again. But she didn’t. Instead, she took a deep breath, closed the door behind her, and came over to whisper in his ear.
“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, Senhor Mansur, but I have a chief inspector from the Federal Police on the line. I told him you weren’t to be disturbed, but he insisted. He says it’s vital he speak to you.”
Mansur was about to tell his secretary that the federal cop could wait until he was damned good and ready to call him back. But at that moment, Jamile rose to her feet, called him a canalha, and stormed out, the tears still running down her cheeks. He’d been only seconds away from explaining, in detail, exactly what she had to do to keep her job, and he had a full erection. The cop’s timing couldn’t have been worse.
“What’s this cop’s name?” he snarled.
“Silva. Chief Inspector Silva.”
“Put him on,” Mansur said.
The first thing the Sao Paulo businessman said was, “What’s so goddamned important?”
Silva took the telephone away from his ear and looked at it, as if it was the instrument itself, and not the man, who had offended him.
“Am I speaking to Luis Mansur?”
“You are.”
“Senhor Mansur, I’m-”
“Chief Inspector Silva of the Federal Police. So my secretary told me. I repeat, what’s so goddamned important?”
Silva suppressed a brusque retort. “There is a chance, Senhor Mansur, that your life is in danger.”
“What?” Mansur said. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You traveled business class aboard TAB flight 8101 from Miami to Sao Paulo on the twenty-second of November, correct?”
“I already answered that question the last time you people called. What’s this ‘life in danger’ crap?”
“Someone has murdered five of the people who traveled with you.”
“Five people on the same plane?”
“Five people who were in the business-class cabin.”
Silva elected not to mention young Julio Arriaga. Five killings were, he thought, quite enough to make an impact; gauging by Mansur’s response, he was right.
“You’re shitting me,” Mansur said.
“I can assure you, Senhor Mansur, that I am not, as you put it, shitting you.”
“ Caralho. What happened to them?”
“They were shot and subsequently beaten to death.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Senhor Mansur?”
“I’m here. Who’s doing this and why?”
“We have, as yet, no idea. The murders took place in four different cities.”
“Then how can you be sure they’re connected?”
“The method of killing was the same, a single shot to the abdomen followed by beating with a blunt object. And the bullets were all fired from the same gun.”
“Who was killed?”
“The flight attendant, Bruna Nascimento.”
“I remember her all right. Arrogant bitch. Lousy service.
Who else?”
“Juan Rivas-”
“Sounds like a fucking Argentinean.”
“A Venezuelan, actually.”
“Almost as bad. Who else?”
“Victor Neves.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Jonas Palhares.”
“Him either.”
“And Paulo Cruz.”
“The professor? The writer? That Cruz?”
“That Cruz.”
“His funeral was in the paper. I didn’t know he was on the same plane.”
“He was. What were you doing in Miami, Senhor Mansur?”
“Huh?”
“I asked you what you were doing in Miami.”
“Business.”
“What kind of business?”
“I deal in petroleum-based industrial lubricants. Let’s cut right to the chase. You’re telling me I could be a victim, but you’re thinking I could be a murderer, right?”
“You’re a perceptive man, Senhor Mansur.”
“You’re goddamned right I am. Well, Senhor Chief Inspector Silva, let me tell you this: I didn’t kill anybody.”
“Then you could be in danger yourself.”
“Who else was in that cabin? Remind me.”
“Would names have any significance for you?”
“Probably not.”
“Then it would suffice to say there was a fifteen-year-old boy, the son of an airline employee-”
“I remember him. I wondered why he was traveling alone in business class. They must have upgraded him because of his father. I guess we can rule him out. Who else?”
“An American.”
“Aha.”
“Aha?”
“You can’t trust Americans.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion, Senhor Mansur.”
“What does this American do for a living?”
“He appears to be a priest.”
“What do you mean, ‘appears to be’?”
“We’re awaiting confirmation on that.”
“Priests don’t murder people.”
“I have to differ with you. Occasionally they do. I’ve known one who did.”
“Who are the other-dare I say- survivors?”
“Three Brazilians. We haven’t located any of them either.”
“So let me add this up. You got the American priest, the woman, a teenager, four dead guys, a dead stewardess, three other people, and me. That’s twelve altogether.”
Whatever else Mansur might have been, he wasn’t stupid. And he had a good memory.
“Correct,” Silva said.
“Well, I sure as hell didn’t kill anybody. The old lady probably didn’t, and the teenager ditto. That brings you down to four suspects.”
“One of the four is a child.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember him too. Traveling with his father.
Waste of money, taking a kid into business class. His old man should have popped him back in coach and let the stewardesses take care of him.”
Silva was beginning to develop a healthy dislike for Luis Mansur.
“So, let’s see who we have left,” Mansur said. “There’s only the priest and those two other guys, right? Maybe you’d better give me their names after all.”
