Captive Dove Page 8

  “Angelo Santiago. The captain of la Fiesta is my brother, I stopped at the boat to see why he hadn’t called me for over a day and found him still tied up. You will pay?”

  “Yes. I’m desperate to find my sister.”

  “I need one hundred American dollars.”

  “I have money. How do I know that what you have is worth one hundred dollars?”

  “You went to police. What did they tell you?”

  Yes, information in Manaus did travel fast. The brother of the Fiesta’s captain already knew she had been to the police. “Not much.”

  “Correct. They won’t tell you anything. But I can tell you who the men were.”

  She leaned toward him, genuinely surprised. “Who?”

  “You pay one hundred dollars American?”

  She dug into her woven bag to the little pocket for cash, fingered around to pull out five bills, all twenties. She showed him the greenbacks.

  The owner of the stand started their way. She smiled but shook her head and he went back to laying out fish. He probably figured that she and Santiago were dickering over how much she would pay him to be her tour guide for the day.

  “Before the police came,” Santiago said, “when we were still on the river, I talked to my brother. He told me the kidnappers all spoke Guarani. Not from Manaus. Not from Brazil. They are criminals from Paraguay.”

  He reached for the money.

  “Is that it? Is that all you know?”

  “Give me the money. It must be worth a hundred dollars to know that you will not find your sister here. These foreigners are gone by now.”

  He was right. She handed him the money. He turned to leave. She grabbed his arm.

  “Are you certain that’s all you know? Did your brother tell you anything else?”

  “I only need one hundred dollars.”

  The way he said he needed only one hundred triggered her sixth sense. Gambling debt? Sick child? Expensive mistress? Whatever. He knew more. She released his arm. “But I can pay you a great deal more money if you have more information.”

  “I only need one hundred.”

  “How would you like five hundred?”

  His eyebrows went up in surprise. This man’s brother, Diego, had probably told Angelo Santiago everything he knew about the attack and the attackers. Five hundred to learn what Angelo knew would be well worth the price, and to him it would be a mouthwateringly large sum given the exchange rate of dollars for reais.

  “I have to be careful,” he said, drawing out the words.

  “I swear I won’t tell anyone who I’ve talked to. I just want to find my sister.”

  Santiago looked over one shoulder and then the other. She could almost see calculating circuits in his brain sparking.

  He stared at the floor, then shook his head. She cut him off before he could say no again. “A thousand U.S. dollars. I need to know whatever you can tell me.”

  The fire of greed sprang into his eyes. “There is something that belonged to the kidnappers. A machete. My brother found it on the floor of the main cabin. It has blood on it. I think fresh blood.”

  Fingerprints! DNA! “Your brother has it? Why didn’t he give it to the police?”

  Angelo looked away and licked his lips. “Does it matter? I can get the machete, but my brother will not just give it to me. I will have to…to take it without his knowing.”

  Perhaps the brother had been paid off to keep silent. Or maybe he had simply agreed in exchange for his life that he wouldn’t cooperate with the authorities. If so, giving up the machete would put him at risk if whoever was responsible found out he’d turned it over to the police. Whatever the reasons for his silence, she had to have the machete.

  “One thousand dollars can buy a lot of things you must need.”

  “I will have to…to take it without Diego knowing. He would not give it up, not even for twice the money you offer. It is dangerous for him to deal with the police.”

  “I’m not the police. When can you get it for me?”

  “I meet you tonight, then. After dark. I can’t take it during the day. I meet you inside the church across from the Opera House. It’s public and a church. A safe place. You sit in a back row. Thirty minutes after seven.”

  Santiago backed away, turned, and quickly disappeared into the crowd on the street. She wasn’t exactly sure why he felt he had to steal the machete from his brother. Most likely because he didn’t want to have to split one thousand dollars.

