The Dead Man's Brother (12 page)

"Quickly," I said, "get to the phone and call the police. Give them your name and address and tell them you think someone is trying to break into your apartment. Then hang up. We may be able to discomfort the enemy. Then call us a cab."

"Very good," she said, and left me.

I ordered two brandies in her absence and drank hers too, before she returned. I ordered two more and lit a cigarette.

"All right," she said, sliding into the seat across from me, "I’ve done as you said."

"Good."

"What is going on?" she whispered. "You never used to get involved in things like this, Ovid. Million dollar thefts…Killings…"

"I know—and I don’t much like the idea now. It’s too late, though. Something I’ve done has apparently scared somebody besides myself. It seems you’re included—because of Claude, because of me. You were safe till I showed up, though, so I must be the catalyst. Why, I don’t know—and I need to know. I’ve been searching my mind, going over everything I’ve done since I arrived in Rome, and I can’t find the answer. Maybe I’m too sleepy, or it’s something too obvious. We have to find out though, so we can stop whoever it is before they reach us. That means we have to run now, keep them at a distance until we can strike back."

"You mean, kill them?"

"If necessary," I said, "though I hope something less strenuous will suffice."

"Will they pursue us out of the country, d’you think?"

I took a sip of my brandy.

"My guess is yes," I said. "If they find out where we are, I’m sure they’ll make another try. If it is so important as to warrant drastic action, they will be looking for us. The thing has international ramifications and the trail leads to Brazil."

"You are certain of this?"

"Fairly."

"Then we may be heading toward something even worse than what we seem to be leaving behind."

"Possibly. But this time I’m forewarned."

"They will be, too—and you say they almost got you tonight."

"That’s right."

"What saved you?"

"Luck. A gun jammed."

She dropped her eyes and stared at my hands. Her hair was somewhat out of place, her face soft in the dim light of the table lamp. At that moment, I realized she looked quite lovely.

She glanced up and smiled self-consciously when she realized I was staring at her.

"Luck," she said, then raised her glass in a small salute.

A moment later, her face clouded once more.

"Did you know either of them?" she asked.

"No."

"Who was the third?"

"A man named Martinson," I began, then wondered how much I should tell her. I trusted her, but—Well, she was a part of the thing and I was not certain where all her edges met with the rest of the picture. I could see no real reason for not telling her, but then I saw no reason for telling her either. When it came to the fact that I was an unwilling shill for the CIA, she had no real need to know.

"…he was a friend," I finished. "I was visiting him when they came for the hit."

"Oh," she said. "Then it is a matter of vengeance also?"

"Hardly," I said, "now. There were only the two of them. They’ve paid."

Her eyes flashed, something primeval, and she licked her lips twice as I gave her an abbreviated version of what had occurred. A childhood filled with vendetta chronicles? A passion for elementary justice? Or just plain violence? I could not tell. But her face had become more animated, had changed completely from the Madonna-like aspect she had worn moments earlier. She had cursed softly when she realized the significance of the dead telephone.

"I hope the one in the car was the man in Lisbon," she said.

I took another sip of brandy and sat there, wave after gratifying wave of numbness washing over me, in the coat of the dead man I had come to Rome to find, until the cab came for us and I forced my bones erect, unwilling last-minute Lazarus, and into the world again.

*

I’d slept, in the cab that took us to the airport, in the rim-less peace symbol that slit the Atlantic skies. Maria had shaken me awake for breakfast; I had growled, mumbled, eaten, taken two aspirins, leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes again. Somewhere there had been a small nightmare which I could not remember. There had been no problem in obtaining the tickets, we had stashed the luggage and made ourselves inconspicuous till flight time. We had opted to remain in the terminal rather than ride around in a cab or take a room for the intervening hours—the idea being that even if we were spotted there, we would be safer with lots of humanity around us. No one apparently spotted us; or if someone did, all the things I hated about airports had rendered him impotent. Maria had removed her makeup, bound her hair beneath a scarf, donned glasses and hidden behind a book. We sat near to each other, though not together, while we waited, and I managed to doze behind a newspaper. Between then and boarding, when the shops were opened again, we obtained a small flight bag, shaving equipment, several handkerchiefs, a beret and a cheap, blond wig. While they were not much, the last two were the best items I could come up with in the way of disembarkment uniforms.

