Leighton Gage - Dying Gasp

“This woman,” he said, pointing at Roselia, “says she doesn’t know where The Goat is. I think she might be lying, but there’s nothing I can do about that. She has the right to remain silent. As for you girls, we’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to reflect upon what you want to do, whether you’d prefer to stay here, or try to return to your homes, or take advantage of the offer being made by the good sisters of Notre Dame de Namur. My men and I will be outside, waiting for your decisions.”

Roselia suddenly realized what Silva was up to. “Take me with you,” she said.

Silva shook his head.

“I’m sure the girls will be grateful for your… advice.”

Roselia froze. The girls moved in to encircle her. One of them picked up a heavy glass ashtray.

Silva led his companions to the door.

When they were outside, he said, “Two or three minutes will probably do it.”

Two or three minutes did.

The goat was sunbathing when he heard the sound of the engines. Cautious, as always, he swept up his clothes and satellite telephone before retreating into the brush above the beach.

The boat that swung into view from behind a neighboring island was gray, and so were the uniforms of the half-dozen men he could see on deck. Two of them were holding machine pistols. The helmsman spotted The Goat’s boat and made a beeline toward it. When they were about fifty meters away, he lifted an electronic megaphone. There was a crash of static, and The Goat’s name rang out across the water.

“Jose Luis Ignacio Braga. Come out of the cabin with your hands up.”

The sailors started hanging out fenders. The naval patrol boat came alongside The Goat’s cruiser. The girls, as they’d been instructed to do, remained below in the cabin, but Osvaldo came up on deck. When he saw the weapons, he raised his hands. The Goat took another step backward into the concealing foliage, turned on his heel, and started running toward the inflatable he’d stashed on the other side of the island.

The Yamaha sixty-horsepower four-stroke had an electric starter. It was almost too much engine for the little boat. Almost.

The navy men must have heard the roar when The Goat pushed the engine to full throttle, but he was shielded by the island, so they couldn’t see him. And, at his top speed of almost seventy kilometers an hour, there wasn’t a chance in hell they’d be able to catch him.

BRASILIA

“ My administrative assistant,” Malan said, “ Senhorita Godoy.”

Silva wasn’t surprised that the deputado had left him cooling his heels for over thirty minutes, but he was surprised to find a woman in Malan’s inner sanctum. Senhorita Godoy was somewhere between fifty and sixty, a thin-faced individual in a dark suit, with a blouse buttoned up to her neck. “A pleasure, Senhorita,” Silva said.

The pleasure, apparently, wasn’t mutual. Senhorita Godoy said nothing at all. Her cold gray eyes squinted at Silva through a pair of rimless glasses. She had a small mouth and thin lips. The lips were pursed.

Malan’s expression, in contrast, was almost jovial. Silva recognized at once that it wasn’t so much his ultimatum that had secured him an appointment, as it was a desire on the part of the deputado to humiliate him. Malan kicked off their conversation with a vengeance.

“No use begging me to change my mind, Silva. It’s made up and someone of your limited talent and ability isn’t about to change it.”

“With all due respect, Deputado, I think we should limit this conversation to the two of us.”

Malan raised an eyebrow. “And I think not. I have no secrets from Senhorita Godoy. Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of her.”

Silva remembered her now. The Godoy woman was an important figure in Malan’s church, a lady bishop or some such. It was said that the deputado kept her around because his coreligionists believed that anyone with Senhorita Godoy at his side must truly be laboring in the vineyards of the Lord. She was the mistress of the moral high ground.

“As you wish,” Silva said.

He put his briefcase on his lap and opened it. “I have here,” he said, “a number of documents from the Dutch police. This one”-he removed a sheaf of papers and put it on Malan’s desk-“is the transcript of an interview with Frans Oosterbaan, an associate of an Amsterdam businessman named Arie Schubski. And this one”-he removed a second sheaf and put it alongside the first-“is a list of Senhor Schubski’s clients provided by the aforenamed Senhor Osterbaan. There’s one name on the list, one in particular, to which I’d like to draw your attention. He’s an individual who lives right here in Brasilia, one who regularly receives DVDs mailed to him from the Netherlands.”

While Silva had been speaking, Deputado Malan had been turning pale. Senhorita Godoy apparently hadn’t noticed. She was looking at Silva with a slightly bored expression, as if she was wishing he’d get to the point.

Deputado Malan’s next statement took her entirely by surprise. “Leave us,” he said.

She turned to look at him. “Are you addressing me?” she said, thin eyebrows climbing toward a frizzy hairline.

“I am,” he said.

Her pale skin turned red in embarrassment. She took in a deep breath, released it with an unladylike snort, and rose to her feet.

“Hurry up, hurry up,” Malan said.

“I’m not accustomed-”

She got no farther.

“For Christ’s sake, get out,” he said.

Gathering what dignity she could muster, Senhorita Godoy made for the door and slammed it behind her. Malan took his head in his hands and looked down at the desktop, massaging his temples with his fingertips.

“This could ruin me,” he said.

“It certainly could.”

The deputado took a deep breath and looked up. A tear of self-pity appeared at one corner of his left eye.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he said, “but I can’t help myself. It’s an addiction, like alcohol or drugs.”

The tear started rolling down his cheek. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it away.

“Like alcohol or drugs,” Silva repeated.

“So help me God. I’d never do anything like that myself. I just like to… watch it, that’s all. If I don’t buy that merda, someone else will. It’s not like I’m a one-man market, inciting those criminals to do what they do.”

Silva remained silent.

“The reason you’re here,” Malan said, “it’s money, isn’t it?”

“Partly,” Silva said.

“I knew it! You and your holier-than-thou attitude! Silva, the incorruptible cop! You have your price, just like everyone else. How much do you want?”

“For me? Nothing.”

“What?”

“The federal police’s budget allocation, Deputado. I not only want you to approve it as proposed, I want you to stand up in that committee of yours and fight for an increase of twenty percent.”

“I’m only the chairman. I only have one vote. I can’t guarantee-”

“Oh, I think you can, Deputado. I didn’t say fifty percent, I didn’t even say thirty percent. I’m a realist. Twenty percent will do us very nicely, and I’m sure you can get it.”

Malan’s tears had dried up, as if they never had been. This was something he understood. This was politics.

“Suppose I can. What else?”

“Stop demanding my resignation. Call my boss and tell him you were overwrought by your granddaughter’s murder, that you overreacted, that you want me kept on the case. Then tell the same thing to the press.”

Malan rubbed his chin. “I can’t do it.”

“Of course you can.”

“I’d be reversing myself.”

“Politicians do it all the time.”

“You don’t understand the political implications.”