  In the taxi going to the airport she text-messaged Joe, letting him know she had a hot lead that might yield fingerprints and that she would make contact with Angelo Santiago again at seven thirty in the evening. The thought crossed her mind that Santiago might lose his nerve and not show up. Maybe she’d have to ask Oscar to arrange for the police to search the captain’s house. But if the captain had been paid off or was in contact with the bad guys, having his house searched would alert him that he was a suspect. He might in turn alert the kidnappers. Scratch that idea.

  After the cab let her off at the airport, she went directly to the manager’s office. The middle-aged male receptionist at the counter smiled at her and twirled one side of his heavy mustache. “Hello,” he said in English.

  She let a worry frown crease her brow and continued in English. “I am here in Manaus looking for my sister, Linda Stokes. She has been kidnapped, and I’m thinking the kidnappers took her out of Manaus by air. I need to speak to the manager.”

  He frowned. “There is no possibility that a kidnapped person could be flown from Manaus.”

  “But maybe there is. Could I please speak to the manager?”

  He picked up the phone, and spoke in rapid Portuguese. When he hung up he said, “The manager suggests that you go to the police. I can give you directions.”

  She smiled, one of her best, most disarming and innocent smiles. “I’m sure I understand. The manager is of course a busy man. I hope it will be okay with you. I will just take a seat and wait until he can see me.”

  She moved to a row of battered armchairs covered in an icky green plastic, sat and then smiled once more at the flummoxed receptionist. She had been sufficiently pleasant, but she was also sure that he understood that she would wait here in the lobby to see the manager until Manaus froze over.

  Twice when other men came in and noticed her and then chatted with the receptionist she heard him mention Linda’s name and hers. One of the men even stopped and said in English, “I am so sorry about your sister.”

  It took an hour of sweating in the minimally air-conditioned office, but finally the mustachioed receptionist said, “The manager can see you now. Five minutes only.” She wondered how many people the manager might have contacted about her visit during that hour, especially ones not on the side of the law.

  Chapter 16

  Nova’s chat with the airport manager turned out to be singularly uninformative. He’d already told everything he knew to the local police and to Brazilian federal authorities. No flights out had included passengers that fit the description of the kidnap victims.

  She asked about charter flights. All had been accounted for. None carried Americans.

  He barely gave her the five mentioned minutes. A large clock on the wall next to the café that looked like a McDonald’s said it was now one o’clock. She strode through the cavernous lobby toward the street exit, caught herself and headed for the outside baggage area. It wouldn’t hurt to ask more questions and spread further the news that she would pay money for information. She wondered if the FBI guys were having any better luck.

  The first two baggage handlers spoke only Portuguese. She made no obvious progress, although she received genuine smiles. She spotted three more men in similar blue uniforms loitering and smoking a bit farther down the concrete. Halfway to them, a similarly dressed man with gray hair at his temples caught up to her. He took her elbow and pulled her into a doorway where, she supposed, they couldn’t be seen.

  “You take taxi to
big white Assembly of God church on Avenida Constantino Nerv,” the man said. “Wait in the Café Maria that faces the church. Bring dollars.”

  He left her standing in the doorway, just sped away toward the street exit. She noticed that the sky was starting to darken toward the south, and based on previous experience that meant rain might be on the way. Just great, she thought. More humidity.

  The boulevard Avenida Constantino Nerv ran from the airport into the town center. The taxi ride to the distinctive Assembly of God church took maybe fifteen minutes. The Café Maria couldn’t be missed. At two forty-five, she went inside, purchased coffee and stood to drink it at one of several tall round tables. The man came in, ordered a coffee and then asked in Portuguese loud enough to be overheard if he could share the table with her.

  In a much lower voice he quickly said, “You are a very pretty lady. It is dangerous for you to be asking questions.”

  “You mentioned money. I was hoping you had information about my sister.”

  “For fifty dollars I can tell you something valuable. But I think…I have come also to warn you. Men involved in illegal things are not happy you asking questions. Not pleased you paying money.”

  “What kind of illegal things? Drugs? Contraband electronics? Kidnapping?”

