Secret of the Slaves (8 page)

The lobby door blew open in a swirl of air so humid and thick with smells of exhaust and the omnipresent water and jungle that it seemed to Annja you ought to be able to see it.

She looked up from noodling at her journal in a vague way on the notebook computer she had open on her lap. She wore cargo shorts, a lightweight buff-colored shirt and an expression, or so she suspected, of weary befuddlement.

She watched as a couple of black men in white linen suits swept in. They were very, very big. From the way they moved they were muscled like the workers on the Belém waterfront, though better dressed.

She made herself look away as they swept the lobby with the bug eyes of their sunglasses. She didn't want them noticing the hardening of her expression. She suspected they were gangsters. The only reason alarm bells weren't shrilling in her soul was that their body language suggested they were looking for potential trouble
makers,
not trouble themselves.

She was aware of operating at lower than usual. She felt numerous aches and pains. She still hadn't been able to process the events of the previous evening. She and Dan had clung tightly to each other until they fell into restless sleep.

Annja suspected she and Dan had inadvertently been dosed with some kind of strong psychoactive smoke. In the cold light of day that seemed more and more conclusively the case.

“So,” a familiar voice said from behind her. “You survived.”

She looked around as the two big men moved slowly to different sides of the lobby. Dan stood there. He was dressed in a loose shirt over cotton trousers. He looked even more tousled and unshaved than usual. His eyes were sunk in dark, saggy pits.

“More or less,” she said. “Much as I hate to say it, you look like I feel.”

“Yeah,” he grunted.

Sometime in the dark hours of the long tropical night he had risen from her bed and left without a word. Insofar as she could remember, they had not exchanged a word since their confrontation in the midst of the crowd. She had been somewhat dreading their inevitable meeting.

A second pair of men entered the lobby. They were white and bulky. They wore white linen jackets over what looked like T-shirts and white duck trousers. The jackets were tailored loosely enough about their wide upper torsos they might well have concealed shoulder holsters.

Even more than the two hard black men, one of whom had now taken up position near the elevators, the other by the brief corridor to the restaurant, the newcomers
looked
like the kind of men who'd be wearing shoulder holsters. Annja had recently acquired way more experience of hired muscle than she'd ever really cared to have. If these guys weren't that, with their shaved heads, their dark sunglasses, their square jaws jutting from necks wider than their heads, then it was time to look around for the rest of the film crew, because central casting had hit all the cherries.

“Ahh,” Dan murmured as the newcomers took up positions flanking the hotel's entrance. “Our esteemed employer arrives.”

“You know these thugs?” They weren't the pair with Publico on Annja's landing on his penthouse roof.

“Goran and Mladko,” he said. “Croatian war criminals. His bodyguards.”

“He uses war criminals as bodyguards?”

Dan shrugged. “It's supposed to be rehabilitation. He's all about forgiveness, you know. Besides, nobody's looking for them too hard.”

Through the big glass doors Annja saw a commotion outside as hotel porters swarmed to a long, low, white limousine with dark-tinted windows. Another huge black man popped out the front passenger door and waved them off. They obeyed with alacrity. Maybe it was his size. Maybe it was his air of undeniable authority. Maybe it was the stubby little machine pistol with the magazine in the butt and the separate broom-handle foregrip he was brandishing none too discreetly.

The gunman opened the limo's rear door. At last, out came Sir Iain Moran, Publico himself, looking neat in a lightweight gray suit. He stood, stretched slightly, smiled and nodded at his bodyguards. Then he tipped his sunglasses down his nose and looked through the windows into the lobby.

Dan raised two fingers in a halfway salute. Publico beamed, nodded, swept inside.

“What's he doing here?” Annja asked. Last night's intended conference call had never come to pass.

“I e-mailed him from my cell phone after that stuff went down at Mafalda's.”

Sir Iain paused between his two human pillars and swept the room with his gaze. His fine leonine head was held high, the long hair streaming down to his shoulders.

He approached Annja and Dan, beaming, a powerful hand held out.

“Annja, Dan,” he said in his deep, gravelly Irish voice. “So good to see you.”

“And you,” said Annja a little feebly as she rose. She was trying hard to bottle up the flash of anger and resentment at her so-called partner for communicating with their boss without letting her know.

