Perfect Hatred (17 page)

“I’m somewhat pressed for time,” he said, “so I hope you’ll pardon me for getting right down to business. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Silva reached into his pocket, removed a piece of paper and offered it to the chief.
“What’s this?” the Paraguayan said, taking it in his carefully manicured fingers.
“It’s a batch number,” Silva said, “for a shipment of plastic explosive.”
Chaparro raised an eyebrow. “Why are you giving it to me?”
“The entire batch was shipped to the Paraguayan army. Three drums, each containing 25 kilos, have been illegally sold.”
Chaparro smiled, set the paper aside without looking at it and leaned back in his chair.
“Why should you assume they were sold? They could just as easily have been misplaced. Perhaps they’re sitting, right now, in some dark and forgotten corner of an army supply dump.”
“No,” Silva said, “they’re not.”
Chaparro studied his nails.
“How can you be sure?”
“Do you know what post-detonation taggants are?”
“Of course.” Chaparro brushed a barely-visible bit of lint from his starched khaki shirt. “Why do you ask?”
“The explosive used in two recent terrorist bombings came from the batch on that piece of paper.”
Chaparro sat bolt upright. “Surely you’re not referring to the bombs recently detonated in São Paulo and Buenos Aires?”
“Surely,” Silva said, “I am.”
Chaparro frowned, unfolded the paper and stared at it “Who knows about this?”
“At the moment,” Silva said, “Just us.”
“And by
us
you mean?”
“The Brazilian Federal Police.”
“Your director? That fellow Sampaio?”
“No. Just this gentleman here,”—Silva indicated Arnaldo—“myself, and a few other members of my team.”
Chaparro looked relieved. “No one else within your government?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you going to tell the Americans? The Argentineans?”
“Sooner or later we’ll have to. And don’t forget the Israelis. Their ambassador, his wife and children were among the victims of the second explosion.”
“I would never forget the Israelis,” Chaparro said. “It’s best not to. They’re not a forgiving people.” He was still frowning, now he rubbed his chin. Mario,” he went on, his tone friendlier than before, “may I call you Mario?”
“By all means. This is Arnaldo.”
Chaparro favored Arnaldo with a nod and an ingratiating smile.
Arnaldo returned the nod.
“And you must call me Matias. You must also believe me when I tell you that I find this very unwelcome news. It causes me a great deal of concern.”
“I’m glad it does,” Silva said, “because we badly need your help.”
“And you shall have it! The last thing poor Paraguay needs is more problems with your government, or with the Argentineans. And we certainly don’t need any with the Israelis, or, God forbid, the Americans. What do you propose?”
“A trade-off. You tell us who bought the explosive. We tell the Americans, the Argentineans and the Israelis that the Paraguayan government abhors terrorists as much as the rest of us do”—Chaparro began nodding vigorously—“and that you not only gave us full cooperation, but that we also support your story.”
Chaparro’s nodding came to an abrupt halt.
“Wait,” he said. “What story?”
“The only story you can possibly tell without your country being labeled a pariah by the world community: Rogue elements within your military sold the explosive in the belief that it was going to criminals and totally unaware that the buyers were actually terrorists.”
“That’s no story. It’s the God’s honest truth. I have no doubt of it. Count on my complete cooperation.”
“Thank you. But now, Matias, we must act quickly, before they have a chance to use more of that explosive and strike again. How long is it going to take you to get back to me?”
“It’s too late to do anything today. It could be—”
Silva cut in before he could finish. “Complicated?”
Chaparro shook his head. “No,” he said, “that’s not the word I was about to use.”
“But it’s the correct one, isn’t it? First, you’ll have to determine how high the corruption went. And if someone important, like a general, was involved, he’ll have to find someone to take the rap, or expect you to find such a person for him.”
Chaparro flashed Silva a sardonic smile. “What a rich imagination you have, Mario. Important people? Generals? I’m sure our investigation will show that the perpetrator, or perpetrators, were people much further down the totem pole than that, people of no significant rank.”
“I have no doubt,” Silva said dryly, “that your investigation will show precisely that. And you know what Matias? I don’t care. I have no interest whatsoever in who gets blamed for the sale. I need information about the buyer, not the seller. The seller is your problem. Do we have a deal?”
“Most certainly. This is an instance where the interests of your government and mine entirely coincide. Where are you staying?”
“The Cataratas. You’ll call me?”
“I’ll do better. I’ll go there to see you. Two o’clock tomorrow. In the bar. Does that suit you?”
“If you can’t make it sooner.”
Chaparro considered for a moment—and then shook his head. “I think not.”
“Thank you. Now, before we leave, there’s something else I’d like you to help me with.”
“And that is?”
“I want to talk to Jamil Al-Fulan. He’s refused to see us, but he’s unlikely to reject a friendly request, on our behalf, from the chief of his own National Police.”
Chaparro frowned. “You think Jamil might be behind these bombings?”
In truth, Silva had, as yet, no firm indication that Jamil had anything to do with them. But he saw an opportunity to drive a wedge between the two Paraguayans—and he took it.
“I think it’s likely,” he said.
Chaparro gave Silva a long look.
“How likely?”
“Very likely,” Silva said. “A friend of yours, is he?”
“If he ever was,” Chaparro said, “and if there is any truth to your allegation, I can assure you, with total sincerity, that he no longer is.”