  “Can you pay me fifty dollars?”

  “If you have information, useful information, I will pay.”

  “A charter plane came to the airport the night of kidnapping. It left the same night. You will find no record. Money has been paid to keep mouths closed.”

  He pushed his napkin toward her. She fished into her bag and slipped two twenties and a ten under it, which he quickly retrieved. He gave her a last look with a warm, fatherly smile. “You will not find your sister here, and this place is dangerous for you.”

  He slugged down the last of his coffee, and left. At two forty-five, when she stepped out of the shade of the Café Maria onto the busy traffic artery, the heat slammed her as if someone had dropped a hot iron onto her chest. She felt a slight drizzle from the black sky, indicating that it would rain within minutes.

  Her BlackBerry jiggled; it was set high enough that she could feel its signal right through the woven bag. “It’s me,” Oscar said. “Let’s meet as soon as you can. I have some new information.”

  “Fine. I’m free. Where?”

  “Internet café. Not far from your hotel. Three blocks down, at Rua 24 de Maio.”

  They agreed to meet in twenty minutes. She hailed a taxi. When they made the turn off the Avenida Constantino Nerv to head into downtown, she checked behind for Joe. She didn’t see his car, but noticed an ancient, tan Chevy Bronco.

  Two blocks later, the Bronco was still there.

  “Turn right. Here! Now!” she said firmly to the driver.

  “It’s not the way.”

  “Just turn right, please.”

  The driver took the next right and she looked behind. The tan Bronco followed.

  “Go left at the next street.”

  The driver, puzzled, looked at her in his rearview mirror.

  “Just go left, please.”

  The tan Bronco followed for a block. But then it turned off.

  “I can go to the Internet café?” the driver asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Obrigado.”

  When they passed her hotel at 3:10, she checked behind once more. Her heart skipped a nervous beat at the sight of the tan Bronco. The drizzle had strengthened into a typical Amazonian rain—big, heavy, warm drops.

  When the taxi stopped in front the Internet café, the Bronco kept going. Two men with heavy beards and Western-style cowboy hats kept their eyes straight ahead, but she stamped their faces deep into memory. She also text-messaged Joe: Hope U R on me. Did U C tan Bronco?

  She dashed through the door of the Internet café. The young male attending the counter gave her a thorough once-over but said nothing as he gestured for her to help herself to a computer. She spotted Oscar and plunked her bag on the counter next to his booth and took a seat. The booths immediately next to them on either side were unoccupied. She logged on to the Internet to check e-mail.

  “I thought you ought to know,” Oscar began, “that more ransom demands were sent to the families of the other hostages. All received messages saying their loved ones could be saved by the U.S. government and telling them to contact their senator and the office of the vice president to ask that the ransom be paid.”

  She had stared so often at the faces of the hostages that for a moment a mental gallery of their photos flashed through her mind: the Bennings, dressed in black tie and holding hands; Kiff and Obst, the two great birders; the insect scientist, searcher for subtle truths about the world—she imagined Dennis Chu in a museum room surrounded by boxes and boxes of preserved and labeled insects; the two teen boys, Ronnie and Alex, at the beginning of lives that held so much promise; and her supposed sister Linda and Linda’s friend from grade school, Annette. She knew enough about Linda, a soft-spoken librarian, whose two great loves were birds and helping the elderly by bringing them Meals-on-Wheels, that she did not find it hard to simulate love and concern for Linda. And then there was her fellow artist, Colette Stone, a painter of birds, a lover of nature.

  To Oscar she said, “The focus on the vice president almost makes me think it might not be just about money. Maybe there’s some political grudge motive as well.”

  “There is some good news. The first hostage was to be killed today at noon. The negotiators got them to delay a day. But there will be no further delays. Pay up or hostages start dying, the first one tomorrow at noon.”

  Who would it be? Was there any hope of finding all of them before tomorrow noon? Or would life end too soon for one of them?

