At the top he paused to toss his raincoat to the cloakroom attendant, patted the letter in his pocket once again, and then started through the packed room toward the familiar figure of his old friend Wilson, waiting alone at a table near the rain-streaked windows, staring pensively out at the glistening runways and the fog-shrouded bay beyond.
In appearance, Wilson was the opposite of the rugged and colorful Da Silva. There was nothing flamboyant or even particularly noticeable about the small nondescript man, and yet this anonymity was far from accidental. It was the result of years of training and served Wilson very well. On the payroll sheets that the American Ambassador was forced to initial for submittal to Washington each month, Wilson appeared as the Security Officer, a minor position mainly concerned with keeping American tourists happy and out of trouble, as well as with keeping Embassy wastebaskets empty and their contents incinerated. He was, in fact, far more important than this, as only the Ambassador alone of Embassy personnel knew. A member of several U. S. Government agencies concerned with security, he was also the only U. S. assignee to Interpol in Brazil. Da Silva was one of the very few people cognizant of Wilson’s true status; he also had good reason to appreciate the ability of the mild-looking man. The two had had their share of adventures together, and in any moment of danger or crisis, Da Silva knew he would rather have the quiet American at his side than any other man he knew.
The tall Brazilian finally managed to make his way through the wedged tables with minimum damage either to himself or to the seated diners, and grinned down at his friend.
“Hi, Wilson.”
“Hello, Zé.”
“Sorry I’m late.” It was obviously a standard gambit; Da Silva was usually late. As a Brazilian he would have considered himself unpatriotic to be early. He pulled a chair back from the table, dropping into it, and smiled apologetically. “This time, though, I have an excuse. I actually left the office in plenty of time, but what with the rain, and the traffic, and the problem of parking...” His bushy eyebrows rose dramatically to indicate the vast-ness of the problem of parking.
Wilson was studying him quizzically. For one brief second Da Silva’s eyes narrowed slightly, remembering the letter in his pocket. He put the thought away and reached across the table for the bottle of Maciera Five-Star that Wilson had ordered, pouring himself a drink to match both the one before his friend as well as the one he suspected his friend had already had. He raised his glass in a small salute and made his voice casual.
“Why the odd look? Certainly not because I’m late...”
He took a drink, savoring it with the pleasure that always accompanied the first drink of the day, and then set his glass down. “Ah, that’s better! Now, why the odd look? What happened this morning to upset you? Certainly not my tardiness. Right?”
“Right and wrong,” Wilson said.
“A typical answer from an Embassy employee,” Da Silva said, and grinned. “You’re getting more Brazilian every day. The only thing you forgot was to qualify it with a ‘perhaps.’ So what happened?”
Wilson’s expression didn’t change. “It’s true that something queer happened this morning, but that was minor. And certainly not what caused what you call my strange look.”
Da Silva lit a cigarette, tossed the match in the general direction of the ashtray, pushed the package of cigarettes across the table and leaned back comfortably. “Then what did?”
“Your strange look.”
“My strange look?” Da Silva looked and sounded surprised. “Is my tie crooked again? Or did I forget it all together this morning?” He glanced down a moment and then looked up again, reassured.
Wilson smiled faintly, but it was a smile that did not extend beyond his lips. “Not your tie. I mean your jacket.” He tilted his head toward the large closed windows. “Even on relatively chilly days you take off your jacket the minute you arrive here for lunch; this freedom of dress is the reason you keep giving me for enduring the food here. And yet today, with the windows closed and the room stifling, you sit there with your jacket on. And even drink brandy, which certainly isn’t a cooling drink.”
“And you wonder why?”
“Exactly. I wonder why.”
Da Silva shook his head sadly. “That’s the trouble with eating lunch with a trained investigator; no secrets. Every act treated with suspicion; every motive questioned.” He shrugged. “And yet, the answer is simplicity itself, although I must ask you to keep it a secret.” He leaned forward conspiratorially; a waiter who had been sidling up with the intention of offering menus, backed away instantly. No one would ever be able to accuse him of eavesdropping, especially on a man he knew to be a captain of police. Da Silva peered about to make sure no one was watching, and then turned back, lowering his voice. “The truth is I have a careless laundry. My shirt has a hole in it. If it ever came out, of course, I’d be disgraced. Drummed out of the force. Stood at attention while my buttons were cut off — and believe me, my shirts are bad enough without that!”
“Cute,” Wilson said, and then lowered his voice to match the other’s. “Why don’t we try this version instead? You’re wearing your jacket because it would frighten the daylights out of most of the people here to see a man drinking brandy and slurping soup dressed in a shoulder holster and with the butt of a police positive swinging with every spoonful. How’s that?”
Da Silva looked hurt. “Slurping soup? Me?”
“Slurping brandy, then, and drinking soup.”
“That’s a little better, anyway.”
“And don’t change the subject.” Wilson’s voice was unamused. “Why the armament?”
Da Silva’s tone lost its light banter. He drank the balance of his brandy and reached for the bottle again. “Nothing as unimportant as you might think. It’s just that for the next week or so the entire department is under orders to be constantly armed. Ridiculous — not to mention damned uncomfortable — but there it is.”
Wilson studied his friend’s face. “Because of the O.A.S. meeting?”
Da Silva looked surprised. “So you do read the newspapers...”
“We’ve been alerted, of course,” Wilson said, and picked a cigarette from Da Silva’s pack. He lit it, inhaled deeply, and frowned at his friend through the cloud of smoke. “But I haven’t felt it necessary to weigh myself down with a kilo or so of steel. Or at least not yet. After all, the meetings don’t start for another week. The delegates won’t start arriving before next Sunday or Monday.”
“The delegates won’t,” Da Silva said lazily, “but we have a feeling a lot of other people have begun drifting into our fair city, some of whom might like nothing better than to use the big parade for free target practice.” His voice became deceptively innocent. “Maybe even some of your compatriots...”
Wilson stared at him. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
Da Silva shrugged. “Well, Juan Dorcas is going to be the delegate from Argentina, and as I recall he seems to take pleasure in opposing the American position on almost anything.”
“And you think—?”
Da Silva looked across the table steadily. “I don’t think anything. There are, however, a few things I suspect. I suspect, for example, that your C.I.A. would enjoy nothing more, shall I say, than having Senhor Dorcas come down with a severe migraine, or a rash of broken legs, and being forced to unfortunately miss these meetings. Or even worse than a rash of broken legs, perhaps...”