with money generated by organized crime.
To protect his wife and three daughters, Cataldo had moved them to a secret location. His food was prepared under strict controls. The head of his seven-man security detail was Nirvaldo Evora, hand-picked by Silva, incorruptible, and currently standing on the other side of a steel door only Cataldo could open.
The price on Pedro’s head was a million US dollars, up from three-quarters of a million three months ago and half a million six months before that. The people who wanted him dead kept upping the ante, trying to make killing him more attractive.
“How the hell do you stand it?” Silva asked after taking a sip.
“You don’t like my coffee?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Cataldo abandoned his attempt at humor.
“Forcing me to live like this,” he said, “is backfiring on the bastards. I’ve got nothing to do but work, so I work day and night. I get up early, I go to bed late, and I’m bringing them down like never before. It’s driving them nuts.”
“So I’ve heard,” Silva said, “but it must be hard.”
“It’s hard,” Cataldo admitted, “but it’s my choice.
Somebody’s got to do it. I only wish more of my colleagues thought the way I do.”
“As do we, Pedro, as do we.”
“What brings you? I don’t suppose it’s purely social.”
“I need information.”
“You came to the right place. These days, I got information coming out of my ears.”
Silva set down his cup. “So I’ve heard. I’ve also heard that you’re not sharing much of it.”
“With good reason. Last time I did, some stupid bastard said the wrong thing to the wrong people. The source got whacked, and all my other sources dried up. It took me months to get back to square one.”
“I heard that, too.”
“But I make exceptions. I’ll make an exception for you, because I know you can keep your mouth shut.” He pointed to the pot. “More coffee?”
Silva shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“What, specifically, do you want to know?”
“I’d like you to speculate on who might have abducted Juraci Santos. Have you heard any rumors? Anything at all?”
“Ah, you’re handling that one, are you? Well, look, I don’t want to bitch and moan, but I will tell you this: one of the few pleasures I have in here is watching football on television. I can’t tell you how much I was looking forward to the Cup, looking forward to seeing us kick Argentinean ass. And then some filhos da puta go out and kidnap the Artist’s mother. I hope to hell the day will come when they’ll appear before me. I’ll put the bastards away for the rest of their lives.”
“Amen, Pedro. But we’ve got to catch them first.”
“I’ll put the word out, see what I can pick up. I’ll call you if I hear anything. Keep me posted on your progress, okay?”
“Gladly. Nothing for us at the moment?”
Cataldo rubbed his chin.
“Maybe one thing worth following up,” he said. “What do you know about Jordan Talafero?”
Silva shrugged. “Not much. He owns the Spartans. He just sold the Artist to Real Madrid for a bundle of money. He’s a big shot in the administration of some samba school. That’s about it.”
“That’s almost enough. You touched on the three critical issues, but you didn’t link them. So let me do it for you. First of all, Talafero doesn’t own the Spartans. He’s the president of the club, which means he makes most of the business decisions, but he’s only a minor stockholder.”
“So?” Arnaldo said.
Cataldo looked at him. “So he isn’t as rich as a lot of people think he is.”
“Okay,” Silva said, “go on.”
“Second, yes, he did sell the Artist to the Spaniards, which is pissing a lot of people off, but the question nobody seems to be asking is this: why did he choose to do it now? The Artist has been playing with the Spartans since the beginning of his career. Talafero could have sold him two years ago, even three years ago, for the same price he sold him for last week. But he didn’t. He sold him now.”
“And your conclusion is?”
Cataldo drained his cup and set it aside before he replied.
“He needs money. And he needs money because of that samba school. It’s called Silver Carnations, and it’s Talafero’s baby, his passion. They’ve won first prize for the last three years running, and it’s all because of Talafero.”
“Or, rather, because of Talafero’s money.”
“Correct. You can’t make money with a samba school, you can only spend it, but in glory and fame they pay off, big time. Talafero never got the glory and fame out of the Spartans. His players did, but not him. Lots of people in this town don’t even know who he is. But, with Silver Carnations, it’s different. He’s the man. He made them, and if he takes his money away, it will break them. That appeals to him as no football team ever did. He has an ego the size of Spartan stadium.”
“Spell it out, Pedro. Where are you going with this?”
Cataldo responded with a question of his own: “Until the day before yesterday, what were the odds of Argentina beating us?”
“Virtually nil.”
“Correct. So, if you laid down a bet for the Argentineans to win, and took the odds against that on the day before yesterday, and Argentina did win, you-”
“-would stand to earn a considerable amount of money.”
“Right again. And who, of all people, would best know what might unbalance the Artist and skew the results?”
“Jordan Talafero.”
“I rest my case.”
Silva stood up.
“Leaving so soon?” Cataldo said.
“We’ll be back. Right now I have an overwhelming desire to have a chat with Jordan Talafero.”
Chapter Twelve
When Silva’s grandfather was a lad and football was a game played almost exclusively by the English, the Tiete River was a pellucid stream on the outskirts of Sao Paulo. As a child, Silva had heard stories from the old man about transparent waters where people went to fish and boat and bathe.
On one stretch, so straight it appeared to be a canal dug by the hand of man, a rowing club had sprung up. At the time, no man could consider himself educated unless he was steeped in Greek and Roman lore, and the founders of the club were all so steeped.
They’d chosen to call their organization the Spartan Rowing Club. In those days, to be a Spartan meant simply to be a great warrior. The word hadn’t yet taken on the more recent connotations of frugality and austerity.
The battles those warriors fought were on the lazy current of the river, and they consisted of racing each other in sculls of one, two, or four men.
Time brought radical change. By the last years of the twentieth century, and on into today, no one would think of entering the water, boat or no boat. The Tiete had become little more than an open sewer, devoid of fish and poisonous to man.
As the quality of the water degenerated, the rowing club evolved. Females were admitted, and the
