The Rules Of Silence (8 page)

Titus only needed to move his eyes a flicker to shift them from Burden to the photograph, which was becoming a distraction as it continued to emerge from the surrounding shadows.

“So, when Escobar’s empire began to rattle apart in the late eighties, ”Burden went on, “Tano could see the end coming and got out of Colombia. He spent the early nineties in Brazil and had been living in Rio de Janeiro for several years when Escobar was finally killed in Medellín in December of 1993.

“But Tano had been busy in Rio, honing his skills. According to the Ministério da Justiça, Tano’s MO was all over four of the largest high-end kidnappings that occurred in Rio between 1991 and 1997. All of the targets were foreign executives, and these four incidents brought Tano a very nice income of nearly fifty-three million dollars in ransoms.”

“What were the size of the ransoms?”

Burden nodded. “Interesting. They increased steadily over the four events. Tano was beginning to study his targets with more deliberation, and what he learned about them shaped the way he handled their abductions and ransom demands. It determined the way he designed their ordeals.”

All of this was stated in a gentle way, as if Burden were a mild-mannered psychiatrist explaining the rationale for a therapy regimen. Occasionally he gestured gracefully with his hands, which Titus now noticed were unexpectedly elegant. Sometimes he would run his fingers through his hair to get a wavy lock of it away from his eyes.

“Tano’s technique improved, too, ”Burden continued with a hint of pleasure in his eyes, as if he were relishing what he was about to reveal. “I’ll run through the four cases for you. It’s important that you understand what’s about to happen to you.

“Number one. The target was a French executive with a multinational corporation. Corporation brings in their insurance company’s recommended K and R team. Negotiations take three months. Kidnappers come down to one-half of their original demand. K and R people bungle the negotiations. Victim dies in the process, but Tano gets 5.3 million dollars.

“Number two. German CEO. Kidnappers contact the family this time, not the corporation. Kidnappers let the family apply the pressure to the corporation, while the kidnappers save themselves a lot of sweat. But the family consults with Rio’s Policía Civil kidnap squad. Things slow down, victim’s hand arrives special delivery. Family has a meltdown. Puts pressure on corporation, which eventually agrees to pay seventy percent of the original demand: 8.5 million dollars.

“Number three. Spanish executive. But this time the kidnappers know that the executive and his family are the major stockholders in the corporation. No K and R people allowed to participate. Victim will be killed if Policía Civil are brought in. Family agrees, but then they drive a hard bargain. So a brother-in-law, representing the company in Buenos Aires, is kidnapped also. Not for additional ransom, but to put pressure on the original negotiation. Pay up or he dies. The family continues to belabor the amount of the demand. Brother-in-law, hands and feet bound with wire, is set on fire in the long private drive that leads up to the family’s estate. Family pays ninety percent of the original demand: 16.8 million dollars.

“Number four. British CEO. Also wealthy major stockholder. Kidnappers are clear: No K and R, no Policía Civil. Huge ransom demand. Several of the corporation board members have pull in British government. Supersecret Special Event Team flown in under the radar of Brazilian government. But they’re out of their league, lose a couple of guys, muck up the negotiations. They’re pulled out just as secretly as they came in, tails between their legs. But they’ve caused a hell of a lot of trouble for the kidnappers. Immediately two other corporation employees die—in an automobile accident. Kidnappers notify family that other employees will die (accidentally) if ransom isn’t paid. They pay up. The kidnappers got one hundred percent of the ransom they had asked for: 22 million dollars.”

When Burden stopped, Titus thought he saw a pleased expression that indicated that the case synopses he’d just been through drew some telling conclusions. But with the recounting of each incident, Titus only grew more depressed. In fact, Burden’s serene demeanor was beginning to get on his nerves. Titus’s entire life had been uprooted not more than fifteen hours earlier, and it was far from clear whether it could be salvaged. In light of that, he found Burden’s composure and apparent lack of a sense of urgency offensive.

“I don’t see any damn reason for optimism here, ”Titus said. His stomach was knotting. “I want to know where the hell you think you’re going with all this.”

