“You’ll be all right. We’ll pick you up on our return. Get in touch with the agents...”
Nacio opened his eyes and stared blindly up at the bearded face. I’ll be all right? In that shaky little box up there? I’ll be all right? A fool like me? What on earth made me think you would dock at Rio with a sick sailor? I must have been mad! Or that little man, rather, must have been mad! There was a brief tinge of satisfaction in knowing that the ends of the little passenger, whatever those ends had been, would not be served, but it was instantly wiped away as his own more immediate peril came back to him.
He closed his eyes, finding in the darkness behind his eyelids the only hope of maintaining sanity in the incredible situation. There was a series of shouted commands, echoing dimly in his ears, a sudden increase in the roar of the engine above, and then with a sickening lurch he felt himself free of the deck and twisting slowly in space. Against his will his eyes sprang open in terror; his body strained wildly against the confining straps. The litter was just clearing the rail; beneath him a gray heaving ocean reached up for him voraciously. A sheet of rain slashed his face, cold and stinging; he flinched and then opened his eyes again.
The rigid pallet paused a brief instant at the end of its short arc and then began to swing, and in that moment before the winch began sucking him upward, Nacio found himself staring into the large fathomless liquid eyes of the little passenger named Dortas — or Dumas or Dantas or something like that.
The little fat man with the round face and the hair that seemed painted in place had his face tilted upward, staring at him through the rain. It was too brief an instant to be sure, but to Nacio where there should have been some sign of disappointment in the other’s expression, there was none. On the contrary, the liquid eyes were watching his agonizing ascent with what seemed to be some sort of secret amusement...
Two
Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, liaison officer between the Brazilian police and Interpol, braked his red Jaguar sports car to a skidding stop and stared with a disgusted frown through the blurred windshield. The long, narrow entrada that fronted the main entrance to the Santos Dumont Airport was solidly packed with cars. Sheets of rain whipped at the tall palms that fronted the walk and drummed a bit impatiently on the plastic hood of the convertible, as if demanding that the captain get out and get soaked like everything else; the windshield. The long, narrow entrada that fronted the Brazilian negative to this idiotic suggestion. Captain Da Silva scowled, but not because the cars parked before the long building were in violation of the law; he was merely expressing his envy at others luckier — and therefore smarter — than himself who had managed to enter the building dry.
He swiveled his head. To park in the mire of the regular parking lot on a day like this was to invite drowning, for when it rained in Rio de Janeiro, it did so with typical Carioca exuberance and exaggeration. And to leave the car anywhere but at the curb or in the guarded parking lot was to invite far worse. A missing carburetor, for example, or even a missing automobile. Car thieves in Rio, he recognized, were a hardy lot who were not afraid of getting drenched for a reasonable profit. And a police shield on the windshield would only make the theft more enticing, since it would guarantee the loot at least had a decent motor.
A horn behind him blared indignantly. Da Silva suddenly noted that the wide gate to the airport apron was open; he shifted gears and drove in, splashing through puddles, pulling the small car up under the shelter of a covered loading dock. An airport policeman, shocked by this disregard for rules which were certainly posted in sufficient profusion, moved over immediately from the shadow of a doorway to remonstrate, but one look at the swarthy, pockmarked face of the driver, slashed across by its flamboyant mustache and topped off by its unruly shock of black curly hair, and the policeman hastily saluted instead. Captain Da Silva at the best of times was unpredictable, but in weather like this there was a good chance he might be truly difficult. But then the seriousness of the offense — not to mention the potential consequences to his own well-being — forced the policeman to attempt a protest, although he tried to do it as diplomatically as possible.
“I’m sorry, Captain, but you really shouldn’t park here...”
He tilted his head in the direction of the runways. Airplanes hovered there, grounded for the moment. Their bulging sides gleamed metallically, their huge outlines were hazy in the driving rain. Beyond them across the ruffled waters of the bay the walls of Pão de Açucar rose starkly to disappear into the low-hanging clouds. The policeman’s eyes returned, bright with emotion, pleading.
“This is where the catering trucks park, Captain — the ones that bring the food for the passengers. With your car in the way, they’ll have to park out in the rain—”
“Good!” Da Silva bent to set his brake and then switched off the ignition. “More water, more soup.” Did this cretin actually think for one moment he would inconvenience himself for the comfort of airplanes, or even for the comfort of those people foolish enough to patronize the flying monstrosities? He unfolded his muscular six-feet to the protected pavement and reached back into the car for his raincoat. He slung it over his arm, closed the door firmly, and then paused to pat his pocket. The letter that had been deposited on his desk a brief half-hour before was there, as mysterious and tantalizing as it had been when the Central Office of the Police had forwarded it to him as being more in his province. He pressed it again, as if for luck, and then stepped easily up to the low platform.
Against his better judgment the policeman made one last attempt. “But, Captain, sir—” One look at the fierce expression that suddenly blazed in Da Silva’s eyes and he hastily swallowed the balance of his protest. “Yes, sir!”
“And you will keep an eye on it! A sharp eye,” Da Silva instructed him sternly.
The policeman sighed helplessly. “Of course, Captain.”
“Thank you,” Da Silva said, and smiled cordially.
The policeman, amazed as were so many at how pleasant and innocuous Captain José Da Silva could appear when he chose to smile, as compared to how tough he looked — and was — when he was forced to frown, tried to return the smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. One thing was positive: forcing the catering trucks to park out in the rain was no way to maintain their goodwill and hence to share in their leftovers, which was about the only decent food he and his family ever managed to get their hands on. But, on the other hand, could one of his lowly rank — or any other rank — seriously oppose Captain Da Silva? Not, he admitted sadly to himself, if one were blessed with a normal amount of the good sense.
He stared pensively out at the mottled sky and the veering sheets of rain, and prayed fervently that Captain Da Silva completed whatever errand had brought him here and then took himself and his filho de mãe car away before the first catering truck made its appearance. But even as he prayed he kept his eyes watchfully on the small red convertible, for all in all he was not a stupid man.
Da Silva, well aware that in all probability he had interfered in some way with one of the policeman’s minor rackets — and far from crushed by the thought — walked quickly through the deserted baggage area of the Cruzeiro Do Sul, passed into a ticket area now besieged by stranded passengers and frantic clerks, ducked under the narrow counter and forced his way through the crowds that were milling about like confused geese because of the canceled schedules. He shook his head in non-understanding at their plight, came to the curved terrazzo staircase leading to the restaurant-bar on the mezzanine and trotted up it, with the disturbed buzzing of the crowd below mysteriously seeming to amplify rather than lessen as he mounted.