Da Silva stared at his friend for a long moment and then sighed.
“I hope you’re wrong, because I still think it’s a good idea. Or at least it’s the only idea I’ve come up with so far to trap him. Do you have a better idea?”
“I don’t have any ideas at the moment, good or bad,” Wilson said, and then corrected himself. “Or, rather, the only good idea I have is to eat. Shall we wake Isabela?” He looked down at the sleeping girl. “The eternal dilemma — to sleep or eat! Well, let her get some more rest, at least until we finish. Then if there’s any left over, we’ll wake her.”
“You’re all heart — the part that isn’t stomach,” Da Silva said with disgust, and went to shake the sleeping girl.
By dint of a shoving that earned him a threatening scowl from a bulky man, a sniff from an elderly-dowager type and a look of disappointment from a comely stewardess — the latter being the only one that even faintly disturbed him — Da Silva managed to be the first to step from the plane when the door of the prop plane was swung wide at Santos Dumont airport in Rio de Janeiro. By prearrangement, Isabela was to be the last person to descend, well-screened by Wilson, although Da Silva had small fear of Dorn attempting anything at the crowded airport Still, once it became apparent to the lawyer that the call to him the night before had been a trap — which would be as soon as he saw Isabela emerge from the plane — who knew what the man might try? After all, he had five murders on his record — seven, to his own mind — so if he thought himself threatened, he might well try something foolish. Da Silva found himself gripping the revolver in his pocket more tightly.
There was a relatively small crowd waiting at the Arrivals gate; they stood watching the approaching passengers, each searching for a familiar face. A few found them and waved wildly, shouting, but the majority remained quietly expectant. A small plane, taxiing from the parking space toward a runway paused to allow the arrivals to cross its path to the terminal; those waiting at the gate put hands to hats and hair against the prop wash of the small plane. The sun beat down mercilessly on the entire scene. Da Silva, coming closer to the gate, would have liked very much to remove his jacket, but the necessity, real or imagined, to keep his hand on his gun prevented him from doing so. He scanned the people at the gate as he came closer, swung his head for some sign of Ruy or his men, and then knew this to be foolish. Ruy and his men would be well out of sight, watching, but well hidden. Or at least they had better be! He brought his attention back to the people at the gate.
What had the judge said? A cold man, tall and hungry-looking — which could mean many things, but probably included being thin. Not an uncommon phenomenon in Brazil, unfortunately. But the judge had also said the man had almost white hair, which was far rarer. And he would probably be well dressed, with jacket and tie despite the weather, in keeping with his position in life. Da Silva studied the people at the gate as he approached, and then bit back a triumphant smile as he spotted his man.
Dorn was standing to one side near the edge of the open door leading into the terminal proper, his eyes searching the approaching passengers for some sign of Emil and his associate. The cold, impersonal glance considered Da Silva a brief moment and then passed on without further concern. Da Silva noted the one hand bunched tightly within Dorn’s jacket pocket, much as his own. So Dorn was also armed, eh? Not surprising, under the circumstances, but one more factor to consider. Da Silva stepped out of the line, looking backward, as if for a separated companion; to his relief, Isabela had still not appeared at the plane’s doorway. Even as he looked he saw Wilson finally appear at the door, and he swiftly turned back to note Dorn’s expression when he finally caught sight of the girl. Then Da Silva frowned in amazement.
Dorn was staring in horror at nothing at all. Then he withdrew the hand holding the gun and tried to raise it. Da Silva found his own hand with his gun out, but before he could bring it to bear on the man before him, Dorn was clawing at his chest, the gun dangling from a finger; then he was crumpling to the ground, his face twisting in pain, blood staining his white linen suit and covering the hand held so tightly against the wound.
There was a moment’s tableau, people standing frozen in shock, no one’s surprise being more acute than that of Da Silva himself; then someone noted the swarthy tough-looking man with the gun in his hand standing mere yards from the victim, and there was a sharp cry of outrage from the men in the doorway. Before Da Silva could either explain or defend himself, hands were striking at him, tearing his gun from him, beating at him, hammering his upraised arms; feet were kicking at him, voices cursing. And then Ruy was there with his men, and Wilson had reached his side, battering his way through the crowd that had formed about him. Da Silva heard Ruy’s loud voice, “Stand aside! Police here! Stand away!” and felt himself being dragged from the crowd and hustled to one side. He pulled himself loose from the helping hands with an angry jerk and stared at Ruy as he straightened his clothes.
“What happened?”
“He... he was shot, sir.”
“I know that! But what happened?”
It was a stupid question and Da Silva knew it even as he asked it. He, himself, had been the closest and had seen nothing. He took his gun, offered by an unknown plainclothesman, and tucked it away in his belt holster; then he walked over to Dorn’s fallen body, tugging his jacket straight. The people who had attacked him moments before were fading rapidly from sight; they had struck at him with the best of intentions, but the best of intentions were what paved the road to the delegacia when a policeman was struck, even if in error. Though who would have guessed that a tough like that would be a cop? It wasn’t fair! Da Silva knelt by the sprawled body, checking it for signs of life. He came to his feet.
“He’s dead. Cover him with something until the wagon comes.”
“Yes, sir,” Ruy said helplessly. “I—”
“Captain!” Da Silva turned; a plainclothesman was hurrying up. He held a long old-fashioned rifle in his hand. “This was over on the edge of the tarmac, Captain. It has a silencer on it. It’s been fired recently; you can smell it.”
Da Silva took the gun from the officer and studied it; then he raised his eyes past the group of police surrounding him. A small plane was just moving to the end of the shorter of the two runways; as he watched, it apparently received clearance for takeoff from the tower and began its run. The whine of the propellers grew as the plane raced down the concrete, and then it was lifting itself into the air, heading out over the bay. It banked sharply under Sugar Loaf and raised itself higher into the empty sky, growing smaller and smaller as it left the flight pattern and disappeared toward the northeast. Da Silva brought his eyes down from the small dot and handed the rifle back to the officer.
“Take it down to headquarters,” he said. “Put it on my desk. But it had nothing to do with this affair.”
The plainclothesman looked at him in astonishment. “Sir?”
“The man who was killed pulled a gun on me and I had no choice but to shoot,” Da Silva said evenly, and stared the man in the eye. There was a moment’s hesitation; then the man sighed.