Noel was bewildered. «Frankly, no. Nothing you’ve said surprises me. At Nuremberg they called it ‘crimes against humanity.’ That kind of thing leads to a lot of guilt, and guilt breeds fear. Of course such people in a country that isn’t their own would stay close to each other.»
«Guilt does breed fear. And fear in turn leads to suspicion. Finally, suspicion gives birth to violence. That’s what you must understand. A stranger coming to Rio looking for Germans who have disappeared is undertaking a potentially dangerous search. La otra cam de los alemanes. They protect each other.» The attaché picked up his cigar. «Give us the name, Mr. Holcroft. Let us look for these people.»
Noel watched the Brazilian inhale the smoke from his precious Havana. He was not sure why, but he felt suddenly uneasy.
Don’t be led into a trap by pat conclusions casually stated… «I can’t. I think you’re exaggerating, and obviously you won’t help me.» He stood up.
«Very well,» said the Brazilian. «I’ll tell you what you would find out for yourself. When you get to Rio de Janeiro, go to the Ministry of Immigration. If you have names and approximate dates, perhaps they can help you.»
«Thanks very much,» said Noel, turning toward the door.
The Brazilian walked rapidly out of the office into a large anteroom that served as a reception area. A young man sitting in an armchair quickly got to his feet at the sight of his superior.
«You may have your office back now, Juan.»
«Thank you, Excellency.»
The older man continued across the room, past a receptionist, to a pair of double doors. On the left panel was the great seal of the República Federal de Brasil; on the right was a plaque with gold printing that read OFÍCIO DO CÔNSUL GENERAL.
The consul general went inside to another, smaller anteroom that was his secretary’s office. He spoke to the girl and walked directly to the door of his own office.
«Get me the embassy. The ambassador, please. If he’s not there, locate him. Inform him that it’s a confidential matter; he’ll know whether he can talk or not.»
Brazil’s highest-ranking diplomat in America’s major city closed the door, strode to his desk, and sat down. He picked up a sheaf of papers stapled together. The first several pages were photocopies of newspaper stories, accounts of the killing on British Airways flight 591 from London to New York, and the subsequent discovery of the two murders on the ground. The last two pages were copies of that aircraft’s passenger manifest. The diplomat scanned the names:
HOLCROFT, NOEL. DEP. GENEVA. BA #577.
O. LON. BA #591.
X. NYC.
He stared at the information as if somehow relieved that it was still there.
His telephone hummed; he picked it up. «Yes?»
«The ambassador is on the line, sir.»
«Thank you.» The consul general heard an echo, which meant the scrambler was in operation. «Mr. Ambassador?»
«Yes, Geraldo. What’s so urgent and confidential?»
«A few minutes ago a man came up here asking how he might go about locating a family in Rio he had not been able to reach through the usual channels. His name is Holcroft. Noel Holcroft, an architect from New York City.»
«It means nothing to me,» said the ambassador. «Should it?»
«Only if you’ve recently read the list of passengers on the British Airways plane from London last Saturday.»
«Flight five-ninety-one?» The ambassador spoke sharply.
«Yes. He left that morning from Geneva on British Airways, and transferred at Heathrow to five-ninety-one.»
«And now he wants to locate people in Rio? Who are they?»
«He refused to say. I was the ‘attaché’ he spoke with, naturally.»
«Naturally. Tell me everything. I’ll cable London. Do you think it’s possible—» The ambassador paused.
«Yes,» the consul general said softly. «I think it’s very possible he is looking for the Von Tiebolts.»
«Tell me everything,» repeated the man in Washington. «The British believe those killings were the work of the Tinamou.»
Noel felt a sense of déjà vu as he looked around the lounge of the Braniff 747. The colors were more vivid, the uniforms of the aircraft’s personnel more fashionably cut. Otherwise, the plane seemed identical to that of British Airways flight 591. The difference was in attitude. This was the Rio Run, that carefree holiday that was to begin in the sky and continue on the beaches of the Gold Coast.
But this was to be no holiday, thought Holcroft, no holiday at all. The only climax awaiting him was one of discovery. The whereabouts or the nonwhereabouts of the family Von Tiebolt.
They’d been in the air for more than five hours. He had picked his way through a dismissable meal, slept through an even more dismissable film, and finally decided to go up to the lounge.
He had put off going upstairs. The memory of seven days ago was still discomforting. The unbelievable had happened in front of his eyes; a man had been killed not four feet from where he’d been sitting. At one point he could have reached over and touched the writhing figure. Death had been inches away, unnatural death, chemical death, murder. Strychnine. A colorless crystalline alkaloid that caused paroxysms of unendurable pain. Why had it happened? Who was responsible and for what reason? The accounts were specific, the theories speculative.
Two men had been physically close to the victim in the lounge of Flight 591 from London. Either one could have administered the poison by way of the victim’s drink; it was presumed one had. But again, why? According to the Port Authority police, there was no evidence that the two men had ever known Thornton. And the two men themselves—the suspected killers—had met their deaths by gunshot in a fuel truck on the ground. They had disappeared from the aircraft, from the sealed-off customs area, from the quarantined room, and themselves been murdered. Why? By whom?
No one had any answers. Only questions. And then even the questions stopped. The story faded from the newspapers and the broadcasts as dramatically as it had appeared, as though a blackout had been called. Again, why? Again, who was responsible?
«That was scotch on the rocks, wasn’t it, Mr. Holcroft.»
The déjà vu was complete. The words were the same but spoken by another. The stewardess above him, placing the glass on the round Formica table, was attractive—as the stewardess in Flight 591 had been attractive. The look in her eyes had that same quality of directness he remembered from the girl on British Airways. The words, even to the use of his name, were uttered in a similar tone, only the accent varied. It was all too much alike. Or was his mind—his eyes, his ears, his senses—preoccupied with the memory of seven days ago?
He thanked the stewardess, almost afraid to look at her, thinking that any second he would hear a scream beside him and watch a man in uncontrollable agony lunge out of his seat, twisting in spastic convulsions over the divider.
Then Noel realized something else, and it discomforted him further. He was sitting in the same seat he had occupied during those terrifying moments on Flight 591. In a lounge constructed identically with that lounge a week ago. It was not really unusual; he preferred the location and often sat there. But now it seemed macabre. His lines of sight were the same, the lighting no different now from the way it was then.