“Up against the car. And no tricks; you’re covered from inside, as well.” A hard hand shoved him toward the taxi. He leaned on it and felt a hand run over his chest. And that was probably how they had taken Chaney, he thought. When the American had left the judge’s office they had probably been waiting for him in the taxi. Primed by the judge? It was logical. And, at the moment, highly unimportant. What was important was that he was a lot more prepared for their assault than Chaney had been.
The hand located the gun in the shoulder holster and removed it; it then returned to the search. There was a sudden, “Ah!” with satisfaction in the voice; Da Silva felt a tug as the gun was dragged from his belt holster. It was tossed onto the seat of the taxi through the open door and picked up by the shadowed figure behind the wheel. The gun in his back was now jammed forward authoritatively.
“Now inside.”
A voice came from within the taxi. “What about the girl?”
“Bring her along,” Da Silva said suddenly, harshly. “Let her see the rest of her lousy job!”
“Shut up.” It was said quietly, with little emphasis, but the voice carried weight.
“Yes.” It was Isabela, speaking quickly. “That’s right. I set him up. I’ve got a right to see it all. After all, you let me see Valadares.”
Da Silva clamped his jaw shut painfully. Didn’t she see the difference between his asking and her asking? Didn’t she understand what he was aiming at? Or did she want to try some heroics if things went poorly? When this was all over — if it ever was over to his satisfaction — he’d take her over his knee and give her a walloping she’d never forget!
“That’s what I said,” he said viciously. “Let the miserável see it all!”
“Shut up. I give the orders here.” The speaker turned to Isabela. “Get over to the hotel. You have a room there for tonight. Take the first plane home in the morning and forget this one the same way you forgot the last one. The boss said you’ll find something in your mailbox tomorrow that you want. Get going.” The gun jabbed again. “You. Move. Into the car.”
Da Silva climbed into the car. The driver had turned and had a gun pointed at him. The second man climbed in after Da Silva and shut the door; his gun came up to cover his prisoner while the driver tucked his own weapon away and turned back to the wheel. They worked with efficiency, as if as the result of many similar operations, or of long practice. The headlights came up; the ignition caught with a muffled roar. In the lights, Da Silva saw Isabela standing there, her face frozen, ashen, one hand half-lifted as if in farewell or as if to try and stop the car. Her mouth was partially open, as if to call out. And then they had swept down the driveway and had paused at the entrance to the main road. The driver spoke over his shoulder.
“Which one this time?”
“It doesn’t make any difference. The lake again, I suppose. It’s more deserted.”
“Right,” the driver said, and swung the wheel, stepping on the gas.
With an effort Da Silva refrained from touching the ankle gun with his toe, or curling his fingers up to touch the spring release of the knife on his arm, for reassurance. These were not the usual hired guns, or at least the man beside him wasn’t. The driver seemed faintly familiar, probably because there was a remarkable resemblance between all drivers of cars on illegal missions, but the man beside him was a different bicho. Following his plan might not be as simple as it had seemed when it was being formulated. Still, here he was and there didn’t seem to be much else to do than play it out. He looked at the man beside him, his eyes calculating.
“Look, you guys are doing this for money, right? What else! So drop it and tell me who set me up and why, and you’ll see plenty. I’ve got ten dollars for every one the Chileno has. Don’t be stupid!”
The hard uncompromising face beside him was expressionless in the intermittent glow of the passing street lights; the hand holding the gun didn’t waver a bit. The man might have been deaf, for any reaction to the offer. But Da Silva’s words did have an effect. There was a sudden intake of breath from the driver. He pressed the brake suddenly, swinging the wheel, bringing the car to an abrupt halt against the curb, leaving the motor pulsing silently under the hood.
The man beside Da Silva frowned and spoke, without in the least easing his vigil of his prisoner, “What’s the matter?”
The driver turned in his seat, bringing out his gun. He rested it on the back of the seat while his other hand found the light switch on the doorpost and flipped it upward. Da Silva tensed. If they were going to make their move here, inside the car, without giving his expected minute for prayer, then he was in deep trouble. He had figured on reaching his weapons as he knelt, begging, but if he weren’t to get it — He braced himself for the first movement of the driver’s finger on the trigger, determined to make them pay heavily for his death, or at least to try, but there was no immediate aggression on the part of either man. The driver was studying Da Silva’s face with a frown. Then the frown suddenly turned to a broad smile.
“Well, well! A shave and a haircut, eh? You know, I thought there was something a little familiar in those newspaper pictures, but it was hard to tell, they were so fuzzy and you had them taken so far away. But I’d recognize that voice anywhere. You shouldn’t have tried to talk tough; that’s the way you always talk whether you know it or not.”
Da Silva took a deep breath, finally recognizing the man. Well, you won some and you lost some, but who would have thought he’d run into a hood like Emil up here in a strange town a thousand miles from Rio and Emil’s usual haunts? Yes, it certainly was a small world. Too damned small...
“Hello, Emil.”
The man beside Da Silva looked quickly from his prisoner to the driver. “What is this?”
“This,” Emil said, staring at Da Silva over the top of the pointed gun, his face suddenly vicious, “is a character whose name sure as hell isn’t José Maria Carvalho; and if he ever saw the docks of Santos, it must have been from a sightseeing bus!” Da Silva felt like telling him that the name, at least, was his own, but felt there was little to be gained by discussing the point. Emil grinned, showing large blocklike tobacco-stained teeth. “Bernardo, meet the famous Captain José Da Silva. You may have heard of him down in Novo Mundo; he’s a terror, he is. Or was. Federal police, Interpol, God knows what else. He used to be a regular Rio cop, detective squad; that’s where I knew him. A real bastard.”
There was a brief silence as Bernardo digested this information. Then he shrugged.
“Da Silva, Carvalho — what difference? It’s all the same. As a matter of fact we didn’t have a cop before — it might even be better. It might have an even greater impact. Anyway, they all look the same, cop or criminal, when they’re dead.”
“And they’ve got that sign around their necks, huh? To keep them warm, huh?” Emil laughed.
“Whatever,” Bernardo said coldly. “Let’s go.”
Da Silva let out the breath he had been holding, trying not to allow the release to be noticeable. If they continued to the lake, there was a chance they would give him that minute he required. On the other hand, once they began to think, they might decide that finding a policeman as a decoy was a bit odd and could warrant asking some pointed questions. Questions, he was sure, they would ask in a manner quite painful. He’d simply have to move faster than he had anticipated. Once they gave him his minute, the thing was to kneel down as if praying, bring the one hand to his ankle in a natural-enough gesture, press the spring for the knife—
The picture ended there, but Da Silva knew it would be hairy. Still, surprise at finding him armed after their search could well startle them enough to give him the time he needed. Bernardo reached for the light switch, but Emil pushed the reaching hand away.