Now came a gentle nudge.

"Do you want another cup of coffee?" Maria was asking.

"Yes, please," I said, opening my eyes and raising my cup.

After I took several sips, she said, "Did you know that you snore?"

"Only when I can’t sleep on my side," I said. Which is how I always do it, unless the alternative is unavoidable.

I sighed, lit a cigarette and stared out the window, hoping she would take the hint. I did not feel like talking.

She did, as moments later I heard the flutter of a magazine in her lap.

I do not like having to trust anybody, and I had thus far been forced to make an exception in her case. I had had no opportunity to check on her Lisbon story. For a time now, I would have to operate on the assumption that it was correct. Though I wanted details, I was in no position to get them. I would have to trust to my own feelings that a girl who had once hinted that she felt some affection for me, who now shared a peril with me, could be trusted. Shaky. Full of holes. But it was all I had.

I speculated as to my own status. For all I knew, the corpses of Martinson and his killer might not have been discovered yet. I had left the place closed up, and if no one had seen me firing after the car, it was possible that they were still where I had left them. With my fingerprints all over the place and the tape of our conversation on the recorder, of course.

…which meant that the Roman authorities would be wanting me for questioning, at least.

On the other hand, the embassy would be notified, which might result in their arranging to have things kept quiet while they screamed to Foggy Bottom for advice.

…which, of course, would result in some clucking and preening, as the chicken eventually marched in, perched on Collins’ desk and laid its egg.

Either way—by Roman cops or the CIA—the passenger lists for outgoing flights would be checked. As my passport bore my name, so did the passenger list. But the initial chores of finding the dead man and identifying me as the person wanted would have delayed them sufficiently, I hoped, for me to have landed and faded by then.

I had wanted out of Italy before I ventured any contact with the CIA again. They had done such a lousy job taking care of me, as well as their own man, that a communications lag seemed a good idea. For all I knew, the information leak that had led to the killing could be in their own shop. Whatever, I was not about to extend any trust in their direction.

I took another sip and another drag.

I had been to Rio once, but I had never been to São Paulo. I knew nothing of the town and I knew no one in it. I would have to get some guidebooks and maps as soon as we landed.

"Have you ever been to São Paulo before?" I asked Maria.

"Yes," she said. "Years ago. With Carl."

"Oh?"

"Business," she said, with a slight smile. "This was after you had returned to the States."

"They can’t miss our foreign accents," I said. "Do you recall whether they ask for your passport when you register at a hotel?"

She laughed.

"I do not know about the big hotels there," she said. "We did not stay at any of them. We stayed at a small place in Santos, about an hour’s drive from São Paulo city. It was not such a good hotel, but there are hotels and boarding houses on every street. Santos is a weekend resort place on the ocean. I liked it. No one asked us for papers when we stayed there." She shrugged. "The ones we had were forged, anyway."

It sounded like a good idea. Carl’s usually were. Except for his last one, of course.

"Do not worry about our accents," she added. "São Paulo is full of people with foreign accents."

"Then Santos it is," I said, and she nodded.

I returned my attention to wingtip, water and cloud.

*

I was revived and somewhat elated when we passed through the baggage pickup and customs without any difficulty. We purchased a stack of maps and tourist materials, consulted them quickly and sought a cab. I had found that the American Express office was on the Rua 7 Abril, located it on the map and told the driver to take us there. When we arrived, he wanted to wait for us, but we dismissed him, went inside and cashed a whole book of travelers cheques. I gave about a third of the money to Maria, then hefted the luggage and started walking.

