Perfect Hatred (18 page)

Outside, walking toward the taxi they’d kept waiting, Silva asked, “What went on between that thug, Kassim, and his boss?”

“Kassim called me a Zionist whore.”
“Did he now?”
“He did. And Al-Fulan called you a pig fucker.” “A pig fucker, eh?”
“That’s a loose translation.”
“Anything else?”
“He made some kind of a reference to the ‘other one,’ but

I didn’t catch it.”
Silva stopped walking, and took her by the arm. She
turned to face him.
“As soon as we get back to the hotel,” he said, “call Luis
Chagas. Ask him if he has a photo of that man Kassim. If
he doesn’t, ask him to send someone over here to take one.
Clandestinely.”
“And, once we’ve got it?”
“Email it to Mara in São Paulo. Have her compare it with
the images she received from Curitiba.”
“What images?”
“She’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“But I don’t. And I’d like to.”
“There’s a video recording of everyone who got-off the
elevators on Nestor’s floor the night he was killed. One face
couldn’t be identified.”
“And you think it might belong to this guy, Kassim?” “I hope so.”
“What if it does?”
“We do nothing. Not yet. Al-Fulan is the big fish. Let’s
give him a bit more rope.”
“
Allahu Akbar
,” Mullah Asim said.
Hector was familiar with the
takbir
. He didn’t wait for
Ragab to interpret it for him.
“Tell him to stop spouting platitudes and answer my question,” he said.
Ragab put Hector’s statement into Arabic and rendered
the reply in Portuguese: “I have forgotten the question.” They’d been sitting in mullah Asim’s office for a quarter of
an hour. Everything he’d said had been evasive, but the visit
hadn’t been entirely useless. The walls told their own story. One was decorated with photos showing events, often
multiple photos of the same event. Another bore photos of
people.
The events included, but weren’t limited to, aircraft striking the World Trade Center in New York, the carnage at
Atocha Station in Madrid, the mayhem caused by British
Muslims in the London Underground, the damage to the
USS Cole in the harbor of Aden, and the attacks on the US
embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. Some were clipped from
newspapers, others from magazines. There were even a few
that looked like they’d been printed from negatives. All had
two things in common: destruction and death.
The people were Osama bin Laden, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, Abu Nidal, Ayman Al-Zawahiri, Mohammad Atta and a succession of young men and women, mostly stand
ing in front of green banners with inscriptions in Arabic. “Ask him what he took off those walls while he kept us
waiting.”
Hector’s query was purely provocative. He knew he wasn’t
going to get a straight answer.
Ragab translated the mullah’s reply: “He says the walls are
the same now as they were when you had the discourtesy to
appear without an appointment. And why should you think
differently?”
“Because there’s a hook for another photo there, and two
more over there. Salem Nabulsi, maybe? And the bombings
in São Paulo and Buenos Aires?”
“He says he does not know the name Salem Nabulsi. And
he has no photos of the bombings in São Paulo or Buenos
Aires.”
“Tell him Salem Nabulsi was one of his students, and we
know it.”
“He says he has many students. He does not always recall
their names.”
“Show him the photo.”
Ragab showed Asim the photo they’d brought. The mullah gave it a cursory glance, and looked at his tea. Served by
a young man of about twelve who’d come and gone, it had
been standing on his desk for the last ten minutes, but he
hadn’t yet touched it. In addition to tea, the glass contained
crushed mint leaves. Their smell perfumed the room. “He says he doesn’t recall ever having seen the young man
in the photo. He also says he’s busy. You should stop wasting
his time and discuss these matters with his secretary.” “Tell him,” Hector said, “that I prefer to discuss them with
him.”
The mullah picked up his tea, said something, and took
a sip, watching for Hector’s reaction over the rim of his
glass.
“In ten minutes,” Ragab translated, “it will be time for his
prayers.”
“Which still gives us ten minutes,” Hector said. “How
many students has he got over the age of fifteen? Ask him
that.”
The mullah shook his head and gave a terse reply to the
question.
“He says he doesn’t remember,” Ragab said.
Arnaldo had yet to contribute to the interview in any way.
Now, he did. “Tell him he’s a lying sack of shit.”
The pupils in the mullah’s dark eyes dilated in anger. Ragab grinned and started to translate what Arnaldo had
said. The mullah interrupted him with the wave of an imperious hand.
“Get out,” he said, in excellent Portuguese.