Luis Chagas met the other cops at their hotel for dinner. Coffee had just been served when a bellman appeared at Silva’s elbow.

“Al-Fulan will see me at ten tomorrow morning.” “Do you want my guy, Abasi, to go along?” Chagas asked.
“Al-Fulan hates his guts. It might shake him up a bit.” “I think we can make better use of him with that mullah over at the madrasa,” Silva said, “but I heartily concur
with the shaking-up part.” He turned to Danusa. “That little
pendant you sometimes wear, the one in the form of a Star
of David?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have it with you?”
“Always,” she said. “It was a gift from my father.” “I want you to wear it—and come with me.”
“A Jew
and
a woman,” Luis said. “That will
really
shake
him up. He has nothing but contempt for women. All his
employees are male.”
“I don’t want you letting on that you speak Arabic,” Silva
said to Danusa. “If he does so, look mystified, as if you don’t
understand.”
“And be pushy,” Luis suggested. “He’ll hate it!” “Fine,” she said. “I can do pushy.”
“You sure as hell can,” Arnaldo said.
“Watch it, Nunes,” she said.
“See?” he said. “Pushy.”
“And Arnaldo goes with me to talk to the mullah?”
Hector asked.
“He does. Arnaldo is naturally pushy himself.”
“Hey,” Arnaldo said.
“As far as I know,” Luis said, “the mullah doesn’t speak
Portuguese.”
“English? Spanish?”
Luis shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve only ever had
dealings with him through Abasi. Speaking of Abasi”—he
looked at his watch—“it’s getting late. I’d better call him.
What time do you want him here?”
“Eight a.m.?” Hector suggested.
Silva shook his head. “Too early.”
Hector caught on immediately. “You want to coordinate
the visits? The mullah and Al-Fulan? Surprise the mullah, so
he can’t collude?”
“Precisely.”
“Then make it nine, Luis,” Hector said.

The following morning, Abasi Ragab showed up promptly at the stipulated hour. They had coffee in the restaurant and went out to his car. Arnaldo, taller and broader in the shoulders than Hector, took the seat in front.

“So what do you want with that damned mullah?” Ragab asked as his passengers were buckling themselves in.
“Sounds like you’re not fond of him,” Hector said.
“Fond of him? I tried to get his sick ass deported.”
“No luck?”
Ragab shook his head. “Turns out, he’s got a permanent residence visa.”
“How did he get that?”
“The
filho da puta
is a Qur’anic scholar with a doctorate

in Arabic. On paper, that makes him look like a figure who could”—he made quotation marks in the air —“
contribute greatly to our multicultural society
.”

“Who said that?”
“The idiots who administrate immigration and naturalization. They
love
candidates like Massri. Besides which, Al-Fulan put together a committee of Brazilian nationals to give financial guarantees and sign a petition to accompany the paperwork.”
“Why do you dislike Massri so much?”
Ragab had been about to start the engine. He took his hand off the key and turned around so he could see Hector’s face. “I’m a Muslim,” he said.
“And I’m a Catholic,” Hector said. “So what?”
“So this: ever since people like Asim started running around preaching a philosophy of
blow up the infidels,
I’m sensing a rising tide of prejudice. Time was, when nobody in this country cared what your religion was, whether you were a Muslim or a Catholic, a Jew or an Evangelical, but not anymore. Now, a lot of folks look at us sideways, like we’re all a bunch of goddamned fanatics. And the more Massris there are in the world, the worse it gets.”
Ragab shook his head, as if to clear it, started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
“He gets innocent kids into that madrasa of his,” he went on, “and teaches them to hate. They come out at odds with their parents and with the rest of society. The only people they get along with are other deluded kids like themselves. He’s breaking up families.”
“You think he’s training terrorists?”
“I can’t prove it.”
“But you think it?”
“I do.”
“I heard some folks in the community tried to withdraw their kids.”
“And you probably heard what happened when they did.”
“Yes.”
“Same thing with parents whose sons are approaching school age. They get a visit from the mullah, who offers them bullshit and carrots. Then, if they don’t enroll the kids right away, they get the stick.”
“What kind of stick?”
“Threatening phone calls from a thug of Jamil’s, a man named Kassim. Not many are able to resist. Those that do suffer . . . accidents.”
“You have children?”
“Two, both girls, so they’re safe. The mullah doesn’t take girls, considers them lesser creatures. How do you want to handle this interrogation?”
“It’s not an interrogation. Not yet. Think of it as an interview.”
“All right. An interview. What, exactly, do you want me to do?”
“Does the mullah speak Portuguese?”
“If he does,” Ragab said, “and I’m not even sure about that, he sure as hell won’t speak it with you guys. He’ll act like he doesn’t understand a goddamned word of what you’re saying. Conversing in the languages of the crusaders is beneath him.”
“Like that, eh?
“Yes. Like that.”
“Then translate, that’s all, just translate. Don’t editorialize.”
“You got it,” Ragab said.