She took his hand. He shook firmly, covering her hand with his, then moved on to embrace Dan.

“Welcome to Belém,” Annja said.

He smiled and nodded. “Sure, sure.”

He looked to the two black men who had preceded Goran and Mladko. Annja saw no signal from them, but what Publico saw seemed to lead to a sudden decision.

“Let's walk,” he said with a brisk nod of his head. “It's a beautiful day.”

They walked down toward the river esplanade. The two black bodyguards preceded them. Mladko and Goran winged out from them, a step or two behind. The big man with the machine pistol followed a few steps behind. It wasn't exactly subtle. Annja gathered it wasn't intended to be. In any event, few people spared them more than a glance.

She was surprised no one seemed to recognize Sir Iain. It struck her that perhaps nobody associated Publico—dressed in a T-shirt and torn blue jeans and grimacing into a microphone with his sweat-lank hair hanging down his back—with this dapper, obviously wealthy white guy from elsewhere.

“We had just about run out of leads here,” Annja said. She wasn't able to keep a note of accusation from creeping into her voice. “You didn't give us much to work with. Especially after our one major contact was murdered.”

“Sorry, Annja dear,” he said with a contrite smile. “But you were fully the skeptic, weren't you? I already told you more than you were willing to believe—that much was plain as the nose on your face.”

“I'm still a skeptic,” she said. “And I'm not sure what to believe right now.” She hoped Dan hadn't felt duty-bound to e-mail him about their experience the evening before.

“What happened to Mafalda did kind of put a damper on our investigation,” Dan said. “There's nothing written down about Promessa, at least that we could track down. I get the impression plenty of people know about this hidden
quilombo,
but nobody wants to talk to strangers about it.”

“Do you blame them, after what happened to Mafalda?” Annja asked.

“Ah, but there we have the key bit of evidence, don't we?” Publico said almost impishly. He seemed to be taking a childlike delight in the intrigue. “The fact that she was done in is itself as strong a lead as we could ask, don't you see?”

“It means we're on the right trail,” Dan agreed somewhat reluctantly.

“It may or may not,” Annja said quickly. “Although it's not as in-your-face here as it is in the megacities down south, crime is a real problem in Brazil. It can hit anybody any time—or why are we walking around surrounded by men bristling with guns?”

“Point taken,” Publico said with a grin.

“Dealing in
candomblé
items is a pretty well respected trade around here, but it certainly doesn't rule out contacts with a pretty bad element. Mafalda might've crossed a business associate. Or turned the wrong crime boss down on a sexual proposition,” Annja said.

He raised a brow. “You really think so? I thought you found the same people in her shop who visited you in your bedrooms the night before. And who vanished mysteriously.”

“Maybe,” Annja said. Dan looked at her sharply; she paid him no mind. “The vanishing isn't necessarily all that mysterious. We're not from around here, and they are. They know the city much better than we do. And while I never saw Dan's nocturnal guest, mine and the guy in the shop—well, it's not as if wiry little guys who look like Amazonian Indians are rare in these parts.”

“It was the same woman,” Dan said flatly. “She threw me like I was a child.”

“You think she displayed superhuman strength?” Publico asked. His voice seemed to hold an edge of eagerness.

“I don't know. She could have just been real good at martial arts. But it was the same woman, and she shot some kind of energy weapon at Annja.”

Annja frowned. “Maybe.”

Dan glared at her. “You told me—”

She held up a hand. “I know. But I've thought about it. It might have been conventional firearm using a special laser sight. Maybe it was a special effect designed to make it
look
like some kind of high-tech ray gun.”

“But she vanished again on you,” Dan said, “when you chased her into that tenement room.”

“Well,” Annja said, “again, she might just have known more about the area than I do….”

She let her words trail off when she noticed the other two looking at her closely. Dan looked outraged. Publico was openly amused.

“Ah, Annja, for a world traveler, you'd think you'd realize denial is more than just a river in Egypt,” the rock star said. Publico held up a finger. “You're both forgetting we do have a solid lead—that slip of paper Dan found in that unfortunate woman's hand.”

Annja looked at Dan and sighed. “It could just be coincidental, too.”

“As may be,” Publico said. “But you two are going to Manaus to find out for certain. And I shall come with you.”

