sphere as tightly as she could and tried to turn it.
It didn’t budge. She tried the one at the bottom of the same hinge, felt it give, then give some more and finally begin to turn. If she could remove just one sphere on each of the three hinges, she could pull out all of the pins. And once the pins were out, she’d be able to remove the door. She screwed the sphere she’d been working on back into place and attacked another one.
When Claudia got back from lunch, Otto was waiting.
“I got the photos,” he said.
“Finally. What took you so damned long?”
“The guy at the photo shop said they were going to be ready by nine this morning. They weren’t.”
“You ever hear of a digital camera?”
“I don’t understand those things. They got too many buttons.”
“Give me those,” she said, and snatched the envelope.
The first photo was of an athletic-looking man crossing a parking lot. Arnaldo Nunes. She recognized him immediately. The second shot showed him entering the main entrance to the airport. Both shots were in profile, the background out of focus, obviously shot with a long lens.
She shuffled to the third photo in the stack and froze.
Otto came around to look over her shoulder.
“Those are the two guys he met at the airport,” he said.
When she didn’t say anything, he prompted her. “You recognize them?”
“That one,” she said, “is Mario Silva.”
Otto leaned forward for a better look. “No shit?” he said. “That’s Silva, huh? You sure? He looks different from when you see him on the news and stuff.”
“It’s the outfit,” she said. “The bush shirt. Every damned photo you ever see of the man, every time he’s on television, he’s wearing a gray suit.”
“He’d have to be crazy to wear a suit in Manaus. A suit would kill him in this climate.”
“Then I wish he’d wear one and save us the trouble,” she said.
Otto looked at her nervously.
“Hey, Carla,” he said, “you’re not thinking of offing a federal cop, are you?”
“Why not?”
“Uh… well, if you are, we gotta talk about it.”
“What’s to talk about?”
“That’s heavy stuff, killing a federal. What are you worried about? What makes you think he’s after us?”
“He’s after me,” Claudia said.
Otto looked at her, waited for her to tell him more. When she didn’t, he said, “What makes you so sure?”
She didn’t reply.
“What?” he insisted.
Again, no reply.
“You’re sure it’s him? Really sure?”
She stabbed the photo with her forefinger.
“ That’s Silva, and that’s his fucking nephew, Hector Costa. And the guy who met them, the guy who was already here in Manaus, is an old-time sidekick of both, an agente named Arnaldo Nunes.”
“But how can you-”
“Shut up, Otto. I know what I’m talking about.”
She wasn’t about to tell him why she was so sure, or why she knew he was after her. That, and her real name, were none of his damned business.
Chapter Eighteen
Irene was sitting under a beach umbrella, reading a book, just the trace of a smile on her face. Silva was stretched out on blinding white sand, soaking up the sun, his head on his arms. He had one eye open and was studying her.
He heard his son call him.
“Look, Papa, look!”
He turned his head toward the voice, toward the clear, green sea. Little Mario, his ankles bathed in receding foam, was pointing at three dolphins swimming in the shallows, their dorsal fins skimming along the surface like the sails of tiny boats.
And little Mario wasn’t so little anymore. He looked to be about twelve. His olive skin had been darkened by the summer sun, and his smile showed teeth like pearls.
Silva got up and walked down to the water. They plunged in together. The dolphins came to meet them. Silva reached out to touch one-and the telephone rang, summoning him away from another experience he’d never had and now never would.
Long accustomed to calls in the night, he was alert by the time the receiver was against his ear.
“ Alo,” he said.
“Mario?”
Arnaldo’s voice. Silva threw the covers aside, managed to get a hand on his wristwatch, but couldn’t find his glasses.
“What time is it?”
“Almost six,” Arnaldo said. “I just got a call from Father Vitorio.”
“At this time of the morning?”
“The man has no sense of propriety. Or maybe he’s just an insomniac. Anyway, he wants to meet.”
Silva walked to the window.
“What’s so important? Couldn’t he have waited a few hours?”
“Apparently not. But at least he didn’t ask us to go over to that slum he lives in. He’s coming to us. The restaurant. Half an hour.”
“Call Hector,” Silva said.
Arnaldo agreed and hung up.
Silva parted the curtains. The rising sun painted a golden stripe across the black water of the river, but there was a line of black clouds on the horizon. And they appeared to be moving directly toward him.
F ATHER V ITORIO was punctual to the minute.
“Six thirty on the dot,” Arnaldo muttered when he saw him in the doorway. “Must have been waiting outside so he could make a grand entrance.”
There were no other guests at that hour. The restaurant was quiet, so quiet they could hear the priest’s cassock rustling as he approached the table. He stood there, waiting for Arnaldo to complete the introductions before he took a seat.
“Coffee,” he said tersely to the hovering waiter.
Silva didn’t think the priest needed it. He looked wired enough already.
The waiter departed in the direction of the kitchen. Father Vitorio leaned across the table and lowered his voice.
“You’re Silva, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“I thought so. I’ve seen you on television.”
“I have news about the young lady.”
“Which one?” Silva said.
“The pearl earrings and the gold crucifix. I’ve asked this before, but your man”-the priest cocked a thumb at Arnaldo- “wouldn’t tell me. So now I’m asking you: Who is she?”
He’s going to find out anyway, Silva thought. There might be some benefit in letting the news come from
