Robert Fish - The Fugitive

“Mr. Busch?”

“Yes.” He pried himself out of the deep chair, his prayers repeating themselves in his mind. “Are you Mr. Murray?”

The nondescript man shook his head slowly, a faint touch of wonderment in his manner. “You had better come in, I think. My name is Wilson, and it appears that it is time we all had a talk. Please come in.”

He passed ahead of Wilson, sinking deep into the lush carpet, confused by the luxury of the room, but also made a bit alert. The large office desk set beneath the draped windows was dwarfed by the size of the office, but the profusion of chairs and couches scattered about in studied deference to hominess somehow balanced the room. He was vaguely aware of an array of pictures on the richly-paneled walls, but he did not bring himself to look at them. The quiet hum of an air conditioner was the only sound, and he was suddenly conscious of the coolness. He flattered himself that he was actually not very surprised to see Captain Da Silva sitting in one corner, negligently swinging one leg over the other, and smiling gently.

“I suppose,” he said carefully, almost cautiously, standing very still, feeling the cold touch of panic returning, “that you couldn’t be Mr. Murray?”

“Why, no,” Da Silva said pleasantly. “I am Captain Jose Da Silva. At your service. I thought we had gotten that all clear this morning.”

“But I had a telephone call... at the information desk they said...”

“Exactly what they were told to say,” Mr. Wilson finished smoothly.

He suddenly felt weary again, conscious of the ridiculous figure he made, standing rigid and short and fat in the center of the room, apparently to be the continuing butt of Captain Da Silva’s sardonic humor. He hated to satisfy the requirements for his baiting; he knew he should march out of the room coldly angry, but the words were out before he could stop them, forced from the depths of his disappointment. “Then there is no Mr. Murray? And I do not get my passport?”

Da Silva laughed. “Sit down, Mr... ah, Mr. Busch. Of course you get your passport. And of course there is a Mr. Murray, and of course he is the assistant consul here.” He considered the swinging toe of his polished boot, as if suddenly pleased to be its owner. When he looked up his smile was a bit rueful, as if he had been unfairly accused of a breach of manners. “My dear fellow, we would certainly not slip up on a thing like that, particularly in a telephone conversation with the Mirabelle Hotel. After all, we could scarcely use Mr. Wilson’s name, because very few people know that he is attached to this eminent office. And Mr. Wilson, I gather, prefers it just that way. And of course we couldn’t use my name, since I am a visitor here like yourself.” He shrugged as if to say. What could we do? “It may be true that Mr. Murray has had his name taken in vain, at least in the sense that he has no idea your passport was taken away, nor that it is being returned. But then, this is probably the only service to which Mr. Murray has been put in his two years in Brazil.” He rolled his eyes drolly toward a shelf that contained an even row of chromed cups. “Other, possibly, than earning the Embassy several cups in bridge, and advancing the interests of your government in the field of golf.”

Mr. Wilson smiled faintly. “After all, Zé,” he said, “you are in the American Embassy. A bit of respect for the residents might be in order.”

“It is enough to respect an idea or an ideal,” Da Silva returned, still smiling idly, although a certain tone of seriousness had entered his voice. “Sometimes it is not good to study the manifestations too closely, for all too often they have a tendency to assume the form of your Mr. Murray.” He looked up in friendly fashion at the short figure still standing tense in the middle of the room, listening in suspicious bewilderment to this exchange. “You do not know Mr. Murray, I assume, Mr. Busch. He was not told because it was felt that he would not understand. Mr. Murray, my friend, is the type who, even if he understood, would not understand. However, let us forget Mr. Murray. Let us concentrate on you, Mr. Busch. Tell me, 2657782 — how did you ever get involved in a complicated business like this?”

The shock was terrible. He had listened to the soporific voice, waiting for a blow, but not this! He felt his heart swell and then fade to nothing, leaving only the sharp stabbing pain. The rush of blood from his head canted it to one side, giving him an idiot look; the muscles of his legs cramped, pulling him to the floor, jerking them up against his stomach in an almost fetal position. No! No, no! Not after the years of planning, not after the suffering, the antagonisms, the friendlessness! Not after the sun on the bay, and the promise of the mountains; not after the warm headiness of the breeze! No! He felt hands lifting him, the dribble of water against his stiffened tongue, a pillow being pushed against his neck.

“My God, Zé! What in hell did you say?”

But Da Silva was too busy with the man on the couch to answer. For the first time in their long acquaintance, Wilson saw the tall man shocked out of his usual air of detachment; he was desperately attempting to resuscitate the tortured figure twisting on the couch.

“Look! Please! My God, I’m with you, I’m on your side, don’t you understand? I was only talking, it’s my way, do you understand? Can you hear me? I’m here to help you, can’t you see that? Try to understand what I’m saying; I’m here to help you. Wilson, call a doctor — no, we can’t! Listen to me, you are in the American Embassy in Rio de Janeiro, you are perfectly safe, you are with friends. Friends, do you hear? Don’t you understand? Wilson, do something! Why the devil did they have to pick a two-hundred-year-old with a bad heart! Meu Deus, me salve de minha bôca! Take it easy, relax, calm down; you’re all right. We are friends!”

The trembling began to slowly subside, more in response to time than to the words of the frantic man working over him, although the sense of those words registered faintly. The fight to hold onto the vague shadows of the finite room about him, and not to sink into the dark horror of unconsciousness slowly sharpened his will to recover. Treat it as only a more severe presentation of the dream, he thought; and even as a hidden corner of his brain clamped onto the thought, his recovery began. At the moment, at least, this man over him was trying to help. Had it been the others, the enemy, they would have merely waited for sufficient recovery to continue the torture. And besides, he knows. What nobody knows or could know, he knows!

Also, they wouldn’t be here in the American Embassy, nor would they have waited so long, nor kept so quiet, nor allowed him to reach this point. This man is telling the truth, his brain whispered, and I am a fool. He is here to help me, he is the one. I am truly a fool!

He tried to roll to an erect position and felt hands aiding him. His fingers, fumbling for his pocket, brought immediate response from Da Silva. He felt the pillbox being removed, the pill being slipped into his mouth. Wilson held a glass of water to his trembling lips, but he waved it away, sucking fiercely on the pill beneath his tongue. The fixed solidity of the objects about him served as an anchor of reality in the nightmare; the placid hum of the air conditioner seemed to demonstrate the civilized nature of his surroundings. The dizziness and pain slowly passed.

“My God!” Da Silva said wonderingly, almost to himself. “He really does have a bad heart!”

“I’m sorry,” the small man said haltingly, catching his breath, aware that the shock he had suffered was much more severe than any in the past, secretly surprised at his own rapid recovery. “I’m truly sorry, but I thought...” He looked at them blankly, shrugged, began again. “It was the shock. You see, even in New York, our own people... They knew about the camp, of course, but nobody knew the number...”