Stained River (31 page)

His last job for Castelo Branco wasn’t up to his usual standards, however. He had underestimated the woman. The assignment that was supposed to be easy money, didn’t go as planned. Castelo Branco had chartered a private jet, a Gulfstream, for his trip to New York. He boarded that day, neat suit, expensive briefcase, looking every bit like a successful businessman attending some strategic meeting in one of the many downtown skyscrapers. Inside the briefcase was his 9mm pistol, with silencer.

He cabbed to 92
nd
street, then up six floors to her apartment. The lock was a good one, but the slim instrument he always used, worked. He opened the door to the sound of a light sonata, no one in the living room. He heard running water coming from the bathroom and figured this would be easier than he thought. He opened the bathroom door and stepped inside. Something was wrong. The shower was on, but no sign of blurred movement from behind the frosted glass doors. A sharp blow to the back of his head set off lightning flashes in his brain. As he fell, he caught sight of a partially clothed woman before she slammed his head a second time with a heavy object. She screamed, bolted for the door and almost made it. In a last attempt, he grabbed her ankle and she fell to the floor. He pulled her toward him, then put his full weight on her, trying to clear the cobwebs. She kicked him in the groin, then scratched his eyes. The woman fought like a lioness as he reached for the pistol and brought it to her head. Pfffffttt!

Cindy Pellegrino died instantly.

He got up covered in blood, a cut on his head, streak marks on one side of his face. She undoubtedly had his skin under her fingernails. It was a botched job. Cindy, who had learned from her experience breaking in to Hewett’s office, had installed her own small security camera in the hallway with monitors in the other rooms, including the bathroom. She had seen him enter, picked up an exercise weight and stood behind the door, waiting. Number thirty-two had almost ended his sordid career.

An hour into the flight, Connery closed his eyes and thought about what he was going to do. It had better be good. Once on the ground, he would be taken to Castelo Branco, then it would be all over.  He made up his mind to seize any opportunity once they got to the airport. It was a major facility. With luck, the terminals would be crowded.  Whatever he did would have to be lightning fast. Catch them off balance. Even if he was successful, the airport was several miles from the city. Should he take a cab? A bus? Ground transportation would be the first place they'd look. Once he got to the city, it would be different.

Two hours
later, he heard the pitch of the engines change. Roberto received instructions from the tower and entered a glide path to the runway. Below was Brasilia, built to open Brazil’s vast interior to the outside world. Its streets and avenues, laid out by architects in the shape of a swept wing aircraft, symbolized its modernity. The fuselage was the wide avenue known as Esplanada dos Ministerios. At its tip, the president's palace.

They landed on the far left runway
, specifically designated for small aircraft. Roberto taxied for a seemingly endless time before reaching the hangar. They bused to the main terminal. Modern, gleaming, full of people going in every direction. It was exactly the situation that Connery hoped for. A large jet had just landed, off-loading more than three hundred people who surged toward the four men, dragging carry-ons, sipping coffees, flipping open cell phones. As the four moved down the broad concourse, the crowd became thicker, the jostling increased. Hurtling toward them, pushing his way through, was a man trying to reach the next gate for a connecting flight. Connery stuck his foot out. The man tripped and fell, bags flying. Someone spilled a full cup of hot coffee on Jaime, Santos lost his balance, taking three others down with him.

In the melee that followed, Connery
took off like a greyhound, propelling himself through the tide of people, bumping into bodies, knocking some to the ground. Angry shouts echoed through the terminal. One man threw a punch that he dodged. Once past the clogged terminal, he distanced himself from his pursuers by running full speed down the concourse, looking for a place to drop from sight and blend in with the crowd.

The brightly lit sign said “El Matador” in neon script.
He popped into a full restaurant, heading straight for the restroom where there was an empty stall. Clothing borrowed from Azanquara’s son provided a slight change of identity, a shirt of a different color. He stuffed the old one in a trash container, put on a baseball cap and walked out. At the bar, he ordered a beer and chatted with the bar tender, as if nothing unusual was occurring. He figured Castelo Branco’s men to split up; one to check ground transportation, one to check restrooms, and one to check places like the one he was in.

The bar tender spoke broken English, so Connery asked where the VIP lounge was located.

“Upstairs, to the right, senhor.”

He thanked the man, walked nonchalantly to the escalator and rode to the next level. At the top, he found the exclusive lounge, then looked for a salon. There
were no customers waiting. Flashing several large denomination bills, he got the attention of a barber who thought he was an eccentric and rich playboy. He told the barber he wanted his beard shaved, his hair cut short. He said he was in a hurry.

Twenty minutes later
, he walked from the salon, convinced his looks were now changed considerably. Enough, maybe, to fool Jaime and Santos, but he needed more. He found a fashionable clothing store where he bought sandals, pressed shorts, a polo shirt, a valise and a pair of sunglasses. He transferred the medallion, money, and other items from the rag- tag supply pack he carried for so long, then ditched it in a refuse container. It was like abandoning an old friend. He put on his Ray Bans, walked to the concourse and got lost in the crowd, looking like the Connery who would have hob- knobbed in Malaga or some other flashy place. An hour later he was in the city; modern, clean, with wide avenues, but lacking the charm of an old world capitol. He found a mid-priced hotel where he paid cash for a room and had dinner delivered. For the first time in months, he relaxed in comfort on a real bed; a luxury he could ill afford. He was, after all, in an expensive town. Already, he spent more than he intended. For just this once, he would forget about that and enjoy the bed and dinner.

