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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.

  That was scotch on the rocks, wasn’t it, Mr. Holcroft?

  An outstretched hand, a pretty face, a glass.

  Images, sounds.

  Sounds. Raucous, drunken laughter. A man with too much alcohol in him, losing his balance, falling backward over the rim of the chair. His companion reeling in delight at the sight of his unsteady friend. A third man—the man who would be dead in moments—trying too hard to be a part of the revelry. Anxious to please, wanting to join. An attractive stewardess pouring whisky, smiling, wiping the bar on which two drinks had been reduced to one because one had been spilled, rushing around the counter to help a drunken passenger. The third anxious man, embarrassed perhaps, still wanting to play with the big boys, reaching.…

  A glass. The glass! The single, remaining glass on the bar.

  The third man had reached for that glass!

  It was scotch on the rocks. The drink intended for the passenger sitting across the lounge at the small Formica table. Oh, my God! thought Holcroft, the images racing back and forth in sequence in his mind’s eye. The drink on the bar—the drink a stranger named Thornton had taken—had been meant for him!

  The strychnine had been meant for him! The twisting, horrible convulsions of agony were to be his! The terrible death assigned to him!

  He looked down at the glass in front of him on the table; his fingers were around it.

  That was scotch on the rocks, wasn’t it?…

  He pushed the drink aside. Suddenly he could no longer stay at that table, remain in that lounge. He had to get away; he had to force the images out of his mind. They were too clear, too real, too horrible.

  He rose from the chair and walked rapidly, unsteadily, toward the staircase. The sounds of drunken laughter weaved in and out between an unrelenting scream of torment that was the screech of sudden death. No one else could hear those sounds, but they pounded in his head.

6

  “Let me understand you, Mr. Holcroft,” said the aging attaché, leaning back in his chair. “You say you wish to locate a family that you won’t identify. You tell me this family immigrated to Brazil sometime in the forties and, according to the most recent information, dropped from sight several years ago. Is this correct?”

  Noel saw the bemused expression on the attaché’s face and understood. It was a foolish game perhaps, but Holcroft did not know any other one to play. He was not going to name the Von Tiebolts before he reached Brazil; he was not going to give anyone the chance to complicate further a search that had enough disadvantages at the start. He smiled pleasantly.

  “I didn’t quite say that. I asked how such a family might be found, given those circumstances. I didn’t say I was the one looking.”

  “Then it’s a hypothetical question? Are you a journalist?”

  Holcroft considered the medium-level diplomat’s question. How simple it would be to say yes; what a convenient explanation for the questions he would ask later. On the other hand, he’d be flying to Rio de Janeiro in a few days. There were immigration cards to be filled out, and a visa, perhaps; he did not know. A false answer now might become a problem later.

  “No, an architect.”

  The attaché’s eyes betrayed his surprise. “Then you’ll visit Brasília, of course. It is a masterpiece.”

  “I’d like to very much.”

  “You speak Portuguese?”

  “A bit of Spanish. I’ve worked in Mexico. And in Costa Rica.”

  “But we’re straying,” said the attaché, leaning forward in his chair. “I asked you if you were a journalist, and you hesitated. You were tempted to say you were because it was expedient. Frankly, that tells me you are, indeed, the one looking for this family that has dropped from sight. Now, why not tell me the rest?”

  If he was going to consider lying in his search through this unfamiliar forest, thought Noel, he’d better learn to analyze his minor answers first. Lesson one: preparation.

  “There isn’t that much to tell,” he said awkwardly. “I’m taking a trip to your country and I promised a friend I’d look up these people he knew a long time ago.” It was a variation on the truth and not a bad one, thought Holcroft. Perhaps that was why he was able to offer it convincingly. Lesson two: Base the lie in an aspect of truth.

  “Yet your … friend has tried to locate them and was unable to do so.”

  “He tried from thousands of miles away. It’s not the same.”

  “I daresay it isn’t. So, because of this distance, and your friend’s concern that there could be complications, shall we say, you’d prefer not to identify the family by name.”

  “That’s it.”

  “No, it isn’t. It would be far too simple a matter for an attorney to cable a confidential inquiry-of-record to a reciprocating law firm in Rio de Janeiro. It’s done all the time. The family your friend wants to find is nowhere in evidence, so your friend wants you to trace them.” The attaché smiled and shrugged, as if he had delivered a basic lecture in arithmetic.

