the late hour. “On our terms, of course. Telling us where the money is. Think it over.” He waved a hand at them almost flippantly and sauntered toward the door.

A sudden flame seemed to burn through the little man standing nervously at the porter’s desk. “You can’t frighten me!” Ari called after him in a burst of temper. “I’m not afraid of you! And I’m not afraid of Jews!” Da Silva stopped and looked back at the little man almost curiously. “I’m not!” Ari cried hysterically. “I’m not afraid of you!”

Da Silva watched this exhibition with a half-smile. “The story of my life,” he said with a shake of his head. “Nobody is afraid of me!” He started to chuckle, and let it grow into a loud laugh. The porter stood at his desk watching everything with open mouth. Mathais grasped Ari’s arm and tried to draw him away, but the little man seemed wound up, shaking; his voice trembled. “Ill leave Brazil when I want! Leave me alone! I’m not afraid of you!”

Da Silva started forward, worried by this sign of hysteria; then, shrugging his shoulders, he pushed through the heavy glass doors of the hotel and disappeared into the night. Mathais led the still-muttering Ari to a chair in one corner of the lounge and called hastily for brandy.

“What happened, for God’s sake!”

Ari sighed, and told him everything, starting with their conversation at dinner. For the effect he wished to create, the exact truth was perfect; in his nervous state it was impossible to doubt the truth of his story. “Jews!” he ended viciously. “They were going to kill me!”

Mathais nodded sympathetically, shaking his head. “You must leave Rio,” he said decisively. “You must go to São Paulo. You will be safe there.” He drank his glass of brandy in one gulp. “And something must be done about this Da Silva. He is too curious.”

Ari looked at him apathetically. “At least he saved my life.”

“Not because he wanted to,” Mathais pointed out. “Only because he wanted to know where.” He changed the subject. There was no need to bother Herr Busch with the problem of Captain Da Silva; the poor man had enough on his mind. Da Silva would be taken care of without the necessity of Herr Busch even knowing.

“Tomorrow,” Mathais suggested, “or better yet, the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow you must rest. I shall arrange plane passage and hotel space for you tonight, yet. And write you a letter of presentation to my friend.” He glanced at the wall clock; there were telephone calls to make. The suave consideration of mine host returned. “You had better go to bed. You have had a terrible time. But in São Paulo there will be nothing to worry about.” His eyebrows assumed terrible proportions. “I guarantee it!” Even in all of his weariness Ari could not help but look at the manager curiously. How Deutschland can you get? Ari thought. He arose slowly.

“I agree it would be best.” He sighed deeply, and also looked at the clock. “You have been most kind. The plane you arrange — not too early in the morning, yes?”

They shook hands before departing, again the tight saw-like motion, and Ari walked slowly to the elevator, his head beginning to pound. Behind him he left a very pleased hotel manager hurriedly dialing a telephone.