Perfect Hatred (19 page)

Silva, Danusa, Hector and Arnaldo gathered on the terrace at eight. Luis Chagas, once again invited to join them, was late.

Hector took the opportunity to report on their unsatisfactory meeting with the mullah.
“So,” Silva said, when he was done, “in essence, you didn’t learn a thing.”
“We learned,” Arnaldo said, “that Massri is a guy who shouldn’t be allowed within a thousand kilometers of an impressionable kid.”
“I think we knew that already,” Danusa said. “And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Qur’an isn’t the only thing he’s an expert on. Someone had to teach Salem how to put that bomb together. What happened with Chaparro, Chief Inspector?”
“I’ll wait until Luis arrives,” Silva said. “I want him to hear it.”
“Speak of the devil,” Hector said, and pointed.
“Sorry I’m late,” Chagas said when he reached their table, “but Mara called just as I was leaving. The photo I sent of Kassim? The one she was going to compare to the mystery man in the hospital?”
Silva put down his glass and sat up straighter in his chair. “Yes?” he said.
“It was a match.”

The crossing went off without a hitch. They saw no one, and Muniz was relatively certain no one had seen them. The fast-flowing river was smooth, and the sound of their motor was masked by the roar of the falls.

But the current was much stronger than Donato had anticipated. They had to steer for a point well upstream to avoid being swept downriver. That lengthened the journey, and the last of the light faded from the sky a full five minutes before they reached the dock.

When he estimated they were about one hundred meters away, Muniz picked up the radio to call Roque, but his finger, soaking wet from nervous perspiration, slipped on the switch. He dried it on his pants, tried again, and got an immediate acknowledgement. The thug was on his way.

Donato throttled back and put the motor in neutral. It was nicely timed. They lost headway an arm’s length from the pier. Virgilio, standing in the front of the boat, reached out, grasped one of the mooring cleats and made it fast to a line attached to the bow. Then he climbed onto the dock.

Muniz refused the hand that was offered him, not wanting Virgilio to feel the moisture. That was another of his rules when dealing with subordinates: never display fear.

When he was out of the boat, and his heartbeat was beginning to slow, he cast a glance over the dark water. The lantern on the opposite shore was clearly visible, and it seemed quite close. But he knew it would look far away again as soon as he was back on the water.

As if in answer, a pair of headlights appeared, racing toward them down the dark road. A moment later, a Fiat Doblo 1.8 pulled up next to the dock. Roque hopped out of the driver’s seat, and hurried toward them.

It was the first time Roque had addressed him with anything other than a grunt.
Muniz’s anger, and the residual near-terror of the last ten minutes, instantly gave way to eager anticipation.
“Silva? You saw Silva?”
Roque nodded. “That’s why I’m late, Senhor. I circled around to the back of the hotel, and saw him on the terrace. I was there, in the garden, looking right at him, when you called. He was —”
“Wait. You mean we can get at him without passing through the hotel?”
“Sim, Senhor.”
“Is he alone?”
“No. There are four of them, Silva, two other men and a woman.”

Back on the terrace, the federal cops were still discussing Chagas’s revelation—that Kassim had been the mystery man in the hospital.

“Maybe,” Hector said, “Nestor’s death had nothing to do with Plínio’s. He was in a hospital bed, debilitated and defenseless. Al-Fulan hated him, was determined to make good on his threat to kill him and thought he might never get a better chance. Maybe it’s as simple as that.”