Burden’s calm expression gave way to something more sober, and he reached over to a side table and picked up a remote control. The light rose on the long photograph on the wall, illuminating it slowly, subtly. The picture was stunning.

The nude woman reclined on her right side against a charcoal background and looked directly at the camera with a sad, penetrating gaze. Her hair, darker than the background, fell over her left shoulder and stopped just above her left breast. Her left arm lay languidly along the fluid line of her waist, hip, and thigh, while she supported herself on the elbow of her right arm. In her upturned right hand, which rested in a position equidistant between her breasts and the dark delta between her thighs, she held a tiny, huddling, jet black monkey so incredibly small that it was completely contained within her palm. This queer, startled little creature gaped at the camera with outsized eyes, as if he were seeing the most astonishing thing that a monkey could ever behold. Its silky, ebony tail was coiled desperately around the woman’s pale wrist, his wee hands pressed together in an attitude of prayerful concern.

“She, ”Burden said, “is the sister of the Spanish executive in Tano’s case number three, the widow of the man who was set afire in the driveway of the family home.”

“Jesus! ”Titus stared at the woman. “When was this taken?”

“Two weeks after her husband’s funeral.”

“What?”

“Her idea. Every detail.”

“Why?”

Burden looked at the picture, studying it as if it were an image of infinite fascination for him, as if he could turn his attention to it at any time and find it provocative and of enduring curiosity.

“Often, ”he said, “with women, the why of how they express their grief over the violent death of someone they love is inexplicable. I mean, the ‘logic’of how they express it. It’s an intensely inward thing. Deeply embedded. The fact that she seems, here, to be acting in a way that’s the absolute opposite of private or personal”—he shrugged—“well, it only seems so. We misunderstand her.”

Titus looked at Burden studying the photograph and wondered what was going through his mind. He glanced around the room. There were framed black-and-white photographs in a variety of sizes hanging on the walls, propped against bookshelves, resting against the sides of his desk, sometimes two or three stacked one in front of the other. All of them, all that Titus could see, were of women, mostly portraits.

“It’s my guess, however, ”Burden went on, “that if this woman’s husband could know today what she has done in her grief, he would be shocked. The incident in extremis that prompted her behavior was his death, so as long as he was alive he would never have seen this … unusual aspect of her psyche.”

Church bells began ringing, first one and then another farther off, then another in a different direction, and still another. The air was singing with them.

Burden broke his gaze at the photograph and stood.

“I want you to remember this photograph and this story, Mr. Cain. As we decide how to address your dilemma, at some point along the way—this inevitably happens—you’re going to be tempted to believe that you know best about how to extricate yourself from this ordeal that you are about to suffer. You’re going to think that you don’t need to listen to me, that you have better instincts for what ought to be done at some particular point or another.”

He paused a beat and almost smiled, his face taking on an expression that Titus didn’t really understand and which made him uneasy.

“If you don’t want me to see how your own wife might react to your death, ”he said, glancing at the photograph, “you need to listen to me. You need to do what I tell you to do … the way I tell you to do it.”

Surprised at Burden’s abrupt conclusion, Titus stood, too.

“Lália will be here in a moment to show you where you can freshen up, ”Burden said. “I’ll join you downstairs for lunch in twenty minutes.”

Without any further explanation, Burden left Titus standing where he was and walked out of his study.

Chapter 12

Standing alone in the room, Titus looked again at the picture. Burden’s rather creative warning was vivid and had blindsided him with its almost cruel undertone. It was unnerving, as he imagined Burden had intended it to be.

He picked up one of the books lying on a library table and read the title:
The History, Culture, and Religion of the Hellenistic Age.
He flipped through it and saw that the pages were heavily annotated in brown ink. He picked up another:
Spanish Red: An Ethnogeographical Study of Cochineal and the Opuntia Cactus.
Again heavily annotated. He bent down and looked at the book lying open, the fountain pen in its gutter:
The Liar’s Tale: A History of Falsehood.
More marginalia in brown ink. The book next to this one had a dozen page markers sticking out of it:
The Natural History of the Soul in Ancient Mexico.