  Noel watched the Brazilian with growing irritation. Lesson three: Don’t be led into a trap by pat conclusions casually stated. “You know something?” he said. “You’re a very disagreeable fellow.”

  “I’m sorry you think so,” replied the attaché sincerely. “I want to be of help. That’s my function here. I’ve spoken to you this way for a reason. You are not the first man, God knows, nor will you be the last, to look for people who came to my country ‘sometime in the forties.’ I’m sure I don’t have to amplify that statement. The vast majority of those people were Germans, many bringing to Brazil great sums of money transferred by compromised neutrals. What I’m trying to say is simply put: Be careful. Such people as you speak of do not disappear without cause.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They have to, Mr. Holcroft. Had to. The Nuremberg Tribunals and the Israeli hunters aside, many possessed funds—in some cases, fortunes—that were stolen from conquered peoples, from their institutions, often from their governments. Those funds could be reclaimed.”

  Noel tensed the muscles of his stomach. There was a connection—abstract, even misleading, under the circumstances, but it was there. The Von Tiebolts were part of a theft so massive and complex it was beyond accounting procedures. But it could not be the reason they had vanished. Lesson four: Be prepared for unexpected coincidences, no matter how strained; be ready to conceal reactions.

  “I don’t think the family could be involved in anything like that,” he said.

  “But, of course, you’re not sure, since you know so little.”

  “Let’s say I’m sure. Now, all I want to know is how I go about finding them—or finding out what happened to them.”

  “I mentioned attorneys.”

  “No attorneys. I’m an architect, remember? Lawyers are natural enemies; they take up most of our time.” Holcroft smiled. “Whatever a lawyer can do, I can do faster by myself. I do speak Spanish. I’ll get by in Portuguese.”

  “I see.” The attaché paused while he reached for a box of thin cigars on his desk. He opened it and held it out for Holcroft, who shook his head. “Are you sure? It’s Havana.”

  “I’m sure. I’m also pressed for time.”

  “Yes, I know.” The attaché reached for a silver table lighter on the desk, snapped it, and inhaled deeply; the tip of the cigar glowed. He raised his eyes abruptly to Noel. “I can’t convince you to tell me the name of this family?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake …” Holcroft got up. He’d had enough; he’d find other sources.

  “Please,” said the Brazilian, “sit down, please. Just a minute or two longer. The time’s not wasted, I assure you.”

  Noel saw the urgency in the attaché’s eyes. He sat down. “What is it?”

  “La comunidad alemana. I use the Spanish you speak so well.”

  “The German community? There’s a German community in Rio—is that what you mean?”

  “Yes, but it’s not solely geographical. There’s an outlying district—the German barrio, if you will—but that is not what I refer to. I’m speaking of what we call la otra cara de los alemanes. Can you understand that?”

  “The ‘other face’ … what’s underneath, below the German surface.”

  “Precisely. ‘The underside,’ you might say. What makes them what they are; what makes them do what they do. It’s important that you understand.”

  “I think I do. I think you explained it. Most were Nazis getting out of the Nuremberg net, bringing in money that wasn’t theirs; hiding, concealing identities. Naturally, such people would tend to stick together.”

  “Naturally,” the Brazilian said. “But you’d think after so many years there’d be greater assimilation.”

  “Why? You work here in New York. Go down to the Lower East Side, or Mulberry Street or up to the Bronx. Enclaves of Italians, Poles, Jews. They’ve been here for decades. You’re talking about twenty-five, thirty years. That’s not much.”

  “There are similarities, of course, but it’s not the same, believe me. The people you speak of in New York associate openly; they wear their heritages on their sleeves. It is not 
like that in Brazil. The German community pretends to be assimilated, but it is not. In commerce, yes, but in very little else. There is a pervading sense of fear and anger. Too many have been hunted for too long; a thousand identities are concealed daily from everyone but themselves. They have their own hierarchy. Three or four families control the community; their huge Germanic estates dot our countryside. Of course, they call them Swiss or Bavarian.” Once more the attaché paused. “Do you begin to grasp what I’m saying? The consul general will not say it; my government will not permit it. But I am far down the ladder. It is left to me. Do you understand?”

  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.

Sorry for the late post, I was busy with stuffs.