“Maybe,” Arnaldo said. “But, if that’s true, it doesn’t bring us a step closer to solving Plínio’s murder.”
“No,” Silva said, “If it’s true, it doesn’t.”
“Kassim goes back and forth all the time,” Chagas said. “I’ll keep a lookout on the bridge and grab him the very next time he sticks his nose into Brazil.”
“No, you won’t,” Silva said. “Not yet. There’s no way we’re going to be able to secure a conviction simply because he happened to be in the hospital when Nestor was murdered. And besides, the man we
really
want is Al-Fulan. He’s behind all of this. The bombing, Nestor’s killing—”
“But not Plínio’s murder?” Arnaldo said.
“No,” Silva said, “I think not. The solution to that lies elsewhere.”
“What happened with Chaparro?” Chagas said. “Did he show up as promised? Meet you in the bar?”
“He did,” Silva said, and he told them about the dead sergeant’s alleged confession.
“A pile of crap,” Arnaldo said.
“Most of it,” Silva agreed, “but I tend to believe the part about Kassim being the one who purchased the C4.”
“So that’s another nail in his coffin,” Danusa said.
“But not enough to punish him the way he deserves,” Silva said. “The sergeant’s signed confession, and the depositions from the people who purportedly interrogated him, might be enough to convict Kassim of arms trading, but I doubt we’d be able to get a judgment against him for collusion in the bombing itself.”
“And,” Chagas said, “we still don’t have any damning evidence against Al-Fulan.”
“So Al-Fulan will walk?” Danusa said.
“Yes,” Silva said. “As things stand at this moment, I’m afraid he will.”
“I won’t have it,” Danusa said. “There’s no way I’m going to let that happen.”
Silva, nonplussed by her aggressive tone, was the first to look at her in surprise. The others weren’t far behind.
“None of you get it, do you?” she said, looking at each in turn. “These people play by different rules. They’re animals, and yet we keeping treating them like human beings, giving them the rights of human beings, wanting to bring them to trial like human beings.”
In the uncomfortable silence that followed, she got to her feet.
“I have a phone call to make,” she said and stalked off.
“What’s with her?” Luis said when she was gone.
Hector told him about the circumstances of her father’s death.
“I sympathize,” Luis said, “but that’s no reason to take it out on us.”
“She’s not taking it out on us,” Silva said. “It’s just the way she is. She can’t abide terrorists, and she gets frustrated when she thinks one might be getting away with something.”
“I can relate to that,” Luis said. “I’m frustrated myself. Is Kassim guilty? Yes. Does he deserve to be punished? Yes. But, in the end, he’s just a tool.”
“Which was exactly my point,” Silva said. “Danusa’s as well. The person we should be concentrating on is Jamil Al-Fulan.”
“And, as of now,” Hector said, “we haven’t got a damned thing we can use against him.

He moved aside to allow Roque to look through the gap in the foliage. They were in the darkest part of the garden, about fifty meters from where the federal cops were gathered on the terrace.

“Gone,” Roque said. “She was in that empty chair, next to where the blonde guy is now.”
Muniz had brought a pair of binoculars. He elbowed Roque aside and raised them to his eyes.
“The big man,” he said after adjusting the focus, “is Silva’s shadow, Arnaldo Nunes. He never goes anywhere without him. The one in the blue shirt is his nephew, Hector Costa. I’ve got it in for those two bastards as well.”
He put the binoculars in circulation. Each of the three capangas took a turn studying the people around the table. Meanwhile, Muniz considered his next move. By the time the binoculars came back to him, he’d reached a decision.
“This,” he said, “is too good a chance to pass up. We’ll kill all three of them, and we’ll do it now, while we have the chance.”
“And the fourth man, Senhor?” Donato said. “The blonde one? Who is he?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never seen him before, but if he interferes, kill him as well. Get out your scarves. Tie them on. Which one of you is the worst shot?”
“Roque, Senhor,” Donato said, reaching for his makeshift mask.
“Then, if it becomes necessary, Roque will take the blonde guy. Virgilio takes Costa and you, Donato, take Nunes.”
“Remind me, Senhor,” Donato said, now speaking through the cloth that covered his nose and mouth. “Which one is Nunes?”
“The big one. Costa, the nephew, is the one in the blue shirt.”
“There are only four of us,” Donato said, “and four of them. Wouldn’t it be better—”
Muniz didn’t let him finish. “We’re coming out of the dark. No one is looking this way. They won’t even know what’s hit them. If Silva pulls a gun, which he probably will, disable the bastard. Shoot him in his arms, his legs, anywhere but his chest or his head. Before it’s over, I want to get close enough for him to see who’s killing him.”

As Danusa was emerging from the door between the lobby and the terrace, she saw movement in the garden. Four men, masked and armed, were emerging from the darkness.

“Guns!” she shouted.
The cops turned to face the threat.
The man in the lead, gray-haired, and with a pair of binoculars dangling from a strap encircling his neck, stopped running, took a two-handed stance and shot her in the chest.