Chaparro had chosen to leave his uniform in Paraguay. He was wearing a dark blue sports jacket, an expensive one by the look of it, and an open-necked dress shirt without a tie.

Chaparro waved off the apology. “I came early,” he said. “I like this place. Champagne?” Chaparro’s flute was half full, the one on Silva’s side of the table still empty. The wine was a non-vintage Krug. “I should, perhaps, point out you’ll be paying for the bottle. I put it on your bill.”

When the man had poured and left, Chaparro saluted with his glass. Silva followed suit and took an appreciative sip.
“The container of C4,” Chaparro said, “arrived in our country on the nineteenth of July last year. It was shipped, in its entirety, to an army depot in Concepción. Do you know Concepción?”
“No.”
“Quite a nice little place, really. Except in summer. From mid-December right up to the end of March it’s far too hot.”
“Where is it?”
“On the Paraguay River, about three hundred kilometers north of the capital.”
“Who’s in command of the depot?”
“A colonel by the name of Suarez. He’s young, only twenty-seven years old, but destined for great things. He has a brilliant future ahead of him.”

“Twenty-seven and already a colonel?”
“Indeed. Impressive is it not?”
“And he’s the one who sold the stuff?”
Chaparro shook his head. “Of course not,” he said. “Did

you not hear me refer to his brilliant future? Colonel Suarez is the son-in-law of one of our most senior generals.” “And, therefore, clearly innocent of any wrongdoing?”
“Mario, Mario, do I detect sarcasm in your tone?”
“Who’s going to take the rap?”
“The guilty party is a supply sergeant.”
“Arrested?”
“Killed. This afternoon. In an attempt to escape.”
“I see. And he was, I suppose, the sole perpetrator?”
Chaparro held his glass up to the light and studied the bubbles. “How prescient of you,” he said.
“Matias, I hope you’ve got more for me than that.”
“I do. Before the supply sergeant made a break for freedom, he dictated a full confession.”
“And signed it, of course.”
“Of course. And it is available for inspection by your government.” Chaparro took another sip and emitted a contented sigh.
“What, precisely, did he confess to?” Silva asked.
“Firstly, that he sold only three drums. We have since verified that every other drum in the shipment is accounted for.”
“How reassuring.”
“Isn’t it? And now that the perpetrator is no longer in a position to do further damage, there’s no possibility of the terrorists being able to get their hands on any more of the stuff.”
“None whatsoever?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Thank you. I’ll include that in my report.”

“How much of the explosive do you believe to have been used in the bombings?”
“No more than forty kilos.”
Chaparro frowned and scratched his chin. “So they have at least thirty-five left,” he said. “Not good.”
“Not good at all,” Silva said.
Chaparro drained his glass. The waiter hastened to fill it. He topped up Silva’s at the same time. Again, Silva waited until he was gone. Then he said, “Now the important question: To whom did your wayward supply sergeant sell those drums?”
Chaparro took a pack of Dunhills out of his pocket, lit one with his black and gold Dupont lighter, and expelled a jet of smoke before he replied. “All three drums were sold to a fellow who fits the description of a man who works for Jamil Al-Fulan. His name is Kassim Hamawi.”
“Bingo,” Silva said.

Donato and Virgilio returned to the hacienda at 4:30 p.m. and reported that Roque, in a rented car, was already on his way to the Hotel das Cataratas.