We turned at the corner, walked a block, hit the Rua São Luiz and headed down it till we came to the Municipal Library. There we found a busy bus stop and waited for a bus that was only partly filled to come along. We boarded the first one that did and spent the next hour and a half changing busses.

I remembered Rio as a vast melange, combining all the races, containing vast riches and miserable poverty, featuring ultra-modern hotels and office buildings, colorful provincial enclaves and hillsides full of
favelas
—the most squalid slums I have ever seen; all of this bounded by mountains and ocean beaches, strewn with flowers, coursed by maniac drivers, spitted by the Tropic of Capricorn, cycling between lethargy and frenzy, infused with voodoo and sprinkled exotic appetites, concrete Christ on the Corcovado dashboard above.

São Paulo, on the other hand, reminded me of Chicago. From the air, it had seemed a great, prickly mass. Now that I moved among its high, serrated ranks, my first impression was that I was surrounded by an army of massive, glass-eyed robots, enormous energies churning their innards. I did not find this disenchanting, nor did I doubt there was more to it than a monarchy of masonry and metal. It aroused my curiosity as to the real city that lay behind this façade. In the case of Chicago, the removal of its mask proves a disappointment; with New York there is more, much more, to excite one’s wonder, to hold it for a span of time. I lamented the brevity of life and the possibility that my own was about to become a special example of this rule.

We had not intended to ride the busses for as long as we did, but getting back downtown proved more complicated than we had anticipated. At the train station, Maria picked up a pair of tickets for Santos while I waited. The blonde wig made a difference in her appearance that was not unpleasant, though I liked her better the other way.

Fortunately, we did not have a long wait for a Santosbound train. We boarded, found seats and cultivated patience. If the station was too busy for me to tell whether we were being observed, I consoled myself that it probably made us a bit more difficult to spot, also. We had moved and stood with groups of people most of the time, and we seemed to look like many of the Paulistas we saw, off for a holiday by the sea.

Before very long, we moved, rattling and swaying, into evening and the southeast. I studied the maps and booklets for a while, pretended to study them for a while longer as I scanned the other inhabitants of the car.

A family group of six, a very old couple, a rather attractive girl reading a magazine, three chattering women and a middle-aged man working a crossword puzzle were all that I could see without turning my head and staring. There were others toward the rear, and several empty seats.

I relaxed, sighed and lit a cigarette.

"How long?" I asked.

"The man said about an hour. Perhaps less."

I nodded.

"Good. I’m getting hungry."

We watched the town, then countryside, speed by. After a time, the moon rose. I was beginning to feel safer.

*

The following morning, I bought all new clothing and disposed of what I had been wearing in a convenient trash receptacle. Then I succeeded in renting a car and returned to the concrete block and stucco hostelry called The Plaza, where Maria and I had registered as Paul and Madeleine Timura, of Piracicaba, after some taxi-switching and walking, the previous evening. We had taken a room with double beds, the only one available, and walked to a small restaurant we had passed three blocks up the road. From there, I tried to telephone Emil Bretagne, but no one answered. I obtained his address from the operator then, learning that it was a "Mr. & Mrs." listing. I managed to get the number for Bassenrut Development next—the suspect organization which listed him as an officer. No answer there either, though again I obtained the address. After a large meal and a long, hot soak, I fell into bed and knew nothing till morning.

I tried Bassenrut again then. This time I got through, but was told that Emil was out of town and, no, they were not certain when he would be back—perhaps another week—and they did not know the details of his itinerary.

Rather than ringing his home again, I decided to visit it. We located his street on the map and marked the route. Then we set out driving, through what promised to be a beautiful day. The most recent day to have made such a promise having proved a liar, however, I remained skeptical.

The way was somewhat hilly, splashed with green and possessed of amazingly red soil. The air, through the open window, came clean and cool, and for a long while I could smell the morning and the sea we were leaving behind us. Wave-like, we mounted a continually rising plateau as we headed toward the city, and glancing back, I could see for a great distance.