Dale Brown - Act of War

Kristen emerged from the front passenger seat. “Are you Miss Skyy?” the old gentleman called out from his patio.

“Sim,” Kristen replied. “Eu sou Kristen Skyy, SATCOM One News. Senhor e senhora Amaral?”

“Sim,” the gentleman replied. “That is Jose, and the other is Marco. They are my men. Who else is with you, menina?”

“My crew, Rich, Bonnie, and Ariadna,” Kristen replied. She motioned to the PME officer behind the wheel of the van. “Tenente Quintao is here just as an escort, not in any official capacity. He is from São Paulo. He won’t interfere.” The worker named Marco opened the van’s side door, stepped away, and waved the others out; the PME officer wisely put his hands atop the steering wheel so the first farmworker wouldn’t get too nervous.

Amaral saw the cameras and recording equipment and waved his hands. “Nao câmeras, nao retratos,” he said.

Kristen nodded to the cameraman, who put his camera back in the van—then, while the sound person Bonnie and the PME officer screened him, Rich put the camera up onto the glare shield pointing toward the farmhouse and turned it on. Thankfully the dome light didn’t work and Marco, intent on watching Kristen, didn’t notice. “Nao retratos,” Kristen said. She held up her palm-sized digital recording device. “I would like to use a recorder, but it is only for my own personal use—I will not broadcast your or your wife’s voice. Nenhuma transmissão de suas vozes, aprovação?”

Amaral nodded and waved for them to come up to his patio. His wife had a pitcher of cold guarana fruit juice and a bowl of salada de fruta on a small table between them. There was only one chair, but Rich and Bonnie were accustomed to melting away into the background while Kristen worked. One of the farmhands, Jose they assumed, stayed somewhere behind them in the darkness on the other side of the rock wall; Marco was nowhere to be seen. “Obrigado vendo nos hoje à noite, senhor, senhora,” Kristen said, taking a sip of the sweet green fruit juice.

“You may speak English, Miss Skyy,” the man said, “although your Portuguese is very good.”

“Muito obrigado,” Kristen said. “I believe we’ve met, senhor. You were a federal judge when Jorge Ruiz had his environmental workshops here, no?”

“I do not know where Jorge Ruiz is,” Amaral said quickly. “I have not seen him in many years.”

“But you do allow him to come back, don’t you, Advocado?” Kristen asked. “You know he comes and visits the site of his family cemetery, the Rocha da Paz, don’t you?” Both the Amarals’ eyes widened in fear, and they shook their heads—but it was obvious in their faces that they knew. Kristen held up a hand. “Don’t be afraid, senhor. We are not here to capture Jorge—in fact, we are here to help him.”

“We know nothing of Jorge Ruiz,” Amaral repeated woodenly. His wife shook her head, afraid to speak but anxious to support her husband’s claim.

“Has the PME or any agents of the government or of TransGlobal Energy come out here searching for Jorge, sir?”

“Muitas vezes. Many times. They think he still come here. I have not seen him in a very long time, since the days of his faculdade ambiental, his environmental college, here.”

“Do you believe Jorge Ruiz is a terrorist?”

The gentleman sighed deeply, then nodded somberly. “The police, the TransGlobal Energy corporation, they did terrible things to him and his family,” he said. “I believe his mind was torcido, twisted, by the violence. Any man would be filled with such horrible anger to see his wife and children burned alive in his own house.” But he shook his head. “But even this does not excuse his actions. Revenge is one thing: continued violence all over the country, possibly all over the world—this is not right.”

“You have heard of the nuclear bomb attack in the United States?” Amaral and his wife nodded fearfully. “Do you think Jorge could plan and carry out such a thing?”

“Nunca!” Amaral retorted. “Yes, Jorge and his followers have killed a few corrupt police, foreign security officers, and bureaucrats when he bombs dams and bridges—and yes, he has even killed innocent bystanders, for which he must answer to God and to the law. But Jorge would never, ever consider using a nuclear weapon! It is against everything he holds sacred.”

“I have reliable information that Jorge Ruiz’s organization, GAMMA, orchestrated both attacks.”

“I refuse to believe it,” Amaral insisted. “Nao. Jorge is strong-willed and dedicated, but he is not an assassino louco. Now you must leave.”

“Judge Amaral…”

“Nao. You are like all the others…you believe what you wish to believe to sell your papers and be on television! Marco! Jose! Vindo aqui! These people will be leaving now.”

Guns at the ready, Jefferson and Pereira approached the old gravesite, about a hundred and fifty meters east of the farmhouse. A few cows snorted and mooed in the darkness as they moved along, but except for a few lights at the farmhouse, it was completely quiet and still.

Jefferson listened intently to the walkie-talkie broadcast from the others as they moved. “Sounds like Skyy has just about worn out her welcome,” he whispered. Pereira could not understand him, but looked at him with an inquisitive glance. “We must hurry,” Jefferson summarized. “Hurry. Rapido.” He hoped Pereira knew enough English and his pidgin Spanish to make himself understood.

Through the night-vision goggles, Jefferson could finally make out the rock at the old gravesite, a huge boulder about the size of a large desk, with a bronze plaque embedded into the face…and, to his surprise, there was a man kneeling before it, his hands clasped atop the rock, his head bowed in prayer. He wore a simple farmer’s outfit of coveralls and frayed, muddy knee-high boots. “There’s someone there,” Jefferson whispered. “Un persona over there.”

“Jorge?” Pereira asked excitedly.

“I don’t know,” Jefferson said. “No sé. He’s praying. Praying.” He didn’t know the Spanish word, and Pereira didn’t seem to understand him, so Jefferson made the sign of the cross on himself with the muzzle of his .45 pistol. “Praying.”

“Deve ser Jorge!” Pereira said excitedly, and he trotted past Jefferson.

“No!” Jefferson hissed.

But it was too late—Pereira rushed past Jefferson before he could stop him. “Jorge!” he said in a quiet voice. “É você?”

“Manuel?” the man replied, half-turning toward him and rising to his feet. “Eu não posso acreditar que é você! I can’t believe it’s you!”

“Jorge, we must get you out of here,” Manuel said, stepping quickly over to him. “Khalimov is after us. He tried to kill me and my…”

Through the night-vision goggles Jefferson saw the man move, but it was too late to call out a warning. Just as Manuel reached him, the man spun, kicked Pereira’s legs out from under him, pinned his bad arm behind him, and ground his face into the dirt so he couldn’t cry out. “At least now I get a second chance to finish the job, Manuel,” Pavel Khalimov said. Pereira struggled, but Khalimov had the loop of a nylon handcuff already around one wrist and was about to pull the other wrist through the loop…

“Hey, asshole.” Khalimov looked up at the unexpected American voice—and the steel toe of a leather combat boot caught him squarely in his right temple, knocking him unconscious.

“I believe Jorge’s innocent, Judge Amaral,” Kristen insisted. “Please believe me. I believe he’s being used as a scapegoat by one of the men in his organization.”

“I know nothing of any of this…!”

“You were a federal judge here in Minas Gerais, senhor,” Kristen said. “You were involved in almost everything that happened in Jorge Ruiz’s life since he returned from the United States. You presided as he built the environmental and human rights forum here in Abaete and founded GAMMA—I believe you even assisted in projects that helped grow that institution, such as expanding the regional airport and improving the roads so more people would come here from all over the world. You know him as well as anyone…”