“He was holding out on us,” Annja said. “Of course I'm pissed off.”

The waiting room in the offices of the River of Dreams Trading Company in Manaus was fluorescent bright, with dark-stained hardwood wainscoting, whitewashed walls and a white dropped-tile ceiling. An array of fern or palmlike plants in terra-cotta pots, exotic to Annja's eyes but native to the surrounding forest, softened the starkness of an otherwise generically modern design, with a curved desk and chairs of curved chromed tubing with black leather seats and backs. Big modernistic murals of the rain forest splashed the walls with bright greens and reds and yellows. Pied tamarins, a famous local endangered species of primate, featured prominently, peering like troll dolls with black raisins for faces and cotton-ball wigs.

“He has his reasons,” Dan said.

Publico's private jet had delivered them to Manaus shortly after noon, a few hours earlier. It had been one of the richest cities in the Western Hemisphere and possibly the richest in the Southern Hemisphere during its heyday as queen of the rubber trade. Unfortunately the invention of synthetic substitutes, and the rise of rubber cultivation in Southeast Asia, ended the frenzy in 1920.

The city had recently returned to somewhat provisional status as financial center for Amazonia and much of South America, courtesy of the global economic boom. The place had a seedy, superficial quality, as if all the glossy steel and glass high rises downtown were fancy paint over cheap plastic.

The River of Dreams Trading Company waiting room did little to dispel the impression of tackiness from Annja's mind. It was spotless, but the colors struck her as a bit too gaudy, the smell of disinfectant too strong, the Brazilian jazz playing from concealed speakers a little too strident. It was all as if they were trying to hide something.

“But to wait until now to tell us that this German friend of his had dealings with River of Dreams?” Annja said.

“Was there something that suggested to you they don't have their waiting room bugged?” Dan asked casually, hands in his pockets, studying a mural close up. “Just asking, you know.”

“Oh,” Annja said.

“Mr. Toby will see you now,” the receptionist said, preceding them down the hallway that led into the offices.

“Toby?” Dan whispered. “Is that a first name or a last name.”

“It's probably his real first name. A lot of Brazilians just use one name. And they tend to like a lot of variety in their given names.”

Toby was a pretty boy. Brazil had lots of those, Annja had noticed.

“It's such a pleasure to meet visitors from North America,” he effused in English, seating himself behind his desk. He had dark, slick hair, a cream-colored suit over a mauve shirt and dusty-rose tie, and a ring in his right ear. “They don't often come to Manaus.”

“I'd think you'd get a lot of ecotourists,” Dan said dryly.

Toby laughed. “They don't seem to visit our offices. What may River of Dreams Trading Company do for you, Ms. Callendar, Mr. Stone?” On the spur of the moment they had given the receptionist fake names. Annja hoped she could keep them straight.

Dan's expression hardened ever so slightly.

“We're here primarily for pleasure,” Annja said. “We couldn't resist visiting the famous Manaus Opera House.”

“It's definitely a jewel in our crown,” Toby said enthusiastically.

“But we have to admit to having an interest in certain Brazilian exports,” Annja continued.

“Which ones would those be?”

“Brazil nuts.”

Dan stared at her as if she'd just beamed down from the starship
Enterprise
. “As you probably know, we Americans—North Americans, sorry—are growing ever more conscious of our health.
Obsessed
might not be too strong a word.”

“We Brazilians are the same,” Toby said, smiling toothily. “It reflects our general vanity.” He made a discreet gesture as if brushing perfectly manicured fingertips down his breastbone to acknowledge his own guilt.

“Nuts are growing in popularity back home, since they've acquired a reputation as a superfood, containing numerous valuable micronutrients. Brazil nuts are in considerable demand.”

“Is that so?” Toby said.

“I know the nuts will only grow in certain areas, including the Amazon Basin,” Annja said cheerfully. “I also know getting them out of their husks is very labor-intensive. If I understand correctly, in the wild, agoutis often chew through the tough outer shell, then bury the nuts they don't eat. Which serves to plant new trees.”

“You seem most knowledgeable.”

Annja made a self-deprecating gesture. “I've done a certain amount of homework.”

“And what do you wish of us in this connection?”