  She told him about the appointment to pick up the machete. She explained about the kidnappers speaking Guarani and about the unlisted charter in and out. “The hostages are clearly long gone from here.” She didn’t bother to voice her great fear, that the hostages might have been split up into separate locations.

  She heard his computer signing off. He said, “There is another bit of bad news. It seems that one of the teen boys, Alex Hill, is a diabetic. His family is horribly distressed. He is type II. Must watch his food intake and exercise carefully. They say the boy had with him on the Fiesta a bag with both insulin and glucagon pills and candy bars and juice and some sugar-testing gizmo. It’s a kind of diabetic’s travel kit. The police didn’t find it. Maybe they let him take it along.”

  “Damn. He’s the grandson of one of our Supreme Court justices. She must be going out of her mind.”

  “I have a teenage boy. I know how I would feel if this were my son. Words do not describe it.” Oscar stood. “You keep in touch, before and after the meet for the machete. Do you want me to arrange to get you out to Rio tonight or tomorrow?”

  “Tonight. Time is running out for that next hostage. Make it a flight for two. Me and my backup.”

  Oscar left. On the computer she’d signed onto she checked her e-mails: Star and Deirdre and even one from Penny assuring her that Diva missed her. God, they all seemed distant by ten thousand miles and a thousand years.

  At 3:40 she stepped outside again. The rain, hard but brief, had stopped. The heat of the computers made even the modestly air-conditioned Internet café hot and humid. She imagined that the lifespan of a computer in this climate must be pitiful.

  No taxi passed. Besides, her hotel was only a five-minute walk. She took off at a stroll. She had nothing to do until her seven thirty meeting. She text-messaged Joe: Going 2 hotel 2 wait.

  Would he come and spend the hours from now until seven thirty with her? Being alone with him in what was essentially a bedroom was dangerous. But that’s what she wanted.

  Chapter 17

  Nova wasn’t in her hotel room more than five minutes when Joe called on their secure line. “Did you ever see the tan Bronco?” she asked immediately.

  “Yep. Had two raunchy-looking guys wearing
cowboy hats, right?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “They were definitely following you. I did send their license plate to our local guy, Oscar. He can sic the FBI onto them.”

  “You’d like Oscar. He’s arranging a private flight out for us tonight, as soon as I get the machete. He’ll work on the lead. But knowing who these local guys were isn’t likely to be useful. They’re just thugs hired to keep the lid on any local leaks. This operation was planned and is being driven from elsewhere. No one here is going to know diddly-squat.”

  She waited for him to ask if he could come up. The silence stretched out for an uncomfortably long moment. Was he waiting for her to ask him to come up? She wasn’t going to do it. Asking him up would send all the wrong messages.

  “So, are you going to wait in your room?” he asked.

  She paused, then said, “Right.”

  Another brief—much briefer—pause. “I’ll hang out down here. There are plenty of ways I can kill time around this plaza.”

  She bit her lip, disappointed, and then told him she’d leave for the church at twenty minutes to seven. “It’s a ten-minute walk. I’ll be at the church in plenty of time.”

  “I’ll be on you,” he said. He chuckled. “Oops. Didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Jeez, Joe.”

  He hung up.

  At two minutes to seven, she walked into a small, dimly lit sanctuary built like most Catholic churches with an altar at the front, small naves along the sides and two banks of wooden benches separated by an aisle down the middle. She inhaled the familiar odor of scented candles and furniture polish. The simple stained glass window showed Mary ascending into Heaven, her smile sweet and forgiving.

  Nova took a seat on the aisle in the back-row pew on her left, sliding in far enough that someone could sit beside her without having to cross over her. Two chandeliers with dim lightbulbs provided most of the sanctuary’s illumination, but votive candles also flickered here and there in the naves and near the altar.

  Only two other people were evident, both black-shawled elderly women, one on the aisle directly in front of Nova but near the room’s center and one just four rows in front of Nova but on the other side of the aisle.