The man with the cheroot did not answer. He merely regarded the newcomer with the faintest of curiosity.
“May we speak in English?” the stranger continued. “My Portuguese is, alas, barely serviceable.”
The other shrugged, then flicked the ash off his cheroot, as if he had not yet decided whether any speaking would, in fact, be taking place.
“My name is Pendergast,” the stranger said. “And I have a proposition for you.”
The other cleared his throat. “If you knew who I am,” he said, “you would not be presuming to come to me with propositions.”
“Ah, but I do know who you are. You are Colonel Souza, head of the Alsdorf Polícia Militar.”
The colonel merely took another drag on the cheroot.
“I not only know who you are, but I know a lot about you. You were once a leader of the Batalhão de Operações Policiais Especiais—the most elite and prestigious high-speed unit of the Brazilian military police. The BOPE are both respected and feared wherever they go. And yet you left the BOPE—it was voluntary, wasn’t it?—to become the head of the military police of Alsdorf. Now, I find that very curious. Not to take anything away from Alsdorf, you understand—a charming village, in its way. But it does seem like a remarkable step down from a quickly rising career. You could have had your pick of assignments in, say, the Polícia Civil or even the Polícia Federal. Instead…” And Pendergast waved his hand, encompassing the interior of the Hofgarten.
“You have been investigating my background,” Colonel Souza replied. “I would suggest to you, o senhor, that this is not a healthy line of work.”
“My dear Colonel, I am merely setting the groundwork for the proposition I mentioned. And have no fear—it is not so much a business proposition as it is a professional one.”
This was met by silence. Pendergast let it deepen for a minute before continuing.
“You also have a quality that seems almost unique in this part of the world. You are immune to corruption. Not only do you refuse to accept bribes, but you actively suppress them among your associates. This, perhaps, is another reason you ultimately found yourself back in Alsdorf—no?”
Colonel Souza plucked the cheroot from his mouth and ground it out in the ashtray. “You have outstayed your welcome, my friend. Now I suggest you leave before I have my men escort you out of town.”
In response, Pendergast reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out his FBI badge, and laid it open on the table between them. The colonel inspected it carefully for a moment before looking back at Pendergast.
“You are out of your jurisdiction,” he said.
“Very far out, I’m afraid.”
“What is it you want?”
“I want your cooperation—in an undertaking that, if successful, will greatly benefit both of us.”
The colonel sat back, lit another cheroot. “I am listening.”
“You have a problem. I have a problem. Let’s talk first about yours.” Pendergast leaned in slightly. “In recent months, Alsdorf has been troubled by a series of unsolved murders. Very unpleasant murders, too, based on the information that you’ve been withholding from the public.”
Colonel Souza, as cover for his evident surprise, removed the cheroot, inspected it, replaced it once again.
“Oh, I’ve availed myself of your files,” Pendergast said. “As I told you, my Portuguese is rather lacking, but it was more than sufficient to give me a good picture. The fact is, Colonel, there have been at least eight violent murders committed in and around Alsdorf in the last half year—and yet virtually no news of them has shown up in the local papers.”
The colonel licked his lips. “Tourism is our lifeblood. Such stories would be… bad for trade.”
“Especially if news of the modus operandi were to leak out. Some of the murders seemed to be uniquely sadistic. Others were apparently done as quickly as possible—most frequently, by the application of a knife to the jugular vein. I have seen the photographs.”
The colonel frowned but said nothing.
“And here’s the part I find most hard to understand. There have been all these recent murders—but as far as I can tell, the Polícia Civil have done little about it.”
The colonel’s frown deepened. “They can’t be bothered. Alsdorf is a poor town. It’s beneath their interest. The deaths have all been among camponês. Peasants. Day workers from the mountains. Penniless drifters.”
Pendergast nodded. “And so you are left with your own Polícia Militar force to try to solve the murders—with scant evidence to go on—all the while trying to keep things a secret from the tourists and the townsfolk. As I said—a problem.”
A barmaid came over, replaced the colonel’s beer stein with a fresh one, and asked Pendergast what he wanted.
“I’ll have what the colonel’s having,” he said in Portuguese, then switched back to English. “Let me ask you a question. When you lie awake at night, thinking about the case, thinking about who the killers might be—where do your thoughts turn?”
The colonel took a sip of beer. He didn’t reply.
“I think I know. Your thoughts travel upriver, into the deep forests. To the place known as Nova Godói.”
For the first time, the colonel looked at him with genuine shock on his face.
Pendergast nodded. “There are many rumors about the place, are there not? It has had an evil reputation for more than half a century. Speculation about what goes on there, about who lives there and what they do… let’s just say that plenty of whispering takes place among the townsfolk of Alsdorf. Rumors of curious folks who have made their way upriver to Nova Godói… never to be seen again.”
Pendergast’s stein arrived. He looked at the beer but did not touch it.
“There’s something else I know about you, Colonel. It’s true—you care about Alsdorf. You care deeply about it. The fact that the civil police aren’t interested in these murders must stick in your craw. But the truth is, you’ve been in the army. You were a decorated member of the BOPE. And I sense you are a man who—if you saw your duty clearly—would not let bureaucracy, or the chain of command, stand in your way. If you knew what was going on at Nova Godói—if you knew they were responsible for these murders, and for those not yet committed—I believe that you would not hesitate to act.”
Colonel Souza looked at Pendergast—a long, penetrating, speculative look. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“What do you know about Nova Godói?” Pendergast asked.
The colonel laid down the butt end of the cheroot in an ashtray, took a long draft from his stein. “It was said to have started as a mission, established centuries ago by the Franciscans, high in the mountains.”
“And?”
He went on, reluctantly. “The good fathers were massacred by the local Indians, and so the mission was turned into a garrison for Portuguese soldiers, who eventually destroyed the indígenas. Then it became a plantation, which was abandoned in the 1930s. After the war, some German refugees settled there, as they did in many other areas of Brazil.”
“What is its physical situation?”
“It’s remarkably remote, almost impossible to reach, and then only by the rio. The German settlement is on the shores of a crater lake in the mountains. And in the middle of the lake there is an island, which is where the mission was built, and then the ancient fort.” He shrugged. “The inhabitants keep completely to themselves. They use Alsdorf as their portal to the outside world, for news and supplies and the like, coming and going, but never interacting, even with their German compatriots.” He paused. “They blend in as much as possible, try not to call attention to themselves. Beyond that, I can tell you nothing.”