Blood bloomed on her white blouse.
The four cops dived from their chairs. The crystal wine bucket exploded, filling the air with shards of ice and glass. A chunk of masonry was blasted from one of the columns supporting the roof.
Silva took shelter behind a vase holding a palm tree, Arnaldo and Hector behind a concrete trough planted with flowers. Chagas was hit and went down.
Illuminated only by the light coming from the hotel, the four attackers kept coming, their pistols shooting little stabs of flame into the night. But the weapons were silenced, and the reports sounded more like puffs of compressed air than gunshots.
Arnaldo and Hector started returning fire. Their waiter was cowering in the doorway. Silva made a frantic gesture to attract his attention.
“An ambulance,” he shouted. “Call an ambulance.”
The man scuttled inside.
Hector shot one of the assailants in the abdomen and, as the man bent over, followed up with another round to his head.
Arnaldo hit another in the throat. The gunman’s blood, black in the night, started pulsing out of him in spurts.
Silva fired a shot, then another, missing both times.
“Back,” the gray-haired man shouted. “Back to the car.”
The remaining two assailants, apparently uninjured, retreated into darkness. Silva crawled to Danusa’s side.
“See to Luis,” he called to Hector.
“I’m okay,” Chagas said through teeth gritted against the pain. “Just a flesh wound. How’s Danusa?”
Silva didn’t reply. He was bunching up fabric from her blouse, trying to use it to stanch her bleeding.
“A doctor,” he snapped to Hector. “See if there’s one in the hotel. And see if that waiter did what I told him to do.”
Hector took off at a run.
“You hear that voice?” Arnaldo said.
“I heard it,” Silva said. “Orlando Muniz. Hector was right on the mark.” And to Danusa: “You’re going to be all right. It’s not so bad.”
That part was a lie. There was too much blood.
“Who the hell is Orlando Muniz?” Luis said, looking at Danusa with concern while he fashioned a tourniquet for himself out of a napkin.
“A dead man,” Arnaldo said, replacing the empty magazine of his Glock with one of the spares from the holster on his belt, “just as soon as I catch up with him.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Chagas cautioned. “Odds are, he’s waiting to ambush anyone who tries it.”
“That cowardly
filho da puta
? No way! He’s running. I guarantee it.”
Car doors slammed, two in quick succession. Tires squealed on the road.
“See?” Arnaldo said. “There he goes.”
The taillights of the car were red dots in the night—getting smaller as it moved away.
“I know that road,” Chagas said. “It ends at the river. The bastards have a boat.”
“First things first,” Silva said. “Let’s get Danusa attended to. Arnaldo, go find the pilot of that helicopter. I’ll meet you on the pad.”
There was a rivulet of blood dribbling from one corner of Danusa’s mouth. She’d started panting for breath. Arnaldo, for the first time, seemed to notice how badly she’d been hurt. He stood motionless, staring at her, his face contorted with distress.
“Go,” Silva said, angrily. “
Now.
”
Arnaldo started, as if he’d been awakened from a trance. Then he holstered his pistol—and ran.
Chagas knelt facing Silva, Danusa between them.
“Hang in there,
menina
,” he said to the prostrate woman.
Danusa’s eyes were closed, but she surprised them both by moving her lips.
“I screwed up,” she said in a voice just above a whisper.
“Nonsense,” Silva said. “If you hadn’t spotted those bastards, we’d all be dead. Don’t try to talk. An ambulance is on its way.”
“You’re hurting me,” she said.
“Can’t be helped. I have to maintain the pressure.” “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Not bad at all. You’re going to be up and about in no time.”
“Liar,” she said. “How many? How many did you get?”
“Two.”
“Only two?”
“The leader and one of his henchmen are making a run for it.”
“Go after them.”
“Don’t worry. They’re not going to get away.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She tried to smile—but couldn’t. Her breath rattled in her throat. She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Tell Amzi I’m sorry,” she said.
“Amzi?” Chagas said. “Who’s Amzi?”
Silva leaned closer to hear her reply, but there was none. A man tapped him on the shoulder. “Stand back,” he said. “I’m a doctor.”
Danusa closed her eyes. Silva stood up and moved aside. The doctor took the position he’d vacated. Hector appeared at his side.
“Ambulance on its way,” he said.
But the doctor was already shaking his head. He rose from his haunches, took a napkin from a nearby table, and wiped his bloody hands.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “She won’t be needing it.”

Roque flooded the engine in his first desperate attempt to start it. But then he floored the accelerator, and a second later they were burning rubber. The
capanga
kept glancing in the rear-view mirror as they sped toward the dock.

Muniz, more calculating, was less concerned with immediate pursuit. The federal cops couldn’t possibly beat them to the boat.

But what if one of them had recognized his voice?
Stupid! It had been stupid of him to cry out.
Wait! They may think it was me, but can they prove it?
He had ample fuel on board the Cessna. A ninety-minute