Al-Fulan’s auto dealership occupied a full block in the heart of downtown Ciudad del Este. Neon signs and logotypes of famous European brands hung in the windows. A fortune in luxury vehicles sparkled on the showroom floor.

But no one was inspecting the cars. The front door was locked, and when Silva and Danusa rang the bell, they were admitted by an armed guard. Security cameras were mounted on the ceiling. The door was of bulletproof glass, the show windows divided into panes. Silva had no doubt they were bulletproof as well.

Chief Inspector.”
“I’m not just a pretty face.”
“And now you’re sounding like Arnaldo.”
Before Silva could respond, a slim young man, twentysomething, emerged from a door. He was wearing a welltailored suit and a Versace tie.

“I’m Uzair,” he said to Silva in poorly-pronounced Portuguese while pointedly ignoring Danusa, “Please, come with me.”

“And what, Uzair, do you do for Señor Al-Fulan?” Danusa shot back in fluent Spanish.
He hesitated before answering. “I’m his secretary.”
“Really? A male secretary in Paraguay? That’s a first for me. Your boss doesn’t believe in hiring females?”
Uzair’s response was a sniff.
Two men with Heckler and Koch MP5s were standing in the corridor that led to Al-Fulan’s office. One of them slung his weapon from his shoulder and checked their documents.
It was only after they’d surrendered their weapons and passed through a metal detector, that Danusa and Silva were admitted to the great man’s presence.
Al-Fulan snorted in disgust when he caught sight of the pendant around Danusa’s neck.
“The Jewess will wait outside,” he said to Uzair. “Not in the showroom, on the street.”
“If the Jewess leaves,” Danusa said, “we both leave.”
“So leave.”
“Nice try,” she said, “but we know you got your marching orders from Chaparro. You’re obligated to see us, so back off.”
Al-Fulan blanched. “You should be whipped for speaking to a man like that.”
“I’d rip off the balls of any man who tried it,” she said.
Uzair’s mouth was agape. No one ever addressed his boss in such a fashion. No one. Much less a woman.
“Close your mouth, you idiot,” Al-Fulan said, “and get Kassim.” Then, to Danusa: “Neither Chaparro nor anyone else tells me what to do. I don’t take orders. I give them.”
“You don’t take orders? Don’t make me laugh. You refused to see us. Then we dropped one little word with Chaparro, and the next thing you know”—she held out her hands, palms upward—“here we are. Doesn’t that make you Chaparro’s bitch?”
Even Silva thought she might have gone too far with that one. Al-Fulan’s face turned purple. He had to take a few calming breaths before he could reply.
“Ask what you came to ask and get out,” he managed to say at last.
The door opened. A man with a nose like the beak of a hawk walked across the room and took up a position about a meter behind Al-Fulan’s chair.
Danusa waited, but no introduction was forthcoming, so she asked, “Were you involved in a car-smuggling scheme with Plínio Saldana?”
The newcomer said something to Al-Fulan in Arabic. Al-Fulan replied in the same language, then reverted to Spanish.
“I had no business dealings of any nature whatsoever with Plínio Saldana.”
“Were you involved in his murder?”
“Your question is stupid. What do I care about some Brazilian politician? How could it possibly benefit me to be involved in the murder of one?”
“Perhaps because the two of you had a falling-out?”
“I’ve already told you. I had no dealings with Plínio Saldana. But let’s suppose, just for a moment, that I did.”
“I’m supposing,” she said.
“It’s likely he was going to be elected governor of the Brazilian state just across the river. A partnership with such a man would have opened no end of opportunities. We could have made millions together. So would I kill him? No, I certainly would not. As I said, your question is stupid.”
“How about the bombings in São Paulo and Buenos Aires? Did you have any role in those?”
“I deny taking part in any bombings.”
“Do you condemn them?”
“Not at all. They were done for legitimate political ends.”
“How could you possibly know that? Up to now, no one has taken credit.”
“That statement, too, is stupid. An American consulate? And a Jewish temple? They were actions clearly directed against the two powers colluding to commit injustice in Palestine. What else could it be other than an action carried out by a Muslim freedom fighters’ organization?”
“So you believe,” she said, “that the lives of innocent women and children should be sacrificed to political ends?”
“I do.”
“I think that’s the first honest answer you’ve given us since we came in here.”
“I’m finding this conversation boring. I’ve said all I intend to say. Why don’t you two leave?”
Danusa looked at Silva.
“Why don’t we?” he said.