He frowned. Not that the wounded man offered any danger; actually, had the man been conscious, he would have been far better off accepting the plea from the forest’s edge and coming out to be given a decent death. But that was not the point. It was simply that he hadn’t planned it that way. It just wasn’t the way he liked things to be.
Not neat, he chided himself sternly, and banked the plane gently toward the west, and the greater darkness there.
2
Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, member of the Brazilian police and liaison officer between that organization and Interpol, dropped wearily from the wing of the small plane that had brought him back to Galeão Airport in Rio de Janeiro, and wordlessly reached back to accept from the pilot first an Army knapsack tightly strapped shut and then his well-worn suitcase. With a grunt of farewell that could not possibly have adequately expressed his irritation with his assignment, the pilot, the plane, and conditions in the world in general, he tramped across the concrete apron toward the police car parked — per his radioed instruction — in the shadows of the Air Force Administration Building. His four-day growth of beard itched maddeningly, his eyes burned from lack of sleep, and his ears buzzed from the combination of cabin noises which had convinced him, for the past six hours, that the crate in which he had been flying was about to bow to the inevitable logic of obsolescence and shake itself to pieces in midair. If any good were to be gleaned from the trip at all, he thought sourly, it was that the racket of creaking metal and laboring engine made the incessant and needlessly cheerful chatter of the pilot unintelligible.
The heavy heat of the runway came up to smother him. The sun, just sinking over the hills to the west, threw his shadow before him grotesquely, making monsters of his baggage, and then went on to tint the calm black waters of the bay with a shuddering swath of gold. In the far distance, beneath the watchful eye of Corcovado and its statue of Christ, the white buildings of downtown Rio lined up like tiny toy soldiers; the highest windows of the new apartments caught the slanting rays and reflected them, winking back in friendly manner. It was a sight that normally uplifted Captain Da Silva when returning to his beloved Rio de Janeiro, but at the moment his main concern was to get home, get out of his stiff, soiled clothing, take a hot and prolonged bath, and then sleep for a week.
The driver of the police car awaiting him was a more than normally attractive young lady, and at any other time Da Silva’s eyes would have widened appreciatively at such beauty; but at the moment he was having trouble merely keeping them open. She was dressed in the chocolate brown blouse and skirt of the recruit policewoman, but neither her rigid stance, drawn up to attention beside the open door of the car, nor the impersonality of the uniform, did much to hide the fact that she filled the stiff cloth excellently. Contrary to regulations, she was not wearing her prescribed cap, and her brown hair was thick and luxuriant; her dark eyes sparkled, and she smiled at him brightly as he came up to the car.
“Hello, Captain. I hope you had a nice trip.” Her voice was just a trifle throaty; at any other time Da Silva would have been fascinated by it. “And I’d like to wish you a very—”
Da Silva frowned at her, interrupting a bit brusquely. “Please, Miss — by the way, what’s your name?”
“Astrea, Captain. Astrea Pinheiro Alves. And I’d like to wish—”
“Astrea, do you know where Copacabana is?”
Her large brown eyes widened in surprise. “Of course, Captain.”
“And do you know where I live?”
“They gave me the address, of course—”
“Good. Then see if you can get me there as quickly as possible.” One hand came up abruptly, forestalling any comment. “And as quietly as possible, if you don’t mind. My ears have had all they can take for today.”
He leaned into the car, depositing his baggage in the rear seat, and then climbed into the front seat and closed the door behind him. His driver, her face red and her jaw set dangerously, got in behind the wheel and started the car, spinning the wheel viciously in the direction of the bridge leading to the Avenida Brasil and the distant city.
So this was the famous Captain Da Silva, was it? This was the man the other women talked about on their coffee breaks, eh? This — this — this uncouth boor! Well! This was the last time she’d ever accept any assignment involving him, that was sure! And to think she had looked forward to this assignment, had actually given up a day off to accept it! Well, it merely proved the dangers of being influenced by the judgment of others. It also proves you’re a fool, she told herself angrily, and concentrated on her driving.
By the time they came to the Rio Comprido just before the docks, the sun had sunk with that suddenness that marks the tropical night. Astrea leaned over and flicked on the parking lights and then applied the brakes as a traffic light glowed red in the growing darkness. She brought the car gently to a stop and glanced across at her passenger. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady. Still, she thought, with an unreasonable feeling that she was somehow betraying her merited irritation, despite his bad manners and his need for a shave and despite those caboclo clothes, there’s no denying he’s a damned attractive man. At least she could agree with the other women in the department on that. She studied the black curly hair, the bushy eyebrows, and the almost-brigand mustache badly in need of a trim, and then nodded. Yes, he was attractive; but so were a lot of other men. And a lot of other men were more polite and more attentive, too. For a moment she wondered how she might have reacted to the man had they met when the captain was less exhausted. Probably the same, she thought almost bitterly. A boor is a boor under any conditions.
There was the sudden blare of an impatient horn behind them; the captain’s eyes opened, startled at the sound, staring blankly into hers. In the confusion she put the car into gear and tramped on the gas. Captain Da Silva turned to stare out of the open window dully for several moments, yawned, and then leaned back, settling himself, closing his eyes again. His even breathing returned almost at once.
They came through the tunnel into Copacabana, turned into the Avenida Atlântica and drew up before his apartment at Pôsto 3. Da Silva came awake instantly, as if brought from his sleep by the cessation of movement; he yawned deeply and glanced at his wristwatch. His shaggy eyebrows rose dramatically at the remarkably little time it had taken them to arrive at an hour when normally traffic was stalled bumper to bumper throughout the long length of the city. He glanced across at his driver with appreciation.
“Very good time, Astrea. In fact, extraordinary. You must either know some short cuts I don’t, or my watch stopped.” His eyes studied the ornate entrance of the apartment building a moment, and he smiled dryly. “However, I think you’d better drop me off at the side entrance. Seeing me dressed like this, the porteiro would probably toss me out. And I wouldn’t blame him.”
Astrea was quite sure the porteiro wouldn’t dare toss the captain out; this, when she thought about it, was a pity. The one possibility for their rapid arrival never occurred to him — that she was a very good driver. A true boor! With no expression on her face she put the car into gear and drove around the corner, stopping at the head of the ramp leading to the garage beneath the building. Captain Da Silva unfolded his six-foot frame to the sidewalk, dragged the knapsack and suitcase from the back seat, and then paused, holding the partially opened door, smiling pleasantly at the girl. Yes, she thought resentfully; you can look quite human when you want to. It’s a pity your manners aren’t as good as your smile.