CHAPTER FORTY
FIVE

Brasilia

A man in a foreign country, with no identifying documentation and sparse resources, had to possess uncommon wits to avoid trouble. By this time, Connery figured Castelo Branco had a number of his cronies looking for him. They would stop at nothing. To do what he wanted would cost plenty. Room and meals alone would add up quickly. He had barely enough for two weeks, at the outside. Beyond that, he was done as far as cash was concerned. His vulnerability would take a giant leap in the wrong direction.

After an inexpensive breakfast at the only McDonald’s in town, he checked out of the hotel and found another at less than half the rate. Then he did something he never thought he would have to do
; shop for used clothes. The shorts, polo, and sandals, were OK, but he needed something more formal. The upscale capitol wasn't known for an abundance of second hand clothing stores, but with the help of the desk attendant, he found one, across town. Cabs were something he would use only when necessary. In this case, time was more important. With tip, it cost twenty-five dollars. He was rewarded with a great find; a four hundred dollar suit for the equivalent of thirty-five dollars. With shirt, tie, shoes, belt and socks, he spent less than fifty dollars. The jacket was a little dated but not bad for the price. A year ago, he would have spent a thousand without a second thought. In the Federal District, he found a Wal-Mart where he bought a cell phone with sixty minutes prepaid. Satisfied he had spent little and gained a lot, he walked to his hotel. It gave him a chance to feel the city, sprawling, buildings spaced far apart, sterile. None of the bazaars that would lend to quaintness. The seat of government, it was all business.

Establishing a
formal identity was his next priority. Initially, he used “Cedric Hawkes” to register at the hotel, the first name that popped into mind. Using a few different names might confuse Castelo Branco’s men. For now, he would keep the name, but change it once he discovered where and how to obtain a fake passport and other ID. For this, contact with Brasilia’s underworld, along with a cash down payment, couldn’t be avoided. He didn’t know what the going rate would be, or even if he had enough, but he’d find out soon. The morning had been productive. The afternoon he’d spend looking for the right place to get connected.

It wasn’t until the next day that he found it, but not in the city itself. On the outskirts was a
seedy town with enough criminals to satisfy whatever he required; for the right price. He realized carrying cash could get him killed.

It was nighttime when he got to the slum
, poorly lit, dogs barking and the rancorous smell of sewage. He passed a building where angry voices of a woman and a man rose above the dogs. He turned up his collar, tried to blend with the surroundings, but people in the street looked at him suspiciously, knowing he didn’t belong. He turned a corner and saw the neon light of a sleazy bar. Franco’s screamed
trouble.
He opened the door to a haze of smoke. Several faces turned in his direction. He waited ten minutes before the bartender asked what he wanted.

“Cerveja, por favor.”

The glass was two thirds full, but he paid with a twenty-dollar tip. After that, he got a full glass. By the third beer, and another twenty, he was on a first name basis with Carlos, who had lightened up considerably. At the right time, he asked the question he hoped would lead to the right person. Carlos pulled a phone from under the bar and said he would make a call.

“Pacho
? Carlos.”

Whoever was
on the other end, he obviously knew well. Carlos held the phone to his ear while drawing a draft beer. A muffled conversation followed.

“Yes, yes”

“Eu Entendo.”

He
hung up, a serious look on his face. Connery didn’t know what to expect.

“He said he would meet you, but you better be for real.”

Where?”

“Here, at eleven. A word of warning
. Don’t screw with Pacho. It would be bad for me- worse for you.”

Time passed slowly
; a little more light banter with Carlos, then he had to use the men’s room, something he would have liked to avoid, but his need was urgent. At the back of the bar was a single door to a rest room shared by both sexes. Inside, water and toilet paper littered the floor. The odor of urine hung heavy. A single bulb cast dim light. A man entered and stood at the next urinal. Connery thought he was going to be robbed, maybe knifed. Then a low voice.

“You
Provencher?”

To his left was a swarthy looking man
with a mustache, wearing a strange looking hat. A type he had never seen before.

“
You Pacho?”

The man mumbled a response
, then gestured for him to follow. In a quiet corner of the saloon, he swept the water from the table on to the floor, then motioned for Connery to sit.

“What can I do for you, senhor?”

Connery told him he wanted an American passport and other ID. He handed the man a piece of paper with the name Stanley Provencher and a Miami address.

“Cost you a thousand, five hundred now.”

“What about the picture?”

“Don’t worry. It will look like you, and it won’t look like you.”

The price was high, but he would have it within three days. Connery passed him the money. Pacho stuffed the bills in his pocket without counting.

“Be here Friday, same time. Don’t make me wait.”

It had gone well in one respect. He was still alive, but he may have wasted five hundred dollars.

At the hotel the next morning, he borrowed a phone book, found a comfortable seat in the lobby. For the next fifteen minutes, he looked for the name of a dealer in rare artifacts. Twice, he had to ask translation assistance from the desk clerk, but located a name and service that sounded like what he needed:

Raul Melendez

1185 Rua Vicente

Setor Bancario Norte

Broker in Rare Antiquities

He called the number hoping that someone who dealt in antiques and artifacts
might be multi lingual.

“Raul Melendez, bom dia!”

“Senhor Melendez. Voce fala Ingles?”

“Yes, of course.
Do I know you?”

“Listen carefully. I represent someone who owns
an extremely rare artifact dating to the sixteenth century. I would like you to look at it, verify its authenticity, then find a buyer. This person does not wish his identity known, and your utmost confidence is requested. May I stop by?”