Donato, like a child with a new toy, was excited about the firearms they’d purchased.
“Taurus M975s, Senhor. Brand new. Never fired. All with silencers and seventeen-round magazines.”
There is no weapon more suited to silent killing than the M975, a pistol especially developed for the Brazilian army’s elite jungle fighting unit. When used with their 14-centimeter-long suppressors, the noise they make is negligible. Rounds fired in Silva’s room might not be totally inaudible to his neighbors on either side, but it was unlikely they’d be identified as pistol shots.
“Don’t fall in love with them,” Muniz said, “because, just as soon as we’re finished with them all four are going right to the bottom of the river. Go fill the tank for the outboard motor and hook the boat’s trailer to the blue pickup. We’ll leave in two hours.”
Just before noon, he’d taken the same truck and gone down to the river to scout the departure location. It was, in every way, ideal.
The nearest house was two kilometers away. There was a stand of trees behind which they could park, and a beach of sandy soil where the riverbank shelved gradually into the water. The boat would have to be carried through some dense brush, but the capangas were strong men. And the motor could be unshipped and carried separately.
Other than the prospect of getting into the boat, there was only one thing that made Muniz uneasy: the Devil’s Throat.
That fearful chasm, where half the river’s flow disappeared over a precipice more than 80 meters high, was less than a kilometer away. Clouds of swirling mist hung above it; a hellish roar emanated out of it and, every now and then, a helicopter, coming from the direction of the Hotel das Cataratas, dipped into it. The passengers were tourists, plunging, for a full thirty seconds or so, into an abyss where they were surrounded, on three sides, by thousands of tons of falling water.
It was not Muniz’s idea of fun, nor was a voyage, however short, on what most people would have regarded as a relatively placid river.
And yet, as he stood there on the margin of the stream, reviewing his plans for a final time, he sensed his powerful fear of the upcoming embarkation being tempered by something far more agreeable: a sharp sense of anticipation.
In just a few hours, he’d be looking into Silva’s face, savoring the terror that would be written there when he came to realize what awaited him. Then he’d kill him. And, once it was done, who would dare, ever again, to threaten Orlando Muniz? The prospect of a long prison term would be forever lifted from his shoulders, and he would have proven himself, once again, a figure that rose above the constraints that governed ordinary men.
Wasn’t that end worthy of almost any risk? And how much risk was there really? As long as they made the damned crossing early enough to have light to navigate by, late enough to be certain the helicopter tours had been suspended for the night.
In the midday heat, he’d spent more than an hour on the

riverbank, reveling in what was to come, studying the sun’s progression, watching the advancing shadows as the sun dropped from its zenith.

The gorge, he noted, would fall into deep shadow long before sunset. That, coupled with the mist, might reduce visibility to the point where the helicopter rides were no longer attractive.

And that would be ideal, because then there’d be no danger whatsoever of their boat being spotted by the people in the aircraft.

They reached the stand of trees just before 7:00 p.m. The boat was on the riverbank, the motor mounted and the fuel line connected by 7:15. Sunset, according to the internet, would be at 8:14.

From 7:00 to 7:45, the helicopter came regularly, every fifteen minutes.
Then it came no more.
Muniz breathed a sigh of relief and hazarded a call on the radio. “Are you in position?”
Roque responded immediately. “Sim, Senhor.”
“Keep radio silence. Sit tight. We’ll push off just before dark. Click your transmit switch three times if you understood.”
There were three clicks.
Donato took the mantle lantern he’d purchased in Ciudad del Este, lit it and hung it in a tree. It would serve as a beacon to guide their return.
The road was free of traffic. There were no boats on the river. The day was virtually wind still, the gentle breeze not even strong enough to rustle the reeds. The sound overpowering all others was the thunder of water pouring into the Devil’s Throat.
As the sun began to sink below the horizon, lights twinkled into life on the far shore. Muniz lifted his binoculars. Most of the illumination came from the hotel, standing in stately majesty on the brow of a hill.
He refocused on the riverbank and followed it to the right until he reached the T-shaped dock. While he was staring at it, a light on the far end blinked on.
“Perfect,” he muttered.
He pointed it out to Donato. The
capanga
nodded.
“Shall we go now, Senhor?”
“Not yet. If we can see that dock, they can see us. But now we have a light to steer by. So we can wait until after dark.”
Donato shook his head. “We have no compass, Senhor. If we just keep the bow on the light, without reference to a compass, and we can’t see what the current is doing, we could be swept downstream and never know it.”
“If you knew that, why didn’t you buy a compass?”
“We agreed to leave before dark, Senhor. I didn’t think we’d need it.”
“How about on the way back?”
“By then, Senhor, we will have some idea about the strength of the current. It won’t change much in the next few hours. We’ll simply steer upstream of the light on this side. How far upstream will depend upon our experience as we cross over now.”
“You really do know something about boats, don’t you?”
“My father was a fisherman, Senhor.”
“A fisherman? In Acre? Where did he fish? In a river?”
“No, Senhor. He fished the sea. And I fished it with him. I did not always live in Acre. When I was a child, we lived in Alagoas. But then, one day. . . .” Muniz wasn’t paying any attention to his story, wasn’t even looking at him, so Donato cut it short. “. . . He drowned.”
“Too bad,” Muniz said. “Let’s get moving.”