Two Graves

on at Nova Godoi—if you knew they were responsible for these murders, and for those not yet committed—I believe that you would not hesitate to act.”

Colonel Souza looked at Pendergast—a long, penetrating, speculative look. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“What do you know about Nova Godoi?” Pendergast asked.

The colonel laid down the butt end of the cheroot in an ashtray, took a long draft from his stein. “It was said to have started as a mission, established centuries ago by the Franciscans, high in the mountains.”

“And?”

He went on, reluctantly. “The good fathers were massacred by the local Indians, and so the mission was turned into a garrison for Portuguese soldiers, who eventually destroyed the indigenas. Then it became a plantation, which was abandoned in the 1930s. After the war, some German refugees settled there, as they did in many other areas of Brazil.”

“What is its physical situation?”

“It’s remarkably remote, almost impossible to reach, and then only by the rio. The German settlement is on the shores of a crater lake in the mountains. And in the middle of the lake there is an island, which is where the mission was built, and then the ancient fort.” He shrugged. “The inhabitants keep completely to themselves. They use Alsdorf as their portal to the outside world, for news and supplies and the like, coming and going, but never interacting, even with their German compatriots.” He paused. “They blend in as much as possible, try not to call attention to themselves. Beyond that, I can tell you nothing.”

Pendergast nodded slowly. “It would be a dangerous undertaking, along the lines of a military operation. And the civil police, of course, would be given no word of this—it would be undertaken by the men of your own Policia Militar, and it would have to remain an undocumented action. The target will no doubt be well guarded and heavily defended: an attack force of at least a hundred men, preferably more, will be required. But you would not go in without a full briefing, without the benefit of a reconnaissance—which I will provide. As I implied, if we are successful—then this curse that has lain over Alsdorf would be lifted forever.”

“So you are saying that the people in Nova Godoi are responsible for the murders?” the colonel asked.

“That is exactly what I’m saying.”

“And your evidence?”

Pendergast removed from the inside of his sports jacket several photographs from the crime scenes in New York. One by one, he laid them before the colonel, who perused them in silence.

“Yes, these are the same as the local killings,” he said.

“These killings occurred in New York. I have traced the killer to Nova Godoi.”

“But why New York?”

“It is a long story, which I will be glad to tell you later. Now: do you need more evidence of what I say, or will this suffice?”

“It is sufficient,” said the colonel, turning away from the pictures with disgust.

“There are a few conditions. Two young men are hidden somewhere within the Nova Godoi compound. They are twins. Neither is to be harmed—I’ll deal with them myself. I’ll provide you with sketches.”

The colonel looked back at Pendergast, saying nothing.

“There is one other. There will be a man in Nova Godoi—a tall, powerfully built man with closely cropped snow-white hair. His name is Fischer. No one else is to touch him. He is mine and I will, again, deal with him.”

A silence settled over the table.

“Those are my only conditions,” Pendergast said. “Now—are you interested in hearing what I plan to do next?”

For a moment, the colonel remained silent. Then a slow smile spread over his features. “I find that I am very much interested, Agent Pendergast,” he said.

52

THROUGH THE WINDOW OF THE LITTLE CABIN, CORRIE could see an early-morning frost glittering on the ground and rimming the twigs of the surrounding beech trees. A weak sun struggled through the checked curtains, and the woodstove, well stoked, radiated a welcome warmth. Jack bustled over it, oiling a griddle. A pan of sizzling bacon sat nearby.

He glanced over. “Jack’s special blueberry pancakes, coming up.”

“Let me help,” said Corrie, starting to get up.

“No, no!” Jack turned, his apron already smeared. He was not, she had to admit, much of a cook. But then, neither was she.

“I’m running the show, you just sit there.” Without asking, he grabbed the coffeepot and refilled her mug.

“I don’t like doing nothing.”

He smiled. “Get used to it.”

Corrie sipped the coffee. She had arrived by the afternoon bus the day before, making sure no one followed her, and had walked from Frank’s Place all the way to the cabin. Her father had been ridiculously glad to see her. She had filled him in on the details of her investigation, and he was excited.

“So is it really true Charlie doesn’t hustle the customers?” Corrie asked. While Charlie seemed convincing enough about other matters, she still found it hard to believe a car salesman could be scrupulously honest.

“Not that I ever saw,” said Jack. “Old Ricco once had him into the office, left the door open, and was raking him over the coals for not getting with the program. Said it was ‘hurting morale.’ ” Jack laughed. “Can you believe it? Honesty hurting morale.”

“So why do they keep him on if he won’t cooperate?”

“Charlie can really sell ’em.” He ladled batter onto the griddle to the chorus of a friendly hiss.

One thing was starting to dawn on Corrie. Her father’s problem wasn’t dishonesty, but the opposite: a sort of inflexible, priggish honesty that bordered on self-righteousness. She’d learned from him that he’d been let go from a previous job—selling stereo equipment—because he refused to go along with certain shady sales tactics. In that job, too, he’d threatened to go to the Better Business Bureau. And he hadn’t succeeded in selling insurance for similar reasons of punctiliousness.

She watched him as he bustled about the stove. She couldn’t help wondering what she would have done in the same situation. Would she have gone along with the credit scam? Probably not, but she sure as hell wasn’t the type to go running to the law over something as small as jacking up interest rates by a point or two. The credit card companies, banks, and mortgage companies pulled that sort of shit a million times a day. She probably would’ve just quit the job.

Once again, she wondered if she was really cut out for law enforcement. She simply didn’t have the instincts of someone who took satisfaction in punishing wrongdoers. How did Pendergast do it?

Jack flipped the pancakes with a flourish. “Take a look at that.”

They were indeed perfectly golden brown, the tiny wild blueberries leaking a delicious-looking purple stain. Maybe he was going to pull it off, after all.

“Real maple syrup to go with it,” Jack said, lifting up the bottle. “So Charlie’s got an actor friend who’s going in there wearing a wire. I love it. I should’ve thought of that.”

“It won’t be admissible as evidence.”

“Maybe not. But all they have to do is start poking around and asking questions, and the whole crappy business will come out. It’s a good idea—really good.”

Corrie’s cell phone rang. She took it out. “That’s Charlie now.” She answered, putting the phone on speaker.

“Corrie,” said Charlie breathlessly. “You won’t believe this. It’s unbelievable. We’ve nailed them. We don’t need my friend after all. I’ve got the smoking gun—proof that they framed your father.”

“What? How?”