Wilson studied him. “So why go back? Is there anything special on the fire?”
Da Silva looked at him a moment curiously, and then shook his head. “Nothing special. It’s just that the O.A.S. meeting will start before we know it, and we still have a lot of checking to do.”
“And they couldn’t do it without you?”
“Let’s say I’d hate to think so. I’m too old to look for another job.” Da Silva bent forward, studying his large shoes, wondering what there was about them that bothered him. The solution came to him; he leaned over, completed tying the laces, and then fell back again in his chair. “There’s still a lot to do. We heard today that our mutual friend Juan Dorcas will be arriving with his retinue in a few days; he’s been out of Argentina for the past month or two on a vacation or something, but he’s expected back, and he’ll be here, so naturally—”
“Traveling? Where?”
Da Silva stared at him sardonically. “Why don’t you ask that question of your head office? I’m quite sure you’ve had a man on his tail ever since he left.”
“And I’m quite sure we haven’t.” Wilson shook his head hopelessly. “You’re really stubborn. And still looking under the rug for some of our big, bad C.I.A. agents...”
Da Silva grinned. “If you’re an example, I don’t suppose they have to be particularly big. And as far as being bad is concerned, I’m sure they’re all very sweet to their mothers.” His grin faded abruptly. “In any event, Dorcas will be here in a few days, and I want to be sure that no misguided patriot — of any country, including you-know-who — decides to violate our hospitality by doing anything foolish.”
Wilson sighed. It was obvious that nothing he could say could convince Da Silva he was wrong. “And how’s it been going so far?”
Da Silva shrugged. He reached into the inlaid box on the table, extracted a cigarette, and lit it, shaking the match out almost absentmindedly. “Oh, we’ve picked up a few people I’m glad will be behind bars during the meetings. If for no other reason than that I won’t have to worry about them. And, of course, we also have a fair bag of known pickpockets down at the Delegacia.” He paused a moment, thinking about his last statement, and then grinned widely. “Which is a bit foolish on our part, when you stop to think about it.”
“Foolish?”
“Certainly.” Da Silva sat up a bit, his normal puckish humor returning. “With all the foreign visitors we’re going to have in Rio in the next week, these light-fingered boys we’ve got locked up could be bringing in some of that foreign exchange our country needs so desperately. And just think” — he brought one strong finger up abruptly for emphasis — “if they held these meetings in a different country each year, and if the local pickpockets were given proper latitude and even encouragement, in a short time the entire problem of foreign exchange for all of Latin America might be solved.”
“But that would mean having more meetings,” Wilson objected. “I thought the other day we’d decided on doing away with meetings and using closed television instead.”
“Only after our budgets are balanced,” Da Silva said. “Once that’s accomplished we could do away with these O.A.S. meetings altogether.”
“You know, that’s really not a bad idea at all,” Wilson said approvingly. He pretended to think about it. “We could disband the diplomatic corps completely, and replace them all with skilled pickpockets—”
Da Silva’s bushy eyebrows shot up in shock. “What do you mean ‘we,’ American? Whose pockets do you think are going to have to be picked if this idea of mine is going to work?” He started to smile but ended up with a cavernous yawn instead.
Wilson’s lighthearted manner disappeared. “Really, Zé; how important is this checkup tonight? You’re beat. You need rest.”
“How important?” Da Silva crushed out his cigarette and remained staring at the ashtray as if seeking some answer there. His eyes came up, studying Wilson. “You never know if you don’t do it. But this much I’ll say — for the information of any interested parties — we’re going all out on this, and anyone with any odd ideas would be well advised to reconsider them. Because we’re checking out every building between the Hotel Gloria and the Municipal, and we also intend to hit every hotel and any other potential trouble spot.” He shook his head. “It’s amazing how many alleys and windows and doorways and rooftops there are in a city this size. You don’t really give it much thought until you have the job of making sure none of them are dangerous.”
Wilson was regarding him stonily. “I assume you consider you’ve given me a message?”
Da Silva looked surprised. “You? As a matter of fact, I’ve thought for a long time that this apartment might be bugged; my message was for anyone who might be listening.”
He pulled himself to his feet and reached for his jacket, hanging from the back of a chair. He shrugged himself into it, waited until Wilson was ready, and walked with him to the door.
“All right,” Wilson said quietly. “There’s no sense arguing with you. But you’d be ahead of the game by getting some sleep tonight, instead.”
“Sleep?” Da Silva looked at him curiously. “When I get tired I’m afraid my English suffers. What is this word ‘sleep’?”
“It’s what I’m going home to get plenty of,” Wilson said. “It’s also the excuse for saying my prayers first, which will give me a chance to pray that you come to your senses about the C.I.A. And also,” he added, considering, “a chance to pray that I don’t have another day like I had today.” He considered his companion critically. “It’s also something you need badly.”
Da Silva reached for the doorknob. “What I badly need,” he said seriously, “is for these meetings to end and for all of the delegates to go back home. Preferably in one piece...”
Whatever prayers Wilson offered, or to Whomever he offered them, it was apparent the following Monday morning that at least a portion of them had not been answered. The small businessman from Zenia, Ohio, was back in his office at the American Embassy at nine o’clock sharp, and the patient Security Officer was doing his best to demonstrate interest in his visitor’s latest complaint.
It appeared that the Hotel Miracopa not only insulted its American guests by failing to provide water for their necessities, but it went much further. Either the telephone operators did not speak English, which was surely a studied slight to the many Americans staying there; or else (as the rotund man from Zenia truly suspected) they actually did speak English but pretended not to, which certainly posed an even more suspicious circumstance. Lost in the limbo of this Laocoönian logic, Mr. Wilson could only manage to nod in an interested manner at regular intervals, and wonder if his entire day was going to be decimated in this same pointless fashion. One good thing, of course, was that no native had pinched the small man from Zenia.
The telephone at his elbow suddenly rang, temporarily saving him from the inevitable question as to what was he going to do about it. Wilson picked the instrument from its cradle, doing his best to appear casual, and not like a drowning man reaching for a drifting life-raft. He shrugged his apologies for the interruption, cutting off the high nasal voice, and turned his attention to the telephone.
“Hello? Yes?”
His secretary answered from her desk in the outer office. “Hi, boss. Do you want to be saved?”
“Profoundly,” Wilson said, and thanked the Lord he had been smart enough to pick Mary as a secretary over those more shapely — and even more secretarially talented — applicants.