“They certainly wouldn’t try anything inside the terminal itself, or between the terminal and the hotel. Or in the hotel itself, neither in the lobby, or anywhere else in the hotel. It would be foolish with people around, and these people aren’t foolish, whatever else they are. No; what they’ll do is continue the pretense of an insurance deal. They’ll meet us in the lobby of the hotel with the story that they can only close the deal at their office, and then they’ll take me in their car—”
“They’ll take us.”
Da Silva shook his head decisively. “Not us. Me. Alone. Once you walk into that hotel lobby and they show up, you turn me over and after that you’re out of the deal. You can wait for me there in the lobby — it shouldn’t take long — or you can arrange a room for us and wait for me there.”
“No! I’ll—”
“Keep quiet! You’ll do what I say, or you’ll get us both killed.” She looked at him in surprise; in the twenty-four hours they had spent together he had never exhibited this sharpness, although Isabela had often felt him capable of it. He went on more quietly, but just as decisively. “I expect there will be shooting, and the less people in the neighborhood the fewer people might get hit.” He dropped the subject of her participation so abruptly she knew he would not be swayed. “You did say you heard them give Valadares a minute in which to say his prayers?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, her face grim at the memory. “They gave it to him, too. This man stood there, looking at his watch, while the other man held the gun on him. Then the man with the watch said ‘Your time is up’ and shot him. Valadares was still pleading with them when he was killed.”
“One minute, eh?” Da Silva’s voice was musing. He added, mostly to himself, “They take chances, these boys.”
“They’ll search you first...”
“I’m quite sure.” That thought had, naturally, occurred to him. They would, of course, quickly find the gun in the shoulder holster, and probably the one clipped to the belt holster at the small of his back. Both guns were loaded, in case they were examined, but they were still decoys. What they would not think to look for on a Stealer from the Docks — especially after finding both a weapon and an auxiliary — would be the tight-fitting ankle holster with its small but deadly gun there; nor would they have the slightest reason to suspect the knife in its sheath in his jacket sleeve, available with the raising of his arm, and with which he was lethal at a distance up to thirty feet.
So they always gave a minute’s grace after taking away any artillery, eh? That ought to be ample time, although the tricky part would be not to kill them, or at least not to kill them both. They were undoubtedly small fry, hired guns; the important thing was to get the man at the top, the man behind the whole business — most likely Isabela’s man on the telephone — and for that at least one of the thugs had to be alive. As well as he, himself, he remembered; it wouldn’t do to get himself killed just when he had met Isabela. He relaxed and smiled at the girl gently.
“Don’t worry. Try to get some rest.”
“Rest?” She looked at him in surprise. “How can you think of rest at a time like this?”
“Easily,” he said, and tilted his seat back. He took her hand and squeezed it. “There’s no sense in making a deal when you’re overtired; these insurance company small-town managers will take advantage of you every time.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissed it, and then let the clasped hands drop to the armrest. “Wake me before we get in,” he said, and closed his eyes. Odd, he thought just before he drifted off to sleep, maybe the thought of danger helps me relax on airplanes. Or maybe romance...
The plane landed with a spine-jarring thump while Da Silva was still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He released his seat belt while the plane wheeled toward the terminal, its engines laboring. Da Silva bit back a yawn and winked at the pale, tense face beside him.
“Easy does it...”
She did not reply but came to her feet as soon as the engines coughed themselves to silence. There was the grating sound of the plane’s door being opened from the outside. Isabela went down the aisle, with Da Silva close behind; they waited until the few other passengers had disembarked and then stepped into the cool of the night. The stars seemed close enough to gather; a few fleecy clouds raced before the moon. There was a headiness in the clear air. Da Silva paused at the top of the slanting aluminum stairway, enjoying the exceptional clarity of the night. And, he thought, when Paraíso fulfills its ambition to be the booming industrial metropolis of the northeast — to which my efforts in this case are dedicated — think of all the lovely smog that will lie over this beautiful plain; no longer will Paraíso have to envy São Paulo its yellowing air and the stinging eyes of its citizens. He became aware that the stewardess was gently nudging him; he turned to find the plane’s crew behind her, staring at him curiously. He smiled apologetically and went down the steps to join Isabela.
They walked through the deserted terminal lobby, their footsteps echoing in the dimly lit hall. A girl behind the rent-a-car desk, the only cubicle illuminated, looked at them and, when it was apparent they did not represent custom, she flicked off the lamp on the counter, preparatory to closing up. They walked out of the front of the building and Isabela took his arm, leading him toward the right. The lights of the hotel sign had been extinguished but in the clear night it could still be read above the three-story building abutting the terminal. The rear lights of a final taxi flared as it braked at the main road, leaving them the only ones on the walk. Soon, Da Silva thought, feeling the familiar tension begin to build in him. Soon...
It was sooner than he had anticipated. They had not gone more than ten yards in the direction of the dim marquee of the hotel, skirting the bushes that lined the walk between the terminal and the hotel, when he felt a sharp prod in his back and knew very well what it was. So they would politely meet him in the lobby of the hotel, would they? Not that it made any difference to his plan; it was simply that if he had misjudged them in this one instance, might he not have misjudged them in other, more important, ways as well? Let us hope not, he thought sincerely, and heard Isabela gasp. He spoke quickly before she could say anything revealing. His voice was harsh.
“What is this?” He suddenly seemed to get the idea and turned to glare at the girl. “So that was it, huh? All that garbage about an insurance deal! Why, you miserable filha de mae! A frame, huh?”
“A frame,” a quiet voice behind him said with complete agreement. The gun pushed into his ribs painfully. “At the curb. The car. Lean on it.”
Da Silva looked over his shoulder. The man’s face was in shadow, and beyond him there was nobody. The terminal building loomed, black and deserted; only a small green light from the tower gleamed in the darkness, as far away and as useless as one of the distant stars. Da Silva put a touch of fear into his voice.
“What do you want? Who set this up? Was it the Chileno?” Every dock, he thought, must have a Chileno, as well as an Argentinian and countless other nationals.
“Up against the car—”
The cab that had left with their arrival, he now saw, had merely swung around at the main road and was now sitting at the curb a few feet away. He looked at it a moment and then back to the man behind him, looking over his shoulder.
“Who set this up?” Da Silva’s voice suddenly filled with anger. “I know it’s the Chileno! That bastard has had his eye on Santos for too long! What did he pay you? I’ll double it. And give you a job on him, as well!”