Two Graves

“Excellent,” the man said in a dulcet southern accent far different from the one he had employed in the waiting room. “Most excellent.”

51

ON BLUMENAU’S VILA GERMANICA, THE FESTIVE AND brightly painted heart of German Village in the center of town, tourists could find a profusion of beer halls, beer gardens, and taverns. Many were jolly establishments, full of carousing patrons and faux-German wenches in gaudy costumes balancing numerous one-liter steins in their hands as they wound between the tables. But one or two of the drinking establishments were quieter, catering primarily to the locals; while still of remarkably authentic Bavarian architecture and interior design, they were darker inside, without the frantically convivial atmosphere of their neighbors.

One such place was the Hofgarten. Inside, it was low-ceilinged, with thick hand-hewn beams running just above the heads of the evening’s patrons. Framed prints of German castles decorated the walls, and the daily menu was listed on chalkboards. Bavarian Brezen came free with each dinner order. A long bar ran around two sides of a central island, but many of the patrons seemed to prefer the deep wooden booths that lined the tavern’s walls.

In one of the booths, a man sat reading a local paper. He was short and barrel-chested, with powerful arms and a head that seemed ever so slightly too small for his body. His face was clean-shaven, with hair slicked back by brilliantine, and although his features were Brazilian, not German, they were nevertheless fine, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. He was drinking a stein of beer and smoking a short, slender cheroot.

He glanced up to see that a man had slipped into the booth, across from him. The movement had been so quick and silent, the stranger was already sitting comfortably by the time the smoker noticed him.

“Boa tarde,” the stranger said.

The man with the cheroot did not answer. He merely regarded the newcomer with the faintest of curiosity.

“May we speak in English?” the stranger continued. “My Portuguese is, alas, barely serviceable.”

The other shrugged, then flicked the ash off his cheroot, as if he had not yet decided whether any speaking would, in fact, be taking place.

“My name is Pendergast,” the stranger said. “And I have a proposition for you.”

The other cleared his throat. “If you knew who I am,” he said, “you would not be presuming to come to me with propositions.”

“Ah, but I do know who you are. You are Colonel Souza, head of the Alsdorf Policia Militar.”

The colonel merely took another drag on the cheroot.

“I not only know who you are, but I know a lot about you. You were once a leader of the Batalhao de Operacoes Policiais Especiais—the most elite and prestigious high-speed unit of the Brazilian military police. The BOPE are both respected and feared wherever they go. And yet you left the BOPE—it was voluntary, wasn’t it?—to become the head of the military police of Alsdorf. Now, I find that very curious. Not to take anything away from Alsdorf, you understand—a charming village, in its way. But it does seem like a remarkable step down from a quickly rising career. You could have had your pick of assignments in, say, the Policia Civil or even the Policia Federal. Instead…” And Pendergast waved his hand, encompassing the interior of the Hofgarten.

“You have been investigating my background,” Colonel Souza replied. “I would suggest to you, o senhor, that this is not a healthy line of work.”

“My dear Colonel, I am merely setting the groundwork for the proposition I mentioned. And have no fear—it is not so much a business proposition as it is a professional one.”

This was met by silence. Pendergast let it deepen for a minute before continuing.

“You also have a quality that seems almost unique in this part of the world. You are immune to corruption. Not only do you refuse to accept bribes, but you actively suppress them among your associates. This, perhaps, is another reason you ultimately found yourself back in Alsdorf—no?”

Colonel Souza plucked the cheroot from his mouth and ground it out in the ashtray. “You have outstayed your welcome, my friend. Now I suggest you leave before I have my men escort you out of town.”

In response, Pendergast reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out his FBI badge, and laid it open on the table between them. The colonel inspected it carefully for a moment before looking back at Pendergast.

“You are out of your jurisdiction,” he said.

“Very far out, I’m afraid.”

“What is it you want?”

“I want your cooperation—in an undertaking that, if successful, will greatly benefit both of us.”

The colonel sat back, lit another cheroot. “I am listening.”

“You have a problem. I have a problem. Let’s talk first about yours.” Pendergast leaned in slightly. “In recent months, Alsdorf has been troubled by a series of unsolved murders. Very unpleasant murders, too, based on the information that you’ve been withholding from the public.”

Colonel Souza, as cover for his evident surprise, removed the cheroot, inspected it, replaced it once again.

“Oh, I’ve availed myself of your files,” Pendergast said. “As I told you, my Portuguese is rather lacking, but it was more than sufficient to give me a good picture. The fact is, Colonel, there have been at least eight violent murders committed in and around Alsdorf in the last half year—and yet virtually no news of them has shown up in the local papers.”

The colonel licked his lips. “Tourism is our lifeblood. Such stories would be… bad for trade.”

“Especially if news of the modus operandi were to leak out. Some of the murders seemed to be uniquely sadistic. Others were apparently done as quickly as possible—most frequently, by the application of a knife to the jugular vein. I have seen the photographs.”

The colonel frowned but said nothing.

“And here’s the part I find most hard to understand. There have been all these recent murders—but as far as I can tell, the Policia Civil have done little about it.”

The colonel’s frown deepened. “They can’t be bothered. Alsdorf is a poor town. It’s beneath their interest. The deaths have all been among campones. Peasants. Day workers from the mountains. Penniless drifters.”

Pendergast nodded. “And so you are left with your own Policia Militar force to try to solve the murders—with scant evidence to go on—all the while trying to keep things a secret from the tourists and the townsfolk. As I said —a problem.”

A barmaid came over, replaced the colonel’s beer stein with a fresh one, and asked Pendergast what he wanted.

“I’ll have what the colonel’s having,” he said in Portuguese, then switched back to English. “Let me ask you a question. When you lie awake at night, thinking about the case, thinking about who the killers might be—where do your thoughts turn?”

The colonel took a sip of beer. He didn’t reply.

“I think I know. Your thoughts travel upriver, into the deep forests. To the place known as Nova Godoi.”

For the first time, the colonel looked at him with genuine shock on his face.

Pendergast nodded. “There are many rumors about the place, are there not? It has had an evil reputation for more than half a century. Speculation about what goes on there, about who lives there and what they do… let’s just say that plenty of whispering takes place among the townsfolk of Alsdorf. Rumors of curious folks who have made their way upriver to Nova Godoi… never to be seen again.”

Pendergast’s stein arrived. He looked at the beer but did not touch it.

“There’s something else I know about you, Colonel. It’s true—you care about Alsdorf. You care deeply about it. The fact that the civil police aren’t interested in these murders must stick in your craw. But the truth is, you’ve been in the army. You were a decorated member of the BOPE. And I sense you are a man who—if you saw your duty clearly—would not let bureaucracy, or the chain of command, stand in your way. If you knew what was going