Chief Inspector Mario Silva of the Federal Police suppressed a yawn.
He’d been up late the night before, struggling through yet another crisis with his wife, Irene. They were coming up to the anniversary of little Mario’s death, always a bad time of the year.
Then, too, his boss’s urgent summons had come between him and his second jolt of morning caffeine.
Add to those two facts another: an urgent summons from Sampaio was commonplace. Sampaio was an alarmist, a chronic worrier. Most of what he considered urgent turned out not to be urgent at all.
But Silva still had had no choice but to hurry to the office.
It wasn’t until the director of the Brazilian Federal Police dropped his bombshell-“Somebody killed Juan Rivas”-that Silva came instantly and completely awake.
But he was an optimistic man, and he remained hopeful. “Please tell me Juan Rivas is no relation to Jorge Rivas,” Silva said.
“His son.”
Silva’s hope evaporated.
Jorge Rivas was the Venezuelan foreign minister. In the days when he’d been ambassador to Brazil, Rivas had forged links with everyone who mattered in the Brazilian government. The president liked him, and the minister of justice liked him, so it was a sure bet that Nelson Sampaio, ever eager to emulate his superiors, would declare a liking for him as well.
“I like him,” Sampaio said, as if in response to the thought.
“He’s a fine man, and a great representative of his country.”
“I see,” Silva said.
What he saw was trouble ahead. The murder of Rivas’s son would be a killing with political implications, the kind of case he hated above all others.
“Tell me the kid wasn’t killed on federal property,” he said.
“The kid, as you choose to call him, was thirty-two years old. And he wasn’t.”
“Kidnapped, then?”
Sampaio shook his head. “The murder took place in his apartment.”
Silva sat back in relief. “Then it’s a concern of the civil police. We’re out of it.”
“Don’t kid yourself. You think we can hide behind our mandate? Mandates don’t mean squat if I get a direct order from Pontes.”
“You got a direct order?” Silva felt a headache coming on.
“Any time now. A call is coming. You can bet your ass on it.”
When Sampaio predicted a call from the minister of justice, Silva didn’t doubt him. The director was never wrong about the machinations of Brazil’s federal bureaucracy.
“Now, in case the seriousness of this situation isn’t clear to you,” Sampaio said, “let me spell it out: no one gets to be foreign minister of Venezuela without being a buddy of the clown who runs the country. And nobody in this government wants to get on the wrong side of The Clown. This isn’t just a murder, Mario; it’s a major political incident.”
“Because of the oil,” Silva said.
“Of course it’s because of the oil. What else? You think the president shows up in all those pictures hugging The Clown because he likes The Clown?”
A green light started flashing on Sampaio’s telephone. He punched a button and picked up the receiver.
“It’s him?” he asked.
Ana, in the outer office, said something Silva couldn’t quite hear. Sampaio grunted and punched another button.
“Good morning, Minister,” he said, morphing, in a flash, from querulous superior into solicitous subordinate. But then his smile turned to a scowl. “Yes, yes,” he said rudely, “put him on.”
A second passed. The smile returned.
Silva couldn’t hear what was being said, but the gravelly voice and the imperious tone were unmistakable. It was Pontes, all right. The director, sycophant that he was, sat listening to the minister as if he was hearing the Voice of God.
After almost a full minute’s harangue, Pontes stopped to draw breath.
Sampaio leaped into the breach. “I have to tell you, Minister,” he said, “that I’m truly shocked.” His voice, if not his expression, carried complete conviction. “I’ve just arrived at the office. This is the first I’ve heard of this.” Sampaio was a consummate liar, a fact he didn’t bother to conceal from his subordinates. “His apartment, you say?”
The minister droned on. Like Sampaio, he’d rather talk than listen.
“I’ll give it first priority,” Sampaio said when the droning stopped, “and put my best man on the case.” Sampaio didn’t mention Silva by name. He never did. “And I’ll go there personally to give impetus to the investigation. Give me an hour or two, and I’ll call you with a firsthand report.”
Sampaio seldom missed an opportunity to rub shoulders with the Great and Powerful, even if the shoulder rubbing was only via telephone.
The minister dealt out more advice, this time about ten seconds’ worth.
“Yes, Minister. Of course, Minister. Goodbye, Minister.”
Sampaio’s scowl was back before the telephone hit the cradle.
“You’ll do the grunt work, of course,” he said to Silva without missing a beat, “but I’ll be giving you my full support. You have my cell number. If you need advice, feel free to call, twenty-four seven.”
Silva let his eyes drift to the window. A cloud, harbinger of an oncoming storm, was just emerging from behind the Ministry of Culture.
“Ana has the address,” Sampaio concluded. “We’ll go separately.”
He stood and went into his private bathroom. The audience was over.
In the outer office, Ana Tavares, Sampaio’s long-suffering personal assistant, was extending a sheet of paper.
“Crime-scene address,” she said. “I called Arnaldo. He’s on his way to your office.”
“Thanks, Ana. Efficient as always.”
She ignored the compliment.
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
“You can ask,” she said. “I may not answer.”
“Do you always make Sampaio jump through hoops, make him talk to the minister’s secretary first? I can’t recall a single occasion-”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ana Tavares said.