“Well, I understand that Manaus is a major transshipment point for Brazil nuts. And it's my understanding that River of Dreams, as an import-export concern, is highly experienced in navigating the sometimes tangled Brazilian export regulations. Now, this is all still somewhat speculative, I have to admit, but my associate and I were hoping to discuss the prospects of going into business with your company.”

She looked expectantly at Dan. He was sitting back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other, looking stunned. “Huh? Oh. Absolutely,” he stammered.

“That sounds fantastic,” Toby said. “At the moment, River of Dreams handles no cargoes of Brazil nuts. However, your suggestion certainly has merit. I will certainly have to consult with my superiors before we can possibly discuss details. I hope that's all right with you both?”

“Of course,” Annja said.

“Oh, sure, sure,” Dan said, catching a sidelong look from her.

“If you have business cards—” Toby said.

“Unfortunately we were both robbed in Belém,” Annja said. “Among other things, we lost all our business cards.”

Toby clucked in sympathy. “Oh, dear, that's terrible,” he said. “There's so much crime in Brazil these days. It's a wonder anyone comes here.”

“We did manage to keep our cell phones,” Annja said. She tore a page from a notebook from a pocket of her shorts and scribbled, “Anne Callendar” with her actual number. She handed that to Toby.

They all rose. “I'm curious as to how you happened to hear about River of Dreams Trading Company,” Toby said.

“Oh, I overheard my father telling some of his cronies about a business associate who'd had dealings with you. A German, a dealer in medical electronics.”

Toby raised his eyebrows. “Oh, that would be Herr Lindmüller. Reinhard Lindmüller.”

“I'm terrible with names,” Annja said.

Toby's expression turned sad. “I am afraid I have terrible news regarding Herr Lindmüller. He was killed this spring in a climbing accident in the United States. The horrible irony is, he had an overwhelming fear of heights.”

Toby shook his sleek head. “Perhaps he was trying to learn to overcome his fears by confronting them directly. Irony, as I say.”

“A
GOUTIS
?” Dan said as they walked down the corridor from the trading company offices.

“They're a kind of rodent,” Annja said. “I read it on Wikipedia.”

He shook his head and expelled an exasperated breath. “That was a waste of time.”

“Remember what happened to the last person we asked flat out about Promessa,” Annja said. “What would you have done? Just asked why a murdered woman in Belém had an invoice from here clutched in her hand?”

“Well, yeah,” Dan said.

“What would you expect them to say? And what would you say if they started asking us how we knew about that? Who would we be placing at the scene of the crime—an actual River of Dreams employee, or just ourselves?”

“You think they'd dare go to the cops?”

“Why not? First off, we're the ones who fled the scene of an apparent double murder and arson. Remember, the Brazilian authorities like to toss the occasional tourist into one of their horrible prisons just to show what's what. And you don't think in a country with such Byzantine regulations, a company like this one does business without having some friends in high places.”

He walked a few steps with hands crammed in pockets and head thrust forward. Then he shook his head.

“Okay. You make good points. But what was the point to coming here, then?”

She shrugged. “This is our only lead. Or at least the only one Publico's seen fit to share with us—after we turned it up ourselves. At least we've—what?—done reconnaissance.”

“And what have we learned?”

“If they know anything, they're going to be a tough nut to crack. What do you think?”

He shrugged. “Mr. Toby seemed pretty smooth. I have to admit he didn't strike me as the type to blurt out deep, dark secrets just because we happened to ask probing questions.”

“At least we have a pretext for continuing communication with them,” Annja said. “Much as I hate to admit I'm stumped, I'm about ready to ask Publico what exactly he has in mind.”

They pushed through the tinted-glass doors onto the broad front steps descending to the street. As usual, the air seemed to push back. Even though the sun was setting, the temperature hadn't dropped since they'd entered the building. Nine hundred miles up the Amazon Basin from the sea, Manaus was even hotter and more humid than Belém. It also struck Annja as a lot harder edged.

Dan turned and looked appraisingly back at the four-story steel-and-glass office building that fronted the River of Dreams warehouses.

“We might not have to go so far as that just yet,” he said. “Even though it looks pretty glossy up front here, security isn't too tight. I think we might just want to pay them a visit after hours.”

“You are
not
talking about breaking in,” Annja said.

He looked at her from under an impishly raised eyebrow. “What else?”