Titus was surprised. He had expected to find books on intelligence systems, cryptography, international crime, terrorism, drug trade … kidnapping. None of that here. But clearly Burden had his resources. The room where the three women were working must have held a vast amount of information, and he remembered that in their telephone conversation Burden had mentioned his archives.

A shadow in the doorway caused him to look up. Lália was standing there, smiling at him in her radiant colors. He followed her light, barefooted step around the balcony to the other side. She left him alone in a spacious bedroom where the linens smelled of lilac and the fireplace scents hinted vaguely of November fires.

While she waited outside the door on the loggia, he washed and splashed cool water on his face and combed his hair. He was tempted to call Rita—it was the dinner hour in Venice— but, again, he didn’t have anything to tell her except that he was in trouble. That wouldn’t do.

His neck ached, and he recognized the stiff beginnings of a tension headache. Tucking in his shirttail, he thought of the photograph of the Argentine widow and her monkey, and of how Burden had chosen to give it a position in his study that practically defined the place. Titus was sure that there was more to the picture than met the eye or that was hinted at in Burden’s explication. And he was sure, too, that there was more to García Burden than a lifetime of knowing him would ever allow anyone to understand.

He followed the colorful Lália downstairs to a dining room, one entire wall of which was open to the courtyard. Sitting alone, he was served by two young Indian girls who urged him to go ahead and eat.

For a little while he enjoyed the food and beer. The echoing birdsong spilling out of the colonnades and dying into the undertones of the fountain were almost soporific, even comforting. Then, unexpectedly, this momentary peace caught in his throat like a sob, and he found himself on the verge of tears. Jesus, what was happening to him? He put down his beer and fought to control himself, baffled by the sudden burst of intense feelings. Embarrassed, he swallowed. And then swallowed again.

While he was struggling to calm himself, he saw Burden come in through the entrance corridor and enter the loggia across the courtyard. By the time he got to the dining room, Titus had reined in his wobbly emotions.

Burden sat down with him, and one of the girls brought him a plate of fruit and slices of various melons. He took one of the lime slices on the side of his plate and drizzled the juice over the melons. He ate a few bites, then picked up with their conversation as if he’d never left.

“I’ll tell you an anecdote about Tano Luquín, ”Burden said quietly, chewing a bite of cantaloupe. “Just a few months before he left Colombia to avoid being caught up in Escobar’s disintegration, I saw an interesting example of how he works. It was one of Escobar’s contracts, Tano twice removed, of course. I was in Medellín on another matter, but I had seen enough of Tano’s work by then to be able to distinguish it from all the others.

“Culturally, you know, Colombians have ardent family allegiances. They’re loving and loyal to their children, aunts, and uncles, devoted to the idea of family. This is true across all levels of society. An admirable societal characteristic that any culture would be proud of. But Colombia is a culture of extremes, and this worthy quality has a perverse downside in Colombia’s criminal world. When a criminal enterprise requires violence, everyone understands that to hurt a man’s family is to hurt the man in the deepest way possible. So this is done with disgusting regularity and predictability.”

Burden ate some more melon, staring out to the courtyard in thought, leaning on his forearms. He went on.

“An enemy’s wife is killed. His sisters, brothers, children, are ideal targets. Often there is horrible mutilation, and sometimes the man is forced to watch it all as it happens. That’s always a favorite touch. It’s a spiritually vicious thing, intended to destroy the man within the man, his heart of hearts. It’s never enough just to kill his body. No, they want to lacerate his soul as well. And if they could figure out a way to punish him beyond death, they would send someone straight into hellfire to get the job done.

“It’s fascinating to me, these Janus faces of familial devotion. One gives strength to the other, becomes, in a weird way, its raison d’être. You just wonder why one never mitigates the other. Why do they never see the faces of their own wives or children or siblings in the faces of the people they mutilate? Why doesn’t that arrest a brutish hand or …”