The tracking device’s last known location turned out to be a cow pasture. Both helicopters were able to land, and a search was initiated. Twenty minutes later, Gloria called in by radio.
“No sign of the pigeon,” she said, “just blood and feathers. The bag is here, and so is the device, both of them all chewed up. We figure the pigeon must have been attacked by a bird of prey.”
“Of all the goddamned pigeons in the State of Sao Paulo,” Silva said, “some goddamned hawk had to pick that one?”
“Of all the goddamned pigeons,” Gloria said, “some goddamned hawk did.”
“Okay, Gloria, thanks. Stay where you are. I’ll get back to you.” Silva hung up and turned to Lefkowitz. “Work out a compass course based on the pigeon’s line of flight. We’ll give it to Gloria’s pilots, tell them to fly further along the line, see if they can spot something.”
“Spot what?”
“Hell, I don’t know. There was a whole flock of those damned pigeons. Some may still be in the air.”
“Not unless they still had a long way to go.”
“We’ll also have them look for henhouses, for chicken coops, for dovecotes, for any other place they might have gone to roost.”
“I’ve got some topographical maps downstairs. I’ll go get them.”
Lefkowitz was back in three minutes. Within a few more, he was talking to one of the helicopter pilots.
“Get Silva on the radio,” the pilot said as Lefkowitz was wrapping up, “Gloria wants to talk to him.”
“How far do you want us to go?” Gloria said when she heard Silva’s voice.
“As far as you can before dark. Then we’ll talk.”
C ORNELIO B RAGA was, by no means, the only chicken farmer to run through a scale of emotions that day. But his reaction was typical.
First, surprise at having an extremely noisy Helibras AS 350 B2 land in his front yard. Then fear, when a black-clad team wearing balaclava helmets and carrying machine pistols leapt out under swirling blades. Finally anger, when the woman in charge of the operation offered him a token apology and was getting ready to depart.
“Sorry? Sorry doesn’t cut it, Senhora. Or is it Senhorita?”
“Senhorita,” Gloria Sarmento said, struggling to be polite, a quality that didn’t come easily to her.
“If figures,” Cornelio sputtered. “What kind of a guy would be interested in a woman who jumps out of helicopters and carries a machine gun?”
Raul Franco, her number two, and Gloria’s secret heartthrob, was standing next to her at the time. Gloria’s oblique overtures in Raul’s direction had yet to be reciprocated, so Braga’s remark struck closer to home than he could possibly have imagined. It caused her to lose her temper.
“My personal life is none of your goddamned business, Senhor Braga.”
“You have any idea how many hens I got in there, Senhorita?”
Cornelio managed to make Senhorita sound like an epithet.
“No,” Gloria Sarmento said, “and I don’t-”
“Five hundred, that’s how many.” Braga stabbed a finger in the direction of his hen house. “You know what makes a hen stop laying? Stress, that’s what. You know what stresses a hen?”
“I don’t give a-”
“Too goddamned much noise for one thing. You got any idea what you people just did to my egg production with that machine of yours? Any fucking idea?”
She was opening her mouth to tell him that she didn’t fucking know, and that she didn’t fucking care, when she glanced to her right. Raul, that bastard, was smiling. He was enjoying this.
She turned to him and tapped a forefinger on his finelysculpted chest.
“From here on in,” she said, sweetly, “ you are the squad’s official liaison to chicken farmers.”
Raul stopped smiling.
“Hell, Gloria,” he said. “Give me a break. You got it wrong. I wasn’t…”
Gloria didn’t wait for the rest. She sneered at Cornelio, shouldered her MP-5 and strode back to her helicopter.
It was nice to be the boss.
As darkness fell, Lefkowitz pointed to the map and said, “The lead chopper is here, just short of Riberao Preto.”
“Tell them to pack it in for the night,” Silva said.
“They’ve got four hundred thousand candlepower searchlights on those things, you know.”
“Not good enough. Those lights only illuminate whatever you’ve got them pointed at. It’s too easy to miss something. And the rest of the gear, the heat detection stuff isn’t going to do us any good either. Those birds are already under cover, or they’re sitting in trees with a hundred million other birds. Tell them to start again at first light.”
“Which brings us back to Gloria’s question,” Lefkowitz said. “How far do you want them to go?”
“Take it out to five hundred kilometers beyond Riberao Preto.”
“As far as that?”
“For now. We might have to go even further.”
Lefkowitz turned to the radio, and Silva to Mara.
“Let’s try shaking something loose on the diamonds. How about we take another shot at jewelers, dealers in gemstones and receivers of stolen goods?”
“Receivers of stolen goods?” Mara said. “Good luck with that one.”
“Probably useless to ask, I agree, but maybe not. Even crooks hate the idea of us having our butts kicked by Argentina. They might feed us some anonymous tips.”
“You’ve got a point,” she said.
“I’m brimful of ideas,” Silva said. “That’s why I’m the boss.”
“And here I was,” Arnaldo said, “thinking you got the job just because you’re older than everyone else.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
They ripped off the duct tape that covered Jordan Talafero’s mouth, pulled out the handkerchief and stuck a hose down his throat.
Toninho Feioso, the author of the hose idea, had heard, somewhere, that such a procedure, followed by turning on the water full-blast, could be particularly painful to the victim. He, therefore, decided to give it a try, because, in his opinion, Jordan Talafero was a canalha who deserved the very worst that he and Gaspar could dish out.
The result of the hose operation was gratifying. So gratifying, in fact, that Toninho was loathe to give it up. It took quite some cajoling on Gaspar’s part before he finally agreed to turn off the water and replace the handkerchief and the duct tape.
Toninho meant “little Tony”, but this was a misnomer. Little Tony was neither little nor named Tony. Some of his colleagues, Gaspar for one, knew that much, but no one claimed to know what his true name actually was. No one ever had the guts to ask.
Feioso meant “ugly,” which was entirely appropriate. Toninho Feioso was the ugliest of men, and he appeared even uglier when he was attacking your kneecaps with a ball peen hammer, as Jordan Talafero, after they’d finished with the hose, had occasion to find out.
“And this, you bastard, is for the guy downstairs,” Toninho informed Talafero, the statement eloquently punctuated by the crack of breaking bone and a muffled scream from beyond the duct tape.
Toninho, who wasn’t very smart, couldn’t remember the name of Miranda’s downstairs neighbor, which was Atilio Nabuco, and he didn’t care much about Nabuco anyway, but he had previously dedicated bones on other parts of Talafero’s anatomy to Miranda, his wife, and each of his kids. He was grasping for names since it appeared he was going to run out of them before he ran out of bones.
